Midnight Labyrinth

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Doesn’t matter if you do or not,” Ben said. “I’m not telling you.”

  “Plausible deniability?”

  He nodded. “There shouldn’t be any trail that could lead anyone to you. If anyone suspected me—which I don’t think they will—they’d think I was retrieving it for one of my private clients, not for my…” Ben looked down with a raised eyebrow.

  Emilie smiled. “For your… girlfriend? Maybe?”

  He nodded, unable to stop the huge grin. “Exactly. There’s nothing that would lead them here. As far as you are concerned, you are the only owners of Midnight Labyrinth. The insurance papers I mocked up show a record of ownership as far back as the 1950s, which was around the time your great-uncle’s work was gaining value in the European market. So it would make sense your grandparents started including it on the insurance at that time.”

  “Good.” Emilie rested her head against his chest. “And you’re safe?”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “And Gavin and Chloe? Tenzin?”

  “Emilie.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her. “I told you: don’t worry about me. Stay with your grandmother tonight. Enjoy the painting. For the first time in seventy years, it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.”

  He drove home a few hours later, leaving Emilie with her grandmother to share memories and talk about their family. They had no desire to sell the painting, so as far as they were concerned, the insurance paperwork was incidental. But it was important to Ben. Not only had he created a trail of ownership for them, he’d done it in a way that vampires would never be able to detect. Only a very few of them were computer literate. Though they depended on computers and automated systems like everyone else in the modern world, most had no idea how that complicated electronic infrastructure worked.

  He arrived home exhausted and fell promptly into his own bed, barely sparing a wave for Tenzin and Chloe, who were practicing in the sparring area.

  Ben dreamt of running. It was nighttime, and he could feel the gravel beneath his feet as he dodged scaffolding and ducked into tunnels. He was running through a stone labyrinth covered in vines. The vines grew thicker and shot out to slice his face. His feet began to drag in the mud.

  He could see the way out in the distance, but the narrow light grew smaller as he ran toward it. Hands reached from the ground to trip him. Something with claws landed on his back. He heard swooping sounds overhead and cackling from devilish throats. Hissing whispers echoed down dark corridors.

  He ran past them, turning each time a hedge rose to block his way, but a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him the maze wasn’t pushing him out but closing him in.

  The lanes grew narrower.

  He tripped and fell. Tasted blood in his mouth.

  The laughter was higher. Sharper.

  Claws dug into his scalp, drawing his head back, exposing his throat—

  Ben woke in a cold sweat to the incessant ringing of his phone. He reached for it.

  “Hello?”

  “Was it you?”

  He blinked and tried to clear the nightmare from his mind. “Who—?”

  “Don’t fucking play with me, Benjamin!” Novia O’Brien’s voice was ice-cold. “You were the one asking about DePaul’s.”

  “Novia?” He cleared his throat. “What are you talking about? Did something happen to DePaul’s?” His waking confusion must have added to his denial, because he could hear her pause.

  “Nothing happened to DePaul’s.”

  “Okay.” He sniffed and rubbed his eyes. “That’s good. They seemed like nice guys. What’s going on?”

  “You haven’t heard anything?”

  “What would I hear?” he asked. “I was sleeping. Spent the day with my girl and her grandma. So what’s going on?”

  She went silent, like she was listening to someone in the background.

  “Novia?”

  “I need to go.”

  She hung up, leaving Ben rubbing his eyes and wondering what move to make. How much did Novia know? Had it been a mistake to use DePaul’s? Should he call Gavin and Chloe? That was probably the worst thing he could do. Offer to help?

  Possibly.

  He sat up in bed, debated, then yelled, “Tenzin!”

  A moment later, she walked in. “You called me, so I didn’t knock. I’m assuming you don’t care that you’re shirtless.”

  “Novia O’Brien just called me. Asked me if I had anything to do with it.”

  Tenzin’s eyebrows went up and she sat on the end of his bed. “Anything to do with what?”

  “Which is exactly what I told her.” He crossed his arms over his chest. He needed coffee. His brain was still in a fog. “She narrowed in on the DePaul’s connection.”

  “Because you asked about them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t make too much of it,” Tenzin said. “Every vampire in the city uses them for sensitive deliveries. All the DePaul’s connection tells her is that it’s another vampire, and she knew that already.”

  “Someone at the house could identify me. My disguise was minimal.”

  “Ben, we talked about this. Humans do not have good visual memory. The people at the house were noticing your body odor, your accent, the tattoo, and your mannerisms. They will not connect the well-groomed Benjamin Vecchio with the rude deliveryman. You avoided the cameras I showed you?”

  He nodded. “Used the hat when I couldn’t dodge them.”

  “As did I. So…” Tenzin shrugged. “They can question, but I don’t see them pushing too hard. Cormac won’t want to piss Giovanni off. And if this vampire has any sort of reputation, it’s most likely known she deals in stolen art. She’s no innocent. A certain margin of loss is expected in the game.”

  Ben nodded, but he still felt uneasy. He didn’t like that Novia had called him nearly as soon as she’d woken for the evening. That meant that she had a gut instinct about him, and he didn’t want her exploring it too much.

  He took a deep breath. “Did you look at it?”

  “The painting?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was beautiful. It’s no wonder his work is trending right now.”

  “And the woman?”

  Tenzin smiled. “She’s definitely a vampire.”

  “That’s what I thought too. It could just be fantasy.”

  “No.” Tenzin shook her head soundly. “You recognized the expression, didn’t you?”

  He did. Bloodlust. Vampires in the throes of bloodlust had a certain blank expression behind their eyes. That’s what he’d recognized in Midnight Labyrinth. It was what most of his nightmares were about.

  “Do you think I should I call Gavin and Chloe?” he asked.

  “Were you planning on calling Gavin and Chloe?”

  “No. I think they’re both working tonight.”

  “Then leave it. Chloe was here during the day—if anyone cares to look—and she went back to Gavin’s in the early afternoon. It’s her normal routine as far as any of the O’Briens know. Nothing is out of the ordinary.”

  “Okay.” Ben nodded. “Got it.”

  There was a long pause, and Ben realized it was the first time he and Tenzin had been really alone since the morning of the gala when he’d made his awkward, drunken confession. He hated feeling like anything hung between them.

  “So,” he started, “we’re pretending the thing that happened the other night didn’t happen, right?”

  Tenzin looked genuinely confused. “What thing?”

  She’d probably discounted it five minutes after she left while he’d been stewing on it for days.

  “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

  “Okay.” She rose. “Do you want food? I’ll make food. I want noodles.” She walked out the door, leaving Ben in bed. He glanced at his phone, but it was past ten o’clock. Too late to call Emilie, but not too late to text.

  Hope you had a nice day, he texted. Miss you b
eing here. Come over tomorrow?

  She texted back a few minutes later. Probably, but behind at work. Maybe late?

  Sure.

  Good night. I’m turning in early. Grandmother is still glowing.

  Ben smiled. Tell her I said hi.

  I will.

  He flipped back the covers and pulled on the pair of well-worn jeans he’d left on the floor that afternoon. Then he slipped his phone in his pocket and walked upstairs, wondering what Novia O’Brien was up to at that moment.

  Chloe was polishing glasses and watching Gavin as he conversed with Cormac O’Brien and his daughter with the bright red curls who only looked about five years younger than he did. She was having a hard time getting used to that part. Vampire families were not bound by age. Sometimes sires looked older than their “children,” but just as often they looked younger. It was… interesting.

  Gavin was casual, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the high bar top as the other vampires spoke to him. By their posture and expression, she was guessing they were asking about the theft.

  Gavin wandered back to the bar a few minutes later while Chloe watched Cormac and his daughter leave through the front door.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he said.

  “Good.” She watched the door swing closed. “Do you think I should dye my hair a fun color?”

  He almost looked offended. “What?”

  “I love Novia’s hair. It’s so cool.”

  Gavin grimaced. “Bloody nonsense.”

  “I think mine is too wiry anyway. Too fine.” She picked up another glass. “She has the right texture to dye it. Mine would probably get damaged.”

  “The right texture?” Gavin reached over, put his hand on the back of her neck to play with the tight curls at her nape. “I doona know a thing about women’s hair, but yours is perfect.” He dropped his hand. “It’s your hair, so do what you want with it, but if you’re welcoming opinions, then I vote you keep it as it is.”

  He leaned over, kissed her temple, then walked down the hall to his office.

  It was a very Gavin gesture. Flirtatious, but just so much. He never let Chloe forget that he was very, very male and very, very attracted to her. But since she’d been staying at his house, he was oddly reserved about making any further moves. She’d expected him to steal kisses in the hallway or try to push her boundaries.

  He didn’t. So why did Chloe still feel pursued?

  She finished filling an order for a group of day people, then walked back to Gavin’s office. She still wanted to find out what Cormac and his daughter wanted. She tapped on the door and waited.

  “Come.”

  Poking her head in, she saw he had an old-fashioned ledger out on his desk. “You know, they have software applications for that now. You could use Cara.”

  “Like I want to bloody recite every single figure to do with running this damn bar,” he muttered. “No thank you. I’m fast with this method, and I don’t have to worry about little shits like Ben hacking into my business.”

  Chloe smiled and closed the door behind her. “Speaking of Ben…”

  He raised an eyebrow and said, “Very quiet, Chloe.”

  “Was their visit…?”

  “Cormac and Novia were visiting in order to ascertain if I had any information that might lead to the recovery of a certain work of art that was taken from one of their guest houses last night.”

  “Oh?” Chloe sat across from him. “What was it?”

  “They seemed reluctant to say.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Apparently it was located in the room where we were”—he let the smile spread on his face—“enjoying ourselves the other night.”

  “Do you have to make it sound so illicit? We were kissing, Gavin. Kissing. That was all.”

  “I think you greatly underestimate how delightful that interlude was.”

  No she didn’t. She had dreams about that kiss.

  “So are we… suspects?”

  His expression was angelic. “How could we be? We were here all last night, which was apparently when the sordid theft took place.”

  She mouthed, Sordid?

  “Very sordid,” he whispered. “Like our kiss.”

  “You have a one-track mind.”

  22

  Ben spent the rest of the evening being very boring. He called his aunt and uncle. He organized his records. He read a new book on Persian antiquities a collector had recommended. He went to bed.

  He woke the next morning and tried to call Emilie before he went to go running with Zoots, but it went to voice mail. She’d probably already left for work. He left a message, then walked to the subway. After his run, he needed to go up to Hudson Heights. He’d found another insurance paper he’d forgotten to put in the portfolio. Emilie might be at work, but her grandparents were retired. He’d drop it off with her before he forgot.

  Running and climbing with Zoots proved to be the perfect cure for the dark and twisted dream he’d woken from. The gravel crunched beneath his feet. He fell twice but managed to climb the new wall on his third attempt—without cheating—prompting Zoots to applaud when he reached the top. He was dripping sweat as he walked to the subway, but he didn’t want to head home when he was already halfway to Emilie’s. Ben grabbed the towel from his backpack and caught the northbound train.

  The ride was long and boring, but at least the train was on time. Ben got off at the 190th Street Station and made his way down the tree-lined streets. The summer heat was baking the pavement, and he was grateful for the shade.

  He buzzed the apartment when he reached the building on Fort Washington Avenue, but no one answered. A resident opened the door right after and Ben grabbed it. He walked up to the second floor and knocked at 202.

  No answer.

  Ben frowned. He tried calling Emilie again, but it still went straight to voice mail. Should he leave the insurance paperwork under the door? “Hey, Emilie,” he said after the beep, “I’m at your place and no one’s home. Do you want me to…” He heard a door open next door. “Call me back when you get this.” He hung up the phone and walked toward the older woman who was struggling with a trash bag. “Hey there.” He reached for the bag. “Let me help you with this.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She adjusted her large glasses. “It’s so nice to have young people around. Everyone in this building is old like me.” She smiled broadly. “But we’re spry. Are you the new renter? I’m Mrs. Clark. It’ll be nice to have someone young. Not that I’m going to use you for labor. I have a grandson for that—good boy, he lives in Harlem—but every now and then…”

  “New renter?” Ben smiled and walked to the shoot. “I think you’re thinking of someone else. I’m visiting my girlfriend. You know, the family next door to you. The Vandines. I’m dating Emilie.”

  The old woman squinted behind her glasses. “The Vandines?”

  “Yes.” He raised his voice. “I’m dating—”

  “I’m not hard of hearing, young man.” Mrs. Clark tapped her ear. “I have my batteries in. But Mrs. Vandine passed away two years ago. What are you talking about?”

  Ben felt a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. “What?”

  “Two years ago?” She cocked her head. “Maybe it’s been three. I do lose track of time.”

  “No, I saw her yesterday. You must be thinking of…” Who? Emilie’s great-grandmother was dead. The old woman couldn’t be thinking about her.

  “I know who the Vandines are, young man. I’ve lived here for fifty years.”

  Ben looked around the hall, checked the door numbers. His heart began to race. “I’m dating their granddaughter, Emilie.”

  “Who?”

  “Emilie.” He reached into his backpack and removed the lockpicks he kept in the side pocket. “Emilie Mandel,” he said to himself. “She’s Emilie Mandel.”

  Mrs. Clark shook her head slowly. “I don’t think the Vandines had a granddaughter. A grandson, yes. He’s the one who ta
kes care of the place.”

  Ben didn’t wait for another sentence. He pulled out his lockpicks and went to work on the door to the apartment.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just… I’m worried something is wrong,” he lied. “With my girlfriend’s grandmother. She’s not answering the door.” The lock clicked open and the door swung in.

  Ben walked into the living room and stopped in his tracks.

  The painting over the mantel was gone, though all the furniture remained as it had been. Ben walked through the living area and into the kitchen. It was scrubbed clean, though it had a homey array of decorations and appliances on the worn counters. He walked back to the hallway and into the first bedroom on the right, the one where Emilie had shown him the trunk with so many clippings featuring Emil Samson’s work. Posters and postcards. Yellowed pages from newspapers and old pictures.

  The bedroom was stripped clean.

  The trunk sat at the foot of the bed, but when he threw it open, he was staring at the worn, curling paper lining the bottom.

  No pictures.

  No clippings.

  Nothing.

  Mrs. Clark had followed Ben into the apartment. She spoke from the doorway. “Their son rents it out to people from the internet. It’s a beautiful place, isn’t it? He left all their furniture here. His mother’s china and everything! I don’t know how he can sleep at night with strangers eating off his mother’s china, but I’m more traditional, I think.”

  Ben stared at the empty trunk. Anger and inevitability warred in his head. “They’re gone.”

  “I think they left last night. Were you interested in renting it?” She turned to leave. “I can get you the number if you—”

  “Wait.” The cold lump that had formed in his stomach spread like black ice through his veins. “The people who were here weren’t the Vandines?”

  “Are you feeling all right?” She frowned at him. “Didn’t I tell you Mrs. Vandine passed two years ago?”

  He had to be sure. “And they didn’t have a granddaughter?”

  The old woman shook her head, but all Ben could see was the tearful girl on the museum bench, fighting back tears in front of her dead uncle’s paintings.