Painter of the Dead (Shades of Immortality Book 1) Read online

  PAINTER OF THE DEAD

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  PAINTER OF THE DEAD

  Copyright © 2020 by Catherine Butzen.

  Originally published in 2015 as The God Collector by Samhain Publishing. This edition completely revised and reedited for Thinklings Books, LLC.

  Cover design by Nada Orlic.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Thinklings Books

  1400 Lloyd Rd. #552

  Wickliffe, OH 44092

  thinklingsbooks.com

  Shades of Immortality, Book #1

  PAINTER OF THE DEAD

  by

  Catherine Butzen

  Thinklings Books, LLC

  Wickliffe, OH

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The security guard sat filling out a time sheet when the door opened behind him.

  “You took your damn time, Jay…” he began.

  It wasn’t Jay. A handful of gray powder blinded him, and his deep, hacking cough cut off his next words. The powder clung to him, filling his lungs, its sickly sweet scent overpowering. In the space of three breaths, he was unconscious.

  Black-and-white monitors lined the small room, displaying feeds from all over the Oriental Institute. The man double-checked them. Nobody was about to disturb him—especially not Jay, who was sleeping off his own dose under a table in the employee cafeteria. The man plugged in a small laptop and made a few artistic tweaks to the security system.

  The powder’s effects would wear off within fifteen minutes, and the guards wouldn’t remember a thing about their blackouts. Not enough time for a full-scale burglary, but more than enough to make the changes he needed. He typed quickly, tongue between his teeth. Patience, patience, and time management were the keys. They always had been, but modern technology required a little more patience than he was used to when doing this kind of work.

  In two weeks, the new collection would arrive. Once the Institute actually had the items in hand, its new procedures would go into effect, and the system would be virtually unbreachable. Unless, of course, he had first arranged a way in for himself.

  Behind him, Hank snorted in his sleep. The man smiled. Falling asleep on the night shift was regrettable, but not impossible. Besides, how much could’ve gone wrong in fifteen minutes?

  There. With a final keystroke, he sent his bundle of code spiraling off into the system. When he came back, his door would be ready for him. And the servants would be there in the darkness, waiting to answer his call, just like they should have been a long, long time ago.

  Chapter One

  …I gave the priest the whole story, reminding him of his promise of silence, and asked him what I should do. He said to me, “If you are insane, pray for healing. If you are telling the truth, begin a diary. No gods will help you in this.”

  – Excerpt from the Steen Papyrus,

  circa 1400 BCE (fragment)

  Transforming the main hall of a natural history museum into a party venue wasn’t easy, but the planning committee had done a heck of a job. Long strands of lights hung from the second-floor balconies in glittering loops, the statues of the Muses near the ceiling had been cleaned and polished, and flickering lamps in cobalt-and-gold shades lit up the dozen round tables arranged in front of the central dais. A pack of skeletal Struthiomimus sedens stood proudly on their pedestal, their black fiberglass bones touched with glossy yellow-white in the lamplight. Behind them loomed the massive figure of Little John, a near-complete Tyrannosaurus unfazed by the party going on under his huge feet. Dozens of guests circulated in black ties, their laughter and conversation muted slightly by the sheer size of the hall.

  Theodora Speer glanced down, checking her hands and dress one last time for flecks of paint. She had worn a plastic smock while working and had checked herself over when she’d finished up, but being surrounded by so many well-dressed people had started her worrying again. Paint stains, like spinach in your teeth, tended to be invisible until the moment of maximum embarrassment.

  Nothing. Good. She smoothed down her eggshell-white dress and tried not to look nervous.

  Waiters circulated, carrying trays of champagne and, in a nod to the upcoming festive season and the chilly November weather, hot cider. Theo took a glass of cider and carefully sipped as she glanced around, trying to spot her coworkers.

  Every year the museum gave a party for its most generous donors, and certain staffers were selected to attend. Their job was to make friendly conversation with the people who funded their work and, hopefully, to keep the donations flowing for another year. Theo wasn’t entirely sure why the art department had been tapped for the job this time; the people who designed murals, posters, and resalable pop art for the gift shop didn’t usually rub elbows with the paleontologists and doctors.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Theo jumped and reflexively clutched the glass to prevent spilling her cider. That voice, at least, she recognized.

  “I wasn’t thinking much of anything, Aki,” she said, turning to face the dark-haired man. Akeela Lee was an abstract impressionist who dabbled in surrealism when he was bored and who considered ragged T-shirts the height of fashion. Seeing him in a tuxedo was like seeing a clock melt. “Just letting my mind wander. You look good.”

  “Only under protest,” Aki responded, tugging at his bow tie with a momentary grimace. “I thought we were past the point where society required that we kill ourselves to meet a standard of beauty.”

  “Society doesn’t require it; publicity does,” Theo pointed out.

  Aki yanked on the bow tie again. “Poh-tay-toh, poh-tah-toh.”

  “If it’s bothering you that much, get rid of it and go for the free-spirited artist look. I bet half the guests don’t want to be dressed up either.”

  “No can do. Schechter made a point to tell me, specifically, about the dress code.” Giving up on the bow tie, Aki tucked his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “On the other hand, it means I get to be the Asian James Bond for an evening. Lee. Akeela Lee.”

  “Sandy must’ve liked it.”

  Aki’s gaze flicked across the room, settling quickly on Sandra Navarro, a slim, dark-skinned woman in a flame-colored evening gown. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Of course not.” Theo finished her drink and set the glass down on one of the tables, from where it was instantly whisked away by a waiter. “You’re just a nice colleagu
e with a healthy respect for her work, right?”

  That got a scoff from Aki. “So I’m taking it slow. Big freaking deal. And if we’re going to be talking about awkward personal stuff—”

  “Nice transition.”

  “Thank you. If we’re going to be talking about awkward personal stuff, what about you? I keep expecting to come in in the morning and find you sleeping under your desk. Hell, I’m surprised you even turned up to this.” He raised an eyebrow at Theo. “You need to have more fun.”

  “There’s a flaw in your argument. Two flaws, actually.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One, implying that I’m here voluntarily. Two, implying that forced socializing with my coworkers, not all of whom are as adorably weird as you, qualifies as fun.”

  “Still not an answer. Don’t tell me you couldn’t have weaseled out of this.”

  “Publicity.” That one word was sufficient to sum up the whole situation, and Aki nodded knowingly. Who could fathom the mind of Publicity?

  The art department of Chicago’s Columbian Exposition Museum of Natural History often fell victim to the plans of Mariana K. Schechter, PhD, and her public-relations team. The artists agreed that it wasn’t fair. Members of the scholarly departments—the historians, anthropologists, and archaeologists, the preservation experts and librarians—rarely had to deal with Dr. Schechter. They made the discoveries and showcased the pieces of history that drew in the crowds.

  The art department, on the other hand, was responsible not only for gift-shop fodder, banners, and murals, but also for the general aesthetics of the place, including that sticky and indeterminate requirement—“child-friendly.” Theo had frequently crossed swords with Dr. Schechter over what was and wasn’t allowable in a public space. Unfortunately, Publicity had won their last bout after a parents’ group complained about the heavily armed and fearsome-looking Aztec warriors on the wall in the children’s annex, and Theo had been forced to concede that Publicity usually knew what it was doing.

  Still…

  “Why does Publicity even want us here?” Aki insisted. He was naturally inquisitive, especially when it came to things he didn’t like having to do. “They’re fired up for Treasures of the Middle Kingdom, up to the point of Egyptianizing the annual party. So when they invite the trustees and board members to a shindig, they trot out the entire Egyptology Department, the Ancient Religions guys…I think I saw the Cultural Anthropology team leader buried in the hors d’oeuvres. And I saw that jackass Zimmer glaring at some old lady who was checking out the naked warrior bronze. But the people who design brochures?”

  “Brochures for the exhibit,” Theo pointed out. She had to admit she was curious too, but after the Aztec warriors, she was trying not to rock the boat. “And of course they’ve got Zimmer here. The patrons probably like seeing the head of Security around. It tells them we’re serious about protecting their investments.”

  “You mean Publicity’s serious now. If that Collector doesn’t get caught soon, they’re going to have a collective heart attack.”

  Theo shushed him. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about that. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  “Four times. I think Security has it in for me.” Aki tucked both his hands into his pockets. “Come on, lighten up. If you really think there’s anybody here who hasn’t heard about that whole thing, you’re delusional. The minute the papers gave the guy a name—”

  “I know, I know. But I don’t want to get fired. Do you?” Theo hoped nobody had overheard them. The Columbian had its own specialized gossip networks, and talk flowed freely enough most times, but it was widely acknowledged that talking about the Midwest’s recent spate of museum thefts was a bad career move. Nobody wanted the high-powered donors thinking the Columbian might lose the items they had helped it buy.

  Fortunately, she spotted a distraction. Sandra Navarro had been buttonholed by the head of the Margrave Foundation and was sending out subtle but clear signals for help.

  Theo nudged Aki. “Go talk to Sandy.”

  Aki frowned. “What? Why?”

  “Trust me. Go talk to her.” Theo gave Aki a gentle push. “Be her artist in shining armor.”

  It took Aki a moment to catch on, but when he did, he stepped up to the plate. Taking two champagne glasses from a passing waiter’s tray, he hurried across the room and neatly inserted himself between Freddie Margrave and Sandra, offering each a glass. Bond, indeed—the man could be smooth when he wanted to. Sandra’s expression of relief was noticeable, though she changed it to a smile when Margrave looked her way. Judging by her expression, Margrave had been talking either golf or marital infidelity.

  Thankfully, there wasn’t much time left for socializing. Within moments, an army of waiters appeared from the sidelines, carrying stacks of dishes and silverware. As the guests chatted and sipped their drinks, the waiters—moving with the trained precision that made it a spectacle worth watching—whisked fresh cloths and place settings onto the tables and transformed the scene from lounge to dining room. Place cards were set out, and a tantalizing aroma stole into the air. Dinner was about to be served.

  Now the circling groups took on a purposeful air. The board members and wealthiest donors moved toward the dais, while the hoi polloi casually found their place cards. The waiters melted into the shadows at the edge of the hall, to be replaced by wine stewards bearing drink lists and more champagne.

  Theo found her assigned spot. To her surprise, she was at one of the mid-level tables with a professor of art history, a prominent (and wealthy) modernist sculptor, and a name she vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. Well, that explained it—Dr. Schechter always arranged these events as carefully as Caesar had managed his legions, and she wanted someone from the art department for this group.

  Aki and Sandra had been placed a few tables over with a group of dour-looking men in suits. Clearly, the doctor was deploying the charmers where they were needed the most.

  Taking a seat, Theo surveyed the people joining her. Professor Greg Applebaum from Culver was a tousle-haired blond man who looked much less comfortable than Aki in his tuxedo and bow tie. The sculptor Sinai—one name only—was lounging in his chair, watching the gathering with alert eyes. Theo didn’t know much about him, though she would have bet good money that that would change by the end of the evening.

  The third member of the group surprised her somewhat. He was tall, six foot two at least, with deeply curved lips and neatly parted, graying black hair that reached to just past his earlobe. His brown eyes were slightly tilted, not quite almond-shaped but near enough to be noticeable, and fringed with charcoal lashes. Faint lines in the corners of his eyes and in the creases by his fine-bridged nose completed the look; he could have been anywhere from an over-stressed thirty-five to a carefree fifty.

  The thing that drew Theo’s gaze, though, was his skin. It was a coffee color and should have had a touch of copper in the yellow-tinted light of the table’s alcohol lamp, but instead there was a soft blue-gray undertone she had never seen before. It was as if the normal red notes had been washed out and replaced with indigo.

  If I painted him, Theo thought, I’d begin with purple ochre. Not a color that normally cropped up in her life portraits. She rubbed her thumb against her folded knuckles, wishing for a pencil.

  The man turned and caught Theo’s stare eye to eye. Awkward. She felt her cheeks warm and instinctively lowered her head, trying to make herself unobtrusive.

  It didn’t work. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” the man said, holding out one broad hand. “I’m Seth Adler.”

  “I—nice to meet you, I mean, Mr. Adler,” Theo said, trying to maintain her composure. The words came out rushed. “I’m Theodora Speer. I’m one of the artists here at the Columbian.”

  Seth Adler’s eyebrows rose at her first name, but he smiled and didn’t comment on it. The hand that Theo shook was hard and strong, with square, blunted fingernails and callouses discoloring the tips of the fingers. They
were old and thick, their shade lighter than the rest of his skin. Purple ochre, Theo agreed with herself, but desaturated. Faint warm tones, blended and layered…cadmium yellow, but never enough to hide the blues underneath.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Speer. I’ve always admired what the artists here do for the museum.”

  Had he? The name was familiar, but Theo still couldn’t place it. The man didn’t seem to be a professor, and the way he talked made her doubt he was another painter or sculptor. A banker or lawyer, then, likely one with an affection for hiking or extreme sports, judging by the callouses and muscled shoulders. Maybe his name was on one of the donor plaques in the lobby? It would explain the familiarity.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she said, trying to strike the right note between formal and friendly. Her words were coming more clearly now, which was a relief. “We’re mostly here to help put it together. The history and science are what’s really important.”

  “Never underestimate the role of the artist,” Professor Applebaum interjected with the fervor of an academic dog seizing a favorite intellectual bone. “The ultimate expression of a society’s cultural values, and criticism of same, can be found in the artistic expression of everyday pursuits—”

  Sinai yawned. “It sounds boring to me. It doesn’t take much talent to see things that are already there, after all. Not the kind of thing an artist should do. No offense intended,” he added, nodding to Theo.

  “I’d say I do the same thing you do, Mr. Sinai,” she said as mildly as she could. Now her face was warming for a completely different reason. “We both make things to express an idea or an image, and we get paid for it. I’d say the difference”—is that you probably make seven times what I do—“is that you work to your own schedule.”

  “Art is worthless unless it says something new,” Sinai responded. His tone was as mild as Theo’s, but she guessed that he wasn’t nearly as ruffled as she was. He had the air of someone who was speaking from certainty.