Guarding Raven

The Gallery War

Raven's heart was thudding in her chest. Arthur Vane didn't look like a villain. He looked like success. His suit was a charcoal silk that probably cost more than her first three years of art school, and his smile was as bright and hollow as a polished skull. "Arthur," Raven said, her voice finally finding its strength. She tried to step around the wall of muscle that was Zavior Kane, but he didn't budge. He stayed anchored, a mountain in a dress shirt. "What are you doing here? It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the funeral."

"Precisely why I’m here, Raven," Arthur said, his eyes flicking to Zavior with a mix of curiosity and distaste. "Security is... well, it’s clearly a priority. But we have a contract. The gallery is entitled to the 'Landry Legacy' collection for the spring show. I’m just here to ensure the pieces are moved safely before any—legal complications—arise." "Legal complications?" Raven felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter morning air. Zavior spoke then, his voice a low, vibrating growl that seemed to rattle the canvases on the walls.

"There are no complications. There is only a grieving daughter and a house under professional protection. You’re trespassing, Mr. Vane." Arthur’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes turned cold. "And you are? A relative? Or just expensive muscle hired with money Raven doesn't actually have?" Raven flinched. The 'money Raven doesn't actually have' part hit too close to what Zavior had just shown her on the laptop. "I’m the man who’s going to break your nose if you take another step toward her," Zavior said. He didn't raise his voice, which made it ten times more terrifying. He shifted his weight, and Raven saw the two men behind Arthur tense up.

"Raven, be reasonable," Arthur pleaded, ignoring Zavior. "Your father owed the gallery significant 'advances.' If you don't turn over the sculptures, the board will sue. They’ll take this studio your father bought for you. They’ll take everything." She looked around her sanctuary. The smell of turpentine, the half-finished dream in the corner, the light that hit the floor just right at noon. My father had died for this. Or maybe he’d lied for it.

"He's lying, Raven," Zavior said, not looking back at me. "The gallery hasn't filed a lien. He's here because he's panicking." "I am not—" Arthur started, but Zavior cut him off. "You're here because the audit starts Monday, doesn't it? And you need those sculptures to cover the five-million-dollar hole in your books." The silence that followed was deafening. Arthur’s face went from pale to a mottled, angry red. He looked at his two guards and gave a sharp, nearly invisible nod. "Get the girl," Arthur hissed. "And get that man out of my way."

Raven huddled behind the marble island, her fingers gripping the cool edge so hard her knuckles turned bone white. She was an artist; She dealt in color and light. She wasn't built for the sound of bone hitting bone. A heavy, muffled thud echoed through the room as a body collided with the workspace, followed immediately by the discordant screech and crash of a metal easel collapsing against the hardwood. The violent clamor shattered the silence of the studio, sending a spray of dried brushes and half-finished sketches scattering across the floor.

Wait!" Raven screamed, but it was lost in the chaos. Arthur’s two "granite" guards moved like coordinated machines, but Zavior was something else entirely. He didn't move like a man; he moved like a predator that had been bored until this exact second. She peeked over the counter just in time to see Zavior catch the first guard’s punch in mid-air. With a sickeningly smooth twist of his wrist, he sent the man spiraling into her supply rack. Tubes of expensive cerulean and crimson exploded across the floor like a technicolor crime scene.

The second guard lunged, swinging a heavy blackjack. Zavior didn't dodge; he stepped into the strike, taking the hit on his shoulder to deliver a brutal elbow to the man’s solar plexus. The air woodshed out of his lungs and the guard folded like a cheap lawn chair, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

Arthur Vane backed away, his polished shoes slipping in a puddle of wet oil paint. His "perfect" composure was vibrating apart. "You... you’re insane! Do you have any idea who I am?" Zavior ignored the guards groaning on the floor and turned his gaze to Arthur. He didn't look angry. That was the scariest part. He looked like he was deciding where to put a piece of trash. "I know exactly who you are, Vane," Zavior said, wiping a smear of red paint off his knuckle. He started walking—slow, steady, terrifying. "You’re the man who thinks a suit makes him untouchable. But out here, in the real world? You’re just a target."

"Raven!" Arthur shrieked, looking at her. "Tell him to stop! I’m your father’s legacy!" She looked at the mess of her studio—the paint, the violence, the cold truth Zavior had uncovered on the laptop. Arthur wasn't her father's legacy, she was. He was the parasite that had been feeding on it. "My father is dead, Arthur," Raven said, my voice shaking but clear. She stood up from behind the island, stepping over a discarded blackjack. "And if Zavior says you're a thief, I believe the man holding the fist, not the one holding the fake contract. Get out. Before he stops being 'polite'."

Zavior reached out, snagging Arthur by his silk tie. He leaned in close, whispering something I couldn't hear, but Arthur’s face went a shade of grey that wasn't on any color wheel. Zavior let go, and Arthur practically scrambled over his fallen guards to reach the door. He didn't look back until he was safely in the hallway. "This isn't over, Raven!" he yelled, his voice cracking. "You’ll be begging me for a gallery show by the end of the month!" Zavior slammed the heavy oak door, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the studio.

Silence rushed back in, heavy and thick with the smell of copper and linseed oil. He turned to her, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. "You okay, Landry?" Raven looked at her ruined studio, then at the man who had just dismantled three people without breaking a sweat. "I... I think I need more than peanut butter crackers today, Zavior." A ghost of a smile—the first one she'd seen—tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Good. Because we’re leaving. Pack a bag. If Vane is this desperate, he won’t be the only one coming for that 'missing' five million."