Page 67 of Song of the Shadow Prince
The journey to the beach house took longer than I anticipated. Nestled along a rugged coast where the ocean met the forest, the nip of an autumn breeze laden with the scent of salt and decaying leaves rustled through the trees and tugged at our cloaks. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, courtesy of our unseen friend or friends who continued to follow us.
The solitary house stood against a vast backdrop of the ocean, its weathered wood and thatched roof a testament to many seasons. Ornate carvings framed the windows and doors, hinting at a past where aesthetics held sway alongside function. The rhythmic crash of distant waves mixed with the rustling of leaves underfoot as we walked up a crushed oyster path to the front door. The exterior, charming with its slightly overgrown garden and creeping vines, held a wild beauty that was both welcoming and mysterious. However, upon reaching the door, our initial excitement gave way to a slight hiccup—we needed to find the key I was convinced Arya had hidden somewhere nearby.
“Surely Arya left a key somewhere around here. We just need to find it.” I offered Maeve a confident smile. “Let’s look around.”
Maeve nodded and we split up. She ran her fingers along the wooden windowsills while I ventured into a small, overgrown garden. There, amidst stone sculptures partially covered in ivy, I spotted an ornate ceramic pot shaped like a swan, its wings fanning out to form a hollow space. Inexplicably drawn to the statue, I peered inside and found the key, slightly rusty but solid, hidden beneath a small pile of pebbles.
With a triumphant smile, I waved the key at Maeve before heading back to the door. Slipping the key into the lock, it turned with a satisfying click and the door swung open, releasing a wave of smells that spoke of this place’s identity—the tangy scent of oil paints, a hint of turpentine, and the underlying mustiness of a space seldom used.
Its interior presented a stark contrast to the quaint exterior, best described as a labyrinth of creative chaos. Canvases cluttered every available space—some leaning against the walls, others perched on easels. Paint tubes, brushes, and smeared palettes littered tables and floors, creating a vibrant mess that seemed almost alive with artistic fervor.
“By the immortals!” Maeve gasped, clutching her chest. I closed and locked the door behind us.
The floorboards creaked under our steps, stirring the air and sending up whispers of dust that mingled with the lingering scents of linseed oil and aged wood. Light streamed through the windows, illuminating patches of the room and casting dramatic shadows that played over the unfinished and completed paintings alike.
Each painting was a window into a different world, ranging from stormy seascapes to tranquil landscapes, each brushstroke a testament to the artist's hand and heart. Despite the disarray,there was an undeniable rhythm to the setup. Luckily for us, Arya numbered her paintings and we could easily see which paintings were next to be sold. As the witch Mirabel mentioned, Arya liked to work in advance, and six paintings were already complete.
Maeve walked around the room in wonder. “What was she doing here?”
“If I take a shot in the dark,” I muttered, scanning the paintings, “I’d say Arya was producing dupes.”
Maeve turned to me in confusion. “Producing what?”
“Duplicates.” I scrutinized the completed works. I didn’t recognize any of them. “Are you familiar with any of these paintings?”
Maeve stood next to me and inspected each one, then shook her head. Then her eyes widened. “Wait! This one right here… it’s a Macabelli.” She frowned. “What’s it doing here?”
“Macabelli?” I repeated. “What’s that?”
“He’s a very famous artist, a werewolf from five centuries ago. This looks like an original.” The servant tapped her chin. “If Lord Zacharia knew he had this, I know for a fact he’d sell it!”
I snorted. “It’s not an original,” I said knowingly.
Maeve looked affronted. “How doyouknow? You’re not even from here!”
“I’m not from here but I know what Arya is involved in, and that’s art fraud. She’s duplicating art originals and selling them to the vampires, for reasons I have yet to figure out.” I stepped away from the frames and turned to Maeve. “I don’t know what the vampires want with these dupes, if they’re the ones committing fraud or what, but Arya is into some real shady business.”
“By the immortals!” Maeve gasped. “Is my lady really doing this?” She seemed truly shocked that her lady would be capable of such a thing.
I inwardly laughed at her naivety. From what Maeve had already told me about Arya, that woman was the devil incarnate. Ofcourseshe was capable of such things! And this? Honestly, this was minor compared to what she couldreallybe involved in. The real question was where the hell she was stashing the money she made off her forged paintings. It had to be somewhere in this beach house.
“Maeve?”
The servant had walked to the other side of the room, shaking her head and muttering as she scanned the paintings. “Yes?”
“Is there any way to send a message to Garrick from here?” I walked toward the window and peeked out between the curtains. “Do you think there’s a raven in the house Arya used to send her own messages?”
“I… I don’t know,” she muttered. “I would assume so, if my lady was using the house regularly, which it appears she was.” Her lips twisted in disappointment.
I nodded and continued to peer outside. “Find it and send a message to Garrick. We need him to come herenow.”
“But why?” Maeve asked hesitantly. “Shouldn’t we keep this a secret?”
I shook my head. “It’s too late for that; we’ve been followed. We’re going to need his help to protect this house.”
Maeve’s eyes widened in alarm. “What?”
“And I have a feeling I know who it is,” I mumbled. “Now hurry.”
