Page 63 of Heart of Thieves

I need someone there who has no magic, who will protect Lola at all costs. And if Laurel’s magic accesses people through their fear, who do I know who fears very little?

My thoughts churn, and then as I swallow the last bite of stew, they settle on one name.

Magnus St. James.

I chew slowly. St. James has been pulling out all the stops to search for Lola, and while I understand she doesn’t want to be found, that man would raze the heavens and the Deep to protect her.

She’ll hate me for this, but I have to make sure he—or at least his cronies—are at the game. Lola is better safe a prisoner in her father’s clutches than a puppet in Laurel’s.

“Don’t you think,” I begin, “it would be prudent to ascertain that St. James plans to attend the game?” I should probably be more subtle, but I can’t be bothered to dance around my point, not today.

She raises a brow. “There’s no way he would miss it.”

“Shouldn’t we make sure?” I try to sound thoughtful and not bark the words in her face. “It would be quite the disappointment if we arrive only to discover he decided not to participate.”

“How do we confirm without drawing suspicion?”

I ponder. “Ostena?”

She nods toward the door. “Go.”

I rise, collecting my fedora. Could she finally be trusting me to do this on my own? Perhaps she’s grown more confident in me than I realized . . .

But then she prickles into my eyes.

Of course not.

Not yet.

Twenty minutes later, I’m rapping on Ostena’s apartment door. When it opens, it takes Forsyth only a heartbeat to register who I am before he slams a fist into my face. Pain explodes as my nose cracks, and I spit fresh blood onto the floor before leveling his glare.

“Good evening, Mr. Lott.”

His split knuckles are already flying for my face a second time. “If you ever lay hands on her again . . .”

I catch his punch in my palm and shove him backward. He stumbles, growling obscenities.

“Ostena didn’t leave out the part where she tried to stab me, did she?” I step over the threshold.

“You threatened her.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with St. James thinking threats aren’t part of the deal.”

He glowers, lunging for me again, this time pulling a pistol from his belt.

I sigh. “Haven’t you heard? Seaspawn can’t die.”

“I don’t care if you die,” he snaps, cocking the gun. “I care if you suffer.”

Rolling my eyes, I vanish as the gun goes off, darting sideways to miss the bullet. I appear at his side, snatching the pistol from his grasp and pressing it to his throat. He pales.

Icy blond hair and a glittery dressing gown appear in my peripheral vision.

“Hello, Ostena,” I say smoothly.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Don’t try to reason with him,” Forsyth says.