Belfast

Twelve-year-old Nate Byrne swiped a mug of ale from a nearby table and pulled his cap down to cast deeper shadow over his features. Tall for his age, and thin, he moved through the crowded room like smoke, his nondescript jeans and t-shirt helping him blend in to the scenery like he belonged. He'd picked three pockets so far, and not a single mark caught on.

Thanks to the dim light and full house, the owner hadn't noticed him yet, either. Nate preferred it that way. At least until after he'd picked up a fair haul from the gobdaws hanging about the pub.

It was a fair mix of human and parahuman folk tonight. He might even get lucky and find a wand or two he could sell. For certain there'd be more coin in his pocket before he left.

"Hullo, what's this?" he whispered to himself as the door swung open and a stunted creature entered. "You don't often see an imp in the Cracked Cauldron." Demons and lesser demons, sure, but not imps. You'd see them on the street by themselves, weighed down with packages, or running errands for their master, but not in a pub, unless they were looking for a beating.

If you did see them in a pub, they'd be trailing along in their owner's wake, fetching drinks or food. That this one was here alone made the situation even stranger.

The short, bow-legged imp toddled to the last barstool in the row, his droopy pants and suspenders enhancing the ludicrous look. He dropped a pack on the floor next to the barstool, and hauled himself aboard like a kid climbing a tree. If the kid was pale green with bulbous eyes and barely any nose, plus a creep factor that set Nate's senses pinging with unease, that is.

Nate eyed the sack on the floor, wondering if copping it was worth the risk involved. The little fellow on the stool didn't look like much of a challenge, but if the barkeep saw Nate pinch the sack, there'd be no end of trouble over it.

He watched as the imp hefted the bag, almost toppling off the stool to reach it, and pulled several bills out. The boy sucked in a breath when he saw the size of the cash roll the mini-demon was carrying.

Definitely worth it, if he could pull it off.

The imp dropped the bag back to the floor and waved his cash at the bartender. "I'll have a Guinness draft, won't I?" the little guy yelled.

The barman nodded in his direction and grabbed a glass from beneath the counter. "Coming up," the man said.

The imp laid the bills on the bar and pulled a bowl of peanuts toward him. No one commented, though the man to his right gave him the side-eye. The imp ignored him, rooting around in the peanuts as he made a pleased, snuffling sound.

"Grag? 'Zat you?" The speaker was a taller, skinnier version of the first imp, the tiny wings poking out of his shirt between his shoulder blades, giving him away as a lesser demon.

"Zithle!" Grag spun about on the bar stool, a grin of welcome twisting his thick lips. "It's me indeed. How've you been?"

"Been awright. When did you get back in town? Last I heard Dra—" Zithle wiped a grimy paw across his mouth and glanced around the bar cautiously. "I mean, I thought you was in the States, workin' for that Blackwell fella."

"Just this morning. And yeah, I was, but that's all done now. I'm back carrying the means to making my fortune, too."

Interest glittered in Zithle's squinty eyes, and when a stool opened up next to Grag, the lesser demon snagged it. "Do you, now? And how did that come about?"

"Oh, I got my ways." Grag waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Zithle's eyes rounded.

He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Killed 'im did you? I wondered if you might. Seemed like he matched his name, that one."

"Naw, I didn't kill him. Someone else took that job. I just picked up after him, if you take my meaning. Got myself some pure expensive loot on my way out. Once I sell it, I'll be free and clear of any claims upon me. I can promise you that."

Zithle let out a low whistle of admiration. "Dra—" Once again stopping himself from saying the elder demon's name. "Erm... don't mean to be impertinent, Grag, but does the countess know you're home?"

The conversation continued, but Nate had heard enough. If he was going to act, it needed to be now, before Grag's inevitable fate caught up, bundling him and his sack of spoils into his elder demon mistress's claws.

Leaving his empty glass on the table, he rose, wandering casually toward the bar, bumping against a stoutly built witch and lifting his wallet in the process. Pocketing the goods, Nate never paused. Barely bending, he looped his arm through the backpack's strap as he passed Grag's turned back, and headed for the door.

"Hey boy! Put that down!" The shout came from further up the bar, where the owner stood, fists on his hips. "I won't have you stealin' from paying customers."

Nate kept going, pretending he hadn't heard, weaving through the crowded room like a bird riding wind currents between the clouds.

"Here now! Give that back!" Grag's shouted demand pushed at him and Nate picked up the pace. He couldn't run yet, but the press of bodies slowed his bulkier pursuers more than it did him. He wasn't worried.

A few steps later, he gained the entry hall and loped down it while Grag and the owner were still bumbling their way through the bar.

Doors studded the narrow hallway on either side. Two were bathrooms, a third led to the stairs, which provided access to the owner's apartment above, and the storage cellar below. Two small windows in the pub's entry door provided the only light, since the bare bulbs overhead were on a timer and wouldn’t turn on until sunset.

Nate trained his attention on the window-light and pressed forward, almost sprinting now. An arm shot out of the entry to the ladies’ room, pulling him up short and into the bathroom.

Nate squeaked in outrage, his toes barely touching the floor.

"Nathanial Byrne. I thought I'd find you here. Between the drinking and the stealing, I don't know which is worse. Don't you ever learn?"

Grinning, Nate looked up into the angry gaze of a deceptively petite witch, her auburn curls tucked behind her ears, green eyes blazing with equal parts anger and worry. "Not if I can help it, Miss O'Connor."

"ERM... DON'T MEAN TO be impertinent, Grag, but does your elder know you're home?" Zithle's Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably in his throat, and Grag wasted no time reassuring him.

"Not yet, she don't. I'm hoping to keep it that way until I can get enough spondoolicks to pay off my debt and buy my way free." His bulbous eyes gleamed a warning. "Why? You planning on telling her?"

Gulping nervously, Zithle cast a glance toward the pub's rear door. "No. You know I never would, but..."

Grag followed his friend's gaze and his knees turned to water. Drakat slouched at a table in the back, wearing a red leather duster over matching pants and a black bustier. She lifted her pint in sardonic greeting, then lowered it, her yellow eyes trained on him over the rim.

"Hey, boy! Put that down!" The owner shouted from behind the bar. "I won't have you stealin' from paying customers."

Spinning around, Grag caught sight of his backpack disappearing through the crowd, the strap looped over the thief’s skinny shoulder. Desperation surged up his throat, emerging as a shout. "Here now! Give that back!"

He tumbled off the bar stool and immediately lost sight of the culprit, but there was only one way out in the direction the kid was headed. Grag had to catch him.

He shoved his way through the crowd, earning curses and at least one attempted kick to Grag's head. The attacker missed and didn't try again. Grag pushed into the hall and looked around. Empty.

A heavily clawed hand descended on his shoulder, the blood-red nails pinching until Grag squealed in pain.

"Dear little Grag. What are you doing here? Why aren't you in the basement in Greenwich village, shining Simon Blackwell's shoes?"

Squirming in the elder demon's hold, Grag didn't dare meet her eyes. He stared at the floor as he answered. "Blackwell is dead, my liege. I have returned to you."

"And you stopped in the first pub you came to because...?" Her talons dug into his shoulder and Grag whimpered.

"To drink your health before presenting myself to you. Just needed to wash the dust of travel from my throat, I swear."

"Of course you did," she said in mock sympathetic tones. "And drinking to my health? How very thoughtful of you." Her grip tightened further, sending shock waves of agony through him as she shook him like a rag doll. "But if that's true, why did you run away when you saw me?"

"I wasn't!" he shrieked. "Not running from you! The boy! I was chasing the boy!"

She brought his face close to hers, his feet dangling several feet off the floor. "We are not allowed to chase humans without cause. You know that. Back in the country less than a day and already breaking rules, Grag?" She shook him again and he howled.

"No, no, he stole my pack! I have... There are... I brought..."

She stopped shaking him, but didn't put him down. "You brought me a present?"

Terror and desperation swirled in his gut, combining to rise, crest, and break over him in an icy wave. If she took the things he lifted from the ruined house as a gift, he'd never be free of her. If he didn't give her something, she'd kill him.

"I did. I brought you a gift! It's in the pack." Frantically, he thought over what his bag held. The stolen bankroll, a black wand, an empty box with uncertain properties, some of Blackwell's catching thread and... Caraigama.

It was the most valuable by far, but the other pieces together would likely bring enough to buy his freedom, while Drakat would not be satisfied with any of them as a gift. Not enough to keep her from killing him and taking the entire haul, anyway.

Doing his best to ignore the painful throb where she gripped him, he made a show of looking over her shoulder. "I would tell you, mistress, but it will spoil the surprise."

"I hate surprises," she hissed.

Gulping, he hastened to explain. "Oh, not a surprise for you, of course not. But..." He glanced over her shoulder again, hoping she would take the hint.

This time she followed his look, seeing the crowd peering around the corner into the hall. "Nothing to see here," she spat angrily. "Go about your business before I take it from you permanently."

The crowd hurried back into the pub, and she turned her attention back on Grag. "Now. You said you had a gift for me? What is it? And I warn you, Grag. It had better be good, or I'll skin, roast, and eat you right here in the Cracked Cauldron."

THE DEMON’S WORDS DRIFTED through the closed door, and Nate paled. He looked up at Ryleigh O'Connor with the first hint of real fear she'd ever seen in his eyes. Easing her hold on his arm, she patted his shoulder reassuringly and lifted a finger to her lips.

The boy nodded hastily. She was sure he hadn't bargained on stealing from an elder demon, but that is how Drakat would see it, she was sure. She'd dealt with the demon before, and though she'd come away with her life and soul intact, Ryleigh didn't intend to repeat the encounter. Moving Nate behind her, she listened hard to the conversation outside the door.

"It's a soul stone, mistress," the imp whispered.

"You always were a liar, Grag," Drakat snapped. "The ones we know of are held by the Fae or their kin. The rest have been missing for centuries. How would a creature like you come to be in possession of one?"

"Blackwell had it. I don't know who he stole it from, but I found it in the ruins of his—" Grag's exclamation ended in a squeak.

"I'll want more of an explanation regarding the end of your employment with the mage soon. For now, which stone of the seven do you think you have?"

"The Caraigama," he whispered, and Ryleigh stifled a gasp, turning silently to stare in disbelief at the backpack slung over Nate's shoulder.

"The time stone?" Drakat exclaimed. "You lie." But her tone had lost its hard edge of certainty. "It's been lost for centuries. How did you come by it?"

"Blackwell died six months ago."

"That is not what I asked," Drakat snapped, and Ryleigh heard a squeak of pain, presumably from the imp.

"I know, mistress. I am trying to explain. Back in November, a witch pulled Blackwell's house down around him, and it took me two days to dig my way out of the wreckage. When I did, I found a few useful things, the broach included. I don't know where he got it."

"And?"

"A harpy attacked me and I wished for more time. Next thing I know, the harpy is gone, the torn down house is gone, everything's gone but me. My head was all swooney, but I found a newsstand and the date on the papers was May second. I jumped six months forward in time."

"And you believe it was this stone that made it happen... why?"

"Had to be, didn't it? I can't time travel on my lonesome, can I? The other stuff I picked up — the wand and the box and such — I know what those can do. The broach I hadn't seen before. And it gave me the twitchies when I touched it. Had to be the stone that brought me forward. Saved my life, it did."

Several moments of silence followed before Drakat replied.

"Where is it now?" Her tone was deceptively calm, but Ryleigh wasn't fooled.

Drakat had always been ambitious. Currently, she was the Countess of Belfast. A rich city, teeming with souls, but small compared to the counties and entire countries a greater or master demon might claim. Besides that, she couldn't leave the city limits without Emperor Morningstar's permission, and she'd always wanted to travel.

As an elder demon, Drakat had been trying to reach greater demon level for years, but hadn't been able to make the leap. A soul stone could catapult her past greater to master demon if used wisely.

If she used it to find and capture other soul stones, Drakat could challenge Lucifer Morningstar himself.

Ryleigh shuddered at the possibilities such an event implied, suddenly cold despite her tweed jacket. She tapped Nate's shoulder again so that he looked up at her. The boy's white face and pinched expression showed his fear, but he met her gaze without flinching. When she beckoned him further into the bathroom and pointed silently at the small, square window near the ceiling, he squared his shoulders and nodded.

Holding up the backpack, he gave her a questioning look. Glancing at the door beyond which she could still hear the gruff conversation between the two infernals, Ryleigh bit her lip.

Giving Drakat the Caraigama didn't bear considering. It was simply too powerful a tool to be left in demonic hands. Ryleigh held out her hand and Nate handed her the pack.

If they took the soul stone but left the backpack here, it would be found and maybe returned to Grag. With any luck, Drakat would think the imp had been lying, and wouldn't try to track down the thief.

Crouching, Ryleigh carefully opened the sack to rummage silently through the contents. The catching thread she refused to touch. She wished she had a bit of salt water.

The box and wand she didn't feel comfortable leaving behind either, but when she passed her hand over them, she felt no dark magick, so she slipped both of them into her purse.

She pulled the broach out last, and as her fingers touched the metal, she nearly dropped it. Power emanated from it in tangible waves, tingling along her fingers into her wrists. She opened a pocket in her purse, dropped it in and zipped the pocket and the purse closed.

Nate snatched up the roll of money, and she grabbed his wrist. Shaking her head, she pointed at the backpack. He shook his head, his features tight with rebellion.

She jerked her phone out of her front pocket and held it up, raising her brows. Nate pulled his out, put it on silent, and nodded.

Her fingers flew over the tiny keyboard. We are not thieves.

He is, Nate typed back just as fast. You heard him. He stole all this from someone. Stealing from a thief isn't stealing.

Shaking her head at his logic, she started typing a refusal, but he was already pushing his point.

We are going to need cash, he sent.

I have cash, and credit cards if that runs out. If we are quiet, Dra... the countess won't know who she's looking for, she responded. Saying or even typing a demon's name risked drawing their attention, something Ryleigh wanted to avoid at all costs. She took the wad of bills from Nate, dropping it back into the sack. Standing, she pushed the backpack under the sink and gestured toward the window.

Sighing, Nate pocketed his phone and nodded.

She crouched by the window, interlacing her fingers to make a boosting platform with her hands. Nate shook his head, his phone out again as he typed away.

I'm too short, he sent. There's nothing to climb down on out there. I need you to go first and help me down.

How will you reach the window? she typed back.

Instead of replying, he pocketed the phone and walked over to the sturdy metal trash can in the corner near the sinks. Emptying the contents took a moment and she counted it lucky that damp paper towels was the worst of it.

Nate turned it upside down and placed it against the wall under the window. He grinned up at her, pride shining in his eyes.

Yes, yes, she thought. Smart boy. She nodded and he steadied the trash can as she climbed on top and pushed the window open. A moment later she was through, hanging from her fingertips as her toes stretched for the ground, which was a surprising distance away. She dropped the last foot and looked up.

A crash sounded from inside, and Ryleigh's heart pounded in her throat. Nate's legs poked through the window and she reached up to steady him as he dropped into her arms. Easing him to the ground, she grabbed his hand as the pub door crashed open.

"Run," she gasped, and the two pelted down the street as Grag shouted after them.

"Come back here, you black-hearted thieves!"

"Leave them," Drakat said, standing beside her imp. "They aren't carrying your pack, so it must still be inside."

The voices faded as Nate and Ryleigh rounded the corner, leaving the pub behind.