“Disgusting,” Finn said, snapping down the newspaper he was reading. “Absolutely disgusting. The reporter didn’t even mention me at all. Not one word about me, the giant that I killed, the hostage that I saved.”

It was a week after the heist, and we were sitting on the front porch of Fletcher’s house. Dishes clustered around our feet, covered with the sticky remains of the blackberry cobbler and heaping scoops of vanilla bean ice cream we’d just devoured. I’d made the dessert in honor of all those blackberry briars I’d crawled through at Briartop. I could still taste the scoops of ice cream, which had provided a soft, cool contrast to the cobbler’s warm, sugary berries and golden, buttery crust. I took a swig of my milk, reached for my magic, and added a few more Ice crystals to the glass to chill the liquid some more.

The sticky, humid heat of the day had finally broken, and the critters in the woods were out and about, skittering through the leaves, climbing up the trees, and generally getting a little livelier and more active as the sun set over the ridge. Just like me. I always did my best work in the dark, and tonight was going to be no exception.

“Why are you so upset the reporter didn’t mention you?” I asked. “Fletcher always told us that it was better to blend in with the shadows than to stand out in the crowd.”

“Did you not see how smashing I looked in my tuxedo? I was hoping the museum photographer gave at least one good picture of me to the press. But no.”

He sniffed, but his snit was far from over. “The newspaper has run a photo of practically every single person who was there that night except me. They even had a photo of Jo-Jo sitting on the steps with Eva and Phillip, and she wasn’t even at the gala. Not really. And what do they put on the front page today? Yet another story all about the stolen art and how long it’s going to take to get everything sorted out, cleaned up, repaired, and put back on display. Please. As if people actually care about that sort of thing.”

Finnegan Lane, art lover extraordinaire—or not.

Finn put down his newspaper and rocked back and forth in his chair for a few moments. Brooding. Then he turned his green gaze to the railing.

“And then there is that.” He stabbed his finger at the ebony tube sitting there. “I still can’t believe that you plan to turn Mab’s will over to Bria so she can get it into the right hands and make sure that it’s properly executed. It’s crazy, I tell you. Just flat-out insane. Like you’re doing Mab a fucking favor.”