Page 3 of Emperor of Wrath

“Name them.”

“Hello? Damian? Taylor?”

“Your twin sister doesn’t count. She has to be your friend.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Whatever. I’ll allow Damian. That’s one besides me. Speaking of which, did he ever text you before you walked in there?”

My brows suddenly knit. “No, he didn’t.”

Damian always checks in with me before a job. Especially one that he set up. What we’re here to steal is a fifteenth-century “death mask”—a seriously fucked-up little artifact from the Spanish Inquisition made from iron, metal spikes, and actual human skin.

I mean… Even for Freya, that’s fucked.

But fucked or not, the thing is a must-have for certain collectors. It was stolen from the British Museum in the 1990s, and it’s been bouncing around private collections for the last couple of decades. It not technically Cillian’s—which does make me feel a little better about taking it tonight. It’s on loan to him from a friend of his.

Because of course Cillian-the-sociopath wants to borrow a human skin mask and keep it in a safe in his home.

The truly messed-up thing, though, is that this fucking thing is worth close to a million dollars to the right collector—although we’re not doing this for the money.

Damian has plenty of that, just like his uncle. And Freya and I…well, we have more than enough. These days, with what Kir pays us for what we do for him, it’s enough to live like fucking queens. Or at least, enough to keep Freya in eyeliner and one-off collector’s edition Doc Martens for the rest of her life.

So, no, we’re not doing this for the money. We’re doing it because the guy Damian plans on selling it to is going to then owe him a favor, and in our world favors are priceless.

Okay…a favor plus we just fucking love doing this, and it’s been way too long since Freya, Damian, and I pulled off a good old-fashioned heist. Which, again, makes it odd that Damian never checked in before I walked in here. Still hasn’t, actually.

“You?”

Freya exhales. “Nothing. And that’s not like him.”

“I’m sure he’s just preoccupied with seducing someone he shouldn’t be, or terrifying small children.”

Freya snorts. “That’s mean.”

“And?”

She giggles. “Probably true.”

Between Damian’s tall, built physique, high cheekbones and sharp jawline, not to mention the shock of silver-white hair and piercing purplish eyes from a genetic condition, he can be pretty frightening.

Or, in the case of women, extremely attractive…if you’re not Frey and I and almost his sisters, and if you’re into spooky-looking ghost boys, I guess.

“Girl, you need to stop talking to yourself and get in there,” Freya mutters into my transmitter.

I bite back a smart response and straighten my back, giving one more uncomfortable wiggle of my hips to try and dislodge the strip of lace riding up my ass.

“How the fuck do you wear these things,” I mutter.

My best friend snickers. “How do you not? I love them.”

It’s one of Freya’s little quirks. She’s basically Rooney Mara in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo: dyed hair, black eyeliner, general goth-techno-punk aesthetic. But her one “girly” indulgence is that under the biker jackets and skinny jeans the chick loves expensive, sexy, Dita Von Teese-style lingerie. She owns shitloads of it and wears it all the time.

And she never dates at all.

“Well, you’re weird.”

“You’re the one still talking to yourself, bitch.”

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