The wind sighs through the empty streets of Manhattan, teasing a lock of hair across Sway's face. She pushes it back under her cap distractedly, her eyes scanning the nearby alleys. Satisfied that everyone with any sense is in their beds for the night, she slips free of the dark alcove. She stares up at the forbidding house in front of her, dark and silent. Her target. The shadows cling lovingly to its curves and angles; all the better for her purpose.
She smiles grimly, sure that nothing can go wrong tonight. She's crept upstairs to rob a wealthy family more times than she can remember. Going dancing is her specialty. She thinks of Emma and how badly the little girl needs this job to go well. Fresh determination surges through her.
She creeps toward the lonely oak standing sentry at the side of the house. Any sensible man would have realized that it made for easy access and cut it down years ago, but the upper class have never been sensible. The Donovan's are no different. Bracing her foot against the trunk, Sway hauls herself up until she straddles the lowest branch. She clambers upwards, her silhouette blending with the oak's in the darkness. She shimmies along a rough bough until she reaches the attic window. She has to be quick; the night will hide only so much from any late-night passerbys.
She slides her dagger from her belt, running her fingers over the notch in the hilt for luck. The slender branch sways under her weight. She slips the blade into the divide between the window halves, lifting it upward in one practiced motion. The latch clicks as it opens, loud in the oppressive silence. The window swings inward at her push, stiff hinges creaking in protest. Sway freezes, one hand on the window sill. Since the family sleeps on the first floor and at the other end of the house, they should still be wrapped within dreams and unaware of her intrusion. Still, it never hurts to be cautious when one plays the dangerous game.
After a moment's silence, she eases through the gap in the window and pulls it almost shut behind her. She breathes deeply, balancing on the balls of her feet. First things first: where will she find the swag? Her eyes light upon an old, dusty jewelry box. Perfect. Say goodbye to Grandmother's pearls, she thinks. Her heart beats faster. She yanks out a drawer. After a brief search, she withdraws a few choice pieces and tucks them into her undershirt, making a mental note to sew a pocket onto her outfit. The floorboard creaks behind her a second before a man's arm clamps over her chest and cold steel pricks her throat.
"Don't move." His breath is warm on her neck. Like hell I wont, she thinks. Shadow taught me better than that the first time she took me out on a job. She grasps the hand holding the knife to her throat and turns her head away from the tip to gain leeway. Taking advantage of his surprise, she yanks his hand downward, driving her elbow into his stomach and pulling the knife away. In the moment that his grip slackens, she twists free.
Adrenaline surges through her. The window is her only escape. She takes only two steps before the man tackles her, knocking her to the floor. She lands at an awkward angle, her right arm twisted under her. The shadowy figure holds her pinned beneath his weight, and she bites her lip as pain lances through her shoulder. Her cap has slipped off in the tussle, and her hair is tossed about her shoulders.
Instinctively she grabs for her knife with her free hand. He knocks her arm to the ground before she can do more than brush the cool metal with her fingertips. Trapped! Panic roars in her ears despite her efforts to stay in control. Her breathing comes hard and fast. She struggles to focus, to concentrate. Never show fear.
She stares levelly at the man who holds her at such a disadvantage, waiting for him to wake the household. He draws his breath jerkily, considering, drawing out the tension. Her body is tight with nerves beneath his. The shout never comes. His eyes skim over her, taking in her flushed cheeks and the way that her shirt has slipped off one shoulder. Puzzled, she studies her attacker in the pale glow of the moon. She can barely make out chocolate eyes, a square jaw, and tousled brown curls. His bare chest presses against her, hard and firm. Her mind races. Who is he? Why is he in the attic? All her plans are shattered. He breaks the silence, his voice harsh in the quiet stillness.
"Stealin', is it? Girl like you shoulda known better than to try somethin' like this. Guess it just ain't your night." He smiles patronizingly as he says it, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes.
"I'd rather ya turn me in than mock me!" Anger burns hot in her chest. It has been months since she has even come close to being caught, and the humiliation is worse than anything.
"Who said I was turnin' ya in?" he asks coolly. His fingers slide under the collar of her shirt, grazing lightly over her skin. Fear twists her stomach. He can't possibly . . . Her heart thuds in her ears as his fingers dip under the edge of her shirt. She opens her mouth to protest, but the words choke in her throat.
"Relax, doll," he drawls, "I'm just relievin' ya of the stolen goods." He withdraws the clunky old jewelry and pockets it, smirking.
"What, you taking second-hand swag now?" she says breathlessly, fighting to regain her composure. She's groping for any vestige of humor, desperate to convince herself that her predicament isn't deadly serious. Something tells her that he isn't buying it.
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't hand ya to the bulls. " His voice is hard."'Cause then you'd be a scab, wouldn't ya? What are you anyway, the guardian angel of the Donovans? I need that jewelry."
"Why, so ya can buy yourself a pretty bauble to catch some poor fool's eye? Is that what ya need it so bad for? Or maybe you were just bored." She knows he's baiting her, but she can't resist. Her quick temper has always been a fault of hers.
"Don't judge me." Her voice breaks only a little. "You've no right." He is amused, and it only makes her angrier. She struggles to free herself. "Let me up, damn it!"
"Promise me you won't steal anything from this house again and I might let you go." She clenches her jaw, thinking fast. She can't come back empty handed, but there's no other way out. She caves.
"Alright, lemme up." She sucks in a much-needed breath of air as he shifts himself off of her, wincing as she moves her cramped shoulder. She stands and shakes the dust from her clothes. She snatches her cap up off the floor and jams it in the waistband of her worn trousers. Her cover's blown anyway. He watches her carefully. "What, don't trust me?" she says with a tinge of bitterness. "I gave ya my word."
"What good's the word of a thief?" he retorts. Vague contempt lurks in his eyes.
"More good than you know," she replies sullenly, yanking her shirt straight. It's only half true. Between thieves, a vow is sacred. Bring other people into the deal, and it becomes negotiable. Her eyes flicker over the room, summing up her options.
A small pouch catches her eye, lying on a shabby table with a few other objects. Probably belonging to the man himself, not necessarily the house. And if they don't, who can blame her for an honest mistake? The darkness hides her sly half-smile.
She looks up to see him leaning against the wall, deceptively relaxed. "Most people would be grateful, ya know," he says. Time to put her plan into action. Teach the guy not to play with fire. She flicks her hair and pouts prettily.
"You're right," she sighs, feigning resignation. "I ought to thank you . . . what did ya say your name was?"
"I didn't," he replies tersely. She raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to give in. He does. "Call me Mush."
"Mush." She rolls the strange name between her lips, swaying her hips languorously as she approaches him. Her dark, glittering eyes are full of secrets, holding his gaze. She deftly snags the pouch as she walks by. He notices only the way the thin cotton of her clothing pulls over her curves. She's had practice at this type of subtle manipulation before. She pushes past him and hitches her long legs over the window sill. Pausing half way out the window, she turns back and smiles.
"Thanks again, honey," she says in a throaty whisper, winking as she jingles his coin purse in her hand. Dark anger washes over him, and she swings out onto a branch of the old oak as he grabs for her. She drops to the ground, cat-like in her grace. She's off and running as soon as her feet touch the dirt.