and generally driving him crazy.”
A fond smile spread across Joseph’s face as he shook his head. “Always been a bit of a slob, my boy. You should have seen his chambers growing up. Looked like a band of marauders had been through there.”
This revelation presented me with a rather novel idea. Abernathy had once been a boy. A long lashed, chocolate-haired little lad.
“Where did he grow up exactly?” I asked, making my way toward the stairs.
“He hasn’t told you?” Joseph asked, looking genuinely surprised.
“He never tells me anything,” I said, employing my favorite adage where Abernathy was concerned.
“Well, if he hasn’t told you, he probably doesn’t want you to know.” Joseph’s voice held a familiar stony note that morphed into mischief as we descended to the gallery. “But he isn’t here now, is he?”
“Indeed not.”
We crossed into the main gallery space, the walls blank and bare in anticipation of our upcoming show.
“Mark was born in a castle on the River Tay in Scotland. Not far from the village Abernethy in Perth and Kinross from which we take our name.”
“I knew he was Scottish! I knew it!” I said, digging my fingernails into my palm to curb the urge to break into a cheerleader bounce. Okay, I hadn’t so much known Abernathy was Scottish as I had vividly and repeatedly imagined him as the kilt-wearing laird on a never-ending mental series of bodice-rippers, but I was willing to count it. Speaking of those kilts…“You don’t have an accent though. Neither does he.”
He treated me to a boyish grin. “Aye lassie. It isnae wise to have an accent if you’re aimin’ to blend in.”
My stomach made a sudden and unexpected pilgrimage toward my knees as blood rushed abruptly into my face. Thank God Mark had never busted out the brogue. I would have been a werewolf about eighty-seven times over by now.
“Right,” I said, recovering my wits. “I could see that.”
We paused in the center at the edge of the gallery’s post-modern white cube where the building’s exposed brick walls hinted at the structure’s true age.
“This place has a rather rustic feeling,” Joseph observed. “But then, old as I am, rustic can be a problematic term.”
“How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Eight hundred and thirty-one,” he answered without hesitation.
“You mean, you had Mark when you were...four hundred?”
“To the day,” he replied, eyes all a-twinkle.
“And when is your birthday?” I probed. Oh, someone was in big trouble, all right. Streamers, balloons, confetti—okay, scratch the confetti. I’d be the one cleaning it up, after all. Maybe a mariachi band? Cake.
Definitely cake.
“August sixth,” he answered.
“A Leo. I so could have guessed that. No offense,” I added.
“None taken.” He smiled, and certain parts south of the equator decided that 831 wasn’t necessarily that old. I mean, what’s a few centuries when someone is serving up serious werewolf daddy energy?
“Is four hundred a normal age for werewolves to have their first children?” I asked, all the while telling myself this question had not one thing to do with the fact that I’d begun ovulating twice monthly since the inception of my work at the gallery.
“Perhaps a little beyond normal. Many mate within their second century. I’ve been at Mark to settle down for some time now. He’s in imminent danger of becoming a confirmed bachelor, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t I know it.” I had meant it as an acknowledgement of Abernathy’s resistance to change, his absolute unyielding bullheaded stubbornness.
Joseph took it as something else entirely.
“If only there were an eligible young alpha female somewhere around.” He turned to face me, his left eyebrow taking on a lascivious arch. “How I would love to hear the pitter-patter of little paws again. To have some grandpups to spoil...”
“So, this is where we conduct the gallery shows every month,” I broke in with enthusiasm bordering on hysteria. “All our resident artists contribute pieces, and people come buy them, and we drink the wine and eat the cheese and—”
“That sounds festive,” Joseph said, gracious enough to let me change the subject. “I have to admit, I’m surprised he stuck with it all this time.”
“Stuck with what?” I asked, stealing a glance at the miraculous place where Joseph’s starched white shirt met his tanned, smooth neck.
“Art. When he ran away to Spain to chase that Caravaggio character, I thought it was a phase.”
“Not…the Caravaggio?” In vain, I tried to keep my face from assuming that open-mouthed gape that seemed to lower my IQ by several points.
“You know of him?” Joseph asked,