Fantasy, Heist, Romance, Found-Family - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The first thing Ronan noticed when he stepped past the hallway was how bright it was.
He fought his every instinct not to turn on his heels as he was forcefully wrapped up in a golden halo. They had always operated in the dark – entirely unseen or a vague memory, a back spotted running away and nothing more. Now, hopelessly surrounded and encased in the light of a hundred candles, he'd lost his power. A mask didn't feel like enough.
"Eyes up," the rookie whispered at his side. "They can probably smell fear."
It was meant as a joke, but Ronan jerked his chin up guiltily. He stared at Robin's back and drew on his words from moments before for solace – trust in me, trust in me, trust in me.
They forged ahead along the outskirts of the floor, where the ladies and gentlemen lacking the means or the mood to dance floated between conversations. Keeping enough distance to avoid any interaction past nodding and smiling was a welcome part of the plan, but they weren't as invisible as Ronan had hoped. The idea was to observe without attracting scrutiny, but already, eyes lingered on the blackbird in their midsts. He supposed that, too, was part of the plan. Still, his skin crawled under the attention.
He kept his eyes and ears peeled for anything that might point them toward a Van Doren. Time crawled by with little spoken between them, but after minutes of eavesdropping on passive conversations and a full circle of the floor, they had yet to learn anything of substance. Robin edged deeper, further into the inner circle of the ballroom floor, until they had a clear view of the waltzing pairs. The space around them narrowed.
"We'll have a better view from the second floor," Robin said through a feigned smile. He started to shift that way, checking on his teammates over his shoulder, and came face-to-face with the profile of an older man who hadn't been there a moment before.
The man jumped, lowering his handheld mask in surprise. "Oh, my apologies," he said around lip-drowning mutton chops. "I was only trying to get a better view of my grandson."
He gestured toward an adolescent boy near the center of the floor, arm-in-arm with an older girl who shared his violent shock of red curls. (Falsely) taking Robin's appeasing smile for encouragement, he went on to say, "He's a tad young to attend such an event, but he is terribly fond of dancing, and the Van Dorens are good friends of mine."
The boy beamed as bright as the chandelier looming above, and his partner – maybe a sister – giggled at his enthusiasm, and their grandfather looked as if they'd hung the sun, and Ronan was not envious.
The man glanced back at Robin as his words hung, unanswered, and the lull tipped just this side of uncomfortable.
Robin blinked. Ronan wilted.
"Did you say you know–"
"I, for one, think it's delightful to see the esteemed youth attending these events," the rookie interjected. He plowed on, trite and saccharine, before the man could think it rude. "Age is no dictator of maturity, and your grandson is clearly well beyond his years. Personalities like his give me hope for the future of this kingdom."
Ronan faked a cough behind his fist to cover a snort as the rookie raised the charm to blinding levels, continuing with pearly teeth flashed in a cloying smile. "What a pleasure to find you this evening, Sir Carmichael. It seems only fitting that such a fine occasion should bring us together again."
There was no way he could've learned the man's name in the afternoon they'd spent preparing for this job – Ronan sure as hell didn't recognize his face – but he said it with confidence. Ronan hesitated, and so did the man – Sir Carmichael, apparently.
The rookie laughed sympathetically. "Oh, it's alright, these masks make it impossible to recognize a familiar face, and I've grown some since our last meeting. Thomas Aldridge." He bowed his head and shoulders politely. "My father is Samuel Aldridge. He moved us overseas for his research – ah, it must have been six years ago, now."
The story he gave was the one Robin had created for himself; he would surely pout later that he hadn't been the one to deliver it. A young man returning to his childhood home on the possibility of inheriting his father's estate, if only he could find a convincing reason to remain. Carmichael definitely did not have the first clue who Samuel Aldridge was, but he soaked up the story admiringly, the white bush on his face jumping with his smile.
The rookie gestured to Ronan, then Whiplash and Robin, listing with ease the aliases Robin had all-but stamped onto their brains during the train ride. Levi, Amelia, and Jeremy Arthur were the children of Sir Aldridge's close research partner in Oswall. Along with them, the eldest son had brought his cousins, Charles and Philip Elizabeth, because, "What can I say; travel is lonely."
He eased Carmichael into idle small talk of the masquerade and his grandchildren and his bank (which they had robbed once). Just as Ronan grew antsy – their time was down to seventy-four minutes, and he was tired of humming along – the name of the hour finally resurfaced.
"You mentioned you're close to the Van Doren family? I haven't had the chance to thank the man himself for so considerately welcoming me back – with a party in tow, no less."
Carmichael chuckled, as he couldn't seem to stop doing in the face of Thomas Aldridge's charisma. "I haven't seen Sir Van Doren since I first greeted him, but his daughter passed by only moments ago. As a matter of fact . . ." his eyes wandered before landing across the ballroom floor. "She's just that way, dressed in carmine. You can't miss her."
Ronan found her in his periphery before he even turned his head. Red, bright and demanding, spilled out around her like a fresh bloodstain against concrete. Dressed in the petals of an upturned rose, she trailed glassy eyes about the room, hardly subtle in her boredom. The oily man radiating hope in waves at her arm seldom seemed to notice or care. Others waited nearby for a chance, pretending to be engaged in conversation while their eyes darted back again to red.
Ronan watched as her gaze halted somewhere to his left and lingered, then shied down toward the floor only to dart back up again. He followed her pink-eared stare to the furiously enchanting smile the rookie sent her way.
And just like that, the strategy shifted.
"It would seem she's with Miss Donahue and Miss Windsor once again. Attached at the hip, those three," Carmichael joked, but Thomas Aldridge wasn't listening.
An imperceptible incline of Robin's head toward Ronan communicated the new plan. Six years of mostly-silent jobs fostered a certain knack for mind-reading.
"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," Whiplash spoke up, sounding dainty of all things. Glancing between Genie and Knuckle, she added, "Accompany me to, ah, get some fresh air?"
A round of farewells to Carmichael. Robin gave his sister a parting kiss on the cheek, whispering something against her skin. She swept past with an understated nod – a silent promise to be where they needed her.
"I've never met Miss Van Doren," the rookie was saying, focused half on his words and half on his game of eye-contact tag.
Carmichael's smile was knowing. "It would be a pleasure to introduce you. Though I must warn, she has not shown much interest in her dance partners tonight."
Even so, he was already leading them over. Ronan watched as Miss Van Doren snuck her fourth glance and got the feeling there wouldn't be a problem.
Carmichael made quick work of introductions. The look the rookie fixed on Miss Van Doren as he rose from his bow nearly had Ronan blushing. Even beneath his mask – half black and half white, split down the middle – he was hellishly handsome. Ronan said a silent prayer for the girl's soul.
"I do hope you find a reason to stay," Carmichael said as he departed, suggestion blatant on his tongue.
Up close, the dress was not nearly the most show-stopping thing about Eliza Van Doren. Lest some flaw mar her skin beneath her ruby mask, she was perfect down to the last sable curl of her hair. Even her voice rang like a melody, and she sang with it now, addressing one person alone. "You're enjoying your night, I hope?"
"Immensely," the rookie said earnestly. "Your father certainly knows how to celebrate. The evening has been brilliant thus far, and it only seems to be getting better."
He surveyed the space abroad as he spoke, gesturing wide to the scenery around him. Only for his final words did he lower his gaze to hers. A calculated strike; Eliza melted under his stare.
"Oswall is a long way to travel," she said. "I hope you don't mind me asking what brings you here?"
His eyes roamed her face, appreciative and purposeful. "I seek a reason to settle down. Perhaps you would help me find one?"
She turned pink to her forehead. "Is there anything I could offer to convince you, my lord?"
He bent at the waist and extended a gloved hand. "A dance might do the trick."
Ronan's eyes damn near bugged out of his head when the rookie whisked Eliza Van Doren into an honest-to-god waltz, leaving him and Robin alone at the edge of the floor.
"What is going on," Robin muttered under his breath.
"Do you not dance polka in Oswall?"
They both went ramrod straight at the reminder that they were not, in fact, alone. Miss Donahue was a petite little thing in baby blue, and she stared up at Ronan like a child, big curious eyes and all.
"Of course we do," said Ronan. It was the first he'd had to speak. His voice might have cracked a touch.
Horror just about eclipsed his soul as expectation dawned on her expression. Robin was quick to intervene. "You've never been to Oswall, then? You must go if you can; there isn't a clearer beach in the world."
"You must be very well-traveled, Mister Arthur," said Miss Windsor.
Robin started to grin. "Oh, we've seen much of the world, m'lady," he said, and Ronan knew what was coming from the mischief in his tone before he said it. "Tell them about the jackalopes in Echines, brother dearest."
And Ronan couldn't help but grin along.
The rookie led Eliza through three songs, in which time Robin pieced together an impressive string of lies, each growing more ridiculous than the last as he bounced them off of Ronan. The ladies were deeply entertained. Ronan was just wrapping up the tale of his fight with a giant scaled beast in Addlewood when the dancing pair returned, Eliza flushed deep and glued to the rookie's profile. He was only slightly relieved to hand the conversation over.
As it happened, Eliza was the one to present entry to the manor. A tour, she suggested. It was a courteous way to avoid further dance partners and a ploy to show off her family's wealth and stability – and allude to an impressive dowry. Miss Windsor made nervous mention of their mothers, but Eliza brushed her off – we are doing nothing dishonorable, friend. Ronan couldn't fault her for her zeal; the rookie had a way with his words. And his eyes. And his body.
Ronan watched the clock as they followed her to the guarded double-doors. Forty-six minutes.
"Knuckle and Genie are on watch, Whiplash is sweeping," Robin muttered when the girls were a few steps ahead. Once mentioned, they were easy to spot, hovering in the crowd in sight of the mansion doors.
"Sweeping?" asked the rookie.
"You'll see."
Whiplash joined them in perfect time. She complained of feeling faint, and when Robin requested that his poor sister accompany them inside for a place to sit down within reach, the girls thought nothing of it. Ronan wasn't convinced Eliza had even witnessed the interaction.
Eliza lowered her mask as they approached the doors. The men in red let them through without a word.
And finally – finally – Ronan knew what he was doing.
As the ladies escorted them from room to room, Eliza dove into the house's wealth of history, sparing not a single detail. See how established we are? Even our candelabras have a story.
The rookie did the work of keeping attention his way via questions and flirtations. With quick movements of practiced hands, Ronan snatched small trinkets and charms everywhere he could find them, slipping them into the pockets lining his waistcoat. Robin snagged a bracelet clean off of Miss Windsor's wrist without so much as a batted eye from her.
The only bedroom they were shown was Eliza's childhood chamber, long since out of use. The two steps Ronan took inside were worth a pretty penny; just by leaning against her vanity, he filled his pockets with jewelry.
He hadn't seen Whiplash since they left her to catch her breath in the parlor, but he knew she had been up and following them since they turned the first corner. Quiet and quick as wind, she prowled the halls, slinking through doors left cracked open in their wake. Even on high alert, Ronan didn't catch sight of her once. Still, he didn't doubt for a second that she was there.
They picked their way through the first and second floors of the manor seamlessly. By the time they stood at the base of the winding spiral staircase, looking upward to the highest floor, Ronan was beginning to wonder if his worries had been in vain; this was a perfect, easy heist.
Naturally, that was when the guard appeared.
It was the younger of the two men who had allowed them into the mansion, the one with the menacing sideburns. The rookie's smile wavered, if only for a second.
"My apologies for interrupting, Miss Van Doren. Your mother desires your presence."
Ronan tried not to show his relief too visibly.
Eliza straightened. "Could she not have simply sent Antoine? Please inform her I am busy escorting a guest."
The guard scooted closer to the wall and away from her scowl, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. Ronan pitied his role as wayward-teen handler. "She is . . . not pleased, madam. She worries for your propriety."
"If anything, I am fulfilling her wishes and finding myself a suitor." Eliza huffed, and Ronan marveled at her poutiness, for the first time questioning her age.
At the mention of suitors, the guard raked his stare over the three men. Ronan suppressed a nervous twitch when vigilant eyes narrowed in what he hoped was disapproval, not suspicion.
"And as you can see, we are not alone," said Eliza. "No offense has been committed."
The guard's stare paused over Ronan. Ronan followed his eyes down, gritting his teeth when he realized his mistake too late.
The quiet was disrupted by a muted screech. It took Ronan a moment to realize it came from the ballroom: screaming, muffled with distance, rising and fading like the tide. The guard faltered, but ultimately kept his eyes where they were as the noise stretched on for several moments before dwindling into something duller. Ronan didn't dare move his hands.
"Are you certain of that, madam?" The guard recovered from his distraction with a newly hardened glare. "Then what, might I ask, is that?"
All eyes followed his finger to the thin pearl chain that looped beneath the waist of Ronan's coat — a stolen necklace that hadn't quite fallen into his pocket.
Miss Windsor gasped. Miss Donahue shrank away from Ronan's side.
The guard fixed him with a glower that would've made a weaker man stumble. "Empty your pockets."
Ronan held his stare.
"Now."
Ronan didn't move, even as his heart hurtled in his chest. Next to Eliza, the rookie braced for a fight with hands clenched into fists at his sides.
The guard hovered gloved fingers over the butt of the rifle at his hip, mouth open to repeat the command. All that came out was a grunt as a broad hand closed over his ear and slammed him head-first into the wall.
The girls screamed. The guard crumpled.
In his place stood Knuckle, flexing his hand.
"You're late," said Robin.
Knuckle grinned. "My bad."
"Mister Aldridge." Eliza clung to the rookie's side, the meekness of her voice at odds with her ruby facade. She looked to his face for comfort and squeaked at whatever she found there instead, jolting away from him like he'd burned her.
The guard stumbled to his feet with his back to Ronan, his black cap knocked deeply askew. Knuckle allowed it, even took a step back. He had always been the type to play with his food. The guard surged forward, but a heavy foot against his chest sent him tripping back before he could wrap his hand around a weapon, and he didn't get a chance to regain his footing before the rookie grabbed him by one hunched shoulder, spun him around, and drove a left-handed hook into his jaw.
"Mister Aldridge!" Eliza shrieked once more as the guard's head whipped backward and his body followed, sprawling to the floor at her feet.
The rookie smirked. "That's not my name, darling."
Terror-filled eyes searched frantically over her shoulder for an escape, but there was nowhere to run without crossing us. The hallway behind her was a dead-end.
So she took off that way, followed closely by her friends. They threw themselves into the furthest room and didn't make a sound, save for a loud click as they locked the door behind them.
A hush fell upon the hallway, sudden and heavy. Only the thrum of the walls and floor disrupted the quiet, still droning with some distant clamor from the ballroom.
Ronan moved on instinct to obstruct the lock on the door the girls had run through. They were too far removed to be heard, but he flinched when they screamed at the noise regardless. Knuckle dumped the unconscious guard like a ragdoll through another door, and Ronan jammed that one, too.
They had twenty minutes left.
Only when the four of them stood alone at the edge of the staircase did Robin break the silence.
"What the hell just happened?" he snapped, then cursed when nobody responded. He dragged his gaze from one locked door to another, then to Ronan. "How do we get out of this? And where the fuck is my sister?"
Right on cue, Whiplash emerged from one of the rooms down the adjoining hall. She carried a black bag, this one filled to the brink and bulky, and looked entirely unimpressed with her brother's theatrics.
"The same way we got in," said Ronan.
Robin looked at him like he'd popped a screw loose. "You want us to walk back out there after that? Are you out of your mind?"
"The only people who know about that are all locked away and/or unconscious," Ronan said, waving toward the occupied rooms. "And we left our things in the washroom. This was always the only way; don't act like you didn't know that."
"Don't you usually have a whole list of escape routes?"
Ronan bristled. "I usually have time to prepare, because you don't spring impossible last-minute missions on me! And I usually don't need a dozen escape routes, because your plans don't usually fail!"
"And whose fault was that?" Robin bit back. He stepped into Ronan's space, and Ronan stepped into his right back.
Before they could clash, Genie just about flew up the stairs and between them, hunching over with his hands on his knees. "No . . . time," he panted. "We need to leave."
"Isn't there another guard?" asked the rookie.
Knuckle's hand landed square on his back and shoved him toward the stairs. "How do you think we got up here, idiot? Move."
Robin tore off without another word, leaving the rest to scramble down the stairs after him. The noise from the ballroom, before a distant nervous chatter, crescendoed as they neared into a proper racket.
Robin placed his full trust in his partners and ripped open the ballroom door without thinking twice, enveloping them in noise. Ronan didn't have much time to take in the scene beyond the hallway – they were already making a beeline to the washroom door, huddled tight to obscure Whiplash and her goody-bag. He glimpsed fallen and stumbling nobles, five of them at least. None of them unconscious, but none entirely present, either. There were people rushing out the door, people righting the affected, people standing by in shock. The room was sprinkled with red where guards attempted to control the chaos.
Whiplash probably could have walked across the ballroom with the bag over her shoulder and gone unnoticed.
"How did you manage this?" Ronan hissed.
"Shit in the champagne," whispered Genie.
"What shit?"
"Oh, well I don't really have a name for it yet, but it's a compound I derived from–"
"Never mind." He didn't know why he'd asked.
Ronan's key extractor hooked in and out of the washroom lock in an instant, removing his wire. Then it was a mad dash to dress for their escape: the men shed their colorful vests and coats, Whiplash stripped down to black breeches and a corset. She insisted they take the godless costumes with them, lest their earnings go to paying for them, so Ronan refrained from tearing the cravat off at the seams and resigned himself to fifteen more minutes of its chokehold.
He wasn't looking forward to climbing the wall with these trousers riding all the way up his ass, either, but at least he had his toolbelt around his hips, and he could see Genie's utility belt buckled across his chest. Even the rookie's militant arsenal, strapped in full display around his chest, hips, back, and thighs, brought a comforting familiarity. Glittering masks were swapped for the Merry Men signature: the all-black imitation of the face of a fox, covering them from nose to forehead, with pointed black ears and hollow eyes.
Robin was already crouching at the window. "What's next, Skeleton?"
Ronan wasn't fond of sacrificing subtlety for speed, but they had no other choice. "We run."
𓃦𓃦𓃦
Now, watching uselessly from the top of a wall while a gun was leveled at Robin Hood's sternum, Ronan moved tonight's outcome onto a list of Top 10 worst scenarios imaginable. Ever.
He recognized the guard as half of the pair posted at the door inside the ballroom; the graying one with the spectacularly square jaw whose partner Knuckle had thrown into a wall. It would seem that particular cat was out of the bag.
"I said put your hands in the air!"
Robin raised his hands in surrender. Genie followed suit. The rookie was the last to obey, and when he did, it was only with one hand.
He was rewarded for his insubordination with the rifle shifting toward his chest. "Both of them."
"Oh, right." He had the nerve to sound bashful, affecting a sincere misunderstanding. He raised his right arm, so slowly Ronan nearly missed the way his hand paused at his hip, next to his belt.
The rifle was on the ground at his feet before Ronan could process what was happening, but he saw it all in retrospect: a chain wrapped around the rookie's palm and lashed like a whip, metal coiling itself around the barrel, an expert flick of his wrist. The guard didn't react fast enough, pulling the trigger on thin air. By the time he shouted his surprise, the rookie had dragged the entangled gun behind himself like a dog on a leash.
A grating ring sliced through the night as the guard drew a broadsword from the sheath at his hip. The rookie produced his own weapon without a moment's hesitation – a long, leather-hilted dagger with a deadly curve and scuffs along the steel where an engraving had been scratched out of the blade.
Ronan winced at the sharp clang of metal striking metal. Beneath him, Genie pressed himself flush against the wall, as far out of reach as possible, while the rookie pushed back against his assailant.
Ronan held his breath.
Up against a burly, well-trained swordsman with a better weapon, the rookie didn't stand a chance. With every clash of their blades, Ronan squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to open them and see a bloody gash in his arm. Eventually, he stopped opening eyes at all. What was that stupid rookie playing at? The best he could do was buy time, but for what? There was no backup plan for the backup plan. Their group had been split in three, and Genie and Robin weren't exactly fighters, and–
"Holy horns," said Knuckle. Ronan cracked one eye.
And– the rookie was doing just fine. More than fine. The guard had the advantage of size in both his stature and his weapon, but the rookie was fast. Ronan didn't know jack shit about sword-fighting, but from where he stood – well, hung – they were at least equally matched. Hell, the rookie lunged, parried, and pivoted with such confidence that Ronan wondered if this was easy for him, if he was even giving his best effort. He deflected and sidestepped with reflexes verging on prophetic, and the vigor of his own strikes forced the guard into the defensive, quickly putting space between them and the wall.
Six streaks of red appeared on the other side of the lawn, and Ronan spat a curse.
"C'mon, rookie," he whispered. He didn't doubt he could disarm his opponent, and if they ran now, they might make it over the wall before the swarm of guards reached the gate. But the rookie didn't push any harder to win – as a matter of fact, the guard was gaining ground, forcing him closer and closer to the wall, until he was backing into Robin and Genie. "Come on, come on."
With a screech like nails on a chalkboard, the rookie's sword dropped from his hand onto the ground. Knuckle took a sharp breath as the guard pulled the rookie against him, holding the sword over his throat. Robin and Genie held up their hands as the other guards closed in.
"Both hands up." The guard was puffed up with victory. He pressed his blade threateningly into brown skin, and this time, the rookie listened. He lifted his fists just in time to be completely surrounded by raised guns and swords, and Ronan felt sick to his stomach.
When the rookie opened his palms, surrendering at last, a tiny gray sphere fell from his left hand. It hit the lawn and exploded in a thick white plume, immediately swallowing everyone on the ground. Somewhere in the smoke, a gunshot was fired, but the bullet went wide and ricocheted uselessly off the wall.
Ronan allowed himself one bright, feverish laugh before he remembered to hold his breath. He finally climbed down onto the other side of the wall, but only after the satisfaction of hearing all seven guards thud to the ground, asleep.
By the time the cloud dispersed, they were already running.
If Ronan had to guess, they had five, maybe six minutes, and three-quarters of a mile to cover.
Pick up the pace, foxes, he chanted in his head and upped his speed. He had never been one to cut it close. Whiplash cackled at his side, and somewhere behind him, Genie groaned.
And they ran.