Fangs, Fame And Fine Art - How to Survive a Reality TV Show When You're a Vampire: Countess Cordelia: Vampires and Very Bad Decisions, #1

​Part I : The Art thief

​Chapter 1: The Gilded Cage

Cordelia’s heels clicked against the polished marble, each tap a sharp punctuation mark in the museum’s hushed reverence. The vaulted ceilings arched overhead, a modern, slightly less drafty version of the cathedrals she’d seen built centuries ago. She adjusted the sleeve of her obsidian blazer, a piece that cost more than some of the masterpieces hanging on these walls.

A figure materialized from between two Greek statues—Mr. Abernathy, all tweed and spectacles, his silver hair catching the recessed lighting like a tiny, academic disco ball.

Countess Montserrat. He extended his hand, his eyes practically twinkling. What a pleasure to see you again. Your donation made last month’s acquisition possible.

The Caravaggio deserved rescue from that dreadful private collector in Munich. His taste was... questionable, to say the least. Cordelia shook his hand, her skin cool against his warmth. I trust the paperwork maintained my anonymity?

Of course. Abernathy’s eyes crinkled. Though the board would love to acknowledge you publicly at the gala next month. We could even put your name on a plaque, if you’re into that sort of thing.

That won’t be necessary. Unless you’re planning to engrave ‘Anonymous Benefactor with Impeccable Taste’ in platinum, I’ll pass. Her gaze drifted toward the east wing. I understand you’ve acquired something from the Venetian Renaissance?

Abernathy brightened. Yes! A recently authenticated Titian. Early period, remarkable condition considering its age. It’s the centerpiece of our new exhibition. Would you like to see it?

Lead the way. I’m dying to see if it lives up to the hype.

Cordelia followed Abernathy through the winding galleries, her senses cataloging everything—the rotating security cameras, the pressure plates beneath certain displays, the uniformed guard who nodded at Abernathy as they passed. The museum’s security had improved since her last midnight visit in 1978. They’d clearly invested in more than just velvet ropes and fancy lighting.

Here we are, Abernathy announced, sweeping his arm toward the far wall. Behold!

The world tilted beneath her feet.

Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat. The painting hung on the wall, bathed in gentle light designed to preserve its centuries-old pigments. A young woman gazed out from the canvas, platinum hair arranged in elaborate braids interwoven with pearls. Her high-necked gown of midnight blue velvet was embroidered with silver thread, her pale hands folded demurely in her lap. But those eyes—Titian had captured them perfectly—ice blue with flecks of violet, direct and challenging despite the formal pose.

Her own eyes, staring back at her across five centuries.

Magnificent, isn’t it? Abernathy murmured. The ‘Lady in Blue’—though some art historians believe it might be Caterina Cornaro, given the jewelry style. Personally, I think they just like saying ‘Caterina Cornaro.’

Cordelia gripped her handbag tighter. Who owned it previously?

A private collection in Switzerland. Before that, its provenance gets murky—likely hidden away during the World Wars. You know, like a very expensive game of hide-and-seek. Abernathy leaned closer. Look at the luminosity he achieved in the skin tones. And the detail in the lace at her cuffs! It’s practically three-dimensional!

But Cordelia wasn’t seeing the museum gallery anymore.

Lorenzo’s studio smelled of linseed oil and turpentine, the arched windows thrown open to capture the late afternoon light. Beyond them, gondolas sliced through the canals, merchants called their wares, and somewhere a lute player serenaded the gathering twilight.

Stop fidgeting, Delia, Lorenzo scolded, his brush pausing mid-stroke. A smudge of blue paint marked his cheekbone. Titian will think I commissioned a portrait of a particularly restless pigeon.

This bodice is pinching me, she complained. And my nose itches. Is this what you call art? Torture?

Beauty demands sacrifice. Lorenzo winked at her over his preliminary sketch. Besides, once Titian sees my composition, he’ll beg to paint you himself. Then you’ll be immortalized by the greatest painter in Venice. And I’ll have bragging rights for eternity.

I don’t need a painting for immortality, she replied, and they shared a secret smile.

Countess? Are you alright?

Abernathy’s voice pulled her back. Cordelia blinked, realizing her fingernails had left crescent indentations in her palms.

Yes. The painting simply... reminded me of someone I once knew. Or rather, someone I used to boss around in a very similar dress.

She stepped closer, examining the bottom corner of the canvas. There—almost invisible unless you knew to look for it—a tiny dragonfly hidden in the shadowy background. Lorenzo’s signature, his private joke. He’d painted it into all his works, and had convinced Titian to include it as part of their wager over who would create the better portrait.

The detail is remarkable. Cordelia’s voice sounded distant to her own ears. What’s the security protocol for new acquisitions? Do you install tiny lasers that sing opera when tripped, or something equally dramatic?

If Abernathy found the question strange, he didn’t show it. Standard museum procedure—alarm system, motion sensors after hours. For exceptional pieces like this, we rotate security personnel every four hours. It’s a bit like a shift at a very quiet night club.

She nodded, memorizing the camera angles, noting the placement of the infrared sensors near the baseboards.

It’s extraordinary that such works survive the centuries, Abernathy continued. All the wars, the fires, the neglect—yet here she is, looking at us across time. Almost like she’s alive. Or at least, like she’s judging our fashion choices.

Almost, Cordelia agreed.

An emotion she hadn’t permitted herself to feel in decades washed over her—raw, unfiltered longing. The portrait represented more than Lorenzo, more than their shared past. It captured a moment when she’d still felt human, when Venice had been a wonder rather than another city she’d outlived.

I should go. Thank you for showing me the exhibition. It was... enlightening. She extended her hand to Abernathy.

Our pleasure. Will you attend the Renaissance gala next month? We’re serving tiny quiches and sparkling wine.

Perhaps. If I’m not busy rescuing other masterpieces from questionable owners. Her mind was already elsewhere, calculating. The security rotation, the museum’s closure at 9 p.m., the service entrance with its outdated lock system.

The painting belonged with her. Lorenzo would have wanted it that way.

As Cordelia walked through the remaining galleries, her path to the exit deliberately casual, she formulated her plan. The night guard changed shifts at 1 a.m. The secondary alarm system had a three-minute delay—she’d learned that during a fundraising committee meeting. The display lighting in the Renaissance wing connected to a separate circuit from the security system.

She paused before a Caravaggio, pretending interest while watching the security guard’s routine patrol pattern.

The painting would be hers by tomorrow. A small theft in the grand scheme of things—reclaiming a piece of her own history, a memory made tangible by oil and canvas.

Cordelia stepped into the late afternoon sunlight, her skin prickling beneath her designer sunglasses. The weight of centuries pressed against her shoulders. That painting—Lorenzo’s final gift—called to her across time, whispering promises of recaptured moments and ghosts laid to rest.

Tonight, she would answer its call. And maybe snag a few of those tiny quiches on the way out.

​Chapter 2: The Empty Frame

The new moon cast no telltale shadows as Cordelia approached the museum's west side. Her black outfit—tailored pants, fitted turtleneck, soft-soled boots—was basically a walking invisibility cloak. A gentle breeze carried the scent of rain-washed concrete and night-blooming jasmine from the museum's gardens. They really need to invest in some better landscaping, she thought, wrinkling her nose.

She circled to the loading dock, where deliveries arrived and crates departed. Earlier reconnaissance had revealed the service entrance's vulnerability: an electronic lock with an outdated circuit board and a security camera with a seven-second blind spot during its rotation cycle. Seriously, guys? This is like something out of a 1980s spy movie.

She pressed her back against the brick wall, counting heartbeats. Three... four... five...

The camera swiveled away. Cordelia moved.

Her fingers extracted a slim device from her jacket pocket—technology stolen from a Russian spy in 1986, modified by a hacker she'd had a fling with in Prague last winter. Honestly, my dating life is like a weird James Bond film, she mused.

She pressed the device against the keypad. Green numbers flashed, algorithms breaking the code in seconds. Take that, outdated technology!

Click.

The door yielded without protest.

Inside, darkness embraced her. Human eyes would have found the loading bay impenetrable, but Cordelia's pupils dilated, irises glowing momentarily before adjusting. The world transformed into shades of blue and gray, objects defined by temperature gradients rather than illumination. It's like having built-in night vision goggles, she thought, but without the bulky design.

A security guard's footsteps echoed from two corridors away. Cordelia measured his gait—tired, distracted, heading toward the staff break room. Seventy-four seconds until his return. Someone needs a coffee break, she smirked.

She glided across the concrete floor, her movements fluid as water. A red laser grid crisscrossed the main corridor—child's play. Cordelia bent backward at an impossible angle, her spine arching as she slipped beneath the beams, then twisted sideways through the vertical sensors. This is almost too easy, she thought. They should hire me as a consultant.

The pressure plates beneath the expensive marble flooring presented a greater challenge. She lightened her step, distributing her weight precisely, moving with the careful deliberation of a ballerina en pointe. Years of ballet lessons finally paying off, she muttered.

Lorenzo, she whispered to herself. Always making me work for you, even after all these centuries.

The Renaissance wing loomed ahead. Cordelia's pace slowed, not from caution but reverence. These halls housed memories trapped in oil and canvas—faces she'd known, places she'd walked, a world she'd outlived.

She turned the final corner.

The spotlights remained active, small islands of illumination in the darkness. They highlighted Botticellis, da Vincis, Michelangelos—masters whose hands she'd shaken, whose wine she'd sipped. Ah, memories, she sighed.

And there, on the far wall, the spotlight shone on... nothing.

Cordelia froze. An empty space gaped where Titian's portrait should have hung. The slight discoloration of the wall marked its recent removal.

No. The word escaped her lips, a soft exhalation of disbelief. They can't have...

She crossed the gallery in three rapid strides, hands outstretched toward the vacant wall. Her fingertips brushed the cool plaster. No alarm triggered—the painting's removal had been authorized.

Damn it. Cordelia pressed her palm flat against the wall. Where did they take you, my dear Lorenzo?

A sudden tingling sensation spread up her arm. Static electricity prickled across her