Page 20 of Princess of Thieves

In spite of myself, my heart skips a beat at that last one. Not that I’m any great shot, but, well, I don’t miss when it counts anyway.

“Planning on entering, Maren?” Mr. Anderson asks.

“Oh God, no,” I say quickly. “I just—I didn’t realize that was something people still did,” I finish lamely.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I see Guy working his jaw.

“Unfortunately, not all of the practices that are traditional around here are so noble and refined,” he says. “And the archery competition tends to draw out some...rougher characters.”

Mr. Anderson’s face is so pink now he must be drunk, and he’s speaking very freely, which I, for one, kind of appreciate, because I can’t help it—an archery tournament? I mean, obviously that’s something Rob would enter. He mightbeentering, for all I know, except for the fact that he’s probably trying to lay low.

“Oh no,” I say, feigning shock. “That doesn’t sound good at all.”

“No, missy,” he says, wagging a sausage-like finger. “A while back, there was the same person winning every year, as soon as he was 16 and old enough to enter.” He lets out a low whistle through his teeth.

“There will be plenty of other things to keep us occupied,” Guy interjects. “Tobin, if you’ll excuse us.” He flashes a smileand lightly presses a hand to the small of my back to whisk me in a different direction.

“Forgive me,” Guy says, whispering in my ear, “but if I didn’t get us out of there, we would have been stuck talking with him all night.”

I bristle a little and slide out of Guy’s gentle grasp. “Oh, he didn’t seem too bad,” I say lightly.

“No, no,” Guy replies, casting a glance over his shoulder. “But the point here is to mingle. I’m trying to make a good impression on people. After all, you’re not bored, I take it?”

“Notto death,” I answer truthfully.

A waitress in her mid-60s with a tray of mini quiches scoots past us, just out of reach when I grab for her. “Damn it.”

“Hungry?” Guy asks. He dips to the surface of a table as we pass and hands me a spring roll.

“Thanks,” I say, because it was generous of him, except it’s just a mouthful of tasteless vegetables wrapped in rice paper. I eat it in two bites and wish I had another.

“Hang in there,” he says, and then someone motions for his attention.

“Ah, Mrs. Vandelay, how good to see you! And Ms. Williamson, of course.”

Two society matrons engulf him, visibly pleased at having the full attention of the handsome young lawyer, and I take the opportunity to sneak away.

I DON’T GET FAR, JUSTto the library, where I idly stroll around and sink onto one of the leather armchairs with my half-drunk glass of champagne. I lean back and close my eyes, imagining my birth certificate like I’m trying to manifest it into my hands, but I have to wait.

The library’s no different than it was on my first visit—shelves lined with books that look like they’ve never been touched. Not that I blame him. Half of them are ancient, filled with things no one reads anymore, or maybe never did. Still, I find myself wandering toward them, maybe because I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne, or maybe because the idea of making small talk for another hour makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

I trail a finger along the spines, the faint smell of leather and dust hanging in the air. “Might as well,” I mutter, pulling a random volume from the shelf.

It’s as dull as I expected—some old tome about the history of European literature, endless passages about art and philosophy that make my head swim. I set it aside and reach for another, thumbing through the pages without really seeing them. I’m tipsy enough that I figure maybe something will grab me, but so far, no luck.

Until I see it.

The book’s cover catches my eye—intricate blue leather, the spine embossed with a long, curling Latin title. I squint, the letters blurring a little under the soft light. I can’t make out a word of it, but something about it pulls at me. I tug it off the shelf, open it carefully, and that’s when I see the pictures.

Engravings, delicate and strange. Men transforming into animals—wolves, bears, birds. Creatures that are almost human, but not quite. There’s something familiar about the images, something that makes my heart pick up speed.

Shapeshifters.

It hits me all at once, like a gust of wind. This is some kind of book about shifters, like Rob and Will and Tuck and LJ. Holy shit.

I flip through the pages faster now, my mind racing.

Guy must know. Hemustknow that shifters are real. The realization sends a jolt through me, and I keep turning the pages, trying to make sense of the strange engravings, but—

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