Heist Royale (Thieves’ Gambit #2)

Chapter Seven

Seven

I thought I was sick of balls and galas. Devroe and I had infiltrated quite a few over the past six months, all involving the same tasteful quartets, sleek evening gowns, and well-mannered but highly punchable rich people.

The krewe of Cherus’s Mardi Gras ball was nothing like any of those.

The parade rolling through the French Quarter outside was loud, but somehow the party inside overwhelmed all that noise.

The second floor of the refurbished Toulouse Theatre, now renovated into a posh ballroom, was a wonderland of purple, gold, and green, from the tinsel dripping from the high ceilings to the confetti on the floor. The few tables around the edges of the room were dressed in iridescent tablecloths. The bar had been spray-painted gold. Overhead, a thin net held up a sea of gold and purple balloons. Who knew when those would be released.

Waiters in jester costumes kept dropping fresh cinnamon-scented king cakes on any free table they could find, and every few minutes a new person announced that they got the baby. The jazz band was playing at top rhythm: trumpeters and a drummer and a man with an accordion, performing so vigorously sweat dripped off their faces. The dance floor—which was pretty much the whole ballroom—was overflowing with people spinning and two-stepping, and every now and then converging into line dances everyone seemed to know so well I wondered if they taught this sort of thing in school here.

Oh, and the costumes.

Gowns and waistcoats made of shimmering golds and purple feathers. Capes stretched like wings every time their wearer lifted an arm. Elizabethan-like collars a foot and a half tall. Dozen-layered skirts that shimmered like water. Jester hats with tinkling bells. Not to mention the masks.

From half masks accented with feathers to quieter porcelain doll faces frozen in expressions of delight or horror. We took full advantage. My mask, pink and sequined like the rest of my costume, but thankfully lightweight for practicality, covered me from forehead to chin. Mylo had somehow convinced me to spray-dye my braids a flattering rose-gold. So here I was, in a glittering dress with a ruffled high-low skirt and puffed sleeves, with matching Mardi Gras beads strung like bracelets over my forearms. They helped my meteor bracelet blend in, though now I realized how stupid I’d been to be worried about that. I should’ve been worried about the way the night-vision filters in my mask aggravated my pupils. Mylo didn’t mention how annoying they would be when he was helping me fasten them in place. I’d also opted to wear the shoes Mom bought me, but only because they matched and after I sent them through a run in the washer just to be sure they were properly debugged.

Mardi Gras was alive and gorgeous in a Technicolor kind of way. I wanted to come back for fun one day. I mentally added it to the list of reasons I had to stay alive.

My phone buzzed.

Still waiting.

Kyung-soon passive-aggressive text tally: three. Me and Mylo were doing the hands-on work—I eyed him in his leprechaun-green-sequined three-piece suit line dancing near the stage with a few guys who looked like they’d walked straight out of their frat house—while Kyung-soon would handle the getaway. Having someone with a motorbike hidden in the alley outside waiting to transport the target was a necessary part of the job I’d planned, but let’s not kid ourselves by pretending she picked that part for any reason other than getting to spend as little time with me as possible. I’d been planning to apologize before, but I refused to do it while she was acting like this.

A text from Devroe distracted me.

Time for dinner?

He dropped a pin to what I assumed was a restaurant in the quarter. As if I’d be able to make it there through the chaos of the parade outside. And it was only supposed to get more chaotic when the krewe of Cherus’s royalty ditched this party for their own larger, grander parade. Though they’d be missing one of their showstoppers once Mylo and I were done.

Swiping a goblet of champagne from a jester, I looked over the edge across the ballroom. There, our target, dazzling in a sea of silver and white rhinestones that somehow shaped into an evening gown with a sweeping cape and tall collar, was showing off her glory. Well, that and the blinding tiara crowning her cream-blond curls and the matching diamond necklace dripping into the low cut of her gown. Gotta say, she absolutely shimmered.

Louisiana Senate Majority Leader Louisa Robicheaux. The most powerful person in her state’s congress. But tonight, she was the queen of Cherus, and wearing authentic jewelry borrowed from the Napoleon collection. The set’s value sat comfortably in the eight-figure range.

And all I had to do was take it.

I remembered the articles Baron had sent as he’d explained the job to me during my layover yesterday. Dozens of local news outlets were covering how Senator Robicheaux was going to rule the Crescent City this Mardi Gras, with genuine jewelry once worn by Napoleon’s wife bringing an air of true royalty to scene.

The organization’s primary purpose is to make our members’ lives perfect, Baron had explained. It was almost hard to hear him over the blender whirring in the background. They deserve to be worry-free, get whatever they want, have their enemies destroyed, and every now and then be entertained by less valuable people like you.

Offense taken, but I was an insignificant little thief, so what did it matter?

The whirring stopped, then restarted before Baron continued. Count’s job is to keep everything running smoothly. If something disastrous were to happen to one of its founding members, something like a multimillion-dollar tiara getting snatched off her head right before she was supposed to publicly show it off, and by someone Count was supposed to have a leash on, well, that’ll probably make her look more than a little unfit for the job. The blender stopped. Marc, drink this…

Across the room, the senator laughed, emphasizing the lines around her lips. Her necklace glinted in the light. I pursed my own lips under my mask. Rob her. Make it public. Easy work, but crossing the Rubicon too. I was going all in with Baron once I touched that crown. But whatever faith I had in Count dissipated when I learned she was working with Diane.

After what felt like an eternity of king cake and cheers and bumping into drunk krewe members, the senator decided to enter the dance floor. I instantly started circling the floor myself, brushing past Mylo and his emerald-green top hat along the way. His eyes were coated in want as he gazed at the senator’s tiara set.

Mylo flexed his fingers under his chin. “Do you think Baron would notice if we kept—”

“We’re delivering what he asked,” I reiterated. “Every single piece.”

Mylo let out a little whimper.

“I’ll make it up to you. For now, stick to the plan.” I clapped his shoulder. He nodded.

Mylo disappeared into the crowd. The band had started up again, now playing a waltz that honestly sounded like it could have been straight out of a Cajun fairy tale, accented with accordions just as much as the violin. Courtiers were swirling around the dance floor, showing off their chosen partners. The lighting dipped low, until it was akin to candlelight.

I waited the song out, still circling as nonchalantly as I could until people started to file in for a line dance. I’d gotten here early just to make sure I could get the steps down enough to participate.

The numbers evened out, so I was partnered facing a princess from the court. She gave me an up-nod, and I returned it, then looked over her shoulder. Mylo was right where I’d expected him to be, near the tech booth. Pretending to casually lean against the side of the booth, he whipped off his top hat. He plucked invisible lint from the inside, popping open the false compartment inside. We’d been practicing this all afternoon. Only about five yards away from me. Perfect distance.

The conductor counted the band in, and the music started up. The dance began. Suddenly the whole floor was a swirl of motion and steps and claps. The steps were simple. Each verse, partners switched positions. Everyone was moving so often, spinning and swirling next to each other. It was only a matter of time before I was right next to the queen.

I spun. Our skirts brushed. I shot half a glance at Mylo. Now.

The lights blinked out, leaving only the lights on the Mardi Gras trees. Delighted ooh s sounded through the room.

The night-vision lenses in my mask activated, glossing the world over in shades of green and gray.

Swiftly, I reached for the senator’s ears. The earrings were clip-ons, according to Baron’s file. Just as fast, I tossed them to Mylo. He caught them in his top hat.

He flicked the lights back on. Delighted laughter mixed with the music. The dance went on. I spun arm in arm with my princess partner. The senator frowned.

The effects technicians were buzzing with confusion. Mylo hit the lights again. This time, I went for her necklace. In half a second, I had the clasp unclipped. I tossed in a high arc, and Mylo caught it like his hat was a bucket.

He let the lights back up. The technical people scrambled around the booth, fiddling with switches and cords, trying to figure out what was going wrong. The crowd clapped giddily. The music played on.

My partner and I switched spots. The senator stopped, bumping into another couple in the chaotic dance. She patted her neck, and her eyes went wide. “No, wait!” Her voice got lost in the gargle of laughter and music and stepping feet.

Too late. Mylo knocked the lights out one last time, and I went for the last piece, that dazzling crown. With an expert toss, I arced it over the heads of the crowd. Mylo held his top hat out, braced to receive. This was it: He’d catch it, dip out to one of the smoking rooms, then drop the target out the chosen window, where Kyung-soon would be waiting to catch it, buckle it into her moped, and deliver to the drop-off point. Even if the senator had the entire party locked down and questioned, it wouldn’t matter. She wasn’t getting her set back, especially not before the parade, when she’d teased to show it off to all of New Orleans. What an embarrassing night it was going to be for her. It was all locking itself into place as I watched the tiara soar overhead—until a hand punched the air, grabbing the tiara midair, killing its momentum and ours.

What?

The lights came back up. Mylo looked around frantically; he gave me a sort of what-the-hell look.

Yeah, same.

“You, kid, get off the wires!” one of the tech maestros snapped at him. His jig was up. Putting his top hat back on, Mylo smiled awkwardly and backed off, though one of the techs reeled him in for a stern Southern talking-to.

I had more important things to worry about, like who the hell took my crown?

Senator Robicheaux had the same concerns. She shuffled across the floor, pushing people out of the way, scanning the confetti-covered dance floor. “Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?”

I studied the crowd outside of the dance floor, then bent down, scanning people and costumes at around thigh level. If someone was holding the crown, they wouldn’t be carrying it above.

There. A sparkle in the light. A woman’s arm, a Black one, against the black satin of an evening gown. She slipped out of the ballroom.

Yeah, I don’t think so.

I pushed, squeezed, and shoved my way out of the ballroom, lifting my skirts so I could pick up the pace as I went. I got through the crowd and into the sparser hallway just in time to see a flutter of a black evening gown turning the corner. She had to be headed to the storage room. There weren’t any windows or exits in there; it was a dead end.

Her mistake. I followed until I burst into the room, in all its mirrored-walls, stuffed-clothes-racks, and cluttered-marble-countered glory.

Empty?

The door clicked shut. I jumped, spinning around in a noisy rustle of fabric. I staggered back a few steps.

I’d only seen her picture once, but I recognized her instantly.

Diane Abara. Devroe’s mum.

The woman who wanted me dead.