Page 80 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

Leif turned to the displayed editions. “This is a 1962 first printing. Original cover, original interior, binding consistent with the Sparta, Illinois, plant output from that production run.” He lifted the cover with cotton-gloved hands. Reverent. Proud. “The paper stock is custom-milled to match period composition. I source the pulp from a supplier in Vermont who specializes in archival-grade reproduction.”

“You source your own paper?” She let the impression register—admiration, professional interest. It wasn’t entirely fake. The technical skill was staggering.

“Authenticity begins with materials. Any competent printer can match an image. Matching the substrate—the paper, the binding adhesive, the ink chemistry—that’s where craft separates from reproduction.” His eyes were alive behind the glasses, animated in a way that his face didn’t support. He was passionate. He was brilliant. He was also distributing forgeries through a criminal network bankrolled by a man who had sent a lion to attack her, and she was going to record every word he said.

“The binding.” She picked up the edition—carefully, with the handling protocols Rune had drilled into her during weeks of authentication work. “It’s hand-stitched?”

“Period-accurate technique. Kettle stitch with linen thread, consistent with the 1960s production line.” He pointed to the spine with a penlight. “The adhesive is a formulation that went out of production in 1987. I have the original recipe. Three labs in the world still do. I was trained at one of them.”

Say the name. Come on. Say Prestige.

“Which lab?”

“Prestige Restorations. I was their master restorer for years.” No hesitation. No evasion. He was proud of the pedigree. He wanted her to know who had made these. “The work I do now is… an evolution. Preservation through recreation. The original editions are degrading in private vaults. My editions ensure the art survives.”

Art preservation. He’s framed industrial-scale forgery as art preservation. Points for creativity.

In her ear, Breezy: “Got it. Prestige admission on tape. Keep him talking about the process.”

Lark set the edition down. “I’d be interested in a standing order. Villainette’s expansion means I’m curating rare displays for six locations. The editions need to pass visual and basic authentication—we’re a retail environment, not a grading service, but our clientele includes serious collectors.”

“How many units?”

“Twenty to start. Villain-focused titles—Golden Age through Bronze Age. Emphasis on first appearances.” She named the titles. Watched his face calculate—volume, pricing, production timeline. “If the quality holds, we’d scale to fifty per quarter.”

Leif’s expression shifted. The quiet craftsman gave way, briefly, to the businessman underneath. His eyes sharpened behind the wire frames. “Fifty per quarter is ambitious. Production lead time is six to eight weeks per edition at this quality level. I don’t cut corners.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. Quality is why I’m here.” She reached into her bag. Extracted the purchase agreement Breezy had prepared—a legitimate-looking acquisition document with terms, pricing, and delivery specifications. The document was real enough to hold up in court as evidence of intent to purchase. “Shall we discuss terms?”

They discussed terms. He was meticulous—pricing by era, complexity surcharges for pre-war editions, delivery logistics through his existing network. He named the network: “Third-party fulfillment through pop-up and online channels. I maintain separation between production and distribution for quality control purposes.” For deniability purposes, Lark translated. She signed the agreement. He countersigned. The pen strokes were steady. The recording captured every syllable.

“A pleasure, Ms. Coleman.” He shook her hand again. “I think you’ll find the product exceptional.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She gathered the signed agreement and the three sample editions into her bag. Evidence. Transaction recorded. Chain of custody documented. Breezy would have the digital backup uploading to secure storage before Lark reached the elevator.

She walked to the freight elevator. Pressed the call button. The industrial cage rattled upward.

“Clean exit.” Breezy’s voice in her ear, crisp with relief. “Evidence secured. Rune is in the extraction vehicle at the northeast loading dock. Dekel’s team confirming all-clear on the perimeter. They are pulling out.”

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor at the southwest side of the building. She’d have to walk around to be out of sight of the windows. Summer heat hit her face—the asphalt radiating the day’s warmth back into the night. Halogen lamps threw orange pools of light across the surface.

A black SUV idled sixty feet away. At first, she thought Rune had driven around. She glanced up at the windows, hoping Cross wasn’t watching. Then the vehicle door opened and Aspen got out.

Lark stopped. “What are you⁠—”

“I called you.” Aspen’s chin was up, but strain tightened her voice. “Then Rune stopped moving on Dekel’s security app, and none of you answered.” She crossed her arms over a leather jacket that probably cost more than Lark’s monthly inventory. “Where is everyone? What’s going on?”

“We’re in the middle of a⁠—”

She heard them before she saw them.

Three figures stepping from behind the industrial dumpster at the dock’s edge. Two men in dark tactical gear—hired security, human, moving with the coordinated efficiency of professionals. And between them, a figure she recognized from a SoHo sidewalk last week.

Lean. Scarred. Hair cropped to the scalp. The jagged line from temple to jaw catching the halogen light.

Kasper Eld.

Her earpiece crackled. Breezy’s voice, no longer flat—sharp, urgent: “Three hostiles on the dock. Dekel’s team is converging. Two minutes.”