Day in the story: 2nd October (Thursday)
When I jumped onto the overlook, dressed head to toe in black, face hidden beneath a bandana, hair tucked inside a long cap, I expected rain. But the skies had stayed dry here for a while.
I closed the umbrella and slid it into the holder at my belt, a custom-made sheath lined with wool to muffle any accidental sound. On my other hip, a small bag was slung tight. It bounced lightly as I moved.
The enhancent spell from the volleyball match still lingered, quick reflexes, painless motion, lightness in every step. It made tonight’s job easier.
Unfortunately, the Camper was gone.
I’d have to check later if the teleport anchor still worked and if so, where it would take now. But I’d already used it for what I needed. If it was burned, so be it.
The dining hall curtains were drawn. No movent behind them. No flicker of shadow. I had to take the chance.
A cold portal jump, straight into the room.
If anything felt off, I’d leave imdiately, still touching the portal page in the grimoire. That was the plan.
"Take there."
I pressed my hand to the painting.
The heavy door clicked shut behind . I hadn’t touched it.
Soone had just left as I arrived.
Lucky.
The thick velvet curtains that shrouded the tall windows muffled the sound. My boots made no noise on the polished wooden floor of the grand dining hall.
Three doors.
One behind , now shut.
Two ahead, flanking a grand fireplace carved with scenes of old hunts and noble crests. I stood still, letting the silence settle in.
The air was warm. It carried the faint scent of cinnamon and old wood. A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow dancing across burgundy and gold tapestries.
A long dining table stretched the length of the room, draped in floor-length embroidered cloth.
Cover, if I needed it.
But first, eyes.
I scanned the room.
There, a small, nearly hidden do cara above the fireplace, its lens panning in slow, chanical arcs. I waited, pressed into the curtain’s edge where I knew its blind spot lay. Timing was everything.
The mont it turned away, I crouched low and slid beneath the long dining table. My fingers brushed along carved wooden legs as I disappeared into the shadows. Dust teased at my nose. I pressed a hand over my face and stilled myself.
Footsteps. Soft-soled. Soone passing through.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
I counted to thirty before erging. The curtains stayed drawn. No shift in the light. No sound but the fire’s quiet crackle.
I crept to the right-hand door and eased it open, inch by careful inch, revealing a corridor lined with oil portraits and pastoral paintings. The hallway curved, disappearing behind another thick curtain. A second cara sat in the corner above the junction, an older model, fixed angle.
I stayed low, slipping behind a side table cluttered with a cracked porcelain vase and a bowl of dried lavender.
Voices. Laughter.
Two maids. I crouched tight, barely breathing.
They passed, chatting about sothing in the cellar. Their steps faded.
I exhaled.
Room by room, I searched.
The first study, bookshelves heavy with dust, air thick with a smoky scent. I rifled through the drawers. Useless papers. Nothing hidden. No safe. A cara in the corner, angled toward the desk. I ducked behind the tall chair and moved quickly, silently.
The music room was a dead end. No caras, just the grand piano and a heavy velvet curtain in the corner. I moved on.
Behind the pantry, a narrow hallway. Footsteps again, heavier this ti. I dove into a linen closet, curled up behind folded sheets. The scent of cigars clung to the air.
A man passed, asured gait, expensive shoes. The butler—probably.
I waited. Listened.
Then moved.
The basent was the trickiest.
I took the servant stairs, keeping to the shadows. The clatter of pans and murmur of voices warned off the main route.
Security cara above the stairwell. I tid its sweep, ducked beneath and found a dumbwaiter shaft. With a practiced motion, I pulled myself inside and descended in silence. Grease from the ropes clung to my gloves.
The kitchen buzzed with life.
Four cooks. Laughter. The rhythmic clang of pans. The hiss of a stove.
I crouched behind sacks of flour. At the far end of the room, a keypad-locked door. Directly above it, a cara. No shadows. No blind spots.
No way through.
I studied it. morized it.
Then slipped away.
Upstairs, everything quieted. The suits of armor lining the gallery watched pass with hollow eyes. The guest rooms were lavish, curtains heavy as theater drapes, mirrors edged in gold, the air thick with perfu. Caras were fewer here. I moved with care, ducking behind armoires, crouching in window seats and waiting in silence.
One study was locked. My lockpick made short work of it. I didn’t want to use magic, it would leave a trace, the paint, a whisper that I’d been here. Inside: cedar and silence. No caras.
I searched fast. A false drawer revealed a letter—places, nas, dates. I snapped a picture and left everything as I found it.
The master bedroom was last.
Double doors. I opened them an inch at a ti. No breath. No creak.
I slipped inside.
Stillness.
Heavy curtains sealed off the moonlight. The bed lood like a throne draped in shadows. A faint red glow blinked above the doorfra, a motion sensor. Infrared. I froze, calculating. The arc would sweep across the upper third of the room in a slow fan. If I stayed low, below its line, I could pass.
I dropped to hands and knees, moving slow, keeping close to the wall where the arc narrowed. I’d done this before.
Shallow breath. Slow movent. Trust in the geotry.
Against the far wall, a painting, a hunting scene. Large, ornate.
Behind it? Likely.
I reached for my work phone to check the jamr. Still on. Close proximity to the pack should scramble low-grade sensors for a short window, maybe sixty seconds.
I moved fast.
Tools whispered against tal. Tumblers clicked, one by one.
Then, movent.
A draft stirred the curtain behind . I paused. Listened.
Nothing.
Back to work.
The safe popped open.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Docunts. Jewels. A black notebook.
I took the papers and notebook. Left the jewels. I wanted to photograph everything, catalogue the contents, but I heard footsteps.
Heavy. Close.
I slid under the bed just as the door opened.
A tall man entered, vest crisp, movents economical. He crossed to the desk and picked sothing up, keys, maybe.
“Why today? Just fucking why?” he muttered under his breath, then turned and walked out.
I waited three full minutes before moving again, replaying his words in my mind. Why today? What did he an? Should I follow him?
The urge to tail him tugged hard, but I had no ans of staying hidden if spotted. A suit that could turn invisible… maybe possible. But I had no idea where to even begin crafting such a thing.
Instead, I refocused. Laid the notebook and papers on the floor. Snapped a photo of every page. Carefully, thodically, I returned everything to the safe, exactly how I’d found it.
I crawled back toward the door. He must’ve reactivated the motion sensor when he left and I wasn’t risking anything. I pressed my ear to the wood, silence. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards.
I nudged the double doors open and slipped into the hallway.
The chatter from downstairs had grown louder, so kind of dinner underway. Laughter rang out, forks clinked against china. Good. Most of the people were distracted. That made it easier to move undetected.
I headed for the far end of the hall where the balcony waited. I stayed clear of the caras, following blind spots I'd morized on the way in. The doors to the balcony were unguarded. No patrol, no watchers.
Outside, the air was crisp. The sky stretched wide above , streaked faintly purple and silver with the coming dusk. No sign of the rain I’d expected, though the roof tiles were still slick with moisture.
Three tall trees stood just beyond the railing, their branches stretching like fingers, one nearly brushing the balcony itself. I recognized it: the swing tree, the one I'd seen from the overlook earlier. From up there, I’d also caught a glimpse of attic windows tucked beneath the top gable. No stairs had led to them inside. No visible ladder. That left only one option.
Climb.
I stepped onto the edge of the balcony. Enhancents in my ankles coiled, ready. I jumped, silently, cleanly and caught the roof edge above with both hands. Damp tiles and all.
I hauled myself up and pressed low, crawling along the ledge like a cat, silent and close to the slope to avoid being seen from below. The height gave a better view of the estate's layout.
I crept toward one of the attic windows and lowering my head from above, peeked inside, upside down. A study. Or maybe a vault for books. Shelves lined the walls, each encased in pristine, glass-fronted cabinets. White carpet covered most of the floor. The walls were white as well, sterile almost and the only door was massive and tallic, more like a bank vault than anything you'd expect in a house.
Jackpot.
The window had no hinges, no latch. Just a thick, reinforced pane, probably bulletproof. No way to break it, not quietly and not with anything I had on .
Inside: no caras, no motion sensors.
Now or never.
I pulled a black spray can from my bag and painted a wide false-hole illusion directly onto the tiles above the window. I pushed my Authority into it and dropped through a second later.
I landed lightly. The mont my boots touched the carpet, it flared with silver fire, forming a circle inscribed with glowing runes.
And I couldn’t move.
A cold stillness wrapped around . Not just physical. I felt it pull at sothing deeper. My soul. I was pinned in place like a specin in a box.
But sothing inside fought. I could feel it, two forces clashing in the dark. The sigil held . But I was not yielding.
Anansi what’s happening?
[You are trapped within the domain of a sigils’ authority.]
I can feel resistance, though. My soul is fighting it?
[Correct. You resist in two ways. First, all Authority will clash with foreign ones. This one is of a greater maturity than yours and would overpower you, if not for your Domain’s nature. This sigil is a work of art. And you, bearer of the Domain of Artistic Creation, hold authority over it.]
A battle of wills, then.
Then why can’t I move?
[I redirected most of your strength against the sigil’s secondary function, alerting its creator. The paralysis is its first effect.]
You decided?
[I am an anima. I embody the subconscious aspect of your soul.]
Right. I exhaled slowly. The pain in my muscles was less than the strain of being known by the circle. So, it’s a circle. Runes. Art. That’s my edge.
I was touching it. Close enough to influence it. But I couldn’t erase it, that would trigger the alert. I knew that, deep down. When my Authority fades from an object, I feel it. They’d feel it too.
I had to be clever. Not destruction. Redirection.
Anansi, can you read its instructions?
[Yes. There are two: First, hold trespassers upon entry. Second, alert the creator.]
And I’m holding off the alert, right?
[Correct.]
If the alert’s automated, they won’t check the sigil unless it goes off. Which ans—I can change the trigger. Subtly.
I gathered my focus and reached down, not physically, but through my Authority. My domain. I didn’t erase the sigil’s will. I reinterpreted it.
Be the sigil that holds trespassers on entry, that alerts the maker.
And then I rewrote the aning of “trespassers.” Not one person. Not . A group. Multiple intruders. That was the new threshold.
I felt my Authority thread through the lines of the circle like ink flowing upstream, bending the soul of the art, reshaping it just enough.
The grip on loosened. The energy around the sigil dimd. The thread that would have reached out and scread Intruder! went quiet.
I’d won.
My first real win against a foreign Authority.
[Not true.]
What?
[You’ve done it before. Twice. Against the sa opponent.]
[Once when your jacket froze the hand of the mage who tried to erase you. Again, when your Authority refused to let him vanish you, right before your trial.]
“…Right.” I rembered now. I hadn’t seen those monts as victories before. But they were. My Domain had already started to shape the world around .
Thanks, Anansi.
[You’re welco.]
I stood slowly, feeling the quiet hum of the room around . My presence was hidden. My will, intact.
By the way, Anansi… can I make sigils like this one?
[No. They are too abstract. They do not accept identity.]
Thought so.
I turned toward one of the glass-covered bookshelves. Five tos rested inside. Old. Leatherbound. Handmade, just like my Travel Grimoire. No doubt magical. There was no way soone would protect this room with a soul-snaring sigil unless what it held was valuable.
The glass cases had no locks, no hinges, no latches. Just pristine, seamless containnt. I could break through, but not without leaving a clear trace. If anyone checked this room later, they’d know soone had been here. Still… my fingers itched. My curiosity burned. These books could be everything I needed.
I read the titles on the spines:
“De Marcos—Family’s Debt”
“Ideworld’s Geography”
“Basics to Authority”
“Angels”
“History of the World”
Across the room, on a shelf by itself, stood a single massive to.
“Book of Debts.”
That one was huge. Like it could snap a table in half if dropped.
I stood in silence, staring. I didn’t know enough about this world, their world. This was the kind of knowledge I was always stumbling in the dark without. The one about angels caught my eye especially.
Are they real? I’d never seen one. Never heard of anyone who had. But the fact soone bothered to write a whole book about them, especially here, ant sothing.
Anansi… are angels real?
[I hold no knowledge in relation to that question.]
Damn.
I stepped back. Just slightly.
Every book called to like a whisper in my head. Knowledge, secrets, power. But I couldn’t afford to blow my cover. Not yet. Not when I was this far in.
I sat down at the desk in the corner and opened my grimoire. With slow, deliberate strokes, I painted the room I stood in: the glass-enclosed shelves, the heavy desk, the single barred window, the stark white walls and floor. I caught the shape of the circle inlaid on the ground too, as a reference.
Once it was done, I flipped to the painting of my own room. Take there.
I jumped instantly.
I ran to the bathroom and filled a cleaning bucket with warm water, adding soap, then dropped in a cloth. Back in my room, I touched the grimoire and jumped again, returning to De Marco’s hidden library, what I’d now decided to call his magical study.
I moved quickly. Grabbed the black spray paint, stepped to the case with the single massive book. Be a hole, I commanded the paint and a silent void spread across the glass.
Carefully, I pulled out the heavy to and laid it on the desk. I opened it slowly, from the side, expecting so defensive magic to lash out, but… nothing. No light, no glyphs, no trap.
Inside, the text was old, Latin, or maybe Italian. Dates reached back as far as 1012 AD. Nas I didn’t recognize lined the margins, many of them underlined. I could feel the weight of authority behind the letters, though not active, less a trap, more a presence.
Still, I had no ti to go page by page.
Footsteps.
I froze. Another step. Heavier. Then the unmistakable scrape of tal, a lock turning.
Soone’s opening the vault.
I shut the book gently and slid it back into place on the shelf. I reached out and pulled my authority from the painted hole, stripping the magic away.
The footsteps grew louder.
I dipped the cloth into the bucket and carefully wiped the paint from the glass, making sure not to leave even a smudge. When the hole was gone, I used the dry part of my shirt to polish the surface clean. No sign I’d ever been there.
The vault door gave a heavy clunk behind .
I grabbed the bucket, the cloth, everything I’d brought and reached for the grimoire. Closed it. Touched it.
Take ho.
I vanished just as the vault door groaned open behind .
Too close. Way too close.
And I hadn’t learned much, yet. But I’d found a place worth returning to when the risk was lower. More importantly, I had taken clear photos: the letter from the false drawer, the notebook pages and all the docunts from the safe. I forwarded them to Mr. Penrose, then called him and walked him through the entire infiltration step by step.
When I finished, he responded in his usual asured tone.
“Good work, Alexandra. I need to look more into this magical world. It's proving far more useful than I anticipated.”
“I’d never have gotten in and out undetected without it,” I admitted. “Teleportation, disguise, even disabling the trap, none of that would’ve been possible before.”
“Agreed. And it's now obvious the De Marcos are magic users themselves. I’m glad you managed to disarm that sigil.”
“Not more than I am, sir. It could’ve gone very differently.”
“I’ll go through the docunts you sent,” he said. “I’ll see if anything gives leverage for Monday’s eting. You do the sa. Any thoughts on returning to that attic study?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’d love to study those books, so of them might answer major questions, but I was seconds from getting caught. Whoever created that sigil trap… they’re strong. I only escaped because of my domain’s edge.”
Penrose paused for a mont. “Learning more is paramount,” he said at last. “But staying alive is the most important.”
“I agree. I think the safest option is to deal with Shiroi and De Marco first. Once they’re out of the picture, I can take the books openly. No need to hide. No risk if I’m exposed.”
“That would be my strategy as well,” Penrose said. “Good thinking, Alexandra.”
I said my goodbye and sat down by the phone, docunts spread out in front of . Most of them were financial, ledgers of debt, nas I didn’t recognize, numbers without context. The black notebook was full of it. I left that to Phillip. He could untangle the financial web better than I ever could.
But one item stood out: the letter from the false drawer.
It listed nas, places, dates. One line stopped cold:
Alexandra May—20th of September 11.00 AM—Brooklyn Bridge Park.
That was the day I t Eveline de Marco.
So, what was this list? Did Eveline write it? If so, why was I on it, along with these other strangers? If she didn’t write it, then soone was tracking her and I got swept up in that net. Either way, it wasn’t random. I had been marked.
Targeted.
Fuck.
Phillip would spot the implication instantly, so I sent him the photo with a quick explanation of what happened that day in the park.
He left it on read.
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