Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Winter rubbed his thumb against the smooth gold ring on his finger, nervously turning it as he and Aiden entered The Gallery. They had all been surprised when Damon demanded a meeting. Naturally, it was being held at The Gallery.
The bland white structure was more than an art museum in their world. It was one of the only places in Hartford that vampires could meet for a civil conversation. No fighting, biting, or killing was allowed on the premises.
His brother’s nightclub Blush used to have the same rules, but it didn’t have the powers of the Ministry behind it. Just Rafe. And no one wanted to get on Rafe’s shit list. There was no quicker way to get permanently banned from a Rafe club, and they’d all been damn nice over the years.
Of course, considering the dissolution of the Ministry, Winter had to wonder how safe The Gallery truly was.
When Aiden had reached out to him that evening, he’d been a little surprised that his father wanted him along instead of Marcus, who usually handled these types of political discussions.
He’d even been ready to slip into The Gallery invisible and shadow Aiden, but his father wanted him right at his side and visible for Damon to see.
There had been no time for discussion and significant strategy planning.
Winter was instructed to simply follow Aiden’s lead and watch his back.
That Winter could do easily enough. He certainly wasn’t prone to outbursts and bouts of temper like Rafe.
Even Marcus was becoming a bit touchy, but his older brother was also extremely protective of Ethan. That just made him a little growly.
To his own frustration, Winter’s mind kept slipping back to worry over Fox.
He’d hated leaving him at the loft alone, but the witch had been confident he wouldn’t be in any danger, thanks to Winter’s top-notch security system and the simple fact that no one knew where Winter lived.
Unfortunately, he’d not gotten the chance to show Fox where the secret escape route was if he needed to leave the loft quickly.
But Fox would be fine. This meeting would take only an hour at most, and then he could return home.
Maybe he could pick up Fox and they’d go to Marcus’s house.
He needed to have a long discussion with his family about his own gift as well as inform them that Fox was now a permanent part of his life.
“You looked worried,” Aiden said in a low voice, jerking Winter from his thoughts. “Has someone whispered bad news into your ear?”
Winter blinked at him in wonder. It hadn’t even occurred to him to check with the ghosts. Spending all his time with Fox recently had accustomed him to not dealing with the ghosts, but now miles separated them. The only thing holding them back was the ring Zelda had given him holding Fox’s blood.
“No, I…I was just lost in thought. I’ll check now,” he murmured.
He grabbed the ring with his right hand but hesitated.
He didn’t want to take it off. Not so much because he didn’t want to deal with the ghosts, but he simply didn’t want to lose that connection to Fox.
Wearing the ring meant his witch was always with him.
Biting the inside of his mouth, he slid it off and carefully placed it into the front pocket of his jeans.
Just a quick look and he could put the ring on again.
“That’s new,” Aiden pointed out with a look that clearly said he was eager to hear all the details.
“A very good development, but it will have to wait until after this meeting,” Winter said.
“I hope it’s the first of many.”
Winter smiled at his father before directing his gaze around the rest of the open art gallery.
The walls were pristine white while the floor changed from marble to dark hardwood in a variety of places depending on the art displayed.
Rafe had bitched about The Gallery on more than one occasion, calling the art boring and uninspired.
But his brother preferred things to be incendiary and controversial.
With the ring off, the ghosts within The Gallery slowly came into view.
There weren’t many. Most of the dead seemed to linger close to places that were either important to them or the place where they died.
It was unlikely that the art gallery was that to anyone.
It was simply a meeting place for vampires, but there were a few who floated through.
None appeared to take notice of Winter or Aiden as they crossed the main floor, heading toward the back private galleries.
There were no doors within the gallery, but the arrangement of walls could at least create the illusion of privacy.
“It’s quiet,” Winter murmured.
“Not surprised, but it doesn’t hurt to check.
” Aiden flashed him a reassuring smile, but there were some lines of tension around his eyes that he couldn’t quite shed.
His father was a master at appearing relaxed and in control no matter the situation.
Yet, over the years, Winter had gotten quite good at reading him.
Aiden was worried even if he wouldn’t admit to it.
“Have you spoken to Zelda?”
Aiden huffed a laugh. “Now that you’ve spoken to her and straightened things out, I’m the one avoiding her. I feel she’s got another tirade to dump on my head, and I’m not in the mood to hear it just yet.” He paused and sighed. “But she is probably right.”
“I’m getting the impression she usually is.”
“Hush. We can’t ever let her hear that. It only encourages her.”
Winter chuckled and he could feel a few eyes dart over to him.
This was a serious place for serious business.
Vampires didn’t laugh in The Gallery. Winter was suddenly filled with the urge to flip them all off while laughing maniacally.
Rafe was a bad influence. But then, Winter had a feeling he had more in common with his troublemaker brother than he cared to admit.
He’d always tried to model himself after Marcus, admiring his oldest brother’s calm, collected manner.
He had to admit it. The same mischief ran in his veins, just like Rafe’s. Probably why they were always digging and sniping at each other. Too similar.
Near the back of the art gallery, they came to a series of smaller rooms with little gold plaques next to the open doorways, listing the name of the artist whose work was displayed.
They’d passed a room dedicated to Monet already.
There was a Renoir, a Matisse, and a Cézanne.
Outside the room marked Delacroix stood a vampire dressed all in black with wide shoulders and stern expression. Obviously one of Damon’s bodyguards.
Winter and Aiden ignored him completely as they stepped into the small room containing a low marble bench in the center and large paintings on all the walls.
Eugène Delacroix was a French painter who was seen as a leader of the Romantic school of art during the nineteenth century.
Winter had only a passing awareness of him, but he recognized several of the pieces that filled the room with the lush colors and images.
Delacroix was a very interesting choice for Damon. Winter had to wonder if it was a conscious one or if he was unaware of Delacroix’s work completely.
There was just one man standing in the room, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stood in front of a painting entitled The Death of Sardanapalus, which featured a king reclining on a bold red bed while all his possessions were destroyed around him and his people slaughtered.
It was a chilling depiction, and Winter had a feeling it showed more of where Damon’s mind was than anything he might say to them.
Damon was willing to burn everything if he couldn’t get what he wanted.
A chill swept down Winter’s spine and he took a step back, remaining just behind Aiden’s shoulder as he approached the former Ministry member.
“Did you know that I met Delacroix once while I was in Paris?” Damon said by way of greeting.
“I never had the pleasure,” Aiden replied as he stepped up to view the painting beside Damon.
Winter took the opportunity to look at the man who was plotting the demise of his family.
There was no denying Damon James was a handsome man.
He stood at nearly six feet with stark white hair cut short and a strong, hard jaw that ended in a pointed chin.
His nose was almost a knife blade on his face while his eyes were an extraordinary pale blue.
It was like they glowed with an insane inner light.
His voice was cool and cultured, but there was something affected about it, as if he were trying to mask more humble beginnings.
In truth, Winter had never paid much attention to it. He’d been more concerned with Damon’s plans and schemes against his family. But there was no missing it now that he was seeing him stand next to Aiden.
His father was a sharp contrast with his alabaster skin and shoulder-length brown hair. His father had warm, golden eyes that reminded Winter of old coins. There was an inner light glowing from his eyes and a smooth patience in his tone.
There was no need to put on affectations. He might not know for sure, but he was confident Aiden was descended from royalty. It was in his regal bearing, cultured speech, and loving heart. It had to be true.
“Delacroix had a calm, reserved manner about him, but there was a fire and passion within him. There was no hiding it in his work. You can see it in the bold colors and the lush lines of his subjects.” Damon waved his hand at the painting, following the subject as she was preparing to have her throat cut by a soldier.
Aiden nodded. “Quite a talented artist.”
Damon smiled, but there was a calculated coldness to his eyes. “I knew we could agree on that. I’ve heard you have a keen eye for art.”
“I enjoy the visual arts, but my heart has always been turned more toward music.”