Angel Thief by Jenny Schwartz Page A

and she’d be stuck with listing credits and debits for decades. Worst of all, she’d have failed and a little boy would die.
    So hurry up. Sara conjured a light.
    Vince Ablett’s library was dark, the air cool and dry, perfect for manuscript preservation. She only had to liberate the ancient text Theorem Illuminati and return to the heavenly archives. Before dawn, she’d have the text light-scanned and the original back on Vince’s shelves. No one would ever know. She’d followed the same procedure two weeks ago when she acquired Profundis.
    She rubbed her forehead. Just thinking of Profundis made her head ache. It was a Gnostic text written in a mix of metaphor and riddles designed to hide its secrets. The later medieval alchemists had copied its style, elevating it to art form. Sara preferred plain speaking. It had taken her a week and a half to decipher Profundis, only to discover it had a mere glancing reference to the knowledge she sought. But it did mention Theorem Illuminati as a source.
    And Vincent Ablett, rare book collector and criminal drug lord, owned both. He’d bought the manuscripts at auction, caught up in competitive fever, and never even opened them. It was enough for him to own them and know himself envied.
    “Ignorant pig.”
    Sara took a deep breath, counted to three and released it slowly. Forget her opinion on those who hoarded knowledge—selfish cuttlefish—she needed to be calm.
    Theorem Illuminati ought to be against the southern wall, high on the top shelf. Sara scanned the shelves.
    “Looking for something?”
    The man materialised in a blaze of light. He didn’t share her desire for secrecy, and electric lights flickered on, the fluorescent last of all. Its stark lighting showed the uncompromising lines of the stranger’s male beauty.
    He wore jeans, zipped but unbuttoned, and nothing else. The bones of his face were dominant angles, the nose aquiline, the wide mouth made for sin. Blue eyes were astonishingly bright against the darkness of his gleaming wet hair and skin.
    Desire tightened Sara’s stomach, kicked along by a rush of adrenaline. Her nerves, vibrating with guilt and tension, were unusually responsive to his slow study of her body, which took in every silk-covered curve.
    She tried for dignity. “I am looking—”
    “—at me.”
    “—for a book.” She could see a water droplet rolling down his muscular chest, gathering speed before it vanished into the shadow of unbuttoned jeans. She swallowed and forced her gaze up. “I’m looking for a book.”
    “Hence your return visit to the library.” His agreement was too smooth.
    She looked into mocking blue eyes and blushed. Something shifted in his expression, but she lost it as his words registered. “Y-you know I was here before?”
    “Two weeks ago.”
    Caught. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of failure. Michael, the Guild’s chief enforcer, had sworn that the next time she broke the rules he’d have her on recording duties for decades. He’d been cleaning up a mess of shattered bstemmi etched glass shells (the purple-tentacled aliens used awesomely fragile methods of knowledge storage) when he growled the threat.
    Recording souls’ good and bad actions was a hideous punishment. It was so frustrating to be that close to a person and unable to interfere and nudge them into healthy, happy life choices. You could only stand aside and watch.
    The Archivist Guild was simply playing with her, allowing her rope sufficient to hang herself—and she’d obliged. They didn’t care about the reasons for her actions. Their enforcer would simply haul her in front of Anthea and Michael and she’d be charged with promoting chaos. What did it matter if he were sexy? She’d be on recording duties for decades.
    Still, she was an angel. Hope insisted on its chance.
    “Have you told Michael or Anthea?” She crossed her fingers behind her back. Of course he would have—the Guild’s enforcers had a duty to report