Chapter 14: The Heist

Scene 64

It had started while they were getting ready for the evening, all together in Valerie’s suite.

Zofia’s part was easy: she shrugged out of her robe and stepped into her shoes. Wearing only shoes somehow felt ‘more naked’ than if she were completely stripped for a bath, but ... she didn’t mind it. Increasingly, it felt natural, it felt right to be naked with Val and Lizabet.

It helped that Lizabet was naked too, sitting in the chair before Val’s workbench. She held up a potion vial and heaved a sigh. “I hate this part.”

To get it over with, she knocked it back in a single gulp.

A transfiguration potion caused the same result, no matter who drank it. So as Lizabet changed — hair shrinking, chest flattening, all of it — she became an identical copy of Damascus.

Lizabet-as-Damascus grimaced down at her masculinised body. “I hate this part,” she repeated. “Yes, it makes sense to have a cover that Val and I can trade off. Yes, a masc cover works best for this. But I hate being Damascus.”

Zofia hugged her, arms tight around her broadened shoulders. That seemed to help a little.

The Damascus that had come with Zofia on the second night — the one who scammed the Owls to put them at ease, who rented her to the Queen, who had held what little attention Zofia didn’t — had never been Val. Val had her own disguise.

A petite frame. Dark grey slacks and waistcoat.

When Val had touched the waitress Rachelle’s shoulder, she’d lifted away a few light brown hairs that had shown starkly against the vest. Even one would be enough for a perfect mimicry. They wouldn’t have to worry about the real Rachelle giving up the game, either. Val hadn’t even needed to turn into a leggy bluenette; she just had to arrange for Rachelle to have a ‘chance encounter’ with Elinor. Lady Margaret’s girls had ways of keeping people distracted.

“I’m sorry you have to do this, Liz.” Val-as-Rachelle gave her a peck on the lips. Now that they weren’t talking in front of Sigmund, now that they weren’t keeping the secret of Damascus, she could show her concern. “It’s just for one night. I’ll make it up to you.”

Lizabet-as-Damascus sniffed, the pouty look on her face so much more Lizabet than Damascus. “You’d better.” But she took a breath and steeled herself, shifting into wearing the face the same way Val would, just like the nights before. “Are we ready?”

“There’s one more thing.” Zofia stood up straight, meeting Val’s eyes. She lifted her chin, exposing her still-bare neck.

Val-as-Rachelle moved with gentle reverence as she buckled the collar around Zofia’s neck. The princess shivered with the feeling, a soft groan bubbling from the back of her throat. Val finished by attaching a leash to the collar, almost like adding a garnish to a dish.

“Hey,” Lizabet-as-Damascus said. “Pass me the princess?”

Val-as-Rachelle held the leash for a moment longer, then smiled and let it drop. “No way.”

Val, her true master, had never handed her leash to anyone else. The Damascus that had come with Zofia had never been her master ... so when he’d handed her to the Queen, there had been no ownership to transfer. The collar had never recognised her. Though resisting the temptation had been up to Zofia, she had been given an edge.

Scene 65

Val-as-Rachelle had arrived an hour early and spent the whole time blending in as a waitress. As far as the Owls were concerned, she was practically part of the decor. Whereas soon, every eye was either lustfully on Zofia or warily on Liz-as-Damascus.

Liz-as-Damascus. Val would have to make that up to her, she mused as she went up the stairs to the warden’s office, tray in hand.

Inside, it was dark; as she closed the door, it fell into pitch blackness. She could barely make out the curtains that hung over the overlooking window.

Why would they shut the curtains when the windows were already tinted?

On instinct, she turned and raised her tray. The bottle fell to thud on the floor, but the tray’s silver caught the descending knife, keeping it just inches from Val’s face. “What are you doing!” she squealed. “The Queen asked for a bottle!”

“Nice try, Val.” Pita’s voice was a whisper. Her blue eyes glowed from a cat’s-eye potion, sharp enough to see even in that darkness. “The Queen’s busy, and the real Rachelle would never have caught that stab.”

Damn it. Val twisted the tray, yanking the knife from Pita’s hand, and tossed it aside while she backed away. She’d never had a chance to scout the office itself, so she was literally working blind.

She bumped into a piece of furniture and turned it into a pratfall, letting Pita’s next stab slip by above her. She caught herself on it, finding a padded bench and a wooden block — was that a set of stocks, in the middle of the Queen’s office? She didn’t have time to think; she just vaulted over it to get some more distance.

Still Pita kept after her, stalking her to the back of the office. “It’s an impressive disguise, Val, I’ll give you that. But I knew you had to be involved as soon as I saw that fake princess. Does Zofia know you’ve made a copy of her to whore out?”

Damn it, damn it. Pita didn’t know enough to get to the right answers. She didn’t know about Damascus, she didn’t know the trick to mimicry. But she knew Valerie and her alchemy skills well enough to suspect her anyway. Not many thieves brewed their own transfiguration every night.

Val was on the back foot, ducking and weaving, dodging every time she heard a grunt of Pita’s effort or the swish of the blade slicing through air. A chair crashed to the ground as she bumped into it; papers scattered from the desk as she slid across it. Soon, her back hit the window, feeling the curtain cushioning her from the hard, smooth glass.

She yanked the curtain open.

Pita hissed in pain, flinching away to shield her sensitised eyes from the firelight. There were reasons Val hadn’t taken any cat’s-eye.

The light from the lounge below cast across the office. A simple yet rich, hardwood desk; wall and floor of hard grey stone, yet with hanging paintings and vibrant red rugs; and, just as she’d suspected, a set of stocks made from black hardwood, padded with red leather.

Val rushed Pita while she was reeling. A quick jab to the wrist made her drop the knife, then a shoulder-check to the chest sent her back two steps. Only two. She recovered, even as Val kept on her, and landed a solid punch on her cheek.

She bit back her cry of pain: she couldn’t risk the fighting being heard in the lounge.

She waited for the next punch — then ducked aside, grabbed Pita’s wrist, and pulled her in. Even while spinning and disoriented, Pita still kicked back at Val’s shin. It was a meaty thump of impact, even more audible for Val’s strict silence.

Then Pita saw where she was. She saw how Val had turned her to face the stocks, and she went tense.

Val kicked at her ankle, tripping her forward onto the bench. Pita squirmed, one elbow jutting back into Val’s ribs, but Val put all of Rachelle’s light weight forward, wrestling Pita down. First her neck fit into the padding, then one arm. Good enough.

She swung the stocks over. They clicked as they closed, locking Pita in place. It wouldn’t last more than a minute if Pita’s free hand got hold of her lockpicks—

But she didn’t even reach for them. Pita struggled, squirming back against Val, but she didn’t actually try to escape. She was breathing heavily, but not with the effort of fighting.

Val backed away sharply, a mix of arousal and aversion twisting inside her gut.

Pita groaned. She twisted in her bonds, though she couldn’t actually look at Val, not with the blocky stocks holding her in place. “You tease.”

Val shook her head, violently whipping Rachelle’s long hair around. “I’m not going to rape you, Pita.” She crouched down to retrieve the wine she’d dropped, pulling the cork with her teeth.

“Why not?” Pita’s tone was far too enthusiastic. “You won. You can claim me. Let me show you what life can be like, among the Owls...”

Would it even really be rape, with that heat in Pita’s voice?

Val shook her head, trying to put those thoughts out of it. She wasn’t here to fuck, she had a job to do. And however much Pita wanted it forced on her, Rachelle hadn’t agreed to her body being used like that. Val had rules for her disguises, damn it.

She stepped in front of the stocks and splashed Pita with the wine. The sleep potion worked fast, but Pita still had long enough to glare up at her before she slumped into unconsciousness.