Page 30 of Ravenous Prophecy
Very spartan finish, barely any changes made to the interiors, just a lot of concrete and wood. Urban chic, some might say. Some might say it was also the cheapest and therefore most profitable option. No need to modify, just sweep in and gentrify.
One step into the showroom half of the building, and I could already understand what Julian was trying to tell me. Cheesy metal sculptures lined either side of the warehouse, chandeliers and candelabras much too twisty and ornate to be of any practical use, elongated stick figures that were meant to gather dust in the homes of the rich and tasteless.
But what the hell did I know about art? I was just a guy with some shadow puppets and a set of brass knuckles crafted from an ancient cannon. Sure, maybe I was hired toretrieveshit, and maybe some of that shit was priceless works of art, but that didn’t mean I buried my nose in a library book to learn about any of it.
From somewhere past the back wall came the sounds of hammering and clanging. NowthatI was actually interested in, never mind that Julian said this guy couldn’t make swords to save his life.
The sculptures covered enough of the floor to show that the artist was indeed very prolific, but also enough to show that he ran a brisk, successful business. Half of these thingswere marked “sold” already. Very clever. Artful, actually, in every annoying way.
“Kane Smith,” Elaine said, bent over as she read from the plaque on a particularly tacky specimen. “If that even is his real name. Oh, but that explains the sign above the shop.”
“ArKane,” Brigette said with a shudder. “Ghastly. It’s almost offensive.”
“No security,” Bradley said. “Not even any staff to watch the showroom.”
Julian tapped the side of his nose. “Don’t really need security when you’re one of JA Williams’s pets,” he whispered. “Besides, who’s going to walk out of here with a whole chandelier? Shit’s heavy. All of it.”
I waved a hand around the showroom. “This is kind of a long shot, Julian. How are you so sure that we’ve got the right guy?”
“Is it?” Brigette asked. She pointed at the sculptures. “Look over there. Suits of armor. Breastplates, helmets, and all. And some swords, too. Perfect for a tacky gothic mansion. The man knows what he’s doing, though not quite enough to make helmets that can stand up to a stiff breeze.”
Julian snorted. Brigette smirked. What the—were they ganging up on me now?
“Let’s just get this over with,” I grumbled.
Curious and confident, Elaine led the way toward the back half of the building, following the banging and clanging. Bradley tailed her closely but kept checking over his shoulder, as if to make sure we were still there. I smiled at him, nodding reassuringly.
Brigette, meanwhile, was actively scribbling in a tiny notebook. I peered over her shoulder, blinking hard when I saw the bizarre array of indecipherable glyphs on the page. And were they moving, too?
“Taking notes for later?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied. Brigette never slowed her pace, never looked up from the page, the sleek black shaft of her pen gleaming as she scritched away.
As we reached the back of the showroom, I caught a glimpse of a security monitor and did a double take. I didn’t recognize any of the five people on the screen, but the man whipping his head frantically between the monitor and the closest security camera was mimicking my body language perfectly.
Was this Brigette’s doing, the thing with her notebook? The shifting glyphs, the shifting of our faces and bodies—damn. Instant disguises. This was almost better than that little trick I could pull with my shadow puppet.
Shameful to admit that I’d had my doubts at the start, getting another bookworm when I’d asked for a thief, but Bradley had made the right choice recruiting her. Knowing he’d set aside his pride for the sake of the mission made it even hotter. Smarter? Never mind.
Julian and Elaine slid open the huge wooden door dividing the building, a gust of intense heat spilling out of the doorway as it rushed into the air-conditioned showroom. I grimaced, already aware I was going to sweat my balls off the moment we stepped through.
A blacksmith’s hammer banged away from the back of the smithy, this converted warehouse that somehow safely accommodated everything an artisan might need to craft hismilquetoast metal sculptures. Heat seemed to rise from the concrete floor itself, blasting from a coal-powered forge at the far end of the smithy. But the hottest thing in the room, judging from the slack jaws and ogling eyes of my companions, was the very inappropriately dressed artisan blacksmith himself.
Kane Smith—seriously, that had to be a pseudonym—wore stylishly distressed jeans, scuffed lace-up boots, thick work gloves, and a leather apron. And that was it. Sparse clothing aside, the only thing protecting him from the sparks flying between his hammer and anvil was the coating of sweat all over his tanned, exposed body.
A strip of leather kept most of his hair out of his face, some of it loose and spilling artfully down to his collarbones. A huge set of goggles protected his eyes, emphasizing his annoyingly chiseled jawline with its fine dusting of scruff, never enough to look haggard, just enough to remind you that he was too busy creating art to shave in the morning.
Listen, I was always happy to admit when someone was attractive, okay? Even if they did strike me as a poseur, never mind that he hadn’t actually said or done anything to deserve my distaste. More attractive than me, though? Who could say?
He slid the goggles up and over his hair, pushing it out of his face, revealing dark, deep-set eyes, this brooding artiste, this weary genius.
“Oh,” he said, his tone too practiced to be genuine. “I didn’t see you there.”
He could have been talking to anyone, or everyone. Here was a man who was so accustomed to commanding aroom with his looks alone. Okay, and his voice, and his body, and—look, things were just getting good with Bradley. I had enough to deal with as it was.
In the back of my head, a tiny voice reminded me that Bradley and I weren’t actually dating or anything. He was just a client. I clenched my teeth.
“We’re collectors,” Elaine replied, with all the confidence and bluster of a woman who could purchase any pick off the showroom floor. Which she could, of course.
