By Hook or by Wolf

A few careful breaths can mean the difference between dying and flying free.

It can mean the difference between making it and not.

So, I breathe.

In and out.

I let my breaths carry me downstairs and through the giant ballroom. Once upon a time, there were adventures here. Displays full of beautiful artwork are covered with thick, heavy linens. Curious, I stop to peek at one of the displays. It’s shaped like a statue, and when I gingerly lift the edge of the sheet, I see that it’s a gold statue. A wolf stands on its hinders. Two other wolves do the same. Three in total: all beautiful. All gold.

Outside of the law, this type of piece would go for tens of thousands of dollars. In fact, I’m guessing, just by briefly glancing at it, that the item could be pilfered for nearly a hundred grand. That is, if you know the right person to sell it to.

Which I do.

Reluctantly, I put the sheet back in its rightful place. The reality is that I’m not here to steal anything except the gem, and even that is for a very good reason. My client, the buyer, claims that the gem was stolen from her family by hoodlums long ago. She was able to show me a historical record that proves she is the rightful owner of the jewel. I don’t know who was crazy enough to steal it from her in the first place. I don’t know who thought that robbing an old woman was a good idea.

All I know is that it’s my job to make sure stolen items are returned to the people who lost them.

And tonight, that’s the Gem of Malice.

I move swiftly through the rest of the ballroom. This place used to hold galas on a regular basis. Now, it’s just kind of rotting away. It really is a pity. A place like this could be beautiful. More importantly, it could bring in a lot of money. In a place as rundown as this, money is usually a pretty good thing to hope for.

To crave.

When I reach the end of the ballroom, I enter a lobby. I’m basically going through the building backwards because just up ahead of me are the front doors to the building. I didn’t bother coming through them for two reasons.

One: I wasn’t sure if there were traps on the inside. I can see now that there are a couple of tripwires that undoubtedly sound an alarm. If I’m going to get caught, it’s going to be later, and it’s going to be because my luck is terrible. It’s not going to be because I was a huge dork who thought I wouldn’t trip a wire going in the front door.

For heaven’s sake, really.

Two: I didn’t want anyone seeing what I was doing. People watch the front of this building. They don’t look at the back. I was able to sneak in quietly with little trouble at all. Had I tried to come in the front of the building, I would have encountered pedestrians and passers-by who would likely have called the police without a second thought.

My heartrate is still appropriate for the situation. I turn and move, eyeing the different objects in the front of the gallery. There are still so many wonderful items here: statues, paintings, vases.

It’s easy to get caught up on the fact that I’m now standing in the main lobby of the most discussed, written about, and adored gallery the city had ever seen, but I can’t afford to take time to gawk. What I really want to do, suddenly, is roam around and touch every piece of art that is hidden away in this gallery.

Why did the place close, anyway? No one really knows. It doesn’t matter, though. The only thing that does matter is getting the jewel and getting out. Each step brings me closer to the jewel and closer to finishing my mission. Then I can get out of here and go home. I have someone waiting for me, and I’d hate to disappoint them.

“Stay focused,” I whisper to myself, and then I keep moving. My ballet slippers pad quietly across the hardwood floors. This isn’t my first heist. I’m not so amateur that I’d wear normal, regular shoes that could slip and slide and skid.

Nope.

I’m a professional, and that means dressing for the job. There’s that old saying, “Dress for the job you want.” T

onight, I’m doing just that. I’ve got on black ballet slippers, black skin-tight leggings, and a black tank top that clings to my skin. Normally, I’d wear long sleeves, but it’s hot out and besides, being in a tank top means I can move a little easier. It means there’s less of a chance that anyone will catch me because I’ll be moving quickly and sneakily.

I prepared well for this job and now it’s time to find out if all of that prep work will pay off or not.

Let’s hope it does.

Reluctantly, I leave the lobby and head toward a side door. It swings open, revealing a dark space. I flick on my flashlight and see that the opening leads to a narrow staircase that goes down. Did someone say, “creepy basement”? I’m pretty sure that’s where this goes. If my intel is correct, though, then this is where I need to go.

All of the important stuff was locked away when the gallery closed. That includes, but isn’t limited to, the Gem of Malice.

Nobody really knows why this gem is so important or why it holds such a name. I certainly don’t. Researching online led me nowhere. Hell, even visiting local libraries got me nothing at all. The only clue I have is that there’s a local family legend that the gem has something to do with the men in the family finding “the one.”

Well, the legend doesn’t say “the one.”

It says mates.