Full Color (ORCA #3)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

DIMITRI

The second I watched Quin’s smile slip from his face, I knew something was wrong. A spike of anxiety settled in my stomach, and my suspicions from the first time I’d seen this painting at the gallery came rushing back. My skin had never behaved the way it did with this painting, and I didn’t know what to make of it. In my gut, I knew the painting wasn’t the real one, but I didn’t understand why my skin was reacting to the painting like it was authentic. The only difference was the slight flicker of iridescence before the colors came through on my skin like the painting was real.

“Dimitri!” Dasselaar hissed, grabbing my attention. When I looked away from Quin, Dasselaar was scowling, the muscle in his jaw tight. He pointed at the painting, and I stepped forward, hiding my hand and the canvas from view. The antitransmutative drugs made my animal form inaccessible, but I was able to tap into just enough of that side of myself to shift a small portion of my skin. After an hour spent showing off for Dasselaar’s guests, I was starting to get tired, and it took a lot more effort to make my skin respond. I closed my eyes and concentrated hard, and my skin warmed in a way that was becoming familiar. I opened my eyes and watched until the flicker that whited out all the color on my skin subsided, and then I turned, keeping my hand over the painting, so everyone could see the colors were perfect.

Almost.

To the untrained eye, the colors were exact.

But when I looked closer I could see the slightest variation in hue and could make out the edges of my hand where it didn’t completely blend into the colors on the canvas behind it.

Looking at this now, I knew this painting was a fake. An exceptional forgery, but a forgery all the same.

And now, what had been suspicions at the gallery when I’d first seen the painting had become facts.

Which meant I had lied to Stefan Dasselaar.

A collective gasp echoed through the room as everyone made sense of what they were seeing, then everyone began talking at once.

Everyone except Quin.

The din grew deafening as Dasselaar’s guests began asking him questions and talking excitedly to each other, but Quin didn’t move within the chaos.

He stood stock-still at the back of the crowd, his dark eyes wide as he looked at where my hand hovered over the painting. Eventually, his eyes found mine, the dark depths filled with confusion. Quin knew something about this painting.

Dasselaar and the crowd moved toward the door where Dasselaar’s banker, an owlish man I’d met only once before, was waiting to take their bids for the auction. Quin moved with them, and I tried to linger, hoping to fall into step beside him, but as soon as I began to move, strong hands grabbed my biceps from either side and held me still.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Scar’s voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, especially since I’d overheard him talking to Dasselaar the previous night.

I didn’t respond, and his grip on my arms tightened. Instead of leading me to the door everyone else had gone through, Scar and the bear shifter on my other side tugged me farther into the ballroom gallery and through a concealed door that led into the unused service corridor.

A scream built in my chest, panic rising, as I imagined what Scar had planned for me, but he just led me down the stone halls until we came to a set of stairs. He shoved me up them, the other guard leading the way, and I realized there was something familiar about being in this part of the house. We reached the third floor near the linen closet. Exactly where Quin and I had emerged last night, and Scar pushed me down the hall until we were standing in front of my door.

“Mr. Dasselaar is disappointed with your performance today, so you will not be joining him and his guests for dinner. He said he will consider having something sent up, but I wouldn’t count on it.” Scar’s lip curled in a sneer as he shoved me into my room and locked the door.

I wasn’t wholly sure how I had disappointed Dasselaar, but I didn’t really care. I wanted to know what Quin knew about that painting. Was that the one his brothers were planning to steal? Would they still bother if they knew it was fake?

If Quin’s brothers didn’t come here to steal the painting, would Quin still keep his promise to get me out of here?