Get wrecked, Mr. Stinky Pig, Oliver spat as he threaded himself through the alley, spectacles sliding down the ridge of his nose. He kept his gaze low, eyes flicking to his legs and the ground ahead as if the muscles alone could guide him past every hazard.
A boot slammed against brick behind him. Stop, Goddamn maggot, I will skin you alive, a voice bawled.
Oliver did not look back. He moved like a fish cutting through a current, weaving between crates and leaping off a low rail. His hands found railings and windowsills without losing a beat. When the wall grew taller, he planted his foot and pushed, fingers scrabbling for purchase, and hauled himself up a few breaths at a time until he dropped down beyond reach.
You will rot, the pursuer cursed, but his shouts lost themselves in the tangle of streets.
Oliver's ears picked up a shadowed whisper. Oliver, this way, the voice breathed. He did not need to turn to place it. He angled toward the sound and vanished into a slot between buildings.
He reappeared in a narrow courtyard where Benjamin waited, hood pulled low and breath fogging in the night air. Oliver slung the satchel open and revealed the object inside: a small, grotesque statuette crusted with grime.
Look at this. This is what Mrs. Yubiria asked for, he said, pride threading his voice.
Benjamin peered, face softening into a grin. A goat with horse dung on its head, he said. What kind of art is this?
Rich man art, Oliver replied, and his smile was half apology, half triumph. Rich man art, Benjamin echoed, and for a moment the danger turned into shared mischief.
---
Yubiria Mansion
Benjamin snorted as he stepped down from the carriage. This Colombian lady's house was said to hold gold stashes inside. Should we steal from her? Better yet.
Oliver gave him a sharp look. Nope. Don't even think that, unless you want to get roasted alive. His gaze swept toward the mansion, where guards stood lined along the gates like statues of iron.
The mansion loomed large in the night, its walls gleaming faintly under scattered lamplight. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and dust.
Oliver strode forward, adjusting his coat, and called out to the guard. Hello, mister.
We have a meeting with the lady of the house, perhaps. His voice was calm, almost casual.
The first guard glanced him over with a sneer, his eyes resting on Oliver's worn clothes. I don't think so, rat, he spat.
From within the gates, another guard stepped forward, crossing his arms. Go fool someone else, kid. His voice carried a mix of mockery and warning.
Oliver's lips curled into the barest of smiles. Behind him, Benjamin muttered under his breath, but kept silent as they both lingered at the gate, shadows lengthening under the mansion's cold light.
Both of them stayed calm, but beneath their composed faces anger simmered quietly, like fire just below the surface.
Oliver cleared his throat, keeping his voice even. Mister, there is nothing we could do to trouble hardworking gentlemen like you. Perhaps a gold coin for your morning meal. He reached into his pocket and produced a coin with a deliberate flourish.
A hardworking gentleman cannot live on a bare dinner alone, he added softly, slipping a few silver coins into the palm of the guard. He handed them over with a faint, polite smile.
The guards exchanged a look. For a moment their sternness faltered, replaced by a slip of a grin. One of them spoke, voice low but sharp. I will be keeping an eye on you.
He motioned for them to follow and led them toward the inner garden.
The garden spread before them like a living tapestry. Flowers of every shape and shade bloomed in careful clusters. Gardeners moved among the blooms, tending them with soft murmurs. At the center stood a white gazebo covered in delicate lace, as if prepared for a private tea party.
The guard stopped and looked at them both. Stay here, he said briefly, before slipping back through the gates toward the mansion.
Oliver and Benjamin exchanged a glance. The air in the garden was heavy with fragrance, but it carried an undercurrent of unease. They stepped forward, their footsteps perched on the stone path.
Benjamin's gaze drifted toward the blooms surrounding them. He frowned. Why did you pay him?
Oliver leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. Do you want to get paid or not? Don't tell me you've taken a liking to this weird doll.
From his satchel he drew the wooden goat, its surface crusted with something dark and sticky. He held it out to Benjamin, who took it with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.
Rich people sure are weird, Benjamin muttered under his breath, turning the wooden goat in his hands as if it were a curious puzzle rather than a grotesque commission. The glaze of slime caught the pale light of the lanterns, making the carvings seem oddly alive.
Oliver said nothing at first. He was listening. Somewhere deeper in the mansion there was a faint rattling sound, irregular but deliberate.
Oliver's brow furrowed. Benjamin, there is something inside, he whispered, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the scent of jasmine around them. His eyes scanned the garden again, lingering on the white gazebo, the stone path, and the shadows between the flowerbeds.
Benjamin stopped turning the goat. His fingers stiffened around the small statuette. He followed Oliver's gaze toward the mansion, his voice a tense whisper. What do you mean?
Before Oliver could answer, the sound came again — faint, metallic, as if something inside the walls had shifted, moved. Then, before they could take a step toward the noise, a sudden figure emerged from the gate. The guard was walking toward them with quick, purposeful steps. His face was expressionless, but there was an urgency in the way he moved.
Mrs. Yubiria has called for you two inside, he said without preamble. Make it quick. Do not make her wait.
Oliver and Benjamin exchanged a glance. The guard's tone was not polite. It was an order. Without another word he turned and strode toward the gate, disappearing into the deeper shadows beyond. His boots clattered softly on the stone before the sound was swallowed again by the quiet of the garden.
Benjamin glanced at the mansion, then back at Oliver. That sounded serious.
Oliver nodded slightly, tucking the goat safely into his satchel. He adjusted the strap across his shoulder and moved forward. The garden seemed quieter now, but not peaceful. The flowers seemed sharper somehow, their colors deeper, as if they were watching.
They walked toward the gates in silence. The stone path underfoot was smooth, worn by countless footsteps, and the scent of the blossoms clung to their clothes. Every step felt measured, as if the air itself demanded caution.
The gates swung open before them without sound, and they stepped inside. The hallway beyond was wide and dark, lit by flickering sconces set in carved marble walls. A faint draft carried the sound of hurried footsteps and muffled voices deeper inside the mansion. Somewhere, a clock chimed softly, marking the late hour.
Benjamin glanced sideways at Oliver. Did you hear that rattling too? he asked quietly.
Oliver gave him a short nod. Whatever it is, we will find out soon. But not now. Not before we meet her. He glanced toward the end of the hall where a faint golden light spilled from a large open door. The sound of movement from inside was sharper now, the shuffle of fabric, a low murmur of voices.
They moved toward it, their steps slow but confident. The air inside the mansion was heavier, scented with something sweet and strange. Oliver pulled the satchel closer, feeling the weight of the goat within it. Benjamin's hand brushed the hilt of a small blade hidden beneath his coat.
The moment was fragile. Somewhere in the house, behind walls of gold and marble, something was waiting.......
And they had no idea what it would be.