Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
“I’ve already laid it out for you.” He nodded to my work station where the canvas was laid out and protected under sheets, waiting for me. “The bigger ones we may have to call in more students. I want to have them cleaned and cataloged as quickly as possible. God only knows if and when that owner might ask for them back or even change his mind.”
“I’ll get as much as humanly possible done today,” I said as he put on his fedora; he was so lame but cute in an old grandpa sort of way. “I might name some of them if they are not already.”
“Oh…” He paused as if he didn’t think about it and grinned from ear to ear. “That might be interesting and will definitely add to the collection when they’re on display. Are you thinking about going with French, Spanish, Dutch, or Italian? I actually had one in mind for that one…”
“Dr. Lovell, your class,” I reminded him when he moved to walk back to the painting. “It’s snowing. The metro might be packed.”
“Right.” He snapped his fingers then frowned once more in confusion. “Wait did you say it’s snowing? I thought it was just a cold front.”
“It must have gotten colder because it started as I came in.”
“What is wrong with the weather lately?” He sighed.
“I have no idea.”
“Well.” He fluffed his collar once more, his eyes looking around, not wanting to leave the paintings.
“The sooner you go, Dr. Lovell, the sooner you can return to them,” I teased.
He nodded, walking up the stairs, muttering to him, and I faintly heard him say, “I need to call Ernest. He will lose his mind. Ha, serves him right. Steal my job, and now I have unknown genuine masterpieces. Hahaha.”
Shaking my head, I moved to my desk, making sure I had my dry brush, Q-tips, cotton balls, as well as my chemical kit. Carefully, I lifted the sheet from the painting, and even though I wasn’t really breathing, I felt the need to stop altogether to stare at the dominance the scene demanded. It reminded me of Jean-Léon Gérôme’s painting Pollice Verso, the infamous Thumbs Up or Thumbs Down, moment between the victorious gladiator and jeering people within the Colosseum, the defeated gladiator under the heel of his sandals.
However, in this unknown painting, the victorious warrior did not have sandals, nor even armor, all that he wore was a bloody, tattered cloth, most likely done by the lions under his feet instead of another person. The crowds were not jeering, but some were running, others had their hands down. It didn’t look like the Colosseum. It was a similar area of some kind, but that was less important to me than the look of confusion, shock, and horror on the crowd’s faces.
I looked back at the warrior with shoulder length, wavy hair, and bright eyes that looked murderous, despite having killed all the lions. The Roman spectators in the stands came to watch blood get spilled; why would they have been horrified by it?
Because it didn’t get spilled. The answer came to mind, and I immediately looked back to the bloody, tattered clothes he wore. Underneath them, I could see his perfectly sculpted white muscles and his smooth skin, but I shouldn’t have been able to.
He should be harmed.
There were six dead lions at his feet.
His clothes were nearly ripped from his body.
He had no weapons, no armor.
No matter how much luck or skill he had, it was impossible that he wasn’t hurt. And if the painter wanted to make him a sort of god, the crowd would have been praising him. Instead, there was terror.
I glanced at the lions and leaned forward into the painting. Sure enough, on their necks and chests, were bite marks. He had drank from them.
“He was a vampire,” I whispered slowly as the story came together in front of me.
The crowd watched a man drink the blood of the beasts and clearly saw the rage in his eyes, specifically directed at the viewer. I checked the position of the Colosseum; his eyes would have been looking toward the Emperor.
“This is…amazing,” I whispered to myself, reaching for my Q-tips, moving to test the corner of the paint, trying to understand how I needed to treat and clean it. Wait.
Had the painter witnessed or imagined a vampire?
I paused with my Q-tip held away from my face before slowly turning around and eyeing the vast collection around me.
The only reason for someone—who was not European royalty—to have all of this, especially in America was if they’d collected it over time…a lot of time.
“I’m cleaning a vampire’s art collection.” I realized and instantly wanted to put everything down and leave it the hell alone.
Vampires were territorial about everything. Permission to do anything to their belongings was not just proper manners, it was the only way to prevent having your head ripped off.