Chapter 12 #2
I offer him a slight grin, which he returns. Oh, he’s definitely going to be stealing this canvas as soon as I walk out of here.
If he were an actual guard, he’d check my pockets before I left—verify my story. But as it is, he’s too busy staring at the empty canvas. I wonder if he’ll take it back to whoever hired him or just keep it for himself.
I had better keep my guard up. I’ve seen his face, and he thinks someone else is inquiring about this painting. Meaning they’ll want to hunt it down when it goes missing. This man doesn’t strike me as a murderer. Then again, every murderer has a portion of their history where they weren’t.
This painting isn’t valued high enough to interest our client, I write. But I have additional orders to inquire about a piece that has sentimental value for our client.
“What is it?” he asks. “Perhaps I could send you in the right direction.”
Yeah, perhaps he can get me out of this room so he can steal this worthless canvas.
I press my finger to my lips.
“Right. A secret.” He laughs, stroking his chin with his gloved fingers.
I whirl around, backing to the door somewhat playfully as I tuck my notepad to my chest. He gazes after me flirtatiously, and I return the grin, glad that he doesn’t seem to pick up on why I’m refusing to turn my back on him.
I’ve made it to the door when I glance at something across the room. A painting of a phoenix, only recognizable because I’ve recently heard her name. Like when you hear someone use a word you rarely hear, then start hearing it everywhere.
The bird itself is a childish rendition, its wings outspread as it cries out in pain to the heavens. Below it, an egg cracks out of a flurry of flames.
Someone with such little artistic talent shouldn’t be allowed to use the word “muse.” It’s an offense to Phoenix and Venus and all the other women he kidnapped.
I wonder which of the women he fancied so inconsequential that he didn’t bother to paint her at all, then called it a masterpiece. Or maybe that was his intention—reminding whichever muse the empty canvas was supposed to represent how invisible she truly was.
Invisible.
Phoenix’s voice echoes in my memory from the day we met them at the tavern. We may not like our names or their origin, but they do protect us from people like you tracking us down. Help keep us invisible.
But it’s the memory of Venus’s voice that has my head spinning. Ironic as that is.
I halt in my tracks. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He called them his muses and collected them specifically for their magic.
Why did I not think of this before? He must have had some way to extract magic, then used theirs to help him paint.
I don’t know whether he found a way to concentrate it and mix it with the paint, or if it has something to do with the way the canvas was made.
None of that matters at the moment.
What matters is this: the muses’ magic is in the paintings.
And I just told that thief masquerading as a bodyguard that Venus’s painting is worth enough to buy his own manor on this street.
I silently groan, then take a step back toward the man, slipping the small painting of the phoenix into my satchel as I do.
“Let me guess, you’re not an appraiser after all?” he says, his flirtatious manner now absent.
The satchel at his side looks to have something with four corners sticking out of it, making indentations on the leather.
He kneels and pulls a dagger from his boot.
All right, so I misjudged him. Not the non-violent sort.
I draw mine, the one the Nomad loaned me for this assignment, from my boot as well, then cock my head at him.
The man lets out a bemused huff.
I wait for him to make the first move. But to my surprise, he turns and runs in the opposite direction.
Right. The man’s a thief, not a guard. In my experience, thieves by trade don’t like to get their hands dirty with bodies. Especially when it means a fight.
I race after him. Our footsteps clatter down the hall, echoing off the glistening floorboards, stained by the moonlight creeping in through the windows. I think I’m right behind him, but by the time I round the corner he’s nowhere to be found.
I’m not letting some stranger get away with my only chance to get my voice back just because he bested me in a foot race. I dart down the hall where the corridor ends, but this isn’t an exit. So why is he nowhere to be seen when not one window is cracked?
Something slips out of the air, glinting in the moonlight. I glimpse it in just enough time to dodge, and it slices the dusty air rather than my heart.
The dagger, suspended in midair, jabs at me again, but I parry it with my own.
Okay, so either the thief got lucky and activating the invisibility feature is as easy as touching the painting, or he knew what he was looking for when he came here and was playing me for a fool the entire time.
This time, when the blasted dagger jabs at me, I note the angle.
The blade thrusts toward my left side, meaning it’s in his right hand. I aim my blade accordingly, and find the resistance of skin and blood rather satisfying as my blade sinks into flesh. The man yelps, and the painting clanks to the floor.
The man materializes, the hilt of my dagger protruding from his arm. It’s not a lethal blow, but at least I can see him now.
He groans in pain, grasping at the wound, his leather gloves quickly slicked with blood.
The man is a thief, and while he’s skilled with a blade, he isn’t used to taking injury.
I use his hesitation and shock to my advantage and scoop the painting from the floor.
He lets out a curse, but I’m already running down the hall.
I don’t let myself smirk until I’m outside. The cool air fills my lungs with a cold, electric energy as I run off into the night and toward the Nomad’s ship.