“I smell blood,” he told them.
“What?” Waverly asked, panic in her voice.
“There’s no blood on the painting,” Greyson insisted.
Viktor leaned toward the painting and sniffed, concentrating. He detected the faint scent of old blood. “He’s right. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I definitely smell it.”
“You should open it up,” Rafe urged. “I’ve got a penknife.”
“Open it up?” Waverly’s cheeks reddened. “No. No way. You can’t just slice into my painting.”
“But it’s not your painting,” Viktor countered.
“Are you sure you want to take a blade to it?” Greyson plowed his fingers through his hair. “I mean that seems a little extreme. I did mention I knew the very nun who painted this. Everything about it looks familiar. Like I said, I’m fairly sure it’s an original.”
“If it was repaired then someone else already broke it. Y’all might be able to do a better job,” Rafe interjected.
“No. Stop. We can’t just slice it open. I just can’t…” Waverly’s words trailed off into silence.
“What other choice do we have? There might be something in here that can help us. I know it’s an original.” Viktor looked to Greyson. “But this one has already been tampered with. It’s like you’re fixing it. A restoration, if you will.”
“Home edition.” Rafe nodded.
“I think we should do it,” Greyson conceded.
“What?” Waverly exclaimed. “No.”
“While I agree with you that this painting is rare, you must know that the nun painted others. The church owns many. Others are kept in private collections.” Greyson gave Waverly a sympathetic look. “It’s going to be okay.”
“You can do this,” Viktor encouraged. “The painting is going to need repair anyway.”
“Well technically she’s not repairing,” Rafe began.
Viktor shot him a silencing stare. Restraining his anger, he continued. “Consider this the beginning of a repair.”
“But we don’t have permission. This painting. I don’t know the owner.”
“Exactly. You say that it’s an anonymous donor who sent you a painting. But we all know there’s something not right about this one. We don’t know if they are trying to help with something or implicate you in something, but we have to find out what this bump is. There’s something in here the demon in the detective wanted. And we need to find out exactly what it is.”
Waverly sighed. “In 2015. There was this painting. Flowers. A kid accidentally put his hand through it. Right there in the exhibit. It happens. So sometimes they do get repaired. Okay, okay, I can do this.”
“Yes, there we go, pet. You’ve got this.”
“Did anyone take pictures? I mean, we’ve got to document this,” Greyson suggested.
“On it. Video and pics. Got it all. You know. Just in case. It’s one of the first things I did,” Waverly told them. “I don’t have a straight edge. I’m going to need a knife or something. A razor would work best. Do you have one?”
“Razors are in the case in the bathroom,” Viktor told Rafe, noting Waverly’s look of surprise. “What? I may be a vampire, but I don’t always bite.”
“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.
“For bloodletting.” Viktor closed his eyes, attempting to draw energy from the object but he detected a vast sea of nothingness. No life. No emotion. No humanity.
“I know what you’re thinking, brother. But the initials are random. It’s a coincidence. He’s dead,” Greyson repeated.
“Jesus Christ. This can’t belong to him,” Viktor said, not quite convincing himself.
“This is some kind of sick fucking joke. That’s what this is.” Greyson laughed, the smile not reaching his eyes.
“This lancet. The fleam. It’s missing its handle.” Viktor rubbed his thumb along its edge. “Where did this come from?”