Folding her legs beneath her, she sits on the floor, staring deep into the eyes of the man standing in the centre. His eyes are vibrant blue, his flesh most lifelike, his blond hair almost hidden beneath the murky shadows cast by his monk’s hood, which almost seems to ripple in a slight breeze. The man, certainly more handsome and friendly than the other two, slightly to the foreground on either side of him, seems almost alive; the amethyst pendant hanging around his neck sparkles.
It is a trick of the light, but he seems to blink.
Gaia blinked.
Isadora and Eudora are talking together, their words indistinct to the observer. Eudora begins to remove the amethyst pendant from around her neck, but changes her mind and replaces it. ‘You and Gaia are in danger!’ she says, her voice clear in the silence of the room. Isadora indignantly demands an explanation, but none is forthcoming, and suddenly Eudora is gone.
Isadora blinks incredulously.
Gaia blinked incredulously.
There is a scuffling sound in the room. Two burly men are attacking her: two brawny men against one small woman is not fair; she is losing the fight.
‘Where’s the painting?’ demands one of her attackers.
There is no way she is going to tell them, and she is rewarded with a swift punch to the stomach when she ignores the question. ‘Somewhere you can’t find it!’ she gasps.
Suddenly her saviour is beside her and he dispatches the two men with surprising ease. She mutters her thanks, and the man asks if she is all right. ‘I’ll be fine, thank you.’ The man seems relieved. He warns that she is in danger and that she must send the painting to the gallery in London immediately.
She is about to ask him how he knows about the gallery, but he is gone and she is alone once more.
She blinks.
Gaia blinked again.
The painting is gone from the room; she is busy packing her suitcase when the two brawny men burst in once again. Her saviour does not come to her rescue this time. One of the men produces a knife. Her eyes are wide with terror; it is clear they are not going to allow her the opportunity to reconsider, that she has outlived her usefulness. The man lunges and the knife finds its mark.
Blood flows; tears flow.
She feels the pain and screams.
Gaia felt the pain and screamed.
Startled, Eudora leapt from the sofa, backing away fearfully. ‘Gaia, what’s wrong?’ she called, her voice filled with anxiety.
‘They’re going to kill her!’
They are going to kill her; that much is obvious, and they do not care how much pain they cause her; in fact, it seems they intend causing as much pain as possible. Her brain is on fire; the pain is too much to bear as they continue to stab at her flesh. The tears continue to flow; her blood drains rapidly.
With a death rattle of a moan escaping her lips, she loses consciousness, but as her blood drains from her, along with her very life itself, she sees the face of another man, standing behind her attackers, smiling insanely, sadistic in his pleasure of the indescribable agony she has endured.
And she knows she has seen him somewhere before.
Somewhere… sometime…
Gaia was crying. Tears, not for herself, not her own, flooded down her cheeks, her body wracked with the agony she felt. Then she was suddenly silent. Inexplicably the pain and the tears dissipated in an instant.
Alarmed, Eudora stepped towards her cousin once more. ‘Gaia?’ She touched Gaia’s arm, and her cousin flinched back to reality, and when she started crying again, this time the tears were hers. Eudora sank onto the sofa and Gaia flung her arms around her cousin, hysterical with fear, not because of what she had witnessed, but because she had witnessed anything at all.
‘Oh Dora, it was awful!’ she sobbed, wiping her eyes and nose on her sleeve.
Eudora went over to the sideboard behind the sofa and poured Gaia a brandy, which the distraught woman gulped, struggling to steady her nerves. ‘What did you see, Gaia?’
‘It was Izzy, before she was killed. There was a painting.’
‘In Paris?’
‘I think so. I’m not sure. It could have been anywhere. She was attacked, and a man saved her.’
‘Who was he? Who saved her, Gaia?’
Gaia frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve never seen him before, but there was something oddly familiar about him… like I’d maybe seen him somewhere else.’
‘Where?’ demanded Eudora. ‘You’re not making much sense. First, you’ve never seen the man before, but now you have! Perhaps the painting belonged to him, or maybe it was a painting of him?’
‘It was another time, another place; thousands of miles away; hundreds of years ago, in another lifetime! It was as though I stepped into another person’s life. He saved her, warned her to send the painting here, and then you were there!’
‘Me?’
Gaia furrowed her brow as she struggled to recall details. ‘Actually, I think you were there before the man… I think.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Oh, it’s all so confusing. You were there with an amethyst pendant, warning Izzy that she and I are both in danger, and then you were gone.’
Eudora paused for thought. ‘What happened next?’
Gaia’s eyes widened as her cousin’s rumination triggered another sliver of memory. ‘Oh… the man, the one who saved Izzy? I know where I saw his likeness before – he was in the painting!’ She thought for a moment, and then squirmed uncomfortably, grimacing. Fresh tears welled up in her eyes as she pictured Isadora’s brutal murder. ‘But then she was… killed. The man was not there to save her the second time! She didn’t have the painting in her room. They were so angry!’
‘Who were?’
‘The two men who killed her.’
‘Do you know where the painting is? Is it on its way here?’ In spite of her distress at losing Isadora, Eudora was intrigued, as she had always been, by the psychic connection that seemed to exist between her sister and Gaia, which had to be how she could know all this with such certainty… though it did not really explain how Gaia had received the images.
‘Yes,’ said Gaia in a quiet voice, ‘she sent it here.’
Yet there was something else.
Gaia could vividly feel her cousin’s agony, could clearly see her cousin’s killers, and the face of her handsome saviour. Now she could remember seeing someone else. Was the other person male or female, old or young? She could not remember, and the more she fought to clear the fog surrounding the fragmented images in her memory, the less she could actually recall.
However, there had definitely been someone else in the room at the time of Isadora’s murder.
She shook her head in an effort to clear it, realising that all she had just said was complete madness: she had not witnessed her cousin’s murder; Eudora had not been in Paris. ‘I’m going mad, Dora,’ she mumbled, but she did not really believe that, any more than Eudora did.
Eudora changed the subject. The possibility that her cousin was suffering delusional madness was not one she wished to dwell upon – however remote that possibility. ‘One of us should go to Paris to collect Izzy’s belongings, and finish whatever business she started,’ she muttered, refraining from mentioning that whoever went would also have the awful task of bringing back the body. As Isadora’s sister, she was her next of kin and knew the job fell to her, but it was such an unpleasant prospect that she really did not want to go through with it.
Gaia nodded. ‘I’ll bring her home,’ she said softly, almost as though she could read Eudora’s thoughts. ‘I’ll leave tomorrow. The sooner we can put all this awful business behind us, the better.’
‘I agree,’ said Eudora, struggling to conceal her relief.
‘Someone should tell Nathan!’
Nathan Bosporus was an old friend of all three Donat women. Isadora and Gaia had known him since he was born, and Eudora had been in all of his classes at school. He was one of the kindest, most sensitive men they had encountered, and since tact and d
iscretion had never counted amongst her strong points, Gaia knew she was definitely not the right person to impart to him the tragic news.
Where Nathan was concerned, the gentle touch was required, and Eudora knew he was going to be deeply upset when he learned of Isadora’s murder.
Chapter Two
Nathan Bosporus sat at the desk in his office, scribbling away with feverish haste before his muse escaped him. He had never wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father and uncles to become an actor, nor did he have the artistic talent of his mother, Constance; since his early twenties, Nathan had won great acclaim for his short stories and novels.
Isadora had discovered quite by accident that Nathan possessed a gift for telling stories, and she inspired him to start sending his short stories out to magazines. Nathan had always felt his tales lacked emotional depth and characterisation, but Isadora had as much faith in his talent as his uncle, Darius. Their faith proved correct when, after many rejections, one magazine accepted one of his stories for publication… and then it became a tidal wave of acceptances, consistently building until Nathan decided the time was right for him to try writing a full-length novel.
When the first draft of his first novel was finally complete, Nathan read what he had written, and could not believe how bad it was; lacklustre characters, paper-thin plot stretched to breaking point. Isadora said it was not that bad; by no means brilliant, but she had read far worse – indeed much worse than Nathan’s first draft had already been published. She told him constantly not to give up, so he did not. He salvaged the best bits of the novel and ditched the rest, then ditched the good bits too and started again from scratch.
This time, instead of forcing words onto the paper he just opened his mind and let the words flow. When he read what he had written this time, he was surprised to find himself suitably impressed: what he had written was actually really rather good. Isadora thought it was absolutely, positively the best thing she had read – ever, and it took little persuasion on her part to get Nathan to submit the novel to a publisher.
For three years he received rejection after rejection, but Isadora made him realise that just because some publishers did not snap it up did not mean it was rubbish – after all, how many magazines had he sent his short stories to before they had been accepted? It was just a case of finding the right publisher! Nathan was elated when his first novel was finally published, and after that, success came his way
Having published eight novels and two anthologies of his short stories in the past five years, each of which had sold almost half a million copies in paperback in Britain, Nathan had just negotiated a new six book deal which would bring him several hundred thousand pounds in advance royalties.
The words Nathan Bosporus loves Isadora Donat were carved into the leather top of his desk, at which he had written – longhand – each of his previous novels and all his short stories. Upon that same desk, some years ago he and Isadora had uncomfortably consummated their love for each other – an incident he had included in one of his earlier novels, and which had been immortalised on celluloid in one of last year’s major cinema hits.
Setting down his pen as he reached the end of the current chapter, Nathan smiled, recalling Isadora’s reaction when they had sat in the cinema for the charity premiere of the movie. She had blushed and cowered low in her seat, staring around fearfully, mortified at the thought that someone in the audience might realise the actors on screen were actually portraying Nathan and herself. He had laughed at her, and afterwards, when she realised how foolish was her fear, Isadora had laughed too.
Nathan was glad that Isadora had persuaded him not to renew with his English publisher. He had instead found an agent who worked tirelessly for several months selling various overseas rights to his novels, and who had subsequently secured the new deal with a large American publishing house, and a different British publisher who had offered more money than his old one was willing to pay to keep him on their list.
Darling Izzy, he thought, where would I be without you? He always felt that had it not been for Isadora, he would have given up on his writing after the first rejection letter. Isadora’s motto was never give up; it had quickly become Nathan’s also.
Isadora had been his inspiration for each of his heroines. He had even used Eudora and Gaia as the basis for characters, though his skill as a writer was so consummate that he disguised the fact well enough to avoid them becoming aware of the fact.
He had asked Isadora on several occasions over the years to quit the gallery, offering her the position of his personal assistant. She always refused, claiming she could never leave Eudora and Gaia in the lurch like that, and besides, she loved the job too much: to have a job that felt more like a hobby, for which she was paid, was a job well worth sticking with. To his mild annoyance, Nathan could totally empathise with that sentiment – it was after all exactly how he felt about his writing. He completely admired her loyalty; she and the other two had founded the Donat Gallery with money their fathers had left in trust for them, and though it was not always successful or a big profit maker, it most certainly had its moments. It could have, with equal certainty, further moments of success – providing they were not so continually reckless with their money.
Isadora liked to party as much as she liked to spend money faster than she acquired it, and that irritated Nathan. He hated going to parties and social gatherings, and that annoyed her. Being naturally impetuous, Isadora was also impatient. She loved Nathan passionately, and though she had been the one to encourage his passion for writing, his constant confinement when writing began to grow tiresome for her.
Some things, it seemed, were just not meant to be, and sadly, their relationship was one of them. Their parting had been amicable, and so they remained very good friends and even occasionally still shared a bed.
Nathan opened the drawer on the left side of the desk, ignoring the lethal looking pistol that nestled on the sheaf of papers, and withdrew the small black box. He snapped it open and stared at the gold engagement ring, topped with an exquisite smooth oval of amethyst, which he had originally intended to present to Isadora with a proposal on her birthday this year. Since they had split up by then, that proposal had not happened. The news Isadora had given him a few weeks ago, however, made him re-evaluate his decision.
Now, as he looked at the ring and remembered why he had selected this particular one with the large amethyst, he realised that would still have been a mistake. The purple stone still reminded him of someone’s eyes. When he saw the ring the day he purchased it last year, sparkling seductively as it glinted in the mid-morning sunshine in the window of an antique shop, the eyes he had visualised were not Isadora’s; they were her sister’s – and that was one of the first real signs to Nathan that the relationship was on the wane.
The buzzing of the front door interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. It could not be Isadora since her plane was not due until seven that evening, although it was possible she had caught an earlier flight.
He sauntered over to the door that led from his study into the hall, and at the far end, through the frosted glass of the front door, he made out the willowy contours of a dark haired woman. Opening the door, he smiled. ‘Hi Dora, I was just thinking of you!’
When Eudora did not return his smile, Nathan knew at once that something was wrong.
‘May I come in please, Nate?’ Eudora asked.
Nathan stood to one side. ‘Yes, of course you can.’ He ushered her into the spacious but sparsely furnished living room, decorated much like the rest of the apartment in neutral creams. He resisted the temptation to demand openly that she tell him what had happened, deciding from Eudora’s tearstained face that it might be best to allow her the chance to tell him in her own time.
He had expected her to ramble with near incoherence for a while before telling him what tragedy had befallen whomever; he was not prepared for the bluntness with which she blurted it out.
‘Izzy’
s dead!’
* * *
Dorothea Clayton looked over the top of her half-frame spectacles at her granddaughter as Nola breathlessly explained why she had returned home when she should be at work.
Dorothea felt her heart skip a couple of beats. ‘Isadora Donat is dead?’ she whispered incredulously. She closed her eyes and muttered a brief prayer beneath her breath, presumably – Nola guessed – for the tragic soul of Isadora herself. Recovering her composure, Dorothea opened her eyes, fixing her granddaughter with a penetrating stare. ‘What’s the date?’
‘August 24th, Gran,’ Nola responded. She had not expected her grandmother to be so overwrought at the death of someone she did not even know, but now, as the old woman slowly nodded, Nola gleaned the oddly distinct impression that perhaps her grandmother did know Isadora after all.
‘Oh yes,’ muttered Dorothea, as though the date explained everything, ‘August 24th 1989! Isadora died on Saturday evening. How could I have forgotten?’
Nola’s eyes betrayed her shock at this announcement. ‘How could you possibly have known she was going to die? You don’t even know her!’
‘Oh, but I do, Nola. I know her better than you could possibly imagine, and I’ve known what day she would die since before she was born.’
‘How?’ demanded Nola sceptically.
‘Do not question me, young lady!’ her grandmother snapped testily. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘I’m sorry, Gran. Okay, say I believe you; that I accept you knew Izzy was going to die. Why did you say nothing, nor do anything to prevent it?’
Dorothea sighed. ‘Some things, births and deaths for instance, are preordained. One cannot do anything to prevent their occurrence. You cannot change someone’s destiny, your poor father’s schizophrenia for example, any more than you can change history… or the future.’
‘Could you foresee dad’s suicide? Can you see into the future, Gran? Are you a Medium?’
Dorothea smiled enigmatically, sensing that her granddaughter was fishing for answers. ‘If that is what you wish to believe, my dear. However, I can see no further into the future than now. I have no more idea what will happen next week than you!’
Portrait of Shade Page 2
