Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(9)

As he was turning to leave, the Kingmaker called out to him. “Be careful where you step, Kyrnon. Snakes are very well hidden.”

Not knowing what he meant by that—and not caring enough to ask—Kyrnon made his exit.



* * *



It was only a few days later that Kyrnon was finally able to look into the gallery.

Upon first glance, there was nothing particularly outstanding about Cedar Gallery—or perhaps that was only because Kyrnon had been in more than a hundred galleries in his time.

This one’s exterior was painted a shiny black, gold letters depicting its name hanging above the large windows that provided an unobstructed view inside. There was a showing tonight, if Kyrnon had read the article online correctly, and though the space had seemed small from the few pictures he had seen, there were at least a dozen people inside already, with a few more waiting to enter.

Climbing off his bike, Kyrnon removed his helmet, fastening it to the handlebars as he then turned his attention to Cedar. He wasn’t particularly dressed for the crowd tonight—his usual ensemble consisted of jeans and plaid, though for the night he had switched out the flannel for a chambray shirt beneath his leather jacket — but no one seemed to pay him any mind as he stepped up onto the sidewalk and entered the gallery.

The interior was brightly lit, and from what he could see, there was an area off to the right that was reserved for the wait staff, rows of glasses filled with champagne nearly taking up the entirety of one table, hors d’oeuvres on another.

“Champagne, sir?”

Quietly thanking the man, Kyrnon grabbed a flute from his tray, but didn’t drink from it—he never drank on the job. Rule seventy-seven. If he wanted to get the job done without getting caught, he had to stick to his rules.

There was an art to a great theft, and Kyrnon was a master at it. After all, he had been taught by some of the best.

First, the security.

Every gallery—or places in general—had their own security system, one they believed was impenetrable. Some were easier than others to bypass, just a matter of cutting off the signal to certain cameras, or lasers that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. Sometimes it was a matter of shutting down the power to the place entirely, or in rare cases, for bigger jobs, he had Winter—the Den’s resident hacker—break into the system and shut it down remotely.

Second, location.

A thief needed to know what they were looking for and where. If they had a somewhat decent blueprint to guide them, it would be easy enough to work out a plan of attack and escape routes.

But all of that would mean nothing without the last crucial piece—and this one could mean the difference between success and failure.

The inside man.

While not all jobs required them—Kyrnon had completed quite a few without help—it made things run a bit more smoothly when there was someone that could provide information that he might not otherwise be able to get his hands on.

And from the looks of it, his inside man would be one of the numerous females working for Elliot—preferably one that was close to the man.

It was in his scan that he saw her.

Even if it wasn’t her hair that grabbed his attention, it definitely would have been the dress. While rather conservative in the front, just low enough to display the delicate charm hanging around her slender neck, it dipped low in the back, exposing the tattoos decorating her spine.

From his position, he could see her clearly, even with the distance that separated them. Earlier, he hadn’t been able to fully appreciate the view, but now … she was a beauty to look at. Full, pouty lips, ample curves that he wanted to get his hands on, and warm golden skin that brought out the tawny flecks in her eyes.

Beautiful, he had thought when he saw her rushing toward the train that was mere moments from taking off, but seeing her now … the word didn’t do her justice.

Kyrnon had never cared much for the lunar cycle, but as he followed the crescent moon from its position at the nape of her neck, the full moon right in the center of her back, and the edge of another crescent where her dress cut it off, he cared then.

Earlier on the train, had he not been on his way to the meeting with the Kingmaker, he would have gladly struck up a conversation and found a way to get her back to his loft, but he assumed he wouldn’t be seeing her again.

Kyrnon wasn’t one to believe in coincidences.

What was the likelihood that she was both on the same train and in the very gallery that he was meant to scout?

He didn’t hesitate in walking over, placing his untouched drink down on a nearby table.

She stood in front of a Macgweyer painting, one of the man’s earlier works before he descended into a life of drugs and debauchery. Kyrnon was familiar with it—was familiar with most considering his occupation—even knew that it was worth a pretty penny, but presently, the only thing that had his attention was the girl to his left.

“D’you like it then, the Macgeweyer?”

Turning, a smile was already on her lips, but as she realized who was speaking to her, her eyes widened just slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up further. “It’s one of my favorites. Thank you for earlier, by the way. I don’t think I got the chance to say that.”

“No problem at all.”

“I never caught your name …”

He hesitated a moment, thinking over his answer. Not many knew his name, most just called him by his moniker. Even when he met someone new, he usually offered the same.