Page 86 of The Cursed Chalice

Deimos begrudgingly puts on the glove and mask. “With your naked eye, tell me, is it authentic?”

“I don’t want to damage such a beautiful work of art.”

Deimos nods. “But I want it done.”

I sigh. “Fine. If anything happens, it’s not my fault.”

It took me about two hours to check the painting for things like flaking, lifting, tearing, and any planar distortion.

I take the jeweler’s loupe away from my eyes. “From the looks of it, I am 30% sure this is the real painting.”

Deimos exhales, and his shoulders drop in relief.

“I need to phone a few friends who are experts in Caribbean art.”

I don’t think Deimos is listening, so I say something else. “Whether it’s authentic or not, I think she will love it.”

His head instantly lifts. Bingo. He doesn’t respond, but I knew I hit a nerve.

“I’m going upstairs for more coffee. You want a cup?” I drag my gloves and mask off and throw them into the bin.

“No.” His response was final.

Closing the door behind me, I walk through the vault again. I push the door to walk up the stairs and through the library. It’s funny; the house is so quiet without Nisa and Ares. No giggles, no pounding music, just peace. Pushing through the kitchendoor, I pause when I notice a sleek black box with a red bow on it.

I walk to the present and set my cup aside. There’s a card with my name on it and an address. It must be Ares. God, he is just so sweet. I begin to loosen the bow, but then a weird smell hits my nose, like old socks or dried muddy water.

My fingers tremble as I lift the lid slowly. Inside lies a hand. Pale, bloodied at the wrist, and still wearing a gold cuff of a valet uniform. The stiff, cold fingers curl around a fob.

My knees buckle, and I push myself away from the box.

“Oh, fuck.” The old metallic scent of blood is thick in the air. My stomach heaves, and I rush to the kitchen sink. I can hear the blood racing through my ears.

“Deimos,” I whisper. I blink and bow my head, rocking it on the cool marble.

“What’s going on?” Deimos is here. I don’t know how, but I’m thankful. His gaze moves to the black box. “Shit.”

Tears gather in my eyes. “It’s the valet of the estate that let me go the day of my wedding.” The room blurs. “Oh God, this is my fault. He killed this boy because of me.”

“Come this way,” Deimos commands.

I shake my head. “My legs feel locked in place.”

He exhales and murmurs under his breath, “If Ares finds out I so much as touched you, I’m a dead man.” I don’t feel when Deimos scoops me up in his arms or when he deposits me on my and Ares’s bed.

A dead man. How old was that valet anyway, like twenty? He had so much ahead of him, and he is dead because of me.

I hold on to the pillow that Ares laid on last night, inhaling his clean scent.

“Yeah, I’ll send a picture. There’s a paper card with an address on it,” Deimos says. “She’s in bed. Okay, okay. Got it.”

ARIC

I was at my office signing off on a shipment of guns to Poland and another to a drug lord in Texas.

When my phone rang, I knew something was wrong. I heard Deimos’s voice. Elias sent a “gift” to my wife. My fucking wife. He dies today.

My phone beeps, and Deimos sent me the picture of the card and the address.