City of Crooked Vows (Faerie Bound #1)

ONE

The thing Aly always forgot about wealth was how bright it was.

During the long winter nights, she was used to rooms lit by nothing more than the glow from a fire, or perhaps a single rushlight, guttering and spewing smoke that reeked of tallow.

The winter days were so grey and wet that what meagre pale sunlight permeated the clouds did little to alleviate the gloom that hung over the city.

“Let me make you a cup of tea.”

Aly looked up to see the burgess standing over her, holding a thick woollen blanket. In the glow from the firelight, the grey streaking the older woman’s dark hair glowed golden.

Normally she’d wait for her mark to leave the room to fetch some tea or whisky and pocket whatever she could lay her hands on, disappearing before they’d returned.

Tonight, though, she had to take a more targeted approach.

She watched as Edzan departed and waited for the door to snick shut behind her, then threw off the blanket and crossed to the bookshelves that lined the walls.

Her fingers skipped over the knick-knacks and ornaments as she mentally ran through the description Grant had given her once more. She still shivered, her blue-tinged fingers clumsy in their movements.

A wee box, he’d said, made of wood, with a floral carving.

The whole affair made the hairs lift on the back of her neck.

She hadn’t burgled on Grant’s behalf in years, and normally he’d tell her more about the target than a simple description of the object, but when Aly had asked what was in the box, all he’d said was that it had to do with Edzan’s role in the city government.

That had done little to settle her unease, and she’d pushed further, only for him to pointedly remind her what he could have her do if she deemed burglary below her.

A shudder went through her at the memory, and she gritted her teeth, forcing her attention back to the bookshelf before her.

She kept an ear out for any sound of the burgess returning; every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of air from the flue had her tensed and ready to jolt back to her place by the fire.

Her fingers landed on grooved wood, and she picked up the box, inspecting the design on it. It matched Grant’s description, with an intricate depiction of vines and flowers spreading from the centre of the lid out towards the four corners. It was as long as her hand and perhaps thrice as wide.

Tiptoeing to the door, Aly slid the box through a slit in the side seam of her skirt and into one of the large tie-on pockets beneath it.

Her leather-soled boots were quiet as cat feet on the hardwood, though it was a pity there were no carpets to muffle the sound further.

She pressed her ear against the door, her mouth dry as she listened for the burgess’s return.

Hearing nothing, she slowly turned the heavy brass knob and pulled the door open, slipping out of the parlour and down the corridor to the front door.

Without a second glance over her shoulder, she stole out into the night.

The familiar thrill of a successful theft sparked through her as she walked along the path, warming her despite her wet clothing and the cold breeze coming off the canal.

Delight buzzed through her veins, a smile edging onto her face.

She’d done it. Her first burglary in years, and she’d made it out without raising suspicion.

She made it halfway back to Grant’s before her curiosity got the better of her.

Pausing in the white glow from a streetlight, she pulled the box out of her pocket and tried to prise the lid open.

It wouldn’t budge. There was no sign of any catch, the hinges barely perceptible when she ran her fingernail along the groove between the lid and the box itself.

Peering closer, she could just make out the tiniest keyhole in the centre of a carved rose.

She reached for the lockpick set in her pocket, then paused.

A lock that small and delicate was magical in nature; she’d be lucky if it didn’t destroy her lockpicks entirely.

With a sigh, she dropped the box back into her pocket, ignoring the twinge in her gut.

The burgess had been kind to her; she could have easily slammed the door in Aly’s face, or not even bothered opening it, but instead she’d invited her in and given her a blanket by the fire.

And whatever Grant wanted with the box, Aly knew without a doubt it was not for anything good.

The joy she’d felt at her success died as she continued down the path, heading for Grant’s office.

It was Samhain, and the space between the path and the canal was littered with carved turnips, their candle flames dancing on the surface of the water like will-o’-the-wisps.

Aly’s stomach rumbled with hunger. There was enough food between the dozen or so that she’d passed to be the base of a meal, but she had nowhere to cook them.

Although her flat had a fireplace, it was small and besides which, she never had any money for fuel.

The flat ran on magical power, with radiant heat and an elegant copper stove, but Grant had locked the lot of it to his own power.

He turned them on when it benefitted him—and left her in the cold darkness when that suited him.

She dug in her pocket, though without much hope.

She already knew she wouldn’t find a single farthing in there.

Hunger gnawed at her insides. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Without at least a ha’penny, she wouldn’t have money for dinner, either.

Squaring her shoulders, she slid her gaze along the street, looking for an easy mark.

There weren’t many people out in this weather, not in a neighbourhood like this where they could travel by covered gondola if they needed to go somewhere.

Her eyes alighted on a dark-haired man, well over a head taller than her, walking in her direction.

The breadth of his shoulders suggested a life of manual labour, while the cut and quality of his kilt and frock coat, clearly visible in the bright streetlights in this part of town, suggested skilled employment.

A blacksmith, perhaps, or a similar field that combined physical effort with magic.

Regardless, his size and obvious strength made him a good mark. Folk like him walked with too much confidence, never imagining they might be assaulted or have their pockets picked.

Aly made for him, keeping her head tilted down at just the right angle where she could see his feet approaching but would appear to him to be insensible to his presence.

A pair of boots, polished to a shine, entered her field of vision; she slanted her stride to the left slightly and slammed straight into a wall of muscle and tweed.

Her left hand snaked towards his pocket as she tilted her head up.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—” The words dried up in her throat as she found herself staring at the man, her skin heating.

She was suddenly very conscious of his chest pressing against hers, of the rasp of linen against her breasts with every inhale and exhale, her eyes fixed on his face.

There was a white slash in his hair above one ear, the lines too sharp against his coal-dark hair to be natural greying; he looked to be perhaps six or seven years older than Aly, placing him in his late twenties.

His lips were full and wide, parting in surprise before tightening in disdain.

Aly bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from imagining what else those lips could be doing.

Storm-grey eyes bored into hers, narrowing in distrust. “‘I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going’, is that what you were going to say?”

Aly made to step back, but his hand snapped up and around her wrist, pinning it to his side. His grip was firm, and the warmth of his hand burned her like a brand.

“I think you were paying very close attention to where you were going,” he continued. His voice was low, rumbling through Aly’s chest, still pressed against his. Her breath quickened, catching in her throat.

She tugged on her hand, but he held it fast. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” Her clear tones rang out in the still night air.

“I’m a detective inspector in the City Guard,” the man said.

Aly bit back a curse. Of all the marks she could have chosen, she’d gone for a copper. And then she’d gone and got distracted because she found him attractive. She deserved to be caught for her idiocy.

“I could make you empty your pockets, on suspicion of theft,” he went on.

She really was a fool. If he opened the box in her pocket—and as a guard, he would no doubt have the tools to open a lock like that—there was certain to be incriminating evidence in it, and there was no chance she’d be able to talk her way out of that.

Not to mention the lockpicks, which would make her intentions clear.

For that kind of theft, from a burgess of all people, she doubted even the most corrupt copper would take any sort of bribe.

Not that it mattered. She had no money, and even if she did, an attempt to bribe him would be as good as an admission she was there for illicit purposes.

Kicking him and running wasn’t an option, either.

There wasn’t anywhere to run around here.

Even if she made it to the canal and found a water taxi, even if she managed to convince the gondolier to take her without any money, it wouldn’t get her far enough away before the inspector followed.

All he had to do was show his warrant card to the gondolier and the gondolier would have little choice but to turn back on the orders of a guard.

She squared her shoulders, channelling her mother at her most disdainful, and sniffed sharply. “You haven’t shown me your warrant card yet.”