The Dream Thief by Shana Abe

“Fine,” he said brusquely, and moved away.
The musicians were playing something new, a jig. Amid the jangle of strings and
festive bells, he went back to the punch table—because it was nearby, because
it was where his feet took him—and allowed the maidservant to hand him a
brimming cup. Beneath her starched cap she was young and homely. When he nodded
to her, she smiled shyly back.
    He lifted the punch in salute and
downed the entire thing. Sweet cloves and brandy, the fumes searing his nose.
As he was accepting a second measure, a sweep of crimson skirts came into view.
    “I don’t know how you found me at
the hotel”—Zane acknowledged the maid once more before turning around—“but I
won’t be there much longer. Pray do not trouble yourself to search for me
again.”
    Lady Amalia was quiet.
    “I have no doubt there’s a pack
of your kinsmen on your heels, and damned if I’m going to be the one who takes
the blame for this.” He glanced at her coolly. “You’re on your own, my lady.”
    “You need me.”
    “Highly unlikely.”
    “No, you do. You’re looking for Draumr. And I know where it is.”
    He lowered the cup of punch,
staring again.
    Her lips pursed. She gazed down
at her fan.
    “Well?” he said.
    “I’m not going to just tell you.
You need to take me with you.”
    “Dearest child. Get it out of
your head. You’re not going anywhere with me.”
    “I am not a child!”
    “No,” he agreed, losing patience.
“You’re really not, are you? You’re something far more ominous than that.” He
set the cup upon the table behind him and leaned down to put his mouth to her
ear. “I wonder how all these good people would feel if they knew a monster
walked in their midst?”
    Amalia stiffened. A powdered gray
coil of hair trembled against his jaw. “We stand at the brink of the
Carpathians,” she replied under her breath. “With woods and wolves and a
thousand different legends. You’ll find monsters aplenty in these lands. None
of these good people will thank you for naming them. For all their
fashion and French wine, they’re a superstitious lot. And I will, of course,
deny everything. You’ll be just a mad foreigner.”
    She sent him a sidelong look,
challenging; someone new came near. Zane was already pulling away, but Lia had
turned and aimed a swift, glittery smile at the aristocratic couple now
lingering before them. “Ah, Lord Miklós, Lady Eliz. Jó estét. Have you
met my husband, Zane Langford?”
    For the second time that evening,
Zane—Black Shadow of Mayfair, dreaded Whip of St. Giles—was too astounded to
speak.

    “They will not miss me until
after Christmas,” she said, twirling the quill in her fingers to draw slow,
slow circles upon the paper on the hotel desk; the paper was thick and
fine-grained, but her hand was never very good. The ink from the quill made
blotches across the page. “They won’t be chasing after me, because they won’t
know I’m gone until then.”
    “And
how did you manage that?” Zane was standing with his back braced against the
door to his room, his arms crossed. Lia envisioned him turning the brass knob
and simply stepping backward,vanishing instantly into the darkness of Óbuda.
    It was late, very late. The
east-facing windows of the room showed a faint green rising in the sky. She
glanced up at Zane. For half a second she almost hoped he’d do it, just open
the door and go. He’d been quizzing her the entire night, and all she truly
wanted to do right now was sleep.
    But sleep wouldn’t come, anyway.
Or if it did, she’d wish it had not.
    Her mantle and reticule were
still draped along the foot of his bed where he had first tossed them, a
jet-beaded glimmer against the patterned duvet. His own cloak had been flung
over hers, careless, lamplight slipping along a thin flash of emerald satin
from where the lining had flipped over. To anyone else in the room, it might
truly appear they were man and wife, returned together from a