Read Online Pack of Strays (The Fangborn Series Book 2) by Dana Cameron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dana Cameron
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interpretation of a seventeenth-century Dutch exterior: bourgeois, comfortable, immaculate, civic, permanent. I was immediately jealous.
There was only one name on a deeply engraved brass plaque by the doorbell: Jean A. Leigh. Adam rang.
A woman with short, curly dark hair; wide eyes; and an improbably pixieish nose opened the door. At first I thought she was affecting 1920s garb because her white lab coat reminded me of a driving costume from that period, and her glasses hung from a long, gold, beaded chain around her neck. She wore a long skirt and sweater and flats; she was casually and expensively dressed for some kind of high-end professional work. She looked at me briefly, evaluating, then turned to Adam as she stepped aside to let us in.
“You’re early. Do you mind waiting while I finish? Thanks very much.”
She spoke automatically, didn’t wait for an answer or an introduction to me, just waited for us to pass before she closed the door behind her and set the alarm.
“Upstairs.” She led the way to the back of the house, to a large elevator that had been recently added to a kitchen. There was more than enough room for all of us, and the walls were padded with heavy quilted fabric. She pressed “4,” and the doors slid shut silently .
We emerged to daylight, or near enough: a single room made up the entire floor. An enormous lab table was in the middle of the room; on one long wall were a chemical locker cabinet, a large sink and drying area, and a large safe. The opposite wall was half pebbled glass.
Several easels were stacked up against the short wall, and canvases—painted and unpainted—of various sizes. Metal storage shelving held acid-free boxes that were inscrutably labeled and various containers—I recognized a carton of plaster on one. It reminded me of the curatorial department at the museum I once worked in.
To one side, in the indirect light, was a portrait of a woman. Early eighteenth-century, three-quarters length, seated at a table that had a small leather-bound book, an inkwell, and a stack of letters . In one graceful hand was a pen.
“I’m almost done with the in-filling. Water damage, not bad, but much better now. New England—Boston—I’m sure you can tell.” She picked up a small brush and, with infinite care, addressed a section of the woman’s brilliant red gown near the bottom of the painting.
“Is that … that’s not a Smibert, is it?” I asked.
The woman moved her head slightly, as if she would look at me, but her focus held, and she concentrated on her work. Finally, satisfied, she pulled back. “Yes, it is, an early one,” she said as she put the brush aside to be cleaned. “You have a good eye.”
“Art history class.”
“But not ‘art history degree,’” she concluded. “Good for you. The only way to make that work is to get a degree in chemistry as well and have a talent for painting.” She smiled maddeningly, wondering if I would figure it out.
Sure, I got it: she had talents in wildly disparate fields and made lots of money from the combination. Something about her made my competitive side come out—but I couldn’t compete. What was I supposed to do—say, Well, I’m a werewolf and could probably kill you with a snap of my teeth ? That would trump a lot of attributes but wasn’t the sort of thing you could trot out in casual conversation like, say, being ambidextrous. The up per-crus ty attitude on her didn’t help. I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself. We did not need a class-sensitive werewolf at the moment.
“I told you about Zoe,” Adam said. “The … archaeologist.”
Jean raised one eyebrow at me and then at Adam. “Well, if she’s here, with you, now , she knows how to keep her mouth shut, I suppose.” The precise pronunciation of her consonants was dismissive. She finished cleaning, set the painting aside, and turned back to us. “And now, business.”
Jean went to the safe and pulled out an accordion
There was only one name on a deeply engraved brass plaque by the doorbell: Jean A. Leigh. Adam rang.
A woman with short, curly dark hair; wide eyes; and an improbably pixieish nose opened the door. At first I thought she was affecting 1920s garb because her white lab coat reminded me of a driving costume from that period, and her glasses hung from a long, gold, beaded chain around her neck. She wore a long skirt and sweater and flats; she was casually and expensively dressed for some kind of high-end professional work. She looked at me briefly, evaluating, then turned to Adam as she stepped aside to let us in.
“You’re early. Do you mind waiting while I finish? Thanks very much.”
She spoke automatically, didn’t wait for an answer or an introduction to me, just waited for us to pass before she closed the door behind her and set the alarm.
“Upstairs.” She led the way to the back of the house, to a large elevator that had been recently added to a kitchen. There was more than enough room for all of us, and the walls were padded with heavy quilted fabric. She pressed “4,” and the doors slid shut silently .
We emerged to daylight, or near enough: a single room made up the entire floor. An enormous lab table was in the middle of the room; on one long wall were a chemical locker cabinet, a large sink and drying area, and a large safe. The opposite wall was half pebbled glass.
Several easels were stacked up against the short wall, and canvases—painted and unpainted—of various sizes. Metal storage shelving held acid-free boxes that were inscrutably labeled and various containers—I recognized a carton of plaster on one. It reminded me of the curatorial department at the museum I once worked in.
To one side, in the indirect light, was a portrait of a woman. Early eighteenth-century, three-quarters length, seated at a table that had a small leather-bound book, an inkwell, and a stack of letters . In one graceful hand was a pen.
“I’m almost done with the in-filling. Water damage, not bad, but much better now. New England—Boston—I’m sure you can tell.” She picked up a small brush and, with infinite care, addressed a section of the woman’s brilliant red gown near the bottom of the painting.
“Is that … that’s not a Smibert, is it?” I asked.
The woman moved her head slightly, as if she would look at me, but her focus held, and she concentrated on her work. Finally, satisfied, she pulled back. “Yes, it is, an early one,” she said as she put the brush aside to be cleaned. “You have a good eye.”
“Art history class.”
“But not ‘art history degree,’” she concluded. “Good for you. The only way to make that work is to get a degree in chemistry as well and have a talent for painting.” She smiled maddeningly, wondering if I would figure it out.
Sure, I got it: she had talents in wildly disparate fields and made lots of money from the combination. Something about her made my competitive side come out—but I couldn’t compete. What was I supposed to do—say, Well, I’m a werewolf and could probably kill you with a snap of my teeth ? That would trump a lot of attributes but wasn’t the sort of thing you could trot out in casual conversation like, say, being ambidextrous. The up per-crus ty attitude on her didn’t help. I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself. We did not need a class-sensitive werewolf at the moment.
“I told you about Zoe,” Adam said. “The … archaeologist.”
Jean raised one eyebrow at me and then at Adam. “Well, if she’s here, with you, now , she knows how to keep her mouth shut, I suppose.” The precise pronunciation of her consonants was dismissive. She finished cleaning, set the painting aside, and turned back to us. “And now, business.”
Jean went to the safe and pulled out an accordion
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