by R. J. Blain
The foyer opened to a large room featuring two staircases sweeping up to the next floor. Statues lined the walls, and my eyes widened. Busts and full-figured women, likely Roman in origin, lined the walls to my left and right. Deeper within the room, the pieces became more modern, right up until the staircase landings, which showcased metal abstract art.
Iron ore littered the floor, forming a mountain at the base of an eruption of steel and other pale metals.
A shudder ran through me. Pure, unrefined iron never failed to chill me to the bone, the scent of it singeing my nose and deadening my senses. My wolf whined. With so much of the metal in close proximity, I couldn’t transform into my wolf even if I wanted to.
Silver hurt worse, but the presence of pure iron sapped me of strength, leaving me shaking as its influence reached across the marble floors and seeped into my skin.
“Vesuvius,” Scully murmured, gesturing to the sculpture at the base of the staircase. “I have always been intrigued by the fall of Pompeii and Herculaneum. The rusting iron represents the fires of the eruption.”
Someone had put a lot of thought into the piece; the red of iron oxidation would streak the ore in time, turning the clean and new piece into true art as it decayed. “Its true beauty will be exposed over the years.”
I appreciated brilliant art. I regretted the iron, its size, and the fact it wouldn’t fit under my skirts, because I wanted to steal the entire sculpture and watch it decay over the years, the decades, and the centuries until the iron bled away to dust.
“You like it?” Surprise in the man’s voice drew my attention back to him.
For the first time since my arrival, my smile made way for a grin. “I appreciate history as well as art, and this is both.”
I wanted to steal it so much my fingers itched. Instead, I spun to face the first of the ancient statues. “Is everything in this room of Roman origin, then?”
“I had no idea you were so interested in the origin of things, Lenore.”
Snorting wasn’t on my allowed list, and neither was snapping my teeth, growling, or punching. I sighed. “I enjoy reading.”
“An appropriate pursuit for a lady.”
“I’m a traditional lady in a modern world,” I murmured, turning my back to him so I could restrain my wolf’s growing desire for bloodshed. Taking my time, I captured pictures of every statue, although I didn’t linger long in front of any of them.
I gave Vesuvius a wide berth. All it would do was burn me.
Chapter Two
I lusted for the authentic Van Gogh painting in the same way its owner lusted for me. Girl in the Woods went from private collection to private collection, and now that it was within my grasp, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
I hated my life.
The painting enthralled me with the same dark spell as the full moon, and its spirit sang to me and my wolf. The gentle strokes, transforming the scene into something both ethereal and real, reminded me—and my wolf—of what we lacked.
Somewhere in the world was a girl in the woods, one who would become our mate, and the painting captured our solitude through the years. Over a decade ago, my wolf and I had written off finding a mate, retreating to a secluded cabin for the winter months until it was safe to emerge in the spring. We roamed the world in search of something more substantial than a wolf’s mating rut.
I sighed, took a picture of the painting, and stepped back, shaking my head to clear it of my regrets. “This is a true jewel of your collection. An authentic Van Gogh. I’m impressed.”
“I have another Van Gogh.”
“Another?” I turned to face him, careful of my heels, which were killing my toes and ankles. “Which one?”
A predatory edge marred the man’s smile. “Guess. One guess. Should you get it correct, I will give you that painting—the original Girl in the Woods. If you fail to guess correctly, you will remain here for two weeks as my guest to spend time getting to know me.”
I narrowed my eyes, the challenge riling my wolf. “Van Gogh had approximately two thousand paintings. I don’t have two weeks to spend here at the current time.”
“Make the two weeks,” he demanded. “An original Van Gogh is worth the risk. Surely you do not have anything of importance to do, Lenore? You are young and wealthy.”
“I have a business to run,” I hissed through clenched teeth, burning my mental checklist of things ladies didn’t do.
My wolf approved.
Lord Benjamin Scully smirked. “Do you? Do not think you can trick me. You are not a business woman. You are an heiress with a love of art. Two weeks to explore and examine everything in this castle is your dream come true.”
If I spent two weeks in the same castle with the illiterate fribble pretending he had the cunning of a wolf, there would be bodies. If I indulged in my desire to rip out the businessman’s throat, my life would be the second to end as predator became prey.
Other monsters lurked in the dark places of the world, and I had lived for so long by slipping beneath their radar. I didn’t know the name of the organization, but I knew enough. If I killed a regular human, they’d hunt me. They’d discover my existence, and I would die.
My mother’s warnings had been clear, branded into me with her dying breath.
They’d killed her for killing a human, and as her life had bled out of her, she’d confessed her crimes as a witch. Then she’d told me to run, and I had, leaving her body to rot in the woods.
I had returned twenty years after her death. No one had found her, and no one else had cared. The moss had covered her bones, but it hadn’t taken much to dislodge the little covering her skull.
Lord Benjamin Scully cleared his throat, demanding an answer.
“Tomorrow, I have a conference call with a client in Rome. Friday, I have an investment meeting with a bank in Switzerland. I’m already booked for my return trip to the United States.” My voice took on a toneless neutrality, the voice I reserved for business transactions. “Upon my return to New York, I’ll begin negotiations for a new property.”
I had spent too long at the cabin deep in the mountains of West Virginia. I needed a new place, somewhere farther away from people, somewhere with more plentiful prey.
Five winters of hunting had thinned my woods, and I needed a new territory.
“You’re seriously invested?”
I fiddled with my ring and took another photograph of the Van Gogh before turning to admire the rest of the paintings in the room. The Van Gogh was the only famous painting in the lot, and most dated within the past forty years.
Counterfeiters and frauds topped my list of annoyances as someone who relocated pieces of fine art out from under the noses of their custodians. However, the castle filled with false promises and lies made its way towards the number one spot. Instead of snarling my frustration, I kept on smiling, moving away from Van Gogh’s Girl in the Woods to photograph the remaining pictures in the room.
“There is a reason it took me so long to come to your castle. It takes time to step away from business affairs, as you are well aware. Tomorrow, I work. I don’t have two weeks to spare for you, Lord Scully. The painting is beautiful, but it is a gamble I can’t afford.”
Tomorrow, not only would I go through every picture I took, I’d create a catalog for my buyer in preparation for the conference call meant to secure my half a million dollars.
The Van Gogh would be my primary bargaining chip to ensure my client paid up in full for the job, although I didn’t expect any problems.
I’d worked for the client before, and he had paid without issue. While the catalog would streamline things, I earned an extra fifty thousand on the deal by allowing them instant access to the files.
They likely looked over them as I wandered the gallery, assuming I had cellular signal in the castle.
Scully cleared his throat again to catch my attention away from the paintings. “I see. Humor me, then. Guess what my second Van Gogh painting is
, without reward or consequence.”
“What else would partner with Girl in the Woods than Girl in White in the Woods? They were painted in the same year. If you were a true collector, you would have three, reuniting them with Edge of a Wood.” I shrugged, masking the taps of my finger against my ring by holding my hands together in front of me. Step by step, photo by photo, I explored the gallery.
“You’re exquisite.”
“Your collection is impressive. One of the more comprehensive collections of modern art I’ve seen in a long time, with a few special older works to add spice and flavor to your gallery.” My wolf growled at me for daring to compliment the jolt-head, but I ignored him. “Do you have works other than paintings and sculptures?”
“Of course. Do you want to see them?”
“Please.” I took the opportunity to dig my hand into my purse and pull out my phone, checking the time. “I have three hours before I need to leave. I’d truly like to see the entirety of your collection before I must go.”
“I was hoping you’d reconsider and stay for dinner.”
“I can’t, but your invitation is appreciated. Perhaps another time. It was difficult arranging my schedule as it is.”
“It wouldn’t do for anyone to miss you. I was unaware of your…business engagements.”
“I lead a very private life.”
“A private and non-existent one, Lenore.” Snorting, Scully stepped between me and the painting I’d been examining. “Why is it I can’t find you or any of your business associates on the internet?”
I arched a brow. I’d expected the man to search into my background; any wise and wealthy man checked before inviting someone to a place holding a fortune of fine art. “I work in acquisitions, Mr. Scully. Advertising my role in business activities would be the equivalent to shooting myself in the foot. I work on behalf of certain companies to handle negotiations they don’t want made public. Exposing myself on the internet would be foolish.”
“And when you make these acquisitions, you do not introduce yourself as Lenore Faraday, do you?”
I made a show of checking through my messages, making thoughtful noises. All of the photographs I’d taken had already uploaded while the remainder were queued for uploading. Pleased with the castle’s signal strength and speed, I stowed my cell into my purse. For such a quick connection, Scully had a cell tower installed specifically for his use. “You’re a quick study. I like my life private, the same way I like my art collections.”
“Is that so?”
The man’s audacity to coo in my ear ignited my fury. I tensed. Killing the lord of the castle wasn’t an option. I dredged up my charred mental list of things ladies didn’t do. Slapping him was out, although feminine enough for a replacement to driving my fist into his gut. Kneeing him in the groin wasn’t completely off my list; if he even thought about touching me, I’d crunch his family jewels and find out if a werewolf could actually survive a swan dive off a cliff into the ocean.
“I’m a traditional lady in a modern world,” I said again, the habit of neutrality saving me from deepening my voice or growing at the man I wanted to murder.
The so-called artifacts collection was so small I was torn between mocking laughter and groaning at the torment of dealing with a private collection belonging to someone convinced counterfeit arrowheads classified as artifacts. While ignorant about Native American pieces, I believed every piece in the glass case was a fake.
I took pictures anyway.
My wolf growled his hatred of me in my head, and I swore to a good run as soon as I finalized the purchase of the most remote cabin in the woods I could find.
My bribe shut him up for a while.
“Is Native American not to your taste, Miss Faraday?”
“I prefer Egyptian,” I murmured. I preferred anything that got me through the rest of the castle without its owner copping another feel.
Did all women feel like meat? I was tempted to check my ass for a price tag, wondering just how cheap of a slattern he thought I was.
“I have a couple of Egyptian pieces, but not much. They’re, unfortunately, in the storage gallery.”
Hello, bait. “Storage gallery?”
“It’s where I keep my unsorted pieces, much like a museum curating new exhibits or retiring old pieces.”
Hello, hook, line, and sinker. I needed just a tiny taste. It couldn’t hurt me too much, could it? What art collector wouldn’t go into a lustful frenzy over the idea of going into the unsorted, unpolished collection?
I didn’t need to feign excitement. Unsorted, dusty places with hidden treasures got me in trouble each and every time. “I’d really like to see the Egyptian pieces, even if they’re in storage. The good Egyptian pieces are never close enough to truly appreciate.”
Or steal.
I’d stolen things from all across the world, but I’d never stolen something from Egypt, not even a single copper deben. With my luck, he’d have a silver deben, ensuring I couldn’t get within ten feet of it without breaking into a rash, one that would stain my dress the black of tarnish.
“If we have time.”
If I wanted to maintain my stance and get all of the pictures I could, I’d have to speed up my pace without being obvious about it. I grinned at the aspect of a challenge, kept my hands clasped in front of me, and went from piece to piece, tapping my ring in front of each one.
I asked questions about the pieces, dodged him groping me more times than I wanted to think about, and counted down the minutes to freedom and my payout.
Hundreds of photographs later, Lord Benjamin Scully led me into paradise. His storage gallery held a wealth of wrapped paintings, curio cabinets loaded with antiques, and crates upon crates covered in dust. The collector in me wanted to turn on the man and defenestrate him for neglecting so many fine pieces.
“This is amazing.” How could anyone put all of the best pieces in a filthy room and leave the truly spectacular things to rot away, hidden from those who might appreciate it?
The castle was owned by a lunatic. That was the only explanation.
The source of my anger and disgust made a show of checking his watch. “Twenty minutes isn’t a long time, but please feel free to explore if that suits you. I wouldn’t want to make you late for your business engagements.”
“I appreciate you showing me your gallery, Mr. Scully. It’s been fascinating.” I turned to the curio cabinets, half of which were open, leaving the pieces within exposed to dust and other contaminates. I wanted to steal everything I could get my hands on just to free them from the man’s abuse, but I ignored my itching fingers and went to work.
A phone rang, but the ring tone wasn’t mine. Scully frowned, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a slender cell. Sighing, he excused himself and headed into the other room.
Learning to identify valuable pieces at a glance was part of my job as a thief, and while I listened to the man talk in the hallway, I took advantage of the time to look over his goods, take photographs, and satisfy the urge to make off with something on the side.
Anyone who treated antiques and art with such disregard didn’t deserve any of it, and if I could have run off with the entire store room, I would have. The dust made my nose itch, which suited me just fine. With one strong sneeze, I could to stir up enough dust to cover the fact I’d made off with something from the collection.
While most of the curio cabinets were located near the door, I found one hidden away near the back wall of the room. Unlike the others, it lacked a door, leaving the items within to the mercy of the room’s dust collection. My curiosity got the better of me, and I squeezed through the gaps in the crates, pausing to photograph everything except the cabinet that had captured my attention.
A glint of gold caught my eye, pulling my attention to a black and silver urn of Anubis. The gleam of metal drew me closer, and I leaned to peek behind the urn. Lapis lazuli partnered with turquoise, carnelian, and amethyst formed the shape of a scarab beetle set
into a golden bracelet, which was more of a hinged cuff designed to be worn by a prominent man of Egyptian society. Unlike most of the other things in the storage, it was free of dust, reflecting the room’s dim illumination.
The scarab held a high standing in ancient Egyptian society, the representation of Khepri, the morning aspect of Ra, the Sun God. Historians and artisans could spend a lifetime wondering about the meanings of the colors and choices of the stones for the bracelet, but I liked the simple meaning the best.
Lapis lazuli, blue speckled with flakes of gold, represented the starry sky lightening under the influence of the rising sun while the amethyst and carnelian edging the scarab spoke of the promise of a vibrant sunrise. The gold of a new sun bound it all together.
“Yellow-bellied titmouse,” I breathed, torn between horror and shock anyone could abandon something so spectacular. The urn of Anubis it hid behind was no slacker in the ancient relic department, either.
Werewolves had a certain association with the Egyptian god of death; once, Anubis had been linked to the golden jackal, but scientists had undermined the mythos with genetic testing.
I shared similarities with the African golden wolf, Anubis’s new animal avatar, except they were prettier and a lot more normal than I could ever hope to be.
To reach the bracelet, I needed to move the urn, which contained enough silver inlaid on its black surface to singe my nose. I sighed, contemplating how I’d thieve away the bracelet before the creepy lord of the castle finished his phone call and stole away my chance to make off with a grab of a lifetime.
If I wanted the bracelet, I’d risk getting burned. Sighing my resignation, I pushed up the sleeves of my dress and reached for my prize.
The scarab had ideas of its own, and fluttering its lapis lazuli wings, it sprung at me, flying into my face and driving me back. I bumped into a crate, and yipping my astonishment, I crashed into the wall.
The wall also had ideas of its own. Instead of holding my weight and giving me something to brace against so I could make my escape, it opened. I staggered back several steps, falling through a doorway. The scarab fluttered in front of my eyes, blinding me with flashes of blue and gold.
