Page 109 of Shadowfox

The door creaked.

I slipped in.

My study was as dark and silent as the rest of the house, maybe more so. The moon couldn’t reach this space. I crossed to my desk, dropped to one knee, and pried up a loose floorboard hidden beneath. It took more effort than I liked. My fingers weren’t built for speed anymore, and the edge of the plank bit into my skin. Blood beaded on my forefinger as I retrieved a box.

It was wooden and smooth, about the size of an American football.

When I turned, the man was standing in the doorway, glaring through narrowed eyes.

“You can be furious later,” I whispered.

He nodded once, jaw clenched, then stepped back to allow me to pass.

We moved again, through the kitchen, past a half-empty mug of lukewarm tea, then out the back.

The night clung to everything.

We snuck past the garden, the broken trellis, the cracked flagstones leading to the hedge.

As we stepped through thick shrubs lining the back of the yard, I clutched the box to my chest like a second heart.

42

Will

Thedoorclickedshutbehind us with a finality I felt in my teeth. Thomas turned the lock with practiced quiet, pressing it inward until the bolt sank into the frame with the softest metallicthunk. I held my breath and pressed my back to the wood, listening hard.

Outside, footsteps.

Two pairs. Slow. Crunching frost.

I mouthed a count to Thomas: One. Two. Three. Four . . .

The steps passed just inches from the other side of the wall.

Then—silence.

There was no rattling of keys, no banging of knocks against wood, no spotlights illuminating the night like a bonfire.

They’d kept walking.

I let myself breathe.

We’d made it in.

The kitchen was dim—moonlight seeped through high windows, casting silver across old ceramic tile. A single wall sconce in the far corner glowed like it had been forgotten—likely left on by someone too tired to finish shutting down the house.

I was just about to signal Thomas forward when I heard it.

A wet crunch?

Then the scrape?

Then . . . chewing?

I turned to find a woman—round, barefoot, and wearing a floral nightgown that hung like drapes over her shoulders. She stood at the kitchen counter, mid-bite into a thick sandwich she held in both hands like it was precious cargo. Her cheeks were puffed like a chipmunk’s, her eyes wide and shimmering with disbelief and sudden fear.

She stood and planted her feet, shoulder-width apart, as if she’d been surprised by intruders often enough to develop a stance for it.

---