He smiled. They’d never discovered that particular masterpiece. Attributed it to an animal attack. Then again, he’d gotten much better at his work since then. Every artist developed over time, given enough practice, enough focus.
And he’d practiced. Far more times than any of his friends or fans even knew.
He waited, his eyes wide, his one good eye peering out into the dark, drinking in the black and bleak of the room in every crag and cranny.
The sound of footsteps against wood had faded now. The stairs? He heard a shuffling motion, followed by a quiet, “Merde!”
For a moment, the painter stiffened, wondering if he’d been spotted. But then he watched as a form moved into the study, shambling along in a fluffy bathrobe and slippers. A glowing device—a phone—rested against the man’s leg.
Robert Henry, in the flesh. A canvas in the offering if ever he’d seen one.
The painter waited, watching, motionless as a gargoyle perched on a stone steeple.
Still muttering to himself, Robert Henry approached the fireplace and grabbed a poker. He began prodding at the glowing coals, still orange in the hearth.
“Damn it,” the Frenchman muttered to himself. “Are you trying to burn the whole place down, you old fool?”
Robert jabbed and poked at the coals, extinguishing them as best he could as a scattering of dark ash settled across the brick ground beneath the hearth.
The painter shivered as he watched, staring at the movement of the man, the way his shoulders bunched, the way he lunged. More lively, more vibrant than any statue. More beautiful, more graceful than any painting.
Yes, this was why he chose this particular canvas. Flesh itself was the truest beauty to find. And true art required not just creativity, but cruelty. The courage to state the truth. To paint what one saw, not just what one thought they saw.
Satisfied he hadn’t been noticed, the man stepped from the shadows, moving across the floor, stepping ever so lightly as he approached Robert from behind. Masterpieces took time. He would take his time as he always did.
And so he reached into his black bag, pulling out a thin knife. A gift the knife had been. From his first ever friend. A kingly gift, made of whale bone and pearlescent inlay. The blade itself was only six inches, yet sharp and ridged. One side for smooth strokes, the other for texture. Both involved in the creative process.
He held the knife out and stepped quietly forward, approaching Robert Henry from behind in the darkness of the mansion’s gloomy study.
***
Robert heard another noise. This one from directly behind him. He went stiff, his eyes flicking away from the smoldering coals in the fire toward the red leather chair nearest the window. A pile of books, some of his favorite Greek epics, had been toppled like dominoes and lay discarded across the ground.
Robert felt a prickle along his shoulder blades, his one hand gripping his phone against his thigh. He felt a shiver near his neck, this time coming from a draft ushered through the window. His eyes flitted up, still facing the fireplace, breathing shallowly as he stared toward the glass.
He’d locked that window. He knew he had.
“Please,” said a voice from behind him. “Put the phone down.”
Robert stiffened, his whole body going cold. Trust your instincts. He should have known—he should have listened. He stood for a moment in the dark, still facing the fireplace, not bearing to look at the source of the voice.
“Phone down, please,” said the voice again. It wasn’t snide, nor did it mock. A simple request. Not the voice of a man in search of fear. Not the voice of a cur hoping to enjoy terror. What then?
Slowly, phone still clutched in his hand, fingers trembling against the cool surface, he turned to face the source of the voice.
A small man stood across from him. Or was it a man? The voice itself was soft, lilting. Feminine? The form of the person in front of him seemed that of a child. Bone-thin, shorter, even, than Robert. Next to a man like John Renee, this fellow wouldn’t have seemed any more than a child.
The figure wore a metallic mask, hiding his features, with the thinnest of holes poked in the mouth and across the lips, forming a crooked smile. Eyes glittered behind the mask, staring out the holes in the face.
“Robert,” said the intruder. “Please lower your phone.”
Then Robert spotted the knife. It caught in the light from the moon streaming through the open window. Robert licked the edges of his lips, feeling the roughness beneath his tongue. He kept the phone gripped, raising it a bit as if offering it to the intruder.
The masked fellow glanced down, staring at the phone. Robert’s other hand, though, which had been using the poker to probe at the fireplace, gripped the iron tool behind his back, pressed against his bathrobe.
“Here,” Robert said, softly. “Take it.”
He didn’t have time to call. Not now. Not yet. He needed the intruder distracted, though.
The masked fellow tipped his head sideways, as if confused by a spectacle. He reached out with his free hand, gloved, groping toward Robert’s offered phone. The old DGSI agent waited a moment, waiting for contact, waiting for those twig-like fingers to wrap around his phone.
Then, as the intruder pulled the device away, his knife dipping just a bit, Robert swung with all his might. The poker whipped around, streaking toward where the masked man stood. Robert shouted with the exertion.
But he missed.
The masked man was fast—far faster than Robert had anticipated. One moment he’d been standing still, it seemed, holding Robert’s phone, cradling it in one hand. The next, he darted forward. Rather than lunging back to avoid the blow, he lurched closer. The poker hit the man’s thin shoulder, but the momentum near the base was nearly nothing and it ricocheted harmlessly.
Robert cried out in pain, his fingers aching all of a sudden. The frail form of the intruder tutted, drawn in close. Two eyes, one of them dim and dull, flashed behind the metal mask. “Bad boy,” said the intruder, giggling now. And then he jammed his knife into Robert’s arm.
The poker dropped, clattering to the floor.
Robert cursed and tried to shove the killer off him. But despite the frailty of the intruder, Robert felt his own weakness come upon him all of a sudden, like a freezing glaze of ice, stopping all motion and chilling his bones.
Robert gasped now, bleeding from his stabbed arm, staring up at the metallic mask. It took him a moment to realize he was now on his knees, trying to catch his bearings, his legs having given out from the adrenaline of it all.
“You’re weak, old friend,” said the intruder, softly. “Pliable. A perfect canvas.”
“Fuck off,” Robert snapped, staring up and gasping. He began to cough, the sudden flood of rapid air in his lungs stimulating them to reject the flood of pressure.
As he coughed, gasping, he dropped to his hands, his knees still rough against the floorboards.
He looked up and glimpsed the metallic face twist, staring down at him.
“Who are you?” Robert said, though he had a guess.
“A friend,” the man said, cheerfully. The knife was still clutched in one gloved hand, Robert’s phone in the other.
Robert stared at the glowing device, bleeding from his arm, feeling droplets speckle the floorboards. He winced, glaring up. For a moment, he faked another cough, if only to have an excuse to bunch up, preparing to lunge in one last desperate attempt for that phone.