Chapter 1

Cricket

I'm one-quarter fae on my father's side, but I pass for human, which is the best of both worlds if you ask me. Other fae underestimate me, humans accept me as one of their own, and my latent magical abilities are invaluable to my questionable and sundry career choices.

Whatever needs doing, you can bet I'll get it done.

For instance, at this very moment, I'm slipping unseen through the shadows of Ralossi Palace's labyrinth of hallways. Down an old, stuffy corridor, wiping errant cobwebs off my face, I sneak ever closer to the royal family's wing.

Silent as a sleeping tiger, graceful as a gliding swan, deadly as a daring—no, wait. That's a lie.

I've never killed anyone.

I'm just good at making their things into my things.

But I could be deadly if I wanted to be. Which I don't. Because even though I'm a thief, I do have morals.

I've been stealing to get by all my life. Well, practically all my life. As far back as I can remember anyway. Don't judge. I have my reasons. If you knew, you'd understand. Maybe. Probably.

Alas, my life of crime will soon be behind me.

Luminia is a different land now, so they say. Fair and equitable and just and boring for everyone, not only the royal bloodlines. We'll see, I guess.

If it's true, there's no need to steal to survive anymore.

A pity because I'm excellent at my trade. The secret pockets sewn inside the lining of my vest are stuffed with various jewels, shiny trinkets, and little souvenirs from each noble whose room I've managed to burgle during my time here within Lemossin's walls. Nine so far.

My goal is a nice round ten.

After that, I'll leave behind the snobby inhabitants of this snobby palace in this snobby city and head home to farmlands outside of Irondale, where I belong.

Not that there's anything left for me there. My home is gone, and so is my family.

One last hurrah and then I'm off into the night, southward bound.

But who's to be my next target?

Only a member of the royal family will do for my last heist. Shall I go after the new queen herself? Or perhaps one of her brothers, the two prickly princes?

The royal wing of the palace is guarded, but I expected as much. The three guards on duty, milling around and picking their noses, won't be a problem for me. A simple spell will do. One I've perfected over the years.

With a flourish of my fingers, I send a revolting whiff of passed gas wafting in their general direction.

Like a charm, the first guard sniffs, scrunches his nose, and glowers at his comrades with distaste. "If you have to drop a load, just say something. Don't stay here and make me suffer."

"What?" The second guard catches the scent, his face twisting in disgust. "That's not me."

They both glance at the third man, who is covering his nose with his hand. "Well, I didn't do it."

While they're busy arguing, I call to the shadows, cloak myself in their dark embrace, and scurry past the guards on silent feet.

Gotcha.

That trick always works.

Chuckling to myself, I choose the second door on the right and slip unnoticed into some rich fae's chambers to have a look around. Are they in here, snoring away, dreaming about whatever the privileged dream about?

Or do I have this room to myself?

Calf-high leather boots, rather big, a navy doublet with silver brocade, breeches to match, and a smart vest are all strewn haphazardly in the antechamber. A man's room, then. Not the new queen's.

All the better, since I've heard good things about her and not-so-good things about her spoiled brothers. I don't intend to wake the occupant, if there is one, but if I did, I'd rather wake a slumbering man than an unsuspecting young lady anyway.

Fancy silks in tones of dark brown and rich copper hang draped over a large four-poster bed. Gold bed curtains are tied back with thick leather cording, revealing an empty mattress.

Ah, I'm alone. Very good.

With the windows shuttered closed, the stagnant air smells of sweat—and cologne to disguise the sweat. Tacky art in even tackier gilded frames hangs on the walls. Idyllic landscapes mostly. Scenic vistas of rolling hills, neat little forests, and grassy riverbanks. Whoever lives in these rooms probably enjoys admiring what they believe they own.

But the land should belong to all of us equally.

Under my feet, a thick, lush carpet pads each step. Even the rugs boast of wealth.

Well, I shall relieve this occupant of something, but what do I want?

I rifle through a chest of drawers, finding underclothes, socks, and a questionable half-empty vial of oil. Ew. Not that drawer, then.

Glancing over the trinkets on display, I veto each. A golden statue of a horse? Too heavy. Silver candlesticks? Too boring. Ivory comb? Too cruel.

Onto a wooden box with crossed daggers carved along the top. Inside is a stack of letters tied with a delicate red ribbon. No, too private. And probably not juicy enough to be worth the time to read them.

I pluck out a black velvet box no larger than my palm. Ah, but what's in this? Energy sings from within, zinging through my questing fingers and straight up my arm to my nape. I shiver and open the lid.

Magic so strong the power rattles around in my bones.

I'm tempted to drop the thing. Tempted to pretend I never saw it. Tempted to run from this palace and all its stupid rich inhabitants and never come back.

But more than that, far more than that, I'm tempted to keep this treasure for myself.

A coin.

A shining gold coin with a dragon in flight emblazoned in its face, so real it's as though he could glide right out of the polished metal and into the sky.

The flip side is a raven, perhaps even more detailed than the dragon and just as lovely. I run my fingers over the beveled edges and lick my lips.

But what does the coin's magic do?

The weight of it in my palm is pleasant. Solid. It feels at home in my hand like it has belonged to me all my life, even though I've just discovered its brilliance.

You're coming with Daddy, my sweet.

I put the empty velvet box back into the fancy wooden chest, close the lid, and slip the coin into my vest's hidden pocket, where it immediately warms my entire chest. Startled, I gasp.

What in the blue-spotted nillyslug's shell is this thing?

Whatever the answer, I'll have to get out of the palace undetected before investigating further.

I peek into the hallway. The guards aren't looking in my direction, so I close the door behind me with a quiet click.

Surely, sneaking out in the same fashion as I snuck in is the safest choice. Slinking through shadows, covering my tracks, being oh-so careful not to be seen. I could do that, of course. It would be easy.

Or…

I let out a loud whoop of unbridled joy and take off, barreling straight between the flustered guards and sprinting like a lusty stallion to his preening filly.

After an embarrassing moment of confusion—for them, not me, obviously—they chase after me.

"Hey!"

"Stop!"

"Intruder!"

Slowed down by heavy boots, protective armor, and dull wits, they don't stand a chance against my speed and agility. With their drawn—too late, mind you—weapons clattering, the men holler to anyone within hollering distance, probably waking half the castle in the process.

No matter. I live for a challenge. My heart beats wildly, and gooseflesh prickles down my spine.

This is what it's like to feel alive.

What will I do without the exhilaration my livelihood brings? Get a real job? No, thank you. Shall I farm? Raise chickens? Tend a herd of goats?

Everything else sounds dull in comparison.

I haven't a clue what's next for me. All I know is that moments like this are what light me on fire.

The chase.

The high.

The eventual victory at the end of the game as I admire my most recent haul of prizes.

My chest burns as I run all out. Ralossi Palace is a maze of white marble hallways, great rooms, long staircases, hidden passages, and shadowy nooks.

Rather than taking the shortest way like any normal thief would, I blaze a trail right through the famous ballroom with its thousands of sparkling faerie lights illuminating a false night sky above. I'm a tourist after all. Got to see the sights.

The spectacle is as magical to behold as everyone says, even if I'm racing through it like I'm being chased by dozens of angry palace guards.

Because I am being chased by dozens of angry palace guards.

They're multiplying like rabbits.

No matter. I'm fine. Still good.

So long as the archway ahead of me stays clear, I should be able to skirt through the entryway and make my escape into the night.

"Get him!"

"Faster!"

Uh-oh, sounds like they're getting closer. I put on a burst of speed.

Just when the thrill of a victory lies merely a few paces ahead, a burly guard throws himself into my path.

Slammed sideways, I crash to my hip and roll.

That's going to bruise.

I scramble to my feet to make my getaway.

Hands grab my arms. More than two.

Snail's slime!I wriggle, then go completely slack so they'll loosen their hold. It works but barely. Twisting, I lunge away and barrel toward the exit with everything I've got.

Another hit from the side. I'm dazed. The world spins. I hear colors.

That can't be good.

"Hold him still this time," someone yells. Whoa. A big someone. This guy is huge. And silver, like granite in the sunlight after a rain. With wings. Is that a gargoyle? Double whoa.

The men behind me have caught up.

They close ranks, surrounding me. The shiny tips of a frankly unreasonable number of swords and daggers point toward my soft bits.

Maybe I should have snuck out after all.

"Take him alive, fellows. The queen will want the intruder questioned," says the stone-looking guy.

"Hear that?" One of the men I'd yanked away from earlier sneers. "He said, ‘alive.' Not unharmed." He pokes at me with his dagger.

I yelp and lean backward into the arms of men already holding me tight. If only I could get one to do this for me in the bedroom. Preferably naked and?—

"And unharmed," the gargoyle rumbles.

Yeah, he must be the leader. Perhaps an appeal to him would help my cause. He can't have much love for those who created him for the sole purpose of serving them, can he?

Heat sears my chest, but not from the dagger. And not because I'm panting so heavily I'm about to throw up my spicy veggie curry dinner either.

From my secret pocket.

From the coin.

I shriek, grab my chest, and fall deeper into the embrace of my captors as dramatically as their hold on me will allow.

"Wasn't me, boss," says pokey dagger guy.

"What's wrong with him?"

Good question. I'd like to know the answer myself. Energy courses through me, teasing my magic, daring it to come out and play. I'm shaking like a small yappy dog whose owner has gone to market and left him all alone.

Here's the thing.

I'm good at tricks. Fooling people. Making them laugh even, but I've never had a talent for anything serious. And this magic emanating from the stolen coin?

This feels serious.

"Pick him up and take him to the dungeon. If he has another episode, we'll send the healer to check him over."

I get one last look at the giant gargoyle before everything changes.

Next thing I know, I'm fine, but all the guards are shaking like yappy dogs. They fall to their knees in the perfect dramatic imitation of my fainting spell, leaving me free of grabby hands and stabby blades.

The coin vibrates against my chest as if trying to tell me something.

I'm going with Get out, Cricket, you fool, or have I done all this for nothing? Yeah, seems about right.

Without a backward glance, I dash beneath the double-arched entryway, race down what feels like a million marble stairs gleaming in the silvery moonlight, and make my unlikely escape through a series of the city's darkest alleyways.

Not a sound behind me. No slapping of boots on cobbles. No guards yelling for me to stop. No mighty gargoyle swooping down from the sky to throw me into his creepy dungeon.

I got away with it.

I pat my chest over where the coin rests safely in its new home in my pocket. "Erm, thanks, buddy. Couldn't have done it without you."

"What are you talking to?"

A man steps out of the shadows, blocking my path.

A tall man.

A tall, pretty man with long dark hair framing a sharp, elegant face. Dressed from head to toe in black with a wool cloak draped around his broad shoulders. A shark's smile reveals pearly white teeth. He tips his hat, his gaze moving slowly from my face, down my body, and back up, stopping at my chest. His smile widens.

Wait a minute. Does he know? Why would he ask what I'm talking to instead of who I'm talking to?

But he can't know.

Can he?