seeming genuinely surprised.
“Do I know of him? Are you kidding me? He’s like a Baroque god! I took an entire seminar on his work. It was an elective of course, which was totally not for credit and he really wasn’t part of my thesis but—”
“You wrote a thesis?” Joseph paused, turning to face me in the hallway leading to the artist’s studios. “I’d love to read it.”
I glanced around the gallery, turning to scrutinize his face. “Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I feel it’s only fair in the spirit of full disclosure to let you know that you are very near to inducing a full-on unadulterated geek fest on my part.”
“I believe I’m up to the task.” An exceedingly charming crinkle appeared at the corner of his left eye when he smiled.
“No,” I warned him. “You don’t understand. I’ll, like, jump up and down and stuff. And probably emit a variety of high-pitched squeaking noises. I might try to hug you. Or hump your leg. I’ve knocked people over before,” I confessed, remembering my unfortunate first encounter with the man I believed to be Vincent Van Gogh.
Long story.
“I could think of worse fates,” he said.
“You say that now, but just wait until you’re flat on your back wondering why your head hurts and what that buzzing sound in your ears is.”
“That sounds remarkably like an evening I shared with Sarah Bernhardt.” He laughed, filling the air around us with sound rich and sweet as melted caramel.
“See?” I said. “That’s why I don’t want to talk about me. You’re far more interesting.”
“You’re very kind to flatter an old man,” he said, offering me his arm once again.
“I don’t think old is an adjective I’d use to describe you.” My voice had dropped an octave all on its own. Totally the brogue’s fault.
We stopped in the hallway that joined the gallery to the oddities shop, flanked by studios on either side. Two of the four doors were open and their rooms empty.
“These are the artists’ quarters, I assume?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Only two are occupied?”
“At the moment, yes.” I briefly debated regaling him with the sordid story of how the occupants of two of the studios had met their untimely demise, but thought better of it when I realized that his travel-dicking his way around the world was mostly to blame. Wolves and bastards and geriatric half were-ladies, oh my!
“Well,” he said as if sensing a dark turn in my thoughts. “I’m just delighted that you survived your scrape with Wilde in London. Mark would clearly be lost without you.”
“You know about that?” A blush stung my face as I felt my ears go all hot and throbby. Truthfully, I’d begun to feel a little awkward about accidentally starting an epic cross-species war. And by awkward I mean hideously guilty and ashamed.
“Of course I know about it.” Joseph treated me to a winningly reassuring smile. “Allan rang me up gushing liked a damned schoolgirl. I thought I just might need to come meet the infamous Hannalore Matilda Harvey myself. And here I am.” He bowed, somehow managing not to make the move as douchebaggy as it would have been on any other being.
“You came here for me?” I asked.
“Among other things.” He raised a dark eyebrow at me.
“Hold it, mister.” I poked a finger into his chest. “You said ‘other things.’ I know about other things. Other things is Abernathy speak for really important stuff you don’t want to tell me but that could probably get me killed.”
Now I knew where Mark got his patented impenetrable enigmatic smile.
“And we were off to such a great start,” I sighed, my heart heavy and my stomach growly (though the latter wasn’t at all Joseph’s doing). “You were agreeing with me, telling me things Mark didn’t want me to know…”
“What things would that be?” Mark asked, appearing behind Joseph with startling swiftness. Extraordinary speed is one of those endearing little qualities that makes working for a werewolf extra-fun. Especially because it’s paired with extraordinary stealth. In my first weeks of working for Mark, I had deeply considered investing in absorbent briefs, such was his ability to sneak up on me. In addition to: reasons.
Joseph waved a large, sun-bronzed hand at his son. “Nothing of importance, of course.”
“Nothing of importance,” I echoed, failing to convince even myself.
“I’m sure.” Mark folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “Care to tell me something of importance?” he asked, fixing his father with a frighteningly intense