Shana Abé: The Dream Thief

“Aye. In fact, I’ve a carnival soothsayer on payroll who’ll read your runes and spin you as fine a future as you could wish-especially if you’re so accommodating as to leave your reticule unguarded.”

“I wasn’t jesting!”

“Neither was I. He’s bloody good at what he does. Only been locked up twice. Much better average than most of my blokes. But then,” he added mildly, “I suppose he’s able to see just when the constables will be turning the corner.”

Lia crossed the rug to stand before him. She felt calm, removed, after all the days of worry and heat and dread, rocked to sleep and awake in that wretched excuse of a carriage, the stench of people and old horsehair clogging up her nose. She felt a thread of her dream-self, smooth and mysterious, flowing through her veins.

With Zane still seated, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

When she drew away again, his eyes had taken on a harder glow.

“Passable,” he said coolly. “Feel free to try it again in about ten years. Until then, don’t waste my time.”

“Oh, dear,” came a light, feminine voice. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not in the least.” Zane rose from the chair; Lia was forced to step back. In the parlor doorway stood a woman, hooded and cloaked, the slit in her mantle revealing skirts of dove silk and a stomacher of white threadwork and moonstones.

With a turn of her wrists, the woman pushed back her hood. Red hair, gray eyes; her every movement carried the fresh scent of night.

Lia felt a flush of exquisite shame begin to creep up her throat.

“Who is this?” asked the woman, sounding amused.

“No one. Merely a little lost lamb.”

“A lamb,” said the woman, still smiling, entering the parlor. She touched a gloved finger to Lia’s chin, lifting her face. “With those eyes? I think not. Rather more a windstorm descending.”

Amalia pulled away. She glanced up at Zane-wolf-eyed, stone-faced, despite his languid tone-then grabbed his hand and held it hard.

“I want you to know,” she said quietly, “that I will do anything to protect my family. Now, or in the future. I’ll do anything at all. Remember that I warned you.”

His mouth flattened into a smile. “How charming. Perhaps you’d care to inform your father as well.” He disengaged their hands. “I believe that’s him at the window.”

And the locked shutters blocking the broken pane began to rattle and shake.

September 1773

Five Years Later

Before his eleventh year on this miserable planet, the street urchin known simply as Zane would have scoffed at anything that even hinted of the supernatural. He was a being of bones and flesh; so was everyone else. It was what made them so vulnerable. It was what had left him flat on the cobbles in a welling pool of his own blood one cold, cold winter evening, a knife wound to his ribs and the world pulsing blue and gray and snow, his back warm, his face numb.

By all rights, he should be dead. He’d known plenty who’d died from less, and good riddance.

But then, that night, Rue had found him. And the urchin had lived after all.

He’d never had a family, not that he remembered. For a precious few years, he’d had only her.

She sat comfortably on the settee, the sunlight from the tall windows behind her picking out the silver in her chestnut hair, her hands slim and steady as she poured tea into the paper-thin china cups that they used, for some reason, here in the deep countryside. She looked relaxed and perfectly at home in the magnificence of the room, at one with the delicate furnishings and velvet draperies, the crystal chandelier silently sparkling just over their heads. She did not look at all like what he knew her to be.

“Sit down,” the marchioness said, without glancing up from her pouring. “You’re making me jittery. You pace like a cat.”

“As if you would know.”

“ Touché. Sit.”

But he didn’t. He went to the windows instead, gazing out at the view that rolled and spun autumn forest and hills as far as he could see. Empty forest. Empty hills.

Darkfrith had no wild animals. It was perhaps the detail that bothered him most about this lush and cloudy shire. There were no hidden burrows in the woods, no small lives struggling for survival, celebrating the dusk or the dawn with mating or tussles. There were insects, and a scattering of birds. Once he had spotted a lone gray mouse skittering nervously along the edge of the stables. But in all the years he had been visiting the Marchioness of Langford and her husband, Zane had seen naught beyond those few pitiful creatures.

Little wonder. Even the smallest of beings surely sensed what dwelled in this place.

So Darkfrith was shining and barren. It was occupied purely by a people who moved without brushing the air, who watched him from shadows with gleaming eyes, who smiled with sharp teeth and bowed in false acquiescence. He felt the creeping chill of their looks every moment, every second he stayed in this place.

If it weren’t for Rue-and what she offered-he would never come.

“Lemon?” she asked, into the silence.

“No.”

There was a flock of sheep speckling a nearby hill, an effective decoy for anyone truly curious about the affairs of the farms or fields. A pair of young boys were loping toward them, slowly but steadily; the sheep bunched, then scattered like minnows into the trees.

“Sugar?”

“No.”

“Acquire anything of interest lately?”

He smiled to the glass. “Nothing to interest you, my lady. A few baubles here and there.”

“From anyone I might know?”

“You might,” he said, and left it at that.

“I heard a rumor the other day,” the marchioness continued, serene. “It seems the Earl of Bannon is preparing to sell his collection of Trojan gold. Do you know the one I mean? Coins, diadems, I believe even a sword said to belong to Hector, as it were. The entire set should fetch a tidy sum.”

“Have you an interest in Trojan coins, my lady?”

“I have no interest in anything beyond my family and my simple, humble life here, as you know,” she answered smoothly. “I understand that the earl, however, plans to use the monies to purchase a mare. A very fine one. I believe he intends to breed her.”

Zane cocked his head.

“He beats his horses,” she said, casual. “I’ve seen it. Beats them raw. His maidservants too,” she added as an afterthought.

He turned. “Is that why you summoned me here?”

“No. It’s merely a bit of information I thought you might wish to have.” She took a sip of tea. “I would certainly never mean to imply that someone should go and relieve the son of a bitch of his gold before he has the chance to profit from it.”

She smiled at him over the rim of her cup.

“Ah, Lady Langford. Sometimes I do miss your wisdom.”

“I am gratified to hear it.”

He accepted the drink she offered, taking his seat in a chair. Rue Langford leaned back against her silk-striped cushions, both old and young, ever lovely in her dark and glittering way.

“And how is the family?” Zane asked.

“Excellent. Rhys and Kim are off examining wheat fields and rye. Audrey’s with her sister-you missed the wedding, that was very bad of you. Joan was looking forward to having you there.”

“Was she?”

“I believe she rather hoped you’d ride up on your stallion and sweep her from the altar.”

“I haven’t got a stallion,” he pointed out.

“More’s the pity,” Rue sighed. “It definitely would have livened up the affair.”