A Dark and Stormy Knight

by Bridget Essex

  We have to find him; we have to find the shard before he does.

  I close my eyes and breathe out.

  Okay, it's probably presumptuous of me to use the word we. Charaxus might refuse to let me help her. I don’t know if I should help her.

  I have a good life here. I have my Ceres family. And we both know—are acutely aware of the fact—that Charaxus is going to return to Agrotera.

  Last night was lovely...but it's over. And now we have to face cold, harsh reality.

  Charaxus' whistling takes on a bittersweet tone in the shower, as if to reflect my mood…

  Is last night all we’re ever going to have? Were all of those dreams leading up to one single night of intense and indescribable bliss? Just one?

  That hurts.

  But I need to talk to Charaxus before I commit myself to this sad, dark path of no return. I prepare myself to rise out of bed at the same moment that I hear the water in the shower turn off. Then I lie there and take deep breaths; my heart starts to pound. And my heart pounds a whole hell of a lot faster when Charaxus comes out of bathroom and regards me from the doorway, toweling off her long, black hair.

  She’s completely nude.

  I didn’t get to see her nude last night. She remained in her leather clothes while we had sex, and even afterwards, when we curled up together, she was still wearing them. I could feel the muscles of her thighs when I wrapped myself around her, but I couldn’t see them, couldn’t touch or taste them. Maddening.

  And now she’s standing there in the bathroom doorway…

  And....just…wow.

  It was obvious that, under those leather clothes, Charaxus was well-muscled, but I had no idea how muscled. She’s pale, probably the palest person I’ve ever seen, and the paleness of her skin is in deep contrast to her dark mane of hair. But the shadows, slopes and contours of the muscles of her belly, her thighs, her upper arms, her calves, her rear as she turns, shaking out her hair, droplets spattering down onto the old, reclaimed barn wood floor…they steal my breath.

  Or, rather, I forget to breathe, because I'm staring at her so intently. I have to cough a little, rolling over to my side and swallowing as she watches me, a sly smile turning her mouth up at the corners, her blue eyes glittering.

  “Good morrow,” she growls, her head to the side as she takes the towel and runs it over her right shoulder. “You slept well?”

  “What little I got,” I say, voice hoarse, one brow raised. I roll onto my stomach, the tangled sheets falling away as I watch her watching me. Her eyes drift over my shoulders, my back, my ass, and her mouth opens a little as the towel trails gently down her arm, as if she’s forgotten what she’s doing. And then she’s standing there, the towel in her hand at her side, as she leans against the door frame and raises a brow, too.

  We don’t say anything for a long moment. Sometimes, that’s awkward: a long silence between two people who have just met. But right now, it isn't. At all. There’s still that shimmering tension between us, bright and silver, like a live wire. Even though we moved together for hours last night, even though she traced her tongue over every last atom of my body, my desire for her isn't sated.

  A fire burns inside of my belly, hot and pulsing, as I stare at her.

  Her eyes are dark now, stormy, and she flicks her gaze back up to my face as she turns and tosses the towel lightly onto the edge of the tub, prowling over to me, her body still slick and glistening with the water from her shower. She stands in front of me, and I lift my chin as I stare up at her.

  Charaxus bends forward then, and she captures my mouth with a kiss.

  Her fingers are tangled in my hair, and when she tastes me, the bright burst of cinnamon, of fire, ignites in my mouth. She pushes me over gently, onto my back, and then she’s rising above me again, finding her place between my legs, her hands steadying her on either side of my shoulders as I wrap my arms around her, drawing her down to me, holding her tightly, wanting, wishing, hoping this moment will last forever.

  I gaze up at her, at the sweeping mane of black that veils around us, falling down over me like night. The water on the ends of her long strands collects and starts to bead over my skin.

  My breath catching in my throat, I have an odd thought: she is a storm—as electrifying as lightning, as powerful as thunder…an awe-inspiring force of nature.

  She bends down, traces her mouth over my throat, over my hot skin, her own skin hotter yet from the shower. My back is arching beneath her, and I can feel the wetness of her center between my legs, mingling with my own wetness.

  She is achingly beautiful—her body shimmering and muscled, the droplets collecting upon her pale skin like gems… Exquisite. I want to capture this, her...

  I want to paint.

  No.

  I need to paint.

  “Wait…” I tell her then, emotion rushing through me. And Charaxus does wait, mouth parted, panting, as she stares down at me, her blue eyes as dark as the sea.

  “What is it?” The muscles of her arms harden as she remains over me, her hands resting on either side of my shoulders. She waits for my words, patient and still.

  “I…” I lick my lips. I don’t quite know how to tell her this, so I opt for blunt honesty. “I’ve been painting you. All of my life.” Yeah, it’s an odd time to make this confession, with her hips hard between my legs, the wetness of her center pressed against mine, but I feel an urgency to voice this truth aloud.

  “And I really want to paint you now,” I tell her, all in a rush. I curl my fingers around her hips. “In the flesh…as it were.” I stare deeply into her eyes. “Please?”

  Charaxus gazes down at me steadily. “You…wish to paint my portrait.”

  Well, when she phrases it like that, it sounds a little ridiculous, but I nod, and she nods, too, slowly, as if in understanding, and then she pushes off of me, lying on her side and raising herself up onto her elbow. She rakes her hand through her wet hair as she ducks her head.

  “If that is what you wish, Mara, that is what we must do.” She watches me, her eyes soft, the blue brilliant. God, she makes me so breathless, I may have to see my doctor about an inhaler.

  There’s a lot left unspoken between us. She must be anxious to get started on her quest, wondering whether her brother has found the shard, whether she has been beaten in the race. Whether she’s already too late.

  But this moment feels languid, luxurious, stolen. It's our moment.

  Our time isn't over, not yet.

  I slide off of the bed and wrap my sheet around me like a makeshift toga. Then I’m choosing a canvas, one I've already prepped with gesso, from the metal cabinet beside the door and drag it to the easel. I set up, adjusting the position of the canvas as I secure the sheet around my shoulders.

  Charaxus stands behind me easily, comfortably, though she remains naked, her hands on her hips, her feet hip-width apart, her chin up, commanding. Her shoulders are relaxed, as if she does this sort of thing all the time: posing naked, without a hint of self-consciousness.

  She doesn’t ask any questions about my earlier statement, about how I’ve painted her all of my life. She doesn’t speak about the fact that I must have been entranced utterly, thought her inordinately beautiful, to feel inspired to paint her over and over again, trying to clumsily capture something exquisite in such an imperfect, subjective medium.

  She doesn’t say a word, in fact, only watches me curiously as I bring out my paints and my brushes, my hands shaking as I realize that she’ll soon be standing before me in flesh and blood, real, willing and waiting to be captured by my brush.

  I don't have to try to summon the fleeting image from a dream: she’s here.

  With me.

  When everything is ready, I turn to face her. It’s dark outside, strangely dark for morning—maybe another storm is brewing—so I flick on the overhead light, letting the softness of the bulb shine down on Charaxus, illuminating her from above like someone from a religious painting; gold shines
on her jet black hair.

  “Yes,” I tell her simply, watching her, my gaze roving over every curve of her gorgeous body. “That’s…that’s perfect.”

  “What would you have me do?” she asks me, her voice low as her eyes search mine. I watch her for a heated moment, taking in her muscled form, the slopes of her arms and thighs, and then I’m gazing around the room, trying to figure out which position to put her in, which position would be my dream to paint.

  And then it dawns on me, the light bulb moment.

  I know exactly what to do.

  “Just…stand there…” I tell her, pointing to the center of the room, directly beneath the bare bulb shining above her. “I’ll be right back, okay?” I don’t wait for her to answer before I race out of the room, closing the door behind me and running down the stairs. Sure, I’m only wearing a sheet, but I've seen the other inhabitants of the Ceres in fewer “clothes” before. Such is the carefree nature of the artist, I guess. Or the exhibitionist, when it comes to Toby (and which he’s emphatically not denied).

  The katana is lying on the kitchen counter, exactly where I left it after our strange adventures last night. I pick it up, and then I’m racing back upstairs, shutting my bedroom door behind me.

  Charaxus stands with her back to me, and I realize she’s gazing at the paintings stacked against the wall in the corner of my room. There are a million (give or take) better ways to store art, but I don’t want to clutter up the common spaces of the Ceres with my canvases, so I have them arranged along the wall, stacked deeply. I’d argue they’re there to get my creative juices flowing again, but I just have no other place to put them.

  As I gaze at her—at those long fingers curled over her hips, at her hair hanging down in half-dry waves over her back—I realize that I already know what I’m going to call my show, my show that will be nothing but paintings of Charaxus.

  It could have no other name than She was the storm.

  Because that’s what Charaxus has been, all this time. I just didn’t know it.

  In my dreams, she is never angry, never speaks with hostility. She treats me with adoration. Every second of that well-worn, perfect dream gleams with tenderness and—frankly—sexiness. Still, I knew there was something powerful pulsing within my dream woman. She tempered it out of love for me, as she moved with me in the water, but somewhere, deep inside of her, thunder roared and lightning flashed, a dormant storm that could burst at any moment, wreaking devastation to all that lay within her path.

  I knew that Charaxus was powerful, potent, long before I knew her name.

  I knew her heart, and within it rose a storm.

  So that’s what I painted.

  Charaxus is now examining the closest painting of herself, the first one in the nearest stack along the wall. This one is all purples—deep, dark purples, like a bruise—and her face rises out of the storm cloud: her high cheekbones, her unwavering blue eyes, fierce and wild. The woman in the painting gazes triumphantly at the real-life woman who inspired this likeness.

  I clear my throat, and Charaxus lifts her chin, regarding me as if she were a million miles away and just now floated back down to earth.

  “I am sorry,” she says, inclining her head, her gaze flicking back to the painting as she waves a hand toward it, “but I was captivated.”

  Captivated.

  I swallow.

  Objectively, I know that I’m a good artist. This is my calling, what I'm meant to do while I’m here on earth. And I can take a compliment. I worked hard to get to where I am today, so when people tell me something nice about my art, I thank them graciously and accept their flattering words.

  But with Charaxus… There’s this fervor in her voice, and when she looks at me, I see awe in her bright blue eyes.

  And that’s a little unnerving.

  This is the woman who has captivated me for my whole life. This is the woman of my deepest fantasies. And now she’s impressed by something I created. She's impressed...by me.

  “That’s not my best one. There's one in the back that's kind of...” I begin to argue, but Charaxus shakes her head, silences me with a glance.

  “It is beautiful,” she tells me simply, eyes shining, her voice rich and low. “As are you.”

  And she’s stepping forward, placing her hands on the sheet draped over my skin, her fingers curving around my waist as she dips her beautiful face to mine, brushing her lips against my lips, her kiss soft, gentle. “I am honored to be the subject of your art,” she tells me, searching my gaze. “I am, to be frank, undone by the sentiment of it.”

  My heart skips a beat as I stare up at her, and suddenly, I feel as if I'm standing on a tightrope. As long as I keep my balance, as long as I don’t look down, I can accomplish any sort of death-defying trick that I want to. But the moment I waver, start to doubt myself...it becomes impossibly hard to walk that wire.

  All I can think about is falling.

  The moment I start to think about who this person is in my arms, and what she’s meant to me throughout my life…I begin to lose my nerve. But I can’t afford to lose it. Charaxus is standing here with me, and no matter what happens later today, no matter the decisions we make, I have time now. And I can’t waste it.

  I need to paint her.

  Before it’s too late.

  I swallow around the lump in my throat, and I cough a little, staring up at Charaxus, her eyes glittering, a soft smile on her lips. I relax against her, and it’s easier than I thought it would be, my form melting against hers.

  I can do this. I can walk the wire. So long as I don’t look down.

  “What would you have of me?” Charaxus repeats, holding my gaze with her blazing eyes, and I step away from her regretfully, the heat of her naked body leaving mine as I pick up the katana from the floor.

  “I wish I had a medieval-type sword for you,” I tell her with a weak smile, “but I do have this, and I think it will work.”

  “What weapon is this?” she asks with interest, gazing down at the katana in my hands.

  “It’s a katana, from a country called Japan,” I say, passing the katana to her. “Do you think you can pose with this?”

  Charaxus gazes at me, resting the tip of the blade against the floor as she shifts the weight of the weapon in her hand, testing it, before picking it up again, her hand wrapped expertly around the hilt.

  “It would be my honor,” she tells me, and she salutes me with the katana blade held over her heart, the hilt of it pressed against her chest before she raises the tip to the heavens.

  “Whatever pose you want… Just move your body, figure out what feels good to you. Find the pose, and then hold it. I’m afraid you’ll have to hold it for about an hour, so make sure you’re comfortable,” I tell her, like so many artists' models have been told across the years.

  I turn my back to Charaxus as I start mixing colors on my palette, the familiar scent of the paint filling my nostrils, the strong yet comforting odor of the pain thinner rising into the air as I move my brushes and blades across the surface of my palette, mixing the colors that I need, that my heart needs, to put on this canvas.

  But when I turn back toward Charaxus, my brush poised in my hand, I pause, heart in my throat.

  Because she’s standing there easily—not a bit of strain in any of her muscles, the katana raised in her right hand at an angle, slicing dynamically in front of her. Her head is tilted to the side, and she’s gazing at me with flashing blue eyes, her chin lifted, so much strength and power in her stance that you might (might, might) forget she's naked when you first glimpse her. Her nakedness is something that I recognize by degrees: her gorgeous breasts, the swell of her hips and belly, the dark, soft curls at her center an anchor for my eyes... But it’s her stance that makes my heart stop inside of my chest.

  Charaxus is pure power as she poses, proud and raw and real, her bright blue eyes flashing with light. Motionless, she lifts the katana in a salutation to the sky, as if parrying with an imagina
ry opponent, a moment perfectly frozen in time. She stands without moving, without shaking, her footing sure and steady.

  “All right,” I murmur, mouth dry.

  I lift my paintbrush—and I start to paint her: not from memory, not from the fragile filaments of a dream, but from real life.

  Charaxus holds the katana with authority, her chin lifted, her eyes flickering with an inner fire that stokes the embers deep within me. But I have to concentrate on painting, and so I do. We both know this moment is fleeting, this slice of time where it is only me and her and the canvas and katana. That’s why we made love all night: we knew that every moment, every touch, every taste was so precious.

  I move the brush over the canvas now, and I push that feeling into the painting. I couldn’t tell you how it happens, how that desire, that craving, manifests on the canvas, merging with the saturated hues of purple, of blue, the colors blending until they create a galaxy.

  And that’s when Charaxus herself starts to rise within the swirls of paint.

  I always begin with the background, and then I draw out the focus of the piece, the subject, coaxing it to life brushstroke by brushstroke. My gaze flits from Charaxus—standing strong, the katana pointed toward the stars—to the canvas, and the Charaxus who is shaping herself there. She’s rising, and I paint faster, faster, knowing that our time is drawing short, desperately trying to convey, in the fewest brushstrokes possible, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever known.

  I am fevered, frenzied, as I paint. Blue and purple stain the sheet I’m wearing, and—gradually—I let the thing fall, crumpling into a heap at my feet. Nude myself, I paint: purple and blue, gold and black. The colors speckle themselves upon my skin, thrown off from my brush. Charaxus stands, watching me, her breath slow, steady, her breasts rising and falling as she holds the blade in her strong hand.

  I feel as if I'm racing against time, against inevitability. I am racing, forever racing, because I'm never going to get this moment back.

  Charaxus, a creature of storm and star, overtakes the painting. There are stars in her hair, glittering like her eyes, and there are storms rising around her: angry, billowing clouds that could consume a world, lightning licking along her skin as if she channels the power herself. The blade of the katana has been transformed, and it is, itself, a shaft of pure, electric power, a lightning bolt both potent and dazzling, white hot.