Page 105 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
I knew this because he stepped forward from behind the shadows of a centaur sculpture near the left staircase to offer his right palm to me in greeting.
There was a soft, shy smile on his mouth and worry in his eyelash-less gaze.
Beside me, Brando made a noise of concern in his throat. “Are you okay?” he asked, with all the artlessness of a child.
The man bent slightly so he could address Brando on his level. “I’m more than okay, Mr. Belcante. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“You are?” Brando asked, shocked. “But how do you know about me?”
“Ah.” He smiled, touching the side of his misshapen nose. “You’ll learn that I know everything that goes on in this house. I am its keeper.”
“Like Jarvis in Iron Man?”
He laughed. “Maybe. Though, you’ll find I don’t have quite as much control over the residences here.” He straightened and offered me his hand again. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Belcante. I am Walcott.”
“A pleasure,” I murmured back, accepting his palm, noting the silky texture of the burns. “I’m sorry for Brandon’s rudeness, he didn’t mean anything by his question.”
“Of course.” He waved the issue away with one hand. “The sincerity of children is a good reminder to adults to be more honest.” He addressed Brando next, as if he were a grown man and not a boy. “I was in an accident ten years ago. My car crashed and caught fire while I was still inside. It left marks, as you can see.”
Brando stepped closer, peering up at Walcott curiously. “That’s really bad luck.”
A startled laugh. “I was drinking and driving, so it wasn’t a matter of luck but stupidity. My own fault. I was twenty and rather famous at the time.”
I frowned at him, trying to see if I recognized his face, but he caught me looking and laughed easily at my embarrassment.
“I hardly look the same, but I was once a male model,” he admitted, and if he could have blushed, I think he would have. “Vain and pretty.”
“Anca always says it’s better to be nice than pretty,” Brando parroted, reaching out to pat Walcott’s hand. “You seem pretty nice.”
Walcott’s smile was wide, pinching his waxy skin and bleaching it white. It could have been an ugly expression, but I found myself smiling back at the warmth in his dark eyes.
“Thank you, Mr. Belcante,” he said solemnly. “Now, let me show you to your rooms.”
He led us up the right side of the curving stairs, pointing out some of the notable paintings clustered on nearly every available wall.
“Eamon and Zelda McTiernan, Tiernan’s maternal grandparents, were rather fond of art,” he said drily as he indicated the long hall we entered filled with ornate frames. “There are rooms stuffed full of it.”
“What?” I asked, my chest tightening with excitement. “Has it been catalogued? Some of these are very rare.”
My fingers hovered over the gold frame of a Picasso painting wedged between a Franz Marc and an Andy Warhol print. I could feel my heart knock brutally against my ribs as we descended the dark hall of wonders.
The house itself might have been nightmarish, but this? This was a dream for a girl who loved art as much as I did.
“My sister loves paintings,” Brando was telling Walcott, looking up, up, up at the tall man, so he almost walked into a marble bust. The manservant adjusted his path with a hand on his shoulder, but Brando didn’t pause to stop talking. “She’s a big geek for it.”
“You’re a geek for Marvel comics and movies,” I reminded him, darting forward to squeeze his sides until he laughed and squealed.
“Superheroes are way better than stuffy dead guys who painted pictures of stuffy old things like flowers and things,” he protested, looking up at Walcott for affirmation.
It made my stomach hurt to see how much he yearned for male validation and influence.
“I am fond of the Hulk,” Walcott admitted with a wink.
“Really? But he’s big and ugly and mean!”
“Is he? I suppose I like the idea of being two different people. One on the inside and one for everyone else.”
“All superheroes are like that!”
