Chapter Nine
Nine
Okay, so I haven’t been completely honest. It’s less that I lied and more that I left out some pertinent information. Which, to be fair, is kind of my thing.
Rook Crawford is not just some random person who showed up at my house asking for help.
My initial interaction with him may have led you to believe that I didn’t know who he was or that I was hesitant to take the job.
That was by design. I, in fact, did know who he was and had every intention of taking the job.
I just didn’t want him to know that.
I’ve spent the last year figuring out how to bring my brother back, and Rook was the final piece of the puzzle.
Well.
Rook’s money.
I knew about the Voynich manuscript. I was well aware of the lost resurrection spell.
But stealing it was going to be difficult.
And expensive. I’d already sold off anything of value I owned, so I was going to need a backer.
Someone who was just as invested in the endeavor and had buckets of cash to spare.
Remember the steps to any good con?
First is the Groundwork, learning everything you can about your mark.
I started doing research on wealthy families in the area who had lost loved ones recently and came across Rook.
Nineteen. Recent Harvard dropout. Major undeclared.
Last living member of the ridiculously wealthy Cambridge Crawfords since his sister died under mysterious circumstances several weeks prior.
I’d found my mark.
I’m not saying I’m happy she died. But the thing is, I really, really needed Rook’s money. If it makes you feel any better, when my plan works, I will, in fact, resurrect his sister. So really, I’m doing him a favor.
Once I learned about his sister, Credence, I made sure word got back to him through one of his antiquities dealers about me—bloating my reputation, of course—and Rook did the rest himself.
This was the second step: the Encounter. And with any good Encounter, the mark thinks it was their idea. He showed up at my house—a bit creepily, I might add—and I made him work for it. Made him think he was convincing me.
And now I have funding and we’ll both get our siblings back. Everybody wins. Now that the crew is reunited, we can move on with the next part of the job: the Buildup, bringing the mark into the fold, laying out the plan for him, setting the trap.
There’s just one more thing I have to do first: accept the job.
I arrive at Rook’s house before the others. I need to iron out some details without them hovering over my shoulder. Plus, it’s easier to learn about someone when you catch them off guard.
When someone invites people into their home, they usually aren’t presenting themself authentically.
Think about it. If you’re hosting a party, you clean your house, hide anything you don’t want noticed (or stolen), put on something nice.
You curate an identity that you want to present to the world.
Something more palatable than who you were a few hours earlier: a troll in sweatpants, sitting in chip crumbs, watching reality TV.
I don’t want to see the person Rook wants me to see.
I want to see the troll.
His mansion is outside Cambridge. It’s a large Gothic Revival monstrosity.
Elaborate millwork. More towers and turrets than I can count.
Probably a wife locked in the attic. It’s hidden behind oaks and pines, the lawn a bed of crisp leaves.
There’s a seven-car garage, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were stables and a tennis court out back.
An iron gate greets me at the end of the drive, and I have to punch in a code before it groans open. Gravel crunches under my red heels as I make my way toward the house.
For all intents and purposes, this is a business meeting, so I’m wearing a black suit today.
But my business is crooked, so I have an asymmetrical blazer to match, buttons trailing from my right shoulder to my left hip, accentuating my curves.
I’ve straightened my hair and pulled it back into a twisted bun at the nape of my neck.
I’m wearing glasses again, but these are sleeker than the chunky ones I used as Random Lab Assistant Number Four.
It’s midday, but the sky is overcast and a thick mist that should have dried off hours ago clings to the air.
There’s a screech above me, and I look up to see Crowlene settled on the eaves, her one good eye flashing at me.
As a familiar, she’s still autonomous—honestly, probably more autonomous than she should be, given how often she flies off and I don’t see her for days—but sometimes I find her trailing me when she knows I’m “up to something” and I haven’t given her a job.
“I told you, I got this,” I mutter.
She tilts her head and blinks skeptically.
Crowlene is the best familiar, but she’s also not a very good familiar. Technically, I should be able to see through her eyes (or eye, I guess) at will, but when I try, I get nothing. She has never had great timing and doesn’t always do what I ask.
She does bring me lots of shiny things though.
The porch creaks as I step up to the front door and knock. The wind rushes past, scattering the leaves behind me.
I let about thirty seconds of silence pass before I knock again.
I’m only a half hour early, which should give me enough time to get a read on Rook before the others arrive but not so early that he wouldn’t be here.
I knock again, then give two presses on the doorbell, which sounds a haunting chime.
There’s a crackle under the doorbell camera, and someone says, “Just a minute!” Definitely Rook’s voice but high and strained, almost like he’s in pain.
I could wait, but that gives him time to get his shit together.
The door is, unsurprisingly, locked, but just above the handle is a keypad, and I enter the same code I used on the gate, because most people are either lazy or forgetful and will use the same code for multiple entrances.
Plus, the same numbers are rubbed off the keypad.
There’s a click, and I gently push the door open.
It’s quiet, so I let myself in, careful of the sound of my footsteps.
The entry hall matches the grandeur of the exterior of the house.
Dark marble floors, cathedral ceilings, double staircases wrapping up the walls to the upper floors.
A crystal chandelier casts freckles of light let in by stained glass windows.
There was a meticulous history of the Crawford family online—eighteenth-century English immigrants, eventual robber barons, antique collectors—but I couldn’t find any blueprints on the house, so I have to make my best guess on navigating my way through, because this is definitely a house you could get lost in.
I randomly choose a hallway to the left that takes me past a dining room, breakfast area, and two kitchens.
I hear movement on the other side of a butler’s pantry, and it leads me to what must have been a servants’ wing a hundred years ago.
I’m in a long dark hallway, not as ornate as the rest of the house, a walk-in fridge to my left, a laundry room to my right. That’s where I find Rook.
Covered in blood.
It streams down his face, soaking the front of his white shirt. His hands are dripping with it, and he’s wiping them with a towel that is growing redder and redder.
I swallow. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
He looks up as though I’ve startled him. “What are you doing?” he snaps.
“Sorry, I thought you said ‘come in,’ ” I lie.
When he realizes the towel he’s using is just moving the blood around, he flings it to the ground with a curse.
I take a moment to look at him. He’s frustrated, obviously. And his labored breaths and tense voice tell me he’s in pain. Although the blood had already tipped me off. But it’s the way he won’t meet my eyes that gets me.
He’s embarrassed. Maybe even ashamed.
“You need something more absorbent,” I say, stepping into the laundry room, my heels clacking on the tiles.
It’s probably as large as my bedroom, a line of high-end commercial washers and dryers on one side, a row of white-painted wooden cabinets on the other. I pick a cabinet and start rifling through one by one.
“Cotton can be good at absorbing blood but not at that tight a weave. You need something looser, like flannel. Or with a larger surface area, like terry cloth. Or…” I fling aside washcloths and towels until I find what I’m looking for, holding up a light green towel.
“Bamboo, if you want to be eco-friendly.”
I toss him the towel. He observes me for a moment, eyes narrowing.
“Do you make a habit of cleaning up blood?”
I raise my eyebrows. “About once a month,” I say dryly.
“Ah.” His cheeks flush as he scrubs at his hands.
“You’re making a mess of yourself,” I say. “Take your shirt off.”
He freezes. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve cleaned a few wounds in my time, and it helps if you can see what you’re dealing with.” I’m already looking through the cabinets for a first aid kit. There’s a rustle of fabric behind me, and by the time I’ve found a bright red box with a white cross on it, he’s shirtless.
Shit, this guy looks a lot stronger without his clothes. He’s still thin, but his muscles are defined enough that he might be able to bench-press me.
I’m only noticing because it might be relevant to the job. Not for any other reason.
I clear my throat and nod to a nearby stool. “Sit.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Sit.”
He does, and I start rummaging through the first aid kit.
“Care to tell me what happened?” I ask.
“Nosebleed,” he says.
“Ah.” I fight an eye roll. There’s blood caked under his fingernails and bruises coming up on his forearms and neck.
I pour some antiseptic on the towel and gently start wiping the blood from his palms.
“Do you always arrive half an hour early?” he asks. “Or were you trying to catch me off guard?”
I cringe, though it’s fine if he sees through this little ploy. It’ll make him think he’s caught me, that he has the upper hand.
“Do you always get nosebleeds right before having company?” I ask. “Or were you particularly excited to see me?”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Last time I saw you, you nearly gave me a bloody nose. I thought I would get a head start.”
I take his hand and slowly turn it over. I run my fingers over the wounds on his knuckles. His breath catches.
“And do you often get bloody knuckles too?”
He gives me a sheepish look. “Occasionally.”
I step between his legs to move close enough to wipe the blood from his face. There’s a cut on his lower lip, another at his eyebrow. He seems to enjoy the attention, the flirting, so I lean into it. Not that much of a hardship, to be honest.
“Are these occasional bloody knuckles something I’m going to have to worry about?” I ask softly.
“Are you concerned about me?” Rook grins. Then winces, as the movement pulls at his cut lip.
“Maybe,” I say with a nonchalant shrug, though it’s not him I’m thinking about.
I’ve put a lot of work into this con already, and even more into getting Dante back.
Right now, all my eggs are in Rook’s basket, but I can get new eggs, or make an omelet, or—honestly, I’m not really sure what the eggs are supposed to represent in that metaphor.
The point is, sometimes you have to cut your losses and come up with a different plan because you’ve lost control of the current one.
Whoever did this to Rook is now an element I can’t control.
“But,” I say lightly, “I also have myself and my crew to consider.”
Something about my response amuses him. “You’re safe. Unless, of course, they suspect I care about you.”
Ooh, deflection by flirting. Amateur.
“That’s good, then,” I say. “Because you think I’m a…What did you call me? After I kicked your ass in my living room?”
“Chaos gremlin? Deranged trickster? Unholy terror?”
“Unholy terror! That was it.” I smirk.
His chuckles die as soon as I bring the cloth to his cut and run it softly over his bottom lip. He freezes, right where I want him.
“Does it have to do with your magic?” I ask softly.
Rook blinks several times in confusion.
“Your injuries,” I prompt.
“Ah. Funnily enough, no. I try not to use my magic if I don’t have to. I wouldn’t have the other day, except you were letting your house burn down, like a—”
“Unholy terror,” I finish for him.
“Exactly,” he says, his voice rough.
He swallows, then licks his lips, as though he’s thinking about saying something else.
I wait.
“Ow,” he says, his head jerking back, and I realize I’ve pressed too hard on the cut.
I suddenly notice that not only am I standing between his legs, my hand caressing his face (with a towel, but still), but he has a hand on my left hip, and I can’t remember him putting it there.
That’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m still in control.
I keep my gaze on his lips and lean in ever so slightly. This is intentional. This is about the job, maintaining his trust, keeping him distracted, whatever. His breath hitches and he starts to lean toward me.
But then his eyes slide to something behind me, and he goes still. I turn to find Crowlene sitting on the windowsill, staring through the glass, unblinking. She ruffles her feathers, taps her beak annoyedly on the window three times, and then lets out a single angry caw.
Rook clears his throat. “I’d better…put on something more appropriate for a business meeting.”
I have to step back to let him off the stool, and he gives me a sheepish look.
It’s only once he’s disappeared out the door that Crowlene flies off.