Page 12 of The Thief's Mark

Shoving down the tiniest twinge of guilt, Griff pulled a small pouch out of his coat and tossed it onto the table in front of Nathaniel. Nathaniel leaned in and opened the pouch, dumping its contents onto the table. He frowned as he studied them.

“Playing cards?” He raised an eyebrow at Griff. “I never took you for a gambler.”

“They were left at the scene of a theft last night,” Griff said. “I know I recognize the image on the back, but I can’t place from where.”

Nathaniel’s expression darkened. “It’s Blackjack again, isn’t it?”

“You know I’m not allowed to discuss the details of an ongoing—”

“By the Goddess, Griffin, haven’t you wasted enough time hunting for that vagabond? He’s already stolen your wife from you—don’t let him steal any more.”

“He didn’t…” Griff clenched his jaw, cutting off. What was the point in explaining when he knew it would fall on deaf ears? “Someone has to stop him.”

“But it doesn’t have to be you!”

“Yes. It does.”

Nathaniel stared at him for a long moment before sighing and rubbing his eyes. He suddenly appeared weary. “Is one man really worth all this effort?”

Griff didn’t answer. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure how to explain his near-obsession with catching Blackjack. Part of it might be that it had been the final case that drove him and Amelie to finally end things, but that wasn’t really it, at least not entirely.

Blackjack was his great black wyrm: the elusive hunt that had gotten away. It was the only case he’d ever been giventhat he’d never solved. And while no one held that against him—Blackjack had, after all, confounded everyone else too—that failure continued to eat away at him.

Whatever it took, hewouldsee Blackjack behind bars. And with any luck, these cards might hold the key.

Studying his face, Nathaniel puffed out another sigh, then held out his hand. “Give me your hand.”

Griff did, shifting his chair around the table. It left him uncomfortably close to Nathaniel—close enough that it was impossible to miss the weary set to his shoulders, the extra wrinkles lining his face. Growing up, Nathaniel had always seemed a larger-than-life presence. But now, he just looked old and tired.

Yet for all his advanced age, Nathaniel’s grip remained firm and steady when he clutched Griff’s hand. A golden glow enveloped their linked fingers as Nathaniel called upon his dawnflame.

Unlike Griff, who’d been born with his natural gift to sense auras, Nathaniel had pledged himself to the Sunseekers and given his oaths to earn his magic. Now, he put that magic to good use.

Griff shifted his vision to the playing cards on the table and the crude image of a half-naked woman embossed on their backs. What Nathaniel and other Sunseekers could do wasn’t quite true divination, though it was similar. By focusing his power on Griff’s mind, he could help coax Griff’s latent memories to the surface, using the playing cards as a mental link.

A hazy image began to form in the air above the cards. At first, it was little more than swirling pinpricks of golden light.

“Focus,” Nathaniel murmured. “Remember to relax your thoughts. Don’t fight it.”

“Iamrelaxed,” Griff muttered, his grip on Nathaniel’s hand briefly tightening. Still, he breathed deep and tried to managewhat calm he could considering the dozens of things both minor and major demanding his attention.

Gradually, the pinpricks of light began to expand, sketching out the glowing outline of an image. Griff squinted, studying what it revealed: a scarred table surrounded by chairs. Cards and coins lay scattered across its surface.

So, that was where he’d seen these particular cards before. But where had this game taken place? He’d been in a hundred spots all across the city that might host such tables, from taverns to private homes.

“Broaden the scope,” he said. “I need to see more to tell where this was.”

“You know the drill,” Nathaniel replied. “I’m just supplying the magic. The rest is up to you.”

As unhelpful an answer as ever.

Griff stared at the conjured image while straining to focus his mind on a singular thought:where.

He still couldn’t place the location in his conscious memories. Yet the lights blurred as they resumed spiraling. The image of a table vanished, replaced by a rough sketch of a building’s exterior. Gradually, the lights resolved into a ramshackle front along the edge of a dock.

Griff recognized the place: a tavern called The Last Drop. Shady place, owned and operated by a known associate of the Brotherhood who styled himself Bald Locke. Griff had had the displeasure of crossing paths with him once or twice before in the course of investigations.

He’d have loved to put the Void-eater away for good, but the Brotherhood had hands in far too many pockets to make anything but the most ironclad accusation stick, and Bald Locke knew better than to give Griff that. If he was involved with Blackjack, it would be tricky getting him to talk. Then again,linking the two might be exactly what Griff needed to take him down as well.