Thieftaker by D. B. Jackson

Ethan’s father. Truth be told, the diminutive cooper worried about him far more than Ethan’s father ever had.
    “Well, thank you, Ethan. Ya’re welcome in that room for as long as you want it.”
    Ethan patted the man’s shoulder. “You’re just saying that because you’ve been paid.”
    Henry grinned at him, wide-mouthed and gap-toothed. “Aye,” he said. “In advants, no less.”
    The thieftaker laughed as he walked back to the door and pulled it open. “I’ll see you later, Henry.”
    The old man was still grinning. But he sounded deadly serious when he said, “Be careful, Ethan. That much money—ya’re bound to attract someone’s eye.”
    Ethan glanced back at him. “Aye, thank you, Henry.”
    Once outside again, Ethan saw that both dogs were still awake. Pitch was on his feet, his tail raised, his ears pricked. Ethan looked around, but saw nothing. As he started away, he heard the dog growl.
    Wary now, he walked around to the back end of Henry’s building, and climbed the wooden stairs to his door. Just as he reached for the door handle, he heard footsteps on the stairs below him. Glancing down, he saw a large man making his way up the stairway. He was dark-haired, young, and when he looked up at Ethan, catching his eye, he leered menacingly. No wonder Pitch had been on edge.
    Ethan quickly ducked into the room and locked the door behind him. He had just started to consider what kind of spell he might use on the man when he felt a powerful hand grab his shoulder and spin him around. Ethan found himself face-to-face—or rather, face-to-chest—with another large man, this one yellow-haired with a long, horsey face. Two other pairs of hands grabbed his arms, pulling them wide.
    “Get his knife,” a woman’s voice commanded calmly from behind Yellow-hair.
    The man in front of him yanked Ethan’s blade from the sheath on his belt. The other two released his arms, but before Ethan could move, Yellow-hair dug a hammerlike fist into his gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. One of the other men knocked him to the floor with a hard chopping clout high on his cheek.
    Before he could clear his vision or remember how to inhale, a pair of hands hoisted him to his feet. Someone pounded him in the gut a second time, and then they set to work on his face. A blow to the jaw, another to the eye, a third to the cheekbone. Ethan felt his knees buckle, felt blood trickling from his mouth and from a burning cut just below his right eye. He was tempted to conjure, but wasn’t sure he could incapacitate more than one man at a time. And before he could think of a spell, a fist to the stomach made him heave, though he managed somehow to keep from throwing up. They straightened him, and Ethan braced himself for another blow.
    “Enough.”
    One word, but it stopped his attackers cold. It came from Ethan’s bed, as had the demand for his blade. He didn’t have to see Sephira Pryce to recognize her voice, but he would have preferred to look her in the eye.
    The hands holding him up released him, and Ethan’s legs gave way. He fully expected to fall to the floor, but someone had placed a chair behind him. He flopped into it.
    He heard the door rattle behind him.
    “Someone let him in,” the voice said, sounding both bored and amused. “Gordon’s going to be disappointed that he missed all the fun, Ethan. You shouldn’t have locked the door.”
    Ethan forced his eyes open, and then concentrated on the face swimming before him.
    As it came into focus, he was reminded once again of how dangerous it could be having any dealings with Sephira Pryce. Everything about the woman lent itself to seduction. Her voice was low for a woman’s, and slightly gravelly, so that with every word she sounded like she was purring. Reclining on his bed, her shining black curls cascading over her shoulders, she looked like some lithe, preternaturally intelligent creature from the wilds of North America. Her oval face tapered to a