Soulless, Chapter 1

(Okay, so this got edited a bit. There's some pretty important clues about what's going to happen in the rest of the novel that I'd simply skipped over before...Because of course I already know what's going to happen so I forget the little details. Thanks everyone for pointing that out. I also want to mention that I added a prologue to the story which I think will add a whole new dimension to reading this chapter. Anyways, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think. All the feedback I've gotten so far has been really relevant and super helpful. Thanks! -Stone)

1: Em

“Just keep your head down and your mouth shut, Emmalyn. I’m putting my utmost trust in you not to make a fool of yourself or this organization tonight.”

“He’s right, Em. Just stay close and I’m sure tonight will go fine.”

“Shut it, Tristan. Contrary to popular belief, I do have some degree of self restraint,” I snapped. The curator, a balding man of small stature, had already tuned me out while Tristan glowered down at me through his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Please, please don’t screw this up.”

“I won’t!! Geezus.” I made a point of rolling my eyes. We had just arrived at the Dubois Mansion.

Let me say that again.

We were at the Dubois Mansion.

Damon Dubois was by far the wealthiest man in the state and was known for his secrecy in his private life. His annual auction and donation announcement was the only time his “house” was ever opened to outsiders--be they friends or otherwise. Entrance to the event was exclusive; only the wealthiest collectors and curators of the most respected museums were invited. And, of course, their interns.

“Tristan, did you see that helmet? It’s still completely intact--”

“As is everything he collects. Keep up.”

The entryway was crowded with finely dressed men and women, and artifacts cased in glass lined the walls. It was enough to make any history major squeal with delight. (Only mentally, of course.)

We stopped as the curator for our museum, Dr. Friedman, was talking with the event coordinator about something regarding donations for this year. I craned my neck to try and catch a glimpse of a piece of weaponry that was hung on the wall--it was just barely out of my line of sight. With one last quick glance at the curator and Tristan, I decided it would be alright if I wandered just a bit.

Just as I suspected, it was a Roman short sword-- “the sword that conquered the world.” It was amazingly well kept, as if it hadn’t aged at all. To my right was a hallway with even more antiques hung on display. Geezus; this guy had to be a history fanatic, right? Well, no more than I was, really. I snuck away from the crowd and down into the more private areas of the mansion.

At the end of the hall was an open door through which I could see a white room. As I entered, paintings became visible, though most of them were still no more than half finished. So the rich guy was a painter, too. Funny.

“Em! What the hell are you doing?” I didn’t even have to look to know it was Tristan.

“Aww, Tristan, what’s wrong? Did you miss me?” I laughed. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is you’re wandering into parts of the mansion we’re not welcome to. If the curator knew you were here--”

“If, but he doesn’t, and we’re not touching anything. So chill.” I giggled as his eye twitched. Tristan had been this uptight for as long as I’d known him, and I met him in elementary school. He still had the same pursed lips, same skinny frame, same dark eyes, same messy hair--I would go so far as to say that he hadn’t aged at all, except that he was now almost six inches taller than me. I turned to examine one of the paintings a little more closely. “Hey, look at this. Do you know this girl?”

The painting in question was of a child whose eyes shone with what you could only assume was fear as she pressed her back up against a stone wall. You could almost see her trembling.

“I don’t. She doesn’t even look familiar. Look, we really, really need to get back,” he pleaded. “Let’s go.”

“Mr. Kemble, Ms. Lucas, I’m pleased to see you’ve helped yourselves to my private studio. Enjoying yourselves?” His words were laced with venom and contempt. I turned around to see a man in his mid-twenties towering over us in his fancy suit and leather shoes--he even had the freaking white gloves to match. How much more “posh” can you get?

“Mr. Dubois! I’m so sorry, we were just…” Tristan started.

“How did you know our names?” I demanded, glaring up at him with the same shade of dispassion he showed us. What a creeper. God.

“I pride myself in knowing the name and background of each person I invite into my home, Ms. Lucas. What kind of host would I be if I couldn’t greet you properly?” He hadn’t yet blinked, and nor would I.

“Of course, Mr. Dubois, we’re very sorry; we didn’t mean to invade. We were just leaving--”

“Yes. Yes you were. I’m sorry that your evenings had to be cut short like this, but I’m afraid I take my privacy very seriously. You can show yourselves out.” With that, he turned on his heel and left, his pricey shoes clicking decisively on the wood as he went.

“That’s not fair! Mr. Dubois, it was my--”

“Em, shut up. Let it go. Let’s go.” Tristan tugged gently on my arm and began to stalk back towards the entryway.

“What a prick! Can you believe this?”

“Emmalyn, shut. UP.” I bit my tongue as we arrived back at where the auction was taking place. “Meet me in the car.” He tossed me his keys. “Go.”

I fought back a hiss as I reluctantly obeyed. I hated taking orders, and more than that, I hated taking them from Tristan. He was no more my superior than I was his inferior. I mean, sure, he was two years my senior and had more experience with the museum, but I remember fighting off the bullies who picked on him in 3rd grade, and I remember when he helped me flush my Barbie down the toilet a just a week later. We went way back. His sister and I, too; Nat was a sophomore with me, and we roomed together freshman year.

I heard the car door open and shut but I didn’t look up. The car started and we began the short drive back to the city. The first few minutes of silence was awkward, like a pot that can’t decide if it wants to boil.

“I guess I don’t need to tell you how incredibly stupid that was,” he growled.

“I know, right? He was such a jerk.” I knew I was just asking for trouble, but I didn’t care.

“I meant you, Em.”

“I know.” I didn’t sound at all troubled.

“Why? Why can’t you just listen to what we say for once? I really put myself out on a limb to get you this internship, and you totally blew it in front of our biggest benefactor.”

“Yeah, well, he was being a jerk, Trist.” That much I knew I was right on.

“You were going through his personal belongings.”

“He left the door open, and I didn’t touch anything. It’s not like he had anything to hide!”

“Em.” I was silent for a minute.

“Yes?”

We pulled to a stop at our apartment complex. I glanced up at Tristan as he stared intently at nothing. “I think he’s pulling our funding.”

“What?” That was impossible; his donation was the only way our museum was able to stay open at all.

“I said, I think he’s pulling our funding. I’m not certain, of course, but he looked pretty pissed. You’ve heard the stories about his temper.” His voice was quiet, serious as the grave.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tristan. His family has been donating to our institution for fifty years. He wouldn’t stop that because we snooped a little.”

“He would, because you snooped a little. I’m not taking responsibility for this. My job’s already on the line for hiring you.” There was another pregnant silence.

“Whatever.”

“Em, please don’t be angry at me.” He flung himself out of the car and followed me up to our complex.

“I’m not, Tristan. I just don’t get it. You’re hot and you’re cold. What stick is up your ass, really?” I stopped as I reached the door to my apartment, and he stood across the hall at the door to his’.

“I don’t have a st--I’m not even going to justify that with a response. Just grow up, Em.”

“No, you grow up. You know, you really suck the life out of everything.” I stopped a moment and laughed. “Ironic, isn’t it? Stupid necrophiliac.” The door to his apartment opened, and Nat, a tall girl with his same dark eyes poked her head out.

“What’s going on?”

“Tristan’s just being a douche. Beat him up for me, okay?” I closed my door and bolted it shut. I could hear Tristan pounding at it and shouting for me to come back and argue with him, but as far as I was concerned, that wasn’t necessary. He could suck it up for a night. I kicked off the ridiculous heels I was obligated to wear, tore down my hair, and grabbed a yoghurt. Time to chill and forget about everything until tomorrow morning.

---

It was 9 o’ clock at the office, and the curator had yet to show his face. Tristan and I hadn’t spoken a word, simply going through whatever paperwork we had to get done in complete, bitter silence. At precisely 9:03, the old man stumbled his way in through the front door, stumbling as if he had been drinking. Tristan jumped to his feet to help him get seated.

“Dr. Friedman, are you alright? What is it?” In his intoxicated stupor, he pointed a frail finger over at me. I blinked twice; I could have sworn I saw his skin stretch to reveal a claw--but it was gone a moment later.

“Y-you’re FIRED!” he hissed at me. The man, who once seemed so frail and meek, seemed to grow as he stalked his way over to me.

“What? You can’t be serious. I didn’t do anything!”

“Dubois…he didn’t donate… We’re shutting down four exhibits…and it’s all because of YOU! Get OUT!” The man’s eyes grew yellow, than orange, flickering like flames. Was I seeing things?

I took a step back. Tristan didn’t say anything. Heart pounding, I left as quickly as I could. We were shutting down that much? Were we really THAT dependent on this guy? The car door clanged shut, the ignition rumbled, and I soon sped past the city limits. The mansion looked far less intimidating in the light--much more wasteful, more empty--like the man himself.

I threw open the door, surprised to find it unlocked. The first few hesitant steps I took echoed as if I’d entered a cave. Down the hall, up the stairs, and to the big oak doors. Was this the study? I pressed my ear to the door, and I could hear the distinct shuffling of papers, a man clearing his throat.

“You can come in. If you’re going to trespass, at least do it with conviction,” he drawled. I opened the door and met his gaze as I entered. “Ms. Lucas.”

“Mr. Dubois.”

“A pleasure.” He didn’t appear at all surprised.

“Not really.” Honesty may not be the best policy, but it sure felt better than sucking ass. “You cut our funding.”

“And?”

“And it’s not right. You shouldn’t tear down a museum just because some kid found your studio. It was my fault, not the museum’s.” Again, I found myself staring directly at him, trying my best not to flinch. His calm was unsettling.

“Don’t flatter yourself, my dear. I wouldn’t let a college student tear down an entire organization. Your curator did that to himself, no matter what he may have told you.” The man turned back to flip through some of his paperwork. “I’m glad you came, though--saves me the pain of having to locate you again. I needed to speak with you.”

That unnerved me. “And why is that?”

I felt like he was hiding a smirk. “I had a position open up; as you noticed last night, I have quite the collection of antiques and artifacts from various historical periods, but I’m afraid it’s more than disorganized. With your…curatorial experience, I assumed you would be interested in assisting me. And I’m sure you’ve been soundly removed from your internship by now.” He said the last part with just a little too much pleasure. It seemed more than a little fishy.

“With your money you could hire someone with actual experience.”

“I took the initiative to ask your teachers as to your status in class, and they have nothing but good to say about you, except that you may need to watch your tongue, upon occasion.”

Creepy much?

“Why are you offering me this?”

The man gave me a look that said plainly, “you’re crazy.” “Ms. Lucas, why would you care what my motives are? This job would make your resume and give you complete security in your career after graduation. You ought to be jumping at the opportunity.”

Ought to be, but he was avoiding the question. “I don’t want anyone’s pity, and I certainly don’t want to be anyone’s pawn. I have no reason to trust you.”

“And you have no valid reason not to, either.” He stood from his desk and walked out of the room, gesturing for me to follow him, and I realized he was wearing the same white gloves from the night before. What was with that? Was he just a serious germ-a-phobe or what? After a moment, I obeyed.

“This is where you would be working.” We entered into a large room with shelves and shelves of various objects--helmets, swords, paintings, statues, jewelry boxes: anything and everything a person could want to collect from throughout history. He turned to the right and plucked a necklace from the top shelf and held it out to me. I took it, tentatively, and inspected it. It was Greek, from what I could tell. “As you can see, I’ve got a bit of a collection going, and--”

“A bit?” I retorted.

“And I’d like to see someone who’s not going to look at each of the artifacts with a monetary value attached. You’ve got the curiosity and the actual interest in history itself for what I need you to, even if it comes with too much attitude for my taste.” I bit back another snaky remark and gazed down at the necklace. To hold something this old… It felt right, and it was the chance I hadn’t realized I was waiting for.

“Done.”

“I’ll see you at 8 tomorrow morning. Try to be on time.”

And I was left alone in a room with more history than my entire known ancestry.