The Last of August (Charlotte Holmes #2)(72)

The thing was, since it was the two of us, our not-fighting looked a lot like . . . fighting.

“I took French,” I reminded her. “I’ve taken French for years. You met me outside of French class almost every day this fall.”

“I did not. Surely I’d remember that.”

“You did. You know you did, too. You’re just being difficult.”

“I have an impeccable memory, Watson. Say something to me in French.”

“No.”

“You can’t say anything to me in French. A phrase? A word?”

“I can, but I won’t.”

“See? My point. You can’t say a word—”

“Hors d’oeuvres,” I said, and snagged a pair of blintzes from a passing waiter’s tray. “Do you want one?”

Beneath the wig, beneath the Coke-bottle glasses, despite every fight we’d had in the past few weeks and the ridiculous plastic mask I wore, Charlotte Holmes was looking at me like I was her violin.

It was a look she hadn’t given me at all last night, and I didn’t know what that meant.

“‘Give my love to Watson,’” I said softly.

Her eyes didn’t change. “August told you that?”

He had, as he’d muscled me through the roof access door and down to Milo’s personal infirmary. I’d been laid out on an uncomfortable hospital bed—why did it always end with me in a hospital bed?—and was asked if I remembered the past few hours, where I’d been. I did. I told her to run, I told August, who put a hand on my shoulder.

She’s in the helicopter. She said to give you her love. When he said it, he looked sad, and not for himself.

It took me a second to process it. The first part doesn’t make sense, I said, but the second is just crazy.

He’s fine, August advised the nurses. Get him some acetaminophen and an ice pack.

“He did tell me,” I said. “Is that okay?”

She brushed her hand against mine. “It’s okay,” she said as the hum of voices around us quieted down. “They’re taking their places. I need to go talk to the auctioneer. Find August, will you? And Tom and—oh.”

Never let it be said that Lena couldn’t make an entrance.

She strolled in without even looking up from her crystal-encrusted iPhone. The clerk scurried to hold the door open for her, like she was a queen. Around her shoulders, she wore a fur coat like a cape, and underneath, a top that barely covered her chest. It tied around itself, leaving a good five inches of skin bare above her painted-on leather pants. Her black hair had been dip-dyed blue and gold, and when she finally glanced up at the room, she rolled her eyes and reached out a hand for her bag.

Which was when I noticed the three bodyguards behind her. Greystone mercs in disguise. They hustled her up to her seat in the front of the room, leaving a space beside her for Tom, who, with his suit, sweaty face, and handful of auction paddles, looked exactly like a pop star’s put-upon assistant.

This afternoon, Milo’s techs had created a constellation of websites and Snapchats and false news references and lyric videos for YouTube for Serena, the rising EDM star. And here she was, in the flesh, looking to build the art collection in her Laurel Canyon home. She’d requested an invitation before dinner, one that the Moriartys quickly granted. Phillipa may have known Holmes and I would be here in disguise, but we wanted her to think that Serena was the real deal.

Phillipa rushed over to say hello to the pop star, Hadrian at her side. It had to be Hadrian; he was blond and tall, but moved with the hunched-over jerkiness of a crab. I watched him for a moment—Hadrian in his natural form. I looked for signs of Nathaniel. Hadrian’s nose was longer. His eyebrows thinner and higher up on his forehead. All Nathaniel’s warmth and openness wasn’t there.

Since the Moriartys were distracted, Holmes seized the opportunity to talk to the auctioneer, slipping something small into his pocket. She took her seat again before they saw her.

A hush fell over the room. We were about to begin. A pair of armed guards took their position to either side of the stage—Moriarty men, there to stop any trouble before it began.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Hadrian cried, rushing up the stairs to the stage. His voice had the same timbre as Nathaniel’s, though it sounded less . . . educated, somehow. Rougher. “Thank you so much for spending your Christmas Eve with us. We love seeing you all at our private auctions—your loyalty means ever so much. We extend these invitations selectively, and we appreciate your discretion. That said, since ours is a family affair, we understand yours is as well. This will be a far briefer showing than usual, so we can get you all back to your homes for mince pies and fruitcake.”

Fruitcake? No wonder the Moriartys were all so miserable, if that was their idea of Christmas.

“Let’s begin,” he said, and when he stepped off the stage, he was immediately pulled aside by August Moriarty.

Things were in motion.

The auctioneer began the proceedings with a painting by Hans Langenberg. It was a clear challenge. A way to feel out our motivations. As it was announced, Phillipa craned her neck to stare at Holmes, who shrugged back at her with a smile.

“A work from the same era as The Last of August,” the auctioneer said. A screen behind the painting listed “facts” about the piece. “Notice the brushwork. The use of ecru, here in the corners. The faces of the two boys are turned from the viewer’s eyes, but we can tell, even at this angle, that the artist has chosen not to detail their features. But the girl between them has those striking brows and red mouth. See the wild expression on her face, that the painter has suggested with only a few lines? The map in her hand? This is an exquisite work. We’ll open bidding at one hundred thousand.”