The iron door crashed open, and the first guard rounded the corner, sword drawn and torch held high. Behind him came three more in House Greymont colors, and finally Lord Edmund Greymont himself, younger son of a duke who was hungry for recognition and willing to do questionable things to get it.
His dark eyes swept the chamber, landing on her standing beside the open chest. His smile widened into something that made her skin crawl.
"Well, well. The infamous lockbreaker, finally caught in the act." He stepped closer, studying her face. "Though I must say, your reputation for choosing targets doesn't quite match your performance tonight."
She kept her face blank. "I was hired to steal from Roderick's vault. Wrong room. Just bad intelligence."
"Oh, I don't think there's anything wrong about tonight at all." His eyes gleamed. "In fact, I think it's going exactly as planned."
One of the guards moved toward the open chest, reaching for the remaining tools.
"Don't—"
The guard's scream cut off Edmund's warning as the tool seared his palm. He stumbled backward, clutching his hand, and the smell of burned flesh filled the chamber.
"Death magic," another guard whispered, making a warding sign that wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. "She's cursed."
"I'm not cursed!" The words came out sharper than she intended, defensive in a way that made her sound guilty. "I don't even know what's happening!"
But even as she said it, she felt the lie. The tools weren't hurting her. They felt protective. Like they recognized something in her touch that made her safe from whatever had just burned a man's hand to the bone.
Which meant she was special. Lucky her.
Lord Edmund stepped closer.
"Fascinating," he said softly. "Very fascinating indeed."
He gestured to his guards. "Take her upstairs."
The guards moved in, spreading out to cut off any escape routes.
Brynn moved.
She faked left toward the widest gap between guards, then pivoted right at the last second. The first guard lunged to grab her arm. She twisted and drove her fist into his throat. He staggered back, gagging.
"Don't hurt her!" Edmund's voice cracked through the chamber.
The hesitation was all she needed. She ducked under another guard's outstretched arms and made for the door.
Almost there. Almost?—
Something slammed into her from behind. The guard she'd hit tackled her to the stone floor, driving the air from her lungs. She bucked and thrashed, got an elbow into someone's face, and heard a satisfying crunch of cartilage.
"Damn it, hold her still!"
Hands grabbed her arms, her legs, her hair. She kicked hard and connected with something soft—a grunt of pain. But there were too many of them, and they were too strong.
They hauled her upright, pinning her arms behind her back with enough force that her shoulders screamed in protest.
She was breathing hard, heart hammering. One guard had a bloody nose from her elbow. Another was clutching his ribs from her kick. The one who'd tackled her was still wheezing, and he looked furious.
She fought down a smile.
"Spirited," Edmund observed, brushing dust from his fine coat. "Good. You'll need that."
He nodded to the guards. "Bind her hands. And don't try to take those tools from her. They've clearly chosen their keeper."
The guards wrapped rough rope around her wrists, tight enough to bite. One of them patted her vest pockets, felt the tools inside, but didn't try to remove them.
