To Steal from Thieves Sneak Peek

A Sneak Peek at To Steal from Thieves by M.K. Lobb…

1

Zaria

Zaria Mendoza emptied a vial of blood into the flame.

Rather than sputter out, the candle burned brighter, a column of orange stretching to the workshop’s low ceiling. There was a sparkling quality to the illumination— a result of the soulsteel Zaria had added prior to the blood. The ashy powder still clung to her fingers, and a distinctive grit filled her mouth as the flame continued to burn. She focused on it with narrowed eyes, waiting for the transformation to occur.

Perhaps it was the late hour, but the reaction seemed more sluggish than usual. Zaria felt a single drop of perspiration track a line down her temple. There was no room for failure. Not when she’d left everything until the last minute.

As she had this thought, the candlelight appeared to condense, blood and powder melting into one. Relief shot through Zaria like a well- aimed arrow. She dropped heavily into her chair, grasping the tiny crimson shard that crystallized into existence the moment the flame flickered out.

Primateria. The physical embodiment of magic was warm to the touch as Zaria rolled the gemlike object between her fingers, eyeing its faint yet enduring glow. It was weak magic— limited magic— but that was the only form there was. Nonetheless, its creation always leached her strength. Exhaustion unfurled in Zaria’s veins as the high faded, and for a moment, the world around her seemed a little less tangible.

Another tiny piece of herself gone, channeled into her work. Lapped up hungrily by the processes that made her creations what they were. It was the price you paid when magic was made, not inherent. Blood and soulsteel, soulsteel and blood.

Heart thumping in her ears, she turned to the revolver on her side table. Objectively, it was a beautiful thing: Its inner workings were visible through the intentional cracks in its alloy exterior, the cogs and gears moving like clockwork. She suspected it was sleeker than any gun the Metropolitan Police had in their possession, and stroked it fondly before prying open a hidden compartment and depositing the primateria. It clicked into position, embraced smoothly by the rest of the inner workings. Light flickered along the metal like tiny bolts of lightning— it was always enjoyable to watch magic force its way in— then settled. Zaria’s stomach gave a satisfied lurch as her shoulders relaxed.

“Lovely,” she murmured, and stepped back.

The revolver was not merely a weapon, but an entity of whirring parts and careful calculations. Alchemology— the creation of magical items— was a difficult study. One wrong measurement or maneuver could result in disaster. Despite its being a learned skill, some people were more innately capable of alchemology than others. It took years of practice. Of learning to retreat deep into your own mind while maintaining multiple threads of focus. Most people never achieved it at all.

Then again, few tried. Alchemology was illegal in Britain, considered an occult practice by Parliament and the monarchy. Even if it had been a respected trade, errors were common, and most practitioners either died or quit before they mastered it. As someone prone to making errors, Zaria was very careful with her work.

Her father, though, had commanded alchemology the way a skilled artist commanded a paintbrush. Itzal Mendoza’s arrival in 1830s London saw him catapulted to the heights of dark market demand, and he’d taught his daughter everything he knew. He’d been forever frustrated by her lack of focus, her poor attention to detail, and her penchant for leaving things unfinished. When she could focus, though, she worked for hours at a time, neglecting all else in favor of her creation. With Itzal gone, it was how she made her living. But in a world where the inexplicable was considered satanic, the products of alchemology were only trafficable by certain channels.

Usually illegal ones.

Zaria traced the barrel of the gun with a finger. Her father had died last year, leaving her with nothing but dangerous knowledge and an absurd number of unfinished commissions. Commissions that needed to be seen through, because everyone knew how risky it was to disappoint a dark market client. She had no choice but to continue her father’s work. Though she tried desperately to navigate the market the way Itzal had, she lacked his organization, his easy charm. His lingering reputation simply wasn’t enough to bolster hers. Then, of course, there was the fact that men dabbling in criminal transactions didn’t often trust a young woman. Not with magic, and certainly not with their money. But these were the slums, and Zaria tried to make it work. What other option did she have?

A light knock sounded on the doorframe, slicing the silence. Zaria turned, her attention immediately compromised. “Oh. Hi, Jules.”

Framed by the entrance to her workshop was Julian Zhao, son of the pawnbroker who owned the building. He was also her closest friend. Zaria wasn’t great at friends. She tended to approach people the same way she did alcohol: She kept them around while they were fun and shoved them out of sight when they gave her a headache.

But Jules was an exception. He couldn’t be shoved out of sight, though his slight stature might have suggested otherwise. With a shock of black hair turned brassy by the candlelight, he might as well have been part of the house itself.

“Your twelve o’clock is here,” Jules said slyly, thrusting his shoulders back as if to mimic a high- society butler. “Two of them. They’re waiting for you in my father’s office.”

Exhilaration surged through Zaria’s veins. She blew out the last candles in her workshop, casting the blueprints papering the walls into darkness. “It’s never just one, is it?”

Then she strode across the dirt floor toward Jules, the scent of smoke thick in her nostrils. He moved aside to let her emerge into the dusty hallway that connected the pawnshop with the rest of the tiny brick house. It was far from a charming property, but compared to the rest of the slum, it may as well have been a manor. Of course, operating a business in this area also meant you owed a weekly debt to the kingpin for his crew’s protection—whether you wanted it or not.

“Don’t look so nervous,” Jules said archly. “Think of the money.”

Zaria raised her eyebrows. She knew she didn’t look nervous, even if her stomach was in knots. She was wearing what Jules called her business face— which was to say, no expression at all. She was good at putting on whatever mask served her best. If anyone looked apprehensive, it was Jules. He was a twitchy sort of creature, his emotions presenting themselves in flashes that disappeared as quickly as they came.

“I’d like more money than they’re going to offer,” Zaria said bitterly, and Jules gave a thin- lipped smile.

“You’d like more money than you could carry.”

Who wouldn’t, Zaria wondered, in a place like this? When the nights were cold and people were forced most months to choose between food and rent?

“Enough money to fill a man’s pockets and drown him.”

“I can think of worse ways to go,” Jules said.

Zaria couldn’t argue with that. “Your father’s not around, is he?” she asked as they ascended the crumbling staircase. She could hear the tightness in her voice and made an effort to shove her nerves further down. Her head still spun with the painful sensation that always followed the creation of primateria, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she blinked them open again, the world righted itself, though a low throb still pulsed at the base of her skull.

“He had business on Drury Lane. Why?”

“It’d be awkward if he found me doing dark market dealings in his office, now wouldn’t it?”

Jules gave a soft laugh devoid of humor. “Perhaps. But it’s not as though his hands are clean.”

That was true. After all, George Zhao ran a pawnshop in the heart of a London slum; he couldn’t very well be expected to have a strong moral compass. He did what it took, and Zaria didn’t begrudge him that. If you ever ceased trying to claw your way up in society, you’d be trampled in a heartbeat.

Jules caught up with her as she rounded the corner at the end of the hallway. The flickering candlelight lit his angular face in a strange way as he forced Zaria to hold his gaze. His dark eyes were made for seeing through falsities. “Are you sure you don’t want me in there with you? They’ll have guns.”

“And if they want another one, they won’t shoot me. I’ll be fine.”

In this part of London, women didn’t have the luxury of relying on people to do things for them. If their husbands weren’t dead from disease, then they were neck deep in drink or else slinking off to some brothel. Zaria Mendoza made her own deals, and she would see them through.

Jules spread his hands in good- natured surrender. “All right. Well, scream if anything goes wrong.”

“If you hear screaming,” Zaria said, “I assure you it won’t be coming from me.”

She watched with some measure of disconnect as Jules disappeared back down the stairs, then glanced down at her cracked pocket watch. Twelve- fifteen in the morning. Her meeting was supposed to have been at midnight, which meant she’d kept them waiting long enough so as to be fashionably late. She took a steadying breath. It had been so much easier when her father was alive. Not only because his commissions kept them afloat in the grime- encrusted belly of the slum, but also because he’d been the one to do the actual transactions. No matter how many times Zaria met with a client— or one of their hired grunts— she felt inadequate somehow. They always looked at her with confusion or distrust. As if her appearance would somehow impact the quality of her work.

Luckily, her work had gotten far better over the years. So she endured the gibes, the sideways glances, the far- too- low offers. Word of mouth was how any dark market vendor built a reputation, so satisfaction was crucial. If that meant accepting less money for the time being, then fine. She simply needed to be patient. The right deal would come along, and once she’d fulfilled all her father’s commissions, perhaps she could be free.

Besides, things were already looking up. Tonight, her buyer was one of the most powerful men on this side of London.

Zaria took a deep breath. Then she shook her hair back, stood up straight, and shoved open the door at the end of the hall.

She sauntered into George Zhao’s office, ignoring the two men who hovered on the far side of the room. It was always vaguely embarrassing to meet here, where her patrons could see the walls stained by water damage and the items cluttering every available surface. Where they might notice how much dirt caked the floor no matter how often Jules tried to sweep it aside.

But what mattered most in transactions like these was how you presented yourself. So Zaria stalked over to the chair behind the desk, sank into it, and propped her feet up. Only then did she make eye contact, forcing an expectant kind of confidence onto her face. “Evening, gentlemen.”

Now that she had deigned to look directly at them, she examined the men with interest. Both were tall and dark haired, though not in a way that made her suspect they were related. The older of the two was balding, with an angry face and thick eyebrows. The younger had a sharp jaw and straight nose, his expression bemused. They were clad in all black, their trousers and overcoats made of thick linens. Those who risked their necks to deal on behalf of the rich— provided they didn’t steal anything— were well compensated. And if they did steal something, it wasn’t difficult to find someone else willing to hunt them down.

Zaria leaned back in her cushioned chair, positioning the revolver wordlessly on the desk.

The older man grunted. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

He started forward, eyes narrowed in distrust. “Looks more or less like a regular firearm.”

Zaria raised a brow, and even the younger man shot his companion a disdainful glance. The expression looked comfortable on him, complementing his high collar and the vaguely amused curve of his mouth. If trouble wore a face, Zaria thought, it was undoubtedly that of the boy before her.

“That’s the point.” She drew out the words as if speaking to a fool. “Unless you wanted to draw questions from the coppers, I suggest you thank me for my ingenuity.”

The man’s face reddened.

“Relax, Larkin,” the younger man drawled. To Zaria, he added, “Show us.”

Zaria shrugged, taking the gun in one hand. The thing about her style of revolver was this: It wasn’t a revolver at all. You didn’t have to go through the inconvenient, menial task of loading it every time you fired more than a few shots. The cylinder spun as it should, but that was merely for show. Her guns didn’t fire bullets; they fired magic.

Real magic was nothing like the stories described it— its sole use was manipulation. As long as you had the right tools and materials, you could use primateria to modify an object’s purpose into one that should otherwise be impossible. Simple, more common examples included perpetually burning lamps and unbreakable glass, but the dark market wasn’t concerned with items like that. People wanted weapons. So that was what Zaria made, because anything she didn’t get paid for was a waste of energy.

She pointed the revolver lazily at a thick panel of wood leaning against the wall— already riddled with holes from prior demonstrations— and pulled the trigger.

The gears whirled as light flashed from the barrel of the gun, leaving a barely visible shimmer in its wake that hung in the air, filling the space with a lightly acrid smell. There, in the panel across the room, was a fresh hole. Magic fired from a gun ate away at material in the same way a highly concentrated acid might. It worked faster, though. Much faster.

And unlike bullets, magic left no trace.

Zaria turned back to her audience expectantly. The younger man tipped his head back and laughed; there was something sharp about the sound. He ambled over to the wooden slab, dragging a finger over the new indent. Dark eyes found hers across the room.

“It’s not very big.”

Now it was Zaria’s turn to laugh, long and low in her stomach. “That a line you hear a lot?”

His brows lifted, though he continued to look more amused than anything else.

“Kane,” Larkin said chidingly, making the single syllable a longsuffering sound before addressing Zaria. “Fifteen shillings.”

Anything below three pounds struck her as an insult, but Zaria knew how to play this game. She didn’t respond, only let out a small laugh as she crossed her ankles on the desk. Her blood raced in the silence that followed. Their opinions didn’t matter; all she needed was for the gun to make it back to their boss, who would be impressed.

Larkin huffed. “Fine. A pound.”

She kept waiting.

“Two.”

Zaria dropped her feet back to the floor, sliding the chair forward to fix the duo with the full weight of her glare. “Does Lord Saville want this or not? If he can’t afford it, then get out of my house.” She scoffed. “Because I feel sorry for you, I’ll settle for three pounds.”

This time Larkin laughed, and Zaria did not.

“You don’t quite understand what I have here, do you?” she said. “You must be new to dark market paraphernalia. This is a weapon like nothing you’ve ever seen. It never needs loading, will never rust. It puts other market revolvers to shame. Hell, it’ll put the inventions in the Great Exhibition to shame.”

“How does a girl like you know what’ll be in the Great Exhibition?” Larkin said, his voice dripping derision.

“A girl like me always does her homework.” Besides, it was hard to miss the gossip. The docks were filled with ships as of late, each one supposedly delivering impressive feats of art and technology from all over the world to be displayed in London’s Crystal Palace. With them came slews of patrons who rarely talked about anything else. It was driving Zaria rather mad, though the rest of the city seemed abuzz with excitement. She suspected that had to do with the ongoing publicity campaign— the event had been continually redefined through posters, press releases, and handouts until the public response turned more favorable. Zaria wasn’t so easily convinced, suspecting it an excuse for British industries to flaunt their success.

“And you think you can compete with professional inventors, do you?”

She refocused on Larkin. “Yes.”

He grunted. “Two’s the final offer.”

Zaria crossed her arms. At the same time, something twisted deep in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t pretend your boss isn’t prepared to pay for it. He knew full well what it was going to cost. I’ll give you three seconds to accept my offer, or I’m going to find someone willing to pay double. Trust me— it won’t be hard.” She held up three fingers, then flicked one down. “Two seconds.”

Larkin looked furious, though the younger man— Kane— quirked his mouth. He was handsome, Zaria conceded to herself, though in the way of someone fully aware of it.

“One.” She stood as if to leave. The tension in the air was palpable, but she let it wash over her. She didn’t have another buyer, but they didn’t know that. What did it matter? She had the upper hand. She’d grasped it with ease.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” She gave them a curt salute.

Larkin slammed three pounds onto the desk.

She scooped the coins up lightning quick, tossing him the revolver in return. “Nice doing business with you. Oh,” she added as the pair made for the door, “and don’t get caught with that.”

Larkin thrust the gun at Kane, who handled it with the caution one might show a newborn baby. Zaria watched them go. They could find their way out alone.

She collapsed back into the chair, money clutched between her fingers, and let her forehead rest against the cool surface of the desk. The world spun behind her closed eyelids. How much longer would she be able to do this? She needed to make a living, and the dark market allowed her to do what she did best. But alchemology had a cost— or, rather, the creation of primateria did. It took from a person. Zaria had seen that much firsthand.

Her father had died after giving too much of himself to his craft. Zaria had been forced to watch him wither away, his skin turning paper- thin, his face desiccating into a skeletal likeness of the man she’d known. Yet even as he’d drawn his last breath, he hadn’t believed his love of alchemology was killing him. Denial had been his downfall.

Zaria still had time. She was barely eighteen. But creating magic was like a drug, and the more she did it, the faster she would burn out. There was a reason people didn’t commit to a life like this. And what did she have to show for it?

Three pounds. Three pounds wasn’t enough. Not when rent was due and alchemology supplies cost nearly as much as a finished product. She had promised Jules they’d leave this place— that he wouldn’t have to waste away like his father, relying on the desperation of others, on the come and go of clients on redemption day.

There was no life to be had in the London slums.

Either you died here, or you got the hell out.