Page 26

I sabel stared at Sebastian for a long moment, trying to decide if he was joking. If he was, this was a terrible time and choice of joke. But every muscle of his face declared that he was telling the truth.

She scooted away from him, her mouth screwed up in disgust. “What? Why? I knew it! You were just dragging me here to your den of vampires to be a living blood bank, weren’t you?

! And you lied to me, multiple times! Ugh, I was so stupid.

So stupid to think you were telling the truth, and that everything I’ve been through the last few days was real.

But I guess I don’t have a choice now, do I?

I’m already stuck in this underground maze with no clue how to get out! ”

Sebastian’s face filled with such hurt that for a moment, she wondered if she had her analysis of the situation all wrong. But what else could it be?

“You are not stupid, dolcezza. And you always have a choice. No one here is going to drink a drop of your blood, I swear it.”

“But you just asked-”

“Yes, I asked if you would give me some. But not to consume! For centuries, I have mixed drops of your blood into my paints because that allows me to paint scenes of your future. With regular paint I can paint and enter memories, but painting the future requires blood of the person whose future I wish to see.”

Isabel’s heart made no attempt to slow its beating.

While the explanation sounded like utter nonsense, she had entered his paintings before.

The magic was real. “But what if the painting is bad? Wouldn’t it be better to just wait for the future to get here, rather than knowing from the beginning that we’re going to fail? ”

“I need…” he started, then paused as if clawing the words from his throat was physically painful. “I need to know if it’s too late.”

That did nothing to calm her fears. Yet as she stared at the miserable and trembling man before her, that strange pull she’d felt multiple times since meeting Sebastian returned.

Emotions that had no place in her heart began to stir, replacing her fear with love.

The kind of love she felt in the visions, of a pair who knew every surface of their partner’s soul.

“I choose to trust you,” she whispered.

Sebastian looked up, his face bright with hope. “Thank you, Isabel,” he croaked, and rose from the couch. She watched as he moved a pile of paintings to reveal a small cabinet behind them. From within the cabinet he produced a small knife and a silver bowl.

She shivered when she saw the glint of firelight on the metal blade, but forced herself to remain as calm as possible.

This was a test. Had he been telling the truth?

He returned to her side and extended the handle.

“I swear I will not hurt you or take more than is absolutely necessary. Do you want to make the cut yourself so you don’t have to worry? ”

Despite the sick feeling in her stomach when she thought of cutting herself, being in control did feel less scary.

Her hands trembled as she took the knife.

It was cold and heavy in her grip. She placed the sharp of the blade against the meaty part of her palm and swiftly pulled it backwards before she could lose her nerve.

The cut was shallow, but deep enough for blood to begin rising to the surface. She held her hand over the silver bowl and over the next 60 seconds, three drops of blood fell into it. “That’s enough,” Sebastian murmured, and gently turned her hand palm-up. “I’m going to heal the wound, okay?”

She nodded and he brought her hand to his lips.

His tongue gently brushed her sliced skin, and a shiver ran down her spine.

When Josephine had healed her, it felt awkward.

But Sebastian’s tongue caressing her felt intimate, like a pleasant memory waking.

She stared at his soft features in the firelight and repressed the urge to touch him so tenderly in return.

The pain immediately disappeared as her skin knit itself back together. He paused at the end of the cut, still holding her hand, and pressed his lips to her palm before letting go. “All better,” he whispered.

Sure enough, the wound was gone. But the emotions and warmth of his mouth lingered like an echo.

While she was lost in the strangeness of the situation, Sebastian began preparing the paints.

He poured a clear liquid into the silver bowl and mixed it, then separated that into five paint pots.

Pigments came next, carefully measured and stirred in with tense hands.

And then he began to paint. Isabel watched the measured strokes and the way he seemed entirely absorbed in the task.

He never looked away from the canvas, seemingly mixing the colors by instinct.

The background began to take shape, a dark forest behind the silhouette of a church.

While it was beautiful, a dark sense of foreboding crept in the longer she stared.

Foreboding grew to concern, which increased to terror as he began painting in the foreground. She recognized her form taking shape under his hand, which was to be expected. But as he painted in the details of her face, she let out a soft shriek.

That was not her face.

The distorted, angry face of the shadow met her gaze. She leapt off the couch and attempted to knock the brush out of Sebastian’s hand, but he didn’t even acknowledge her presence. He continued painting no matter how hard she pulled on him, as if she were no more than a fly landing on his skin.

He painted in a crooked smile to complete the figure, and Isabel felt a pulse of pain in her head. Blood began trickling out of both nostrils and she fell forward, landing face-down in the soft carpet.

Instead of darkness, Isabel found herself standing in front of the church from the painting. She shivered in the frigid air and wrapped her arms tightly around her body, though it brought her no warmth. Wind caused the bare branches of the trees to thrash, and moaned as it raced through them.

The doors of the church opened and Isabel rushed toward them, hoping that the inside would be warmer, even if it just got her out of the wind. However, as she approached, the shadow figure appeared in the door. It was far more detailed now, obviously a distorted reflection of her own face.

“Y…cannot ent…,” the shadow croaked, her voice staticky as if coming from a poor radio connection. “He…lying…trust…”

Isabel stepped closer instinctively, trying to make out what her reflection was saying. “What? Lying? Who is lying? Who are you? What are you?”

But the figure gave no more reply. She only closed the church door, and the click of the lock engaging echoed in Isabel's ears. Isabel ran to the door and began pounding on it with both fists, shivering harder as the temperature seemed to drop by the second.

“Let me in!” she screamed. “I’ll freeze to death out here! Please! Why do I nearly die every time you appear?!”

She slammed the door with her shoulder over and over, growing weaker with every blow, until she collapsed into the door and slid down its surface. She sat on the ground with her back to the wood and pulled her knees to her chest. She really was going to die, wasn't she?

Her eyes slid closed and she began to pray, not even knowing who she was praying to. Anyone who would listen. Anyone who could save her from the bitter forest and the biting cold.

But no one came.