I jumped back, clutching the painting to my chest as they tussled. One thumped the other’s head against the floor, and he went limp. The assailant rose to his full height and turned to me.
I shrank back, then nearly jumped in glee. “Marius!”
He reached for my arm. “Are you all right?”
Butterflies fluttered in my belly, because what girl didn’t appreciate her lover coming to the rescue when she really needed it?
It might have been a beautiful moment (apart from the unconscious security guy), had it not been for the four men who ran into the room next, brandishing guns and shouting, “Freeze!”
A good time to shadow-walk to freedom — if I were an expert in that trick. But I wasn’t.
I stuck up my hands, holding the Munch for all to see, including the people who rushed in behind the gunmen.
“What the—?” Dobrov started.
“I told you she was up to no good,” a woman snipped.
“Unbelievable,” someone else agreed grimly.
Marius snarled, and I touched his arm. Spraying the room with dragon fire was not a good option. Not that a better one occurred to me.
The gunmen moved aside, and Baumann strutted forward.
“What exactly is going on here?” The points of his canines flashed.
“I just came back for my purse,” I tried.
The woman sneered. “With a flashlight in one hand and a painting in the other?”
Okay, not a good look.
“It fell over. I just caught it.”
Ironically, that part was 100 percent truthful.
But the woman just snorted. What a bitch.
Double bitch, I decided a moment later, recognizing Celeste, Marius’s ex.
He growled, taking a step toward her.
The barrels of four guns swung in his direction, and the man he’d tackled stirred, groaning.
“How dare you?” Dobrov lectured me bitterly.
Which was pretty rich, coming from a guy who made a living from illicit art deals.
“Stealing — a Munch, no less!” he concluded.
An ugly, forged Munch? You’ve got to be kidding,I nearly blurted. I might be stupid enough to join a band of men I barely knew in a mission to steal a long-lost Van Gogh, but a fake Munch? My pride was definitely wounded.
One of the gunmen listened to his earpiece, then nodded to Baumann. “They got the guy.”
Shit. Did he mean Roux or Bene? And where the hell was—
“Henrik,” Marius snarled as the vampire appeared behind the others.
For the first — and probably last — time in my life, I was happy to see the vampire. If anyone could sweet-talk us out of this mess, it was Henrik.
