Page 67 of Heart of Thieves

Too soon, it’s time to go.

Laurel’s glittering black gown spills around her like molten mid-night. Instead of the long sleeves she usually wears, she’s donned silver gloves that go nearly to her shoulders—enough to cover the shards of voratium on her wrists and the spiderweb of glowing veins up the rest of her arms. Her straight hair hangs loose around her shoulders beneath twin braids that drape from her brow, hook over her ears, and tie in the back, laced through with shimmering silver tinsel.

When she smiles, I see a younger version of her, and for a moment, I want to pretend I’m a younger version of me. One who hasn’t seen what she’s become.

“You all right?” she asks, tentative. Quiet. It’s almost like she’s . . . afraid. Of what, though?

“It was too far. What you did to Forsyth.” I have to be gentle but firm. Set a line without compromising the progress I’ve made.

“I did what you were too afraid to do,” she says defensively, like she knows deep down I’m right. Like younger Laurel still lives in her somewhere—good and kind in spite of her pride. “I was strong so you didn’t have to be.”

“There is strength in restraint,” I reply.

She bristles, defiance cutting through caution. “Where was your restraint back when I asked you not to go after the moonshard? Where was it when you built an entire business on indulgence and deceit?”

“You’re better than what took place yesterday.”

“I’m doing what I’ve been asked to do,” she retorts, hackles rising. “Or are you doubting that again?”

“The gods gave you a task”—I dance as deftly as I can between her version of truth and mine—“but did they require cruelty?”

“Don’t claim you are above cruelty,” she snaps, stalking past me out of our apartment. “Mind games and manipulation can be just as cruel as pain, even if they don’t leave visible marks. Sometimes justice is ugly.”

I follow her down the stairs and out into the evening Aethera bustle, measuring my words. How can I soften her without risking the fragile trust I’ve earned?

A taxi pulls up to the curb, and I open the door for her. She sniffs, sliding into the seat and giving me space to sit next to her.

“To the public square?” the cabby asks. “For the game?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

We ride in silence for several moments. The closer we get to downtown, the more clogged the streets become. Nocturne’s game has drawn quite the crowd.

But I keep my focus on Laurel. I glimpsed humanity in her defensiveness. Perhaps knowing where I stand—and caring how I feel— will keep her from going to such extremes. Perhaps I’ve pushed back enough for now.

So I turn to her and say, “Would you accept an apology?”

She sighs. “If you meant it.”

“You are strong,” I say, taking her hand and wishing it didn’t make my skin crawl when her fingers curl around mine. “There is much still to learn from you.”

I could tell her I’m sorry directly—since it is a lie, it would be easy for me to say—but she knows just as well as Lola that I cannot tell the truth, so I twist myself around that statement, hoping she gets my sentiment.

When the cab pulls up behind a line of vehicles a block away from the public square, however, the tight expression on Laurel’s face has loosened, and when I exit the vehicle and offer her my arm, she accepts it with a guarded smile.

Just like she wants to believe her power came from somewhere good, she wants to believe I’m on her side, and for now, that desperation is working in my favor.

But for how long?

We stride arm in arm into a throng of people dressed to the nines. Long, satiny gowns spill to the floor on every side. Tuxedos with tails. Diamonds and pearls and boutonnieres and gauzy shawls.

An ache settles low in my chest. A homesickness. It’s like I’m back in my casino.

People chatter excitedly, wondering what the game will be, if Nocturne will be involved directly, whether they’ll win. A few of them catch sight of me. Their eyes widen, and whispers ripple away from me like tides. Heads swivel to find me in the crowd.

I grin and wink, and people swoon. A swell of pride fills me. It shouldn’t, but it does.

Laurel squeezes my arm, smiling as people eye her up and down, murmuring behind their hands to each other.