by J. J. McAvoy
He opened his mouth and then closed it again, showing me just how ridiculous my habit must have looked to other people. The frown on his face was severe, and he could only look back to his art. “I honestly do not know. I recall painting you only once, and that was as my mother described what you looked like over my shoulder. These—they are as strange to me as they are to you.”
“Close but not quite,” I muttered, following their gaze. Over the shock of seeing my own face, I walked up to examine them. “They are different from your other work.”
“How so?”
“It isn’t obvious?” I pointed to the older paintings he’d set aside as if they were of no importance at all. “Your earlier work is all neo-classical and steeped in the Renaissance school of art. But these, to me, are clearly from the Impressionist period, more Monet than Raphael. You had a heavy hand; the paint is thick, but there is more of a flow…” I drifted off, following the brushstrokes in the clouds. They looked so soft and full, almost lifting from the page, and I wanted to touch them.
“Druella.”
“Yes?” I put my hand down and spun around like I was a child caught trying to steal a cookie.
The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile, but I could still see he was bothered.
“I am quite glad you enjoy the artistry, but I am more concerned by their existence.” He stepped toward me. “Please tell me, do you ever recall meeting me? Before our encounter yesterday.”
“Never,” I said automatically.
“Not even passing on the street or have you forgotten anything—”
“I have a very good memory,” I said more than sure. “I’m sometimes terrible at names, but I never forget a face, and until yesterday, I had never seen yours.”
He nodded. “I guess I have no choice.”
“No choice but what?” I said wearily.
“Find out what happened to my memory.”
My shoulders dropped as I relaxed. “Of course, I told you that should be your number one priority.”
“And now it is because the mystery of my missing memory now involves you somehow.” He fully smiled, and I felt a hint of mischief in his gaze. “And as it involves you, I will need your help.”
“That’s just an excuse for you to stay around longer.” I knew it; he was pretty much telling me, now he just had to stay to figure this out. “How do I know you aren’t making all of this up, and you can recall everything but just want an excuse to stay by me?”
“And I would go so far as to send paintings of you to your work to pull you into this mystery?” He took another step closer.
“Exactly.” I lifted my head in defiance.
He glanced down at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Then why would I paint things that you have no interest in? Surely, if that were my plot, then I would have chosen more relatable events?”
Good point. Nope, I’m not losing. “Maybe you were worried you’d come off looking like a stalker.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“And why would I fear being a stalker?” He snickered. “Would you file a police report against me? How would that go? ‘Excuse me, officer,’” he said in horribly high woman’s voice.
“I don’t sound like that!”
He went on as if he didn’t hear me in that same horrid voice. “There is this millennium-old vampire stalking me. I would like to file a restraining order.”
I stepped up closer, our noses almost touching. “It is not the police you would have to worry about but me.”
“You?”
“Yes, because what could possibly be worse for a stalker than for his prey to find out his actions? It would make me hate you, fear you, and avoid you. I would pick up my whole life to run from you. I would reject you outright.”
That left him silent. His eyes dropped to my lips, and the boldness I felt in stepping toward him vanished, but I couldn’t step back, either. He looked all over my face before he finally spoke again, his voice so soft it tickled my nose. “I fear I have lost this battle, but I am not accustomed to losing, so I must play the only card I have left.”
“And that is?”
“To throw myself upon your mercy.” His eyes finally back to mine. “I must appeal to your kindness.”
“That sounds like giving up to me.”
“It’s merely a regrouping strategy. I can see there shall be other battles between us in the future. I can’t lose them all.”
I grinned. “You haven’t dealt with me; you should just get used to losing.”
“But I just have, stubborn one.” He reached up and untucked the strand of hair from behind my ear. “I look forward to your help.”
“I haven’t agreed to help you.”
“But haven’t you? How else can I get used to losing if I’m not around you?” He mused and stepped around me to the older paintings.
I tilted my head, replaying our conversation before closing my eyes. I overplayed my hand. “I’ll help you find your memory,” I said, spinning back around, staring at his back. “But I’m not agreeing to be your mate.”
“Yet.”
“Ever—”
“What do you suggest we do with these?” He pressed on without waiting for me to finish my statement; I was sure he did it on purpose. “The older ones I am fine leaving here in your care, but these may be hard for you to explain to your superiors if they have not yet seen them.”
He was right. “No one said anything, so I don’t think they noticed it’s me. Even I didn’t notice, but now that they’re here, it’s going to be hard to hide them.”
“Very well.” He lifted his hands, and I nearly jumped him, moving at what was barely human speed to grab his wrist above his head.
“What are you about to do?” I tried not to scream.
“Destroy them of course,” he said as if it were obvious.
“You will not! How could you even think of it?”
“But they pose an uncertain risk to you.”
There he went again, saying romantic lines in complete earnest and making me feel a bit off-balance.
He hadn’t even been here for a day.
“The only risk that will come to me is from fighting you for daring to destroy these,” I muttered, letting go of his hand. “This is your work. How could you destroy it as if it were nothing?”
“You—”
“Regardless of whatever risks it could bring me, aren’t you attached to them?” An artist’s work was like a child, the fact that he could nonchalantly rip them to shreds, even if it were for me, was odd.
“How can I be attached to what I do not remember?” he reminded me. “I’m sure I would not have painted it if it was not important to me, but again, I do not know the connection, and in the meantime, you may be affected by this.”
I was already affected by it. But before I could tell him, I heard voices coming from the top of the stairs. And not just any voices but that of Dr. Lovell and Simone.
“Help me,” I said to him, glancing around the lab at the paintings, and I grabbed one of the white sheets. As he brought the paintings together, taking the other end, we draped and covered them quickly.
“Druella, I’m back. How far have you gotten?” Dr. Lovell questioned as he came into the lab, his arms filled with papers, and his bag was slipping off his shoulder. But he didn’t care. His eyes were on the paintings like he was making sure they were still there. I didn’t think he even noticed Theseus.
“Who is this? How did he get down here?” Simone snapped, now zeroing in on him. Her hazel eyes narrowed, and her arms crossed over her chest as she stared at me like she was the Queen of Africa. Her brown hair stopped at her shoulders. Like me, she usually kept it up, but now that she didn’t need to work in the lab she wasn’t. Nor did she have on our normal lab coat but a fitted pink dress and red bottom tan-colored heels. “You know th
e rules, Druella. It is strictly forbidden for you to bring any friends here. I’m your boss now, too; I can’t let this slide—”
“I beg your pardon, Ms. Ward,” Theseus said, and I wondered how he knew her name but then realized her id badge was hanging around her neck. “I’m Christian de Apollo. My family owns this collection. Apparently, some private work was sent by accident, and I was sent to pick it up.”
But Dr. Lovell and Simone stared at him. Dr. Lovell seemed to just realize Theseus was in his lab without permission. While Simone looked miffed, it was like a robot trying to reprogram themselves to blend in. Her whole demeanor changed, and she unfolded her arms, coming down the stairs.
“Mr. de Apollo,” she said carefully with a softer tone and smile on her face. “Forgive me. I was not aware you were so close by. We’ve been trying to get information on the artwork for hours now, isn’t that right, Druella?”
I smiled back. “I personally haven’t, but I heard you were searching, yes.”
Her jaw clenched ever so slightly, but she focused on Theseus…or Christian. “Mr. de Apollo, forgive me, but I was under the impression that this work was sent by a man named Theseus? There was a note with it.”
“My brother,” he lied.
“Would you happen to have any identification or something I could use to verify your information?” she asked, still in a trained, polite manner, and at that moment, I panicked, turning to look at him; but he was beyond calm and nodded, reaching into his pocket for a…sticky note!
“Here you are,” he said, handing it to her. “As you can see, this is all the identification you will need.”
Was he insane? It wasn’t identification. It was a sticky note, the sticky note I had given him with the directions on how to use my phone. I took a step forward but caught his warning glance.
Helpless, I watched as Simone stared at the yellow square in her hand, and then Dr. Lovell, too, and he nodded like he was reading a sixteenth-century, neo-classical art dissertation and not my morning scribble.
“Wow, you have even more?” he questioned, looking back at Theseus who just nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. de Apollo. You must understand our discretion,” Simone said, handing him back the sticky note, and at this point, I was just lost.
“Of course,” he replied, taking the note back.
“Are these the paintings you have come to retrieve?” Dr. Lovell questioned, placing his papers down on the desk and turning his frantic hand over to the canvas being covered with the white sheet. His curiosity got the best of him.
“Yes,” Theseus said, stepping into Dr. Lovell’s path. The difference between them was like David and Goliath. He towered over Dr. Lovell. “The painting is of a personal nature, and my family member does not wish to display it. It seems I was not in my right frame of mind as I shipped it. But you all are, per the contract, free to display and restore anything else as you see fit.”
“Oh, this is marvelous,” he said excitedly as he moved toward his desk, shuffling papers across it. “I have so many questions. Did your family keep records of purchases? Artist names perhaps or even dates or locations will do.”
“I will do the best I can, though I am not sure if there were records kept about them,” he lied once more, and I noticed, only then the strange look Simone gave him as if she were trying to figure out a puzzle displaced on his face but couldn’t. He must have noticed, but he ignored her and instead walked over to where Dr. Lovell stood, looking over the man’s shoulders to see his work.
“Simone?” I whispered, getting her attention, and her gaze snapped to me like she came out of a trance. “Are you all right?”
However, she didn’t answer. She just gave me the same long look she had given him.
“Simone?”
“What?” she snapped, her face somewhat paler, her pink lips in a thin line as she nearly scowled at me.
“I asked if you were all right,” I said, trying not to sound as harsh as she had.
“I’m fine,” she stated defensively, pausing to check her phone. “It’s getting late, oh and, you never congratulated me on my promotion.”
I bit my tongue, clamping my mouth shut, but she waited, lifting her head.
“Well?”
“Congratulations, though how you got it after the last botched job is completely beyond me.”
“Daniel.” She lifted her ring finger, showing me her massive princess cut, pink-diamond ring for the ten-million time in the last week since it had been on her long, boney finger. “He and the director are golfing buddies. I went with them yesterday, and he really liked some of the ideas we talked about for the gallery.”
The ideas? She freaking meant my ideas! Breathe, Druella, breathe.
“How…” Say something nice, Druella, or at the very least don’t let her know you’re pissed. “Damn shameless you are, Simone.”
She kept that fake, cheerleader smile on her face. “Why would I be ashamed, Druella? It’s not my fault you didn’t say anything. Besides, I’ve been here longer, so it’s fitting, anyway.”
What would be fitting would be me holding your head underwater. “Sure, I’ll just wait for karma.”
“You do that,” she said, ending our whispered fight and turning to Theseus. “Mr. de Apollo.”
It was only then that he glanced up from Dr. Lovell to me, but his face was emotionless, hard, almost as tense as hers, and I was sure he’d heard our whole conversation. “Yes, Ms. Ward?
“I’ll see to it that someone has the painting you wished returned to wherever you’d like. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” She offered him her card that I noticed had her new position already printed on them.
“Thank you, Ms. Ward. I shall do so,” Theseus replied as he took it with his two fingers. From the way he held it, it seemed as if he were just waiting for the chance to toss it into the trash.
With that, Simone turned and walked up the stairs and toward the elevator. She walked slower than normally. I heard her heart rate quicken, though she remained calm on the outside. All of her was more tense; she didn’t look back and only kept her head down until she got inside the elevators. It was only as the silver doors began to slide closed that she looked up again. Her gaze never left Theseus’s face until the doors closed.
What in the—
“Dr. Lovell,” Theseus spoke, and the normal light-heartedness he’d been speaking in before vanished as he peered into Dr. Lovell’s eyes. “You are tired and want to go home to rest because the paintings can wait.”
Dr. Lovell stared up and then blinked and looked around, stretching out his arms as he turned to me. “You know what, Druella, I’m a bit tired and want to go home and rest. These can wait. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The paintings can wait? Dr. Lovell would never…and yet he was. And he was looking at me as if I were the crazy one, tilting his head to the side. “You all right, Druella?”
“Yes. Ugh…good night.” I watched him gather all of his papers and head back up the stairs, humming to himself.
It took a second for the elevator to come back, but he didn’t turn to me or the artwork. Happily, and unthinkingly, he got on and went back home.
What in the hell?
Chapter 8
“What did you do to him?” I asked once Dr. Lovell had gone, still a bit stunned.
“Even you must know that we can influence the mortals to our will,” he replied as if I had asked him something ridiculous; maybe I had, but I still didn’t understand.
“Influence?” I shifted my gaze from the elevator door to his perfectly sculpted face. “As in brainwash?”
“As in influence,” he repeated again, lifting one of the paintbrushes off the desk, feeling the bristles. “It works almost all of the time, especially the stronger we are in will and they are not in thought.”
So, br
ainwashing. “So, the sticky note?”
“That is what you call the small square paper you left with this odd thing?” he questioned, lifting my phone.
“Yes, a cell phone.” I took it back from him, making sure he didn’t break it. “Which was useless, seeing as you just decided to influence your way into my work.”
He frowned as he caught my meaning. “Forgive me, I planned to wait; however, I missed you and was curious.”
There he went saying those things again. Ignoring it, I focused on what had just happened instead. “What happened between Simone and you? You both were acting like you secretly knew each other and didn’t like it.”
He didn’t answer, instead walking to my work station, looking down at what I had spent all of my day on. “You’ve done it justice.”
“If that means you like it, thank you; it is my job, though.”
“Not everyone is good at their work, or enjoys it for that matter.” He reached the ends of the frame. “With our abilities, you could have finished this with great speed, and yet, you took time and even worked with gentleness. You did your best to match my every brushstroke.”
“Again, thank you,” I said, coming up beside him. “But you have not told me what happened with Simone?”
He smirked, his head tipping to me. “Do you not see I am avoiding giving you an answer?”
“Yes, I see that very well. But why?”
“Because there are many things I do not understand of the world I have woken up into, and I do not wish to complicate the life you are trying to live by telling you what I am unsure of.”
I sighed deeply. “Please tell me you are not one of those men who feel as though they must keep secrets from women and expect them to just trust their judgment on how they should live?”
“Would that be wrong?” he frowned.
“Very.” I frowned back. “Would you be okay with me doing the same thing to you?”
“It depends on what the circumstances were.”