"Two Laughing Boys with a Mug of Beer" by Frans Hals (c. 1626), stolen 1988, 2011, and 2020 - value $17.5 million

Chapter Thirty-Three

Hyenas were significantly braver in a pack than alone. With ranks of encouragement, they could be emboldened to face a lion on his own turf, even roused enough to fall the king with cries of revolution.

At the sight of the stalking, snickering mutts, I did the opposite of August. Where August swung into stances of aggression and fury, I settled into my familiar mask of thick ice and unbothered boredom. I knew they'd want a reaction from me.

They always did.

As the posse came to a stop before us, Daniel's sneer was as permanent as he was predictable. Similarly, his jeer was as unoriginal as his personality. "Well, what do you know?" he drawled. "It's Eleanor Vaycker and her faithful henchman."

"Daniel," I acknowledged. I observed the imposters among his ranks, along with the gorgeous woman on his arm, raising a brow. "Cheating on me, I see."

Daniel feigned confusion at first, then snapped his fingers as if plucking a faded memory into view. He was smirking and smug, muddying the floors with his overflowing entitlement, practically dripping with condescension. I wasn't sure how he found the nerve to be his exhausting self every day.

"Ah, yes, that article! Such a shame when people jump to conclusions, isn't it? But, hey," he said, shrugging, "I thought we made a great couple."

Daniel Ponting stood with too much arrogance before us. His brother James was half a step behind him, except his expression was flat and reserved; it only served to further define the contrast between them. While their pack howled and laughed like the hyenas they were, I evaluated the two a little closer. The more I looked, the more Daniel grinned, and the more obvious I could see Jame's hidden grimace. Both Ponting brothers had a beautiful woman on their arm, but only Daniel looked to be enjoying himself. I felt stirs of pity. The women deserved better than fools dressed as dukes.

Daniel's sneer twisted when I had no response other than a leering smile. My lack of engagement in his veiled attack vexed him; he relied on the unstable hurt of others to fuel his childishly cruel temper. I wasn't giving him the satisfaction anymore. I was steady on my feet. My expression was sharp. My anger was sharper.

My revenge had been sharpest.

"Why are you here?" August interrogated. "I don't remember inviting any critic-wannabes to the party. You and your amateur gallery aren't at this level yet—so who'd you pay to get the invite?"

Daniel twirled the drink in his glass, unfazed by the accusation, yet only addressing a single part of the question. He was gloating. "No, you're right. Ponting Galleries doesn't have the same notoriety as Whitehill. We haven't had any works stolen, have we?"

I laughed, high and false and so very mocking of the shrill titters of his group.

"No, you haven't—but such a shame about the Swigfreid piece, isn't it?" I goaded.

The thrill that punched through me when Daniel's face blanched into anger was spiteful and glorious. It was an absolutely triumphant feeling, and I reveled in it.

A bitch can bite, too, Daniel.

August joined my crusade with the ease of experience. "Yes, I heard about that. A lawsuit for false advertising, right? That can't look good for you. But I guess people weren't happy to discover you kept a fake on the wall, and the real one at home. You slipped up the moment you put a price on the wall. How's the legal fees treating you?"

"Gosh, I hope the gallery's reputation can recover," I added, a sniper in the rafters. I pulled a look of false concern over my underlying pride.

I was sure Daniel had some furious retort on his tongue as he stepped forward, but I stepped forward, too. I felt August shadow my back. He wasn't needed; there was nothing Daniel could dish out that I couldn't return.

"You should hire better exhibit advisors," I suggested, feigning support. "They only have the best here at Whitehill, so they easily stay on top of everything. It helps avoid any mishaps like that. And really, none of the visitors ever have to worry—Whitehill always has the real works out."

Daniel was desperate and beyond reason as he spat out jeers. "Yeah, I'm sure you know a lot about putting out, don't you, Vaycker?"

I was sure he thought that would hurt me, but it only deepened my grin. Only a cornered bastard would scramble for insults that low.

"You wouldn't know, Ponting."

He took yet another step forward, puffed and blazing like the fire that burned itself out, but his brother laid a hand on his arm. James Ponting reminded his angrier mirror image where we were, and the brothers shared a silent argument in heated looks. Eventually, Daniel flared as if to explode, then doused back down with his brother's hand on his shoulder.

"I'll see you around," Daniel warned, his ego reattached. There was a malicious glint in his eyes that refused to dampen. "I hope there won't be any 'mishaps' tonight, Eleanor. Y'know, with all these people in the museum."

My resolve didn't waver. I met his snarled challenge head-on, not backing down until he slunk into the crowd, date in tow.

His brother turned to follow, but I couldn't help myself. "James?" I called.

James turned to me, uncertain and wary. He was suddenly, and rather uncomfortably, free of Daniel's demands. Alone without his brother, James was vulnerable. So I stepped forward, away from August, and stood in front of the lesser-known Ponting brother. There was only one thing I needed to say. No malice was needed. Only layers of curiosity, patience, and encouraging empathy. My question would be quiet, but I hoped it'd echo to the places it needed to.

"What'd his art ever do for you, anyway?" I murmured.

I saw the spark of understanding. It was gone before others could notice, but I saw how it ricocheted through his system, straightening his spine and sharpening his gaze. It was enough of a spark to light a bulb—and that was enough for now. James jerked his chin in acknowledgement and turned his back. I let him go, a minnow released to the pond until ready to be the frog it deserved.

"God, I hate those two," August fumed when James was gone. "Stuck-up, self-serving, arrogant pricks!"

"I know," I agreed, downing the rest of my drink. "Can you see if there's any waiters around? I need another. Or two. Actually, just see if they'll give you the tray."

August snickered, promising not to go far as he went off in search of more drinks. I stood alone. I was vulnerable now, too, gazing at the people who kept changing like light through a canopy.

When the dulcet voice I knew so well drifted from behind me, I wasn't ready. I was never ready, no matter how many times I was found. It rattled the air in my lungs, tripped the beat of my heart, and made my fingers twitch with the urge to touch.

"You're stunning."

His power over me was something so vulnerable, so right, so dangerous.

So goddamn dangerous.

I turned, knowing the blaze burned the iris but too captivated to look away. He was striking in his suit. He always was. His tie even matched the green of my heart right then; I could challenge the depths of an emerald in matching hues. I was mottled with jade and viridian, like the floors of teeming forests, because I stood among people who could freely be without fear of the costs. People who could hold someone's hand, and happily cherish their touch, without sentencing them to pain. I was struck by jealousy I'd never known the likes of—because I'd never been so harshly reminded of all the things I couldn't have before.

My hand curled around fabric as I tucked the green away. I pulled the skirt of my dress until the gown picturesquely draped to the floor, and dipped my knees in an almost-curtsy. I attempted a weak lean on humor with a smile on my face. "Trick of the trade, I clean up well."

I felt a shiver slither down my exposed back, a silent plea for a touch, as I forced myself to enjoy the warmth of his gaze. My skin prickled. It was if the slumbering sun had woken for just a moment, gathering drops from the storms I'd weathered in these halls, leaving bumps in its wake.

He didn't answer—but he didn't have to. It was written in bold letters across him, pledged true by his gaze. I allowed myself another full look at the sun.

"You look good, Simon."

"Stunning," he murmured again. It didn't seem like my compliment had reached him at all. He still had that look in his eyes, and it was...

God.

My hand faltered where it held back my heart, weakened where it clenched shut the latch of my gates, and paused where it bloodied knuckles on the teeth of my enemies. My resolution wavered, as I longed to feel him. To test how his tie would wrap around my fist. To know how much heat I could withstand even if scalded. I craved what my evergreen heart pined after, eager to see if it was as sweet as promised. I was lost in his ebony. I wanted to refuse to let him go when the world clawed at my skin, trail his cheeks and prevent tears with my touch, and cradle innocence from the rubble raining down around us. I wanted to desperately give shelter from the restless skies above me, no matter how loud they rumbled and shouted.

I wanted to say yes.

For a moment, I slipped on the ruins I stood on. I stumbled on the stones, losing my balance on the markings used to indicate people I'd lost. For a moment, I fell from the truth and hoped he'd catch me; my knees almost buckled under the desire to give in to temptation.

Except, the babble around us rose and fell like a wave. Something pierced the haze I saw about him. He was clearly reminded of something unpleasant; his jaw tightened, and those holy eyes glanced to the crowd. I realized Simon's mind was partially elsewhere.

He looked torn between wondrous veneration and the need to confront what swirled in that onyx. It was a tempest; yet as I watched, one wrangled control over the other. The compelling desire to defend was written on Simon's bones. It swelled and swelled until it drove his tongue.

"Did he threaten you?"

His voice was rough and unholy; it shocked a believer to hear it tumble from the lips of a saint. In truth, it only compounded his appeal, and my tongue could blister under the heat I swallowed. I marveled everything that was Simon Gastapolous.

I gazed at him, still fighting distraction from his appearance. I was baffled by his question. I couldn't think of anyone but him; my thoughts were his alone to occupy. "Who?" I mumbled.

Simon stepped closer. "Did Daniel Ponting threaten you?" he demanded. His voice was dangerously deep; his words were razor-thin.

Something was pushing at the gates in his eyes, something I'd seen glimpses of before—but, god, never like this. I swayed. I yearned. I swooned and prayed. I took a step closer to the edge, longing to relinquish my truth, but I still buried it with the unease of a fugitive.

"It was nothing."

Simon took another step towards me. He was teetering on the line, threatening to disregard what'd be a respectful distance for strangers and acquaintances. I didn't wholly believe we were either, but no one else needed to know that. He seemed to forget our place in a crowded room of onlookers—or perhaps he didn't care. The darkness of his eyes was thicker now, more smothering, more dangerous.

More beautiful.

"Simon," I whispered. He couldn't come closer, because if he did...

I wouldn't be able to accept forgiveness.

I glanced at the chattering throngs of bystanders, struggling to yank back control from the moment enveloping us. He was hanging by a thread; there was something too cool in his voice for the fury I saw pacing on the other side of his barricades.

"Did he threaten you?" he repeated through a clenched jaw.

"Were you eavesdropping?" I accused, sidestepping the question. "How do you even know?"

The prowling beast paused, lifting its head as it smelled blood in the air—and I realized my mistake. The pulse in my throat almost stuttered a surrender when Simon's eyes flashed with the light of fury.

"So he did," he confirmed.

His voice was low, but suddenly, I realized the level he'd stoop to for me was even lower. The thought eased an itch I didn't know I had; it soothed an ache I didn't know existed, and woke a fellow beast I didn't know could howl as loud as it did then. Even with one foot off the ledge, Simon was nothing less than righteous and alluring. Even with murder plastered on the mind, he was virtuous and morally true. Even among kings, he ruled without question, claiming my attention as his. Even surrounded by glass, I'd drop to my knees and pray at his altar.

"You have to go," I said. I shook my head to clear the spell, tightening my fist on my control until familiarly numb. "You can't be seen with me. I definitely can't be seen with you. Go. Don't worry about it—I can handle Daniel."

"So can I," he challenged. He still sparked with fury over Daniel's audacity, and too much of me hungered to see a rush of flames burn this castle to the ground.

Simon was a guardian at heart, a protector, a champion. It was his job. It was what he was trained at, and what he was good at doing—but something was different now. Right now, it seemed he'd only be methodical in the clean-up process; everything before would be primal and fierce. Something in his eyes was almost... almost unhinged. And it was sexy, and dark, and what every princess dreamed of. I knew he'd fight for my honor, my name, and my pride with only his hands and his heart, if I let him.

Calm down. Rein it in.

I denied his offer, and tried to shoo him away, frantically hoping to urge his reluctant self back into the folds of the crowd. Simon knew I could handle myself, but I saw how he shook at the thought of threats lodged in my direction. It strained his willpower and challenged his skill. I wasn't surprised when he dutifully tested the sincerity of my words, and masterfully tempted my vengeful heart, but I held firm.

Finally, he relented, hardly in time for August to reappear.

August popped up like a daisy, beckoning me over; a flower among a patch of ugly weeds. I slipped through the crowd to join him. First I accepted the outstretched drink, then I looked to see who he'd found.

The thrill Simon had woken in my veins was snuffed, the once-purring cat snarled and crouched, and reminders poked scars too many times reopened. Simon was gone, but risk never followed suit. Whitehill was an arena.

"Eleanor, this is—"

"Vanessa Cardui," I supplied, already reaching for the woman's hand.

The redhead was remarkable. She stole attention in a high-necked black gown, latched all the way to her throat and studded with gold. Emeralds slyly peeked from her ears, guarding the sharp angles of her elegance; the entire ensemble perfectly accentuated the hints of strawberry and copper in her hair.

Vanessa Cardui was older than us. It was hardly more than a decade, however, meaning she was the perfect age to flutter and camouflage in all crowds. She could flit both high and low, charm the flowers as well as the fruit, and earn badges of kinship from every generation.

"Eleanor, it's good to see you," Vanessa greeted. Her smile was even brighter than her jewels. There were layers to a smile like that—layers I knew all too well in these halls. I returned it with my own.

"You too, Vanessa."

Surprise kissed August's brow; he wagged a finger between us. "You two know each other?"

"Of course," I said. "Everyone here knows the head of the Modern Artist's Society of Cosmopolitan Kinship. She's written, what, three?—four?—beautiful pieces just this year for their quarterly newsletters. My favorite was the one about modern ownership, and her suggestions regarding repatriation of controversial works. It was a real eye-opener."

She batted a hand, brushing off my praise and simultaneously accepting it as well-known truth. She was no stranger to commendation.

"Eleanor and I met a few months ago," Vanessa informed a nonplussed August. "She was looking into the disputed ownership of a particular piece, and I helped her get in touch with the rightful owners."

"Really? I had no idea. What piece was it?" August asked, turning to me. I blanked. My jaw dropped, but I had no answer prepared to give him.

"Oh, there you are!" Vanessa suddenly exclaimed. She saved me as she drew August's attention, reaching into the crowd and pulling out an unwelcome sight.

Andrew Graves was anything but thrilled as he emerged from the wall of party guests. He was especially displeased when he saw me; his expression immediately changed from disgruntled to acidic, something I bristled at. He came to a stop beside Vanessa, and I readied my armor.

"Eleanor. I'm surprised to see you here," he drawled. "Did you forget something last time?"

He made no attempts to hide his condescension. He was too old to act this way—but there he was.

I forced an airy smile, already over the sight of his ill-tempered, crotchety face. "I'm just here to support the Whitehills," I replied. "And remind the public there's still art to be seen, even in the absence of the Widow."

"You have no hope of recovery, then? How convenient."

Vanessa placed a hand on Grave's arm and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. I didn't understand their familiarity, but I understood the look of pained warning in her eyes. People were listening.

Vanessa turned back to August and I. She already had an apologetic expression masterfully drawn. "It was so good seeing you two! Unfortunately, there's an urgent matter I must discuss with Andrew. Hopefully, we'll run into each other soon; I'd love to catch up."

August graciously nodded, offering his sincerities, but I only eyed her with skepticism. Vanessa met my stare. She wrapped her arm around a silent, angry Graves, and gave nothing away as they disappeared into the crowd.

I glanced at August. His expression had turned blank, exhausted and sore from staying afloat during relentless waves of our most-disliked party guests. This temporary calm was appreciated. Even hurricanes gave a reprieve between its toughest battles.

"What do you think that was about?" he eventually asked, retreating back to reality. He curiously watching where they'd faded between guests.

I shrugged. My own eyes returned to the crowd, fingers tightening on the stem of my glass. Hurricanes eventually weakened, but first, they gave it their best shot.

"August?" I decided. "I'll be right back."

August turned from where he'd already been distracted, concern blossoming as questions formed. "Where are you going?"

"The bathroom."

"By yourself?"

"Since I was two, yes," I quipped. "I'm quite good at it."

He shook his head, fears anything but alleviated.

"You should ask Lena or Carrie," he suggested, already looking around. "Don't girls travel in packs? Just in case, or something?"

In case I get cornered and tried for treason in the stalls?

"I'll find them," I assured, lying through my teeth. "Don't worry."

I slipped away before he could stop me, feeling August's surveillance until I was out of sight. I headed towards where I'd seen the unlikely pair disappear.

When I found them, they were in a corner: a place I should've avoided in light of recent events. Instead, I hastened my way towards them. Vanessa stood before a granite statue of Janus, while Graves threatened to be swallowed by shadows and spite. I granted smiles and nods on the way, faking composure as best I could, then crashed into their huddle and demanded explanation. It was hissed like the accusatory warning it was. "How do you two know each other?"

Vanessa's composure was hesitant and withdrawn at my arrival. It was startling; she was usually the social butterfly gracing every shoulder and tilting every domino. Now, her eyes were as full of questions as my mouth when she reached out and grasped my arm. The elegant edges of her refined beauty had turned harsh and shadowed; her voice was too urgent and sharp. "Eleanor, what happened?"

I was at a loss as I gaped at her. "To what? What is going on?" I demanded. "Why are you here?"

Vanessa took a deep breath. She looked unsure; my own confusion mirrored hers as she examined me. My anxiety was skyrocketing. Then, she furtively glanced around before turning to the man beside her. Graves was his own statue carved from withheld fury; Vanessa's expression was sympathetic as she implored him to soften.

"Andrew," she started peacefully, "we should—"

The man-statue sprung to life at her suggestion, facing off with the fiery woman. He was terse as he spoke, as if I wasn't standing right in front of him. "Why are we even talking to her, Vanessa?" he snapped. "She lost her at best, but, hell—she was probably the one who took her!"

I stood, gobsmacked and affronted.

That was a hell of a reaction. Even if he thought I took the painting, or hell, cursed his ancestors themselves, that was over-the-top. And the wildness of the truth, or what I thought was the truth, made this a comedy of errors.

"Excuse me?"

"Andrew," Vanessa urgently whispered. With a jerk of her head, she gestured to our surroundings, reminding him where we were.

He opened his mouth to furiously retort, but I shook my head. I didn't have time for this. I needed to get back to August, and out of this corner. I brushed off his tantrum, stepping closer to Vanessa, and said, "Vanessa, can we talk in private—"

"Not here." She followed my gaze, then nodded her chin towards Graves. "But don't worry about him. He knows."

My jaw dropped, eyes darting between the surly man and the Machiavellian woman. I pointed at him. "He...?"

"He knows, Eleanor. He's part of it. There's a reason he's here—we need to talk."

"I don't understand." My head was spinning and so was the doubt. I wasn't sure how much he knew, because some things didn't line up. "Vanessa, what exactly does he know? Why is he saying—"

"Eleanor," she urgently cut me off. "Not. Here."

I continued on, mostly ignoring her in my shock. My words weren't quite directed to anyone anymore; they were balloons released to bump the sky with unknowable purpose. "But I can't believe it. I only thought he was investigating me, like everyone else."

Vanessa shifted. "In a way, he was—"

"—is," Graves rudely butted in. "I'm still investigating her."

"What the hell is your problem?" I snapped, flung back into anger, feeling my fists clench. "If you know, then why are you saying all that shit? You and your fuc—"

"Eleanor!" Vanessa cut me off again. Her voice was punishing even in its low, quiet depths.

But even she couldn't simultaneously maintain two feral beasts on a leash; when she held back one, the other lunged. Graves' face twisted into a snarl. His words were meant to hurt.

He spat insults like others flung rocks.

"You're a traitor!"

"Oh, screw you, Graves!"

Fear buckled under fury, and confusion hid from the prowl of vengeance. I wielded the peeved skill of fury I'd earned from years and tears. "I don't know what your issue is, but I don't give a shit. Do you know how much I've given up for this so-called community? Why didn't you tell me you knew Vanessa? And if you knew this whole time, why did you—"

"Stop!" Vanessa ordered, pushed past her generous limit. As if puffed into a leering display of dominance, she seemed bigger and angrier than before. She demanded our obedience like the statued god behind her expected caution and respect. "Keep your voices down. It's time to leave. Walk away—we can't be seen talking like this."

"I know," I admitted, glaring at Graves. "I wondered why you even came at all."

I could hardly breathe under the million questions pinging in my brain. They were still piling up, like a robber who'd cracked ATM codes and now bathed in showered money.

"Eleanor, go," she commanded again. "We'll be in touch."

I shot another dirty look at the asshole beside her, and turned to leave.

I was three paces away when something settled, clicking into place; my finger on the trigger granted some peace. I looked over my shoulder. I was sure of this decision—something I hadn't been able to say for a long time.

"No," I decided.

Vanessa raised a brow, quizzical. I shook my head and marked the spot the battle ended.

"We have nothing else to talk about, Vanessa. What's done is done. I won't ever be coming back."

Then I was gone. I slammed the door on this chapter, this circle of hell, and ignored the rattle of bars behind me.

Eleanor's had two face-offs so far, but she's got more coming. Ready your weapons; the butterflies are fluttering. Also, did you know a group of butterflies is called a kaleidoscope? How pretty, right?

- H

P.S. It feels like I've lost some readers. Thanks for sticking it out, to those who've stayed! I have a lot of skeletons in the draft closet ready to be finished and come out... (but I will be at the beach with family for the next week, and who can get any writing done when nephews are building sand castles, amiright?)