Chapter 228 - 229 Darling.

"Now, hm, you wished to discuss something about the museum? Yes?" Waldorf asked.

"Yes," I said, digging into my jacket pocket and producing a glossy 8x10 photo of the ancient, runic cube Rhea had fabricated back in the basement. "I was hoping to rent out some gallery space. I want to host a high-society charity auction to showcase this little piece."

Waldorf took the photograph, his neck extending as he cocked his head slowly to scrutinize the jagged, glowing geometry carved into the synthetic stone. "Hmm. And it is... ah, what, precisely?"

"A prop," I answered honestly. "For a theatrical heist I’m looking to pull off next week."

The old man nodded along sagely. "Hm. I see. I see... Mhmm. Yes. You’ll want it to be put on public display, only for it to be dramatically stolen mid-event, I suppose?"

"Of course," I said.

"An intelligent theatrical summation. Staging the robbery within an accredited institution like ours will lend immediate cultural legitimacy to the trinket. Hmm. Yes."

"It’s completely fake, by the way," I added.

He glanced up, peering over the top rims of his thick glasses. "Hm? Of course it is. Yes. I recognize the artistic styling from... hmm... Etruscan metallurgy, perhaps?

"Though these particular incisions appear heavily derivative of Arabic script, and these other geometric motifs..." He squinted harder. "Well, ah, yes, I believe these specific runic patterns are lifted directly from one of those popular Dungeons and Dragons manuals, young man."

So that was where Rhea had gotten the inspiration. Figures. Well, as long as it looked spooky, crackled with red polymer light, and played well on the evening news, the exact provenance didn’t much matter.

"Right. I’m coordinating with the press now, and I was hoping to anchor the event here," I said. "Have a grand preview gala, and then my crew swoops in to lift it."

The curator nodded in rhythm with his absentminded thoughts. "Hmm. Yes. I see. I see. Yes. We might be able to accommodate an arrangement of that nature. The institutional overhead and security logistics, of course, will be considerable, though..."

"I’ll cover all expenses out of pocket. And we’ll provide our own professional staging crew," I assured him.

"Hmmm," Waldorf mused, pushing his spectacles back up his nose. "Indeed? Well then, I suppose I have no fundamental administrative objections. Though I do dearly hope," he added with a slight, disapproving twitch of his bushy brows, "that your production will prove somewhat less destructive to the masonry than your last performance within these walls."

I winced slightly at the unpleasant reminder of what was supposed to have been Glacia’s big theatrical debut.

Everything had technically worked out in the wash, but the event itself had been an unmitigated disaster area.

"That particular booking suffered from an unexpected professional complication," I told him smoothly.

Waldorf nodded slowly, rubbing his wispy chin with a liver-spotted hand. "Well," he mused, turning and taking a slow step down the corridor. "Hmm. Yes. Yes, well, the ancient Egyptian antiquities wing was scheduled to be cleared out for routine restoration anyway.

"A rather unfortunate incident occurred a few days prior—one of the mummies reanimated and went on a terrible, localized rampage. Pharaoh Amunket. Third dynasty.

"A fascinating monarch, historically speaking. I should have loved to interview him about court life, but alas, he was thoroughly pulverized by Sunspot during the containment protocol. Hmm. Yes. A genuine historical loss. Quite so."

"Sorry to hear that," I said as Lilith and I fell into step beside him, our leather soles clicking softly against the polished marble floor of the empty hall.

Waldorf waved a dismissive hand. "No matter. No matter. These things happen quite frequently in Metropolis. But I suppose we could postpone installing the upcoming exhibit concerning the Nevada Wars.

"A truly dreadful Chapter of history. When the government’s atomic testing tore an interdimensional rift, allowing those hideous subterranean entities to swarm the surface.

"Hm. Yes. Dreadful business. We happen to possess a number of excellent metallurgical artifacts recovered from the blast zone which would have been a delight to display, but if you happen to prefer this space instead—"

"Absolutely," I jumped in before he could descend any further into local atomic history. "I think the Egyptian gallery will be a massive hit with the patrons! We’ll only need twenty-four hours to rig our lighting and sound equipment. A quick preview gala, a clean hit, and we’re out of your hair."

"Ah," he said, nodding sage-like once more. "Yes, that would prove entirely appropriate. Hm. Yes. Most excellent. Of course, providing an authentic exhibition will be... well, quite uncalled for. This institution deals exclusively in genuine historical antiquities, you understand."

"Naturally. I would never dream of besmirching the professional dignity of archaeology," I said, and that was the absolute truth.

I never messed around with authentic, high-tier magical artifacts.

Open the wrong sealed box in this business and you’re lucky if all it does is melt your face off or unleash an ancient plague; you could easily get your ass dragged into some multiversal culture war.

The last thing an ordinary mercenary needed was an angry pantheon breathing down his neck.

"And the... ah, financial compensation for the venue rental, of course?" Waldorf prompted, his bushy brows rising inquisitively.

"Fully wired to the museum’s foundation account the moment you hand me the itemized invoice," I said.

The curator bobbed his head in his hazy, preoccupied manner. "Oh, yes. Of course. I shall attend to that paperwork immediately. Naturally. And ah... how precisely do you intend to frame this public spectacle?"

"A charity gala," I said. "That should do the trick. Draws a very wealthy, highly insured clientele."

"Hm. I see. I see. A charity benefitting what specific initiative?" the curator asked.

"Orphans. Everyone loves giving money to orphans. It’s a classic, bulletproof, entirely non-controversial cause. Who in their right mind is going to publicly argue against funding displaced children? Plus, it provides wonderful corporate cover for why a massive diamond-encrusted vault door suddenly gets blown off its hinges."

Waldorf’s head bobbed up and down like a metronome. "Hmm. Sound logic. Excellent logic. Ah, here we are."

We had reached a grand, arched double-doorway framed by massive plaster columns carved in the likeness of stern Egyptian deities.

Peering past the threshold, I could catch a sobering glimpse of the former exhibit space. Yeesh. They had certainly cleaned up the worst of the gore and body parts, but the room was still a war zone.

There were massive spiderweb cracks spiderwebbing across the stone walls, several shattered glass display cases piled in the corner, and heavy black scorch marks staining the limestone floor. A thick velvet rope blocked the entrance, but the devastation inside was plain as day.

"Will this environment prove suitable?" Waldorf asked, gesturing broadly.

"Lilith?" I called softly.

The demoness beamed, slipping past the velvet rope to step into the ruined gallery. Her glowing yellow eyes swept over the scorched walls and shattered masonry, a look of pure, unadulterated creative ecstasy washing over her features.

"Oh, Milesy, absolutely," she purred, her spaded tail swishing happily behind her. "Oh, absolutely. I can already visualize the lighting grid. Yes. I am feeling intensely inspired, darling! Truly inspired! Oh, the conceptual possibilities are simply bubbling over inside my head!"

"Would you care to step inside and inspect the perimeter more closely?" Waldorf offered, politely lifting the velvet barrier.

"Oh, I must, darling! I simply must!"

I smiled warmly at Lilith’s theatrical enthusiasm, turning my weight to follow them past the rope when a sudden, violent shiver raced straight up my spine. My hackles instantly raised, the muscles across my shoulders locking into tight, defensive cables.

Someone was watching me.

I kept my movements casual, casually pivoting on my heel to scan the empty corridor behind us. I didn’t spot a single soul lurking in the shadows of the high-ceilinged hall, but you don’t survive a decade in the underworld without developing a sixth sense for malicious intent. It was the distinct, heavy prickle of a predator staring right down the barrel of a scope—the absolute certainty that someone wanted me cold, buried, and forgotten.

"You two go on ahead," I said smoothly, forcing my voice to remain entirely level. "I just need to double back and use the men’s room real quick."

"Of course, darling. Ah! Now, Mr. Stevenson, these fallen columns would be simply divine to frame the stage entrance. Might we borrow a couple of these broken statues for our scenic design?"

"Oh, well, I suppose the salvage crew was throwing them out anyway. Hmm. Yes..."

I stepped backward out of the gallery archway and drifted slowly down the hall.

Yep. No mistaking it. That cold, creeping sensation of hostility was still locked dead-center between my shoulder blades, glaring daggers into my spine like a live theatrical performance of Julius Caesar waiting for the knives to come out.

Where is it coming from?

I kept my eyes sweeping the architecture, matching my stride to a lazy, unbothered saunter.

I passed a couple of tourists shuffling out of the gift shop, then turned my boots sharply toward the permanent History of Man exhibit.

It was a sprawling, subterranean-style oval chamber filled with sprawling dioramas of Neanderthals hunting woolly mammoths, illuminated mannequin families huddled around painted campfires, and primitive stone tools locked inside thick glass podiums.

I paused just inside the arched threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.

And as I stood there in the synthetic twilight, a deeply uncomfortable thought crawled out of the dark.

Was it just me?

Or was the lighting in here significantly lower than it had any right to be?