Page 1 of A Touch of Treachery
CHAPTER ONE
CHARLOTTE
Youcouldalwaystellthe thieves by their props.
A watering can and a pair of gardening gloves.A waiter’s tray and a notepad.A gold watch and a briefcase.
At first glance, thieves always looked like they belonged in their surroundings, and they blended into the background like paint on a wall.But thieves had their tells, just like players in a poker game, and if you looked closely enough, you could spot the subtle signs they weren’t what they appeared.
A woman kneeling by a flower bed but not actually dousing the blossoms with her watering can or digging her gloved hands into the dirt.A man leaning against a table that held an empty tray and a notepad but not actually waiting on anyone or scribbling down orders.Another man sitting in a chair, checking his imitation-gold watch and fiddling with the black leather briefcase on his lap but not actually opening the container and drawing out any papers.
So far, I’d clocked three thieves in the lobby, all situated at different points around the perimeter like a lopsided triangle.The woman with the watering can was close to the entrance, where rows of trees, hedges, and flowers formed a large garden.The waiter was next to a gray marble column beside the café that dominated the left side of the lobby, while the businessman was in a chair close to the reception desk at the center of the back wall.
The three thieves maintained their positions and pretenses while scores of people pushed through the revolving doors at the front of the lobby, strode past the garden, and then either veered into the café or headed toward the left or right bank of elevators.A few folks stopped at the reception desk to ask for directions.
Like many buildings on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., this structure housed a variety of businesses, everything from dentists and lawyers to accountants and acupuncturists.One elevator car after another dinged out its arrival, while the café’s espresso machines hissed, burped, and spewed out one beverage after another, creating a pleasant symphony of sound.The dark, rich scent of a dozen different coffees curled through the air, along with a yeasty whiff of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls that made my stomach rumble with longing.
Too bad Section 47 spies didn’t get coffee breaks.
I angled my phone left and right, using the screen to watch the thieves scattered around the lobby.This crew was more subtle and disciplined than most, but they all looked tense and wary, and they were all turned so that they had a clear view of their target—me.
Just like the thieves, I too was wearing a disguise—a bright royal-blue pantsuit that stood out like an unwanted ink stain amid the bland gray furniture.I hadn’t bothered with a watch or any jewelry, and instead of the expected heels, dark gray sneakers covered my feet.The scuffed shoes were my tell, but I didn’t care about blending in with everyone else.Comfort had always been much more important than fashion to me, since you never knew when things might go wrong, and you might have to run for your life as a spy.Something that happened far too frequently for my peace of mind.
I put my phone away and stared through the glass wall at the street outside.Traffic flowed at a steady pace, accompanied by the impatient honk of horns, and no cars were idling at the curb, waiting to whisk the thieves away after they’d finished their heist.
In addition to the front wall, two side walls were also made of glass, and the bright sunlight streaming inside made the silver flecks in the floor shimmer like minnows swimming through the gray marble.Off to the right, the garden greenery clustered around a wooden bridge that stretched over a stream of bubbling water that widened into a round stone pool filled with glimmering coins.
A sea of worn couches spread across the center of the lobby before giving way to black wrought-iron tables and chairs that perched around the café on the left wall.A corner escalator rose to the second floor, which featured a glassed-in terrace that served as overflow seating for the café.
Chandeliers dangled from the ceiling, each one with long, skinny, stiff white paper strands that made them look like giant dandelion puffs about to be blown away by the aggressive heating system.Black security cameras also dangled from the ceiling and swiveled back and forth like oblong spiders swinging from thin strands.
I stared up at the closest camera.Gia Chan and Diego Benito, my colleagues at Section 47, were no doubt viewing the live footage right now.They were stationed in a building down the block, along with a strike team, just waiting to rush in and apprehend the thieves when they finally decided to make a move.But I couldn’t help but wonder who else might be peering through the cameras—and what their plans were for me.
I resisted snapping off a cheeky salute to my silent watchers, Section 47 and otherwise, and dropped my gaze back down to the lobby.
Everyone looked perfectly normal, but I kept glancing around, trying to figure out whether I’d missed spotting any more thieves.Hard to tell, given the dozens of people coming and going, but maybe I could fix that.
I stretched my hand out and drummed my fingers on the briefcase perched on the cushion beside me, as though I was growing bored waiting to be seen.All three thieves tensed, and the woman with the watering can dug her knees into the dirt like she wanted to leap up, sprint forward, and brain me with the metal container.
Given how fidgety she had been since I’d entered the lobby ten minutes ago, I was willing to bet the gardener-thief was a paramortal, someone with special magical abilities.Most likely, she was an enduro with incredible stamina, someone who could fight, run, or stay awake for days on end.Many enduros felt a constant need to burn off the amazing amount of energy pumping through their bodies, and this woman kept shifting on her knees and curling and uncurling her fingers around the watering can.
As for the waiter-thief and the businessman-thief, they were most likely paramortals too, although I couldn’t tell what powers the two men might have.They could be enduros like the woman—or something even more dangerous.
I kept drumming my fingers on the briefcase, which was the same bright blue as my suit, as though I were a peacock preening my feathers to attract maximum attention.The three thieves were the only ones who reacted to the motion, but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that someone else was watching me, so I drew in a breath and reached for my magic.
Just like the three thieves, I too was a paramortal.My ability?A magical form of synesthesia that let me see mistakes, typos, and errors in whatever document, spreadsheet, or contract I was reviewing, something that helped me track rogue paramortals as a spy-slash-analyst for Section 47.But my synesthesia took other forms as well, including a highly tuned sense of danger and an inner voice that whispered of threats—
A bit of pink flared off to my left.I tensed, but the pink flare was centered on a puddle of spilled coffee.My synesthesia might be useful in sensing true mortal danger, like an assassin who wanted to shoot me, but it often bombarded me with bright, colorful lights, even when it was just pointing out a minor hazard like a slick floor.I grimaced and looked away before the neon-pink flare sparked a headache.
“Excuse me, Ms.Locke,” a light, feminine voice called out.
Heels clacked on the floor, and a woman came out from behind the reception desk and stopped beside me.Her pantsuit was the same light silver as her short, wavy hair, and she blended into the background even better than the thieves did.The woman looked to be in her fifties, with rosy skin and pretty features schooled into a polite expression.
“I’m Iris Berriston.”The woman smiled and held out her hand.“I’m the agent on-site and will be handling the transfer of assets.”
I leaned forward, shook her hand, and returned her smile with one of my own.“Thank you, Iris.And please, call me Charlotte.People only call me Ms.Locke when there is some sort of trouble at Section 47.”
Iris’s light brown eyes twinkled with amusement.“Isn’t there always some sort of trouble at Section 47?”
