by Jane Ederlyn
The sight of her fighting the rogues and challenging him fearlessly had seared his memory like a brand, as had her intoxicating essence. Hunger forgotten, he threw the cartons into a trash receptacle, grabbed his phone, and texted Egon to cancel dinner. He would get a bite later. Right now, he had to get closer.
Chapter VII
Abby glanced at the sky. The breeze hinted of rain, and mugginess tickled her bare arms and neck. Marie loved it, but she would be grateful to escape into the air-conditioning. She handed the invitation to the doorman, and he ushered them inside.
“Mademoiselles.” Jude Prescott, the gallery manager, rushed to them as quickly as her tight skirt allowed. “You finally made it.”
“It is good to see you again, Jude,” Marie said.
Abby greeted her with a silent tip of her chin.
“I’m thrilled the two of you could make it,” the manager said.
Marie surveyed the room, her eyes narrowing on the clusters of people moving from piece to piece, before relaxing and turning to Jude. “Do you have the paintings we discussed?”
“They’re in the back. As soon as they arrived, I thought of you. I know you’ll love them. This way, if you will.” She clapped and sprung toward a partition where a small group gathered.
“Do you think he’s coming?” Abby whispered.
“He is already here.”
“What? Where? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I just did. Turn around, ma chérie.”
“Hi,” John said from behind them.
Abby whirled. “Hi.”
“Good evening, John,” Marie said.
Jude backtracked to collect her straggling patrons. “This way,” she repeated.
“Excuse me, but I have business to attend to. I leave you with Abby,” Marie said.
“Of course,” he said.
Marie nodded and retreated with the gallery manager.
John stared ahead with brows furrowed. Abby followed his line of vision and cringed, disappointment sour in her mouth. Marie glided across the room so gracefully it was as if she barely moved, and next to the human, Jude, it was glaringly non-human. Did he notice? Or maybe he preferred Marie?
“John.” She squeezed his forearm.
He made a slight shaking movement as if to clear his thoughts and turned to her with a beaming smile. “You look radiant.”
She searched his eyes, but he seemed sincere. Maybe his thoughts had been elsewhere, not on Marie at all. Maybe like most people, he dismissed oddities. Or maybe she was putting up barriers. She promised herself she wouldn’t with John. He was a nice guy and there was nothing to worry about. In the spotlight of his smile, she relaxed. “I’m glad you came.”
“My surgery got canceled, so I was able to come earlier.”
“Good.”
“I can’t lie to you. I postponed it and blocked off the afternoon, so I could see you again. A man in terrible pain is probably cursing you at this very moment.”
“Oh no.”
“Don’t worry, he’s well medicated.” He laughed, and his warm brown eyes filled with mischief, the humor creating creases at the corners. She thought he was adorable. She admired the cut of his tux and how it accentuated his lean frame, broad shoulders, and clean-shaven face.
“Who’s the art aficionado?” he asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“Both of us.”
“You are staring, ma chérie,” Marie said, in a muted voice intended for Abby only.
Abby’s eyes widened and her head whipped around to glare at Marie, but she was innocently assessing a wall-sized canvas. Abby’s cheeks flamed. Sometimes she hated their bond. Staring? Had she been staring? When the rush of heat passed, she dared a look up at John. Thankfully, he appeared oblivious. “Shall we?” she asked and led him toward Marie.
“Abigail, what do you think? Isn’t it spectacular?” Jude asked, sighing dramatically. “It’s as if the artist had Marie in mind when he painted it. I just discovered him, and don’t you just love his mix of realism and impressionism? That sun is so realistic in contrast to the garden that is so Giverny,” she babbled on.
Abby didn’t appreciate the pitchy sales technique, comparing this painting to Monet’s garden in France, but she stayed silent. The painting was exceptional and she knew that Marie was affected by the sun’s depiction. She glanced at her, as she stood motionless and unblinking, living the scene if only for a moment. She fervently wished she could buy the sun for her, like she could buy a piece of art. “I like it, Marie. Let’s get it.”
Marie turned her head to look at Abby and blinked. When caught unaware, Marie’s movements were sharp and robotic, despite her elegance. Abby held her breath before taking a furtive look around. Nothing. As usual. John’s presence was making her hypersensitive, but she needed to stop this or she would be the one sticking out.
“Me too,” Marie agreed. “Do you like it, John?”
“It’s big.” He shrugged.
Marie nodded and moved to the next painting, of the same garden beneath a cloudy sky. It was equally splendid, but without the sunlight, it lacked joy.
“Where is she going to put it?” John asked.
“We’ll build a wall if we have to,” Abby said.
John laughed and then stilled as if realizing that Abby wasn’t joking. He snatched two champagne flutes from a passing waiter, handing one to Abby and the other to Marie. “Let’s celebrate your acquisition.”
Marie accepted the glass and winked at Abby. “Thank you. I was thirsty.”
Abby glared, beseeching her to behave. “John, you’re empty-handed. Take mine and I’ll share with Marie. She doesn’t drink alcohol.”
He shook his head. “Keep it. I’ve already had a glass.”
“Have you been waiting long?” Marie asked.
“Not too long.”
The two-story building with its daffodil-yellow awning and floor-to-ceiling picture windows sat on the corner of Meridian, opposite Starbucks.
Odin crossed the street and neared a side window, staying close enough to see the vampire, but far enough so she wouldn’t sense him. The event room was white, walls-floors-ceilings, everything except paintings that hung at equal distances. In the middle of the room, a carousel of onlookers ogled a bronze nude. To him, it looked more like a ship figurehead than a fancy sculpture.
What was she up to interacting with humans? Was she looking for a victim or conducting business? He concentrated on listening. Although he was able to pick up snippets of conversation between crescendos of street noise, he couldn’t isolate her. A baby wailed. The bell of a street merchant tinged. A car horn blasted a mob crossing on a red light. No time like the present. With a sigh, he entered through the gallery’s main door.
The vampire was in the first room on his left. Unfortunately, so was a stocky man with a bow tie and keen eyes.
“I’m sorry, but this room is closed for a private showing today.” He stepped forward, blocking the entrance with his frame.
“I know. I’m late and my date is in there, probably wishing me dead.”
The doorman scrutinized Odin who was scruffy in a pair of jeans, a casual shirt, and a face full of stubble. “You must either have an invitation or your name must be on this list.” He waved the clipboard like it was worth its weight in gold.
Odin looked over the guy’s head at the flimsy glass door. It wouldn’t hold him back, not even in human form, but he didn’t think the vampire would take kindly to the unwanted attention.
“To be honest, I’m not sure if she got around to adding my name to the list. It was last minute.” Odin shrugged and then dramatically let awe into his voice. “She gets more beautiful every time I see her. There she is.” He pointed.
The doorman looked
in the direction indicated. “Do you mean, Ms. d’Orgemont?”
“Yes.” Odin stifled the urge to howl in triumph. He’d been so frustrated, unable to forget her yet not knowing who she was. He’d even called the vampires and they were as forthcoming as usual, giving nothing away.
“Why didn’t you say so?” the doorman said.
“I just got out of work and I didn’t have time to change, but I promised I’d buy her that painting she’s looking at.”
He examined Odin skeptically, but his confrontational stance relaxed. “Anything for Ms. d’Orgemont. We’re all half in love with her.”
“I bet.” Odin gave a parting, “Thanks,” and stepped into the room, not even slightly remorseful for lying.
He sniffed. No other vampires, just humans and moonlight shining through windows and circling Marie like a halo. She was exquisite.
He knew immediately when she sensed him because her body stiffened. “Nice colors,” he said, barely containing a growl. Everyone except Marie looked up. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Ma chérie, you should show John the Britto collection you like.”
The girl blinked in surprise but obediently ushered John away, propelling him quickly toward the door. Odin watched her and their eyes met briefly before she disappeared from view. Who was she and what did she have to do with Marie, who was emanating annoyance in waves? Good thing he didn’t get seasick.
Odin took a step closer and sniffed her hair.
Marie turned and her glare crawled up his body.
“May I help you, sir?” Jude Prescott interceded.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” he said, not looking away from Marie, whose eyes had momentarily flashed neon before settling back into a hazy green that made him think of running through the Everglades at dusk.
“This room is closed today for a black-tie exhibit,” Jude said, her tone dripping with derision. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re discussing a private matter.”
He ignored the gallery manager. “Are you going to buy it?”
“Perhaps,” Marie said.
“Not this one,” he said. “The other one.”
She arched a brow. “You are attentive.”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I like many things. Jude, can you please give us a moment?”
The gallery manager hesitated but agreed. “I’ll be back shortly.”
Marie lowered her voice. “I can smell the sun on your skin and milk on your breath. So werewolves are more like humans than vampires. Interesting.”
“You smell like lavender and it haunts me.”
“How did you get in?”
Her face was quiet and even, revealing nothing of what she was feeling. He sighed. “I pointed to you and the man at the door fell all over himself to let me in.”
“Dressed as you are?”
“I guess you have clout.”
“Do you make it a habit of spying on people?”
“I wasn’t spying,” he said with a chuckle. “I was waiting for my brothers and there you were.”
“Oh yes, the pack.” She scanned the room before meeting his eyes again. “You are alone?”
“Yes. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“We have established that. What—?” She checked herself and finished in a lower voice. “What do you want?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Aren’t you listening? I can’t stop thinking of you. And I know you’ve been thinking about me, too.”
“Please leave now.” Her eyes swept his body from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. “At least this time you are dressed. Good night.”
He rolled his eyes, exasperated.
She started walking away, but he grabbed her hand and raised it to his mouth for a kiss. Werewolves ran hot and she was blessedly cool against his mouth. Turning his face, he rubbed his cheek against her skin in a caress.
“Marie, is everything all right?” Jude asked.
Marie snapped back to attention and yanked her hand out of his grasp.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Marie d’Orgemont.” Odin could kiss that overbearing woman for revealing the vampire’s first name. Maybe the doorman too, for the surname. With Marie’s identity and her scent, he’d be able to find her anywhere. And now she knew that he knew.
“Did you take care of your problems?” Marie asked.
“Problems? Oh yes.”
“That is all I care about. Good night then, Mr. Ulfsson.”
Odin smiled. He liked the way she said his name in that cute little accent of hers.
John approached and extended his hand in introduction. “I’m John.”
Marie’s eyes flashed but returned to normal so quickly, if Odin hadn’t been watching her, he would’ve missed the slip. She was displeased.
“I’m Odin.”
John pressed the girl at his side forward. “And this is Abby. Are you a friend of Marie’s?”
“Marie. Marie d’Orgemont.” Odin rolled the name on his tongue. “Of course I know Marie,” he said with a toothy, high-voltage grin.
Abby glanced at Marie and then back at Odin. “How exactly do you know Marie?”
“Are you an art fan too?” John asked.
“Let’s just say I’m a fan.” He winked at Marie, but her expression was stony. Did vampires have human friends? Or was he interrupting an elaborate feeding scheme?
“What kind of art do you like, Mr. Ulfsson?” Marie asked.
“Landscapes. I love the outdoors.”
Her mouth curved, softening her face. It took Odin’s breath away.
“Jude, the gentleman is interested in the Bonnard. Would you show it to him?”
Surprise flashed across the gallery manager’s face. “Of course.”
They all followed her to the end of the room. Behind the last partition, hung a solitary painting. Soft light fell on it, making the sun portrayed on the canvas come vibrantly alive.
“It’s oil on canvas, circa 1921,” Jude said.
Abby gasped.
“It’s small,” Odin said. “But pretty.”
“You like it then?” Marie asked.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take it,” Odin said, with hopes of impressing Marie with his sensitive side.
“Congratulations, Jude,” Marie said.
“But I’m the one who bought the painting.”
“That you did. An original Pierre Bonnard. Not easy to come by.” Marie handed him her untouched champagne. “You are going to need this.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Ulfsson, will you please follow me to make the necessary arrangements?” Jude asked.
He started trailing after Jude but realized Marie wasn’t behind him. “Aren’t you coming?”
Marie stood hand on her hip and huge grin pasted on her face.
“This is personal, between you and Jude.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he warned.
“We will be around.”
He tried to read her, but she was a blank page. Werewolves were an open book to him. He smelled their emotions, read their body language, heard their thoughts. If they belonged to him, the connection was even deeper. Vampires, on the other hand, were enigmas. Who was this woman? He swallowed a sigh of frustration.
“Mr. Ulfsson?” Jude insisted.
He walked backward, his eyes and forefinger pointed at Marie, until he had no choice but turn around.
Upstairs, Jude shuffled through papers. Finding what she was looking for, she passed Odin the invoice and certificate of authenticity. “The Bonnard is a special piece. You are a lucky man.”
“I think so,” he said.
“I am surprised that Ms. d’Orgemont didn’t buy it, but then again she does have one already. How will you be financing the purchase?”
“How much is it?”
“Three ninety-five, not including gallery fee and delivery.”
“There’s no need to finance. I have the cash with me.”
Jude’s eyes widened.
He reached for his wallet and took out four crisp one hundred dollar bills and counted them in front of her.
Her practiced smile evaporated. “Not hundred, sir. Thousand.”
“What?”
“It’s an original oil painting by Pierre Bonnard, Mr. Ulfsson. He is a renowned and expired French artist,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Of course. An original from a dead guy.” He returned the money to his wallet. “Do you want a wire or a cashier’s check?” When Marie’s face had cracked into that brief, beautiful smirk, he should’ve known he was in trouble. You got me good, he thought and burst into laughter.
Chapter VIII
Egon and Lagmann marched up Lincoln Road, causing both male and female heads to turn in appreciation. Both men stood tall at six feet, five inches with glacial blue eyes and the high cheekbones and square jaw of their Nordic ancestry. But their similarities ended with bone structure. Lagmann had cropped, pale-blond hair. He was meticulously clean-shaven and dressed in pressed khakis and white shirt. Egon, the younger of the two, also wore his hair short, but it was dark and silken in contrast. He always sported razor stubble and was both more athletic and stronger than Lagmann. Dressed in a tight Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt and low-riding jeans, Egon was aware he looked good.
“Where is he?” Lagmann asked.
“He said Starbucks,” Egon said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t have any texts or missed calls. Check your phone.”
Egon felt the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t have it. I must have left it at home.”
