2
“ O ur target is this man.” Percy tapped his lovely finger on a picture of the smug face of a rich twenty-something. “Philippe Dubois, descendent of mediocre but wealthy aristocracy, drug kingpin, and former Eurovision winner for Belgium, who dabbles in stolen art he has no right to share a room with.”
“Which explains what we’re doing here in Bruges, Belgium,” Joe put in.
Percy squinted. “That was a weird thing to say.”
Joe frowned. “Was it?”
“Yes.” Percy eyed him a little longer. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” Joe said slowly.
“Hmm,” Percy huffed with one more uncertain glance. “Very well. This,” and he pulled one picture from beneath another, “is where we’re going tonight.”
The image showed a three-storey palace, five misaligned windows spanning each floor, the top level set in a copper roof gone green, with a huge, round turret augmenting the left flank. The stone walls gave a fantastical pinkish glow, and the lot was ornamented with gothic spears and arches of iron, gargoyles, and the deathly sharp stake of a weathervane on top. Around the gorgeous building swept a greenish moat, and, all things considered, the chateau looked exactly like the perfect destination for a Halloween ball. Had it been anywhere near Halloween, but as Percy pointed out, such quibbles do not interest the filthy rich.
“This is Mr Dubois’s country estate,” Joe explained helpfully.
With a twitch in his left cheek, Percy muttered, “As you well know.”
“And the reason we’re going,” Joe continued, excitedly draping a wide-open art catalogue over the top, “is to steal this.”
The next image was full page and full colour. It featured a painting depicting two ghastly figures. In the background, laid out long on a bed, was a woman—sickly, gaunt, the paleness of her face almost indistinguishable from that of the pillow she lay upon. With dark hair and nauseating greenish sheets, it was the image of a woman either dead, or very close to dead.
In the foreground and centre of the painting stood a young child, upon a harshly, unevenly shaded orange floor. The little girl, even from the facsimile in the book, seemed to look directly into the eyes of the viewer. But then she also didn’t. She stared out piercingly, but somehow her gaze was not quite there at the same time. They were the eyes of someone present but also vacant—in the room, but not. They were the eyes of someone who had been part of reality, then fled from it in madness. Tangible and intangible.
Percy had seen a very close reproduction of the painting in person, and found it disturbing enough, but Joe felt a sharp chill tap its way down his spine at the thought of being alone with the real thing, even if it hadn’t been haunted.
But it was.
And they were going to steal it.
“Death and the Child by Edvard Munch,” Percy announced. “Completed in 1889, it depicts Munch’s own mother and sister. It captures, in vivid horror, the moment the little girl realised her mother was dead and gone forever. A moment so harrowing it haunted him for the rest of his life, and he painted it over and over in an attempt to come to terms with the trauma. He never did, of course, but whatever he distilled in this painting has gone rogue, and this particular version is said to be one of the most dangerous paintings in existence.”
“One of?” Joe said, in a vague attempt to lighten the mood.
“One of,” Percy replied seriously. “But this one has an added air of mystery. As you know, anyone left alone with this painting will be murdered by it. But is it the little girl or the mother who kills the victim? And why do they choose such a…” He gave pause over the correct wording, before settling on, “Such a viscerally malignant manner?”
Joe swallowed nervously. “You paint quite the picture.”
“I do not.” Percy grinned. “But I am very good at stealing them. And that’s the task that now befalls us. Steal this priceless, deadly work of art, deliver it to an anonymous buyer, and receive seven hundred thousand dollars in exchange for our hard work.”
“But,” said Joe, “that’s the brilliant part. You’ve had two fakes made. So we pass one of those to the buyer, they think they’re getting a supernatural murder weapon, but all they really get is a nice copy.”
“Meanwhile,” said Percy, “we replace the real thing with the other fake and burn the haunted painting. No one gets hurt, and we walk away seven hundred thousand dollars richer.”
“I’ve got to say,” said Joe, and not for the first time, “for an art historian, you’re pretty relaxed about destroying a completely irreplaceable work of art.”
Percy blinked twice. “One of her victims was strangled with their own entrails.”
“Good point,” Joe rasped.
“I thought so,” replied Percy. “But although this sounds simple enough, it’s not going to be easy.” A fourth sheet of paper, a blueprint of the palace, was pulled over the rest. “Dubois is giving one of his vile parties tonight. Luckily for us, it’s a masquerade ball. Two of the real guests have been ‘detained’—”
“In a shipping container.”
“Yes, in a shipping container.” And he added disapprovingly, “With blankets, soft lights, snacks, and a heater to make sure they’re cosy.”
Joe shrugged guiltily, so Percy continued, “And their invitations have come to us. Therefore, you are?”
“Ignatius Fürst Fugger von Durchdenwald, German lesser aristocracy. Though why I had to get the stupid nam?—”
“And I am Windsor Cromwell Grosvenor Montague Smith the Third.” Percy smiled. “Son of some upwardly mobile CEO or other. We enter, have a glass of champagne or two just to be seen, keep to ourselves, then quietly disappear. The party will take place in the grounds here,” he tapped on the blueprint, “throughout the palace here and here, but we need to go here.” The same finger slid to the far end of the map, to a circular room. “This is Dubois’s murder room. Third story, at the top of a lonely turret, in a bedroom guarded by two large and dangerous men at all times. It’s soundproofed, and beneath the expensive sheets of this very big bed is a lining of thick plastic to make cleanup easier. He’s said to have killed eleven people in that room alone, all with the painting.”
“That Belgian bastard,” Joe spat.
“Quite right,” Percy agreed. “He’s a cold-blooded eurotrash psychopath, and you should never underestimate that sort of person.”
Joe nodded. “You don’t win Eurovision unless you have a ruthless streak.”
“Or unless you rig it, which is the same thing, really. In this case we’re dealing with the sort of no-talent sympathy vote that cheers for themselves the loudest when the expected score comes in. Keep your guard up at all times. If Dubois has even an inkling we’re after that painting tonight, either one of us is liable to find ourselves thrown in the room with it. Then what do you do?”
“With a ghost?” said Joe, his confident, defiant raise of the chin making Percy a little weak at the knees. “You can’t kill a ghost, as you know, so I’m going to talk to her. There must be some sort of suffering that’s tying her to this life, whether mother or daughter, and I think if I can?—”
“She’s Norwegian,” Percy replied, controlling any outward sign of his disapproval. “She won’t know what you’re on about.”
“Oh.”
“You’re going to die is what you’ll do if you try that, so do not get trapped in that room alone. Dubois’s personal security are complicit, so don’t hesitate to kill them if they try anything. But if worse comes to worst and you do get stuck with the picture, none of this ‘saving the sad ghost’ bullshit. Your only chance of survival will be to destroy the painting before she climbs out and destroys you.” He reached across to a side table. “You have your cigarettes and your lighter, and here’s some lighter fluid. Douse the painting well, burn it.”
Joe accepted the long, slim tin hesitantly. “Do you worry that maybe starting a fire while locked in a soundproof room at the top of a turret would be a more terrible way to die?”
Percy locked eyes with him. “You remember I showed you how to pick a lock?”
“Yes, but it’s hard. It takes time.”
“The fire will give you more time than a murderous ghost would. You could try stabbing or shredding the picture, but I’ve never done that before and I can’t guarantee it will work.”
“Oh, but you’ve burned a lot of haunted paintings?” Joe quipped.
“Only two,” said Percy, tidying their plans away. “And it worked both times. Might I suggest this isn’t the best time for experimentation?”
Joe rolled his eyes. Of course Percy had experience burning haunted paintings. And of course he would casually drop that in at the last minute. Annoying, sexy Percy.
Annoying, sexy Percy walked around the table and settled himself back against it. He had chosen a dark, heady perfume to match his costume, and the scent drew Joe almost irresistibly, just as the rich silk of the settling cape and corset begged to be touched.
Joe held himself steady as Percy concluded, “We hid a copy of the painting in a copse on the grounds yesterday. Hopefully, it’s still there. If we can winch it up and into the window of an empty bedroom, we can sneak it past the guards, and make the switch. But this part is important.”
Joe scrunched up his face, because he knew what Percy was going to say, but he still couldn’t understand it.
“We must try not to damage the painting on the way out. Treat it as the masterpiece it is.”
“But we’re going to burn it anyway,” said Joe, for possibly the tenth time.
Percy sighed. Need he explain again? “This is a particularly vicious ghost, and I don’t want to take any chances. Ideally, we’ll exorcise the picture before we burn it to make sure there are no nasty surprises.”
“Okay, but then what difference will a few bumps and scrapes make?”
“Do you want to piss her off?”
“I imagine an exorcism will piss her off.”
“Joe, please.” Percy sighed dramatically. “Can we just stick to the plan? It’s all this going off piste during a heist that sinks everything.”
“Fine.” Joe also sighed. Less dramatically. “I’ll be deadly careful with the precious painting before we set it on fire.”
“That’s all I ask, handsome.” Percy leaned across and kissed Joe gently, just on the sharpest point of his impressive jawline. Joe closed his eyes and leaned into it, letting the tingle of Percy’s kiss slip over him. Percy passed a hand around his neck and pulled him a little closer, taking the kiss a step up his jaw.
“Percy…” muttered Joe in half-hearted warning.
“It might go better,” Percy mumbled, moving the next kiss to Joe’s soft, full lips, “if I wasn’t preoccupied,” Percy slid a hand down over Joe’s large, ever-firming cock, “with thinking about fucking you.”
Joe slapped his hand away. “That’s all you ever think about.”
“Hmmm. True,” reflected Percy, watching his handsome fiancé make for the door. His back, his ass, his strong thighs, all clad in the fanciful leather of a fictional vampire slayer.
The real crime would be to let that costume go to waste…
What a long evening it would be, especially if Joe was going to be so strict about things.
But then Joe turned and his whip slapped against his right thigh. “Well, Dracula?”
On the other hand, Percy considered, as he laced his mask over his heavily made-up eyes, maybe if he played his cards right, Joe would be stricter still.
“Anything you say, Van Helsing.”