27. Petty Theft
Petty Theft
Ihad not planned on meeting Zora, even after that…that. It was not a fight—fights involve more than one person.
(“A temper tantrum.”)
It is easy for you to be dismissive. You thought you were in the right, you always did. Even now, you think of me a toddler, someone that needs discipline instead of affection. You will always justify your cruelty as something that is good for me.
My face is wet and I swipe at it. Rain—I don’t cry, I don’t think we have the ability to do so.
Just as my heart stopped beating and I no longer can eat human food, I cannot produce tears.
That does not mean I cannot sob, nor does it mean I cannot rage as I pass through our sleepy neighborhood into the raucousness of Palais.
I stop at the threshold, looking toward the salon. Inside are the sycophants, ready for another day of incessant drivel about human affairs. They will cry about the hunters they claim are all over Paris, determine ways to shift the political landscape as if they do not sit atop it.
I resist the urge to go there and knock over their tower of delusion. It would not sate me. It would be temporary, a strip of shade against the endless sun.
Smashing the vases wasn’t enough. I need something else to destroy.
“Ah, there you are,” Zora says, stepping from the shadows of the arch we agreed to meet under. “I was beginning to think you did not want this back.” My bracelet is woven through her fingers, flashed under the lamplight before it disappears once more.
My curiosity and anger war each other.
“Must I play your game to get it back? I should just yell for the police,” I say.
Zora smiles knowingly. “I don’t suspect they’ll take an unaccompanied woman at night in the Palais seriously. Speaking of—do you not fear the night?”
“No,” I say. I haven’t feared anything other than your wrath and your distance in quite some time.
“Brave,” Zora teases. “Is it the night that should fear you?” Her knowing smile only grows as I frown at her.
“What are you implying?”
“Oh, just that you’re a more dangerous type of criminal than I. If I am caught, I will be arrested, and likely worse. They cannot catch you, because you make your theft seem like your victim’s idea.”
Except for Zora. Her immunity to coercion haunted me, your words mingling with hers. I should have told you I found a human with such a gift, but the ending is inevitable. Even had you known and we packed up and left, Zora…
But I am getting ahead of myself. This was how it began—and beginnings matter, if only to understand what followed. I see your disbelief. You will understand soon.
“Victim,” I scoff. I hate that word—it harkens to Alexandria and simpering Theon and his beloved humans. “And had I paid for his other trinkets, I would be a victim of his deception.”
“His deception?” Zora is curious now.
“Glass,” I say. “He did not have gems, he had painted glass.”
“So this is useless?” Zora asks, frowning at her hand. My bracelet has reappeared, woven between her fingers.
“No, it was his one authentic piece.”
“And you could tell this? On sight?”
“And feel,” I add. The intensity of her gaze itches, but not the way the attention of Le Sang Bleu did. Their reverence was worship of who they wanted me to be, not who I was. Zora…she is impressed.
“Teach me,” she says.
“Why? So you know what item to steal?”
“Yes, exactly. You will show me how to determine what is valuable and how to talk them out of it, and I will show you sleight of hand.”
“Some skills cannot be learned,” I say.
“I am a quick study.” I’d heard those words before, in Alexandria, and my skin itches with the memory.
“Fine.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it. I want to swallow it down, to go back to a time where I did not agree to this.
(“I thought this was a true retelling? Or have you lied to yourself?”)
Fine, I did not wish to swallow the word. Zora was a moment of interest amongst a very long, often dull lifetime. A human that could avoid my coercion was dangerous to our kind. Perhaps at the time it felt academic, a closeness borne to study her. Perhaps it was boredom.
I think it was all of these things.
I also wanted my bracelet back.
“Wonderful. Let us find someone to steal from.”
Zora picked her target well.
The man’s suitcase was open on the ground before him, resting on a dirty blanket. His items glimmer under the lamplight, trinkets meant to catch the eye. Already a small crowd forms, kneeling to examine his wares.
“The most important part of theft is distraction,” Zora says, nodding to the crowd. “Notice who he pays the most attention to—is it the well-dressed man, or is it the lowly creature with worn shoes? Does he cater to the rich man in hopes of selling, or does he focus on the poor to deter theft?”
This was another type of hunt. Zora and I were alike in this, that the thrill of picking a victim was almost better than the thrill of the catch.
While I watched humans to see who could be removed from the crowd unseen, she watched for easily distracted targets.
Had I a beating heart, I’m sure it would have raced as hers did now.
“What do you see?” she asks.
“His glasses are for show,” I say first.
“His what?” She laughs, squinting into the night. “You can see that from here?”
“He doesn’t need them. When you look into them, there’s no distortion. He wants people to think he’s a rich intellectual,” I continue.
“Good work, we can use that.”
“How?”
“He wants us to believe he’s learned. You can distract him with an engaging discussion about…” She trails off, waving her hand as she thinks. “…whatever you rich, learned people speak about.”
“What makes you think I am rich or learned?” I ask.
“Your jewelry is expensive but understated, as is your clothing. You do not follow the current trends, your style is from…oh, the 1750s? 40s? Despite their age they are well taken care of and fit perfectly to your body. You can afford a tailor. As for learned—I’ve been speaking in Serbian for the last twenty minutes and you understood and answered in it.
Your name isn’t French, so I suspect you speak another language as well.
Serbian is an uncommon language to know. ” Her smile grows as she speaks.
“Well played,” I say in French. She gives a small bow and turns her attention back to our prey.
“Now, there are a few ways we can approach this. One is for you to distract while I steal, the other is for you to steal while I distract. I think the former would be the easiest, and we shall start with that. It is important that we do not approach at the same time, and that you never look at me.”
“How will I know if you’ve succeeded?” I ask.
“I will whistle like this.” She lets out a low whistle that has an uptick in volume and pitch in the end.
I approach the man first, looking over his items. It is an assortment of things: books, trinkets, bits of fabric. He lifts a trinket of an elephant made of smooth material and holds it out to me.
“This is an animal called an elephant,” he says, rocking on his toes as he speaks. He glances over me the same way Zora did, assessing.
“I have seen one before, in my travels,” I tell him.
“Your travels?!” the vendor exclaims, his attention now wholly focused on me.
“Yes—in India.”
“You’ve been? How splendid! Then it is fate that brought you to my stall today, and I suspect no other vendor has an elephant, especially not one made of ivory.” He winks as he nudges it toward me once more.
I take it from him, my fingers tracing along the edges of it.
“Ivory, you say? It is so light,” I remark, glancing up at him.
He blanches, the implication I’ve made obvious.
Selling colored glass paste was not illegal, nor did it deter even the richest buyers.
Lying about the material, however, was unacceptable.
“Ivory weighs differently depending on the source,” he lies quickly, taking the elephant from me. “Perhaps you’ve only experienced one sort in your travels.”
Zora’s low whistle filters through the air and I smile at him, sure to show my sharp teeth. “I do not think I am the one that lacks experience,” I say to him before turning toward Zora’s whistle.
I find her across the Palais, leaning against a wall down a dark alley. She passes a large coin between her fingers, flipping it end over end as she watches me approach.
“You are quick,” I say.
“I don’t want them to learn my face. Your hearing is as exceptional as your vision, it seems.”
“Is that what you stole? A coin?” I ask. She holds it out to me and I examine it. It’s worn nearly flat, but the unmistakable face of Julius Caesar remains.
“It looked old,” she remarks.
“It is,” I say, trying to move it between my fingers as she does. It slips from my grasp and I catch it before it falls.
“Now it is your turn,” she says.
“My turn to what?” I ask.
“Steal. I will be the distraction, and you will be the thief.”
“How? I have no idea how you stole this!”
“You wait until the vendor is not looking at you and you take it and stash it somewhere. Very simple, really.”
“This is how you teach?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“A true thief is quick to adapt, and intelligent. If you cannot handle it, I suggest we part ways now.”
“I suspect if I leave now, you’ll take my bracelet with you?”
“See? Intelligent.”
“Will I pick the target as well?” I ask.
“Of course,” Zora says, pushing off the wall. It doesn’t take long to find the next target. This vendor has an assortment of small perfumes and oils spread across his table. A smaller item will be easier to conceal, I reason, and I nod toward his stall.
“Be careful not to break what you steal. They’ll follow your stench for days,” Zora says and wrinkles her nose. My laugh surprises me. Zora lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.
“Who approaches first?” I ask.
“What would you think?”
“You. If he sees me, he will focus entirely on me.”
“Why?”
“Because I look rich and learned,” I say. Zora laughs this time, nodding.
“Perhaps we adjust what you wear for future endeavors,” she suggests.
“Perhaps,” I agree.
Zora circles the Palais and approaches the vendor, picking up items and smelling them one at a time. The vendor frowns at her, remarking on the cost of every item she takes.
I move to the opposite side, where his back is to me.
Zora prattles on about buying oil for her mistress, her loud voice carrying over the noise of the crowd.
I turn over a few items, selecting the one I like at last and placing it in my pocket.
I reach for another when the man’s hand encircles my wrist, stopping me.
“You intend to pay for that, miss?” he asks gruffly. Behind him, Zora covers her smile with her hand, her eyebrows climbing up her forehead.
I could compel him. I could tell him to forget I was here, that he will let me take this oil at no charge. But how would I explain that to Zora? I cannot compel her to forget. I would have to kill her.
I hesitate for a moment, looking from Zora, to the man, to his grip on my wrist.
It would be easy to kill Zora. I can compel the man not to cause a scene and slip away into the shadows. I could promise to teach her, only to slit her throat and throw her into the dirty Seine. Or perhaps I’d leave her body in the shadows of the Palais, just another nameless corpse.
But I didn’t want to kill Zora, at least not yet. I would have to, eventually. She would come to understand what I was. But I would not help her get there.
“No, I don’t,” I say, jerking my wrist free. His eyes widen, his mouth opening to yell.
But I have already turned to flee through the crowd. I gather my skirts, the last bottle of oil still clutched in my palm as I race through the night. There are too many people, and he would have to abandon his cart to chase me.
I am laughing. Joyously, exhilaratingly.
I cannot stop laughing, even when I duck into the shadows of the arch I first met Zora at that evening. She appears several moments later, holding her side and panting.
“Are you laughing?” she asks between gasps.
“Yes,” I say, biting my lip to stop it. The laughter spills out anyway, uncaring that I try to contain it.
Zora watches me for several long moments, her brow furrowed, her hand pressed to her side. Then she is laughing too, shaking her head.
“Two items? It was greedy of you. You take one and go.”
“I don’t recall that from your long list of instructions prior to my attempt.”
Then we are laughing again. I pull out my small bottles and we pop them open, inhaling the scent.
“That is disgusting,” Zora says, coughing and sputtering. It really is—they’re both foul smells, too cloying for my nose. I gag and hold the bottles out in front of me as though it might dampen the smell.
It doesn’t. It clings to my nose and makes my head swim.
“I cannot believe you chanced arrest for that,” Zora says.
But I didn’t, I want to say back. There was no chance I would be arrested, or jailed, or anything of the sort. I could compel them to let me go, to forget about me. Out of Zora’s watchful eye, I could do that and tell her I bribed my way free.
“Neither can I,” I say, pinching my nose.
“I am unsure if we can call this a successful theft,” she says.
Then we are laughing again, and I cannot recall a time I have laughed this long with someone other than you.