Heart Bound to Thieves

Prologue

The Puppeteer came for the Liar in the silver hours before dawn.

She did not exert her magic upon him, as some might have expected. She did not speak, nor did she strike.

She watched.

Cloaked in starlit shadow, she lurked like mist against the window-pane of the sheriff of Opalton’s bedroom, her gaze tracking Nic’s angular form as he knelt next to the bed where the elderly man lay soft and sallow and snoring.

From his own pocket, Nic produced a tiny, glittering die the color of a ruby and pressed it gently to the slumbering man’s sternum.

The stardust within shimmered as it drained into the wilted skin.

A moment later, the die was empty and dull, and Nic was rising to his feet, dropping it like a meaningless hunk of coal into his jacket.

He was a great deal taller now than he had been when the Puppeteer knew him. His features sharper, shoulders broader, muscles thicker. And his scar was as ethereal and disconcerting as the one she carried on her own skin.

But in many ways, he hadn’t changed at all.

He watched people like he was trying to learn them, just as he had when they were younger.

No matter how quickly he moved, he still seemed to carry an invisible weight upon his shoulders.

And the wrinkles around his eyes—the ones she knew came from heavy thoughts and a heavier heart—had only deepened.

He was still good. Here he was, returning stolen secrets to atone for his wrongdoings. Releasing the gods’ magic because he knew deep down it didn’t belong to him.

He certainly didn’t deserve the Deep.

The Puppeteer unlatched the window.

It made the barest squeak, and Nic whirled, ripping the pistol from his belt and pointing it at her face.

She smiled as she leaped like a cat into the room, her cloak swirling around her shoulders, its hem slinking to the floor an instant after her feet.

“Hello, Nic,” she whispered.

He stared, mouth agape, eyes wide as shining moons. “Laurel?” It was a gasp that struck someplace deep in her core. The place that had tended memories of him like blooms in a garden.

The sheriff stirred, and the Puppeteer grasped Nic’s fingers, pulling him silently into the hallway and down two flights of creaking stairs to the cottage’s main level. Nic uttered not a word as they moved, but he gripped her hand like he was afraid she’d slip away all over again.

And that grip . . . it settled her.

He’d been searching for her, she knew. Dozens of times, she’d hidden from the people he hired to sniff her out. What she didn’t know was whether he was searching because he cared or because he still wanted the moonshard.

The gods had condemned him the night he attempted to steal it, but as long as its pieces stayed embedded like scales on her hands, he couldn’t finish the job. Couldn’t complete the transformation from altar boy to demon.

As long as she stayed away, he had a chance at restitution.

But it was time to snuff out the darkness that was destroying Aethera and all of Celestia. Strangle the weeds so goodness could grow.

The Puppeteer dragged Nic into the kitchen and locked the door behind them.

“You’re alive,” he croaked.

He gawked like she was an apparition. A ghost. An angel.

“I am,” she replied with a smile.

“Stars,” he cursed, and then he wrapped both arms so tightly around her that her bones creaked. “Where have you been?”

His soullight sparked through her skin where their bodies touched. A hum of the wickedness that lived inside him, that crackled along every nerve. A beast she would tame.

“Does it matter?” she asked. “I’m here now.”

He pulled back, still gripping her arms, casting his gaze down to where the voratium splinters glittered on her hands and wrists as though she wore gloves of glowing diamonds. “Is that—?”

She nodded, lifting one of her palms so the soullight inside the shattered moonshard pieces refracted against the copper pans hanging beside their heads.

“And you.” She traced a finger along the galaxy tails of his scar over his cheekbone, keeping her voice light. “It seems you did not come out of that temple unscathed, either.”

He did not question why she’d hidden. Did not tell her she shouldn’t have. Did not even ask what magic she bore. Instead, he simply said, “Have you been happy?”

See? she wanted to scream at the gods. He is not seaspawn, not truly.

“Never happier,” she said, eyes gleaming as emotion rose in her chest, swelled in her throat. “The gods have been ministering to me.”

“The . . . gods?” His smile faltered.

She nodded vigorously, clasping his hands in hers. “Yes. This magic . . . they sent it for a purpose. And I am the one they chose to fulfill it.”

He frowned, his relief at seeing her alive turning into a bone-deep sadness she’d never sensed from him before.

Desperation bowled her over with a panic more painful than the agony she’d endured when the moonshard had fused into her skin five years ago.

She pulled him in close. “This was their plan all along. How else would I have known where you and Enzo would be?” She paused for effect, dropping her voice to an awestruck whisper. “They guided me.”

When he spoke, it was a tired sound. Like her words were dragging years from him with their teeth. “You knew where we’d be because you knew the temple like your own home.”

“No.” She shook her head, hackles rising. He did not believe her. “It was the stars.”

“Whatever it was that kept you safe has my gratitude.” He turned away, releasing her. “Dawn is approaching. The sheriff will wake soon.”

“It’s ruined you.” Her words came out razor-thin and just as sharp. “It’s clouded your mind.”

“The magic?”

“No,” she said softly. “The prestige. The money. The sin.”

That final word seemed to hit him like a slap. He jerked away and stalked to the back door. “Best of luck to you, Laurel.”

“Wait!” The Puppeteer seized his arm. “You can’t see it now, I know, because you’ve been deceived. But there’s still hope.”

He grimaced as though her pleas were gouging wounds into his skin and pulled out of her grip. “Good day.”

“Stop, Nic!” she cried.

He did not look back. He was walking straight to the Deep, and he would not see it.

Perhaps she might have let any other man damn himself, but not Nic. Never Nic.

He could not save himself, so she would have to do it for him.

She scowled at his retreating back and let magic unfurl inside her hands. Ice stabbed through her fingers, palms, and wrists like frozen steel threading inward from the shards embedded in her flesh up to her chest.

When it hit her heart, a network of nerves illuminated inside him, a spiderweb emanating a multicolor glow only she could see. That trace of wickedness she felt when she touched him before bloomed beneath his skin like veins shimmering in the cool morning light.

The threads of sin that had tainted him.

Setting her jaw, the Puppeteer grasped hold of those strings and pulled him to a stop.

Nic halted midstride. When she tugged on the fibers in his legs, they jolted so he faced her.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” she whispered. “I hoped you were ready.”

“Ready for what?” he croaked, eyes wide. The strings strained in her grasp, but she held them fast, held him still as stone.

“Ready,” she said softly to her beautiful, misguided marionette, “for redemption.”