Page 29 of Viktor

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?”

“Well, yes. Mr. Christianson had donated a Monet and he’d offered access to another rare painting.” Waverly glared at Viktor, annoyed and confused as to why he’d lie. “We took his private plane.”

“And you’re certain you weren’t injured in any way?” the detective pressed.

“Does she look like she’s been shot? I mean come on. She’s rockin’ those Louboutins. Looks like she stepped off a runway.”

“Do you find this amusing, Mr. Christianson?” The detective asked.

“I’m always serious about fashion. I don’t know about you, but I love fringe. Sexy and sporty all at once.” He smiled, his eyes lit with amusement.

Waverly glanced down to the ridiculously expensive boots he’d bought for her. While impressed with the way the low-heeled suede shoes supported her feet like she was walking on a cloud in heaven, she still had a hard time accepting the extravagant gift.

“I want to run through this again.” The detective glared at Viktor, not amused with his attitude.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put a call in to the mayor. You may not be in a hurry to open this museum, but I am!” Dr. Williams turned on his heels, angrily stomping out of the rotunda.

“Your boss seems tense,” the detective commented as she tapped at her phone.

“Perhaps he should take a yoga class,” Viktor suggested with a wide smirk. “Get his chakras aligned and all that good stuff.”