by Gail Bridges
Josh gazed at me, his face a study of careful innocence. “Yes, Zenobia? What can we do for you?”
I waited for a long moment.
Then I banged both hands on the table, making a loud thonking sound.
“Let’s do this!”
Chapter Thirty-One
It was four hours later and we were almost ready.
I’d spent the time feverishly painting my heart out, throwing every iota of creativity at the walls of the Fine Arts Room, filling them with the “fruit of my imagining”. I’d painted as fast as I could, using big, expressive strokes, using wide fields of color—using everything I’d ever learned from every teacher I’d ever had, every critique I’d ever sat through, every art book I’d ever studied, every painting I’d ever done up until that very moment.
A frenzy of magnificent creativity…inspired by fear.
Every touch of brush to wall had to be perfect, beautiful, worthy enough to trigger the ancient spell. I painted landscapes and portraits and so much more, each image blending seamlessly into the next, my new work added around and between the older work I’d already done, everything running together in a glorious ring of color. In my heart of hearts I knew this was the masterpiece of my entire life—my personal Sistine Chapel. Who knew if I’d ever create such passionate, painful works again?
Well, if this was what it took, no thank you. I’d rather decorate cakes in a bakery.
It was done except for the most important part. The double doors.
I dragged my paints and brushes over to the entrance. Then I just stood there in front of the doors, paralyzed by their blank surfaces.
“What are you going to paint on them?” asked Josh, coming up behind me. He was taking a two-minute break so that Zenith could stretch a sore calf muscle.
I tugged a drop cloth into position. “Hell if I know.”
“Um. That could be a problem.”
It was already five o’clock. The plan was for the preparations to come to an abrupt halt in half an hour. We would stop painting, quit practicing, put away tools and art supplies, make sure everything was in order and get dressed for the grand finale. That didn’t leave much time for me to finish the doors. Only half an hour! Half an hour to paint the most important pictures of my life. And I didn’t even know what I was going to put on them yet. An hour from now—oh, how time was flying—assuming I came up with something, it would all begin. We would call Mr. Abiba, start the music and dazzle him with our brilliance.
What was I going to put on the doors? My rush of creativity hadn’t ended, had it? Not now! Not when I needed it most.
I was tired, so tired.
Josh massaged my shoulders, my neck, my back. He leaned in, whispering, “You have paint on your ear. Charming as always.”
“What color?”
His hands reached around to the fronts of my shoulders. “Some sort of yellow.”
“Ummm. That feels nice. What kind of yellow? Cadmium Yellow?”
He grunted. “If you say so.”
Zenith joined us. She was wearing black lace-up high heels. Flamenco shoes, for making thump-thump noises and kicking up her feet. They made her taller, different somehow. More Spanish. More like a Rita. She put a hand on each of us, pulling us close, adding herself to our intimate little moment. It was as if were her natural place, as if she’d always belonged there, between us, claiming us. “We’re going to do this. We are.”
“Yes,” Josh said, reaching across me to kiss her straight on the mouth.
She kissed him back. Then she kissed me. “We’re going to free ourselves! Never forget it.” Her hand was on my butt, squeezing and caressing. I sucked in my breath, wanting her, wanting Josh, wanting them both. My mind cried out. What about Vane? What about Vane? They’re a couple! Damn it, they’re a couple!
Zenith pulled away, ending it. Not that anything was going to happen, not now, not when the world was about to explode. What was wrong with me, to be thinking about sex at such a time? Was it the glamour spell, making me act this way? Zenith must have known what I was thinking. She patted me gently on the cheek. “Later, amiga. I promise we’ll talk. But for now, I have to take your man away. Hey!” She gestured at the still-unpainted doors. “Angie! You know what you should paint there? Mr. Abiba on one side and yourself on the other. Bride and groom. Get it?”
Then she pulled Josh away and they were gone.
Bride and groom.
I stared at the doors, already seeing it in my mind’s eye. Mr. Abiba and me. Bride and groom. I felt sick to my stomach but Zenith was right. It would be perfect. Mr. Abiba wouldn’t be able to keep himself from closing the doors, even if he was suspicious. He would have to see us together, man and wife, our hands reaching for each other, straining to touch where the doors met in the center. Our hands would come together, yes…but only whenthe doors met securely. Only when they completed the circle.
Perfect.
Better yet, as even bigger bait, the bride’s hand would be holding the engagement ring. I would attach it to the painting, to the door, with a short golden cord. He would see that ring. He would think he was to close the doors, pluck off the ring, bring it back to me and put it on my finger. And marry me. Only it wouldn’t happen that way. If all went well, he would have vanished in a puff of smoke by then. If all went well.
I went to work.
There was pounding behind me. I knew it was Valerian nailing together his bridal arbor, but I paid no attention, not even sparing a glance for those nicely bulging muscles as he swung the hammer. The flamenco music started up again, fiery and insistent and loud. I ignored it. Zora came and went, leaving the Fine Arts Room and then appearing again a few minutes later, apologizing each time for interrupting my work. She brought in armloads of flowers. And clothing. Suits for Josh and Vane. A red dress full of ruffles and black lace for Zenith. My wedding dress. A veil. A bouquet. I ignored those too. I had to.
Through it all, I painted. And painted. And painted.
Too soon, Valerian was beside me, his hand gently resting on my forearm. “It’s time, Angie,” he said.
I applied one last eloquent line to Mr. Abiba’s handsome chin, bringing his face into perfect focus. His image gazed longingly at my image on the facing door, its hand reaching for mine.
“There,” I said, setting down my brush with a satisfying clunk. “It’s done. What do you think?”
Valerian stared at the painted doors. “Disturbing,” he said finally. “The way they look like they’re really holding hands. How did you do that?”
“I don’t know. I had to.”
He opened the doors and closed them again slowly, just to see the painted hands touch. Then he spun in a slow circle, following the unbroken chain of paintings and ivy vines around the room to where they connected with the portraits on either side of the doors. “It’s brilliant. Mr. Abiba won’t be able to resist. Come on, Angie. We’re running late.”
I turned around…and sucked in my breath. The room had been transformed. How had I not noticed all these preparations he and Zora had been doing during the past four hours? Had I been so single-mindedly focused on my work? It wasn’t only the bridal arbor, although that was lovely, all wreathed with flowers and ivy. No, it was everything together, the whole thing. It was the rose petals scattered on the floor. It was the translucent shades of Viridian Green slotted over the track lighting, infusing everything with their delicious hue. It was the spotlight aimed where the performance would soon take place. But most of all it was my paintings, surrounding it all, lending an otherworldly, vibrant underpinning to the room and all it held.
I felt faint. “It’s…wonderful.”
“It is. Too bad it’s all going up in smoke.”
“Shhh, Valerian! Don’t! In case he’s listening in.”
“If he is, then he already knows what’s up. But Angie, Mr. Abiba isn’t listening in. I just saw him. He’s busy refereeing a game of nipple soccer.” Valerian looked at me through lowered eyelids. “Don�
��t ask. All I can say is that your pal Geoffrey just made two goals for the red team. And the surprise player on the blue team is—ta-da!—Rhonda-Lynne.”
I smiled. “Nipple soccer?”
“Believe it or not.” Valerian glanced at Josh and Vane and Zenith. He lowered his voice. “Know what? You can hear them practicing that Spanish stuff all over the inn. I don’t know how, but you can. Mr. Abiba is so turned-on he can barely contain himself. Believe me. I saw the look on his face. He’s playing nipple soccer with the rest of the guests but he can’t wait for six o’clock.”
“Oh,” I said, “that’s good.” I tucked a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. “Right?”
Valerian leaned in closer, never taking his eyes off me. “Very good.” His lips brushed my cheek. “Angie, you look…hot. All covered with splotches of paint like that. With your glowing eyes and your crazy hair. Hot. Like a madwoman version of Vincent Van Gogh.”
Which was exactly what I felt like.
Valerian didn’t look so bad either, in his black T-shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and a tool belt buckled around his waist. Would Valerian mind if I ran my paint-covered hands through his hair? Would he mind that they were covered with Raw Umber and Phthalo Green and Cadmium Orange? Because I really wanted to feel that lovely spiky sensation between my fingers again. I reached out, then stopped myself. It was only the glamour spell making me feel like that. The glamour spell. I put my hand down.
“I need the bride! I need the bride!”
I turned around to see Zora holding up my wedding dress, making impatient “come here” motions with her arms. “I’ve gotta go,” I told Valerian, leaning in and whispering into his ear. “You know, I wish we’d had a chance to finish what we started before this whole thing fell apart. I really do.”
“Me too,” he said, “oh god, me too.”
“Angie, come and put on your dress!”
I went.
Zora led me to the far side of the bridal arbor, where we had a bit of privacy. I stripped down to my underwear, shivering. She held the dress out for me but I didn’t take it just yet—I couldn’t. It was my wedding dress. It was freshly washed, just as Mr. Abiba had promised, each pleat perfectly ironed, each section of lace carefully spread out and pressed, the yards and yards of satin skirt flowing in long, graceful lines. It looked better than the day I’d bought it. Whoever had washed it had done a painstakingly professional job.
I fingered the fabric, letting memories wash over me. The blustery spring day when my mother and I—as giddy as teenagers—had picked it out. The three fittings it had taken to get it to conform to my body, hugging me in some places and flowing in others. I remembered my mother and my aunt helping me to put it on just before the big event. And the wedding itself, of course. How happy Josh and I had been! How our eyes had followed each other around the room! How we’d ached for each other! And I remembered the promises we’d made, how we’d sworn everlasting love. How we’d sworn to be each other’s one and only, never touching another person, forever and ever, until death did us part.
Little did we know that forever would only last a day and a half.
Well. There was nothing to do but to get on with it. If we survived the coming escape, I’d have plenty of time to worry about forever. I let the satiny fabric slip through my fingers. The dress wasn’t important now. It was bait for our trap. I would get over it. But what about my fledgling marriage? What about Josh and me? I didn’t want to get over that! I wanted to be married to Josh forever and ever, even though I was going through the motions of marrying a demon.
Was I crazy? How had my life taken such a bizarre turn? I barely recognized myself.
And where exactly did all of this leave Josh and me?
“Are you okay?” said Zora, frowning, looking at me worriedly.
I sighed. “Just give me the dress.”
“Wait. We have to get this paint off you first.” She set the dress on a chair and took a wet rag to me. She scrubbed my hands, my arms, my cheek, my ear. “Okay. That’s better. Now you can put it on.”
I slipped it over my head.
“Zora…” I said.
She tugged it down over my breasts and hips, until the white satin skimmed the floor. “Mmm? What is it?” she murmured as she slipped my strappy wedding shoes onto my cold feet. Then she turned me around and fastened the row of tiny buttons that ran up my back. “Lovely,” she whispered, “so lovely.”
“What if this wedding is nothing but a big trap? For me?”
She made a soft snorting sound through her nose as she flattened the lace of my bodice. She straightened the pointy ends of my sleeves. Buttoned the two pearls under the wrists. But she didn’t say anything.
“What if he tricks me into actually marrying him?”
She sat me down and took my hair out of its ponytail holder.
“What if he plays mind games with me and I can’t get him to close the circle? What if it all goes terribly wrong?”
She took my hair in her hands, picked up a few stray strands from my neck.
“What if we’re just spinning our wheels and he’s been in control all along?”
She drew a brush down the length of my hair in slow passes, taking extra care with the tangles. The cap I’d worn back in the dragon’s cave hadn’t done my hairstyle any favors. “Honey, we’re doing everything we can to save ourselves.”
“I know. But what if it’s not enough? What if he’s laughing at us, Zora? At me?”
The brush hesitated at the crown of my head. “He isn’t.”
“I hope not. Ow! That hurt.”
“Sorry.” She took her fingers to the problem area. “You know what I’m worried about? None of us have any idea what we’re doing. At all. What do we know about magic? Nothing! Those books didn’t exactly spell it out for us, did they? What’ll happen when Mr. Abiba closes those doors over there? We don’t know. Anything could happen. Or…nothing could happen. We’re clueless!” She tugged on my hair. “Jeez, honey. This is taking far too long. What did you do to your hair? Did you take an eggbeater to it?”
“Ha. Feels like it, doesn’t it? Maybe we’re clueless. But we can’t let that stop us.”
“No. We can’t.” She squeezed my shoulder. “We aren’t. Thanks to you.”
I tilted my head and rubbed my check against her hand, nuzzling her, wishing we had time to make love one last time. Of the four Guides, I’d spent the least amount of time with Zora. She must have been thinking along the same lines, because she sighed. “You have no idea how sweet you are, Angie. No wonder Mr. Abiba is crazy about you.” She kissed the top of my head.
“We don’t know what will happen,” I said softly. “All we can do is try. We’re committed. And thanks. You’re sweet too.”
She held my hair in both hands, turning and turning it into a thick roll. “A French twist. That’ll be the thing.” She deftly tucked the roll up onto my head and held it there, studying it, her lips pursed. “Yes. So pretty. It shows off your cheekbones.”
“You know how to make a French twist?”
She stuck pins all over my head to keep the twist in place. Then she plucked a cluster of yellow flowers from the bridal arbor and tucked it behind my ear. “I’m a woman of many talents.”
“Thank you for this…” I looked up at her. “Anne.”
“You’re welcome…Zenobia.” She laughed softly. And I felt better.
Through the arbor, in glimpses framed with ivy and roses, I saw Josh and Zenith and Vane, fully suited up and ready to go, the men all black and white and Zenith in flashing red. I craned my neck, trying to see Zenith better. She was practicing a move, doing the same thing over and over again. A quick stomp of her foot, then another, then she threw her arm into the air and twirled in a dazzling circle, her skirt flaring, her back arched and her hair billowing.
She took my breath away.
If Zenith could do this—Zenith who’d had her finger cut off the night before—then so could I.
&nbs
p; So could I.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Six o’clock.
It was time. Our audience was in attendance—everyone save Mr. Abiba and Zettia—sitting in a long row of chairs on the left side of the room. They’d been whispering among themselves but had fallen quiet when the flamenco performers took their places. Did Nikki and Geoffrey and Logan and the rest have any idea what was about to happen? How could they? I only hoped that when this was all over and Mr. Abiba was gone, our friends would understand why we’d put an end to the fun and games. Assuming our plan worked.
We were in position. White-faced. Quiet, watchful, afraid. And excited too. Zora and Valerian stood to either side of the double doors. Vane and Zenith waited in the spotlight. Josh, seated off to their side, quietly tuned his guitar one last time. I huddled under the bridal arbor behind a decorative fall of ivy, holding a bouquet of white lilies tied with a satin sash. For now I was hidden from sight. For now.
Ready or not, here I come.
Him. In my head. And he wasn’t even in the room yet.
Hello, Angela my love.
I jerked in shock and dismay. My left shoulder bumped into the arbor, making the entire structure wobble. Ivy waved back and forth in front of my face. I swallowed and swallowed again.
Have you quite prepared yourself for me?
“You have no idea,” I whispered.
Ah, but perhaps I have. Perhaps…I…have!
Had he? Or was he just saying that to make me squirm? I clutched the bouquet, my breath coming in shallow bursts. A pearl button popped open in the small of my back, making me shiver. What if Mr. Abiba knew exactly what was going on here? What if he was just toying with us? Humoring us? I bit my lip. No. I couldn’t let myself think like that—I had to be strong. I had to play my part, and play it well. There was no going back. I peered through the vines of the bridal arbor, waiting for Valerian to make the pre-arranged signal, an up-and-down motion of his arm. It came. In the next instant, Josh played a rousing flourish of chords on his guitar and Zenith leaped into motion, a flurry of twirling red skirts. Vane began to sing. Then finally, Valerian and Zora each took a door and swung it inward to rest against the wall. Between them, resplendent in his flowing robes, stood Mr. Abiba.
