Dreams of Shreds and Tatters - Amanda Downum Page 0,2

deepened, and the lights dimmed as if they too were quieting to listen. Antja resumed her usual place beside him, one smooth hip propped against his chair. Stephen flanked the other side, his posture cool and removed, his dark eyes derisive as ever. The others moved closer. Robert and Gemma reached across the space between their chairs to hold hands, their tension forgotten. Rae curled into Jason’s lap, black hair hiding her face. Alain settled in a corner of the sofa and tugged Blake down next to him. Like children for story time.

Rainer glanced around the room, his eyes catching everyone in turn. That was part of the magnetism—the sincerity, the way he made everyone feel included. It had been a long time since Blake trusted easy charm and kindness, but even after Alain’s misgivings he felt Rainer’s smile like sunlight on his face.

It was what connected them, all these disparate people, besides art. They were all waiting for something, searching for something. And they all thought Rainer might give it to them. Blake knew better—knew too well how badly that could go. But here he was.

“I’m glad all of you could come,” Rainer said. “I know some of you want to talk about the next exhibit, and we will, but there’s something else I want to show you tonight.” Cloth rustled; a boot scuffed against the rug; breath caught and held. “Some of you have already seen it. The rest are here because I think you should. Because I trust you.”

Again that rush of pride. Ridiculous, dangerous, but Blake couldn’t stop it. He wasn’t the only one—even Alain leaned forward, color rising in his cheeks.

“The gallery is only half of what I’m doing here. Art pays the bills—” Someone snorted, and Rainer tilted his head in a wry nod. “Sometimes, anyway. But I’m looking for another sort of talent, too.”

Blake flinched, unpleasant possibilities strobing through his head. He knew Rainer provided the drugs that floated like party favors through the private events, but that didn’t make him a pusher, didn’t make him a—

Alain’s hand clamped on his, interrupting his increasingly hectic thoughts. “What do you mean?” he asked, voice rasping deeper than ever.

Whatever Blake expected, whatever he feared, it was nothing like what followed.

“Watch,” Rainer said with a smile. He reached out and traced a shape in the air.

No, more than that. He opened the air, opened the world along an invisible seam, and filled it with golden fire.

1

Katabasis

THE PAIN BROUGHT him back.

Blake blinked, pulling himself free of the haze of shadows and slanting lamplight. Slow and dream-sticky like the edge of waking, but his eyes ached as though he hadn’t slept in days. His hand cramped, the dull ache of old fractures pulsing in his wrist and collarbone. A brush he’d forgotten he held trembled in his grip, the sable tip clotted with yellowish-grey paint, a shade somewhere between ecru and old bones. Numb fingers twitched and the brush fell to the floor, leaving a comma-shaped smear as it bounced against the boards. He let it lie, lifting his gaze to the painting in front of him.

It was finished. The rush of completion drove away the aches and cramps and pins-and-needles fire between his shoulder blades. For an instant the canvas eclipsed everything. A door. A door on the verge of opening. He reached for it, imagining its texture, the loops and whorls of silky stone, the weight of it against his hand. It would open for him, if he could only reach through—

But he couldn’t, not that way; his fingers hit paint and canvas, left tacky smudges in the thick layers of oils. He scrubbed his hand on his jeans. The fingerprints could stay, a subtle sort of signature.

Not just finished—it was perfect. As close as he’d ever come, at least, just for this moment. The flaws would surface later as they always did, the imperfections and imbalances he could never shake. But that was why he’d come here tonight, wasn’t it? To finally escape them.

He dragged a hand through his hair, snagging sticky fingers in the tangles. He usually pulled his hair back to paint, but it was too short for that now, falling in waves around his ears and across his eyes. Seven years of growth gone—seven years of defiance, of spite against his father. A sacrifice or a severed fetter: he wasn’t sure which.

His stool scraped the floorboards as he stood, and a hum of conversation he’d barely noticed faltered and died. Silence pounded