Chapter 1: The Old City

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A waning quarter moon hung in the dark September sky, providing plenty of light for Wulf’s Halfling eyes. Gaslamps burned every hundred feet or so. Pockets of yellow-orange light that only served to create more shadows. More places to hide.

Wulf crouched behind an old wooden fence and waited. Everything in this part of Malkin City was old. So old that folks called it “The Old City” and were real proud of its oldness. Some buildings here dated back to the Commonwealth’s founding, over five hundred years ago. Or the foundations did, at least. 

And the folks who lived in these buildings were rich. Not as rich as folks in the Gems, mind. But no way he’d go back there. Queen Waylinda herself could offer Wulf all the gold in her treasury, and he would still refuse to set foot in that neighborhood.

Not even if his life depended on it.

So when Macsen told him about a smash and grab in the Old City, Wulf jumped at the chance.

Things had been weird since the Grady job. Lots of important folks got shipped off to Greer Island, and lots of others lost their jobs when the shipping company folded. The shop owners who depended on Grady’s imports and exports soon found themselves in a bind and scrambled to find new shippers. Within a week, all the importers in the city were overwhelmed, and many shipments arrived late or didn’t arrive at all. Seemed every time Wulf walked into a shop, folks was complaining. Not enough to buy. Not enough to sell. And that made thieving difficult.

How could Wulf steal from folks who were struggling to live the same as him and Ma?

Honestly, it didn’t feel right.

But it wasn’t like they were strapped for cash. Wulf kept all the hundreds and fifties he had stolen from Grady. Ruthless helped set up a bank account where the money would be safe and earn interest, whatever the hell that meant. Wulf made withdrawals once a week to pay for food and rent. For the first time in years, they weren’t behind on rent. Wulf did not have to steal.

Not stealing felt weird. Almost wrong.

If Wulf wasn’t stealing, when what was he doing with his life?

Then last week, Macsen got the idea for a job.

Actually, the idea belonged to Macsen’s new friend, a timid, skinny Shinnok Halfling named Carlos Vallejo. Carlos worked as a landscaper in a rich neighborhood in the Old City, maintaining their private gardens. He overheard that the owner of 386 Hawthorn Street was going to the Tallinn Mountains for a month-long work vacation. Something to do with birds flying. Wulf honestly didn’t care.

A big house crammed full of stuff.

Completely empty.

The perfect job!

Wulf peered over the fence and looked at the clock in a corner store window. A quarter till eleven.

Where the hell are y’all?

Macsen and Carlos were supposed to meet him here at ten-thirty.

Had Carlos gotten cold feet? He wasn’t a career thief. Just a guy down on his luck with one missed rent payment away from being on the street. And though Macsen was one of Ruthless’s nephews, he wasn’t that great a thief. His father was one of the gang leader’s many cousins, and his mother was a Shinnok Fae with a nice secretarial job at the Fae Embassy. Good enough to pay the bills, so Macsen didn’t need to steal to survive. Instead, he hired himself out as a caser or a shadow. 

Did his parents learn about the job and talk him out of it? Or Ruthless?

I can always swing the job myself, Wulf thought as he eyed the house. Completely dark. No sounds. No movement.

Yeah, he could swing it and split the take with Macsen and Carlos. Fifty percent for himself, and twenty-five for each of them. And if they complained, too bad. If they wanted an even share, they should have showed.

Wulf checked his pockets. Lock picks, gloves, handkerchief, and a multi-purpose knife that Bookie gave him as a gift. In addition to a small knife, the Amistadian made gadget also had a corkscrew, nail file, bottle opener, and pliers. A reward for reading his first book.

Not an easy task. The words still got all jumbled up despite it being a kids’ book with lots of pictures. But Wulf could recognize about thirty words now, and the story was kinda fun. A brother and sister on a family beach trip.

Would Bookie be disappointed that Wulf used the knife in a smash and grab? Yeah, probably. But Bookie had his new important job at the brickyard, and Wulf… Well, reading a single book did not qualify someone as an educated worker.

Wulf sprinted across the quiet street, sticking to the shadows between gaslamps. This part of Malkin City had yet to see a spark of electricity, making this job much easier.

386 Hawthorn Street was a massive, three-story mansion with tons of windows on each floor and flowering shrubs lining the perimeter. Sneaking shrubs, he and Dav called them. You could sneak around the whole house, and nobody would see nothing. Just shadows. 

Two towering oak trees bordered the house. The twisting branches almost reached the rooftop. And best of all, there were no hired guards and no dogs.

Wulf pressed his ear against a window. Silence. Perfect.

He slipped on his gloves and tied the handkerchief over his face as a precaution. Couldn’t risk some insomniac walking by and giving his description to the bricks. He then selected the oak tree on the left and climbed up to the second-floor window. He pinned his back against the frame and secured a foot on the opposite side. Nothing short of a gust of wind could knock him out of place.

Wulf opened the knife blade and jimmied the lock. Easy. Very easy. Didn’t folks realize how easy they made things for thieves? Sure, they remembered to lock all the doors and windows on the first floor, but that only worked if they lived in a single-story house.

He slid the window up an inch at a time, his ears twitching, picking up dozens of tiny sounds. The shifting of wood on wood. A bat squeaking as it flew overhead, searching for insects. The leaves rustling in the warm breeze.

A cough.

Wulf froze, the window halfway open. Where did that cough come from? Next door? No, it sounded closer. But there was nobody home. Carlos swore up and down that the guy would be gone all month.

But leaving your house empty for a whole month wasn’t smart. Did the guy ask a family member or a friend to stay overnight?

Wulf waited sixty heartbeats. The house was silent.

Easing the window up the rest of the way, he slipped inside. He spied a faint light glowing around the corner, flickering. A gaslamp. Who the hell left a gaslamp burning in an empty house? It could cause a leak. Couple years back, a tenement in Gray Hook exploded because of a leak, killing a dozen people.

Wulf slipped the knife into his pocket and crept down the hallway. The plush, dark blue carpet muffled his steps. Oil paintings hung on the dark wood walls, complete with polished, gilt frames. At the corner, a gaslamp burned, lowered for the night.

Either this guy is stupidly forgetful, or someone’s here.

Crap.

Okay, not a loss. The house was three stories tall, and it was almost eleven o’clock. Most folks were in bed by now, and bedrooms tended to be on the top floor. Even if someone was sleeping over, he should be okay as long as he stayed on the second floor and didn’t venture too far from the window.

Wulf continued down the hallway and carefully tested the doorknobs. Some were locked, but a few were loose. One door opened into a bathroom that smelled like lavender and had fancy white and green tiles. Another a linen closet stuffed with towels and blankets. Those were valuable in their own way. The blankets could be used as they were or cut up to make clothes or socks. Bloody hell, Wulf was fourteen when he first got a pair of socks without holes or patches. Stole them from a tailor shop in South Torpen. Dav had acted as a lookout while…

Voices.

Wulf’s heart leapt into his throat. He reached for his gun and cursed under his breath as his hand passed over an empty belt. After the Grady job, Ma made him promise to stop wearing a gun. He had kept that promise for two and a half months.

Besides, he didn’t need a gun. He hadn’t stolen nothing, and nobody had seen him. If he got to the window in time, there’d be no need for fighting. And he could always try again.

The voices grew louder, rising to shouts. Two men arguing. Part of Wulf wanted to run, but the house was supposed to be empty. Did the guy cancel his trip? Did another gang hear about this place and decide to score?

Wulf crept around another corner. Light spilled into the hallway from an open door. The shouting grew louder, angrier. Wulf’s ears twitched, straining to hear, but he could not understand a single word.

That made no bloody sense. The owner was Malkinese. Sure, Bookie spoke two languages, but the words didn’t sound like the High Speech. They were sharper, more guttural.

A gunshot fired, echoing.

Wulf’s heart leapt into his throat.

An object flew out of the room. It hit the wall between two paintings and fell onto the carpet.

A gun.

Wulf spun on his heels and ran like hell.

Mercy sakes alive, this was supposed to be an easy job! The entire house empty for a whole month. ‘Cept it wasn’t empty, and someone just got shot! 

Did the shooter see him? No, not unless they had a mirror angled into the hall.

And they tossed the gun. Who the—

Wulf skidded to a halt as he turned the corner. A woman stared up at him. She was Malkinese, and in her fifties with touches of gray in her black hair. She wore a traditional maid’s uniform…

The woman stood there, frozen.

Wulf rushed past her, racing towards the window. The woman ran in the opposite direction. Towards the gunshot.

The woman screamed. “Oh my God! He murdered him! Oh God! Call the police!” She screamed again, a horrified, blood-freezing scream.

Wulf scrambled onto the windowsill and leapt to the nearest tree branch. He climbed down, hands and feet moving faster than he could think. His foot missed a branch and slipped. He fell the last five or six feet but managed to land in a roll and scrambled to his feet. Half the windows blazed with light. More people shouted. Dogs barked.

Bloody hell!

How could Carlos have gotten this job so wrong? Did he mishear a date? Did the homeowner change his mind?

Or worse. Did Carlos set him and Macsen up?

The idea made his blood turn to ice water. Gang members rarely turned on each other, but it happened. And Carlos wasn’t a member of the Marauders. Wulf just met him last week. Macsen vouched for him but…

Wulf shoved the idea away. Carlos was too scared of his own shadow to pull a stunt like that.

And…

And someone was dead.

Killed less than twenty feet away from him.

Wulf ran down the street and headed for the train station. No trains ran this late, but he didn’t need a train. Just a direction.

What should he do? Call the bricks? Hell no. They’d never believe a thief, even a thief exonerated by Captain David Reyes himself.

How would he explain it anyway? The second he admitted to breaking into the house, the bricks would have him in cuffs.

No, the bricks weren’t an option. He couldn’t drag Bookie into his mess neither. Bookie had a good job and a good place to live. Wulf couldn’t jeopardize that, and knowing Bookie, he would drop everything to help.

Wulf just needed to lie low for a while, wait for this storm to blow over, and hope the storm surge didn’t drown him.