Race of Thieves

by S. M. Reine

  “Who’s gonna take care of him if I’m not around?” he asked.

  “I’m sure that someone else’ll hire him.” Brigid was scanning the room, fingers curled through the bars as she craned her head to see more corners of the room. Her flesh glowed rose-gold on one side from the lantern lights, and silvery on the opposite from the grow tent.

  “Anyone would hire him,” Cage said. “His warlock specialty is visceral illusion.”

  Brigid twisted to stare at him. He could only make out a centimeter-wide sliver of her eye, but it was very wide. “And he works for you?”

  Visceral illusion meant that Vex could make anyone experience anything. They could feel the most ultimate pleasure…or the most excruciating pain. Hedonists and warmongers alike sought their services.

  The real money for visceral illusionists was in more subtle work. The little nudges and twists of reality that could convince world leaders to vote for different laws. Essentially, a smart visceral illusionist could do anything. And Vex was very smart.

  “He doesn’t like that work,” Cage said. The last thing Vex wanted to do was crawl through others’ minds all day.

  “Is that why you’re broke? You blew your money on his paycheck?”

  “Okay, first of all, he’s my brother in everything but blood, and he’s not out for my money,” Cage said. “The two of us are…wait for it…thick as thieves. Hey! Like that one?”

  She didn’t crack a smile. “What’s the second of all?”

  “He’s only getting a percentage of crap now, but someday I’m gonna have a Hero cult as big as Silverclaw’s, and Vex’s percentage is gonna be worth a lot more. He knows a good investment when he sees it.”

  Brigid’s mouth twitched.

  “What?” Cage asked.

  “You two are pathetic,” she said.

  “You’re trying not to smile. You think we’re cute.”

  “So what if I do? Cute isn’t a good thing. Now shut your mouth—I’m trying to figure out how I’m saving us.”

  While Brigid was scanning the room, Cage focused hard and shapeshifted just one arm. He still couldn’t selectively shapechange, but it got his arm small enough to fit through the bars, and his nimble little squirrel fingers were perfect for undoing the latch.

  The kennel popped open. Cage tumbled out, heels over head, and leaped upright with his body twisted away from Brigid. She couldn’t see his squirrel arm from her narrow perspective inside of the kennel. He was sure of it. But she was looking at him with a bizarre expression.

  “Did you manage to keep a lock pick?” Brigid asked.

  “No, they found everything during that sensuous cavity search in the alley,” Cage said. His arm wasn’t shifting back. Dammit, arm! Turn human again!

  “Then how did you get out of your kennel?”

  “Luck, I think,” he said, subtly shaking his shrunken squirrel arm. He let the jumpsuit’s sleeve fall over it, but it still looked empty. “I pushed, and it opened.”

  “What now?” Her tone was guarded.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna leave you in there.” He kneeled, presenting his completely human side to her as he slowly, casually opened the latch on her kennel.

  Her expression only got weirder when she climbed free. Brigid wouldn’t let Cage steady her on her feet. She yanked his arm, forcing him to spin, and…

  She found nothing but a completely normal human arm inside of a stolen Shadowhold Gatekeeper uniform.

  “What are you doing?” Cage asked.

  “Tell me how you opened the kennel.” Brigid clung to him harder than she should have, less like she was accusing him of something and more like he was a crutch she’d been given at the emergency room.

  “I opened it with my hand.” He wiggled his fingers. “Long digits.”

  Her cheeks warmed to pink. “Your fingers are no longer than mine.”

  “Sure they are.” Cage caught her hand and pressed palm-to-palm, spreading their fingers so that they lined up. His hands were much larger than hers. Not just longer, but thicker—too thick to fit through the bars beyond the first knuckle.

  Brigid wasn’t fooled. “I know that you’re planning—ouch.” She’d tried to stand on her own, but staggered. Her hands went to her back.

  Cage’s nostrils flared at the scent of blood. He gingerly peeled her shirt’s hem up until he found the slashes and bruises. He sucked in a breath. “What happened here?”

  “It wasn’t easy to escape security at the elevator,” Brigid said through clenched teeth. “And Arawn’s gang wasn’t exactly gentle moving us. I think they tore some things open.”

  Planeswalkers didn’t have any powers other than walking the planes. No improved senses, reflexes, or healing. Brigid was hurt bad. She wouldn’t get better without help.

  “I’m taking you to a healer,” Cage said.

  “Don’t do me any more favors,” she snarled. “Why did you let me out in the first place?”

  “I’m not going to leave you here for a pissed off Gutterman to find. Even if you did once post all my naked photos to the darknet when you were mad at me.”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, that was frustration in Brigid’s galaxy eyes, even as she pressed herself against him. Thighs against thighs, hips against hips. Her fingers played lightly over his biceps. Her head tipped back, as if waiting to receive a kiss. “Then I should say thanks.”

  She leaned toward him.

  He put a finger on her lips just before she could kiss him, pushing her face back. “I’m not tired enough to take a nap.”

  Yep, that was definitely frustration in her eyes now. “I wouldn’t poison you right when you saved me!”

  “Yes, you would,” he said, taking her arm to help her walk. “Come on, let’s go steal us some Death Underpants. Do you think they’re sexy panties? Like with garter belts? I love garter belts.”

  “You’ve only mentioned that seventy times,” Brigid muttered. “You could just ask me to wear garter belts, you know.”

  He leaned out into the hall to check for guards but snapped back when she said that. “Would it work?”

  “Depends on my mood.”

  “Since you’re never in a good mood, I’ll take that as a no. I’m always in a great mood. Maybe I can wear the garters.” Cage peered out again. Empty hallway. “Move.”

  He’d only gotten to skim the intelligence dossier for the Death Underpants before Brigid abducted him, but he remembered the map of Arawn’s house. The artifact was located in the first floor sitting room. Their prison had a window, so that meant they were on the top floor. That’d make it easy to find his way from point A to point B.

  He kept his pace swift for a human—slow for a shifter—as they spiraled down, light on their feet. Brigid was as quiet as Cage, without needing the preternatural grace. “What’s your game?” she asked under her breath, so quietly that even Cage had a hard time hearing it. “How are you going to get rid of me and run off with those Underpants?”

  “Actually, I figured we’d steal them together and hash out what to do with the score once we’re no longer at risk of dying,” Cage said. “We’ll talk like adults about it.”

  “Oh gods,” she groaned.

  Arawn’s voice echoed into the hallway, coming from a pair of open doors. If Cage’s mental map was correct, this was the room where the Death Underpants were on display.

  Cage stopped beside the door. Brigid’s fingernails dug into his bicep as she clutched him.

  “What the fuck do you mean, a flaw in the wards?” The demon lord spoke so loudly that his voice echoed. It was easy to hear every last word from his rubbery lips.

  “It’s not a big one,” Gutterman said. That voice had to belong to Gutterman. No other demon’s raspy drawl would have made Cage feel so cold so deep in his heart.

  “Any crack makes the whole city weak. How long have you known about this one?” Arawn asked.

  “A little while.”

  “And you never told me?”

  �
�You don’t get shit for free,” Gutterman said.

  “Maybe if you had told me about this sooner, I wouldn’t have gotten robbed! Can you believe the nerve? Taking my favorite long johns?”

  Electricity zinged down Cage’s spine, and his gaze locked on Brigid’s.

  Someone had already stolen the Death Underpants.

  Brigid shook her head slowly, as if indicating that she wasn’t the thief. Not this time.

  “I told you as soon as I could,” Gutterman went on, unaware of the impact the news was having in the hallway. “Pretty sure this means you’re still gonna owe me one more favor after you hand over Shatter Cage.”

  “I’ve got enough UV lights hidden around my house to blast you permanently into nothingness. I should use them just because you broke the law by exploiting gaps in my security.”

  A moment’s pause. Cage wished he could have seen what the demons were doing inside. Having a staring contest? Drawing guns and walking ten paces? Playing patty-cake?

  After what Cage assumed were a few good rounds of rock-paper-scissors, Gutterman said, “The flaw’s in the wall past the market. Right at the end of Scapula.”

  Arawn raised his voice. “Ioganva, get Big Buck’s guys together. Tell them to suit up, grab a new crystal, and patch the wards at the end of Scapula.”

  “On it,” said another voice—presumably Ioganva.

  Ioganva sounded like he was standing a meter away.

  Cage shoved Brigid behind the open door, where shadows cloaked them. A seven-foot-tall demon rolled past on three armored legs, like a semi-upright armadillo. He had a fluffy underbelly and plated limbs. There was no way the fur could be as soft as it looked.

  “Aww, check that hellspawn out,” Cage said, his voice rising a couple octaves. “Did you see the fluff? So fluffy!”

  Brigid elbowed him. “Shut up. I don’t banter like Anton.”

  “You shouldn’t be proud of that,” he hissed. “And he wants to be called Vex, not Anton. You sound like his mom.”

  “I bet his mom is as lovely as he is,” Brigid hissed back, her face close, as if trying to find an opportunity to poison-kiss him.

  “She is very lovely! I like her a lot!”

  “Great!”

  A buzzing sound emanated from the room Ioganva had left.

  Cage couldn’t resist. He pushed Brigid’s face away again and peered through the door.

  Arawn’s head was bowed over Gutterman’s oversized face, a tattoo gun steady in his bare hand. Arawn was shriveled dryness where Gutterman was slimy rot. Neither looked quite happy to be in the company of the other. But Gutterman’s focus was on the ceiling, away from the door, and Arawn was so focused on the tattoo that he had no idea people were behind him.

  Cage instantly spotted where the Death Underpants should have been. A department store mannequin waited between two glass cases, each displaying a different article of clothing made in human leather.

  The mannequin had no pants, as Arawn had said. What he hadn’t said was that someone had stabbed a dagger into its groin. It was about as long as Cage’s finger—a throwing knife—with a hilt that looked like three feathers twisted around a branch.

  He pulled back, shut his eyes, and let his head fall against the wall. “Shit. I know who got to the Death Underpants first.”

  “Who?” Brigid whispered.

  He put a hand over her mouth. “Shh. They’ll hear you.” Actually, he just didn’t want to tell her that they were going after Bastien Daladier. He left those stupid feathered daggers everywhere he went.

  Bastien Daladier. The biggest prick on the planet. Cage had pulled one little bitty heist against him, and the guy had never let it go. He’d scooped Cage’s grabs once or twice in revenge, but it was probably coincidence that Daladier had gone for the Death Underpants. Even a witch fueled by baguettes and hatred couldn’t move that fast.

  It was not gonna make Daladier happy when Cage stole the Underpants back from him.

  They slipped past the door unseen. Every faint shuffle of Brigid’s feet on the concrete floor made him flinch. She was quiet for a human. She wouldn’t be able to hear herself. To shifter ears—to demon ears—she may as well have been clomping around in steel boots. Her movements echoed within the chamber. Her breath was so loud, it almost felt like she was breathing directly on Cage’s neck.

  That part was probably wishful thinking.

  The front doors to the lighthouse were open, letting the lanternlight shine inside the otherwise lightless room. A bony shadow was cast in hazy abstract over the mismatched collection of furniture. Charity Ballard stood in the doorway, facing the street so she could watch Arawn’s team prepare to fix the wards.

  The demons arrayed in front of her must have been Big Buck’s guys. All were human-sized and -shaped, to the degree that they could don matching gear. Sort of like astronauts. Or CDC agents wading into a viral outbreak.

  “Why would demons suit up in their own undercity?” Brigid wondered quietly. “What exposure might worry them?”

  Cage tensed at the sound of her voice, but Charity didn’t seem aware of an audience watching her from the darkness under the stairwell. She was too busy speaking to the adorable fluffy armadillo-demon, Ioganva. Their conversation must have been intense—Charity was speaking in low, hurried urgent tones, her eyes intent.

  “We need to steal two of those jumpsuits and go with them,” Cage murmured to Brigid. “If there’s a flaw in the wards, you should be able to reach through to the ley lines on the other side once we’re close enough. Right?”

  Her eyes narrowed to beautiful slits, nasolabial lines deepening in a severe frown. This close, he could see every detail of her skin. The bigger pores on her nose. The rings under her eyes masked by concealer. Thick blond hairs starting to regrow on her chin after being plucked. She really had aged since their last rendezvous, and Cage was shocked at how it only made her so much more gorgeous.

  “Why do you want to put on disguises? Why don’t you just fly us over to the flaw in the wards?” she asked.

  Yes, it would have been very easy for a phoenix shifter like the great and terrible Alpha Deirdre Tombs to fly right out of Shadowhold.

  Cage put on a horrified expression. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I incinerated you while trying to escape.” Better that she think he couldn’t control his powers than realize he was lying.

  “I trust you to keep me safe,” she said.

  Dammit, she actually looked like she wanted him to fly off with her. Chicks never got soaked over the idea of climbing trees with a squirrel on a date. They just wanted to be dragged around by Superman.

  “I can’t,” he said, trying to put on his best Tortured Hero face. “I once killed someone doing it.”

  She looked startled. “You killed someone? When? Who was it?”

  Of course Brigid wanted him to cite his sources. “Well actually…” He dragged his words out slow and thought quickly. “It was a…kitten. I killed a kitten.”

  Her face was blank.

  “Like, a kitten I saved from a tree,” he went on, doubling down on his story with extra seriousness. “She incinerated. One big puff and I had a barbecued kitten. I can still smell the burned fur.”

  Brigid’s face remained blank.

  She wasn’t convinced. He needed an exit strategy from this conversation.

  “Anyway, so that’s one of my darkest secrets. I can never carry anyone as a phoenix again to atone for her heroic death, sorry. Hey look, extra jumpsuits over behind the desk.” Cage didn’t wait for a response before slipping around the edge of Charity’s living room.

  The corner was being used as storage for various infernal sundry: the jumpsuits, some extra tattoo needles, at least two bloody knives that Cage was careful not to touch. Shifters couldn’t get bloodborne diseases, but it just looked gross.

  He kicked one leg through the jumpsuit, then the other, wiggling his hips as he pulled it up to his chest. Moving the jumpsuits showed that they’d been
folded neatly atop a backpack with a sword lashed to its front. Arawn had left Brigid’s belongings downstairs instead of securing them for some reason.

  “Here,” Cage said, handing the extra jumpsuit to Brigid when she followed.

  She stilled at the sight of her backpack. “A trap,” she whispered.

  Charity Ballard appeared behind them. She towered head and shoulders over Brigid, a terrifying wraith in the crimson twilight of Shadowhold.

  They’d been caught. He was going back into the really non-sexy kennel. They’d solder the latch this time, and curse it, and even a wimpy squirrel arm wouldn’t be able to get him out. Cage started sweating so hard that he probably soaked the armpits of his jumpsuit. “Wow, you’re quiet for an enormous dead person with claws.”

  Cage twisted his fire rings behind his back. They might have been strong enough to blast Charity.

  Charity wasn’t attacking, though.

  Her grimace was sympathetic rather than angry. “Big Buck’s guys are about to head to Scapula. Hurry or you’ll miss them.” She purposefully handed Brigid’s backpack and sword to her.

  She was helping them escape.

  “Why?” asked Cage.

  “I don’t like Gutterman,” Charity said. “I don’t draw a lot of lines with Arawn, but Gutterman is one of them.”

  “Won’t you get in trouble?” he asked.

  Her eyes wrinkled when she smiled. “Arawn won’t be thrilled, but he’s no threat to me. He’s the one who’ll be sleeping on the couch for dealing with Gutterman again.” She finished zipping up Cage’s suit and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve already told the team that I’m sending a couple of humans with them. They’ll make sure you’re safe on your way to the end of Scapula. Everything after that is up to you.”

  Brigid gave the revenant a wide berth on her way to the front door. “Don’t follow us,” she said, drawing her sword.

  Charity’s smile faded. It didn’t come back when Cage yelled, “Thanks! I owe you dinner!”

  He half-carried Brigid out onto the street, and Charity shut the door behind them.

  Chapter Eleven