The Artisans

by Julie Reece

  As if in another dream, I walk toward him, afraid of what he’ll say, yet needing to know. When I sit on the bed, he slides nearer. I stiffen as he lifts his hand. “I’m going to touch you, Raven, because I want to, and you’re going to let me. Do you understand?”

  No. I nod. He takes my hand in his and gently rubs it with the other. So not what I had pictured happening between us right now and the letdown surprises me.

  He shakes his hair from his eyes and smiles. “I knew you were different, special, but I had no idea …” His fingers give mine a squeeze. “When you work, sew, you … damn, I don’t even know how to explain it. You speed up.”

  “Speed up?”

  “Yes.” His hand continues to hold mine and the electricity shooting up my arm is exquisite. “Not when you came to me in the night, or created the biggest mess I’ve ever seen erecting your triple-decker PB&J. It’s when you sew.” When his voice softens, my stomach flutters. “You are robotic, the ‘times two’ fast-forward on a TV remote control, Raven. The shutter on a camera lens, so fast it’s hard to imagine.”

  I’d accuse him of lying but it’s clear he isn’t. “How is that possible?”

  He lifts his head, eyes hooded. “I’ve already learned there are things in this world beyond explanation.” His voice has a hard edge. “Some good we must exalt and some bad that must be punished.” Gideon releases my hand. Placing a finger beneath my chin, he lifts my face. “You are good.”

  We’re inches apart. I continue to allow his touch, I can’t help myself. “Only God is good, Gideon. I merely have a talent.” Albeit one that is freaking me out right now, but it’s just a talent. “It doesn’t make me better, only different.” He slides his finger along the line of my cheek. The space between our bodies crackles with energy.

  When he drops his hand I’m almost sorry. “No,” he says, head shaking.

  “Yes. Any gifts we have, any good thing, that all comes from God.”

  “The Bible was full of judges, Raven. There’s a whole chapter devoted to them. Someone has to keep a balance between good and evil.”

  I remember the long line of judges in his family tree. “I don’t think that’s the same as—”

  “Yes it is. Wrong must be dealt with.”

  I cross my arms. “So stubborn.”

  His eyebrows wing up. “Me?”

  “Uh huh.” I lean forward and poke him in the chest with my finger, impressed by how firm his muscles are. “You.”

  “Obnoxious, is what you are.” He shakes his head, but there’s a small smile. He slaps his thighs, then stands suddenly. “There’s another reason you are graced with my presence."

  I stare, waiting.

  “Yesterday, when you came home, you were … Well, understandably, you were very, uh … ”

  My eyes narrow. “Upset?”

  He thrusts a hand out pointing. “Exactly! Yes, upset. So, I’ve made a decision, or amended one, actually. Call your friend, Maggie is it? I’ll leave a form on the kitchen table for her parents to sign.”

  I lift a brow, suspicious. “Because … ”

  “Because I’ve reconsidered your request to have her spend the night.”

  I feel my eyes bug. “You have?”

  He’s smiling again, a cat with a canary smile. I sort of like it when he does that. “Indeed, but not here, in New York. That’s what the consent form is for. I’m flying the pair of you to the city for a fashion show.”

  “When?” My heart is racing. A tiny voice in my head warns I’m selling out. Seduced by the lure of my first airplane ride, my first real fashion show, my first a lot of things, makes all my lofty principles paper-thin. I stomp on the tiny voice with my five-inch stiletto heel and grind it to dust. Who said I had principles? Not me.

  “Tomorrow night.” His eyes dance. The smile he displays is panty dropping.

  He seems almost happy. For Gideon. A warning bell goes off. “Wait, why?” Why would he do all this for me?

  “Oh, well …” His eyes widen as though he got caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. His jaw squares and his expression hardens. “It’s not … uh, that is, in your case, you seem more productive when you’re less stressed. And I don’t want you reverting to that useless state I found you in a few weeks ago, that’s all.”

  Ah, there’s the Gideon I know, always an ulterior motive.

  A loose string on the hem of his shirt ensnares his full attention. He fiddles with it, without looking up. “You have something to wear, I assume?”

  My smile is slow. “I think I can figure it out.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The show we’re attending isn’t Fashion Week in Lincoln Center. It’s an invitation only, private collection at Saks Fifth Avenue. Ask me if I care.

  There might be people taking pictures for magazines, so I pack a pretty pink dress for Maggie with a cuff bracelet and nude heels for height. For me, a white blouse, short black skirt, leather jacket, and wicked, red patent pumps. We’ll look so chic. While I love my designs, I’m flying under the radar for this show, in what apparel I wear at least. It’s not the time, place, or venue to make that kind of bold statement. My time will come.

  Eat your heart out, New York. Here we go.

  Actually, Dane is eating his heart out a little as he’s been effectively excluded. Not that he cares about attending some glitzy show in New York. He just doesn’t want us (Maggie) out of his sight, or more to the point, in Gideon’s. I was surprised and thrilled Maggie’s mother agreed, but once Mags started working on her, the poor woman was done for.

  I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, applying the finishing touches to my makeup, while Maggie oohs and ahhs over the latest sewing creations in my workroom. The girl is good for my ego.

  “Do you think these black stretch pants are okay for the plane ride?” she yells. “My clothes never look as good on my body as they do on the hanger or lying out on my bed.” Her voice lowers to a mumble, but I hear her. “My bubble butt gets in the way.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I answer. “You’re adorable. You look great and you never care what people think. That’s why I like you. Don’t change that because we’re flying to a fashion show, and you’re worried you’ll be amongst the swank and snobbish. They’re just people, Mags. I bet they’re all really nice.”

  “How much crack you been smokin’? Don’t you watch Next Top Model? Besides, I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I know I’m cute. Sometimes a girl wants to be more, though. Sometimes she wants … sophisticated, dazzling … ”

  I roll my eyes as I replace the top on my mascara bottle and grab the water glass next to the sink. “You’re dazzling enough already, trust me. Dane thinks so, anyway.”

  “What?”

  I check my tongue. “Nothing. I’ll be out in a second. I still need to brush my teeth!” When I glance into the mirror a white flash catches my eye, followed by a hiss.

  Free me …

  My eyes focus on the space to my rear. Desiree’s perfect, bloodless face hovers above my left shoulder. She presses against my back, jogging a memory. When her red lips pull back from her face in a snarl, her breath is as dank and foul as mold. “Free me, or you’re as good as dead.”

  She lifts a hand and scrapes her nails over my bare arm. I think of the night I fell from the tree. Or was I pushed? The pressure on my skin is light, but enough I sense the hate dripping from her slow-moving, one-inch talons. Her eyes are black and lifeless. A doll’s eyes. As I gaze into their depths, my lungs compress. I feel the weight of her stare as I’m drawn inside. Helpless, I fall into Desiree, into her mind.

  There’s a room inside her memory with a low ceiling and dirt floor. A chill snakes up my spine. Fear prickles the skin on the back of my neck. There’s a sense of evil here, a smell, something dark and oppressive. Or someone.

  My gaze drifts over the clammy, sweating walls to a dozen crates stacked on the far side of the room. When I try to extract myse
lf from the vision, my body won’t obey. I will my legs to step back and they move forward. Electrical impulses seem to have lost the connection between my brain and limbs. As I near the wooden boxes, I find they’re long and thin. Coffins.

  Icy perspiration drips from my temples. My hands jut out without permission toward the first box. Stiff and mechanical, my rebellious fingers pry at the first lid, though I’m terrified of what’s inside. A fingernail bends and peels away exposing the soft, pink flesh beneath, then another until they are all gone. Blood seeps from the raw nail beds, spattering the wood and my feet.

  Since my voice is silenced, my brain screams. I gasp and pant, pleading with the powers that be to stop my torment. Splinters puncture and slice my skin, tearing at the flesh until my hands are warm and slick with blood. There’s no reprieve from the agony, yet I work like a robot, a puppet at the mercy of whoever pulls my strings.

  On and on, my hands scrape at the rough wood. Bones break through the ends of my shredded fingertips. Flesh, in the form of bloody pulp, still clings to the tendons. I yearn to faint, escape my torture, but I don’t. I work on and on and on. One last yank and the coffin lid jerks free. My lids won’t shut, nor can I look away. My heart hammers sharply against my ribs. Sweat trickles down my back as I peer inside.

  A body in a white dress lies within, tucked into a straw bed. Her skin is smooth, undamaged, and blue. Desiree.

  Her eyes open. She stares straight ahead until the socket stretches on the inside corner of one eye. The pupil dilates. Her gaze snaps to the side, focusing on me. Mucous membranes swell and rise into a thin bubble until the skin under the socket tears away, excrete a milky white substance. The dark, oval head of a worm pokes through. Fluid runs from her tear duct, following the dip beside her nose to her lip. Like a twisted birth, the larva writhes, chewing and clawing its way free of the flesh that incubated it.

  Vomit climbs my throat. Fighting against the force that holds me is useless. The grub convulses and rolls free, but there are more. They push from her nostrils, the edge of her lip. A scream smothers in my mouth that won’t open. Desiree’s head twitches unnaturally, jerks to face me. Her hands grip my shoulders, nails penetrating deep into my skin.

  Release me!

  The glass in my hand shatters, cutting my fingers. I cry out and jump away from the splintering shards nearly plunging headfirst into the toilet.

  “What the hell?” Maggie says. I whirl around. Desiree is gone, but Maggie appears in the doorframe. She glances to the tile floor and back to my face. “What happened in here?”

  I’m breathing like I just ran a fifty-yard dash. My gaze darts all over the bathroom, but the specter is gone. “It slipped?” There’s no controlling the tremor in my voice, but I try. I’m not sure what I saw, but there’s no use frightening Maggie. Today is special. I’m not ruining our time together with talk of rotting bodies, or mausoleums inside my head.

  She reaches for my hand. “Your fingers are bleeding. And here, too …” She points to my arm where bright red scratches mar the skin. “Geez, they’re deep. All this from one little glass?”

  I doubt that but can’t exactly explain.

  “Do you have any Band-Aids?”

  Stepping out of the broken glass, I shake my head. “I-I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe in a drawer.”

  “Calm down, Rae. Why are you shaking? It was an accident.” Maggie rummages through the cabinets without success. She grimaces as she peeks at me again. “Don’t worry, honey, it’s just a glass. No one’s going to be angry. I’m going to find Jenny. Stay here, okay?”

  Where else would I go? “Okay.”

  Maggie heads for the door. “Watch you don’t cut yourself more. Sit down. I’ll bring a broom.”

  My knees tremble as I ease down on the toilet seat and wait. I’m not in pain. I’m freaked out. Was Desiree really here, trying to hurt me? Why would my mind make something like that up? Free her, she said. How and from what? I’d love to get rid of her. She’s like the echo of a cast member from Rich Housewives of Atlanta, only the nasty, dead kind. Drops of blood fall from my fingers to the white floor forming a puddle. There’s a thin trail from my elbow to wrist. I tear some toilet paper off the roll and wrap my throbbing fingers. The cuts aren’t too deep, but they bleed nonetheless.

  Raven …

  Cole’s image wavers in the doorframe and solidifies. I jolt and half fall off the potty. “Geez will you not do that!” I right myself and attempt to slow my heartbeat. “What’s going on?”

  He glides nearer until he’s a foot away and kneels before me. “She’s newer, stronger than the rest of us.”

  “Who?”

  “Desiree.”

  “Oh.”

  He glances over his shoulder. “She’s angry and dangerous. She wants you to release us.”

  Yeah, I sort of got that. “What does that mean, release you?”

  His mouth opens but nothing comes out. He shakes his dark head. “Go to the attic. The answer is in the attic.”

  That’s pretty vague, and I’ve had enough of creepy dark spaces for one day. “Why? What’s up there?”

  “We’re bound—” His body convulses and he can’t finish. “Trapped. Punished …”

  “Punished?” I repeat.

  He nods. “Maddox.” His body seizes. He grips his throat. “Enemies.”

  “Okay, okay.” I reach out to console him, but my hand passes straight through his image. “That’s enough, I get it.” I don’t, but he acts like he’s suffocating. Can a ghost hurt? “Do you feel pain?”

  “Not …” Cole chokes and falls to his hands and knees. A long pause follows before he lifts his head. He searches my face with his dark eyes, presses his lips to form a line. His head tilts and his eyes plead for understanding that I’m willing to give but can’t.

  “What? What is it?” I can’t figure out what’s wrong with him. If certain words bring him pain, perhaps he’s searching for the ones that don’t.

  He reaches for me, but I pull away. I hate the wounded look in his eyes, but I don’t know who to trust. “We feel through our memories, and through the life inside of you, though some of us grow weaker with time.”

  “Rae?” Maggie calls to me from the bedroom.

  Cole leans forward, speaking into my ear. “The attic. Don’t forget. And Raven, be careful.”

  “I’m here.” My ghost fades and disappears. I shudder. Whenever he does that, it’s disconcerting to say the least.

  “Goodness gracious,” Jenny says. “Had we an accident, my dear?” She’s carrying a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other. Maggie is loaded down with a bottle of peroxide and enough gauze and tape to treat an army.

  While Jenny gets to work on the broken glass, my best friend rests her bum opposite me on the narrow rim of my bathtub. She unwinds the blood-soaked toilet paper from my finger and tends my cuts. “Aw, it’s not so bad. Fingers and facial cuts always bleed like a mother but amount to nothing. Rae?” I raise my chin and meet her gaze. “You okay? You look weird.”

  “I’m fine. Just a dumb accident is all.”

  “Nothing embarrassing about that, dearie,” Jenny tuts.

  I’m not embarrassed. Dazed, terrified, and curious as hell about what may be hiding upstairs, but they don’t need to hear that. With less than an hour before we leave for the airport, there’s no time to visit the attic. I’ll have to wait until we return from New York. Maggie lifts her eyebrows, giving me a doubtful expression that suggests she knows I’m holding out on her.

  Ignoring her, I lean around my friend. “Thanks, Jenny. I could’ve cleaned up my own mess, though. You don’t have to wait on me.”

  “Not a bit of it. What am I paid for then, to twiddle my thumbs all day, and see? It’s all done. There’s a good girl. Now you two finish up and get downstairs. Jamis is fit to be tied when he gets behind schedule.”

  “You’re too good to us,” Maggie says as she stands.


  “You are helping the master, and nothing is too good for that boy. Any friend of his is a friend of mine.”

  Maggie glances at me. Her pleasant expression hiding whatever thoughts she’s having. “Absolutely,” she says. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  ***

  Jamis drives us forty minutes to the airport in Hilton Head where we board a commercial flight to LaGuardia in New York City. Three and a half hours. In the air. With Gideon. That’s as much time as I’ve ever spent with the guy all at once, well consciously anyway. I’m grateful Maggie is here as a buffer.

  The plane is full. I don’t know what I expected; maybe daydreaming with Maggie as we both crane our heads out the same little window for a peek at the distant earth. We’d whisper about school, gossip about boys, get caught up. I expected a lot of things, but being sandwiched between Mags and Gideon wasn’t one of them.

  I squirm in my seat. Gideon bumps me with his knee. His thigh occasionally rubs mine, or his elbow brushes my sleeve. The curve of his tricep slides against my arm in an annoyingly provocative way. Every time he touches me, a tiny cluster of moths take flight in my stomach. When his hand meets mine on our shared armrest, I shift away. His lips curl in the slanted smile I’ve identified as mild amusement—usually directed at me. I swear he’s doing it on purpose to upset me. I glance up. Smooth yet defined, I follow the line of his cheekbone to his jaw with my eyes. I’m hyperaware of the fact that I’m hyperaware of him. Somebody slap me, please.

  When I lean once more toward Maggie’s seat, she blows. “I love you Rae, but you can’t get in my lap, all right?”

  I straighten. “Sorry.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  “Sick?”

  “No.”

  “Nervous.”

  “No! It’s nothing. I’m sorry.” I pantomime using two fingers, and outline the space around me. “I’ll stay within my designated area.” Next to me, Gideon’s chuckle unsettles the moths and they flutter again. I’m ridiculous.