Ding-dong.The doorbell chimed.
So much for being the one with an original approach.
Roux crouched and gnashed his teeth.
“Strange, isn’t it, that such an inhospitable night brings so many uninvited guests,” Grepper observed dryly.
I, on the other hand, was ready to wet my pants. Grepper could defend himself against a gang of vampires, but what about me? What about Roux?
The bell chimed again, and Hot Young Thing appeared, looking miffed that whatever series she’d been binge-watching had been interrupted for a second time. Apparently, greetingpeople at the door was part of her job, along with spreading her legs on demand.
What a miserable skill set.
She stood by the door, waiting for Grepper’s signal.
Roux pressed against my legs, nudging me toward the study, while Grepper called casually to the vampires.
“Just a moment, please.” He walked across the room and picked up my father’s rolled painting.
“Suppose I offered you a choice,” he asked me.
My gut sank. Now what?
“Suppose I was gripped by a misguided sense of honor and allowed you to leave here with one thing — and only one. Would you choose the painting or Danielle here?”
Hot Young Thing stared, shocked and betrayed. “Kurt!”
“Silence!” he thundered, and she cowered.
The hair on my arms stood as he turned to me, calm as can be. “Which would it be?”
I shook my head. Was he nuts?
I pointed. “Her, of course.”
Grepper’s eyes glowed with interest. “You would choose her — a stranger — over your father’s painting? Over the memories it captures? Over what it symbolizes?”
I gnashed my teeth. If he went on any longer, I might be tempted, dammit.
“Perhaps it doesn’t mean as much to you as you suggest,” he grunted.
I glared at him. “That painting means the world to me, but it’s just a painting.”
The fire blazed higher as Grepper held the painting over it.
I flinched, then shot Hot Young Thing the evil eye. “Promise me you’ll do something with your life to make this worth it. Something beyond finding a sugar daddy with a nice villa and questionable morals.”
“Last chance,” Grepper warned.
I turned my back, bracing myself for the crackling sounds and acrid smell that signaled the demise of my father’s painting.
I pictured him standing in the garden, dabbing his brush in his paint, then smiling at me.
Just a painting. Just a painting…I told myself. Memories were more precious than the materials that held them, right?
Every nerve in my body tensed.
But there was no crackle, no burning smell. Just Grepper’s low mutter.
