“You can tell the difference between a human’s blood or an animal?”
“Yes.”
“My blood?” Her mind wandered to the memories of his lips brushing her skin.
“Absolutely,” he responded, his voice low.
Under Viktor’s heated stare, Waverly averted her gaze and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Humans have very distinct scents from animals and from each other. While I don’t drink animal blood, there have been times when I’d scrounge for anything.” Viktor appeared to lose his thoughts and changed the subject. “Is anything else amiss? Any other rooms?”
“Um, not that I can see. But given there’s blood and body parts under my bed, I’m thinking that’s about enough.”
“I’ll send a cleaner later. Right now, you should pack a few things you want to bring with you.”
“Pack?” Waverly rubbed between her eyes, attempting to release the stifling tension.
“I’m sorry. But your place isn’t safe. And even if it were cleaned up, are you going to want to stay when someone has defiled your bedroom? No. You’ll come with me, and we’ll find your friend and most importantly, find the bad guy.”
“You’re not wrong though. Someone did this.” She glanced around the room in frustration. “I really liked this apartment too. Do you know how hard it is to find a place near the beach?”
“Location, location, location,” Viktor quipped.
“Okay. I’ll go with you,” she acquiesced with a nod. She could stay at a friend’s house or a hotel, but she didn’t want to put anyone else at risk. “I don’t really have a choice right now. At least not for tonight.” Waverly raked her fingers through her hair, nervously twisting her hair into a bun. “We have to go back to the museum and talk to the police. What am I going to say?”
“I’m going to call PCAP, tell them about the demon, the blood. They’ll come check out your condo. Make sure there’s nothing else we’re missing. Maybe they can pick up some prints. I’ll also text Jake and let him know what happened so he can follow up with them after we leave to go to New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?” Waverly asked, wearing a shocked expression. “Why are we going there?”
“I’ve got a contact there who might be able to help. Whoever did this might come looking for you again.”
“Okay, but I have to get back to work. The exhibit is opening. What am I supposed to do?” Waverly’s stomach churned. She knew Viktor was right. Whoever got into her place had made it look easy and they’d be back.
“It’s going to be all right.” Viktor closed the distance between them.
Waverly nodded. She glanced to the pool of blood and her lips tightened. Emotion brewed inside her, and she fought the tears that welled in her eyes.
Viktor wrapped his arms around her, and Waverly melted into his protective embrace. She clung to him, allowing her energy to flow. She opened her mind as his warmth surrounded her. In that moment she wished they could escape, pretend none of this had happened, that this ancient vampire she’d met was merely an art philanthropist who she found entertaining and ridiculously handsome. But the voice in the back of her head wouldn’t allow her to indulge in fantasy. The sight of the blood-splattered floor out of the corner of her eye slapped her with reality. This was no fantasy, it was horror.
As Waverly entered the museum’s lobby, she recalled the previous night, the sound of gunfire, the blood. She walked to the column that she hid behind and pressed her palm to the cool stone. As if she were living a surreal nightmare, she’d been shot in this very spot, yet not a speck of blood remained. All the catering furniture had been put away, leaving the open space nearly ready for visitors. Save for a mill of officers remaining in the building and workers replacing broken glass, all was perfectly normal.
This is messed up, she thought to herself. Instinct told her nothing would be the same. Whatever had come for Teagan had now come for her. She’d packed her things, left her home, her sanctuary. Her second home, her work, her museum had been defiled.
This is still my life, she told herself as she glanced to the chic signs that announced the arrival of the new Impressionism exhibit. Her exhibit. It reminded her of her accomplishments.
The rhythmic tapping of her boots on the marble floor was drowned out by the sounds of voices quarreling. The argument grew louder as she approached the rotunda. Two uniformed police officers stood silent while a woman dressed in a tan pantsuit lectured her boss.
“Dr. Williams, this is a police investigation. This is a crime scene. We need time to collect evidence. And even after this is all cleaned up, we may need to come back if the detectives have questions or if they need to look at the space again. This is how investigations work.”
“With all due respect, the shooter is dead. You know how he died. He slipped and broke his neck. Everyone saw it. Crime solved. I, on the other hand, have a responsibility to the public to give them access to one of the world’s most spectacular exhibits, to live and breathe Impressionism. As they say, the show must go on.”
“Well, I’m afraid that may work for some things but in this universe, where I’m running the show, I need more time. I’m sure you can refer patrons to Balboa Park for one more day. The fine city of San Diego would like to thank you for your understanding.”
“This is ridiculous. Our donors, our staff, they stayed late last night. They answered your questions. You took names and addresses. What more could you possibly be looking for?”
“As I said, there are nuances when collecting evidence. We need to be thorough. While it appears the shooter broke his neck, it seems unlikely he simply fell.”
“Does it really matter how he died? I don’t mean to appear insensitive, but who really cares? He’s a criminal. The bigger question is why the museum must suffer further loss by keeping us closed? Everything has been cleaned up. You’ve got the body. Deal with it at the station.” Dr. William’s cheeks flushed red with anger as he huffed and dragged his palm over his head.
“He’s got a point. Although so does the detective,” Viktor interjected as he confidently crossed the room and addressed the police.
Waverly gave her boss a sympathetic smile, aware that every day the museum remained closed, they’d lose money.
“My name’s Viktor Christianson. We spoke earlier on the phone. Please pardon our late arrival.”
“Nice of you to finally join us. I’m Detective Trent,” the officer told Viktor. “You do realize that time is of the essence in these matters.”
“As I explained last night, Dr. LaFleur and I left prior to the shooting to attend a late-night, exclusive showing at my home in Miami. Dr. Williams. You do remember us telling you we’d bid out early?”
A look of confusion washed over Waverly’s face as her boss nodded in agreement. “Yes, I do recall Mr. Christianson saying something about another painting you’d wanted her to see.”
Waverly stood dumbfounded at their explanation, knowing that she’d been shot. Viktor turned to her and winked as he brought his fingers to his lips.
“Is this true, Dr. LaFleur?” the detective asked her. “You expect me to believe you went all the way across the country last evening to see a painting?”