Then I turned to the back, and there it was — the final piece of evidence. A stamp in Gothic script that saidKaiser-Friedrich Museum.
My heart skipped several beats. Museum stamps could be forged too, but everything pointed to this being the real thing.
Beside me, Henrik went perfectly still. So, huh. Maybe the vampire did have a heart after all. At least for great artworks.
But when I glanced up at him, he was staring across the room — to the extent that vampires stared at anything that wasn’t warm-blooded. His breaths were short, like mine, and his eyes flickered red in a moment of shock and discovery.
I followed his gaze. What was so interesting about that cigar-shaped box over to one side?
When I elbowed him, he jerked around, looking downright guilty.
Which he surely was — guilty of a hundred heinous crimes, or so I assumed. But I wouldn’t have putnoticing an innocuous boxamong them.
Unless that box wasn’t so innocuous.
“What?” he growled, flushing a little.
And alittlewas a lot on a vampire. I’d only ever seen him look that lively at the prospect of fresh blood. I glanced at the box again. What was in there? And, yikes. Did I want to know?
Pandora’s box,my imagination said.Open it, and the world will be inundated with strife, disease, and greed.
I sighed, thinking of recent headlines. Make thateven morestrife, disease, and greed.
Then again,hopehad also come fluttering out of Pandora’s box. But I doubted that was what excited Henrik.
“It’s real,” I whispered, trying to draw his focus back to the Van Gogh. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain.”
He rubbed his cheek to cover the furtive looks he shot at the box.
“Good. Fine.” He straightened his already-perfect tie, then checked his watch. “Seven minutes to go.”
We spent the next five minutes at a second crate of abstract painters — Rothko, Mondrian, Klein, to name a jaw-dropping few. Then we wandered over to the other guests, who were still admiring the jeweled sword. I checked my watch, counting down the seconds.
“Find anything?” Dobrov asked.
Henrik shrugged. “Possibly.”
Definitely, I thought, glancing at the box he was so interested in. Now that we were closer, I could see the lid was inlaid with ivory and exotic wood.
The lights flickered.
“Oh!” I yelped, grabbing Dobrov’s arm. “What was that?”
Actually, I knew exactly what that was — Roux cutting the power.
The lights cut entirely, plunging us into utter darkness. I screamed for good measure.
The lights flicked on again, but everyone looked spooked — everyone but Henrik, who squinted uncomfortably in the sudden burst of light.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we need to ask you to vacate. Just for a few minutes,” one of the security guards said. The other had already opened the door and was heading out, one hand pressed to his earpiece.
“Of course.” Dobrov ushered us out, taking up the rear. I dawdled, staying half a step ahead of him as the chitter-chatter and cries of a nervous crowd grew at the far end of the hallway.
The lights flickered again, and I drew a mental map of the room. Then the lights died a second time, plunging the entire villa into utter darkness.
More cries and screams broke out, but mine wasn’t among them. I was too busy sidestepping Dobrov and navigating my way back to the crate with the Van Gogh.
All my life, I’d wished for real supernatural powers. Now, I was grateful for the few that had trickled down to me, like unusually sharp senses. I couldn’t see well, but a sixth sense outlined every piece of furniture, every crate I had to maneuver around.
