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A TALE OF a book thief who is kidnapped by a rival bandit and learns the meaning of true sacrifice.
The Thief and the Marauder
Amanda Richardson
Published by Amanda Richardson
© Copyright 2017 Amanda Richardson.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Prologue
ONCE THERE WAS, one day there will be: this is the beginning of every fairy tale. There is no if and no perhaps, so we shall begin by saying this. Far away and into the future, through black smoke and the skeletons of cities past, in a land torn apart and shattered, lived a woman and her best friend. . .
Part One
I TRACE THE outlines of golden horses with my right index finger. The fraying wallpaper is tattered and worn, the coarse, once-ivory fabric now yellowed with age. If I concentrate hard enough, I’m able to quell the worry building inside of me, ready to burst with apprehension like always. I’m always jittery while I wait for Godric to return, hopefully unharmed. Where is he? Sitting on the couch with one leg under me, I swing the other back and forth nervously, biting my bottom lip until it’s raw. I examine my apartment while I wait. It has the bones of once-resplendent wealth, though juxtaposed with that is the sheer age of the place and the reality of living on the twenty-second story of a decrepit building. One of the walls was blown out in one of the wars. I am told it had been grand in its day, and since moving in three years ago, I did my best at making it a comfortable place for Godric and me to live, even without my father’s money.
A gust of wind flutters across the room, the single open wall providing no shelter from the dry, evening summer wind. Where is he? Our front door explodes inward, revealing my best friend. I jump up and run to him.
“Well?” I ask impatiently, pacing in front of him as he drops the brown, burlap sacks of stolen books at my feet. “What took you so long?”
“That’s it? No gratitude? You’re shameless. How about, ’Thank you, Godric, for being brave and raiding the house of an elite. Oh, and your hair looks fabulous, by the way.’ Is that really so hard?” he pouts, coiffing his hair up and around his head like an arrogant fool.
My lips quirk to the side. “Your hair does look disturbingly perfect,” I admit, reaching down for the sack. “It’s troubling, really. You’re a mastermind thief who burglarizes the rich, and yet somehow, you manage to keep every hair in place.” I reach into the large bag and my heart begins to race. So many newfangled stories and adventures, so much potential on the bootleg pages. “I assume you were able to avoid the curfew guards?” I pull one of the books out and begin to thumb the crisp paper. I can tell it’s never been touched. The ignorant, wealthy fools are the only ones allowed to have books, and yet the books they possess remain unread. Such a travesty.
Godric smiles slyly, removing his black trench coat and placing it over a sitting chair. “Do you even have to ask?” He unbuttons the top button of his shirt and kicks off his boots, knocking black soot onto the freshly mopped concrete. “This place was loaded with books, Maybelle. I’m talking stacks of them.”
I grin. “Can we go back tomorrow?” Tomorrow isn’t soon enough.
He shakes his head. “Not while you’re being watched so closely.” He rubs his chin. “Plus, you know I’m a better thief,” he admonishes, quirking an eyebrow.
I don’t hesitate as I grab a pillow from the couch and chuck it at his face. “Bullshit.”
He dodges it quickly before turning to walk to his corner of our large, open, one-room loft. “Knock yourself out with those,” he drones languidly, pointing to the sack. “I’m going to sleep. Thievery is exhausting sometimes. Goodnight, princess.” He disappears behind his partition before I can respond.
I watch the divide for a minute before retreating to my cot behind my own partition, grabbing the thickest book of the bunch. Curling up under my threadbare blanket, I begin to read the faded text, lost in the words of a foreign time—even if it is a pirated, beat up version of the original. Most of the time, the books we steal have pages missing or writing scrawled in the margins, and this particular copy is stapled together haphazardly. I’ve never seen an original. Most of them have disappeared over time.
Thief.
Princess.
I suppose both words describe me accurately. I spend my days as the daughter of the Elite leader and my nights befriending the vermin of the city, stealing books from the people who will never appreciate them. Our ramshackle apartment and my independence is my attempt to distance myself from the Elite and their disuniting ways, but that doesn’t stop my father from keeping tabs on me and imposing pointless curfews as a protection measure. Though he may not know about my illicit, nightly activities, he still manages to keep a tight leash on me. Which is why Godric orchestrates the difficult heists by himself, like tonight.
My father has good reason to worry. The divide between the Elite and the rest of society had thrown up an invisible wall, and it made the forgotten angry. Particularly, the Marauders—a group of rebel bandits who loot and rob anyone and anything they can get their hands on. Barbaric criminals.
They were responsible for my mother’s murder and I vowed to myself long ago that one day, I would avenge her death.
I skim the pages of the book as my mind begins to spin. This place was loaded with books, Maybelle. I’m talking stacks of them. I am admittedly greedy when it comes to books. Godric does it for the thrill, but I steal books because of the escape. I need them. In these fictional worlds, I’m not the daughter of an out-of-touch leader. I can be whoever I want to be.
Checking the clock on our mantel, I see that it’s nearly two in the morning. I’ve been restless all night. I toy with the idea of leaving. I am an addict, and books are my drug. Stacks of books, he said. I couldn’t possibly. Godric would kill me if he knew what I was thinking of doing. What Godric doesn’t know won’t kill him, right? Jumping out of bed, I throw on my usual outfit—tight, black pants, lace-up boots, a black hoodie, and a black beanie that I tuck my long, brown, braided hair into. I grab a lock pick and a sack for the books I expect to steal. As quietly as possible, I lock the door behind me, hiding the key on top of one of the hallway lanterns. It’s our protocol, more for Godric’s sake than mine. He’s more likely to be questioned by a curfew guard, whereas they would let me go because of who my father is. But, books are illegal in our city now, at least for the non-Elite. When I fought for my independence at the age of eighteen, I also gave up my Elite status. The last thing I want is my father or one of his lackeys to find out about the giant stash we have hidden away. They might not be so forgiving if they knew Godric and I spent our nights breaking into their homes and stealing their literature.
I take the stairs like I do every time, ensuring the guards at the bottom of the elevator don’t see me. Twenty-two stories. My knees are wobbling by the time they hit ground level. I look for the guards—brainless soldiers hired by my father who spend their shifts looking at naked women in magazines instead of doing their job. It certainly makes my life easier. Tonight, they’re leaning back in their plush chairs and laughing. Paying absolutely no attention to the stairwell. As infuriating as it is to be watched, I know my father does it out of love. In exchange for my independence, I will gladly take a couple of simple-minded guards. I slither against the wall to the front door, and once I’m through, I stay within the shadows of abandoned streets. I
skirt from building to building, jogging quickly so that no one sees me until I reach the Elite quarters a mile or so away. The city, or what was once a city, is quiet and ghost-like at night—empty, dark, and run-down. But once I enter the other side, though, I notice the difference immediately. The roads—paved. The buildings—new. The shrubs—trimmed. The carriages lining the ornate driveways of the multiple-story, single-family homes are opulently shiny. It makes me sick. No wonder I left it all behind.
I find the house that Godric sneaked into—a large, brick, three-story mansion with white trim and rose bushes lining the walls. I study it through the black gate. Walking along the perimeter, I try to find a gap in the neat hedges surrounding the estate. There isn’t one, so I pull my hood over my head and climb through the bush until I emerge on the other side, a little worse for wear. Glancing around, I sprint across the open lawn quickly until I’m crouching on the porch. There’s a dirt path which I know snakes along the side of the house and into the backyard. From there, it’s all a matter of picking the lock of the back door and being as quiet as possible. Unlike the Marauders, Godric and I try our hardest not to disturb anything. We prefer that the people we steal from never know it. Just last week, a Marauder put a brick through the window of an Elite house. So unprofessional.
I follow the path to the back. Taking out my pick, I hear the magical ‘click’ in a matter of seconds. Pushing the door open slowly, I narrow my eyes as they adjust to the space and darkness.
Every so often, I mourn for the easy life I lived for eighteen years. There were no blown out walls, no chilly nights, no going to sleep hungry because my janitorial job didn’t pay well enough—we get all the jobs the Elite don’t want. My father, who raised me by himself after my mother died five years ago, was a good father. Seeking my independence at eighteen wasn’t all because of him, though we did always disagree on policy. It was just something I had to do, something I’d wanted my whole life. I had no desire to lead the Elite as his heir, and so it was also my only option if I wanted a life of my own. While I do have it better than most people on my side of town, I am conscious in times like these of what I gave up for freedom. Air conditioning. Heat. New furniture. New clothes.
I step into the modern kitchen and open the refrigerator. In it is more food than a house of this size will ever eat before it goes bad. I close the door quietly. I didn’t come here for food. Even though they’d never notice, it’s against our rules.
Only books.
And only the books of the Elite.
I wander through the rest of the first story silently. The study—where most of the Elite keep their books like souvenirs—must be on the second story. I climb the wide staircase and tiptoe through the hallway until I reach a set of double doors. Swallowing, I push them open and step into an office. Placing a hand over my mouth, I take in the dark room lit only by a lamp outside streaming through the window. Godric was right. There are literal stacks of books everywhere, all of which seem untouched. Copies of course, but I don’t care. I walk over and pluck a few off of the shelf, gently placing them into the sack I brought. Maybe it’s the adrenaline distracting me, making me unusually negligent, but whatever the case, I don’t notice the other person in the large room until their shadow cuts across the light from the street, and by then, it’s too late.
“You,” a low voice growls, breath hot on my ear. I try to turn, try to fight, but he holds me to his chest firmly and tightens his grip as I struggle.
“Let me go,” I bark, kicking back and trying my best to fight my way out.
“Not a chance.” He leans down and his breath once again grazes my ear. I bare my teeth, but before I have a chance to retort, he continues. “I came only for the books, but now it seems I’ll be leaving with the books and a princess.”
“Who do you work for?” I seethe.
He chuckles—a low, deadly noise. From my peripheral, I can see that he’s wearing a large cloak with a hood covering his face. Fear sinks its talons into me.
A Marauder.
He’ll never give me the satisfaction of an answer, and I now wish I didn’t know. My heart stills. The Marauders have no system, no recourse for their actions. They kill. Petty criminals. I’m as good as dead.
“Come with me.” He turns and tugs me roughly behind him. His figure is gargantuan—his hood up over his face. My eyes slide to his bare hands. They’re twisted in scars. He must sense my observation because he draws both hands beneath the hem of his cloak. He moves through the study door with feline grace despite the fact that he’s easily a foot taller than me. I trail him the whole way. I don’t really have a choice. Screaming, yelling, fighting, would only disturb the Elite who live here, and then we’d both be in deep shit. The Marauder doesn’t slow, not until we get outside. A black carriage is waiting beyond the gate for—
For me.
“Please,” I ask, raspy desperation leaking into my voice. He ignores me as he pushes the gate open to let us through and climbs into the luxurious carriage. I hesitate.
Run.
But before my feet even move, a low snarl emits from within the carriage—yellow-green eyes meeting mine in the darkness. A dog. Of course. I can’t outrun a dog. All Marauders have dogs. I knew that. A beast for a beast. I climb into the carriage with trembling limbs and mild curiosity, and once the door is closed, the man sits down and removes his hood.
I don’t contain my scream.
+
THE CARRIAGE JOSTLES me uncomfortably as we meander through the dark streets. I have to sit on my shaking hands and focus on the carpeted floor. . .
I will not look.
Will not look.
Will not. . .
I sneak a glance at the man, who is paying me no attention. My scream hadn’t startled him—he must be used to it. A twinge of pity courses through me and then disappears. A Marauder. He doesn’t deserve my pity. Even if his face looks waxen, as though someone took a candle and melted his skin. His hair is normal, his lips. . . twisted into a cruel smile. His nose is slightly misshapen, but his eyes are normal. I can’t decipher the color of his irises in the darkness. Whatever happened to him, whatever scarred him, must’ve been terrible. . .
No.
Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter and look around. “Where are we headed, then? I’m not really sure where Marauders hang out. Perhaps the depths of hell?” I want him to know that I know he’s a Marauder. He doesn’t acknowledge me. I squash the fear rising up in my throat like bile. The windows in the carriage have curtains, but they’re pulled shut, and even if they weren’t, I doubt I’d be able to orient myself in the darkness. “How’d you get those scars?” I ask innocently.
At this, he meets my gaze, and his nostrils flare angrily. “I beg your pardon?” His accent. . . I’ve never heard it.
“Where are you from?” I blurt, narrowing my eyes.
“Stop asking questions.”
Just then, the carriage comes to a shuddering stop, and my pulse whooshes past my ears as the door is thrown open. The man gestures for me to go first, but I hesitate. I have no idea what awaits me. I stay seated. As he crawls out, he sighs and glares at me with an annoyed expression. I follow him out once I know I won’t be stepping into a pit of snakes, and the dog skirts along behind me, tail wagging and whining for attention. If it hadn’t tried to bite my head off earlier, I might’ve found it to be endearing.
The sky has lightened. Morning. How long had we been in the carriage? I look around, trying to establish my location, but I don’t recognize any of it. We’re in the eastern part of the city—that I know. I can tell by the way the light flits along the windows of buildings here, bright and burning even in the early dawn. The buildings are shorter than those where I live, but the windows are similarly cracked. Walls have been blown out, and colorful graffiti decorates every square inch of the outer walls. The man turns and watches me as I take it all in, his hood up over his face again.
“Follow me,” he orders, whipping around and
walking towards a large warehouse on the end of the street. No windows—four stories. Faded text skirts along the top of the establishment, but it’s otherwise void of graffiti. That’s when I notice the armed guards standing on every corner.
“What’s your name?” I ask, clenching and unclenching my fists at my side as we quickly walk towards one of the guards. I should be running. I should be trying to get back to Godric. But something about him—about the Marauders—has me intrigued.
“Samson Voltaire,” he answers. “And you’re Maybelle Montcroix. Daughter of Elias Montcroix, King of the Elite.”
I scowl. “He prefers leader,” I counter, crossing my arms. “King evokes the wrong kind of attention.”
Samson’s lips twist into a knowing smile. He’s actually quite handsome despite his raggedness. And young. If he weren’t a Marauder, I might find him attractive. “But he is a King nonetheless. Which makes you a princess. And worth a lot of money.”
“I was released from my duties as his daughter when I sought emancipation three years ago,” I chide. “My cousin will take over the throne when my father passes. So, I’m sorry to say, I’m worthless to you and your cause.”
He watches me for a second before answering. Blue. His eyes are blue, crystal clear and warm. “What were you doing in the house of a prominent Elite dressed as though you were about to rob a bank? And why were you stealing books?”
We walk straight past the guard, who bows to Samson before opening a door to the warehouse. “You have your secrets. I have mine,” I answer. He chuckles in response.
My eyes adjust to the soft, indoor light as I take in my surroundings. It’s a loft-style space, much like my apartment except on a much bigger scale. The decorations and furniture are masculine, simple, and modern. The space is divided by pillars, and a few people are milling about. A high-pitched buzz fills the air, and when I look to my right, I see someone in a chair getting tattooed.
Beast: An Anthology Page 23
