“How about we order Chinese food?” the elf asks, and I think she's proposing it just to make me forget about Sabina. “We need to eat something while we plan how to steal that damn arrow.”
The Kobold sits next to me, presses her leg against mine, and her body heat radiates like a small portable heater. It's nice, I suppose. Comforting, opposite to Sabina's coldness.
“What do you feel like eating? Do you like spring rolls?”
“I like everything, order whatever you want,” I respond, perhaps more abruptly than necessary.
Half an hour later, their dining room fills with boxes of Chinese food that Sylara arranges in an orderly manner toshare among the four of us. Sabina sits as far from me as she could, surely to keep thinking about Cherie.
“According to what I've been able to find out, Voronov is organizing a party in three nights,” the elf explains as she stirs her seaweed soup with chopsticks. “It's our best opportunity to get in.”
“A party?” I repeat with my mouth full of noodles. “And how are we supposed to get in? Do they also ask for masseuses for their parties? Because I doubt he sends invitations to thieves and magical creatures, right?”
Sylara smiles, that serene and enigmatic smile that never quite reaches her eyes. She stays completely still while talking, so still she looks like a statue. It's unsettling, but also hypnotic.
“I have certain... abilities with computer systems,” she explains as she traces patterns on the table with her long, elegant fingers. “All four of us will appear on the guest list with false identities. You'll be Caroline Spencer, heiress to an oil fortune from Texas. Althea will be your bodyguard. I'll be a diplomat from a small country in Eastern Europe.”
“And the siren? If we bring her in a fishbowl, she could be our pet,” I mock.
“I'll be the wife of a Russian oligarch who had to stay in Moscow for business,” she responds. “I speak their language perfectly, and Russians tend to trust other Russians more.”
“There's one small problem,” Althea interrupts. “Voronov saw Nell's face during the massage. He'll recognize her.”
It's true. As soon as Voronov sees me, the whole plan will go to shit.
“Makeup,” Sylara suggests. “And a wig. I'd already thought of it. I can create an illusion that slightly alters her features, but it takes energy to maintain it. The simplest thing would be a radical look change.”
“Will that be enough?” Sabina, who for the first time since we returned from the mansion, seems worried about me again, asks. Or maybe it's that if they catch me, they catch all of them.
“I hope he doesn't remember what happened with... you know... his lungs running out of air,” I sigh.
Sylara kneels in front of me and places her hand over mine. Her touch is cool, smells like tree bark in spring.
“Don't worry about that. The sedative mixed with lack of oxygen should have created gaps in his memory,” she reassures me. “Probably, he'll vaguely remember a masseuse, but not the details.”
“Yeah, okay. And if he recognizes me?” I insist. “Because that man is a fucking monster.”
“We won't let him touch you,” Althea growls, and her body temperature seems to rise a couple of degrees.
I just nod my head. I like the idea of having nearby a woman who can control fire and is willing to turn anyonewho tries to hurt me into ashes. Even so, I'm not attracted at all to the idea of entering that mansion again.
While I try all the dishes they've ordered, they keep discussing the plan. For an elf from another realm, Sylara has surprisingly detailed knowledge about security systems. Althea contributes strategies in case things get complicated. Even Sabina, despite her distant attitude, contributes information about the social habits of wealthy Russians. She constantly drinks small sips from a flask she always has on hand. I wonder if sirens dehydrate out of water.
“Let me see if I've understood correctly,” I interrupt, drawing an improvised floor plan on a paper napkin that's come out horrible. “Once inside, Althea and I sneak toward Voronov's bedroom while you two distract the guests. Cherie explained to me how to open that damn safe, but I'll need at least ten minutes without interruptions.”
“Eight,” Sylara corrects. “We can't risk more. Security makes rounds every fifteen minutes and we need margin to get out without being seen.”
“Eight then,” I concede. “After, we hide the arrow... Where? How big is that thing?”
“In my purse,” Sabina responds. “I can create a small dimensional bag inside. No one will detect it there.”
I try to maintain a professional image and don't even arch my eyebrows, though the idea of creating dimensional bags seems like something out of a movie.
“We meet here an hour later,” the Kobold adds.
“Sounds simple,” I mock. “What could go wrong? We're just going to steal from a mobster who has a well-deserved reputation as a sadist and a small army at his service.”
The three of them look at me with expressions that range between amusement and thinking I'm an idiot. Sabina opens her mouth as if she wants to say something, then regrets it and looks away. That damn distance again.
