Page 14 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

Haunted paint flecks. What next? Still, Joe couldn’t be sure there wasn’t something in the idea, what with having just seen actual paint come to life and crawl out of its canvas on a murderous rampage. Accordingly, he wrapped his fingers gingerly around the edge of the picture, seeing over and over in his mind’s eye the little girl’s teeth biting them off as he did so.

On Percy’s nod, they lifted swiftly, clearing the edge of the box by a good inch. Percy barely pulled his fingers free before Joe slammed the lid down. Percy ripped a packet of nails from a pocket while Joe fished the hammer out of their bag. They made fast work sealing the box and had just set about getting the fake into the frame when they heard the unsettling but familiar sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber of a gun.

CHAPTER TEN

EUROTRASH PSYCHOPATH

Joe, with his back to the door, watched Percy raise his arms and announce, “Dubois.”

“So you came for the painting,” said the voice from the doorway.

Joe’s stomach sank as Percy replied, “You’re smarter than you look.”

But, “Thank you,” said Philippe Dubois as he advanced into the room. He paused at the foot of the bed, taking Joe in, eyeing Percy. “Who sent you?”

“I came for it because I want it,” Percy replied.

“And who the fuck are you?” With a flick of his gun, “Mask off.”

Percy pushed down the smirk, but Joe knew it was there, so he was doubly compelled when Percy pulled the string to set his eye mask free. He dropped it with a slight flourish, and it fell silkily onto the box in which the haunted painting was waiting to be stolen. An expectant silence settled.

“Well, who are you?” Dubois repeated, only more loudly this time.

Percy frowned towards Joe, as if Dubois had just proven a point Percy had recently made, then he rolled his eyes and gave a bored, “Percy Ashdown.”

Joe might have reprimanded him for saying his real name had he not known him so well. As things stood, he saw the admission for what it was: Philippe Dubois’s death sentence. Nevertheless, he did not expect what came next.

Dubois’s head tilted, and a hazy recognition came into his narcotic eyes. “Have you come to take it back to the gallery?”

Joe’s gaze shot across to Percy, who drawled, “Judging by the state of this room, that may be a rash course of action.”

Dubois kicked a bit of liver away from his shoe as if agreeing, yet he kept the gun trained on the pair. “So you know my secret. Who told you?”

“I’m an art historian,” said Percy. “It’s my business to know which paintings are haunted and which are not. And though we may be unable to display it publicly at this time, it’s still an important work of art, and I don’t appreciate the humidity in this room.”

It took him a few seconds, then, “What?” said Dubois.

Percy dropped his arms and spun around to fix Joe with an expectant smile. “Show him, Ignatius.”

Joe wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed by the name or by Percy turning his back on the gun so fast he expected it to go off, but he was somewhat soothed when Percy thrust the fake painting upright and nodded at him.

“It’s… uh…” Joe started. Percy waited. Dubois waited. “The paint. Here.” Joe ran a finger close by a perfectly perfect swath of fresh paint, racking his brain for what to say. “You can see where it’s… um… not… not like it should be.”

“Your canvas is expanding and shrinking with the change in humidity,” Percy supplied. “That causes cracks.” He trailed his own finger over the place Joe’s had been before flinging itin the direction of the window. “I know the sunlight is coming through there every afternoon, and hitting this painting head on. You’re damaging the pigment. Do you think a century-old work can stand up to the heat of your stinking Belgian summer? I don’t see an air-conditioning unit in here.” He spoke faster the more irate he became, and he was clearly, genuinely pissed off, especially when Dubois cut into his lengthy reprimand.

“The fuck do I care?”

Percy’s aspect darkened considerably, scaring Joe while also turning him on, a schism that he realised somewhere deep inside had probably ruined him for other men. His heart quickened as he heard Percy say softly, “What do you think happens when you make a ghost’s home uninhabitable?”

Dubois whitened appropriately at the thought, and he looked a little harder at the painting.

Percy went on, pointing at the mother and daughter, “They may be blood-sated now?—”

“Or they may not be,” Joe put in.

“Good point, Ignatius,” replied Percy, to some very tight lips, “and therefore we should end this conversation, and fast. What matters is this: if they can’t go back into the painting, they’re out. For good. You, everyone else in this palace, and then all of Bruges is fucked if you don’t start to take better care of the thing. Look.” Percy motioned him over. “You can see the portal to the netherworld beginning to close right here.”

Dubois made his way closer, warily, but with eyes locked onto the painting. “Netherworld?” He repeated, leaning past Percy for a closer look.

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