Together, we cross around the ostentatious desk, stepping into the passage and the shadow beyond.
Hand in hand,Kitty and I pad along the dark hall. Just past a short side corridor, we cross into a large, low-ceilinged room. Minimal light sources, all filtering down from above, carve aspotty path through to a dark area that might be another egress on the far wall. A large electronic control board is situated against the wall at the mouth of the office corridor. I have no idea what it controls, but with its many levers, it looks a little like one of the sound boards I’ve seen in Bolan’s recording studios.
Still hand in hand, and with Coda exceptionally silent on the phone, Kitty and I cross deeper into the room. Despite the sporadic pools of yellow-white light, it’s dim enough that we almost stumble upon a low round platform. It’s empty. But as we continue on, it’s easier to see at least a dozen other similar platforms that contain some type of display.
We cross by the art first. I’m not in any way an expert, but I think the first is a blue-and-green-toned Monet I’ve never laid eyes on. The second is a Picasso that I’m certain is supposed to be housed at the National Gallery. A large chunk of concrete, clearly having been somehow removed from the foundation of a building, sits on a larger platform. On it, etched in thick lines of black spray paint, is a Banksy portrait of an angel-winged girl in a bulletproof vest. The angel’s eyes are a purple hue.
“Fuckers,” Coda snarls over my phone speakers. “That’s supposed to be in New York. We’re fucking taking that with us.”
I don’t correct Coda’s language. Mostly because the angel-winged girl reminds me— terrifyingly so— of the girl currently holding my hand.
Heart aching in my chest, I know for certain what I’m looking at now. Jewelry and other antiques that should be in museums are set on another half-dozen pedestals. Including a carved and painted mask that clearly belongs to the Salish people, and a flawless step-cut vivid blue diamond practically the size of Kitty’s palm.
But this isn’t a gallery. There’s no proper lighting, and the ceiling is low enough to feel oppressive. It’s not conducive to —
A murmur of voices filters through to us from up ahead, near the dark space that I thought might be another exit. Followed by laughter, then a defiant, pained cry.
Maybe the shadow is a dark-colored divider or … a thick curtain?
I press my hand over Kitty’s mouth the moment I realize who has voiced that cry, then I tug her into the deeper shadows behind the Banksy angel.
Kitty struggles against my hold. In protest, not in a serious bid to get away from me.
I let my essence unfurl. I’ve been holding it loosely for a few days now, and it stretches around me almost gleefully when I slacken my hold further.
Kitty stills in my arms, but she doesn’t flinch or try to pull away from my touch.
She doesn’t start laughing as she would if I were melting her brain.
I remove my hand from her mouth, offering it for her to hold again. She blinks up at me in the darkness, then takes that hand.
She doesn’t voice a single laugh, not even a giggle from the touch of my power.
And I knew that would happen. Didn’t I?
Logically, I knew it couldn’t just be my brother and father who were immune to me. At least immune without me specifically targeting them.
Two men suddenly appear on our far left, from the direction we were going. Movement behind them confirms they’ve stepped through from a curtained-off area. Or we’re in the curtained-off area. Still chuckling to themselves, they head toward the control panel by the corridor to the office. Both are brown-haired, and bulky like shifters. I can’t immediately read their essence, though, and I’ve never seen either of them before.
“That little shit actually thought someone would come for him,” the taller of the two says.
The short one scoffs. “Crying like a baby now.”
Kitty stiffens. But in defiance, not fear.
The shorter of the two checks his phone. “They’re ready.”
The taller flips a few levers or switches on the control panel, and a section of the ceiling slides open above the Monet.
The sound of a crowd amicably chatting— celebrating, even— filters down to us.
“Fucking toffs.” The tall male flips a third lever, peering down at some gauge or readout on the control panel.
A motor whirls underneath the Monet. Then the platform begins to rise, becoming a pedestal that lifts the painting toward the opening in the low ceiling.
We’re in some sort of theater space. Below the stage, at best guess.
This is an illegal auction of rarities. But not just antiquities and art.
