“An Amish rumspringa?”
“Why not? It works for them. Let Aiden see what’s out there and come back.”
He shakes his head as if I’m a very amusing child. “Take the money, Ms. Bennett. Otherwise, there will come a day when you will look back on this moment and wish you’d made another choice. That isn’t a threat. I won’t ‘make you regret it’ or anything so banal. You will regret it because you will see that I offered an opportunity to secure your future. You don’t have one with my son. You realize that, I hope.”
“I’m not trying to snag a wealthy husband. We’ve already established that.”
“Remove money from the equation. I have the feeling that’s an obstacle, and you’d prefer him without it and all it represents. You can’t have that—I think you realize that. There is no separating him from that part of his life. But what you want is him. The man beneath the millions. Very sweet and romantic and also very naive. He will have his fling. He will move on, as he always does.”
“Then why worry about it?”
“Because this isn’t his usual fling, with someone of his own class to decorate his arm at a charity dinner and have a little fun with afterward. I have no doubt of the same end result, but in the meantime, he is distracted in a way he never is, and it couldn’t come at a worse possible time.”
“Because of the marriage contract. You want to see him paired off with Theodora O'Toole.”
“Theodora would be an excellent choice.”
“What if Aiden isn’t her choice? What if she doesn’t want this?”
His lips twitch. “Has she told you that? Clever girl, our Theodora. But you’re drawing this out, and I have things to do.” He lifts the phone. “May I wire you the money?”
“No.”
“You will regret it one day. You’ll look back and realize you traded financial security for a fleeting affair that ended in heartbreak.”
“I don’t care.”
“All right then.” He circles wide around me, as if to be sure I don’t think he’s coming at me. He opens the door and waves inside. The light is on. Across the room is a painting. It’s a teenager holding a saxophone.
The Vengeful Boy? He looks calm and thoughtful.
“Your painting,” Cullan says with a wave.
I walk closer for a better look. Then I say, “What did it do?”
He shrugs. “Marion knows. I didn’t bother with the details.”
He moves aside to let me through. I step into the doorway and stop. Then I back up. “I’d like the shielding—”
He shoves me. One hand between my shoulder-blades, shoving me into the room. I stagger, the bad luck still in effect. When I spin, he slams the door shut.
“Hey!” I pound on it.
“I wouldn’t bother with that,” he calls from the other side. “No one will hear you. I’m going to give you some time to reconsider my offer.”
His voice grows softer as he walks through the adjoining room. The other door shuts behind him, and I am alone with the cursed painting.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-seven
I eye the painting from across the room. Then I glance at the door.
The obvious answer is to forget the damn painting and check the door. Except I’m in the room with the painting, and I have no idea what it can do.
I sidestep toward the door, gaze on the painting. I turn the door knob. It doesn’t budge. Did I expect it to be unlocked? Honestly, that strikes me as exactly the sort of thing Cullan Connolly would do.
Lock Ms. Bennett in the basement? Of course not. The door was open. She wanted time with the painting, to try uncursing it. She could have left whenever she wished.
It’s locked. I heave on it, even knowing the chance of me being able to break it is lower than the chance it was left unlocked. Still, this is just a basement room. Not a prison cell. Not a subterranean dungeon. It could be a flimsy door I can eventually break. It is not. It’s solid wood with a brass handle, and the hinges are on the other side, so I can’t remove those.
I shout for help. Yes, he said not to bother but also, yes, that’s another thing I’d expect from him—warn me it won’t work while there’s actually someone right upstairs who could hear me. So I shout, but no one comes.
I manage all that without activating the painting. Maybe I’m out of range. Two options then. Stay right here until Cullan returns or uncurse the painting.
I’m trying very hard not to freak out at being locked in the basement. When Cullan Connolly will return, I’ll tell him yes, I’ll take his damn money. He’ll wire it. Probably make me sign something promising to never see his son again. I walk away and figure out how to handle the situation from there, which ultimately involves returning the cash and reneging on the deal.
Cullan wants to lock me into a contract, like he did to his son. The difference is that Connolly spent the money—on tuition and college life—before realizing the full nature of his obligation. If I don’t touch the money, I can repay the cash and get out of the contract.
The only question will be how I handle it with Connolly. If I tell him what his father did, it’ll drive a wedge between them. I’m all for Connolly getting some distance from his supervillain parents, but he needs to do that for himself, on his terms.
What if I don’t mention the deal, and he finds out? This isn’t exactly the sort of thing I can brush off, pretend I didn’t think he needed to know his dad offered me a half-million dollars and kidnapped me when I refused.
What if I do tell him, and it doesn’t trigger any kind of explosion? If Connolly just sighs and says he’s very sorry?
I can’t worry about that. Get out first and then decide what to do.
As for the painting, I’m torn. I feel cowardly sitting outside of its activation range, but is there any point in getting closer and taking that risk?
Ani would tell me to sit my ass on this floor and wait. Jonathan would agree. Connolly, I think, would hesitate, feeling the pull of curiosity, but would ultimately do the practical thing and wait.
I should wait.
I will wait.
Maybe if I just got a little closer . . .
Nope. Not after the Eldest Daughter encounter. I might want to uncurse that painting; I do not want hours of being tormented by my deepest fears.
And yet, even with the Daughter, I only had to get out of her way to stop the visions. I know where the boundary is. Maybe I could just . . .
Stop that.
I look at the painting. From here, the boy seems like a teen from the seventies. Saxophone in hand. Longish hair. Solemn dark eyes. Black turtleneck sweater. A face that fifteen-year-old me would have found swooningly cute.
From what I know, though, this is not the original painting. It’s actually a teen from the Renaissance era. I squint trying to see it. Imagine not a turtleneck but a high collared shirt. Not a saxophone but a trumpet or other period-appropriate instrument.
What happened to you?
This boy’s mother might have been monstrous, but that doesn’t mean he was. His little sister grieved for him. These children didn’t deserve their fate. Athene isn’t to blame for it, though. Their mother is. She made choices that led to the deaths of her children, including this boy.