The first time Alaric and Mr. Red were caught, they got away with nothing worse than a black eye. Back then Alaric had only been fourteen – green and new. He'd made a mistake, and Mr. Red had had to shovel him out of the muck.
Alaric doubted it would be so simple this time. They had neither a warren of alleys and smoke to vanish into nor mere poorly paid guards on their heels.
This time they'd dared something that would have changed their lives forever. It would have been perfect — no one would ever dare steal from a Blackwood in person.
No one but the two of them. And now they might find out why that, too, was a mistake.
Ms. Snow stood a few steps ahead of Alaric in the corridor. He could still hear the surging waves, thunder, and an open window, banging again and again against the inner wall.
He smiled, trying to hide the uncertainty. Ms. Snow radiated a chill that suited her name, though she stayed quiet for now.
"You forgot to close the window," Alaric said, taking in his surroundings.
Behind him lay the trophy room. The only exit opened to the hall. The nearest turn lay past Ms. Snow. The windows gave straight onto the cliff drop, where tons of gray, restless water gnawed the rock.
Alaric was trapped. He was the rat, and the maid tolerated no vermin.
Ms. Snow slipped away the silver pocket watch with which she had apparently timed the damned feat. She had to have known Alaric would try something. Had he tipped his hand? Had they been made beforehand?
It didn't even occur to him that Mr. Red might have betrayed him. That wasn't possible.
Ms. Snow didn't take her eyes off him for a second.
"Ms. Blackwood would like a word with you, Mr. Simon Smith."
Ever the professional...
Alaric tested the waters. He took a step forward. He could feel the fine wrapping paper under his insole. The pearls were his. All he had to do was get out.
Everything after that was a later problem.
The maid didn't react. But one of her hands stayed hidden behind her back. A knife? A pistol? Alaric's only weapons were his wits and the advantage of physical strength.
He'd have to use them.
"What gave me away?" he asked.
"Nothing," Miss Snow answered. "You were simply unlucky. Would you please come along of your own accord now?"
Alaric shook his head. He didn't believe a word of it.
"No offense, but I'd rather spend the afternoon with you, Ms. Snow. What do you say – shall we take a walk outside?"
She briefly closed those pretty blue eyes – sighed – and fixed him with a look sharp enough to slice meat from bone.
"I must decline. You're not really my type of man."
"Which is?"
"Men who can pick the lock to my bedroom."
The hand behind her back moved. Alaric froze.
Instead of a weapon, Ms. Snow produced a bag. Larger than a handbag, made of a fine white material that looked almost like leather but clearly wasn't.
Alaric lifted a brow, but didn't grow careless.
"Planning to club me with that? And here I thought only he used funny weapons."
Rather than volleying back, Ms. Snow reached into the bag. Her hand vanished inside. Alaric's eyes widened. He could see no movement within the bag, but it was as if the darkness in there swallowed Ms. Snow's entire arm.
"A maid's best friend," Ms. Snow explained, as if she were still presenting trophies to him. "The bag always gives me what Ms. Blackwood needs most at the moment."
Alaric laughed, nervous.
"That almost sounds like the bag is magical… you're not a Doublesoul, are you?"
She smiled. Why did the pretty ones always have to be the most frightening?
"And when Ms. Blackwood isn't here, the bag helps me instead," she added — and drew something out. "Looks like this time I will be in need of a Blackwood Caliber Seven."
What a neat trick...
She leveled the barrel at Alaric. No matter how many times he had a gun pointed to his head, he still couldn't get used to it. His body wanted to run, his mind begun to spin. And yet... something was off.
The brass barrel seemed to tremble a little. Or was that just Alaric?
"Please come with me – but first you'll hand over the pearls. They're valuable," Ms. Snow said so calmly that Alaric chalked the trembling up to his imagination.
He barely managed a crooked grin. It didn't look good for him, no matter how you sliced it.
So Ms. Snow was doublesouled. Which meant her magic bag hadn't even needed to give her a firearm – if that was the truth at least. As a Doublesoul, Ms. Snow outmatched Alaric regardless, whether he weighed two hundred kilos or not.
She could put him down whenever she liked.
A shiver ran down Alaric's spine as he thought how easy it could have been for her earlier. When they'd walked the corridor together, even when he'd knocked at the door.
Why hadn't she done it then?
He didn't believe for a second that he and Mr. Red had simply been unlucky. Ms. Snow, or rather Victoria Blackwood, had known who they were from the start.
The thought alone made him angry.
They'd been toying with them.
"Is it fun?" he spat between clenched teeth.
Ms. Snow kept the Caliber trained on him.
"What is?"
"Playing with us. With the ones who live beneath you."
She narrowed her eyes.
"The pearls, Mr. Smith. And after that you'll–"
"Fine, I'll go out with you. Pearls first, yes? You girls are always the same."
He crouched slowly and let his hands drift to his boot soles, keeping his palms turned outward. Whether it was Ms. Snow's fists or a lead slug to the head, Alaric didn't plan on dying here. Not now.
Again he worried at the seam. There was a soft rustle as he eased the king's white pearls from a thief's black boots.
Ms. Snow held out the open handbag to him.
"Put them inside."
He stepped toward her, pearls outstretched. Outside, the storm seemed to hold its breath just for the two of them.
One more step and he'd be on her. If he was going to try anything, it had to be now. He couldn't overpower a Doublesoul. But Miss Snow was more than that. As far as Alaric could tell, she was a consummate professional first.
A professional with a weapon trained on him. He had to be fast.
"I'll put them in," he said.
And whipped his wrist, flinging the pearls straight at her face.
Miss Snow visibly flinched – the naked shock of flying wealth tore the calm mask off for just a split second – and her hand shot up. The barrel snapped high and hooked the string like a fish. The pearls clinked against brass, slid down the barrel, and snagged at the rear sight.
For a heartbeat they stared at each other.
Alaric spun. His elbow skimmed a display case, his foot struck the plinth. The case tipped, a second later the glass kissed the stone floor with an ugly sound.
In the same motion Alaric tore the urn from its stand – the one with that Creature's ashes – and dashed it against the boards. The porcelain shell burst. Black dust leapt up in a cloud as if the storm had squeezed through the cracks.
Ms. Snow gathered the pearls fully on the barrel, drew her hand back, and in the same breath leveled the weapon at him again. Alaric plunged his free hand into the ash, grabbed a fistful, and threw it in her face.
Pocket-ash.
Her pale skin smeared black beneath the dust, as if someone had dipped her in coal. She let out a short, sharp "Ah!", half fright, half pain.
Her eyes squeezed shut and her lashes went gray.
This was his chance.
He lunged. The pearls were right there, on the barrel, and just within reach. His fingers cut the air. However, they closed on nothing.
Even without seeing him, Miss Snow drew back, as if she'd heard his movement, felt it, known it – whatever this damned woman couldn't do. Doublesouled. Of course. Even blind, she found the right distance.
Shit, Alaric thought. He said nothing aloud, merely kept moving.
He didn't stop. There was no point in false pride. He left the forest of shards behind, hit the open corridor at a run, and ripped himself into the escape. The storm in the corridor took him in like an accomplice with a loud laugh.
The heist was over. Now they had to go. Escape. Everything else came later – when the whole world, in the Blackwoods' name, would hunt him and Mr. Red. When every servant in Nex City knew his face and every window that didn't quite latch was a trap.
Later.
For now, he ran.