pretty enough and that he tired of his conquests—male and female—as quickly as he enjoyed them.
“Henry is an artist!” Claire said. “George Byron, you paint with words. Henry uses a brush.”
Byron pushed by Claire to stand near Mary and Shelley. “Yes, indeed,” he declared. “Henry is a true artist. And he must join us in our madness, and while we create stories of normal circumstances suddenly distorted, out of focus, corrupted by monsters, he must do so on a canvas!” Byron paused to kiss the finger Mary had pricked and met her eyes. “He must paint with rich colors and darkness—as we do with words. Ah, yes, he must paint...with the color of blood!”
They were asking him to join their private yet so privileged adventure.
“It’s a challenge I should love!” Henry assured the group.
“What shall he paint? Oh, what shall he paint?” Mary asked.
“He need but gaze around this castle,” Shelley said. “There, above the fire! That old baron looks like a skeleton ready to step out of the portrait and into this very room. And there—the way those figures hold the armor, as if they could come back to life and cut down everyone before them. Ah, the tapestry with the saints bending down to succor the lepers! Those poor, vile afflicted beings could run wild in starvation, and rip the damsels helping them asunder.”
“The swords above the fire!” Claire exclaimed.
“The gauze curtains,” Mary said. “I see in them a ghost.”
“A creature that rises from the sea or falls from the heavens?” Byron asked. “A tree being, with skeletal fingers that reach out to entangle in a young girl’s hair...and curl around her throat? What kind of monster, Henry, shall you paint?”
Henry smiled. “I shall paint deceit—and with it, the worst monster I can conjure up.”
“And what will that be?” Polidori asked.
“Man,” Henry told them. “The depth and darkness and depravity of the human soul. I shall let the very devil into my heart and mind, and he shall teach me!”
“Ah, wickedness. Wickedness is in the mind!” Mary declaimed. “And the soul that is bathed in blood!”
Beyond the castle walls, lightning struck again. The fury of the thunder that followed caused the very earth to tremble.
“Then, dearest Mary, I shall paint with blood,” he promised. “And with all the dark despair that ever have lived within these walls. Yes, I shall paint with blood.”
Chapter One
THE HOUSE WAS off Frenchman Street, not a mansion and not derelict. It sat in a neighborhood of middle-class homes from which men and women went to work every day and children went off to school. The yard was well-kept but not overmanicured; the paint wasn’t peeling, but it was a few years old. In short, to all appearances, it was the average family home in the average family neighborhood.
Or had been.
Until a neighbor had spotted the body of the woman on the kitchen floor that morning and called the police. They’d entered the house and found a scene of devastating chaos.
Michael Quinn hadn’t been among the first to arrive. He wasn’t a cop, not anymore. He was a private investigator and took on clients, working for no one but himself. However, he maintained a friendly relationship with the police. It was necessary—and, in general, made life a hell of a lot easier.
It also brought about mornings like this, when Jake Larue, his ex-partner, called him in, which was fine, since he was paid a consultant’s fee for his work with the police...and his personal pursuits could sometimes be expensive.
“You know, Quinn,” Jake said, meeting him outside, “I’ve seen bad times. The days after the storm, gang struggles in our city and the usual human cruelty every cop faces. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Jake—Detective Larue—was sent on the worst and/or most explosive cases in the city...or when something bordered on the bizarre.
Jake was good at his job. He was good at it, Quinn had long ago discovered, because he’d never thought of himself as the be-all and end-all. He took whatever help he could get, no matter where he got it. That was how cases were solved, and that was why he was willing to call Quinn.
Good thing he was back in the city, Quinn thought. He’d just arrived a few hours earlier. Danni didn’t even know he was back after his weeks in Texas—he’d meant to surprise her this morning.
Quinn looked curiously at the house. “Drug deal gone bad?” he asked. It didn’t seem like the type of home where such a thing happened, but there was no telling in that market.
“I’ll be damned if I know, but I doubt it. Get gloves and booties. We’re trying to keep it down to a small parade going through,” Larue said.
Quinn raised his brows. It was almost impossible to protect evidence from being compromised when that many people were involved. But Larue was a stickler; he’d set up a cordoned path to the porch. There were officers in the yard, and they were holding back the onlookers who’d gathered nearby. The van belonging to the crime scene techs was half on the sidewalk and cop cars crowded the streets, along with the medical examiner’s SUV. The only people who had passed him were wearing jumpsuits that identified them as crime scene investigators.
“Dr. Hubert is on,” Larue said.
Quinn liked Ron Hubert; he was excellent at his job and looked beyond the norm when necessary. He wasn’t offended when another test was suggested or when he was questioned. As he’d said himself, he was human; humans made mistakes and could overlook something important. His job was to speak for the dead, but hell, if the dead were whispering to someone else, that was fine with him.
“First things first, I guess. The entry hallway,” Larue said.
There was no way to avoid the body in the entry hall. The large man lay sprawled across the floor in death. Hubert was crouched by the body, speaking softly into his phone as he made notes.
“The victim is male, forty-five to fifty years. Time of death was approximately two hours ago or sometime between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. Cause of death appears to be multiple stab wounds, several of which on their own would prove fatal. Death seems to have taken place where the victim has fallen. There are abundant pools of blood in the immediate vicinity.” He switched off his phone, stopped speaking and glanced up. “Please watch out for the blood. The lab folks are busy taking pictures, but we’re trying to preserve the scene as best we can. Ah, Quinn, glad to see you here, son.” Pretty much anyone could be “son” to Dr. Ron Hubert. He was originally from Minnesota and his Viking heritage was apparent. His hair was whitening, but where it wasn’t white, it was platinum. His eyes were so pale a blue they were almost transparent. His dignity and reserve made him seem ageless, but realistically, Quinn knew he was somewhere in his mid-sixties.
“He was stabbed? Have you found the weapon?” Quinn asked.
“No weapons anywhere,” Larue answered. “This is—we believe but will confirm—Mr. James A. Garcia. His family has lived in the area since the nineteenth century. He inherited the house. He was a courier who worked for a specialty freight company.”
