Eight

Raquel

The path forward lies over your heart.

It’s clearly another one of Dad’s coded messages, but I don’t have a sweet clue what he means.

Montpellier is a beautiful city near the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s one of those amazing places where the old and the new weave together —where the shiny and efficient tramway network that zips past old buildings left over from the Reformation. Several storefronts are heavily decorated, some of them still sporting pumpkins and fall leaves while others have already moved on to festive Christmas paraphernalia.

There’s a university nearby, which means the city’s center square is bustling with activity. You’d think I’d learn to avoid big crowds, but in truth, hiding amongst a sea of people is the best way to disappear altogether. Dad’s first lesson when I joined the Red Ravens was that there’s no better way to hide than in plain sight. The trick is to blend in.

Don’t walk too slow, but don’t walk too fast, either. Act like you belong. Have a destination in mind and make your way there without eye contact, but don’t look like you’re actively avoiding people, either. Just move like you’ve got places to be, errands to run and people tend to leave you well enough alone. And if you see cops coming —for the love of God— don’t run.

What I need right now is access to a computer, and what better place to find one than at the public library. It takes me twice as long to find it because I have a hell of a time figuring out the street signs, but I thankfully know how to say “Bibliotheque?” to a random passerby who helpfully points me in the right direction.

I keep my head down as I pass the librarians at the front counter, settling in by an unused public computer in the back corner of the library. Hopefully I won’t be disturbed here. I open a search tab, hands hovering over the keyboard and…

And I type nothing.

I don’t know where to start.

This whole thing feels like such a strange dream. Fear, betrayal, hope… I feel like I’m lost at sea, buffeted by strong winds and aggressive currents. I hate feeling this out of control. If Lucius thinks he can play me like a damn puppet, he’s got another thing coming.

The path forward lies over your heart.

I stare at the open browser. I know Dad couldn’t just tell me how to find the encoded account passwords, but shit. How am I supposed to find them with a clue that vague? I bite my nails, deep in thought. I pause briefly, the contact of my fingers against my mouth reminding me of the buzzing sensation on my lips.

My God, what a kiss!

For a moment there, I thought for sure I’d give into Gabriel and let him have his way with me. I knew I was in over my head, but that’s the thing about mind games. All it comes down to is confidence — a fake it until you make it approach. I had to lower his guard somehow, and what better way to do that than with the promise of sex?

I’m not ashamed of having to use my body to get what I want. Being a thief of my caliber means being able to adapt on the fly. Was I actually going to sleep with him? Of course not, but there’s no reason for him to know that. I may not be holding onto my virginity for anyone special, but I sure as hell don’t want to lose it in such an unceremonious manner.

Besides, despite all his supposed honor, I’m sure Gabriel wants me out of his hair. He has a daughter to take care of, a life to get back to. Everything else —Lucius’ double-cross, Dad being taken hostage, the ransom— has nothing to do with him.

Former Red Raven or not, Gabriel is a civilian now. There’s no need to get him involved further. It’s best if we cut ties now while things are still relatively clean and clear.

If I’m being perfectly honest, I’m still painfully aroused by the whole encounter. I shake my head, doing my best to refocus and forget about the heat of his touch. I don’t have the luxury of time right now. The clock’s ticking and I still don’t have any idea what Dad’s coded message is supposed to mean. Hell, I don’t even know if these accounts are real or how Lucius found out about them in the first place.

I fiddle with my necklace, the hard metal serving as a sort of anchor for my thoughts.

The path forward lies over your heart.

I type Dad’s exact words into G****e, but the results aren’t helpful at all. The first thing that pops up is a literal anatomical drawing of a heart, but I seriously doubt Dad has a human organ tucked away somewhere with a key stuffed inside it.

Groaning in frustration, I try a bunch of different combinations of the phrase. Is the clue meant to be literal or figurative? Is it a reference to a piece of music, art, a time period in history? Considering how we’re talking about a life and death situation here, one would think Dad would speak plainly and just tell me the damn answer.

“The path forward lies over your heart,” I mumble aloud, continuing to fiddle with my necklace.

My necklace.

Which lies over my heart.

Huh.

I inspect my mother’s silver pendant. It was a gift from Dad when they first met. He was supposedly so enamored when he first laid eyes on her that he spent actual money to buy it for her instead of swiping it.

The pendant itself is a plain thing, but there’s an elegance in its simplicity. It’s in the shape of a small sphere, no bigger than a quarter, with delicate floral engravings decorating its surface. The smallest of holes where the pendant meets its loop seems like a mistake that only adds to its beauty.

I’ve had this small reminder of my mother with me since I was five years old, but this is the first time I’ve ever thought anything of it. I always assumed it was a flaw in its design, a unique mistake that made the pendant more special. Now I realize it’s so much more than that.

This isn’t a solid pendant, but a locket.

Throwing a cautionary glance over my shoulder, I make sure the coast is clear before I reach into my pocket and pull out my toolkit. I select my thinnest pick. It just barely fits. With one swift flick of my wrist, I pry the locket open.

Out falls a folded piece of paper.

My heart skips a beat.

How long has this been in here?

Holding my breath, I hastily unfold the paper. It’s no bigger than a sticky note, roughly three by three inches with black penmanship on one side. Another code. There’s a jumble of letters written in one long line, followed by a quickly scribbled ‘3 x 6.’

“A Caesar box cipher,” I murmur to myself, recognizing the formatting.

It’s one of the more rudimentary ciphers out there. All I have to do is write out the letters in order, three letters at a time for six rows. Once everything’s aligned, I need to read the message vertically, top to bottom, starting from left to right. Whatever message Dad left for me will surely lead me to the encoded passwords.

Before I can get to cracking, however, someone’s large hand grasps me hard by the shoulder. I whip around, startled to find a massive brute of a man standing right behind me. The man is a goliath. He’s at least six foot seven and probably more than three hundred pounds of pure, powerful muscle. He’s got a mean mug, the kind that even a mother couldn’t love. His eyes are deep set and dark, his lips are thin, and his nose has clearly been broken countless times before and healed wrong.

“Give it to me, girl,” he snaps, one hand swooping in to grab the piece of paper from me.

“Fuck off!” I hiss, immediately launching out of my chair to nail him with a front kick to his stomach. I normally don’t resort to violence, but he caught me by surprise, and I hate being surprised.

My attacker stumbles back and slams into a bookshelf behind him. A few books rattle off onto the floor. The sudden commotion draws way too many eyes for my liking. I need to get out of here now.

The man is quick to rebalance himself. Before I even have the chance to blink, he’s charging at me with the full force of a typhoon. He wants the piece of paper. Or, more specifically, he wants the code that’s written on it.

I heard rumors.

It occurs to me then that if Lucius knows about the McHale Fortune, there’s a good chance other people might, too. Asshole Broken Nose over here might be one of them.

Before he gets a chance to tackle me, I shove the piece of paper into my mouth and swallow.

“Spit it out, you bitch!” he roars at me.

Suspicions confirmed.

He charges me again. This time, he manages to grab me by the throat and slam me against the nearest wall. He lifts me a good foot or so in the air, my legs dangling uselessly. I choke, the air in my lungs burning painfully as I struggle to breathe.

People are openly staring, gawking, whispering to one another with worry written all over their faces. Nobody makes a move, though, too afraid to find themselves in the middle of my fight. I don’t blame them.

But a tiny part of me kind of wishes they’d help.

I kick, I claw, I spit. My attacker seems unfazed.

“Spit it out,” he repeats.

“Go to hell!” I choke.

As quick as lightning, he brandishes a pocket knife. He presses a button and the blade springs open, sharp edge glinting in the fluorescent lights of the library.

“If you’re not going to spit it out, I’ll just have to cut it out of you.”

Fear makes my stomach roll. This is going downhill fast.

He squeezes my throat —tighter, tighter, tighter. Black spots flicker across my vision, but I don’t stop fighting. I manage to kick him right in the balls, but the fucker doesn’t flinch.

Behind him, I spot movement. Something big is racing toward us, though I’m so oxygen deprived that I can’t figure out if I’ve imagined it or not. Only when I catch a glimpse of dark brown hair and the familiarly large silhouette of broad shoulders and a wide chest that I realize I’m catching the break I wanted.

I manage to grin. “Fuck you,” I rasp out just as Gabriel tackles the man to the floor.