Alex Van Helsing The Triumph of Death - By Jason Henderson Page 0,30

the Puerta de Murillo. “Come, come, we have not much time if you want to get a good look.” The man gestured for them to follow. He led them up wide steps to a large wooden door that lay half open. “We have set aside space in the lower level, where the jewels are kept.”

“Are you the curator?” Alex asked.

Sangster said, “Alex, this is Federico Cazorla, Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

Alex shook the man’s hand, and just as he was marveling that for some reason they were going to be led around by a minister, he lit on the man’s name. “Cazorla?”

“Alex!” came another voice, and he looked ahead to see a girl just coming out the door. She was smoothing down a brown dress that perfectly complemented a familiar green scarf on her neck. Her brown hair was shoulder-length, wavy, and lush. It had grown since he had seen her last. The girl ran and nearly tackled him, throwing her arms around him and kissing each cheek.

“Vienna,” Alex said, smiling. “I had no idea you were back in…”

“Back home? Of course.” Her voice was husky and lush.

Alex turned to Astrid. “This is Vienna Cazorla; she used to be a student at Glenarvon-LaLaurie.”

“Except that it wasn’t originally called Glenarvon-LaLaurie. Just LaLaurie, until Alex blew up his own school and the students were thrown together.” Vienna’s huge eyes crinkled when she talked and held him momentarily spellbound. The scarf moved with her throat, and Alex remembered the scarf had once been alive, a magical curse that bound her to put Alex in harm’s way as surely as it held her head to her shoulders. She was still wearing it, and he wondered if it still held her in thrall, or if she just loved scarves.

Astrid introduced herself and Vienna kissed the air next to each of Astrid’s cheeks. She took Astrid and Alex by the arms and led them in, ignoring the adults. “Alex, I didn’t know you would be bringing a friend.”

“I gotta say, I didn’t know I’d even be here!” Alex replied. “And now I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I live here,” she said cheerily. “How long are you in Madrid?”

“A day at most. The Polidorium has six days to stop the end of the world, I think,” he said casually.

Vienna nodded. “So, you’ll be staying at my pensione tonight. You won’t begrudge a friend the opportunity to be hospitable. Will you?”

Alex smiled. He’d forgotten about Vienna, the arm-sweeping, flirty vivaciousness of her. They all looked back at Sangster.

Sangster shrugged. “I think that sounds swell.”

“You hear that?” Alex asked, smirking. “Swell.”

With that settled, they stepped into the museum, and Alex was immediately overwhelmed by the expansiveness of the place—just the first hall was massive, with long red-and-gold carpeting and vaulted ceilings, and paintings stretching back as far as the eye could see. All was deserted other than a small army of custodians wearing blue overalls, walking mopping buckets and sweeping with wide cloth brooms.

“This is the jewel of la ciudad.” Vienna slowed them expertly as Minister Cazorla pulled ahead. “El Prado houses over 7,600 paintings, over a thousand sculptures, and several thousand more works of art of various kinds. Most are in storage, but nearly two thousand works are on display. It is the largest art museum in the entire world.”

“You are really enjoying this,” Alex said.

“Por supuesto, I am just getting star—” Vienna looked up as an alarm suddenly rang out.

“What’s that?” Alex asked.

“Someone broke a laser alarm,” said the minister, and they all started to run. Alex watched as red lights began to flash, and he heard heavy locks clicking shut on doors as they moved closer to a stairwell.

As they covered the eighth of a mile or so until they reached the second-floor wing that housed the Bruegel, Alex heard voices. Security guards in black suits emerged from nowhere and pushed past them, and by the time they reached The Triumph of Death, there was a crowd of about twenty.

The minister called out to a bald man in a black suit, “Tomás, que tal?”

“That’s your curator,” Sangster said, as Tomás looked them over and then back at the painting.

The curator said, “No se, pero alguien la toco.”

“He says someone touched the painting,” Vienna offered. Alex slipped out of her grasp and edged around the crowd to get his first look at The Triumph of Death.

The painting was five feet wide and four feet tall, in a massive wooden frame, and lit up by aimed track lighting. Alex looked