A Vampire's Dominion

by Vanessa Fewings

  “What was Orpheus planning on doing with this place?” Alex asked.

  “Needed extra room for these,” I said, baffled as much as he was.

  “So he never intended on this being open to the public?”

  I cringed at the audacity of anyone keeping these huge sculptures for themselves and worse than that, the fact that all the pieces were all so ostentatious.

  “What’s wrong?” Alex asked softly.

  “Let’s open this room too,” I said. “Sell everything.”

  “Someone’s come to their senses.” He pointed to the six foot Buddha head. “If someone pays thousands for that, doesn’t it contradict what it’s meant to represent?”

  “Since when were you so philosophical?”

  “I mean if someone gets crushed beneath it while moving the thing . . .”

  “You have a morbid imagination.”

  “And yours spends most of its time thinking of her,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Ingrid.”

  I turned to see Sebastian heading toward us, thankful for his timing.

  Alex kept his focus on me. “Can I have this one?”

  “Where would you put it?” I asked.

  Alex slid off and landed lightly. “The foyer.”

  “How about . . . no,” I said.

  “This place would be great to introduce you both back into society,” Sebastian said. “Artists are known for being eccentric.” He coughed. “Not that I’m calling either of you . . .”

  “Eccentric?” Alex dropped his gaze.

  “Different.” Sebastian glanced at his shoes, suddenly finding them interesting.

  “We’re not planning on this place staying open,” I said. “Just need a convincing front.”

  Alex headed toward the door and threw a smile our way. “I’ll check on the hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Already did,” Sebastian said. “Champagne’s on ice.”

  “Looks like we’re ready,” I said.

  Sebastian watched Alex leave. “He hates me doesn’t he?”

  “That was a smile,” I said, amused.

  Sebastian seemed apprehensive. “Then what’s with him leaving the room every time I enter it?”

  “I’m very impressed with what you’ve done with the place.”

  “Are you changing the subject?”

  “You’ve done an outstanding job.” I strolled over to him. “Everything looks authentic.” I took in the Buddha, his calm expression exuding a serene presence.

  Sebastian studied the Asian Master. “Quite something.”

  I motioned to Buddha’s calm expression. “In Buddhism Dukkha is the first of the Four Noble Truths.”

  Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest. “All human experience is transient and desire brings suffering.”

  “Its philosophical meaning is more similar to disquietude.”

  Sebastian studied me. “You think I’m ready to dance again, is that it?”

  “Only then will that voice within you be stilled, Seb.”

  “I’m not ready to leave here just yet.”

  “You’ll always be welcome.”

  He chewed on his lip. “How come you’re so damn calm despite everything?”

  “I’m surrendering to the presence of the moment.”

  This once internal warring seemingly having dissipated.

  “After all,” I sighed. “There is only now.”

  “Looks like we’re keeping the Buddha head then.” He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I came to terms with the idea I’d never dance again.”

  “Alex is in love with you,” I said flatly.

  “He knows I’m straight though, right?” Sebastian asked.

  “Shall we open up?”

  He hesitated, taken aback by the suggestion.

  “The gallery.”

  “Oh . . .” He blushed. “Yes.” He looked thoughtful. “Did Alex tell you that?”

  “Didn’t need to.” I studied the Buddha again, envious of his timeless tranquility. “Champagne?”

  “I need a minute.”

  I gestured my understanding and headed toward the door and though I wanted to glance back, I didn’t.

  The front gallery was cozier, despite the high ceiling and glass- fronted window that showed off the artwork and provided a modern feel. Red walls were complimented by the softest lighting, designed to eliminate shadows and best present each piece. I marveled at the variety, old masters and modern art complimenting each other in ways I would never have imagined.

  Marcus stood across the room seemingly fixated on the 1745 oil painting by Francois Boucher, Brown Odalisque. The one that had once covered the safe back in Belshazzar’s office.

  Sharing Marcus’s admiration, I took in the young half-naked girl in the portrait, her soul’s yearning, her tender face, and pondered on her life as she carried me back with her all the way to the seventeen hundreds.

  “How’s Rachel?” I asked Marcus, breaking the silence.

  “She’s discovered video games,” he said.

  “God help us all.”

  “Still, it’s keeping her entertained.” He motioned to the painting.

  “You’re concerned this will end up in a private collection?”

  “She’s one of your favorites.”

  I gave a shrug. “Used to be.”

  “Mark her as sold. No one will know.” Marcus surveyed the gallery. “I remember you buying this place.”

  Our first guests, three well-dressed women, had just entered, and were heading straight for the black-tied waiter holding a tray laden with Champagne flutes.

  Marcus went to touch my shoulder and then drew back. “I miss looking into those hazel eyes of yours.”

  I gave his arm a squeeze.

  Sebastian joined us and stared up at the Brown Odalisque. “Bit saucy, isn’t she?”

  “Art is about opening your mind,” I said with a smile.

  “Okay then.” Sebastian turned his back on the painting. “Alex is keeping watch outside.”

  “We’re right on time,” Marcus confirmed.

  “This place should fill up soon,” Sebastian said. “I went to the pub opposite and discreetly mentioned free booze to the punters.” He studied Marcus as though still uncertain of him. “Jeremy Montague has his VIP invitation. He was my custodian.” Sebastian turned to me. “I’m no longer affiliated with them, Marcus knows that right?”

  “He knows,” I said. “You needn’t worry.”

  “Sebastian, when Montague arrives you feel confident to handle him?” Marcus asked.

  “I plan to use the fact we’ve met once before to gain his trust,” said Sebastian.

  “Hopefully he’ll see something here he likes,” Marcus said.

  Sebastian relaxed a little. “Who wouldn’t be intrigued with a gallery offering an undiscovered Gainsborough or the like?”

  “Who is that staring at us?” Marcus asked, his frown deepening.

  I turned to see two men carrying one of our larger portraits, supporting each side. When they finally passed by, my view to the other side was unobstructed.

  James Lamont was staring right back at me.

  Quickly I checked if Ingrid was with him and if it was possible to be relieved and disappointed at the same time, I was that man. With no other choice, I made my way through the crowd toward him.

  “Well this is an unexpected pleasure.” I wondered if it came out wrong.

  Accompanying James was a young blonde woman wearing frosted pink lipstick, overdressed in a cream tweed suit and a little too much jewelry.

  She shook my proffered hand and with an upper class accent introduced herself. “Lola.”

  “William,” I said. “Mother a fan of the Kinks?”

  She giggled and reached for a Champagne flute offered from a tray by a passing waiter.

  “I’ve advised her to use her middle name for business,” James said.

  “You’re also an attorney?” I asked, sensing the answer befor
e she gave it.

  “Yes,” she said and took a sip of Champagne.

  “I have a friend here who studied law. I’ll have to introduce you.” I saw Sebastian deep in conversation with Marcus and my attention fell back on James. “Where’s the inspector tonight?” I flashed Lola another smile.

  “Working, I imagine.” James gave an uncomfortable nod. “William’s an art dealer,” he told her.

  Lola replaced her glass with a fresh drink from another, younger waiter.

  “We were in the neighborhood,” James said. “Thought we’d check out the place.”

  “Planning on adding to your collection?” I asked, discerning just what James’s relationship to Lola was exactly.

  “How’d you hear about this place?” asked James.

  “Well—”

  “You know . . .” Lola viewed the small Virago hanging just in front of her. “The way I look at art is, if I can do something like that, why pay thousands?”

  “You paint?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I gave a polite smile but suspected it was more of a grimace. “There’s several other Virago pieces you might like.” I gestured to my left. “And over there we have a Trousseau. See how he captures light on the canvas?”

  Lola took another sip. “It’s not exactly the Tate, is it?”

  “That’s because Leiden is a private gallery,” I said.

  “And the Tate doesn’t have a Trousseau!” Marcus appeared out of nowhere.

  Lola seemed captivated with him and was subtly drinking in his shocking titian hair.

  “This is Marcus,” I said. “Marcus, may I introduce James and Lola.”

  “We have sculptures in the back.” Marcus glanced my way for permission. “They’re not on display to the public yet.” He bestowed a spark of intrigue. “Fancy a peek?”

  “Are we allowed?” Lola asked.

  “This is William’s gallery,” Marcus said. “So yes.”

  “Oh God I’m sorry,” Lola said.

  “No offense taken.” I gestured to the waiter to top off her drink.

  Lola held out her glass, her cheeks blushing. James squinted at Marcus as though checking him out.

  “Has the inspector settled in yet?” I asked, knowing how James would react.

  He turned to Lola. “Why don’t you go check out the sculptures?”

  Sucking the Champagne off her lips, she headed off with Marcus. I gave a discreet warning he was to behave but Marcus ignored me and reached for her hand, guiding her away.

  My attention was back on James. “Lola and Ingrid don’t know about each other?”

  “Lola’s just a colleague.” James peered over my shoulder.

  When I saw the frosted pink smudge near James’s left ear I suppressed my amusement. “So how long will Ingrid be in London?” I asked.

  “She’s consulting on a case here.” He frowned when Lola disappeared from view. “Who’s that fellow?”

  “Marcus.”

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “Absolutely,” I lied. “So you and Lola?”

  “We’re just colleagues. We had dinner together to discuss a case.” He cleared his throat.

  “I understand.”

  “No really, Lola and I, we just . . . share the same chambers.” Suddenly, he seemed focused on getting the attention of a waiter. “Work-wise of course.”

  “And you and Ingrid?” I immediately regretted asking, not wanting to hear the answer.

  “She seems ready to take things to the next level.”

  I hated him.

  “I never discuss my personal life with Lola,” he said. “So I’d appreciate it if we don’t discuss things in front of her.” James reached for a glass of Chardonnay. “Champagne gives me a headache.”

  Outside the traffic sped by, the hum from the cars disrupting the classical music and staining Bach’s genius with its modern din.

  “Drink, sir?” The voice sounded far off.

  I realized a waiter was offering me wine and declined it.

  James peered into his glass. “Damn good collection you have.”

  “So where’s Ingrid now?” I asked.

  He seemingly realized our conversation was lingering on her. “At the British Museum.”

  My cell phone vibrated and I removed it from my pocket and glanced at the screen, reading a message from Sebastian. “He’s here.”

  “There was some kind of robbery.” James studied me for the longest time.

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, distracted.

  “At the Museum.”

  “I see.”

  “How did you meet Ingrid again?” he asked.

  The string quartet struck up and James turned round to watch the musicians.

  I took advantage of the opportunity to slide away, navigating the crowd and trying to make it to the rear of the gallery before Jeremy Montague entered through the front door.

  Strolling through the vast collection of marble and bronze lifelike sculptures, I heard high-pitched gasps and then turned the corner.

  There in the very center was Lola, her skirt hoisted up around her waist, leaning forward over a reclining naked male, stone statue. The sculpture reminded me of Auguste Rodin’s Thinker, only this flawless model lay on his back upon numerous marble pillows, his arms leisurely by his sides.

  I was astonished at how fast Marcus had seduced her and couldn’t help but wonder at what kind of girl Lola was. Marcus was introducing Lola to an uncommon pleasure, dangling her over both the statue and a lust filled edge, threatening to shove her over at any moment.

  He saw me and grinned.

  I gave an incredulous smile and then gestured that Montague had arrived.

  Marcus splayed out his left hand, indicating he’d only be five more minutes with her and then leaned forward, gently grasping Lola’s blonde curls, nudging her face lower.

  I turned to go but hesitated briefly, admiring the sculpture’s masterfully chiseled face, my attention caught by his heavy-lidded rapture.

  * * * *

  Within twenty minutes Marcus and I were driving with Sebastian, who was at the wheel of the hired blue Mini Cooper. We’d just made a swift left at Great Newport Street.

  Sebastian squeezed on the breaks in time to let several Japanese tourists continue their journey across the street, seemingly oblivious to the fact we’d almost run them over.

  Just ahead, ensconced in the passenger seat of the Hackney carriage was Jeremy Montague, his taxi disappearing round the corner onto Charing Cross Road.

  “I don’t remember mentioning anything about a Mini.” My knees were scrunched up against the front passenger’s dashboard.

  “You wanted fast and nippy,” Sebastian said.

  I grabbed the handrail. “Had a Jag in mind.”

  “Can’t believe you sold Montague the Brown Odalisque,” Marcus said from the backseat.

  Sebastian crinkled his nose. “You never told me it was off limits.”

  He navigated the car onto Bow Street and there we watched Jeremy Montague exit his taxi and head up the steps of the Royal Opera House with the painting tucked under his left arm.

  “What’s that other thing under his arm?” Marcus asked.

  Sebastian peered though the windscreen. “Some kind of material?”

  “Pull up here.” I gestured to the curb.

  Montague quick footed it inside and Marcus and I were out of the Mini and right behind him. We entered the grand foyer with its illustrious white arched windows overlooking the finely polished pinewood floorboards. Rising on either side of us were thin ornate pillars.

  Montague was well ahead of us. He swept a long black cape around his shoulders, still hugging the painting snugly beneath his left arm. With a nod of permission to enter the theatre from a male usher, Montague slipped out of sight.

  Marcus and I followed, though when asked for our tickets we merely had to trance out the young man to make it past him and into the grand amphitheatre.

  Abov
e us spread out an endless dramatic ceiling with opulent colorful circles and on either side were golden lit three-tiered private booths, throwing rich textures of yellow light into the center and illuminating the stalls.

  The stage was set for a performance of Phantom of the Opera. This audience, however, mingled amongst the seats, all of them wearing late eighteen century attire and all of them masked.

  And we’d lost Montague.

  Chapter 18

  BELSHAZZAR’S, THE ONCE THRIVING haunt of London’s elite, was now a shell of its former place, stripped bare of everything and everyone that had made it one of England’s most exclusive clubs.

  For centuries discreet nightwalkers and privileged mortals had mingled here, enjoying the grandest refuge the city had to offer, placing aside their innermost fears and exploring the darkest recesses of their imaginations and crossing over, immersing themselves completely in the underworld.

  Echoes of the past were fast fading.

  Within Orpheus’s private domain in the deepest chambers of the club, I’d rolled up my trouser legs and was sitting on the far edge of the thirty-foot swimming pool, soaking my legs in the crystal blue water. Light reflected off the surface, shimmering along the walls and providing a relaxed aura to the low ceilinged chamber.

  But I found no peace here.

  After losing Montague, I’d spent an entire evening searching for Paradom again, braving another attempt to see him in hope of finding the Stone Masters’ library. But the night had been wasted.

  I sensed Ingrid’s presence, angry with her for defying me, and was in no mood to deal with anyone but myself.

  With no bouncer to prevent her entrance, Ingrid strolled alone down the corridor leading to the main nightclub. The sweeping chandeliers that had lit this dramatic entrance were gone, leaving wires hanging from their sockets, the red carpet that had once guided visitors in now ripped up revealing bare wooden floorboards.

  From the lowest depths of the club, I continued to psychically follow her every move.

  She stepped up her pace and pulled on the handles to open the double doorway into the main club. Once inside she turned around and around trying to process what she was seeing; no tables or chairs and the bar empty.