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out there were others like me, and years more to piece together that I’m half Sylph and half Historius.” It’d taken years of research to figure out he’d gotten his invisibility from his Sylph parent, and a bloodhound’s sense for the location of valuable artifacts from his Historious parent. The ability to work spells had come shortly after he’d frozen into his immortality around thirty. But who his parents were, he had no idea.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Doona be.”
    “So you turned out to be a thief,” she said. “You use your powers to steal history.”
    Cold pierced him and he felt a pinch in his chest. Confused, he rubbed over his heart. “You doona like that.”
    “No' too fond of it.”  
    “I only stole from those who could afford it.” He found that he wanted her to think well of him. It felt weird as hell to care what anyone else thought, especially someone from the university.
    “I doona know that I agree with that. You specialized in ancient artifacts, right?”
    “Aye. Their owners were dead. What did they care?” The noise from the couple in the alley picked up, and he tried to focus on Fiona. It wasn’t difficult. She smelled so damn good.
    “Maybe so. But ancient artifacts belong in museums, to the descendants of those who’d made them. To modern people who can learn from them. They’re our past, evidence of where we’ve come from. They shouldn’t be hidden away by wealthy individuals who can afford to buy them on the black market.” Though she whispered, passion rang in her voice. She really believed this stuff. She had a commitment to something bigger than herself.  
    He’d never had that, personally. Hadn’t had the luxury. But he liked that she had it. Liked that she gave him a piece of her mind, too.
    “Sounds lovely on paper,” he said. “But when there’s nothing between a person and the poorhouse, it becomes exceedingly easy to nick something from people who’ve been dead for centuries.”
    “There are other ways to survive.”
    “Aye, for some. For a Mythean orphan on his own who has the mortal workhouse at his back? Why shouldn’t he use his skills to the best of his advantage? No one else is going to care for him.” The words flowed out on a tidal wave of repressed anger. He blinked in shock.
    He’d never shared his past before, not when it was so ugly and unflattering. Though Logan was his only true friend in the world, he hadn’t even shared it with him.  
    “I’m sorry. That’s awful.” Sincerity rang in her voice.
    Heat threatened to creep up his neck, an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation. “Aye. But doona pity me. I turned out all right.”  
    His past wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, damn it. His childhood had been shite—an unwanted orphan—but he’d made the best of it. He sharpened his gaze on the alley and tried to ignore her at his back. But even the rising sounds of the lovers couldn’t drown out Fiona’s voice.
    “I see your point. I sound like an idealist and a prude. Cultivating and preserving our history is a luxury. Survival is a necessity.” Her voice sharpened, and he worried it would alert the mortals. “But I’ll be watching you in there. I’ve got everything on the line here. I’m totally fucked if this goes wrong.”
    Totally fucked. Gods, the way women talked these days.  
    He liked it. He liked her, and the fact that she told him exactly how she felt, that she didn’t back down and gave as good as she got. True, the fact that she didn’t trust him burned. But why should she? She’d been in his prison cell. He wouldn’t trust him either.  
    She’d given him the knife, though. She might not trust him to ignore his thief’s ways, but she did have faith in him not to kill her. It was a very basic thing, but it warmed his chest. Which was evidence of how low he’d fallen—he was pleased the woman he wanted didn’t think he’d kill her.
    “Right, then. No stealing.” Except the book.  
    The moans and