Dreams of Shreds and Tatters - Amanda Downum Page 0,3

in his ears. He stepped back from the easel, caught himself on the stool as his knees buckled. Lamp- and candlelight spun in lazy kaleidoscope swirls through the shadowed room. Terrible light for painting—no wonder his eyes burned so badly. He’d pushed himself too hard and the pharmaceutical daze was wearing off.

Thunder shook the house and he nearly fell again. The echo in his ears wasn’t his own pulse but rain, drumming fierce against the roof and windows. Waves lashed the deck, and the sky was a swirl of darkness veined with lightning. The night had been clear when they’d arrived at the cabin, December-sharp and sweet, the stars a spray of diamonds without the city’s glare to dull them, the light of the waxing moon a pewter glaze across the cove.

“What time is it?” That was what he meant to ask, anyway. His tongue was swollen, mouth parched, and all that came out was a sticky croak. No one answered.

The others watched him, silent as mannequins. Almost like a party, like the night five weeks ago that started this, but stripped of warmth and comfort. Robert and Gemma sat with hands clasped, while Stephen lounged, bored and indolent as a cat. Antja stood apart. Her face was smooth as a mask, but he read the tension in her shoulders, in the tightness of her folded arms. Only Jason and Rae hadn’t been invited, and Blake was just as glad—they were kids. Whatever happened here, he wasn’t sure they needed to see it yet.

Rainer’s cabal. Everyone here tonight had somehow touched the secret things Rainer had shown them. The world that existed below the world Blake knew. But none of them—except Rainer himself— had ever attempted what he meant to do tonight.

None of them had needed to.

Another thunderclap and the lights flickered and dimmed. Blake startled, knocking over the stool. It toppled with a machine gun clatter, and a sliver of pain wedged itself behind his right eye. He’d seen more rain than he could have imagined since coming to Vancouver, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard thunder.

A footstep fell behind him, too close. He spun, fists clenching, but it was only Rainer leaning over his shoulder to stare at the painting. The fascination on his face nearly made up for the intrusion. It was certainly better than the pity and frustration Blake had seen so often in the last few weeks.

“Is it finished?” Rainer asked.

Blake nodded. The admiration warmed him; so did the mania lingering in his bloodstream. His senses reeled with the drug. Beneath the stink of linseed and turpentine, the smell of Rainer’s aftershave made his head spin: pine and citrus and mint, and under that the warmer soap and musk of his skin. Blake wanted to lean into that warmth, to rub against him like a cat. He clenched his aching right hand and let the pain ground him.

“Well?” His voice cracked with thirst and fatigue and the insidious doubt he could never be rid of. “Will it work?”

Is it good enough? But he couldn’t ask that, not for all the magic in the world.

Magic. The idea gnawed like nothing had since he first realized he could capture and change the world on paper, could capture and exorcise himself. But no matter how many times Rainer had tried to teach him even the simplest of tricks, Blake could never reproduce them. Weeks of failure had left him seething with all the bitterness and self-loathing he thought he’d put behind him.

I can’t teach you, Rainer had finally said. But there is another way.

“It will work.” Rainer lifted his hand just as Blake had, but let it fall again.

Blake turned away, searching for Alain. He found him standing alone by the windows. Stormlight gleamed in his blue-streaked hair, rinsing the warm tones from his skin until it was cold as silverpoint. He turned, light sliding across his face, and reached for Blake’s outstretched hand.

“Are you all right?” Alain asked as Blake leaned into him. Blake nodded against his neck, scraping his cheekbone against stubble, breathing in the unnatural sweetness of drugstore shampoo. Beneath layers of shirts and sweaters, Alain’s shoulders were knotted tight. The tension had been building for days. Neither of them had slept well all week, tossing with dreams they didn’t share, burying themselves in work. They hadn’t argued, precisely, but Alain wasn’t so eager for all the wonders Rainer offered.

But he was still here.

“What’s wrong?” Blake asked. “You’re the one brooding now.”