Page 3 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

“Meanwhile,” said Percy, “we replace the real thing with the other fake and burn the haunted painting. No one gets hurt, and we walk away seven hundred thousand dollars richer.”

“I’ve got to say,” said Joe, and not for the first time, “for an art historian, you’re pretty relaxed about destroying a completely irreplaceable work of art.”

Percy blinked twice. “One of her victims was strangled with their own entrails.”

“Good point,” Joe rasped.

“I thought so,” replied Percy. “But although this sounds simple enough, it’s not going to be easy.” A fourth sheet of paper, a blueprint of the palace, was pulled over the rest. “Dubois is giving one of his vile parties tonight. Luckily for us, it’s a masquerade ball. Two of the real guests have been ‘detained’—”

“In a shipping container.”

“Yes, in a shipping container.” And he added disapprovingly, “With blankets, soft lights, snacks, and a heater to make sure they’re cosy.”

Joe shrugged guiltily, so Percy continued, “And their invitations have come to us. Therefore, you are?”

“Ignatius Fürst Fugger von Durchdenwald, German lesser aristocracy. Though why I had to get the stupid nam?—”

“And I am Windsor Cromwell Grosvenor Montague Smith the Third.” Percy smiled. “Son of some upwardly mobile CEO or other. We enter, have a glass of champagne or two just to be seen, keep to ourselves, then quietly disappear. The party will take place in the grounds here,” he tapped on the blueprint, “throughout the palace here and here, but we need to go here.” The same finger slid to the far end of the map, to a circular room. “This is Dubois’s murder room. Third story, at the top of a lonely turret, in a bedroom guarded by two large and dangerous men at all times. It’s soundproofed, and beneath the expensive sheets of this very big bed is a lining of thick plastic to make cleanup easier. He’s said to have killed eleven people in that room alone, all with the painting.”

“That Belgian bastard,” Joe spat.

“Quite right,” Percy agreed. “He’s a cold-blooded eurotrash psychopath, and you should never underestimate that sort of person.”

Joe nodded. “You don’t win Eurovision unless you have a ruthless streak.”

“Or unless you rig it, which is the same thing, really. In this case we’re dealing with the sort of no-talent sympathy vote that cheers for themselves the loudest when the expected score comes in. Keep your guard up at all times. If Dubois has even an inkling we’re after that painting tonight, either one of us is liable to find ourselves thrown in the room with it. Then what do you do?”

“With a ghost?” said Joe, his confident, defiant raise of the chin making Percy a little weak at the knees. “You can’t kill a ghost, as you know, so I’m going to talk to her. There must be some sort of suffering that’s tying her to this life, whether mother or daughter, and I think if I can?—”

“She’s Norwegian,” Percy replied, controlling any outward sign of his disapproval. “She won’t know what you’re on about.”

“Oh.”

“You’re going to die is what you’ll do if you try that, sodo notget trapped in that room alone. Dubois’s personal security are complicit, so don’t hesitate to kill them if they try anything. But if worse comes to worst and you do get stuck with the picture, none of this ‘saving the sad ghost’ bullshit. Your only chance of survival will be to destroy the painting before she climbs out and destroys you.” He reached across to a side table. “You have your cigarettes and your lighter, and here’s some lighter fluid. Douse the painting well, burn it.”

Joe accepted the long, slim tin hesitantly. “Do you worry that maybe starting a fire while locked in a soundproof room at the top of a turret would be a more terrible way to die?”

Percy locked eyes with him. “You remember I showed you how to pick a lock?”

“Yes, but it’s hard. It takes time.”

“The fire will give you more time than a murderous ghost would. You could try stabbing or shredding the picture, but I’ve never done that before and I can’t guarantee it will work.”

“Oh, but you’ve burned a lot of haunted paintings?” Joe quipped.

“Only two,” said Percy, tidying their plans away. “And it worked both times. Might I suggest this isn’t the best time for experimentation?”

Joe rolled his eyes. Of course Percy had experience burning haunted paintings. And of course he would casually drop that in at the last minute. Annoying, sexy Percy.

Annoying, sexy Percy walked around the table and settled himself back against it. He had chosen a dark, heady perfume to match his costume, and the scent drew Joe almost irresistibly, just as the rich silk of the settling cape and corset begged to be touched.

Joe held himself steady as Percy concluded, “We hid a copy of the painting in a copse on the grounds yesterday. Hopefully, it’s still there. If we can winch it up and into the window of an empty bedroom, we can sneak it past the guards, and make the switch. But this part is important.”

Joe scrunched up his face, because he knew what Percy was going to say, but he still couldn’t understand it.

“We must try not to damage the painting on the way out. Treat it as the masterpiece it is.”

“But we’re going to burn it anyway,” said Joe, for possibly the tenth time.

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