Shana Abé: The Dream Thief

They shared another smile, this one far more wry. Even if he had been so inclined-which he definitely was not-the mere thought of a romantic entanglement between a daughter of the leader of the drákon and a human male would send these animal-edged creatures into a frenzy. Zane knew their boundaries and respected them, if for no other reason than he preferred his hide intact.

The tea in his hand was hot, aromatic. He gazed down into the steam. “And Amalia?”

“Amalia,” echoed Rue, in a slightly less easy voice. “Yes. She’s in Scotland.”

He raised his eyes, astonished.

“I know,” said the marchioness. “It took a great deal of effort to convince the council to allow her to go. But she wanted it very badly. She’s at the Wallence School for Young Ladies, in Edinburgh. It’s most respectable. We go up and visit thrice a season.”

He set the tea aside. “After what the council did to you for leaving-”

“Yes,” she interrupted, hard. “After that, you may be certain I took good care that my daughter would be well protected from them.” Her nails clicked against the china cup, restless. “But she is Giftless, so she matters to them less. I suppose the odds were at least one of my children would be. My own Gifts came late, but Lia hasn’t displayed even the most rudimentary signs of the drákon, not strength, not heightened senses or stealth or any hint of the Turn-” She broke off, drawing a slower breath. “It’s not so unusual for a female of the tribe to be born without Gifts. These days, it’s rather more normal than not.”

Her skirts rustled. She shifted on the settee, and he realized she was not quite so comfortable as she first appeared.

“We thought it best if she got to have a taste of the world before being fixed in her place back here. This is her final quarter, in any case.”

“I’m sure it pleases her very well,” he said, after a moment.

“Yes,” agreed Rue, composed again. “French and Latin and court manners. I’m sure it does.”

He did not hear the double doors behind him open-the footmen here were as silent as the rest of them-but the air grew cooler, and the chandelier sent out a fresh rainbow of sparks.

The marquess entered, golden-haired, unsmiling, walking to his wife and bowing over her hand; he slanted Zane a shorter look.

“Langford,” Zane greeted him, without bothering to rise.

Christoff Langford inclined his head. If Zane had a surname, no doubt the other man would be pleased to snarl it, but as it was, they only ever exchanged nods.

“Have you told him?” he asked his wife.

“Not yet. I was waiting for you.”

The marquess dropped down beside Rue, draping an arm around her shoulders, examining Zane with a banked, green-eyed hostility.

“Pilfered anything recently?” his lordship inquired, freezingly polite.

“Yes. Abducted anyone?”

“We’d like you to take a journey,” said Rue, as if neither of them had spoken. “A rather long one.”

“To where?”

“To the east.”

“East of what?” he asked.

Rue rose from the settee, crossing behind it to the expanse of windows. She wore a gown of blossom pink seeded with pearls, a French train that hissed, very faintly, against the maple floor. With the bright, wide panes of glass stretched beyond her, she seemed very small and slight.

“Somewhere out there,” she said, lifting a hand to the glass, “east of England, east of France. Somewhere as far east as you can imagine is a stone. A diamond, we think. A very powerful one.” Rue turned her face to his; the backlight devoured her expression. “We need you to go and get it.”

“One diamond,” Zane clarified.

“Yes.”

“How big is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“Where is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“To whom does it belong?”

Rue smiled, apologetic. “We don’t know.”

“Well,” said Zane, “won’t this be jolly fun.”

She stepped forward from the shadows, pink and white again. “About two years ago the first of us began to hear it. Just a few of us. It sounded like something from a daydream back then, soft and lovely. Nearly not there. When you tried to listen too closely, it would vanish entirely.”

“Back then?” He lifted a brow.

“Yes. It has…changed. Grown stronger. More compelling. More of us hear it now too, nearly every member of the tribe.” She lifted her hand once more, made a small, almost helpless gesture. “It’s difficult to explain. You know we connect to stones. You know how we are. This one-calls to us. It’s insistent and very clear. We need it.”

“Why not go fetch it yourself? Send one of your vaunted hunters out to the wilds? Surely it would be quicker.”

The marquess and marchioness exchanged a fleet, laden glance.

“It is impossible,” said Rue finally. “The council will not permit it.”

She was lying. She did it well, unflinching and cool and without the barest hint of regret, but he knew her well enough to register the tiny, tiny rise in her voice. And at the same time: the subtle shift in Langford’s bearing; even seated, he became more taut, more hostile, if that was possible.

Interesting.

Zane fully believed that the council of old men that helped govern their so-called tribe would forbid a journey beyond the Channel; the deep distrust the drákon held of anyone beyond themselves wrapped tight as python coils around this place. What he did not believe was that Rue Langford-or her grim-jawed husband-would let that stop them if the matter was vital enough. She’d broken all their rules, all of them, for years, just because she could.

But she wasn’t going. And she wanted to. It was clear as daylight across her face.

Zane looked past her, out the windows again, blue sky, bright clouds, the woods dying off in a glory of crimson and pumpkin and gold.

“You want me to travel to a place unknown, to find a diamond unknown, and secure it from a person, or persons, unknown, all at the edge of winter.” His gaze drifted back to Rue. “And if this person does not wish to sell me his unquiet stone?”

She regarded him in silence, her lips gently curved.

“I see.” He returned her smile. “Don’t misunderstand. We’ve had some pleasant dealings in the past, highly profitable, by and large aboveboard. But I am surprised. In all these years, you’ve never asked me to steal anything for you.”

The marquess spoke at last. “You will be paid sixty thousand pounds sterling.”

Zane felt the air leave his chest. He felt his hands go cold. Out of instinct, out of survival, he held absolutely still until his senses lined up again.

Sixty thousand-

It was a fortune-more than that. It was damned near bloody unimaginable, and he had a very colorful imagination indeed. If it had been anyone else in the world saying such a thing to him, anyone, he would have jeered and walked away, because there were few things more perilous than dealing with madmen.

“Done,” the thief said, and pushed to his feet to shake Rue’s hand.

“Did he suspect anything?” Kit Langford asked his wife, watching from their bedroom window as the carriage containing their human guest rolled away down Chasen’s drive.

Rue was standing behind him; he heard the shrug in her voice. “He’s Zane. He always suspects something.”

“But he’ll go.”

“Yes.” She walked up and brushed her fingers to his, a soft, fleet intimacy that warmed him, just as her touch always did. He turned to her, taking up both her hands.

She was beautiful. Cool and dark, the night to the stars, she was always so beautiful. A smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.