Chương 27: Act 1, Chapter 27: Infiltration

Day in the story: 2nd October (Thursday) When I teleported onto the overlook—dressed head to toe in black, face hidden beneath a bandana, hair tucked inside a long cap—I expected rain. But the skies had stayed dry here for a while. I closed the umbrella and slid it into the holder at my belt, a custom-made sheath lined with wool to muffle any accidental sound. On my other hip, a small bag was slung tight. It bounced lightly as I moved. The enhancement spell from the volleyball match still lingered.

It had quickened my reflexes, gave me painless motion and lightness in every step. It made tonight's job easier. Unfortunately, the Camper was gone. I'd have to check later if the teleport anchor still worked and if so, where it would take me now. But I'd already used it for what I needed. If it was burned, so be it. The dining hall curtains were drawn. No movement behind them, no flicker of a shadow, so I had to take the chance.

If anything felt off, I'd leave immediately, still touching the portal page in the grimoire.

"Take me there." I pressed my hand to the painting initiating acold teleportation jump, straight into the room. The heavy door clicked shut behind me but it wasn't me who'd touched it. Someone had just left as I arrived. Lucky. I was so damn lucky. The thick velvet curtains that shrouded the tall windows muffled the sound. My boots made no noise on the polished wooden floor of the grand dining hall.

There were three doors in total: the just shut o ne behind me and two ahead, flanking a grand fireplace carved with scenes of old hunts and noble crests. I stood still, letting the silence settle in to calm myself focusing on my surroundings. The air was warm. And it carried the faint scent of cinnamon and old wood. A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow dancing across burgundy and gold tapestries. A long dining table stretched the length of the room, draped in floor-length embroidered cloth.

It would become my cover, if I ever needed it. But first I scanned the room for the eyes. There was a small, nearly hidden dome camera above the fireplace, its lens panning in slow, mechanical arcs. I waited, pressed into the curtain's edge where I noticed its blind spot lay. Timing was everything, so the moment it turned away, I crouched low and slid beneath the long dining table. My fingers brushed along carved wooden legs as I disappeared into the shadows. Dust teased at my nose.

I pressed a hand over my face and stilled myself. I heard footsteps then. Someone soft-soled passing through. In complete stillness and breathlesness I counted to thirty before emerging. The curtains stayed drawn. There was no shift in the light and no sound but the fire's quiet crackle. I crept to the right-hand door and eased it open—inch by careful inch—revealing a corridor lined with oil portraits and pastoral paintings. The hallway curved, disappearing behind another thick curtain.

A second camera sat in the corner above the junction: an older model with a fixed angle. I stayed low, slipping behind a side table cluttered with a cracked porcelain vase and a bowl of dried lavender. Voices drifted toward me, mingling with laughter. Two maids passed by, chatting about something in the cellar. Their footsteps slowly faded into the distance while I remained crouched, barely daring to breathe. I exhaled and moved on only when I culd not hear them anymore and kept on searching.

The first study was lined with bookshelves heavy with dust, the air in there thick with a smoky scent. I rifled through the drawers, finding nothing but page after page of useless papers. There was nothing hidden here—or it had been concealed so well that it might as well have been invisible to my experience and senses. A single camera watched from the corner, angled toward the desk. I ducked behind the tall chair and moved quickly and silently. The music room was a dead end.

No cameras, just the grand piano and another heavy velvet curtain in the corner. I moved on quickly. Behind the pantry, I found a narrow hallway. That's when I heard the footsteps again, heavier this time. I slipped into a linen closet and curled up behind neatly folded sheets as the scent of cigars drifted through the air. A man passed with a measured gait, his expensive shoes clicking softly against the floor. The butler, probably. I waited, listening. Only when silence returned did I move again.

The basement was the trickiest. I took the servant stairs, keeping to the shadows, because the clatter of pans and murmur of voices warned me off the main route. I avoided the security camera above the stairwell—timed its sweep, ducked beneath and found a dumbwaiter shaft. With a practiced motion, I pulled myself inside and descended in silence. Grease from the ropes clung to my gloves. The kitchen below buzzed with life.

Four cooks laughed and chatted about asses and games I didn't watch, their voices blending with the rhythmic clang of pans and the hiss of the stove. And while football itself sounded completely uninteresting, the bottoms—and the girls they belonged to, as vividly described—made me wonder whether my sexuality was broader than I'd assumed. I crouched behind sacks of flour. At the far end of the room I noticed a keypad-locked door and directly above it, a camera.

With no shadows and no blind spots around there was no way through. I studied it for a few heartbeats longer than I should have, but I memorized it nonetheless before slipping away. Upstairs, everything quieted. The suits of armor lining the gallery watched me pass with hollow eyes. The guest rooms were lavish, curtains heavy as theater drapes, mirrors edged in gold, the air thick with perfume.

Cameras were fewer here, but I moved with care anyway, ducking behind armoires, crouching in window seats and waiting in silence whether the situation required it. One study was locked, but my lockpick made short work of it. I didn't want to use magic as it would leave a trace in the form of the paint—a clue that I'd been here. Inside surrounded by cedar and silence, watched only by the old futniture, with no cameras in sight—I searched fast. A false drawer revealed a letter with places, names and dates.

I snapped a picture and left everything as I found it. The master bedroom came last, its double doors imposing even in the dark. I eased them open an inch at a time. No creak followed my deliberately slow movements. I slipped inside where stillness greeted me. Heavy curtains shut out the moonlight, and the bed loomed like a throne draped in shadows. A faint red glow blinked above the doorframe, introducing me to the first infrared motion sensor I'd encountered in the house.

I froze with my chin raised, observing and calculating. The sensor's arc swept across the upper third of the room in a slow fan. If I stayed low, beneath its line of sight, I could pass. I dropped to my hands and knees, moving slowly and keeping close to the wall where the arc narrowed. I'd done this before. Shallow breaths, measured movements, and trust in geometry had been ingrained in me through years of meticulous training.

Against the far wall hung a painting of a hunting scene, large and ornate enough to pass as simple decoration. I reached for my work phone to check the jammer. It was still on, just the way I liked it. At close range, it should scramble low-grade sensors for a short window, maybe sixty seconds. Sixty seconds that started counting down the moment I entered. I moved fast. My lockpicking tools worked against the metal, and the tumblers clicked, one by one. A sudden movement stopped me.

A draft stirred the curtain behind me, so I paused and listened. Fortunately, nothing came of it. I returned to work and popped the safe open within the next four seconds. Inside, I found documents, jewels, and a black notebook. I took the papers and the notebook and left the gems for now. I wanted to photograph everything, catalogue the contents, but then I heard footsteps again. Heavy, close, and louder with every heartbeat. I slid under the bed just as the door opened.

A tall man entered with economical, measured movements. He input the code to turn off the sensor, crossed to the desk, and picked something up. Most likely the keys, judging by the clutter. I'd seen them lying there.

"Why today? Just fucking why?" he muttered under his breath, then turned and walked out, switching the sensor back on. I waited three full minutes before moving again, replaying his words in my mind. Why today? What did he mean? Should I follow him? The urge to tail him tugged hard, but I had no way to stay hidden if spotted. A suit that could turn me invisible might be possible to make with my powers, but I had no idea where to even begin crafting such a thing. Instead, I refocused.

Laid the notebook and papers on the floor under the bed. Carefully and methodically I snapped a photo of every page. Then, when I was done, I changed the jammer's frequency to give myself another minute and returned everything to the safe, exactly as I'd found it. I crawled back toward the door and pressed my ear to the wood. Hearing no immediate noise, I nudged the double doors open and slipped into the hallway. The chatter from downstairs, however, had grown louder. Some kind of dinner was underway.

Laughter rang out, forks clinked against china. It was good for me. It meant most of the people were distracted. That made it easier to move undetected. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it I headed for the far end of the hall, where the balcony waited. I stayed clear of the cameras, following the blind spots I'd memorized on the way in. The doors leading outside were unguarded, so I pushed through.

The air was crisp and the sky stretched wide above me, faintly streaked with purple and silver from the coming dusk. No sign of the rain I'd expected, though the roof tiles were still slick with moisture. Owls haunted the woods with their peculiar calls, while insects played their own quiet symphony. Three tall trees stood just beyond the railing, their branches stretching like fingers, one nearly brushing the balcony itself. I recognized it: the swing tree, the one I'd seen from the overlook earlier.

From up there, I'd also caught a glimpse of attic windows tucked beneath the top gable. No stairs had led to them inside. No visible ladder either. That left only one option, and it excited me. I stepped onto the edge of the balcony, maybe a tad too theatrical in the way I let my feet dangle over the ledge for a second, but I enjoyed myself. I had moved through this guarded mansion undetected, and the rush of competence hit me with a jolt of dopamine. My self-indulgence lasted only a few seconds.

Once I composed myself, I jumped silently and caught the roof edge above with both hands. Damp tiles and all, they weren't enough to stop me. I hauled myself up and pressed low, crawling along the ledge like a cat, silent and close to the slope to avoid being seen from below. The height gave me a better view of the estate's layout. I crept toward one of the attic windows and, lowering my head over the edge, peeked inside upside down. It was a study. Or perhaps, more accurately, a vault for books.

Shelves lined the walls, each encased behind pristine glass-fronted cabinets. A white carpet covered most of the floor, while walls of the same color gave the room a sterile, almost clinical feel. The only door was massive and metallic, more like the entrance to a bank vault than something I'd expect to find in a house. The window had no hinges or latch—just a thick reinforced pane that was probably bulletproof, judging by the glass alone.

There was no silent way to break it, not with any of the conventional tools I carried. There were no cameras or motion sensors inside, however. That was as good as an invitation for someone like me. I pulled a black spray can from my bag and painted a wide black circle onto the roof tiles directly above the window—my Looney Hole. They'd never notice the painting from the ground because of the angle, and from above they might mistake it for nothing more than a shadow.

I poured my Authority into it and dropped through a second later. I landed lightly, but the instant my boots touched the carpet, it erupted in silver fire. A circle inscribed with glowing runes formed beneath me, and I couldn't move. A cold stillness wrapped around me. I felt it pulling at something deeper than my body—at my spirit, my soul. I was pinned in place, caught in a trap. Yet something inside me resisted. I could feel it clearly now: two forces colliding in the spirit.

The sigil held me, but I refused to yield. It seemed I, too, had a claim in this battle of wills and Authorities. Anansi what's happening? [You are trapped within the domain of a sigils' Authority.] I can feel myself resisting it, though. My soul is fighting it? [Correct. You resist in two ways. First, all Authority will clash with foreign ones by the virtue of its basic resistance. This one is of a greater maturity than yours and would overpower you, if not for your Domain's nature. This sigil is a work of art. And you, bearer of the Domain of Artistic Creation, hold Authority over it.] Then why can't I move? [I redirected most of your strength against the sigil's secondary function, alerting its creator. The paralysis is its first effect. The claim of the other mage is contested by you.] You decided on your own? [I am an anima. I embody the subconscious aspect of your soul.] Right. I exhaled slowly. The pain in my muscles was nothing compared to the strain of being known by the circle.

Its being painted on the floor gave me an edge however, and I was already touching it, which meant I was close enough to influence it. But I couldn't erase it. That would trigger the alert. I knew that deep down. When my Authority faded from an object, I felt it. They'd feel it too. I had to be clever. If destruction wasn't an option, then I'd go with redirection. Anansi, can you understand its instructions? [Yes. There are two: First, hold trespassers upon entry. Second, alert the creator. I feel them as the concepts, but also in how they were made to be.] And I'm holding off the alert, right? [Correct.] If the alert was automated, they wouldn't check the sigil unless it went off. Which meant I could maybe change the trigger instead. I gathered my focus and reached down through my Authority. I didn't erase the sigil's will, but reinterpreted it instead. Be the sigil that holds trespassers on entry, that alerts the maker.

And within my intent, I rewrote the meaning of "trespassers" from one person to a group. Multiple intruders were required now and that was the new threshold. I felt my Authority thread through the lines of the circle, bending the soul of the art, reshaping it just enough with the power of identity. The grip on me loosened. The energy around the sigil dimmed, and the thread that would have reached out and screamed to its master went quiet. I'd won my first real battle against a foreign Authority. [Not true.] What?

[You've done it before. Twice. Against the same opponent. Once when your jacket froze the hand of the mage who tried to erase you. Again, when your Authority refused to let him vanish you, initiating your trial.]"… Right." I remembered now. I hadn't seen those moments as victories before, but indeed they were just that. My Domain had already started to shape the world around me back then. Thanks, Anansi. [You're welcome.] I stood slowly, feeling the quiet pull of the room around me. My presence was hidden.

My will, intact, but the secrets in here remained, waiting for me to uncover them. By the way, Anansi… can I make sigils like this one? [No. They are too abstract. They would not accept the identity.] Thought so. I turned toward one of the glass-covered bookshelves, where five tomes rested inside. Old, leatherbound, and handmade, just like my Travel Grimoire. I didn't doubt for a second that they were magical somehow.

There was no way someone would protect this room with a soul-snaring sigil unless what it held was valuable. The glass cases had no locks, no hinges, and no latches—pristine and seamless containment. I could break through, but not without leaving a clear trace. If anyone checked this room later, they'd know someone had been here. And yet my fingers itched, and my curiosity burned. These books could be everything I needed.

I read the titles on the spines:"De Marcos—Family's Debt", "Ideworld's Geography", "Basics to Authority", "Angels" and "History of the World". Across the room, on a shelf by itself, stood another single massive tome: "Book of Debts," and that one was huge. Like it could snap a table in half if dropped. I stood in silence, staring at all of this. I didn't know enough about this world— their world. This was the kind of knowledge I was stumbling in the dark without. The one about angels caught my eye especially.

Are they real? I'd never seen one. Never heard of anyone who had. But the fact someone bothered to write a whole book about them, especially here, meant something. Anansi, are angels real? [I hold no knowledge in relation to that question.] Damn. I stepped back, just slightly. Every book called to me like a whisper in my head. Knowledge, secrets, power. But I couldn't afford to blow my cover. Not yet. Not when I was this far in. I sat down at the desk in the corner and opened my Grimoire.

With slow, deliberate strokes, I painted the room I stood in: the glass-enclosed shelves, the heavy desk, the single barred window, the stark white walls and floor. I caught the shape of the circle inlaid on the ground too, as a reference. Once it was done, I flipped to the painting of my own room. Take me there. When the world stopped, placing me where I wanted to be, I immediately ran to the bathroom and filled a cleaning bucket with warm water, adding soap and then dropped in a cloth.

Back in my room, I touched the grimoire and teleported again, returning to De Marco's hidden library. To a place that I'd now decided to call his magical study. I moved quickly. Grabbed the black spray paint, stepped to the case with the single massive book. Be a hole, I commanded the paint and a silent void spread across the glass. Carefully, I pulled out the heavy tome and laid it on the desk. I opened it slowly, from the side, expecting some defensive magic to lash out.

When none came, I focused on the old Latin text within. Maybe old Italian. Dates reached back as far as 1012 AD. Names I didn't recognize lined the margins, many of them underlined. I could feel the weight of Authority behind the letters. It didn't seem active, though, making it less a trap and more a simple presence. Still, I had no time to go page by page. More footsteps cut through the fun I was having.

When the sound of feet against the floor turned into the unmistakable scrape of metal in a lock, I shut the book gently but quickly and slid it back into place on the shelf. I reached out and pulled my Authority from the painted hole, stripping the magic away. I dipped the cloth into the bucket and carefully wiped the paint from the glass, making sure not to leave even a smudge.

When the hole was gone, I used the dry part of my shirt to polish the surface clean, leaving no sign that I'd ever been there besides the smell. I could only hope they would not think much of it. The vault door gave a heavy clunk behind me, but I'd already grabbed the bucket, the cloth, and everything I'd brought here, and reached for the Grimoire. I touched it and issued a command within my mind. Take me home. The room vanished just as the vault door groaned open behind me.

It felt too close for comfort, and worse still, I hadn't learned much. But I had found a place worth returning to when the risk was lower. More importantly, I'd taken clear photos: the letter from the false drawer, the notebook pages, and all the documents from the safe. I forwarded them to Mr. Penrose, then called him and walked him through the entire infiltration, step by step. When I finished, he responded in his usual measured tone.

"Good work, Alexandra. I need to look more into this magical world. It's proving far more useful than I anticipated."

"I'd never have gotten in and out undetected without it," I admitted.

"Teleportation, disguise, even disabling the trap, none of that would've been possible before."

"Agreed. And it's now obvious that De Marco are magic users themselves. I'm glad you managed to disarm that sigil."

"Not more than I am, sir. It could've gone very differently."

"I'll go through the documents you sent," he said.

"I'll see if anything gives me leverage for Monday's meeting. You do the same. Any thoughts on returning to that attic study?"

"Not yet," I said.

"I'd love to study those books, some of them might answer major questions, but I was seconds from getting caught. Whoever created that sigil trap—they're strong. I only escaped because of my domain's edge." Penrose paused for a moment.

"Learning more is important," he said at last.

"But staying alive is paramount."

"I agree. I think the safest option is to deal with Shiroi and De Marco first. Once they're out of the picture, I can take the books openly. No need to hide. No risk if I'm exposed."

"That would be my strategy as well," Penrose said.

"Good thinking, Alexandra." I said my goodbye and sat down by the phone with documents printed and spread out in front of me. Most of them were financial, ledgers of debt, names I didn't recognize, numbers without context. The black notebook was full of it. I left that to Phillip. He could untangle the financial web better than I ever could. But one item stood out: the letter from the false drawer. It listed names, places and dates, but one line stopped me cold: "Violet William—20th of September 11.

00 AM—Brooklyn Bridge Park." That was the day I met Eveline de Marco and the name I gave her. So, what was this list? Did Eveline write it? If so, why was I on it, along with these other strangers? If she didn't write it, then someone was tracking her and I got swept up in that net. Either way, it wasn't random and I had been marked. Fuck. Phillip would spot the implication instantly, so I sent him the photo with a quick explanation of what happened that day in the park. He left it on read.