Code Name: Aries by Janie Crouch

34

Ian

Nearly every hand here at François’s makeshift art show held a glass of champagne. The glass in mine held sparkling water. I was not taking a chance on even a sip of alcohol dulling my senses tonight.

It was Wavy’s debut in the art world, and I wanted everything to go perfectly. But mostly I wanted her to be safe.

Roughly every third person roaming around was a member of my security team or knew Wavy through Linear Tactical. They were needed.

François had worked his magic. He’d created the kind of buzz about this show, and Wavy’s work in particular, a debut artist would normally only dream of having. Unfortunately, that buzz had included splashing Wavy’s identity all over the press.

François had cried actual tears when I’d told him that the only way she was going to be at the show in person was to hold it here in Denver, in the Zodiac Tactical building, rather than in Los Angeles as originally planned. But the man was no dummy. He knew what he had in Wavy’s art. He would have had the show in Timbuktu if it had meant being the exclusive dealer who exposed her to the world.

There had been places in LA that we could have secured, but I didn’t want it to be just secure. I wanted Wavy to feel comfortable so she could enjoy the evening. What better place than the building she’d been living in for weeks?

We took half of the lobby-level offices and turned them into a space François was happy with.

Making François Nester happy wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. But all the work and money had been worth it to see Wavy beaming now. She stood beside François, who was introducing her to some bigwig or another.

You didn’t have to know anything about art to know that her work was a success. Everybody in here was talking about it. Buzz, indeed.

I watched her from a discreet distance, wanting to give her all the opportunity to chat with what would certainly be future owners of her work. This was her night.

My job was to never let her out of my sight, which wasn’t a problem. I’d barely let her out of my sight for a second since she’d scared the hell out of me last week with that painting trance.

I’d lost ten years off my life when I’d walked into that studio and found blood running down her face and soaking her T-shirt. It had taken five minutes of trying to talk to her before she’d realized I was in the room with her. And then I’d thought she was going to deck me when I tried to take the paintbrush from her.

She hadn’t been asleep, but she hadn’t really been awake either. Definitely hadn’t been aware of what was happening.

Once I had gotten her away from the easel, cleaned her up, and put her in bed, she’d slept for fourteen hours straight. But fitful sleep, her hands attempting to paint even while she was unconscious. When her fingers worked at all. She’d held the paint brushes for so long, her fingers had cramped, and I’d had to massage them.

I’d called Rayne immediately, afraid Wavy had had some sort of mental snap. Rayne had admitted what I’d already known. They’d been pushing too hard. Wavy was on some sort of mission to remember everything she could about what had happened, which was great, but it couldn’t be at the price of her own health.

We’d agreed to encourage her to focus only on things that didn’t cause her pain, things that didn’t cause a headache or a nosebleed. Whatever those were, her brain obviously wasn’t ready to process them.

We’d even gotten François in on helping us. I’d explained some of the situation and, having lived through a violent situation himself, convinced Wavy to help him select her works for the show—both of them going through the paintings in her loft she hadn’t destroyed.

And while Wavy had obviously seen our ploy for what it was, she’d still agreed. The night of trance painting had scared her too.

Four full canvases in a few hours. That should have been impossible, especially with the level of detail in them. They were incredible. When François had seen them, he’d immediately wanted them in the show, and she’d agreed.

But the first thing I’d done was make sure François knew I was purchasing them. He could charge me whatever he wanted, but those paintings weren’t going home with anyone else. They were the first time since her abduction she’d embraced the use of color, and I wanted that memory in my possession—in our possession, because I planned to be wherever Wavy was for the next fifty years or so—forever.

I glanced at them now, featured prominently on the south wall, still as entranced as I’d been since the first time I’d seen them. They were, by far, the greatest things Wavy had ever created. If this was a sign of where her art was going, she’d not only be a known name in the art world, she’d be a known name in the world, period.

I could only hope future works didn’t come at the terrible price she’d paid for these.

Landon came over to talk with me, a striking image in his suit. “Those are pretty damn impressive.”

“Awe-inspiring. There’s something almost familiar about them.” That was the other reason I wanted them, not that it made any sense. The paintings were just vivid colors over other vivid colors, no rhyme or reason to them.

“Maybe it’s the Wavy in them that feels familiar to you.”

I nodded. “I always feel that way about anything she’s painted, like I’m connected to it in some way, but this is different. It’s like it’s drawing on a piece of me I’m not sure I’m still in touch with.”

He took a sip of his non-champagne champagne. “I’d like to say something profound here, but I’m not sure what that means.”

I chuckled. “Me either.”

We both turned toward Wavy. “She seems comfortable, enjoying herself. I’m glad to see it. And I’d say she looks gorgeous too if it wouldn’t get my ass kicked.”

“I won’t kick your ass for stating the truth. And she does look relaxed. She deserves it more than anybody. Any security problems?”

“Nope, quiet on every possible channel. We’ve got doubled-up guards everywhere and half the waiters are our people. I’ve got men on the roof and men on the roofs next to our roofs. Nobody is getting in here.”

I believed it but still kept on high alert. The event was invitation-only, and every person attending had been thoroughly vetted and matched with their photo ID as they arrived. Holding the show in our building meant we knew all the vendors and were more familiar with the details than even François.

All of my men would take a bullet for Wavy, and all of her Linear Tactical family would do the same. Nobody was getting to her. Not tonight.

Her smile was back. Her colors were back.

Tonight, she got to enjoy that.