Page 2 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

“But this is my first heist?—”

“Second.”

“First proper one, and I want to do everything exactly right.” Joe took his hand and led him to their small and overcrowded dining table. “Let’s go over it one more time, in excruciating detail, as though we’re explaining it to someone who has no idea what we’re doing or why we’re doing any of this.”

Percy looked across at him with a frown. “Must we?”

Joe looked back sweetly, but expectantly. “Please?”

And on a long, tired breath, “Of course, darling.”

CHAPTER TWO

PERCY AND JOE GO OVER THEIR PLAN IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL AS THOUGH THEY WERE EXPLAINING IT TO SOMEONE WHO HAD NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE DOING OR WHY THEY WERE DOING ANY OF IT

“Our target is this man.” Percy tapped his lovely finger on a picture of the smug face of a rich twenty-something. “Philippe Dubois, descendent of mediocre but wealthy aristocracy, drug kingpin, and former Eurovision winner for Belgium, who dabbles in stolen art he has no right to share a room with.”

“Which explains what we’re doing here in Bruges, Belgium,” Joe put in.

Percy squinted. “That was a weird thing to say.”

Joe frowned. “Was it?”

“Yes.” Percy eyed him a little longer. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“Yeah,” Joe said slowly.

“Hmm,” Percy huffed with one more uncertain glance. “Very well. This,” and he pulled one picture from beneath another, “is where we’re going tonight.”

The image showed a three-storey palace, five misaligned windows spanning each floor, the top level set in a copper roof gone green, with a huge, round turret augmenting the left flank. The stone walls gave a fantastical pinkish glow, and the lot was ornamented with gothic spears and arches of iron, gargoyles, and the deathly sharp stake of a weathervane on top. Around the gorgeous building swept a greenish moat, and, all things considered, the château looked exactly like the perfect destination for a Halloween ball. Had it been anywhere near Halloween, but as Percy pointed out, such quibbles do not interest the filthy rich.

“This is Mr Dubois’s country estate,” Joe explained helpfully.

With a twitch in his left cheek, Percy muttered, “As you well know.”

“And the reason we’re going,” Joe continued, excitedly draping a wide-open art catalogue over the top, “is to steal this.”

The next image was full page and full colour. It featured a painting depicting two ghastly figures. In the background, laid out long on a bed, was a woman—sickly, gaunt, the paleness of her face almost indistinguishable from that of the pillow she lay upon. With dark hair and nauseating greenish sheets, it was the image of a woman either dead, or very close to dead.

In the foreground and centre of the painting stood a young child, upon a harshly, unevenly shaded orange floor. The little girl, even from the facsimile in the book, seemed to look directly into the eyes of the viewer. But then she also didn’t. She stared out piercingly, but somehow her gaze was not quite there at the same time. They were the eyes of someone present but also vacant—in the room, but not. They were the eyes of someone who had been part of reality, then fled from it in madness. Tangible and intangible.

Percy had seen a very close reproduction of the painting in person, and found it disturbing enough, but Joe felt a sharp chilltap its way down his spine at the thought of being alone with the real thing, even if it hadn’t been haunted.

But it was.

And they were going to steal it.

“Death and the Child by Edvard Munch,” Percy announced. “Completed in 1889, it depicts Munch’s own mother and sister. It captures, in vivid horror, the moment the little girl realised her mother was dead and gone forever. A moment so harrowing it haunted him for the rest of his life, and he painted it over and over in an attempt to come to terms with the trauma. He never did, of course, but whatever he distilled in this painting has gone rogue, and this particular version is said to be one of the most dangerous paintings in existence.”

“One of?” Joe said, in a vague attempt to lighten the mood.

“One of,” Percy replied seriously. “But this one has an added air of mystery. As you know, anyone left alone with this painting will be murdered by it. But is it the little girl or the mother who kills the victim? And why do they choose such a…” He gave pause over the correct wording, before settling on, “Such aviscerally malignantmanner?”

Joe swallowed nervously. “You paint quite the picture.”

“I do not.” Percy grinned. “But I am very good at stealing them. And that’s the task that now befalls us. Steal this priceless, deadly work of art, deliver it to an anonymous buyer, and receive seven hundred thousand dollars in exchange for our hard work.”

“But,” said Joe, “that’s the brilliant part. You’ve had two fakes made. So we pass one of those to the buyer, they think they’re getting a supernatural murder weapon, but all they really get is a nice copy.”

---