Love Lies (Tails from the Alpha Art Gallery Book 3) Page 3

  Time for plan B.

  Leaning into him, I allowed my breast to brush his arm as I tried to achieve just the right mix of playful and sex-kitteny. “Come on, you.”

  A familiar grin slid across Joseph’s lips. I’d seen it on a face very like his on a couple lucky occasions. “With such pleasant insistence,” he said, “how could I resist?”

  “First stop, Mission Control.” I felt like a flight attendant, all contrived gestures and shiny teeth as we exited Abernathy’s office and approached my desk. “This is where I take care of all the administrative details that keep this place humming. When I’m not making futile attempts at trying to keep your son organized and generally driving him crazy.”

  A fond smile spread across Joseph’s face as he shook his head. “Always been a bit of a slob, my boy. You should have seen his chambers growing up. Looked like a band of marauders had been through there.”

  This revelation presented me with a rather novel idea. Abernathy had once been a boy. A long lashed, chocolate-haired little lad.

  “Where did he grow up exactly?” I asked, making my way toward the stairs.

  “He hasn’t told you?” Joseph asked, looking genuinely surprised.

  “He never tells me anything,” I said, employing my favorite adage where Abernathy was concerned.

  “Well, if he hasn’t told you, he probably doesn’t want you to know.” Joseph’s voice held a familiar stony note that morphed into mischief as we descended to the gallery. “But he isn’t here now, is he?”

  “Indeed not.”

  We crossed into the main gallery space, the walls blank and bare in anticipation of our upcoming show.

  “Mark was born in a castle on the River Tay in Scotland. Not far from the village Abernethy in Perth and Kinross from which we take our name.”

  “I knew he was Scottish! I knew it!” I said, digging my fingernails into my palm to curb the urge to break into a cheerleader bounce. Okay, I hadn’t so much known Abernathy was Scottish as I had vividly and repeatedly imagined him as the kilt-wearing laird on a never-ending mental series of bodice-rippers, but I was willing to count it. Speaking of those kilts…“You don’t have an accent though. Neither does he.”

  He treated me to a boyish grin. “Aye lassie. It isnae wise to have an accent if you’re aimin’ to blend in.”

  My stomach made a sudden and unexpected pilgrimage toward my knees as blood rushed abruptly into my face. Thank God Mark had never busted out the brogue. I would have been a werewolf about eighty-seven times over by now.

  “Right,” I said, recovering my wits. “I could see that.”

  We paused in the center at the edge of the gallery’s post-modern white cube where the building’s exposed brick walls hinted at the structure’s true age.

  “This place has a rather rustic feeling,” Joseph observed. “But then, old as I am, rustic can be a problematic term.”

  “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Eight hundred and thirty-one,” he answered without hesitation.

  “You mean, you had Mark when you were...four hundred?”

  “To the day,” he replied, eyes all a-twinkle.

  “And when is your birthday?” I probed. Oh, someone was in big trouble, all right. Streamers, balloons, confetti—okay, scratch the confetti. I’d be the one cleaning it up, after all. Maybe a mariachi band? Cake.

  Definitely cake.

  “August sixth,” he answered.

  “A Leo. I so could have guessed that. No offense,” I added.

  “None taken.” He smiled, and certain parts south of the equator decided that 831 wasn’t necessarily that old. I mean, what’s a few centuries when someone is serving up serious werewolf daddy energy?

  “Is four hundred a normal age for werewolves to have their first children?” I asked, all the while telling myself this question had not one thing to do with the fact that I’d begun ovulating twice monthly since the inception of my work at the gallery.

  “Perhaps a little beyond normal. Many mate within their second century. I’ve been at Mark to settle down for some time now. He’s in imminent danger of becoming a confirmed bachelor, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I had meant it as an acknowledgement of Abernathy’s resistance to change, his absolute unyielding bullheaded stubbornness.

  Joseph took it as something else entirely.

  “If only there were an eligible young alpha female somewhere around.” He turned to face me, his left eyebrow taking on a lascivious arch. “How I would love to hear the pitter-patter of little paws again. To have some grandpups to spoil...”

  “So, this is where we conduct the gallery shows every month,” I broke in with enthusiasm bordering on hysteria. “All our resident artists contribute pieces, and people come buy them, and we drink the wine and eat the cheese and—”

  “That sounds festive,” Joseph said, gracious enough to let me change the subject. “I have to admit, I’m surprised he stuck with it all this time.”

  “Stuck with what?” I asked, stealing a glance at the miraculous place where Joseph’s starched white shirt met his tanned, smooth neck.

  “Art. When he ran away to Spain to chase that Caravaggio character, I thought it was a phase.”

  “Not…the Caravaggio?” In vain, I tried to keep my face from assuming that open-mouthed gape that seemed to lower my IQ by several points.

  “You know of him?” Joseph asked, seeming genuinely surprised.

  “Do I know of him? Are you kidding me? He’s like a Baroque god! I took an entire seminar on his work. It was an elective of course, which was totally not for credit and he really wasn’t part of my thesis but—”

  “You wrote a thesis?” Joseph paused, turning to face me in the hallway leading to the artist’s studios. “I’d love to read it.”

  I glanced around the gallery, turning to scrutinize his face. “Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I feel it’s only fair in the spirit of full disclosure to let you know that you are very near to inducing a full-on unadulterated geek fest on my part.”

  “I believe I’m up to the task.” An exceedingly charming crinkle appeared at the corner of his left eye when he smiled.

  “No,” I warned him. “You don’t understand. I’ll, like, jump up and down and stuff. And probably emit a variety of high-pitched squeaking noises. I might try to hug you. Or hump your leg. I’ve knocked people over before,” I confessed, remembering my unfortunate first encounter with the man I believed to be Vincent Van Gogh.

  Long story.

  “I could think of worse fates,” he said.

  “You say that now, but just wait until you’re flat on your back wondering why your head hurts and what that buzzing sound in your ears is.”

  “That sounds remarkably like an evening I shared with Sarah Bernhardt.” He laughed, filling the air around us with sound rich and sweet as melted caramel.

  “See?” I said. “That’s why I don’t want to talk about me. You’re far more interesting.”

  “You’re very kind to flatter an old man,” he said, offering me his arm once again.

  “I don’t think old is an adjective I’d use to describe you.” My voice had dropped an octave all on its own. Totally the brogue’s fault.

  We stopped in the hallway that joined the gallery to the oddities shop, flanked by studios on either side. Two of the four doors were open and their rooms empty.

  “These are the artists’ quarters, I assume?”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “Only two are occupied?”

  “At the moment, yes.” I briefly debated regaling him with the sordid story of how the occupants of two of the studios had met their untimely demise, but thought better of it when I realized that his travel-dicking his way around the world was mostly to blame. Wolves and bastards and geriatric half were-ladies, oh my!

  “Well,” he said as if sensing a dark turn in my thoughts. “I’m just delighted that you su
rvived your scrape with Wilde in London. Mark would clearly be lost without you.”

  “You know about that?” A blush stung my face as I felt my ears go all hot and throbby. Truthfully, I’d begun to feel a little awkward about accidentally starting an epic cross-species war. And by awkward I mean hideously guilty and ashamed.

  “Of course I know about it.” Joseph treated me to a winningly reassuring smile. “Allan rang me up gushing liked a damned schoolgirl. I thought I just might need to come meet the infamous Hannalore Matilda Harvey myself. And here I am.” He bowed, somehow managing not to make the move as douchebaggy as it would have been on any other being.

  “You came here for me?” I asked.

  “Among other things.” He raised a dark eyebrow at me.

  “Hold it, mister.” I poked a finger into his chest. “You said ‘other things.’ I know about other things. Other things is Abernathy speak for really important stuff you don’t want to tell me but that could probably get me killed.”

  Now I knew where Mark got his patented impenetrable enigmatic smile.

  “And we were off to such a great start,” I sighed, my heart heavy and my stomach growly (though the latter wasn’t at all Joseph’s doing). “You were agreeing with me, telling me things Mark didn’t want me to know…”

  “What things would that be?” Mark asked, appearing behind Joseph with startling swiftness. Extraordinary speed is one of those endearing little qualities that makes working for a werewolf extra-fun. Especially because it’s paired with extraordinary stealth. In my first weeks of working for Mark, I had deeply considered investing in absorbent briefs, such was his ability to sneak up on me. In addition to: reasons.

  Joseph waved a large, sun-bronzed hand at his son. “Nothing of importance, of course.”

  “Nothing of importance,” I echoed, failing to convince even myself.

  “I’m sure.” Mark folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Care to tell me something of importance?” he asked, fixing his father with a frighteningly intense amber-brown gaze.

  “If I must.” Joseph’s body had lost some of its casual alacrity. He stood a few inches taller, still barely scraping his son’s height.

  “I’d like to know,” Mark paused, his lips twitching between amusement and disgust, “why you have a decapitated vampire in the trunk of your rental car.”

  Chapter 4

  Levity returned to Joseph’s pleasantly weathered features. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mark said, sounding not sorry in the least. “Perhaps I should have been more clear, given your advanced age. There’s a decapitated vampire. In your trunk.” Mark said, exaggerating the pronunciation of each and every syllable.

  The smile fell from Joseph’s face.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing,” he growled. “Nor with any other of my faculties, should you care to find out.” He made no move to back his threat, letting his words carry the weight of his challenge.

  Mark stared unblinking into his father’s eyes.

  “The only thing I care to find out, is why you’ve brought a slaughtered vampire to my gallery,” he said. His voice bore the dangerous calm of an ice-skimmed lake. I knew from experience that venturing onto it meant a swift fall into spinning cold.

  But Joseph was intrepid.

  He shook his head and dropped a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Son, I would have thought at four hundred and thirty-one years old you’d know these ploys for my attention are quite unnecessary. Did I not hug you enough when you were a pup? Shall I hug you now?”

  He made a move to enfold Mark in his embrace, but was shrugged off.

  “Well, if the body in your trunk doesn’t concern you, then perhaps I ought to just call the police and let them look into it.”

  This was a bluff on Mark’s part, I knew. He would sooner sew his own leg back on with kitchen twine and a spoon shank than involve authorities of any kind. Not only this, but he employed a crack werewolf clean-up crew to handle just such situations. By my count, they’d taken care of half a dozen bodies without so much as a sniff in the local newspaper. What’s a random body in a trunk compared to reconstructing half the gallery overnight after a run-in with a Mack truck?

  “You are certainly welcome to do so, of course.” Joseph’s smile only lacked a few yellow canary feathers poking out from between his teeth. “But, in the interest of fairness, I should inform you that the car is rented in your name. Might make for a tense discussion given your frequent difficulties with local law enforcement.”

  I didn’t need to look at Mark’s face. The wall of hostility radiating off him made it difficult for me to breathe. But then, Mark’s presence had that effect on me even under normal circumstances. Or whatever passed as normal around here.

  “Why the hell did you rent a car in my name?” Mark asked.

  “The same reason I purchased my airline tickets in your name. I thought it best that no one know I’m here. Given the escalating series of recent conflicts, my arrival could seem problematic, don’t you agree?”

  “Is that why you’ve come?” Mark accused. “Because I’m not doing your job well enough anymore? Am I making you look bad? Affecting your dates is it?” His rage brightened and sharpened with each successive question.

  “Unfortunately,” Joseph said gently, not taking the bait, “it doesn’t matter what I think. The last months have been messy. First Penny, then Van Gogh, and now Wilde. The clans are talking.”

  “Let them talk,” Mark spat. “It seems that’s what they do best.”

  “Have you thought about what it would mean if they no longer accepted our rule? If they thought the line was broken?”

  “Daily,” Mark answered. “For the last four hundred years. And you?”

  “Not so often as that, admittedly,” the older man shrugged. “Son, I’m not here to lecture you. God knows you’ve done more than you had to in my stead.” Joseph glanced away then, the light from the gallery’s plate glass windows reflecting in his eyes’ sudden sheen.

  “Why are you here then?” Mark challenged.

  Joseph searched his son’s face and spoke slowly. “To see how you are. How can I hear of all that has happened and not worry if you’re okay?”

  Would this be the ‘among other things’ he had been referring to, then?

  “Right,” Mark laughed. “Which would be why you hauled up with a mangled vampire in your trunk. You want me to be okay? Leave.”

  At this, I slugged Mark in the arm. Didn’t he see a tender moment when it was trying to happen? The regret etched into Joseph’s face made my heart feel like it had been roped to an anvil. I’d heard enough.

  “He doesn’t mean that,” I interrupted. “He would love it if you stayed. Wouldn’t you, Mark?”

  “No,” Mark answered.

  “See?” I said. “He definitely wants you to stay.”

  “You are very kind, Hanna,” Joseph said. “But I didn’t come to impose. It was lovely meeting you.” He reached out and gave my upper arm a fatherly squeeze.

  Turning, he walked toward the gallery door. I looked to Mark, who had arms folded across his chest, back turned to his father, chin hitched in the air, eyes gazing at the ceiling.

  Stupid werewolves and their stupid wolfy pride.

  “All right,” I announced, stomping after Joseph and dragging him back by the hem of his coat. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. Mark Andrew Abernathy, you turn around this minute, or so help me, I will file every paper in your office. Without labels.”

  He didn’t budge.

  “And I’ll move stuff,” I added.

  His shoulders lowered a fraction, his large feet scraped a grudging circle until he faced his father.

  “Now hug.” I stood back, arms folded across my chest, resting bitch face strapped on tight.

  Mark shuffled a couple centimeters towards his father’s outstretched arms, mouth set in the flat unamused line frequently associat
ed with my presence. Clearly encouraged by this infinitesimal surrender, Joseph closed the gap, clapping Mark on the back with manly solidarity.

  “This one is good for you son,” he said, smiling at me over Mark’s shoulder. “I trust you won’t let her get away.”

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Mark muttered.

  “Of course not,” Joseph agreed, releasing him. “I’ll have to earn your trust. I understand that. I’m only asking for a chance to do so.”

  “You’ll do what you want.” Mark strode toward the stairs, not looking back. “But get rid of the thing in your trunk.”

  “I will, son.” Joseph watched Abernathy go and turned to me. “This isn’t going quite as well as I hoped.” His heavy sigh filled my heart with rocks.

  “You can’t feel too bad,” I said. “It’s just his way. He keeps everyone at a distance.” Even me.

  Especially me.

  “He has every right,” Joseph said with a small, sad smile. “I wasn’t the father I should have been to him. I always seemed to fail him in some way. I’ve known he was stronger than I since the midwife handed him over. He looked at me with these eyes,” he paused, looking at the gallery wall as if it might hold a portrait of his infant son. “They were so old, even then. I suppose I was intimidated. Isn’t that ridiculous? To fear an infant?”

  His disarming smile had returned.

  “No,” I said, “it’s not ridiculous.” In fact, I had heard similar sentiments from my mother’s mouth on several occasions. I felt a pang of sorrow for the solemn little boy Mark must have been.

  “Well,” he sighed, “I better hop to it. I’d hate to fail my first test.”

  “I would offer to help,” I said, “but, I really have no desire to see a decapitated vampire. I’ve had enough of them wandering through my life as of late already.”

  “Oh?” he asked.

  “Indeed. Wilde blabbed, apparently, and now I’m the flavor of the week.”

  “That sounds decidedly inconvenient.”

  “Tell me about it, mister. I damn near had to share a bath with Ernest Hemingway last night.” A shudder rippled through me at the memory of bubbles and chest hair.