Race of Thieves

by S. M. Reine

  Cage grinned. “Don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t trust Gutterman won’t have guys waiting for you.”

  Grimes was the street where Cage’s beloved museum was located. It was just past the fountains at Banks Square, in fact, which Cage could see from his current position. “I promise I’m not going to Grimes. Okay? Go find Mrs. Wan.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute,” Vex said. “Don’t run off.”

  “I’m just gonna grab breakfast,” Cage said.

  Vision couldn’t emote, but he still looked suspicious whirring away into Phaethon Bay’s misty morning—a splat of red against the warm tones of midtown.

  He had no reason to be suspicious. Cage was absolutely getting breakfast, and he absolutely wasn’t going to have an altercation with Gutterman.

  Vex’s brother would make sure of that.

  The Museum of Oddities and Hellspawn was next to the best Greek restaurant in midtown. The restaurant’s owner, Spiridon, adored Cage. Mostly because Cage had saved him from getting shaken down by some mundane thugs. It hadn’t been a big deal. An Alpha shapeshifter cracking a couple human skulls was nothing. But it had left an impression on Spiridon.

  Now Spiridon would bring Cage gyros at any hour of day or night, including breakfast right after dawn. Cage took a table in front of the restaurant, which was not on Grimes Street, but on the corner of Grimes and Fourth. Which meant he wasn’t lying to Vex, and he could enjoy his stiff cup of black tea guilt-free.

  Emil Vex arrived in a swirl of brimstone and rubber mesh, exposing the scales on his ribcage. He was only a couple years older than Anton Vex, yet their personalities were diametrically opposed. Vex did everything he could to hide his demon nature. Emil put it on display and dared the public to challenge him. Half the time Cage hung out with Emil, someone ended up getting in a fist fight. Cage’s entire arrest record was because of defending Emil from harassment.

  Cage had called Emil from the movie theater. He’d really been hoping that the demon would be late so he could take some time having gyros and tea. But Emil was too much like his brother, a reliable person who always did exactly what he promised. He’d said they would meet at nine. It was nine, and Emil was at Spiridon’s.

  “Keys?” Emil asked.

  Cage pushed the dongle for his museum’s doors across the table. “It means a lot to me that you’re doing this, man.”

  Black-clawed fingers closed around the dongle. “Anything for the guy who takes care of Tony.” That was what Vex’s brothers called him. They claimed it was too confusing to call him by his last name.

  “He does a lot more caring for me than the other way around,” Cage said.

  Emil laughed. He didn’t believe him.

  Vex’s family had never understood his agoraphobia. They tried to understand, but they couldn’t. They were wired too differently. To Emil, assuming the responsibility for Vex’s grocery shopping was burdensome. He couldn’t understand why Cage didn’t resent Vex, or how their relationship worked, or pretty much anything about Anton.

  As a result, Cage spent more time with Vex’s brothers than he did. Mostly because they were all baseball fans. They split the cost of two season tickets in the dugout and took turns going to games. Cage had gotten to see the last game with Otto Vex. He’d told Otto about his debt problems over Coors Lights during the eighth inning, and Otto had told the rest of the brothers, and now they were here.

  Emil had volunteered to run the museum while it was unsafe for Cage to visit. He’d manned the counter before, so he knew what he was doing. And his main infernal power was stone-skin, so Gutterman would be hard-pressed to kill Emil if he attacked the museum.

  “I brought you a shirt,” Cage said, putting it on the table between them. “You wear a medium, right?”

  “I like a tighter fit, but medium’s fine.” Emil flicked it out straight. The elaborate Museum of Oddities and Hellspawn logo sprawled over the chest—a pretty cool design, all things considered. Cage had spent a big chunk of his loan hiring a professional designer. Unfortunately, the museum had too little traffic for the great design to matter, so nobody ever saw it.

  “Do you have any questions about running the front desk?” Cage asked. “If you want I could come in, show you where I keep the wristbands, and—”

  “Cage, my friend, nobody is going to come to your museum while I’m watching it,” Emil said. “Nobody ever comes to your museum. I can handle it.”

  “All right.” Cage sat back so that Spiridon could set a plastic tray in front of him, cradling the tastiest gyros in Phaethon Bay. He pulled out a couple twenties to pay the bill. His cash was crisp, since circulation for legal tender was low these days. Most people just used cryptocurrencies.

  He should have gone back to Third at Thirteen now that he’d given everything to Emil, but Cage lingered, gazing at his museum’s face.

  It used to be a Presbyterian church—an artifact of the pre-Genesis era, like most things that Cage stole. The bell tower had been destroyed during Genesis and never repaired. A couple of statues remained up there, but everything else was rubble. A big round window with mandala-like stained glass overlooked the street. Half the panes were missing, but it was still pretty. Cage’s sign was a tasteful wood engraving mounted above the door.

  Inside, Cage kept his special collection. The things he’d stolen and liked too much to fence. He didn’t have a unifying theme like Forfax. He collected artifacts that looked cool or were related to preternaturals in baseball. The rest of it was filled out by Vex family antiques, since the Vexes originally came from Galeotto, one of the lesser duchies in the pre-Genesis Hells. The antiques were crazy rare. They alone deserved a whole wing at the damn Smithsonian.

  Someday people would discover that.

  Someday the curse that must have been keeping his museum obscure would lift.

  Someday Cage would get to reopen it himself.

  But not today.

  It was Emil Vex who unlocked the Museum of Oddities and Hellspawn, and Emil who turned the sign around so it said “Open.”

  Cage had to go fence some stupid red coat.

  He was still licking tzatziki off his fingers when Vex’s voice began whispering through the Link again. Vision was close. Cage didn’t have to search far to find the little eyeball; he was at Williams Park, over on the end of Third at Thirteen.

  Erica Wan was sitting on a bench. Vision was sitting on her shoulder.

  “The answer is no, and you won’t get another answer anywhere else,” Erica said the moment Cage approached. She was wearing a shirt cut so low that he was surprised her implants didn’t pop right out and break his nose. Her rose-streaked hair tumbled into her cleavage, pointing an arrow at her favored assets. She relied on those assets to get better deals. It worked on almost everyone.

  Erica hated how easily Cage kept his eyes off her boobs. He could tell. She’d probably changed into a tinier shirt to challenge his disinterest. But there were no breasts on the planet that would distract Cage from his driving need to sell the jacket, and her refusal made him feel like he was about to barf.

  “You haven’t even seen the jacket yet,” Cage said. “Why don’t we go back to my place? Take a look at the item, crack open a bottle of Everclear, talk about foreign auction houses…”

  “No.” Her vehemence stunned him. “You stole it from an angel, Cage. An archangel, no less! Without a buyer chosen in advance! You know these things have to be arranged carefully, or else it’s too dangerous.” Erica swept to her feet and brought a transparent red umbrella to her shoulder. It was raining beyond the boundaries of the park, and she clearly intended to leave as quickly as possible. “I won’t risk my business by provoking the Ethereal Delegation. Nobody will.”

  Chapter Four

  Cage had grown up in Phaethon Bay before it was Phaethon Bay, back when they called it Tacoma. As an adult, he’d lived as far east as Montreal and as far south as La Paz, in the Badlands, but he’d always come back to Phaethon Bay
sooner or later.

  It was home.

  Home had changed since his childhood. Only one neighborhood had been elevated back then, but the upward growth had spread in the last fifteen years. Most of his old favorite haunts were either demolished or under toxic fog at this point.

  Some buildings had been recovered from the city floor, transported by angels to a higher strata. The Ethereal Delegation had made an agreement with the city’s Oracles that ensured ten percent of the old city would be saved for historical purposes. That meant Cage got to revisit about ten percent of his childhood when he was in town.

  Not coincidentally, Silverclaw Shrine was part of that ten percent. It was the biggest of the Hero shrines in Phaethon Bay, after all. It might have even been the biggest on the West Coast, though the Oracles liked to argue that was actually McIntyre Shrine in the Badlands. It was definitely the biggest shrine in Cage’s heart.

  Silverclaw Shrine was at the far end of Third at Thirteen. It was a tall structure made of glossy white columns—not the bone-white of some ethereal architecture, but ordinary marble, which had been a gift from a grateful Vermont city saved by Silverclaw.

  A big statue of Silverclaw stood amid a field of eclectic offerings. There were some glossy baubles left behind by politicians, like magical charms and wads of cash. The thieves were likelier to leave behind northcoin wallet keychains, which Silverclaw’s priests would then apply to the cult’s accounts.

  And of course, there were candles, crystals, gemstones, fully cooked meals, luxury items, and even pictures drawn by small children. Cage had left more than a few drawings of his own while worshiping as a boy. None of them were around this particular shrine, obviously. They would’ve been collected on the day that he donated them and sent to Silverclaw Cult for archiving.

  Cage wasn’t alone in the church. A family with brown skin and golden eyes kneeled at Silverclaw’s feet, lighting a row of candles. The green candles meant that they were asking for money. Cage hoped that they got it.

  He hoped that he would get it too.

  He swiped one of the candles when the family wasn’t paying attention, and plopped himself down in front of the altar to pray.

  “Hey again.” Cage pushed the candle down on the golden pin in front of him to hold it up, then lit it with a fire charm. One more tiny flickering light to illuminate Silverclaw’s statue. “It’s me.”

  The statue depicted Silverclaw as a younger man, back in the days when he’d exploded into infamy. He was a strapping guy with a quiff swept over his cocked right brow, arms akimbo, chest puffed out. He’d been carved wearing a vest and boots with spurs. Even as stone, he looked bright-eyed.

  He didn’t react to Cage’s words, of course. He was just a statue. The actual spirit of the Hero was infused into the paper talisman hanging on his pedestal. That was how the Hero could confer the gods’ blessings.

  “I could really use your strongest blessings, my man. Erica Wan says that nobody’s going to buy that coat because of Forfax and…well…” He swallowed hard. His throat was scratchy. “I’m worried she might be right. But I’ve got to sell that coat. It’s the only asset of value I’ve got that might be worth even a tenth of my debt, and there isn’t enough time to find another job.”

  There was something optimistic about Silverclaw’s grin.

  The mother of the family behind Cage muttered to her husband. She’d noticed her candle was missing, but not where it had gone.

  He lowered his head over the candle. “Even if I’m not worthy of blessing, think about Vex. He won’t survive without me. And don’t even get me started on how much trouble Banana Bread can get into. I could just really use a blessing right about now.”

  The candle flame flickered. Someone had moved to stand beside Cage.

  He looked up, expecting to get chewed out by someone for stealing the candle.

  Instead, he saw a beautiful woman.

  Cage did a double take at the sight of her. She had the slender physique of an athlete and vibrant blue hair cut into a bob. She wore enormous black sunglasses. Her lips were sizzling purple. The fact that she was wearing a trench coat probably meant that she was new to the area, since anything above ten degrees in Phaethon Bay was shorts weather for locals.

  She was standing really close to him.

  “I’ll be done here in a minute, if you want next on the tuffet,” Cage said. He couldn’t make out the eyes beyond the opaque black sunglasses, but he could feel her looking at him.

  “What did you say?” Her voice was soft.

  He produced a deck of baseball cards wrapped in rubber bands. He carried them with him everywhere he went, just in case he wanted to say a few prayers while he was out and about. “I’m almost done here. Are you okay? You look lost.”

  “I’m not exactly lost. Just new to the area.” She nodded toward the statue. “I’ve never seen a shrine like this.”

  Cage perked up. If she had never seen a Hero shrine, then she must not have been from the NAU. North America was the only region that officially recognized Heroes, since the Oracles had a stranglehold on the highest echelons of government. With the support of government grants, they got all the best shrines.

  Which meant that Cage got to be the one to induct her into the greatness that was Silverclaw.

  “This is my old neighborhood’s shrine,” Cage said. “If you give me a moment to make an offering, I would love to tell you all about Silverclaw.”

  One of her thumbs was circling a button on her trench coat, over and over. “Are you an expert?”

  “No, but Silverclaw’s been a big deal for thirty years—everyone knows his story. How he stole the Infernal Blade before Orobas could use it to destroy the world.” Cage extracted a baseball card from among the soft-edged deck. His collection used to fill a shoebox, and now it was only a couple of inches thick. He wasn’t sure what he was going to offer to Silverclaw once he ran out. Maybe limbs. “He’s the only reason that people like you and me are even alive.”

  “If you think that he is responsible for your life… are you grateful?”

  That was a weird question. “Silverclaw’s a public servant, so he’s not doing it for thanks. I donate to him for the other benefits.” As with all Heroes, the gods promised Silverclaw’s followers specific gifts: Swift fingers, light feet, and a noble soul. Cage didn’t especially need the last one. It wasn’t any good for the bank account.

  Cage dipped the edge of his worn old baseball card into his stolen candle. It caught fire. He only let it smolder a little bit. Just enough to destroy its value. That meant that the cult couldn’t resell the card to fill its coffers; they would have to keep it with the memorabilia that people had donated. It would go into Silverclaw Cult’s vaults forever.

  “You know, they say that no other thief has been canonized since Silverclaw,” Cage began to say, turning back to the woman.

  She was gone.

  He turned around, eyes darting up over the worship space to see if she had just wandered off to some other side of the offerings.

  Nope. She was gone. And somehow, not a single one of Cage’s shifter senses had picked up on her exit.

  The family he’d stolen from was gone too. He was alone in the towering shrine, aside from his smoldering candle and ashy baseball card.

  Being alone was dangerous. There would be no witnesses if Gutterman attacked.

  Cage muttered a few choice words under his breath as he tapped the Link on the back of his neck. “Vex? Any hits from your other fences?”

  Vision squirmed out of Cage’s coat, peeking around his lapel. Vex tried to hide Vision when he wasn’t on a job so that people wouldn’t be creeped out by a demon eyeball following him around. “Sorry. Nothing yet. I bet they’re just busy. I’ll keep trying.”

  Or else Erica Wan was right, and Cage was completely screwed.

  He stood in the shrine’s gateway overlooking the marketplace. Rising sunlight reflected gem-bright against shop windows. The ocean waited a kilometer beyond,
where the city sloped into carefully tended beaches. Cage wasn’t the beach kind. His skin was too fair, and if he thought about summer for longer than five seconds at a time, he was likely to catch a sunburn. It looked nice from the shrine, though—nice enough that he almost didn’t realize someone was watching him from behind a righthand pillar.

  His current tail had her raincoat’s hood pulled over her face, and Cage instantly thought “assassin.” She looked way too clean to be one of Gutterman’s, but maybe he had decided to hire outside his usual circle.

  Cage wasn’t going to wait and find out.

  He vaulted over the stair’s railing, a cupped hand over Vision to make sure that he didn’t slip out, and landed hard in the market.

  He burst into a run.

  Squirrels may not have been dignified, but they were speedy.

  He reached Third at Thirteen within moments, and he was scrambling up the side of Mrs. Lee’s shop in a moment more. The shopkeeper spotted him outside her windows and shouted complaints, so he took an instant to wave apologetically before leaping onto the roof.

  That instant of graciousness probably cost him his escape.

  When he leaped on top of Mrs. Lee’s shop, the woman in the raincoat was already there. He skidded to a stop in front of her, nearly stumbling to his knees. “Is this you?” she asked, projecting a picture into the air using her wristlet. It was a photograph of Cage.

  “Are you my number one fan?” Cage asked.

  A sound of protest came over the Link. “Excuse me. I’m your number one fan.”

  Without missing a beat, Cage amended his statement to, “Number two fan?”

  She asked again. “Is this you?”

  “Yes, obviously. That sort of rugged, masculine energy doesn’t get born unto this Earth every day. Do you want an autograph?”

  “I’m taking you into custody.” The woman in the parka disengaged the image of Cage.

  But not before Cage realized where she’d gotten the picture. He had been wearing a knitted cap and harness, sort of like he wore while skimming across the city on a grappling hook.