Brush of Darkness (14 page)

“Says you.”

“Dreams don’t lie, Abby.”

“Yeah? Well, apparently you do.” I gulped down the last of the coffee in two quick swigs. “And it sucks.”

“You never asked,” he said defensively. “And you were rather instrumental in the act. For all I know, you orchestrated it.”

“Back to this, I see. One moment you’re accusing me of having a brick for a brain and the next you assume I somehow made myself your TouchStone through a mistaken brush of your hand?” My empty cup spun between my fingers as I debated the wisdom of chucking it at him. “And for what? Certainly not the pleasure of your company.”

He exhaled softly, leaning back to rest on his elbows so that he was draped over the steps. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s a start, anyway. See, here’s the thing. I get that you all need to have your secrets . . .” I flicked the cup at him, unsurprised when he batted it away with a careless hand. “But I’m not sure how you think keeping me in the dark about something as important as this is going to help anyone.” He glanced over at me, and I stared back, refusing to look away.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” he finally murmured, tracing a circle on his knee. “In truth, the concept makes me a trifle uneasy, though I suspect you’ve gotten the worst side of that particular bargain.”

“Yeah. You might say that.” I hesitated. “And . . . um . . . since we’re both airing out the dirty laundry, there’s another problem.”

“Do tell,” he drawled, resignation flicking across his face.

I sucked in a ragged breath. “The truth of the matter is that Moira is missing too. So if this doesn’t work, I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be.”

“I know.”

I blinked. “You know?”

He turned sideways, stretching out so that his feet crossed at the ankles with the length of his calf pressed against my knee. “From the moment we touched in the bookstore.”

“Touched, eh? I thought you said that was just a side effect.”

He shrugged. “Moira has shields around you. I was poking them with the metaphysical equivalent of a big stick. If she had been anywhere within ‘hearing’ distance, she would have squashed me like a bug.” His mouth twisted wryly as he rested his head on his arms. “Which means she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Or is in a position where she can’t act.”

“Did you know that it would happen like that?”

He slumped. “No. I knew you’d bonded to me the moment we touched in the store the other day, but I didn’t know how to deal with it. I’ve been waiting for the hammer to drop for days now. How long has Moira been gone?”

“Four months,” I said softly, wincing beneath his stare, waiting for the outburst of anger that never came.

“I wondered.” He hesitated and then slowly sat up. “I don’t think Robert knows about us—the TouchStone thing.”

“Then what was that freakout at the Hallows all about last night? Somehow I doubt it was to protect my maidenly honor.”

“Not yours,” he agreed. “Moira’s. In case you hadn’t noticed, I was a tad . . . forward. It probably looked pretty bad to have the Protectorate’s TouchStone seduced in front of everyone like that.”

“I’d hardly count a few moments of dancing as seduction.”

“Clearly I didn’t do it long enough,” he murmured, his gaze slowly raking over my body as he pulled me to my feet. He gestured toward the glass doors of the gallery. “Shall we?”

“Just one question.” I headed up the last of the steps with a yawn, ignoring the prickle of heat taking root in my belly.

“All right.”

“If you masturbate, would that make you an incubator?” I eyed him sideways, struggling not to laugh at his nonplussed expression or the sharp bark of mock outrage that followed.

His mouth curved suddenly, his eyes growing golden and lazy. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

Only a few other patrons circled the gallery that morning. No champagne or chocolate strawberries—just us and the paintings. I skirted past two heavyset men carefully taking a covered painting through the main foyer. I turned and slid against the wall. Several other canvases were wrapped in sheets, leaning against the kiosk haphazardly. Clearly we were arriving during a change of display, although I’d always been under the impression that sort of thing was done after hours.

Brystion stood behind me, his presence raw and heated. It felt sexual, protective, almost suffocating in its power.

“Christ, dude. Turn it down already,” I muttered to him. “Or just piss on me and mark your territory and get it over with.”

“I have a tendency to get carried away,” he said sheepishly. Instantly I felt the hunger withdraw and I sighed. I could breathe again.

“So I’ve noticed.” I waved him off before he could say
anything else and headed toward the wing with the TouchStone paintings. The succubus portrait had curtains drawn before it, but the others remained lit. “Hmm . . .” I frowned, pulling up the edge of the cloth.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, please. You need to step away from the painting.”

“Whoa.” I dropped the curtain, stepping back as the small, stout woman from the other night elbowed her way past. She still looked like an eggplant in her dark purple suit and sensible shoes. “I’m sorry.” I put on my best ignorant tourist face. “I just wanted to see the picture. It was on view the other night.”

“Yes, well, it’s been sold and the buyer no longer wants it on display,” she sniffed. “Now please, you’re going to need to leave.”

“I don’t think so,” Brystion said quietly, his gaze flicking down to her name tag. “We need to see that painting.”

“I’m going to call security if the two of you don’t get out here,” she warned, her face puffing up.

Brystion’s lips pursed, his voice suddenly husky. “Come on,” he murmured, “what’s the harm in letting me take a look? Surely you trust me, right?” He stepped toward her, and although I couldn’t see his face, I sure as hell could see hers. She paled beneath the onslaught of that commanding seduction, her expression suddenly going slack.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, but he slid away from me, bearing down on the woman in a nimbus of sexual energy.

“Michelle,” he crooned, and I shivered at the raw lust that rippled from him.

“Yes,” she whispered. Her breathing became rapid, and her glasses slid haphazardly off the bridge of her nose as she tipped her face up to him. She was a good few inches taller than me but still shorter than him. He reached out to stroke
the side of her face, his fingers lingering in her mousy brown hair.

Jealousy flared through me like a burning brand, followed by a slick chaser of anger. If he knew of my reaction he gave no sign.

“Shhhhh,” he breathed, his lips hovering mere inches from hers. I bit down hard on my cheek, the copper-edged blood filling my mouth. “Can I look at the picture, Michelle?”

“Ah, of course,” she sighed, her eyes never leaving his face. “Anything you want, Mister . . . Mister?”

“Ion.” He smiled at her. “You may call me Ion, if you wish.”

“Ion,” she chirped happily, tugging at the rope pull that controlled the curtain. “It really is a most wonderful painting, Mr. Ion. The details are exquisite, and oh, those feathers! Why, they look like you could just reach out and blow them away.”

“Son of a bitch.” I heard a soft gasp and turned swiftly. The eggplant was gaping like a fish, blinking as though she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. The crackling heat of a moment before was gone, shut off like a faucet. Icy fingers gripped my gut as I approached the painting.

“Brystion?” I extended my hand to his shoulder. He trembled beneath my touch, his eyes cold and flat and empty. I swallowed hard, heard it echoed in the soft exhalation of the woman beside me.

“Look,” he said tightly, his voice cracking with anger. “Look at that and tell me that bullshit artist doesn’t have something to do with Sonja’s disappearance.”

Puzzled, I glanced up. “What the hell?” The girl in the painting was the same as before—proud and naked—but damn if those eyes didn’t have some dark shadows under them this time. The wings were still there—extended and
bloodred—but now there was something clustered on the bed beside her. I peered at it, my eyes adjusting to what was surely an improbability. Feathers. A scattering of feathers rested on the white coverlet. “Those weren’t there before, were they?”

His shoulder tightened beneath my fingers. “No. Look closer at her wings,” he snarled. “She’s dying.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know what death looks like, Abby, and I sure as hell don’t need you to patronize me about it.” He gestured at the painting. “She’s losing her feathers. That means she’s running out of energy.” He bared his teeth at me. “They’re starving her.”

His upper lip curled harshly as he turned to Michelle. “I want you to get that two-bit hack of an artist out here.
Now
.” His words snapped like the crack of bones beneath a boot heel.

Michelle started, her face flushing. “I’m sorry . . . Mister . . . Ion, but that’s not possible right now. I’m afraid he’s out for the day.”

“Ah.” I stepped smoothly between them, my hand tightening on his arm in warning. “Do you think maybe you could tell us who commissioned this fabulous painting?”

Her face shuttered. “That’s private. The buyer wishes to remain anonymous. It is not our policy to give out that sort of information.”

“Well, it’s just that I was thinking I might like to buy it instead. I sat for Topher myself, you know.” I pointed to the mermaid painting, dazzling her with my most charming smile. Admittedly, I’m not that charming, but I figured I’d give it a shot.

Michelle gave me a withering look, the dazed light in her eyes fading away as she focused on me. “How nice for you,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to the mermaid and then back at me. “We don’t give that information out,” she
repeated, the words mechanical, rote. “I will tell Mr. Fitzroy that you stopped by.”

Brystion gave me a sideways look. “This sounds fami-liar.”

“Yeah, well, just look at how well it’s turned out for you,” I retorted as he turned toward the other paintings. He didn’t acknowledge my words and that pissed me off even more. Michelle made another little sniff. “What?” I snapped, tapping my watch. “By my reckoning you’re open and it’s a free country, so don’t get your panties all in a bunch.”

“You’re horribly rude,” she said primly. “I shall be sure to inform Mr. Fitzroy that he has absolutely dreadful taste in models.”

“You do that.” I rolled my eyes at her. “Thanks for your help.
Not
,” I whispered beneath my breath as she swished away. Brystion was staring at my painting, shoulders rigid. “You gonna be okay?” I slid behind him.

He shook his head. “It’s something to do with these paintings,” he muttered. “I can feel it. It’s all wrong.” He turned to me abruptly. “When did you say you sat for him?”

“I didn’t, but it was a few months ago.” I frowned, taking a closer look at my picture. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly different in it. I was still there, complete with fish tail, complete with ship. Complete with deadly promises.

“What is it?”

“There.” I shuddered, my fingers trembling as I pointed at the darkest corner of the painting. “Do you see that?”

“It’s a shark.” He reached out to trace the edges of the shadowy figure. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the perfect triangle of the dorsal, bitterly edged like a knife. I sucked in a deep breath, my wrist to my lips as I turned away. He looked at me sharply. “Like your nightmares?”

My arms wrapped about my shoulders as I pushed the
rising panic away. “Hell, you were there last night.”

“You’re suppressing something,” he said. “And it’s manifesting in the form of a shark.”

“You a doctor now?” The scowl crept over my face before I could stop it. “I don’t care what the fuck it is, Brystion, I just want it to stop.”

He swore softly. “What about the other ones?”

I pushed past the incubus, and bit my lip. “Melanie’s looks about the same. I don’t really see anything different about it.” I glanced over at the other one. “The Angel’s Charlie,” I snorted. Charlie was still there, seated in a feather-strewn bedroom, her eyes dark and sad. An open window looked out on a moonlit sea, a ship silhouetted against the starry sky. The curtains lifted as though the wind was blowing. “Not very original, is it?”

“I could have told you that,” Brystion said. “But I agree. I don’t think this one looks any different from the other night.” His lips pressed together grimly. “But yours . . .” Our gazes met and a pinch of fear lined his eyes. “Why did you sit for him?”

“I already told you. Topher wanted to do a TouchStone series. It was his way of coming back to the business, I guess.”

“Coming back? What the fuck would he be coming back from?”

I shrugged. “From what I understand, he got really sick. I’ve heard rumors of everything from hep C to AIDS, but who knows? He’d come into the bookstore every once in a while and chat up Moira. Maybe buy an old art book or two. He seemed harmless, but there was an air about him, like he just expected to die, you know?”

My mind wandered for a moment, thinking of how the artist had always had a smile when he came to see us. His face may have been gaunt, but his eyes were large and
bright. Sometimes he would tease Moira with little sketches, capturing her face in enigmatic expression, poignant and beautiful. “And then one day he dropped by, maybe two months after I got to Portsmyth, and it was like a cloud had been lifted,” I continued. “I couldn’t have told you what it was, but he seemed lighter, more relaxed. Almost younger, even. He asked if I would mind sitting for him. He said he wanted to capture the inner light of what made a TouchStone.”

Brystion’s head snapped down at me. “He wanted to what?”

“Capture our inner light,” I said, feeling foolish. “Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. I figured it was just some sort of artistic jargon.”

“I’m surprised Moira would allow it, if he phrased it like that.”

“Ah, well.” I looked away. “Moira was gone by then, Brystion. This was just something the three of us decided to do on our own.”

“How long ago was that again?”

“Just under four months, I guess.” I added the weeks on my fingers. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Why?”