Page 57 of Viktor

“I don’t want to know.” She held up her hand at him.

“I’m saying there are donors who prefer—”

“Nope. Don’t want to know.” She gave him a tight closed smile. “I’m good.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Greyson offered.

“Said I don’t want to know.” Waverly took a deep breath and carefully accepted the blade from Rafe. “Thank you.”

“Do you need more light?” Viktor asked.

“No, just um,” she adjusted the desk lamp that hovered over the painting, “there’s a lot of natural light from the window.”

“I do enjoy a view,” Viktor commented with a blithe inflection to his voice.

“You always did enjoy the water,” Greyson noted.

“Please. Guys. I need a little quiet.” She studied the painting and blew out a breath.

“You’ve got this.” Viktor stood close as she worked on it.

“I’m sorry Sister, but we’ve got to see what’s inside your beautiful work,” Waverly apologized as she took the razor to the canvas. She gently worked the blade over the paint. As it began to flake away, she hesitated. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Whatever is in there. There’s definitely blood involved,” Rafe commented.

Waverly began to scrape the paint, careful not to tear the canvas. “I can feel it. It’s hard.”

She set down the razor and retrieved a small brush she’d brought from the museum. With great care, she gently swept away the flecks of paint and revealed the object.

“It’s so small.” Waverly set down the brush and used a pair of tweezers as she gently extracted the foreign object. “What is this?”

As she held it under the bright desk light, Viktor quietly studied the inch-long piece of metal. He sniffed, still detecting a hint of human blood.

Waverly exhaled a nervous breath. “What is this thing? Is that writing?”

“Is it gold?” Rafe asked and sniffed. “Blood.”

“Looks like brass,” Greyson guessed.

“May I?” Waverly nodded as Viktor reached for it and he took it from her hands. With a cotton cloth, he brushed away the specks of dried paint, a shine coming to its surface. As the letters came into view, a tight knot formed in his gut. B.A.O.

“No fucking way.” Viktor’s gaze locked on Greyson’s.

“There’s no way this can belong to him,” his brother told him. “He’s dead.”

“What? Who are you talking about?” Rafe asked.

“Baxter Anwir Ó Cléirigh.” Viktor sighed. Hundreds of years had passed since he’d died, yet the memories, the terror would never be forgotten.

“Bastard’s dead.” Greyson slammed his hand onto the arm of a chair as he fell back into it and propped his feet on an ottoman.

“This metal. It’s a tool.” Viktor’s blood pumped hard in his veins as his mind churned, realizing its purpose. What the fuck?

“Tool?” she asked.

“A lancet,” Viktor replied.

“For what?” she pressed.