The Reformed Thief

Iara was a changed woman—and yes, that was what she considered herself at the ripe old age of eighteen, and yes, she was officially reformed because she no longer went into staff offices after hours to steal score sheets; and of course she would never swipe pocket change when someone wasn’t looking; and goodness, she would never steal from the most infamous family in the capitol city.

At least, not anymore.

She clutched tightly at the ancient text she’d stolen, although borrowed was more accurate a term now that she was planning to give it back. The monstrosity felt more brick than book. She exhaled sharply, watched her breath curl up in front of her like smoke, and wondered what on earth was taking Dayana and Laís so long. This city, her city, was a living, breathing contradiction. A bit of misfortune, a bit of something more. It was no wonder she felt at home here, with her band of misfit thieves—

Borrowers, she had to remind herself. Very late borrowers.

“Please don’t hurt me.” A hand, rough with callouses, fell on her shoulder, a smooth voice at the nape of her neck. Iara smiled, but willed her face quickly into one of cool indifference after her brief moment of indiscretion.

“Then please don’t be late.” Iara whirled to meet Laís’ gaze, finally. The boy would be a lot more annoying were he not as pretty as he was, and he was quite pretty, with full lips, amber skin that reminded her of autumn, thick curls that he often tamed into braids woven tight to his scalp. He shrugged, unfazed by her pique, and stuck a cigarette between his teeth.

“Next time,” he promised.

Another hand reached out to snatch the cigarette from his lips and shove it between their own. Dayana, her loose curls tamed into a low bun, wasted no time letting the drug dangle from her mouth before she lit it and took a drag. Her voice was a purr, low and silky as she spoke. “Did you forget? There won’t be a next time. Iara is too good for us lowly filth now. She’s submitted her application to the scholars program already.”

“I thought it was because she was afraid of ghosts,” Laís snickered.

“That’s not…” Iara let her words falter. She had recently applied for the scholars program, and the last she checked, they did not allow students with criminal pasts on the university campus. But more than that, she was tired. Thievery was exhausting, and likely bad for the joints. Even more than that, she was afraid. Be they ghosts or something else, her life had shifted since she and the others had stolen the book tucked beneath her arm. She heard voices in the dead of night, in the middle of the day, at the break of dawn. The voice was unfamiliar, their words incoherent, their tone urgent and angry. She would set a glass down on her night stand, come home and see it had been shattered on the floor or placed neatly in the kitchen sink.

She lived alone in a studio apartment.

“If one of you would like to take it back and have it haunt you again, speak now,” Iara snapped. “Otherwise, let’s go get this thing off our backs.” When neither Dayana nor Laís jumped at the offer, Iara grunted and the three of them set off in the shadows.

It had been Dayana’s idea to steal o grimório several weeks ago after hearing of its worth on the black market from a street vendor who’d clearly had no idea of what he spoke. O grimório, the book of the foundations of the great magic the mages of their country practiced, housed knowledge of the infamous mage family that lived at the cathedral. The vendor had made bold claims that the book was old as time, old as the immortal beings who lived in the south, old as the deities of the world’s six major religions—none of which made sense since all of these things were not the same age, and how could a book be as old as all of them? Still, he’d had a booming voice and that had been enough to convince Dayana that if the three of them stole the grimório, they would gain riches and fame. Dayana had been sorely misled, and had been the first to pawn the book off to Laís when the paintings in her apartment shifted when she turned her back.

Finally, the cathedral loomed before them. If there was anyone home now, the cathedral did not look it. Every window, stained glass or otherwise, held no light on the other side. There were no voices in the vicinity either. Even the distant chatter of apartment homes seemed absent here. Tattered fliers for city ordinances were littered at the steps leading up to the building’s entrance, and a faded orange and red decorative banner was falling from above the main entrance.

Iara smirked. They had no need for the main entrance.

The three bandits—borrowers—rounded the corner, Dayana settled into her spot beside what they’d discovered in stealing the text the first time was the door to the kitchens and food storage. This door was locked and not easily picked, although there was a rather small emergency exit beneath a covered board underneath the door. Dayana would keep watch on the outside while Laís and Iara would shuffle through the tunnel, into the kitchens, down the hall, and leave the book on the first shelf that could bear its weight.

“For the record, I know you’re not afraid of ghosts,” Laís felt the need to grunt as they slipped into the tunnel beneath the wooden board, replacing it carefully so as not to make any sound.

“For the record, I’m fairly convinced that you are,” Iara hissed back.

“I’m afraid of that book. There were no photos moving in my home before or after its presence.” He cursed when he stubbed his toe against a rock, then again when dirt made its way into his eye. “Which of the vendor’s claims do you think are true?”

“I’m not sure I’m curious enough to find out,” she admitted.

“You were before,” Laís insisted.

Iara huffed. “Yes. Before we all started hallucinating because of it. Maybe o grimório is cursed. Maybe it’s angry at us for stealing it.”

“Maybe it’s angry at you for suddenly becoming too good for your friends.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to steal anymore, and that’s all there is to it.” Iara was suddenly so much more tired than before. She clambered to a halt when the tunnel stopped. She remembered from a few weeks ago to reach out, feel for the wooden steps, push to lift another board, and she would crawl out into the root cellar. Iara and Laís crept out of the cellar and through the kitchen, resisting the urge to swipe anything of value as they went. Silver and gold cutlery, embroidered linen napkins and tablecloths, antique salt shakers—they ignored all of it. Begrudgingly.

“Wait here,” Iara instructed at the threshold between the kitchen and the hall, her voice firm. Laís nodded, slipping behind a crate of vegetables on the bottom shelf of a cabinet. When they’d first stolen o grimório, it had been Iara who’d hidden in the kitchen, waiting until Laís had made it further down the hall before following behind and listening for movement. Their roles reversed, Iara savored the quiet halls in a way she hadn’t prior. She noted the paintings on the wall, patron saints of the city believed to have aided in times of war and protected against the immortals. She admired the stained glass interpretations of holy text passages, wondering if perhaps she would’ve spent more time in places such as these had not needed to steal in order to survive. It was a dangerous game to play, letting the what ifs and if onlys dance to the forefront of one’s mind. Iara tried hard not to make a habit of it, for if she dwelled too much in a place of hypotheticals, she would surely drown in the tears that fell from mourning a better life she’d never have.

“A bit too late at night for such dramatics, don’t you think?” Iara jumped at the voice did not belong to Laís. Not three feet in front of her stood a boy about her age, wearing a dark gray top so long it could’ve passed for a tunic with loose pants the same color. His skin was a rich umber, his curls cropped short to his scalp, his eyes fixed on hers. She had seen pretty men before, but none like this. Surely she was looking at a sculpture or a bust and not a real human being.

The sculpture boy scoffed across from her, his arms folded across his chest. “I can promise you that I’m a real human being.”

Iara started. “How did—”

“You stole my family heirloom and didn’t even bother to read it?” The boy rolled his eyes. “What kind of thief are you?”

“I never intended to read this thing—and anyway, magic isn’t something that—wait. You said family heirloom?”

The boy shook his head. “You don’t read, and you barely listen. And you’re a thief.”

Iara stuck out her chin. “Borrower. Would a thief bring back what they stole?”

The boy closed the gap between them, leaning in until Iara could feel his breath tickling the tip of her nose and smell the tang of liquor on his breath. “Just how arrogant are you?”

“Just how drunk are you?” There was a fire in her, a curiosity struck by this boy who was laughing at her. He pulled back and flicked his wrist. A glass of wine was in his hand now, and he sipped from it.

“Not as inebriated as I’d like to be,” he admitted. “It is my nineteenth birthday, after all.”

Iara blinked, dumbstruck. “How did you do that…?”

“Well, you’d know if you’d read o grimório, wouldn’t you?” The boy winked. Despite herself, Iara felt her cheeks heat, dropped her gaze down to her feet.

“Isn’t magic cursed? Isn’t this book cursed?” She placed one hand on her hips, the other sore from still holding the text. She willed herself to meet his gaze again. “Why are you alone on your birthday?”

“Magic isn’t cursed,” he clarified. “There’s no ghosts, so you and your friends can rest easy. There’s only a boy trying to get his family heirloom back with his magic that, I suppose, only works within a six mile radius.” He snapped his fingers once more, and a second glass of wine appeared on a shelf to his left. He lifted the glass and inclined it towards her, brow raised. “And, as it turns out, I’m much less alone on my birthday now.”

Iara accepted the wine glass, her eyes narrowed as she took a sip. A mage with limited magic had been the cause of such unrest in her life? No ghosts, no curses, but a lonely boy? She opened her mouth to speak before she could think better of it. “Tell me more.”

A smile came across the boy’s lips, and Iara’s blush deepened. “That would require more time with you than just today. You’d have to bother to listen. And read.”

For you, I would bother to do a lot of things, Iara thought. She’d always been a fool for a pretty face.

“Iara?” Laís emerged from the darkness, Dayana beside him. Iara frowned. She took a step backwards, towards the boy, wine sloshing out of the glass and onto the tiled floors. Her friend’s face was contorted, his brow furrowed, bottom lip quivering. Dayana looked none too pleased either, her hands balled tightly into fists, curls straying from her bun.

“I know you’re hellbent on leaving thievery behind you, but parlaying with the owners of the objects you’ve stolen is high on the list of what not to do,” Dayana hissed.

The boy draped an arm over Iara’s shoulder, the smell of teak wood and wine all encompassing. She found herself leaning into his chest, relishing in how she could feel his voice when he spoke. “One is company, but two is a crowd. Three is where I draw the line. Please leave.”

Confusion flashed across Dayana’s face. “But Iara—”

“I’ve returned o grimório,” Iara interrupted. “It was never haunted or cursed. It was just magic.”

“Yes, and I’m sure my family will be willing to overlook this incident,” the boy said with a nod.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The boy continued to sip from his wine glass while Iara’s heart hammered away at her chest. Dayana and Laís stood rigged, their eyes darting between the mage and their friend. They said nothing as they walked backwards to the kitchen, and Iara knew she would not speak with them again. There was a pang in her heart, and yet, she was not sure she could call it sadness. For six years, she’d known them, and for six years, their paths had run parallel; and now, it was time for divergence. No, she would not be sad at the loss. She would be stealing no more and this was what it had to be.

Eventually she pulled away from the mage, watched as he flicked his wrist to summon more wine and a plate of cheese wedges. She looked at his book, o grimório, then met his eyes again. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, as though she’d cried a thousand tears. “The voice I was hearing when I had that text. It was yours, wasn’t it?”

The mage squared his shoulders, a smirk at his lips.

Iara laced her hand in his and squeezed tightly. She granted him a wicked grin of her own. “To hell with the scholars program. And I’m tired of being a thief. Teach me to be a mage.”