Chapter One: The Steal

the mysterious thief know as "The Fox Thief" prowls the streets of Paris France in 31st century. Looking for her next target, a painting called "Snow" she finds that there will be obstacles in the way

La Voleur de Renard, otherwise known as, the Fox Thief, stared at the handheld electronic device as she sat on the widow’s peak rooftop in Paris, France. The device in her slim clutches lit a hologram of her target, a description of the object, and how many lives it had taken.

“Snow,” the thief cooed as if the title was a curse. “My friend lost her son to this painting. It’s hard knowing where he is, but not being able to explain the situation.”

 

“As you can see,” a disembodied voice spoke up from her earpiece, even though the voice sounded aged and muffled, there was still the fierce determination. He would not let anything get in the way. “This painting is dangerous. While Nicholas Travers created many pieces of artwork, only this one has any connection to mysticism, only this one can steal a soul. Retrieve it, Mon Voleur de Renard, and return to headquarters. We will purge the evil within and release those who have been lost.”

“Their physical forms? Or Spirits?” the Fox Thief asked with slight trepidation.

“We will not know unless we have that painting. Bon chance.”

The transmission cut out, and Fox stowed the small device in a pouch tethered to her belt. She pulled the black mask over her features, so only her fiercely vivid eyes were seen.

Then, like a feral cat prowling the night for her next meal, she sprang from roof to roof above Rue de Rivoli. She had trained many years how to move like a spirit and think like a Fox. And, she was genetically connected to magic which gave her the edge to move forward and continue does this long path and many years of fighting evil.

 

The Louvre Museum was close, so close, that the dazzling lights were clearly visible in the night sky. Although the buildings had obscured the great glass pyramid, the thief was never lost. New Paris was and will always be her only home.

Swiftly and silently, the Fox slid down the corner of the building using the rusty drainage pipe and sprinted towards the closed gallery.

As it was nearly three in the morning, the streets were dead of any traffic and gawking, pestering pedestrians. The thief was unnoticeable and unnoticed as she crossed the street and approached the large glass doors.

The only form of protected against people like her or common thieves was a heavy chained-metal padlock with a seven numbered combination key.

Ten million possible combinations and the thief only needed one. While any person would be a fool to try every single combination, a thinly veiled smile spread across the Fox’s lips.

“What fools these mortals be.” she quoted the English playwright, Shakespeare. By now he was one thousand five hundred and twenty years old, but that did not change the fact that his stories and plays were still legend, even in this post-apocalyptic world.

With an almost lazy sigh, she pulled off the fingerless glove and grasped the padlock in her hand. At once, the weak security device glowed red as if thrust into the hottest fires. Steam emitted from the metal. It melted like wax, dripping onto the floor and drying to a solid state.

Not being completely adept at using such powerful magic, as she usually used the windows to climb into the museums, the Fox knew her hand would be sore for the next few days and would need to help it recover.

 

With her hand stinging from the second-degree burn, the thief shook off the pain and replaced the glove. With the hot chain hanging limply around one of the faded, gold-plated door handle, she strode into the museum as easy as if the doors were open to the public.

Gazed admirably for a moment at the glorious sight of the Louvre Museum, the thief breathed in to aged, preserving smell of ancient history and took in the stunning glass panels perfectly aligned with each other. Its splendor was gorgeous but there was no time to waste, she was, after all, on a deadline. Nimbly, she ran up large stairway to the first floor and found the gallery that held the paintings from the late 21^st century.

This gallery contained paintings from the countryside of France, to the Eiffel Tower, to seasons in the cities. Within the seasons, Snow by Nicolas Traverse hung proudly on the wall.

Before she could take a step forward however, her path was blocked by a dark figure that sat alone on the bench before the cursed painting.

It was the curator of the Louvre, Cyril De Lille; he stared at the canvas with tearful, unblinking eyes.

The Fox was just about to slink out of the room and wait for a later time, when he spoke - to her. “I lost my wife a few months ago. This painting took her from me... Do you think she is still alive?”

Thinking of her words, she responded carefully, “I can neither confirm, nor deny.” Then after a pause, “You do realize that staring at this painting will steal your soul.”

The thief quickly glanced at her painting of interest.

Snow had been painted with a mix of oil and acrylic on canvas. It was a majestic scene of the wintery North; dark grey trees were covered with blueish white strokes. A great, rough storm blew through with a gentle brush. Dark shadows loomed in the background, all the while, faint, speckles of the Northern Lights were barely visible through the stormy clouds.

As the Fox approached the painting, the snowflakes that speckled across the scene seemed to move as if it was not a painting, but a window. One she could throw open and feel the bitter cold on her skin, the soft frozen water melt in her hands. However, just before the horizon, she noticed three grey figures slowly move, as if they were lost, wandering alone against the howling winds.

The Fox averted her eyes and she silently scolded herself for being spellbound by the tainted canvas. Gaining her bearings, she realized that something had been trying to suck her in, something evil yet intriguing.

“Thankfully,” the curator said, breaking her trance, “The magical properties in these cursed objects only affect humans, because they have souls. I am part Vampire; therefore, my soul was taken long ago. My wife on the other hand was human; a kind, and loving creature.” He wiped his eyes as if trying to rid himself of the tears he shed so long ago.

“Out of all the mystical paintings I have discovered, this is the only one that has actually stolen lives.” The Fox tentatively approached him, ready for any assault.

However, in the supernatural’s weak, saddened state, there was no attempt on her life.

“Has someone you loved ever been taken from you?” Cyril slid to one side on the bench to allow the Fox to sit next to him.

“The only person I ever loved betrayed me in the end, that was three years ago.” Fox sat next to him and stared at the broken man.

“Tell me about him?”

Fox sighed and expressed with a slightly dazed look in her eyes, “It was… coup de foudre.” Although her expression was hidden, a smile crossed her lips as she remembered the passion that ignited between her and her lover.

“Love at first sight?” Cyril nodded then stifled his shaky voice, the slightest curve of his lips revealed the same revelation, “That’s what it felt like with my wife. She was and is the world to me.”

“How did you two meet?” the Fox asked him pleasantly.

“She worked here; she was the head of the preservation department. When I first met her, I found her captivating, vivacious, and zealous about all forms of art. We were staying late to fix a frame. She knew what I was the moment we spoke to each other, and she didn’t mind. Sometimes, she said she loved me even more for it, that I was her ‘tuteur vampirique’. A vampiric guardian. ”

Slowly, he pulled an old Polaroid out of his frayed tweed jacket pocket and passed it to the thief. It was a photo of his wedding day. Under a pure white archway beneath a large willow tree, which provided the perfect shade, was a woman with long dark blonde hair, dazzling sunflower eyes and a glittering smile; she was in a white laced silk gown. Next to her was a tall figure, Cyril, with blackish-blue hair and wolfish yellow-grey eyes; except he looked younger than he did now.

On the back the date said:

 

The Union of

Cyril De Lille & Claire Carre

May 1, 3043

 

“She’s beautiful.” Fox returned the picture, he stowed it as if protecting a secret.

“When you purge the evil in this painting, will my wife be returned? Will I be able to see her again?” he implored sorrowfully as he gazed upon the indigo eyes that stared back.

The thief grasped his cold hands in her own, “Je ne sais pas… I don’t know,” she repeated sadly, “I will do what I can to see that she is returned to you, if not in life, then in spirit.”

“Thank you,” he pulled his hands from hers and clasped them together, shuddering a great, broken sigh. Cyril again stared at the painting, the rim of his eyes were bloodshot; it looked like he had not slept for many years.

Against her will, Fox briefly hugged him as if embracing a brother. It was strange, beside his cold flesh, Fox felt something warm inside him; it felt like a tiny heartbeat.

There was nothing left except to finish the job she was tasked to perform. Squeezing his shoulders, she stood up, approached the painting with averted eyes and lifted it from its perch. 

She elevated the tip of her toe and drew an invisible line on the floor.

Where she marked the streak, a dark gash warped and opened into a void as if it had melted away; it was wide enough for the painting to fit. She slid the painting in the darkness, took a card from her belt and placed it on the wall where the painting recently rested.

“I will have to report the robbery, La Voleur.” Cyril ceased her incantation.

With a twinkle in her eye, she responded, “I look forward to it. And, we will find her; I promise you that, Cyril.” She assured the curator before she herself disappeared in to the dark void.

The warp closed and sealed; it was once again just a regular hard wood floor.

Cyril stared at the place where the painting and the thief disappeared, then to the small business card she left behind.

“Please find her,” the man whispered to the empty air, knowing that she could not hear him. “Please find my wife.”

Author's Note

This is not edited, but I thought the public would like to read this.

Reviews

[KittyKatgirl]

OMG yes I definately liked it. This is amazing and I am already loving it. I love the names and the intro to this book is amazing. You used great imagery as well, reading this I could picture what was happening in my head. HandsJIzzy must be blind to think that your writing wasn't good. This is better then good and I am excited to read the next chapter.

[Hope_Lescase]

Thank you so much, Crystal!!! This totally made my day!!!

[KittyKatgirl]

Aww well I'm glad. I will read more soon. :)

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed the story. You set-up good characters and story line. I like myth and tale. You have my attention. I will come back and read more later.
Coyote

[Hope_Lescase]

Thank yo so much!!! I'm trying to get the story done. haha

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome.