The Art of Stealing Time a Time Thief Novel

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS

OF KATIE MacALISTER

Sparks Wing

A Novel of the Lite Dragons

"Once once again I was fatigued into the wondrous globe of this author's dragons and hated leaving one time their story was told. I loved this visit and cannot wait for the next book to encounter just what new adventures lie in expect for these dragons."

—Beloved Romances & More

"Fast-paced . . . an entertaining read and a fine addition to MacAlister'south dragon serial."

—Bookshelf Bombshells

"Balanced past a well-organized plot and MacAlister'south trademark humor."

—Publishers Weekly

It's All Greek to Me

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—Fresh Fiction

"A fun and sexy read."

—The Season for Romance

"A wonderful lighthearted romantic romp equally a kicking-barrel American Amazon and a hunky Greek detect love. Filled with sense of humor, fans volition laugh with the zaniness of Harry meets Yacky."

—Midwest Book Review

"Katie MacAlister sizzles with this upbeat and funny summer romance. . . . MacAlister's dialogue is fast-paced and entertaining. . . . Her characters are interesting and her heroes are e'er bonny/intriguing . . . a good, fun, fast summer read."

—BooksWithBenefits

"Fabulous banter between the principal characters. . . . Katie MacAlister's got a breezy, fun writing style that keeps me reading."

—Book Binge

A Tale of Two Vampires

A Nighttime Ones Novel

"A roller coaster of giggles, chortles, and even some guffaws. In other words, it is a lighthearted and fun read."

—The Reading Cafe

Much Ado About Vampires

A Dark Ones Novel

"A humorous accept on the dark and demonic."

—United states of america Today

"Once more this author has done a wonderful job. I was sucked into the world of Night Ones correct from the starting time and was taken on a fantastic ride. This book is total of witty dialogue and great romance, making it i that should non exist missed."

—Fresh Fiction

"An extremely appealing hero. If you lot enjoy a fast-paced paranormal romance laced with witty prose and dialogue, y'all might similar to give Much Ado Nearly Vampires a try."

—azcentral.com

"I cannot get enough of the warmth of Ms. MacAlister's books. They're the paranormal romance equivalent of soul food."

—Errant Dreams Reviews

The Unbearable Lightness of Dragons

A Novel of the Light Dragons

"Had me laughing out loud. . . . This book is total of sense of humour and romance, keeping the reader entertained all the manner through . . . a wondrous story full of magic. . . . I cannot look to see what happens next in the lives of the dragons."

—Fresh Fiction

"Katie MacAlister has always been a favorite of mine and her latest series once more shows me why. . . . If you are a lover of dragons, MacAlister's new serial will definitely proceed you entertained!"

—The Romance Readers Connection

"Magic, mystery, and sense of humor abound in this novel, making it a must read . . . some other stellar book."

—Night Owl Romance

"Entertaining."

—Midwest Book Review

Too BY KATIE MACALISTER

Paranormal Romances

TIME THIEF, A Time Thief Novel

A TALE OF TWO VAMPIRES, A Dark Ones Novel

SPARKS Fly, A Novel of the Lite Dragons

MUCH ADO Near VAMPIRES, A Night Ones Novel

THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF DRAGONS,

A Novel of the Calorie-free Dragons

IN THE Company OF VAMPIRES, A Night Ones Novel

CONFESSIONS OF A VAMPIRE'Southward GIRLFRIEND,

A Dark Ones Novel

LOVE IN THE Time OF DRAGONS,

A Novel of the Calorie-free Dragons

STEAMED, A Steampunk Romance

CROUCHING VAMPIRE, Subconscious FANG, A Night Ones Novel

ZEN AND THE Fine art OF VAMPIRES, A Dark Ones Novel

ME AND MY SHADOW, A Novel of the Silver Dragons

Upwards IN SMOKE, A Novel of the Silverish Dragons

PLAYING WITH Fire, A Novel of the Silver Dragons

HOLY SMOKES, An Aisling Grey, Guardian, Novel

Low-cal MY Burn, An Aisling Grey, Guardian, Novel

Fire ME UP, An Aisling Grey, Guardian, Novel

Yous SLAY ME, An Aisling Grey, Guardian, Novel

THE LAST OF THE Cerise-HOT VAMPIRES

EVEN VAMPIRES Go THE Blues

Contemporary Romances

It'Due south ALL GREEK TO ME

Accident ME DOWN

HARD Day'S KNIGHT

THE CORSET DIARIES

MEN IN KILTS

THE Fine art OF STEALING Time

A TIME THIEF NOVEL

Katie MacAlister

SIGNET

Published past the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (United states of america), 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, The states

Usa | Canada | United kingdom | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | Bharat | South Africa | Red china

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: eighty Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more than data about the Penguin Grouping visit penguin.com.

First published by Signet, an banner of New American Library,

a partition of Penguin Group (USA)

Copyright © Katie MacAlister, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic class without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Buy only authorized editions.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

ISBN 978-one-101-60391-8

PUBLISHER'Southward Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author'due south imagination or are used fictitiously, and whatsoever resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have whatever control over and does not presume whatever responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Contents

Praise

Too past Katie Macalister

Copyright page

Dedication

I

TWO

Iii

Iv

FIVE

SIX

Seven

EIGHT

NINE

10

11

TWELVE

Xiii

Xiv

FIFTEEN

Sixteen

SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY

Writers take inspiration from all sorts of things, and in this case, my heroine'south ii mothers have their origins with Shannon Perry, who works tirelessly to keep me organized, tidy, and happy. This book is defended to Shannon and her two moms, with hopes their lives are as happy every bit their literary inspirations.

One

"Ticket, yes. Passport, correct here. Boarding pass . . . dammit. Where did I put that? I know I printed it

out." I did a petty dance peculiar to people arriving at an airport, the i where you slap various pockets and juggle luggage, magazines, and purses in order to peer into every easily reached receptacle. Finally, I institute the canvass of paper I'd printed earlier leaving my mothers' apartment. "Gotcha! All right, I retrieve I'g set. I just hope the security line isn't too long."

People streamed past me out of the tiled corridor that led to the airport tube station, hauling luggage, children, and parcels of every size every bit they traveled the moving sidewalks, escalators, and plain sometime stairs into the aerodrome proper.

A adult female next to me, pausing to wait for two bickering teenagers behind her, yelled in a flat American accent that she would happily get out them behind in Wales if they didn't get their asses in gear. She caught my heart as I was rearranging my travel documents to be readily bachelor, giving me a grimacing grin. "I swear, I'm never traveling with kids again. Everyone said I was crazy to bring them along with me, but I thought they'd be old enough to appreciate seeing another civilisation."

I glanced back to where the teen girl and male child were arguing over what appeared to exist a carrier bag filled with magazines. "Didn't work out as you planned, eh?"

"Lord, no! And we still have Amsterdam and Deutschland to do. How I'thousand going to survive another week is beyond me." She gave me an appraising expect equally I finished tucking away my magazine, stuffed my purse (denuded of travel documents) into my carry-on bag, and pulled out the handle of the monstrous wheeled suitcase that housed the bulk of my possessions. "You're American, too?"

"Actually, I was born hither in Wales, but I've lived then long in Denver that I pass for American."

"Ah. Here on business?" the woman asked. If she had been British, I'd accept wondered what was up, but many decades of living in the U.S. had made even the most personal of questions seem totally natural when asked by a relative stranger.

"Yous could say that. My mothers live in a small boondocks about the coast. I visit them every six months or so."

"Mothers? Plural?" Her forehead wrinkled for a moment, and so smoothed out apace with an "Oh! Y'all mean your mother is . . . How . . . interesting."

My rima oris tightened. If she was going to exist one of those people who hated on my mothers, I would have a thing or ii to tell her.

She shrugged, turned back to warn the still-arguing teens that they had exactly 3 seconds earlier she would abandon them to the airport staff, and said merely, "Information technology takes all kinds."

"Information technology certainly does. Good luck with your trip," I said politely, and gathering up my things, I moved off before she could say anything more. The experience had left me feeling a chip prickly, which in plough made the inevitable delays at the security lines all that much more than annoying. But a memory of my mothers' teaching nigh tolerance got me through information technology without once wishing I could remember the spell to give people ingrown toenails.

I had just settled down in the waiting area with all the other people who would exist on the flying to Orlando (my connecting flights to Chicago, and then Denver would extend the trip by another seven hours) and pulled out my tablet computer to meet if there was any news in the alchemists' forum, which I frequent, when my cell telephone buzzed in my jacket pocket.

The number displayed on the phone didn't ring a bell. I ignored the call, figuring information technology was merely another solicitation to try some service or buy something that I didn't want, so when the phone buzzed a 2d time, I started to turn it off.

Mom Two, the text said to a higher place the photograph of a face up almost as familiar as my own. I frowned. I'd had somewhat hurried good-byes earlier with both my moms, hurried because of some bizarre notion they had that I was in danger and the sooner I got out of Wales, the safer I'd be.

"Hi. What'south up?" I asked, answering the call. "Y'all can't be missing me already, Mom Two. I left you guys less than . . . what . . . four hours ago?"

"Of course nosotros miss you, Gwen. We e'er miss you when you leave. But that's non what I wanted to say, although I do, in fact, miss you despite having seen yous earlier this afternoon before you went to the airdrome. Your female parent misses y'all too, although just at the moment she'southward a bit busy with Mrs. Vanilla. I just wanted to warn you lot to keep your optics peeled for that besom in a cherry reddish wearing apparel."

"Besom?" I tried to dredge through my mental dictionary. Mom Ii, aka Alice Hill, my female parent's partner for longer than I'd been live, had in one case been a headmistress at some posh girls' school and frequently used words that most people didn't recognize. "A woman? Await, y'all're not still talking about that woman who you lot claimed was chasing me at the compress'southward role yesterday, are y'all? Because I thought nosotros worked that out."

"We didn't work it out. We simply decided that since nosotros lost the besom in the mad nuance from the psychologist's office—which, really, was a complete waste of fourth dimension since Dr. Gently couldn't cure you of that wild notion you have that you died and went to heaven and came back to earth—we decided that we'd just end talking about it, which would placate you. Your mother felt strongly that your concluding 24-hour interval with us should be a happy one. It was a happy one, wasn't it?"

"Very happy," I said, my encephalon a bit of a whirl with the conversation. Mom Ii, when she really got going on a subject, could talk circles around you to the point where you didn't know which of the many conversational tidbits to follow. I decided to become with the nigh obvious one. "And I'm not crazy. I did die. I did wake upwardly to find myself in Anwyn, which incidentally isn't sky. Information technology'due south simply an afterlife, like the ones you Wiccans go to when you dice."

"Zilch is similar Summerland," Mom Two said complacently, then obviously clapped a hand over the bottom of her phone for a few seconds, if the muffled vox was anything to go past. "Non even the Welsh version of the afterlife. Specially since your mother tells me that in that location are all sorts of legends tied up with Anwyn. But we volition discuss that another day. I must dash, Gwen. Your mother sends her love. Mrs. Vanilla would most probable send her regards equally well, but she doesn't speak. We just wished to remind y'all to be on guard. Practise not talk to whatever women with short dark hair and red wool suits! Shun them, Gwen. Shun them with all the power of your shunningness!"

Mom Two was too prone to making up words where they didn't exist. "Who's Mrs. Vanilla?" I asked, a faint sense of unease tingeing my amusement with the chat. I adored both of my mothers, even though they were sometimes scatty when it came to focusing on the here and now, only as a rule, Mom Two was the more reliable when it came to making sense out of defoliation.

"She'southward our student."

"Expect . . . I thought you guys were taking the entire summertime off from classes then that you could focus on renewing your bail to the craft." Wiccans varied widely in their beliefs, simply virtually plant information technology necessary periodically to recharge their spiritual batteries through some communing with nature, study, and bonding with swain Wiccans.

"The Lambfreckle School for Womyn's Magyck is airtight until the Autumnal Equinox," Mom Two said primly.

I winced at the name of their schoolhouse, just as I did every fourth dimension I heard it. "1 of these days J. Yard. Rowling is going to hear about you lot—"

"There is cipher incorrect with the proper name of our school!" Mom Two protested, and then put her hand over the telephone again. "I must go, Gwen. Take a rubber journey, and blessings become with you. Stay abroad from ruby-red-suited women!"

The phone clicked and slowly I lowered it from my ear, wondering why I had a growing sense of unease. Why did they have a student with them if they had airtight the school for the summertime? Why didn't my mother get on the phone to say skilful-cheerio 1 last time? Information technology wasn't like her to at least not yell something while Mom Ii was talking to me. And was some woman really following me, equally they said? If so, why? The moms had never given me an answer to that question. I had a faint idea that perhaps this mysterious woman might exist an endeavour by them to distract me from something that they didn't want me to know.

I started to put my phone abroad, shook my caput at my fancies, and despite

that, typed out a bulletin for my mother. Who is Mrs. Vanilla?

Who, dear? came the answering text.

Mrs. Vanilla. Mom Two says yous accept a pupil with you lot named Mrs. Vanilla.

Yes. She is our pupil. Don't worry. She wanted to come up with us.

"Oh, like that's not going to make me worried every bit hell," I muttered as soon as the text appeared on my telephone'south screen. I idea briefly of calling my mother, simply I had a nasty suspicion she would not respond the phone. She tended to shy away from confrontation if she could help information technology, leaving Mom Two to practise the dirty work.

Where are y'all? Why would I worry near y'all having a student? What is going on?

In that location may be a scrap of a fuss, only don't pay it whatsoever listen, my mother texted back. Fear started to grow in the pit of my stomach. What the hell were they up to at present? Disregard whatever mention of kidnapping. She wanted us to salvage her. It was the just matter nosotros could exercise.

And that pushed me over the edge. I dialed my mother's prison cell number, sure that she wasn't going to answer, and was more than a picayune surprised when her breathless phonation said nearly immediately, "Gwenny, I just told you not to worry, didn't I? And at present here you are worrying. Don't deny it. I can tell you are. Turn right, dear. No, the other right!"

I looked wildly to my right (and left, because long associate with my female parent had taught me that she had difficulty telling directions). "What? Why should I plow right?"

"Not yous, dear. That was for Alice. Oh, my. No, no, dear, don't become onto the chief roads. Don't you lot think that prove on the telly we saw last month?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They accept those spiked things they lay in the road."

Spiked things? What spiked things? What was she—? With a horrible presentiment, I suddenly knew. They were on the run from the police.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked, my vox rising loudly at the end of the judgement, enough that everyone around me stared. I turned in my plastic seat so that I half faced the wall behind me, dipping my caput downwardly and so I could speak sternly, merely more quietly, into my phone. "Mother, are yous, at this moment, running from the constabulary?"

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