Page 96 of Demon Apathy: Sunderverse

“It’s a disgrace,” he went on. “Can you imagine they want to put some of them inmymuseum? Over my dead body!”

Witchlights! What a snob!

Sage pulled a face, drawing his mouth down and crossing his eyes, and I almost sputtered a mouthful of champagne on the painting. I turned away from it and cleared my throat.

Then Sage jumped into action. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said, affecting a British accent as planned, “but I must say that I wholeheartedly agree with you, Mr. Bamford.”

Richie turned his face to glare at Sage, a sneer of contempt shaping his slimy features. No doubt, many people tried to get his attention with similar antics, and he was used to—though not receptive—to the invasive ruse.

The old man blew air through his nose, looked us up and down, then returned his attention back to his friends. Sage blinked rapidly, looking frazzled. Clearly, he was losing his nerve. My mind reeled, trying to remember all we’d talked about this afternoon.

“Um… yes…” I added, sounding as eloquent as a post. “Take this, for instance.” I gestured to the painting over my shoulder, talking to Sage and acting as if Richie wasn’t there. “What’s so special about it? I look at it and it makes me feel nothing. It can’t compare to your father’s Rembrandts.”

Sage cleared his throat and shook his head at me. “Come,” he said, “I saw something over here that may arisesomethingin you.”

He pulled me away, wrapping an arm around my waist, and pretending to chide me for my big mouth. We weaved through the crowd and stopped in front of the sculpture of an angel. For a moment, I was distracted by the marble wings and the detail in each feather. I hated how it immediately reminded me of Drevan.

I lowered my eyes to the floor, deciding that this sculpture was definitely an obscenity—even if it was clothed.

“Do you think he’ll bite?” Sage whispered, looking worried. “What if he doesn’t?”

“Let’s give him a few minutes.” I took Sage’s hand and led him to the next sculpture. This time, the artist had gone for a demon, one that looked a lot like the representation of the traditional devil: a humanoid shape with a long, pointed tail, horns, and a hideous face.

What the hell?!

Okay, maybe the angel wasn’t an obscenity, but this definitely was.

We kept mingling, pretending to examine the art on the walls while we surreptitiously glanced in Richie’s direction. A blond man reclining against a column caught my attention. Something in his confident stance seemed familiar. When I met his gaze, he winked at me, red flashing in his eyes.

Drevan!

He was here, protecting us, just as he’d promised. Nodding approvingly, he thumbed his nose and disappeared into the crowd.

“He’s interested,” Sage said, bringing me back to the moment. “He keeps looking this way.”

I peered back and caught Richie glancing in our direction too, but I wasn’t sure it meant he was interested. To me, it looked more as if he wanted to kill us.

Thirty minutes later, he still hadn’t approached us. I was starting to lose hope. We needed to come up with another way to get the old man’s attention.

“Where did he go?” Sage whispered in my ear.

After quickly scanning the room, I came up empty. “I don’t—”

“Who are you two? And how did you gain an invitation to this event? I don’t recall you being on the list,” Richard Bamford III snarled behind us.

I froze, my breath snagging at the knot in my throat. Sage recovered first and smoothly turned on his heel, plastering on a fake smile.

“My father is unwell and was unable to come,” Sage said. “I hated for his invitation to go unused.”

“And who is your father?” Richie demanded.

“Sir Anthony Fernsby.”

The old man’s eyebrows went up, and he seemed to go a little pale.

Sir Anthony Fernsby was the registered and unregistered owner of many fine pieces of art, and Richie knew it. And with Sir Fernsby on his deathbed, his son was expected to inherit everything in his estate, including several coveted masterpieces.

“A grand decision, if I may say so,” Richie said, extending a hand and Sage’s direction. They shook. “I must assume you are Maximilian.”