by J. J. McAvoy
“I don’t believe so.” My boss, Dr. Leo Lovell, had his long nose only inches from the canvas, a magnifying glass to his eye as he inspected the art. “But I’m sure they’re going to want to rob these beauties from us the moment they find out. Magnificent. They are all purely magnificent. Look here at the richness of this color and the intense light and dark shadows used. I have not seen such…”
At this point, he was no longer talking to me, which was normal for Dr. Lovell. Never had I met a person who so perfectly reminded me of a mad scientist. It was like he came right out of central casting with wild, frantic white hair that only grew at the sides of his head, leaving a bald spot in the middle. His clothes were always a little too big and in the same shades of dark brown, light brown, and beige, with mustard or blue thrown in occasionally. I was waiting for him to holler, “Great Scott!” just once, so I could call him Dr. Emmett Brown from Back to the Future.
Putting on my white gloves, I walked over to where he stood, looking over his shoulder at the painting of a mother who stood in the shadow of the door frame of some house in seventeenth-century France. In her arms was a baby wrapped in white linen. I didn’t need the magnifying glass to see every beautiful brushstroke and the deep layers of paint that seeped into the canvas. The normal level of the effects of aging had built up, but the hue was off.
“It reminds me of the Le Nain brothers, but also…” I whispered, unable to look from it.
“You feel Georges de La Tour’s candlelight, right?” He added, standing up straighter.
“Exactly.” I nodded. “Expect the candlelight is the sun in this one. The use of chiaroscuro is so similar, but it isn’t him. I can’t imagine how much more detail will be revealed when we remove that build up. Do we know the artist?”
For the first time since I’d entered the lab, a frown marred his lips as he shook his head. “I’ve gone over it five times already, and they are done by the same hand yet not signed, nor even named. To think such an artist is lost from history and we may be among the first experts to study them is mindblowing.”
The first?
“Where did they come from?” I realized I had forgotten to ask what I really meant.
“Even stranger,” he replied, his arms crossed over his chest as he tucked his chin. “When I arrived early this morning, they were already here. Simone said a private collector wished to have them cleaned, and in exchange, would allow us to catalog and display it within the museum for a time. Speaking of Simone, are you all right? I heard she was the one given the position of Senior Associate Conservator.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. “I hadn’t known it was her.”
“Oh,” he said, realizing he’d been the first person to let me know who I’d lost out to.
“Simone’s been here longer, so I guess it’s only fair.” I tried to change the course of the conversation.
Simone Ward was nearly my polar opposite; where I was tall, she was short, where I had more boobs, she had more hips and butt. We were both African American, but she was lighter than me. I assumed she might be biracial, but I didn’t bother to ask. She had numerous tattoos on her back, and when I was a mortal, I wouldn’t have even sat still for a shot. I would say we had the same brown eyes, but she had started wearing hazel contacts for some reason. The only thing we seemed to have in common was our love for fine art.
“And your work and knowledge are significantly better than hers. Everyone can see it, and one day you’ll be rewarded as you deserve.” He patted me on the shoulder once before turning toward the paintings again.
For some reason, having his approval meant more to me than anything else, and I found myself no longer caring about the job. Instead, I focused on several pieces of art, some of them were even taller than me, and I was three inches shy of six feet.
“I can’t believe all of this belongs to one person,” I repeated, the astonishment returning. I tried to think of the high walls and the square feet of the house, which could hold so much treasure. Must be nice.
“Yes, Simone apparently misplaced the owner’s information, but of course, they will be in contact…damn!” He checked his watch before rushing to his desk. “I need to be at the university.”
“Okay, which should I start on?” I helped him grab his brown trench coat from the side of the door.
“I’ve already laid it out for you.” He nodded to my work station where the canvas was laid out and protected under sheets, waiting for me. “The bigger ones we may have to call in more students. I want to have them cleaned and cataloged as quickly as possible. God only knows if and when that owner might ask for them back or even change his mind.”
“I’ll get as much as humanly possible done today,” I said as he put on his fedora; he was so lame but cute in an old grandpa sort of way. “I might name some of them if they are not already.”
“Oh…” He paused as if he didn’t think about it and grinned from ear to ear. “That might be interesting and will definitely add to the collection when they’re on display. Are you thinking about going with French, Spanish, Dutch, or Italian? I actually had one in mind for that one…”
“Dr. Lovell, your class,” I reminded him when he moved to walk back to the painting. “It’s snowing. The metro might be packed.”
“Right.” He snapped his fingers then frowned once more in confusion. “Wait did you say it’s snowing? I thought it was just a cold front.”
“It must have gotten colder because it started as I came in.”
“What is wrong with the weather lately?” He sighed.
“I have no idea.”
“Well.” He fluffed his collar once more, his eyes looking around, not wanting to leave the paintings.
“The sooner you go, Dr. Lovell, the sooner you can return to them,” I teased.
He nodded, walking up the stairs, muttering to him, and I faintly heard him say, “I need to call Ernest. He will lose his mind. Ha, serves him right. Steal my job, and now I have unknown genuine masterpieces. Hahaha.”
Shaking my head, I moved to my desk, making sure I had my dry brush, Q-tips, cotton balls, as well as my chemical kit. Carefully, I lifted the sheet from the painting, and even though I wasn’t really breathing, I felt the need to stop altogether to stare at the dominance the scene demanded. It reminded me of Jean-Léon Gérôme’s painting Pollice Verso, the infamous Thumbs Up or Thumbs Down, moment between the victorious gladiator and jeering people within the Colosseum, the defeated gladiator under the heel of his sandals.
However, in this unknown painting, the victorious warrior did not have sandals, nor even armor, all that he wore was a bloody, tattered cloth, most likely done by the lions under his feet instead of another person. The crowds were not jeering, but some were running, others had their hands down. It didn’t look like the Colosseum. It was a similar area of some kind, but that was less important to me than the look of confusion, shock, and horror on the crowd’s faces.
I looked back at the warrior with shoulder length, wavy hair, and bright eyes that looked murderous, despite having killed all the lions. The Roman spectators in the stands came to watch blood get spilled; why would they have been horrified by it?
Because it didn’t get spilled. The answer came to mind, and I immediately looked back to the bloody, tattered clothes he wore. Underneath them, I could see his perfectly sculpted white muscles and his smooth skin, but I shouldn’t have been able to.
He should be harmed.
There were six dead lions at his feet.
His clothes were nearly ripped from his body.
He had no weapons, no armor.
No matter how much luck or skill he had, it was impossible that he wasn’t hurt. And if the painter wanted to make him a sort of god, the crowd would have been praising him. Instead, there was terror.
I glanced at the lions and leaned forward into the paintin
g. Sure enough, on their necks and chests, were bite marks. He had drank from them.
“He was a vampire,” I whispered slowly as the story came together in front of me.
The crowd watched a man drink the blood of the beasts and clearly saw the rage in his eyes, specifically directed at the viewer. I checked the position of the Colosseum; his eyes would have been looking toward the Emperor.
“This is…amazing,” I whispered to myself, reaching for my Q-tips, moving to test the corner of the paint, trying to understand how I needed to treat and clean it. Wait.
Had the painter witnessed or imagined a vampire?
I paused with my Q-tip held away from my face before slowly turning around and eyeing the vast collection around me.
The only reason for someone—who was not European royalty—to have all of this, especially in America was if they’d collected it over time…a lot of time.
“I’m cleaning a vampire’s art collection.” I realized and instantly wanted to put everything down and leave it the hell alone.
Vampires were territorial about everything. Permission to do anything to their belongings was not just proper manners, it was the only way to prevent having your head ripped off.
Whoever it was sent them here to be cleaned, so that had to be permission, right?
I thought about it for a second, and because I was a chicken, I put my supplies down, taking off my gloves to reach for the office phone. I dialed Simone. Part of her new job meant she had to be on top of all incoming art. She had to have found the information by now.
Better safe than sorry.
“Dru, I was just about to call you. Are you with the paintings?” Her frantic voice came on the line.
“Yes,” I said, not sure where else she thought I’d be during work hours. “Did you leave?”
“No, I’ve been searching for the submission data for those paintings.” She sighed, and I could hear her ruffling through what sounded like stacks upon stacks of pages. “I don’t understand. For us to get them, they must have filed with the museum sometime last year. I remember getting all the data for every other art piece cataloged, but those are just gone.”
“Simone breathe.”
“I am breathing; it’s not helping.” She sniffed. “This is a big deal. God knows how badly the gallery will be sued if we can’t verify who the sender is or send the artwork back after they entrusted it with us.”
“First of all, are you sure it’s all from one person?”
“Yes, they all arrived together, packaged through the gallery. From our records, I can see that it was delivered to us today. But other than that, I’ve got nothing. Oh dear God, do you think I deleted it?” She wasn’t talking to me; she seemed lost in her own world.
“So, what about the restorations?” I really didn’t want to start with so much information missing. “Are there any directions at all as to how they wanted to have them cleaned—”
“Druella, you’re the expert. Why in the world would they leave directions? Just take your time and fix it up. I’ll come to see them soon,” she snapped at me before hanging up.
“Well, bye to you to then,” I muttered, placing the phone back onto the counter, spinning in my chair a bit, so I could stare at the painting. “If your owner complains about anything, I’m going to throw everyone else under the bus.”
I put my gloves back on, wheeled in closer, and began to work, which was a bit annoying because every few minutes I’d have to remember to shift or stretch simply because of the cameras in the lab. I even made it a habit to go the restroom every one to two hours. One of the things I loved about restoring art was watching the canvas come alive again. It was beautiful, all the colors, the richness of it. I found myself holding my breath as I ran my Q-tip in the solution and then back on the canvas. I wondered what the artist would think of my efforts each time I worked on a piece. Would they be happy? Would they have preferred the painting to fade into history? What did they think when they drew or painted it? What did they think about it having lasted so long? I had so many questions. I couldn’t help it. Questioning everything was in my nature.
Bathroom break. I heard the clock mounted on the wall sound at the passing of the hour. Rising from my chair, I looked at my gloves and straightened my clothes before walking toward the end of the room.
Inside, all I did was stare at my own reflection in the mirror. My curly lion’s mane of hair was kept pulled back into a tight ponytail at work. My brown eyes seemed to have gotten a bit shinier, but then again, I’d been saying that every day since my change. My brown skin was even-toned—no more dark or lighter blotches. Never in my life had I been so sad to walk into Sephora and walk out without having to buy anything but my favorite shampoo. I used to love makeup. But now, I could feel it on my face like some sort of powered mask. Now, I looked better without it, but that didn’t mean I didn’t miss my glitter-gold-eyelids look.
Note to self…bring that look back for something.
Glancing at my watch, I made sure a respectable human amount of time had gone by before stepping back into the lab.
I can probably get about another four hours in before security starts begging me too…
“Theseus?” I doubted my own eyes, but when I blinked, there he was, standing in the center of my lab dressed in black pants and a button-down black shirt. Where he’d gotten them, I wasn’t sure. They looked too modern to be my dad’s clothing, but then again, I hadn’t looked through everything.
“Theseus?” I stepped forward when he didn’t respond.
His grey eyes were fixed on all of the paintings in front of him, lined against the back of the lab. “Where did you get these?” he asked gently, his eyes shifting from one painting to another.
“They were delivered today,” I said, standing beside him. “And how did you get in here? Please tell me you didn’t use your vampire speed. There are cameras—”
“I do not understand.” He frowned, turning to face me. His whole face was completely puzzled. “What do you mean they were delivered today? How? By who?”
“I don’t know by who. They were just delivered.”
“That is not possible,” he whispered.
I browsed the paintings then looked at him. “And yet, here they are.”
“And here they should not be because they should be in Ankeiros where I last left them.”
It was only then that I understood. “These are yours?” I questioned.
He just nodded, moving to them. Even though they belong to him, watching him touch them roughly with his bare hands made my art-history-nerd heart scream. I wanted to throw gloves at him as quickly as possible, but he just looked at the images.
Ring. Ring.
“Hello?” I spoke into the phone, still watching him out of the corner of my eye.
“Druella, it’s me.” Simone sounded a little bit more relieved. “So, I thought to check in some of the boxes, and there I found a note. It says, “I still hold that it is nonsensical to give you work on your birthday, but I couldn’t deny you anything. Happy Birthday. - Theseus. Wasn’t your birthday yesterday? It would have been brought down then had I not taken the day off. Do you know a Theseus? I swear if this is some game to get back at me for getting the promotion—”
“Simone, I’m going to have to call you back.” I hung up without further comment as Theseus looked back to me.
“I do not recall penning such a letter,” he said starkly before pointing at two paintings in front of him. “Nor do I recall painting these two, but I am sure it is my work.”
In that moment, I felt very much a vampire because I didn’t breathe, or blink, or even move. All of me was still.
Yet, at the very same time, I felt sick. I didn’t know it was possible to feel nauseous, but that was exactly what I felt. My eyes tingled with tears that I didn’t let fall as I stared at the bigger of the tw
o paintings in front of me.
“This one…why…how…how did you paint her?”
“Who is she?” He examined the painting, still without a clue.
“My mother.”
Chapter 7
It looked so real.
Almost like a memory I had forgotten myself.
My mother and I sat on a picnic blanket in the middle of the park, the grass the most beautiful shade of green. I couldn’t have been more than five or six. My curly hair was in pigtails, and I wore jean overalls. She sat in a long white skirt that went to her ankles and pink blouse. Her hair was just as curly as mine, and she didn’t hold it back. She was laughing, while I had my mouth open, leaning in to take a bite of the yellow cake in her hand. All around us, people were going about their day, but their faces were blurred like nothing else was in focus but us, and we didn’t care about the rest of the world, either. We were just a mother and daughter enjoying a day at the park.
“Do you remember this day?” he asked softly.
“This day never happened.” But I wished it had. So badly, I did. “My mother died giving birth to me.”
At that, his grey eyes focused on me, and I was torn between walking closer and staying farther away.
“How could you have painted her? How do you know my mother? I don’t understand.” The sickness was gone, and now panic remained as I looked at the other paintings. They were all of me, as a young girl, maybe eight, and then me at sixteen and eighteen and twenty-two and, me most recently as last year at my twenty-sixth birthday. In all, I did the most ordinary and mundane things. Sitting at a coffee shop. Swimming in a pound. Shopping for a birthday cake. They all looked so real, just like the painting of my mother and me.
“I would say you’ve been stalking me, but stalking doesn’t seem right because I hate cake. I never learned how to swim, and I…”
“You hate cake?” he asked softly.
“I don’t celebrate my birthday, and even if I did, I wouldn’t buy a cake for myself. That would be sad.” I looked from the paintings to him. “Why did you paint these? Why are they here? You sent a note?”