🦄 Do you like fantasy?

That is so true, Rick.

Ouch!!  Lots of violence here.

So true.  It is what I would do.

Rory and Bridgette are likable thieves

In a house on the other side of the low-class district, a Power stirred. It pulsed with anger and impatience as it watched its earthly servant pace the floor of the small, dingy room.

“They’re onto us,” the servant said. He dropped his voice to a mutter. “We should lay off and move somewhere else again.”

The Power vibrated, disapproving. I am almost free, it hissed in the servant’s mind. One more victim and I will no longer hide in this box. I will conquer this city in one blow, and you will no longer worry of imprisonment.

The servant sat on the lone stool in the room and cradled his head in his hands. “The mage followed us from Berinum,” the servant said. “He’s looking for us--one mistake and we’ll be good as charred roast.”

There will be no mistakes.

“Almost was, last night,” the servant said. He scuffed the floor with his foot, and a cloud of dust rose to join the motes swirling in a shaft of sunlight. “We were almost discovered. If those guards had come down the alley a few minutes sooner . . . The thief nearly ran over us, anyway.”

Something in the servant’s voice made the Power suspicious. There was no mistake! I concealed you, didn’t I? Suspicions were cast away from us--they caught the thief.

“The palace was dangerous. Two in one night was risky.”

The sooner we are finished, the better. Besides, it taught them our power.

“It was still--”

Enough! I tire of your whingeing. Just one more. The ritual--tonight. I will be free . . .

Rory woke near evening from an unsettled, feverish sleep. He could tell through the hole in the eaves that the sun was fading. They would light the lanterns in an hour or so, and Bridgette should be home soon after that. She never stayed out late when she pick pocketed.

Rory shuffled about the room. He wasn’t used to staying inside during the night. He wanted to be out prowling the rooftops. But injured like it was, his hand would be useless for climbing. The risk was too much, and Bridgette had commanded him to stay home until it healed.

He worried about how long it would take him to recover. They still had the cupboard stash, and the linens and kerchiefs Bridgette had taken. She would garner some money from today, no doubt. But after the stash and linens were fenced and the money spent on food, what would happen? Bridgette couldn’t support both of them.

A couple of hours passed. Rory knew the night mist would be descending on the city, and the rats beginning to scurry through gutters. His anxiety grew as each minute slid by.

He sat down on his cot, stood up, paced the room, sat back down. He repeated the pattern. Another hour passed, and a low panic simmered in his stomach as his mind ran through all the things that could have happened to Bridgette. She could have been stopped by the Roonies, could have fallen into the river, been in a cart accident . . . He shivered and shoved his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed over the warm stone of the ring.

Rory’s whole body seized, and he felt rooted to the floor. He couldn’t move--his fingers were glued to the ring. The room around him grew dim, hazy and indistinct, as if his sight were failing. Then another image overlaid what he knew he was actually seeing. The two images conflicted, made him feel sick and disoriented, and then his small home was gone, and he was standing in an empty, unfamiliar room. Dust lay thick over the floor, except where it had been scuffed by someone else. The ceiling was pitched, and half of the room was inaccessible where the roof had caved in.

The door opened, and a man appeared with a large bundle of cloth. He dragged the bundle into the middle of the room and unwrapped it.

Bridgette. Rory’s heart clenched, and he fought to get out of the vision and run to her. She was still alive. He saw her chest rising and falling under the shroudlike fabric.

The vision ended. Rory stood in his own room once again, shaking. The opal blazed white-hot against his fingers, and he yanked his hand out of his pocket and sucked at them. He was surprised to find they weren’t burned.

Rory didn’t try to think about what he’d seen, didn’t try to understand how he’d seen it. He dashed out the door and flew down the stairs, nearly tripping over rubble at the bottom. He ran through the streets, paying no mind to the curious stares of the vagrants and street-dwellers.

He crashed into the gate of the gaol and shook it. The chains holding it shut clanged and jingled. A Roonie poked his head out of the gaol door.

“What?” the Roonie called.

“I need to talk to Darren,” Rory shouted. “It’s important!”

“He’s out on his beat,” the Roonie said.

“Where?”

“Nah, nobody knows where he patrols.”

“Gods damn it,” Rory muttered. He shoved the gate once more and turned away.

“What’s this about?” the Roonie yelled.

Rory paid him no heed. He shoved his hand into its pocket and grasped the ring. He felt a strange sensation--pressure between his shoulder blades, as if someone were gently but insistently pushing him forward. He took a step in the direction, and then another. Then he ran.

He dashed down streets, skidding to a stop and then careening down others whenever the pull dictated. Whatever it was, it led him deeper into the heart of the criminals’ district. The streets were even darker here, the crumbling faces of buildings black with mold and the tar that held them together. Rory could see figures in the shadows, watching him, calculating.

The pressure grew stronger as Rory ran onward. It yanked him onto a side street, and Rory saw it: an old house with a caved-in roof, its whitewash long turned brown with age and seepage. The pull followed him through its front door and up the stairs, swung him around a corner and up another flight of stairs. He burst through the door at the top and into the room from his vision.

Bridgette lay spread-eagle on the floor, her hair pooled about her face. A chalk circle had been drawn around her, and a thin, scrawny man knelt, drawing runes around the outside of it. He looked up.

Rory tackled him and drove a punch into his face, and then one into his stomach. The man croaked and doubled over, clutching his nose. Rory aimed a kick at him that sent him sprawling into a corner, and the man curled into a ball and whimpered.

Something moved on the other side of the room. Rory spun to face it.

A small, darkly ornate box sat, its lid tipped back on its hinges, on the only table in the room. Shadow and darkness boiled out if it and formed an indistinct, black shape, too large to have fit in the box. The dark mass trailed ribbons of mist along the floor as it advanced. Underneath it, the wood rotted and shriveled.

You shall not interfere! the thing roared. Its voice seemed to bypass Rory’s ears and go straight to his mind. He clutched at his head as it screeched with the sound of metal on slate and boomed with the deep intensity of distant thunder.

The scrawny man grabbed Rory from behind and pinned his arms behind his back. The man’s grip was tight, belied by his thin arms. Rory struggled for a moment, and then the shadow figure pointed a finger at him.

The servant drew away. Pain and fire raced through Rory’s veins. His muscles seemed to all clench at once, and he ground his teeth, unable to scream, unable to get away from the pain. He slid to his knees, his back arched, his hands balled into fists, fingernails cutting into his palms.

The shadow raised its hand. The pain disappeared as quickly as it had come. Rory drew back, and the shadow came after. He scrambled now, and tripped over one of Bridgette’s outstretched legs. He fell backward, and the shadow bent over him, exuding a sense of satisfaction. It reached for him--it was going to kill him. Rory threw up his hands to fend it away.

The shadow recoiled. Rory hadn’t realized he’d slipped the ring onto his finger, but there it was on his left hand, blazing blue and purple in the darkness. The shadow fixed its attention on it. Its fear was palpable.

Rory got to his feet. The shadow drew away from him. He held out the fist with the ring on it. The shadow swayed from side to side like an uncertain snake.

What is it? it wailed. I fear it, yet know not what it is!

Rory lunged. The shadow threw its hands up, and he slammed into an invisible wall. He leaned into it, both hands holding the ring out in front of himself. He could feel the force of the shadow’s will feeding the barrier. Inch by inch, he the wall gave way before him. With a yell, he shoved against it once more and broke free. The shadow huddled in a corner--it had nowhere to run. Rory touched it with the ring.

A high, eldritch wail filled the room as the shadow shrank to a point in front of Rory. There was an instant of silence, and then a rush of air as it exploded in a blast of white flame. Rory and the shadow’s servant were thrown to opposite ends of the room. Rory sat up, rubbing his head. The other man lay slumped against the wall.

There was a clatter on the stairs, and Darren burst through the door. His gaze darted from Rory and the ring to the burn mark on the wood floor, to Bridgette, and to the man in the corner of the room, who moaned and stirred.

Darren crossed the room and touched the man, who went limp again. Then he knelt next to Bridgette and touched her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open.

“What--?” she began.

“You’re okay. Your husband caught the killer,” Darren said. He helped Bridgette sit up. Coming to himself, Rory scrambled across the floor and knelt beside her. Taking her warm hand in his, he thanked the Gods she was okay.

“How did you do it?” Darren asked. A slight frown creased his forehead. “I’ve been chasing that thing for years, but I’ve never even managed to find its hiding place.”

“It was this.” Rory pulled the ring off his finger and gave it to him. Darren’s forehead smoothed as he turned it over in his fingers and watched the play of light on the stone.

“No wonder. That’s a Shadow Opal,” Darren said, handing it back. “Very rare, and very powerful. They were crafted as protection.” He cast a glance at the charred spot of floor.

“What was that thing?” Rory asked.

Darren ran his fingers through his hair. “Some form of ancient spirit gone sour. One can never tell where they came from originally.”

Rory shook his head, not even pretending to understand. “How did you find us?”

Darren barked out a laugh. “It could have seen the magic you both were spewing from across the city, let alone from where I was across the district.”

Rory helped Bridgette to her feet while Darren went over to scuff the burn mark with the toe of his boot.

“What happened to it? Can it come back?” Bridgette asked. Her voice shook a little, but she seemed otherwise fine.

Darren shook his head. “It’s blasted for good. And we’ve also got its mortal servant to throw in the gaol, all thanks to your husband. Oh, that reminds me.” Darren reached into his cloak and pulled out a large pouch. It clinked with the unmistakable sound of money. He handed it to Rory. “There was a bounty posted,” Darren said. “That’s yours.”

Rory looked inside, and his mouth fell open in shock. It was gold--all of it. More money than he’d ever seen in his life, or imagined was even possible for him to see. He passed the sack to Bridgette, who gasped as she investigated the contents. She clutched the pouch to her chest, her eyes brimming.

“Thank you,” she said.

Rory looked down at the ring lying in the palm of his hand and turned to Bridgette. “I meant to give this to you before. Here it is now.”

Bridgette slipped it onto her finger. The opal blazed with light, and then grew quiet, looking normal against Bridgette’s tanned skin.  The End  🦄

It was exciting, romantic and had s surprisingly happy ending.  I liked it too.

I like the ending of this one