Page 80 of Eternal

“You’re needed in art suite seven.”

“For what?”

“Umm…” Whoever is on the other end of the line must be searching for something on their computer because their keys clack with every strong hit of their fingers on the keyboard. “It doesn’t say.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I hang up.

I submitted a piece to one of my professors for the exhibit at the local museum next week, and he probably needs something for it.

On the top floor of the art building, Briar Academy houses a hallway of private art suites. A few are used by professors, while others are reserved for students to rent out, which is how I got mine. It’s one of the few ways I don’t mind my father spending his money.

I’ve never been in suite seven, so it must be one they use for exhibit storage.

I quickly cover my paints and rinse my paintbrush, then leave my studio.

Since the studios are on either side of the hallway, it’s not well-lit. The small window at the end barely lets in more light than the bulbs overhead.

I walk to suite seven, knocking on the door, but no one answers. When I try the handle, I find it unlocked, so I let myself in.

“Hello?” I swing the door open, stepping inside.

It takes me a moment to process what I’m staring at as I close the door behind me and look around. I’m standing in the middle of a metal wonderland with pieces filling almost every corner of the studio. Some are abstract, while others are figures. And they’re all crafted from different forms of metal.

Copper pieces, metal rods, gears, and so much more.

There’s a clear path down the center of the room, but even overhead, pieces are suspended from the ceiling.

I step deeper into the room, taking in every detail.

There’s a body with a fragmented chest, pieced together with bullets and shell casings. Above is a head that drips down to a heart made of gold coins.

To my left are two right feet crafted from silver strands, sitting on a bloody welcome mat.

Some items are tall sculptures that remind me of trees and flowers, while the piece on the far wall feels like an ocean current.

It’s one of the most incredible displays I’ve seen at the Academy.

“Boo.” Declan’s voice coming from my right makes me jump, and I spin to see him standing with his back to a workbench, holding onto a pair of pliers.

“Declan?” I glance around at the room again. “What are you doing here?”

He sets down the pliers and walks in my direction, cutting through the metal jungle as he approaches me. Seeing him in this chaos of iron and gold feels like he’s somehow climbing out of the artwork. Fragments of his demons coming to life.

“Wait.” I hold up my hands when he approaches. “Did you do all this?”

He looks down at me, framed by the brutal and sharp metal forest. He might as well be a piece of the angry, cold works of art.

“I told you I was an artist, Teal.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “You just never believed me.”

My gaze moves around the room. “This is how you got into Paris.”

It makes sense now—why I’ve never seen him in any of my art classes. He doesn’t paint or draw. Or, if he does, that’s not his preferred medium. This is the type of art he creates.

And it makes sense. Crafting and creating. Working with his hands and manipulating the environment around him. Nothing has ever felt more like Declan Pierce than standing in this room.

“I told you I was artistic.”

My mouth is still hanging open in shock. “You did.”