Kildare stood behind Fir, watching him maneuver the lock picks, his fingers bending in ways human or shifter hands couldn’t as he held five different tools. The padlocks, though small, looked fiendishly complicated, and he was just glad he didn’t have to try one on his own. He’d make an idiot of himself.

More than he’d already done tonight, anyway.

The purple werelight hovered close to Fir’s head, casting things into weird shadow. He squinted into the darkness, his eyes quickly adjusting so that he could make out the shapes of display cases beyond the werelight. Nothing moved. He could vaguely hear Mock and Snitch’s voices as they worked, but he couldn’t see them or discern what they were saying.

“Six thousand,” Fir said softly. “You think you know someone...”

“I know it’s ironic, but, please, just trust me.”

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with Serene, would it?”

Kildare’s skin chilled, and he spun around. Fir stuck a pick in one side of his mouth, not looking up.

“How...” Kildare muttered.

“I’ve seen you when Snitch starts to grumble about her.”

“I thought Mock was supposed to be the discerning one.”

“No dispersions on Mock, but she hasn’t been your friend for years.”

“And Snitch?”

“I don’t think Snitch can love anyone as much as he loves himself.” Fir took the pick out of his mouth and poked at Kildare’s thumb. “Besides, I saw this.”

The unity tattoo. The makeup had come off during his struggle with the guard. Kildare rubbed the tattoo, then said, “I’m sorry for not telling you.”

Especially Fir. He’d been Kildare’s friend longest. Out of any of them, Kildare should’ve been able to trust him.

Fir kept his eyes on the lock, but slightly lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

Kildare’s stomach churned. He looked away, scanning the room again, and something glinting green in a case at the edge of the light caught his eye.

“Hey, Fir, check this out.” He took a few steps toward it.

“Little busy here.”

Kildare stepped toward the case and placed his hand on the smooth glass top, leaning close to get a better look at what was inside. At first glance, it was only a simple wooden box, but what had caught his eye was the intricate golden keyhole on the front, seamlessly sunken into the wooden around it. The wood itself was a deep golden color, rich and covered with tiny little carvings of leaves and vines, so detailed that it almost looked alive.

Kildare tapped the top of the display case. “Found the puzzle box.”

Fir came over, carefully placing a gem-studded brooch into his bag, and stared at the box, eyes narrowed.

“What? I thought you were excited to get your hands on this thing.”

“Yeah, I just... I’ve been thinking about what Mock said. It does kinda seem weird that Basalt wants this thing so badly.”

Kildare ran his fingers through his hair. “I know, but we need this job, Fir. More than I realized.”

Fir shrugged and bent over the lock.

Kildare leaned over the case, studying the box as well as he could under Fir’s werelight. It looked seamless. Even the golden lock melded into the wood around it. Kildare bit his lower lip. The puzzle box would more than cover Serene’s contract. Briefly, he wondered if the crime lord would accept an outright trade—the box for the contract. He shook his head. He’d have to make sure the rest of his team was okay with that—no more secrets.

It might not matter. Based on Fir’s reaction, they might not want him on the team any more. Kildare’s throat tightened with—what? Fear? Anticipation? Did he actually want to leave his life and team behind? The thought of settling down somewhere with Serene, maybe...maybe even having kids, without the fear of Basalt claiming them.

He blew out a soft breath.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The padlock clicked.

Fir stuffed his picks into his tool belt and eased the lid off the case. He picked up the box, awe shining on his face, and stroked a gentle hand over the top of the box. “Look at this.” He ducked his head down, squinting at the tiny script on a plate on the bottom of the box. “He wasn’t lying. This really is made by Beech Willon.”

Kildare held out his hands, and Fir passed the box over to him. Kildare’s fingers had barely touched the silky smooth surface before a jolt of pain lanced up his arms and into his head. Kildare cried out and shoved the box back at Fir, jerking away. He doubled over, pressing his palms to his temples.

“What happened?” Fir demanded, grabbing his shoulder.

Kildare winced and blinked several times. “I don’t know. I—” He straightened and reached for the box, stopping just short of touching it. The energy wasn’t painful now, but he could still feel it, and a faint whiff of ozone rose to his nostrils. Kildare sniffed. “There’s something powerful in there, Fir. I smell ley.”

In fact…he had never smelled ley so strong. Mock and Fir had always had a lingering scent around them, especially if they’d recently used ley.

Fir blanched. “It has something in it?”

Kildare nodded.

“Great blight,” Fir muttered. He looked down at the box, then back up at Kildare. “Should we still take it?”

Kildare worried at his lower lip. Only shifters could sense ley, so it was possible that whoever had donated the box for display, and the museum curators, had no idea that it held anything of value. And maybe he was wrong—maybe it had absorbed ley at some point. Sometimes things did that.

“Messing with ley stuff is tricky,” Fir said. “If we make the wrong person angry...”

“No one will know we stole it,” Kildare said.

“What if that is why Basalt wants it? He doesn’t care about the box, he just wants whatever’s inside of it?”

“Fir, stop!” Kildare clenched his hands and forced himself to lower his voice. “Just...stop. We’re committed now. I’m sorry it makes you nervous, but we literally have no choice.”

Fir glanced down at the box in his hands. His face twitched. Then he sighed and put the box carefully into his pack. “So that’s it then, right? We’ve got enough?”

“I think so. Let’s find the others.” Kildare turned, trying to spot Mock’s werelight. It hovered some ways away, close by one of the walls.They headed toward the hovering werelight.

As they got closer, Kildare thought he heard a scuffle across the marble floor behind him. He whirled. Fir’s golden werelight shone brightly, illuminating the cases around them, but there was no one there.

Fir cursed loudly.

Kildare spun around again.

The space under Mock’s werelight was empty. Lockpicks and other tools were scattered on the white floor, and Mock and Snitch’s backpacks were propped against the display case’s marble stand, but there was no sign of their teammates.

“Rot it all,” Kildare muttered.

A sound like rope running through a leather casing sounded from above them. Kildare looked up. Two dark figures hurtled down toward them. He grabbed Fir’s arm and yanked him out of the way. They tumbled to the floor as the two men landed where they’d been standing.

Kildare scrambled to his feet and yanked a stiletto from his boot. He felt Fir’s shoulders knock into his back as the Alfaren drew his own knife.

With another loud zipping sound, two men landed on their other side. The four men pointed crossbows at them.

Kildare rolled the stiletto handle in his hand. Each of the men wore a Knocken-designed grappling belt around his waist, but a reel box was attached to the belts, a thin rope disappearing above their heads into the darkness of the ceiling.

“Didn’t know this was an open-invitation party,” Fir quipped.

“I had a few extras,” Mock said from behind Kildare.

He swung around. Mock stood near the wall—he could see the decorative curtain she’d pushed aside to hide behind—with one arm extended, pointing a one-handed crossbow at Kildare’s chest. The other arm was around Snitch’s throat, holding the flat of a knife against his jaw. The thief’s hands were bound in front of him and a gag was around his mouth. He looked just conscious enough to hold himself upright.

Mock swung the crossbow from Kildare’s chest to Fir’s. “Drop the knife, Kil.”

Kildare’s thoughts spun. He extended one hand to Mock. “What is this? Why—”

She sighed and tightened her finger on the trigger. “What does it look like, Kil? Pox, for someone who can always plan heists to perfection, you’re slow on the uptake.”

Kildare hesitated, swept his eyes around the semi-circle of crossbows aimed at them. His gut sank. There was no way out of this. If he even twitched his hand the wrong way, he’d get a bolt in the neck. Spreading his free hand, he knelt and slid his stiletto to Mock. She swept it behind her with one foot and motioned him downward with the crossbow.

Fir gritted his teeth and took a step away, hand clenched tight around the strap of his backpack.

“Fir, no!” Kildare signed to him. Stand down. “Don’t get yourself killed because of a stupid score.”

Mock snorted. “You were the one who insisted we needed this job, Kil.”

Fir’s eyes flicked from him to Mock, then he grimaced and set down the backpack.

One of the Alfaren immediately stepped forward to grab it. Kildare felt Fir tense beside him and grabbed his friend’s arm, shaking his head.

Fir looked up at Mock. “Why?” he demanded. “What did we ever do to you that deserves this, Mock?”

She smirked. “Nothin’. I just found someone willing to pay more, that’s all.”

“Five years as a crew—” Kildare started.

“And a year of that you spent lying to us!” she snapped. “Not just about the money, Kil. You lied to us about Serene.”

Kildare’s scalp prickled. “I—what?” He didn’t want to even look at Fir. Couldn’t.

Even as Mock sneered in disgust, her left hand went to her right wrist, her fingers circling her wrist as if they missed the familiar jingle of a charm bracelet.

The bracelet on Kildare’s own wrist felt suddenly, strangely heavy.

Mock averted her gaze to the side as she snarled, “Rotting shifter.” She looked past Kildare at one of her co-conspirators and nodded.

Footsteps clacked on the tile floor. Kildare braced himself, but heard a dull thud. Beside him, Fir tensed, then collapsed to the floor, head rapping hard against the tile.

Kildare didn’t have time to move before something struck him in the back of the head. He tumbled to the floor, managing to catch himself. Another blow, and the last thing Kildare saw was the pale reflection of Fir’s golden werelight wink out.