by P. N. Elord
Now, all that remained to finish the painting was to apply the Templar gold to her knight’s armor, and if the gleam of his radiant hair was any indication, he would be truly breathtaking once she finalized the piece.
“He is magnificent,” Claude murmured, his accented declaration filled with wonder. Admiration.
And something much darker that caused her to turn and face him.
“Not what you expected?” she asked, sliding her wire frames atop her head.
Claude’s gray blue eyes were fixed on the knight, widening, then narrowing. “He is . . . alive. Is he not?”
“In some world. I guess.” She folded both arms across her chest, not caring that they were covered in paint and that she’d get her smock even dirtier. “Who is he? Like I said, it’s time you told me what I’m involved in here.”
Claude kept his eyes locked on the representation. “You will have your answers, Anna. Keep working,” he answered, exactly as he had from the beginning.
“His name. That’s fair,” she insisted, tossing her dark ponytail over her left shoulder. “With all he’s put me through? Totally fair.”
Claude stepped back out from beneath the lights, reclaiming his place in the shadows. “In due time. First, you must finish. It is time to apply the gold.”
There was a rustling sound from his seat at her work desk, the brush of velvet against rough hardness, and suddenly she was holding the satchel. He’d kept it from her except for that one hour when he’d instructed her to use gold for the knight’s hair.
“Yes,” Claude whispered in her ear, brushing up uncomfortably close behind her. “It is definitely time. You want him.”
She’d never really thought about the mysterious man that way, not until that moment. A challenge? Yes, he’d been that. A puzzle within an ever-expanding enigma? That, too. She made her trade and living by creating mysteries, even unsolvable ones. No wonder she’d been drawn by the temptation of freeing her knight.
But she’d never actually desired the nameless knight. Until Claude murmured the suggestion, lured her into the web like the spider he was turning out to be.
“I . . . no,” she said firmly, even though she’d begun shaking inside. “I just want to know who the heck he is. I need that.”
“You need to touch him. I’ve sensed it from the beginning.” Then Claude laughed, drawing fingertips along the exposed flesh of her forearms, pressing behind her. “I’m quite aware of the dreams, remember.”
“I’ve never wanted him in my dreams,” she insisted, swatting his hands away from her body.
“Are you so sure, Anna? You must recognize his physical allure by now.” He remained behind her, heatedly close, threatening.
They’d passed the point of safety on that very first day, and she’d felt his iron control ever since—but been unable to fight it. Yes, she desired the knight, but it took Claude to bring that fact to life. Now that he’d uttered it, the need and craving speared through her center just as it had for Templar gold itself.
“I . . . I shouldn’t. Not him.” She tried to sidestep out of Claude’s easy grasp, needed to break free, but he shadowed her from behind, clasping her shoulders and mooring her to that spot.
“Yes, you should. It is decreed.”
She squirmed in his liquid hold. “Decreed? By who? Shit, Claude, you’re getting too spooky even for me now.”
“Do you think he chose you by accident? For this task of yours? A knight’s duty?”
She shook her head. “I really . . . don’t know.”
“When did the dreams begin?”
She didn’t even have to think about that question. The date lived inside of her, solid as concrete. “A few days before Christmas.”
“Ah, and so many months later, they continue. They heighten. His call upon you increases . . . which is why I came now. He spoke to you first on the winter solstice, Anna. And he must be freed—the puzzle must be completed—by just before midnight tomorrow. The summer solstice. It will be another eight hundred years of captivity if you do not succeed.”
“Is that how long he’s been—”
“Midnight. Tomorrow, Anna,” he answered, and turned toward the studio door. “I will return long before.”
“What? You’re leaving?” She extended the velvet bag in her palm, feeling the gold’s shifting, vibrating weight within. Already the precious metal was responding to her, reacting. “I have to paint his armor. You’ve been totally specific about everything until now.”
Claude paused at her door, a paper thin smile forming on his lips. “You will work his freedom by your own hand,” he replied quietly, and with yet another almost bow, he turned to leave.
“What is your name?” Anna asked the knight on the canvas. She stood staring at the painting, wishing that he were as alive as he’d sometimes been in her night visions.
Silence reverberated throughout her studio, only the hum of the air conditioner filling the void.
“If only you could answer me,” she whispered, stepping closer to the painting. She lifted tentative fingertips and touched the brush of blond hair that swept across his shoulders. “For some reason, your name is very important to me. But even Claude won’t give up your secret.”
Closing her eyes, she touched the hard metallic paint, lightly teasing her fingers over the raised surface. She imagined what it would be like to stroke the man’s flaxen hair if he were real; wondered if it would be soft or coarse.
It would be as smooth as satin, she realized. She knew it in the core of her being.
Yes, she wanted him, and powerfully. Claude had dipped his own brush deep into her soul and revealed that hidden truth, one she’d been trying to escape ever since the first dream.
The knight never spoke during those nighttime visitations. He beckoned, he implored, he charged . . . usually with the sheer intensity of his eyes. They were gray blue, just like Claude’s. Perhaps her patron was some descendant of the mysterious man?
With her own eyes still closed, she stroked his painted hair once again.
And swore she felt the Templar gold come alive, right as his voice traipsed across her skin and soul. Caution, Anna. He is a dangerous man.
The sound was husky, heavily accented.
She jolted backward, stumbling as her eyes flew open. But only the painting stood before her, still propped upon her easel.
“Oh, my God.” She blinked, raking a loose tendril of hair out of her eyes. “I did not just imagine that.”
Silence; the rumble of the air conditioner shutting off; the soft meow of her cat, Cézanne, from the bedroom.
She sucked in several deep breaths, working to calm her rapid heartbeat. Still, no matter how long she stared at the canvas or at the knight himself, she knew she’d heard him speak to her. Not in some dream, but here. Now.
All right, all right, she coached herself. What were you doing when he talked? You were touching him.
Stepping forward, she pressed her eyes shut again and lifted a shaking hand to feel the raised surface of the paint. “Talk to me. Please. I need to know more about you.”
A purring answer vibrated through her mind. He is a devil.
She shook her head, still touching the painted surface of her knight’s body. “No, that’s not true. He’s trying to free you.”
For his own purposes.
“But you’ve wanted freedom. You’ve begged me for it.”
Her eyes flew open, and there he stood. Well, “stood” was far too generous a description for his stance. The knight shimmered in the air, wavering off the canvas into a multidimensional, ghostly form and then resetting himself within the painting’s context anew.
“Come back!” She pressed desperate fingertips against the canvas. “Tell me what I don’t know. What does Claude want from you? From me?”
The figure flickered slightly beneath her hand, rising until, for a brief moment, she felt the heat of his armor, the physical strength of his body. Claudius seeks to possess me.
“How? How can I stop him?”
His answer was eerily simple, stark as the painting displayed before her.
Prepare the gold, Anna.
A sharp knock at her door caused her to drop the heavy velvet bag that she still clutched in her hand.
“That’s probably him,” she whispered at the canvas, but no further instructions came forth. “If I paint you, what happens? If I finish, are you free?”
Another knock, even more impatient than the first.
She backed away from the work, not wanting to take her eyes off the knight; terrified of the man who demanded her attention with his harsh knock.
Finally she composed her face into a mask of strength and calmness, emotions she definitely didn’t feel. She could feel her naturally pale Irish American skin flushing hot and tried to will away those betraying red splotches.
Claude stood beyond the threshold, and as soon as she cracked open the door, he pushed past her to the interior.
She placed her right hand on her hip, working to seem in charge. “I thought you were leaving.”
“I did,” he answered cryptically, gliding far past her.
“Yeah, like ten minutes ago. Tops.”
“I forgot something very important.” He sauntered toward the painting, inspecting the image. It hadn’t changed at all physically—yet for her it had altered completely in the past few moments.
Anna’s heart slammed in her chest because Claude must have known that the knight was trying to warn her. Why else would he have returned so quickly and unexpectedly? Somehow, damn the man, he suspected that she’d been interacting with their knight.
She cleared her throat, strolling toward Claude with forced casualness. “Something wrong about the image?”
“I did not forget the painting, Anna.” He tossed her a narrowed glance and then looked slowly toward the floor. “But you have forgotten your gold. Dropped so casually? I am shocked that you’d dishonor something so precious.”
She swallowed, bending to retrieve the bag. “I was painting, and I, uh . . . set it down.”
“Then why does the gold cry out?” He pointed toward the satchel, and she clutched it against her breasts protectively. Only then did she hear the soft, muted cries coming from within the bag itself.
She untied the lace and reached gently inside the bag, taking the gold within her palm. At once the complaining sound stopped, replaced by the rhythmic hum of satisfaction. “I’m sorry,” she murmured to the substance, watching it spread about her wrist. “I was working.”
“Working? Are you certain?” Claude demanded, the words rough and accusatory. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her impolitely. Something in his entire demeanor was transformed. Even his accent had thickened.
“You’re the one who told me that tomorrow’s our deadline.” She walked toward the burner that she’d used to heat the first application of gold. “I’ve got to heat this up so I can get busy.”
“I will remain here while you paint,” Claude said, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
“So what was it?” she called to him, turning on the burner.
Claude did not answer, so she prompted him further. “You said you forgot something.”
He settled at her desk as if he owned the workshop, relaxing into her chair. His mercurial gaze was fixed on her as he formed his fingertips into a thoughtful temple. “I forgot his nature,” he said coolly. A blinding white smile formed on Claude’s lips. “And I underestimated yours.”
The melted gold flowed off her paintbrush in all its living, powerful glory, just as it had when she’d applied the texture to her knight’s hair. The metal moved across his armor with the same undisguised joy it had expressed in her palm, as if bringing the man to life were the substance’s sole destiny. Its one true purpose.
As she applied the last bit, Claude moved close behind her. “It is nearly midnight,” he purred against her ear. She shivered at what seemed to be a concealed threat, that hint of something much darker beyond what his words conveyed.
“We have a full day for this to dry and for me to cut the pieces.” She studied the image before her, blinking at the way it gleamed with what appeared to be supernatural energy.
“The puzzle must be completed by midnight tomorrow. You must not miss the mark, Anna. Do you understand?”
“You told me that already.” It was one of the only definite answers or facts he had supplied during the past days. “But why is the solstice so important?”
“He was trapped on the summer solstice hundreds of years ago. Your completion of his puzzle will finally free him.”
“He will . . . what? Just emerge?”
Claude slid a heavy hand along the nape of her neck, sweeping her long dark hair to the side. His fingertips were soft, those of a man who had never used his hands for dirty work. Maybe he’d only ever manipulated others, just as he’d done her.
Maybe he wants something darker with my knight, she considered, feeling Claude’s fingertips clasp about her neck.
“Careful, Anna,” he warned, his grip firm yet light. “Remember whom you serve.”
“Him. You said I serve him.” She gestured at the painting. “That you do, too.”
He bent down, pressing his lips to her exposed nape. “I have served him for the duration of his captivity. You are the one who will free us all when you finish the puzzle.”
She sidestepped, and he released her easily. Facing him, she pointed an accusatory finger. “I won’t finish unless you tell me the whole story.”
Claude smiled slowly. “Go to sleep, Anna. Perhaps your answers await you there.”
She stared incredulously. “I can’t believe your nerve. I’m telling you I won’t finish if—”
“Oh, you will finish. I am certain,” he said, still smiling thinly. “You want him too much now to be denied.”
The sudden pull of desire came over her anew, coiling through her whole body. Demanding that she touch the knight physically, not just stroke his painting or dream of him. He’d spoken to her earlier—perhaps Claude was right. If she slept again, she might know more about him, might understand his sinister warning from earlier.
“You are very tired, are you not?” Claude asked, tilting his head sideways as he studied her.
And that same blanket of exhaustion she’d felt the first day overcame her at once, leveling her and pulling her down into the darkness before she could take a single step toward her adjoining bedroom.
She entered the painting itself this time. Never, not once in any of her previous attempts, had anything so material—so supernatural—occurred. Drawing in quick breaths, she glanced about the scene, unsteady as she tried to gain her bearings. As she studied her surroundings, she saw that she stood to the right of the knight as he held out his sword toward the lion, which roared in agitated complaint.
“Go on! Kill it,” she yelled because the lion had turned its green, feline gaze upon her. Those eyes were deadly, yet the knight did not move.
But the lion did.
“Now would be a very, very good time to do your thing,” she screamed, stepping backward. Her bare foot caught on something, and she stumbled, falling onto the grassy field, which put her nearly eye level with the lion as it rushed her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the lion was on top of her, jaws open. Lifting protective hands to her face, she started to scream but was shocked by what the creature did next.
A warm, rough tongue began lapping her on the cheek, then the nose. All the way down her face and neck, nuzzling her.
“What the . . . ?”
The truth hit her then: some elemental structure of her own painting had altered, changing the knight trapped inside. He was no longer the one in the armor but had become the lion itself. The same big cat that was now affectionately licking her all over, a supernatural manifestation of her own little kitty, Cézanne. But this killer was no tabby cat.
You heard claws against stone in your dream that first day that
Claude arrived, she reminded herself. The knight must have transformed then, briefly, as well.
She slid hands around the lion’s powerful neck, feeling the warm lushness of the creature’s fur. His mane was thick and soft, and she found herself stroking him all over just as he blanketed her with such sweet affection.
You are very close, he whispered within her. Near to freeing me.
The words rang inside her center, unspoken yet keenly felt.
“You warned me against Claude. What am I supposed to do? Finish the puzzle?”
I will protect you from him. But you must . . . heed my instructions. Trust . . . me.
She slid hands deeper into his fur, petting him just as she would Cézanne, unsure what else to do except treat him like a giant house cat. For one long moment, he rumbled in deep, satisfied reaction. Then she said, “You’re a freaking lion, man. What happened to you being the knight in the painting?”
He burrowed his heavy head against her breast. Claudius has claimed my form. He believes his will to be nearly dominant over mine now.
“Is he wrong?” She worked her fingers through his thick mane. “You’re not even human anymore.”
I am as I have always been. The true slayer.
“Tell me your name,” she insisted, holding his heavy body even closer. “It’s all I’ve ever asked or wanted out of this. To know who you are.”
He lifted off her, staring down with stark eyes. To hold a man’s name is to hold him captive. Claudius knows that truth above all others.
“I want to free you. You know that. You’ve always realized that. Surely you trust me by now?”
He backed away, opening his mouth with a roar as he turned toward the knight. Only then did she realize that the other figure was frozen. Dark hair, dusky skin, murderous expression. The knight was now Claude. Her lion stared up at the paralyzed figure, baring his sharp, gleaming teeth in a threatening expression.
He turned back to face her, his words moving inside of her mind and soul. If you learn my name, Claudius could use it as a weapon against you, he explained. The very speaking of it has slain much stronger knights than you.
