Page 2 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
Then three years ago everything changed.
Now, from necessity, she was all grown up.
But she wasn’t thinking about any of that as she stood in silent contemplation of the Michelangelo. She was thinking she’d better get moving because the night guard would make his scheduled appearance around the far corner of the sculpture hall in exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds, and she had a painting to steal before he did.
With a sigh of regret, she turned from the statue and made her way silently down the shadowed marble hall, enjoying the feel of the cool air on her naked skin. She rounded another corner and stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Canova’s famous statue. Erotic and beautiful, the marble work titled Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss depicted two mythological lovers ensnared forever in a passionate near-kiss.
Seeing that—Cupid’s languorous embrace, Psyche’s sensual, pliant surrender—sparked an unwanted memory that pierced her heart, sharp as knives.
Demetrius.
Her stomach twisted into a knot. Heat made her face feel molten. Then abruptly, without sound or warning, the flesh and bone woman that was Eliana dissolved into mist.
She didn’t even need to consciously think it anymore—Vapor—Shifting was as natural to her as breathing, as natural as the first time it had happened to her at thirteen years old when her cunaria had tried to force her to eat boiled eggs and she’d balked. One minute she was sitting at the polished stone table with her lips smashed together in disgust, the next—poof!
Vanished.
Only the strongest of her kind could Shift to Vapor, and so she was grateful, but to this day she loathed eggs.
Vapor was only one of her many Gifts, but one that offered a precious benefit the others didn’t: escape. Now, relieved of the terrible burden of feelings, she floated in a ruffling pale gray plume for a moment, regaining equilibrium. Disconnected from a body, she was still herself—her mind remained, as did the strength of her will—but there was no heartbeat, no respiration, no emotion or digestion, just the lovely and calming sensation of freedom from gravity. Of herself, weightless as air.
An applied thought—up—and she drifted toward the ceiling, far enough above the lovers below that they became slightly less offensive. She turned away and surged off through the vast darkness of the museum, a shimmering cloud of Vapor headed toward room 77 and the Romantic paintings, where one of her other powerful Gifts would come into play.
A Degas was the prize tonight. Not too famous, not too large, it would still command a good price on the black market and wouldn’t be too easy to trace by the authorities, or too hard to remove from the wall.
Contrary to popular belief, museum security systems are typically some of the worst. Unlike the movies, which would lead one to believe a field of invisible lasers and infrared cameras are de rigeur, the reality is closer to the sorry duo of underpaid, badly trained security personnel and mechanical gates. Most jewelry stores are far more secure, as are all banks; Eliana knew this from experience.
And for a woman who could not only dissolve into a wisp of air but who was able—even better—to become invisible in the cover of shadow while still retaining a physical body that could lift and carry a painting, the temptation of stealing into buildings that were closed, locked, and legally verboten became too great.
But that wasn’t the primary reason. Money was the primary reason. Crass, yes, but she needed money to continue her father’s research, and her people needed to eat, so she’d resorted to using her Gifts as a way to avoid starvation.
It wasn’t as if they were going to start feeding on humans, after all, no matter how much her brother, Caesar, tried to convince her it was their birthright, and that the sorry creatures were quite tasty. Think of them as cows, he’d argued again not two days prior. You like beef, don’t you?
Yes, she liked beef, but she liked humans, too. For the most part. Either way, she wasn’t going to eat them. It just seemed like one of those things you don’t do.
She’d thought of getting a job to bring in money, but quickly realized how ridiculous that notion was. Not only did none of the Ikati have any work experience or what could be deemed “skills” by an employer, they were too different from humans. They stood out.
An ancient Zulu word from their even more ancient homeland in the darkest heart of Africa, Ikati meant “cat warrior,” and it was a near perfect description of Eliana and her kind. Sleek and lithe and powerful, able to move without sound on two feet or four, able to strike a killing blow before their prey ever sensed danger, the Ikati were part of the human world but not of it, and even in clever disguise it was evident for all to see.
The eyes gave it away. Flashing and feral, alight with a predatory gleam even when they smiled, Eliana and her kin of the Roman catacombs had eyes of deepest midnight, a black so deep it was fathomless. The most stalwart of human men had been known to falter in his step when one of her kind looked a moment too long in his direction.
So the eyes were a problem, but so was nearly everything else. The way they spoke, the way they walked, the way the very air seemed to hold its breath around them. Even at night when they usually went out their differences were apparent, so Eliana and her little band of rebels kept apart from the rest of the everyday world as best they could.
One day soon, however, the world would become well acquainted with them. Then everything would change.
Until then she’d have to keep stealing.
And there—just around another quiet corner, hanging benignly on the wall in a square gilt frame unprotected by glass—was the Degas.
The first thing to rematerialize was her lips, and they were smiling.
She took shape as a woman again, her feet alighting soundlessly on the stone floor with the casual grace of years of practice. Her senses surged back: the dull tang of cloistered air in her nose, the stone cool and smooth beneath her feet, a faint car horn from the traffic on the Rue de Rivoli that never dissipated, even at this hour. Her stomach growled with a hunger pang, and she realized she hadn’t eaten in hours.
She’d just reached up and grasped the painting—ethereal light and shadow around the voluptuous figure of a retreating woman—when she heard a trio of faint noises and froze.
Snap.
Click.
