Page 5 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

The ceiling was two storeys high in the entrance hall, blinding white, thickly adorned with elaborate cornices all around. A ponderous crowning mould lay in the centre, its grapes and leaves licking and lilting down to a spectacular chandelier, where thousands of perfectly cut crystals shone their orderly superiority over all below.

To their left, a wide staircase split and regrouped over and over to lead the guests to the recesses of the palace in a displayalmost as disorienting as a painting by Escher. In front and to the right, more arched stone doorways that led to who knew where.

Joe should have known, because he had studied the layout, but faced with the light and the statues, and the actual knights’ armour that was too stereotypical to be true, and, worst of all, more people than he had imagined, all knowledge fled. So many people kissing cheeks and laughing through perfect teeth and too-high cheekbones, and all who apparently knew one another, and so many, wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder.

That was when Joe realised.

It was impossible.

How had he imagined they would sneak a priceless work of art out of a literal castle in the middle of a party? This was probably the time to inform Percy of the error of his ways—he must not have realised the enormity of the task any more than Joe had.

Yet Percy only surveyed the room with calculating eyes, plucked two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray, and nodded for Joe to follow.

The guests were dressed in considered, tailored, flamboyant costumery—well, all except slutty Freddy Krueger—but the crowd still parted for Percy as though he had been the Red Death himself. Only sexier. Whether it was lust or envy, pause was given wherever he walked, as though they all sensed he belonged front and centre. He sipped from his crystal flute, threw a charming smile with a glitter of ruby wherever he thought it might work best, and he began a smooth reconnaissance of the mansion, pressing a hand back to Joe when they passed through an especially narrow or dark passage, to check he was still within arm’s reach.

How, Joe knew not, but Percy led them unerringly through the exact procession of rooms they had practised in theoryso many times. Richly adorned lounges, excessively decorated sitting rooms, disused but expensively stocked and tidy kitchens, and to a square living area at the far end of the palace, which sat at the base of the stairs that led to the turret.

Unfortunately, that room was neither empty nor depleted as they had hoped it might be. That room had become the drug den.

Half a dozen guests were making use of a large, rich, oak coffee table, polished to a glass-like finish, perfect for lining up and snorting lines of cocaine, while another dozen or more stood around talking. But even with the large gathering, terrible music played loudly, low lights illuminated very little, and, all things considered, it should have been a cinch to pass through the preoccupied group and up the stairs relatively unnoticed.

Percy took the chance and moved seamlessly through the space, but just as he approached the stairs, he diverted. Joe watched the dark shapes of two large men descend and take up position at the base of the stairs.

Security.

Not ideal.

Percy turned, and in a starkly atypical move (for anyone who knew him), he bumped clumsily into a man whose face had heretofore been dipped and hidden behind a rolled Belgian franc note. A man who, when standing, revealed bright blue sequined hot pants beneath a Belgian-flag-coloured bodysuit, topped with oversized, red-rimmed fake glasses. A man they both recognised as Philippe Dubois.

“Oh, god,” Percy couldn’t help responding to the ocular onslaught.

“Watch it, Dracula,” Dubois sneered.

“Please accept my apologies.” Percy stepped deftly around him.

Joe followed Percy out of the room, and some hot, confusing time later, fresh, cool air swept over them, as they passed intothe large courtyard. If it could be called a courtyard. The huge square was hemmed in on three sides by guesthouses, stables, and a garage for sixteen expensive cars, open, so everyone could see the contents. A wide, circular stone drive was heavily peopled by chatting guests, and in the middle sat a large, brightly illuminated pool. Beyond that, the wide moat-lake enclosed the lot.

“This is more like it,” said Percy, finding a relatively quiet spot against a wall, pulling his golden cigarette case free and snapping it open for Joe.

“It’s not going to work,” Joe informed him immediately, loosening two cigarettes from their gentle clasp.

“Don’t be like that,” Percy grumbled. He accepted the smoke Joe shoved between his beautiful lips, and he flicked his richly etched, matching golden lighter open.

“Look around.” Joe shared the flame, then took a desperately needed deep inhalation. “We cannot sneak a painting past this many people.”

“I don’t see anyone in the moat.” Percy passed a glance towards the moss-laden water sparkling in the dark. “It’s filthy. It’s well-hidden. It takes us right beneath the bedroom we need.” He turned towards Joe, leaning a shoulder into the building. “Don’t lose your nerve now. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

“I still don’t see why we can’t just sneak in there, destroy it, and then, I don’t know, jump in the lake or something.”

“I’m not getting this corset wet. Do you know how much this cost?”

Joe grimaced. “I don’t want to know.”

“If you knew, you wouldn’t want to risk the seven hundred thousand.” Joe threw back some champagne to hide his irritation as Percy went on, “We’ve been hired to do a job and we’re going to do it. If we burn the painting publicly, word willget out it’s been destroyed, and our buyer will be off with the cash. But more importantly, while this is your first real criminal enterprise, please keep in mind that I have a reputation to uphold.”

Joe watched Percy studying the courtyard, and Joe studied his chin and cheek to see that all his rubies were still present. He’d made a reasonable point. Percy had told him from the start that he, an art historian well respected in his field, also trafficked fine arts and artefacts. And Joe took that for what it was. High-class crime—rich people passing paintings between one another. None of it held much interest for him. But then he found out Percy was also, on occasion, a hit man. Though as far as he knew, he tended only to kill dreadful people. That was charming in its way, the way being that Joe adored Percy and could think no ill of him. But to hear the term ‘reputation’ set Joe’s mind wandering. Who was Percy Ashdown to the world at large? To the criminal underworld? To museums and galleries and universities? To the elite world of princesses and billionaires he navigated as well as that of the small, privileged college where they’d first met over an exorcism.

Growing up, Joe’s entire life had been one small village high in the Apennines of Italy. Then, following the incident, he had joined the Church. Demons, ghosts, all awful and dead and dangerous things became his obsession and his purpose. He had been sent to fight them numerous times. He had been to Hell and back. He had stolen, transferred and hidden protected supernatural objects, and here and only here his path intersected with Percy’s. Percy was drawn to the same supernatural relics Joe was, and that was the spark that originally brought them together.

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