Inescapable (The Premonition Series)

by Bartol, Amy A

  “Evie, what portrait?” Reed asks as he stands, handing me my bag.

  “Mr. MacKinnon asked me if I would sit for him so he can paint my portrait. I told him I would and that I would be at his studio at three thirty. I’m late! I have to go!” I don’t stop to explain more, but put my arms around his neck, giving him a quick kiss goodbye. I turn to leave, but his hand snakes around my waist, holding me to him.

  Reed frowns. “You plan on going there alone?” he asks in disapproval as I glance up at his face.

  “Yes. Let’s have dinner tonight. I’ll be done by five o’clock— you can pick me up here when I’m finished because I’ll just be upstairs in the art studio,” I explain, seeking a compromise that would allow me to speed things along.

  Reed doesn’t let my anxiety affect him at all; instead, he seems more determined to take his time. “When did you agree to this?” he asks.

  My eyes narrow, “Why?” I ask.

  “I’m curious,” he says with his eyes narrowing a bit more.

  I sigh, “Do you want to come with me?”

  “What an excellent idea,” he smiles, linking my elbow with his as he guides me out of the dark room.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Portrait

  Climbing the stairs of the Fine Arts Building hand-in-hand, Reed and I find a brass placard on a door declaring the room to be “MacKinnon Studio.” As we step in, I gaze around at the spacious artist’s studio; it occupies a large corner of the old building and has the appeal and charm that one associates with the old craftsmanship of the turn of the century. Leaded glass windows line the back wall, and the lighting in the room is impeccable.

  A young woman sitting at the small desk in the corner of the room stands as we enter. “You must be, Genevieve,” she states smoothly, approaching me with her hand extended. “I’m Debra, Mr. MacKinnon’s assistant.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, shaking Debra’s hand in introduction. She’s about my height with long, dark hair. Her black-rimmed glasses, which cover her warm, amber eyes, can only be described as librarian, but her air of authority, not her glasses, makes her seem older than me—maybe a senior. “This is Reed Wellington,” I continue politely with the introductions.

  “Ah, Reed, of course, how are you?” she states briskly, shaking his hand.

  “I’m well. It’s nice to meet you, Debra,” says Reed with a charismatic smile.

  “Well, please come in. Mr. MacKinnon will be joining us soon. He wants me to get started with your hair and makeup before he gets here. How much do you know about what we’re doing today?” she asks me, moving over to a closet near her desk in the corner.

  “Not much,” I say. “I know that I’m supposed to sit for a portrait, and that you need pictures, so that Mr. MacKinnon can work without me being here as often.” I add sheepishly, feeling naїve for not getting more details than that before agreeing to this. I peek at Reed and I can tell by his frown that his thoughts are straying along those same lines.

  Debra says, “He’s going for the ‘Goddess Persephone’ thing with you—a queen who inspires devotion—or, something like that. Anyway, I have a dress for you—I think Mr. MacKinnon got it from the theatre department. They did The Iliad a few years ago. The dress is a little revealing because it’s a Grecian gown that plunges in the front and it’s backless from the shoulders to the small of your back. But, it covers all the important parts. It’s a little transparent under this lighting, but hey, that’s art.”

  I can’t look at Reed as I begin to blush when Debra pulls the costume from the closet. It’s ethereal all right; it is exquisite white silk with gold piping interlacing the bodice, not at all the cheap theatre department material I expect.

  “Please, come and sit over here, and I’ll get started on your hair,” Debra directs. I sit down at a lighted mirrored table and Debra begins working on my hair. “You can have a seat over there.”

  Debra points to a comfortable seating area that has a sofa and chairs. Reed goes to a lounge chair and sits down, watching me disapprovingly. I can tell I’m going to hear about whatever it is that he is thinking. Deciding not to worry about it, I watch Debra in the mirror. She deftly weaves my hair into an intricate pattern of small braids with delicate, golden threads adorning them. The effect is startling, and when she finishes, I feel rather like a goddess. She applies a soft layer of cosmetics to my face in such a way as to make my skin appear to glow.

  “Well, that’s it,” Debra says. “There is a bathroom over there where you can change your clothes.” She retrieves the gown from the closet and follows me to the bathroom.

  “Okay,” I reply uncertainly, taking the beautiful creation she hands to me.

  The dress is so delicate; it floats around my arms as it cascades like liquid toward the floor. I go into the bathroom and disrobe, and then I carefully step into the white, gossamer silk, feeling it cling to my body, as fabric will when it’s wet. I had hoped that I’d be able to wear my bra with it, but there is no way. The bodice plunges midway to my abdomen and barely covers my breasts on either side. The back of the gown is almost nonexistent; my skin is bare all the way down, revealing the two small dimples on my lower back. The dress covers me just above my rounded posterior, flowing with a long train behind me. I’ll need to pool the train of the gown over my arm if I don’t want it to drag on the ground, but the length in the front is perfect, as if it were made for me.

  Debra sighs when she sees me in the dress. “It’s beautiful on you,” she says, adjusting the fasteners so that the gown lies perfectly. “Mr. MacKinnon just arrived. He’ll pose you, and then we can take the pictures.”

  “Okay,” I say, realizing that I have to leave the bathroom in this gown that feels like little more than cobwebs covering my body.

  Debra seems to know what I am thinking because she leans closer to me and says, “You look wonderful, and just remember, it’s art, and who knows, it could become a piece of history one day.”

  “That’s a nice way of looking at it,” I say before taking a deep breath and walking out of the bathroom.

  The conversation that is transpiring between Mr. MacKinnon and Reed turns to silence as I approach them from the bathroom. I’m not looking at Mr. MacKinnon as I near them because I’m captivated by the smoldering darkness that enters Reed’s eyes.

  I want to move right to Reed, but Mr. MacKinnon steps in front of him and speaks directly to me, “Genevieve, you’ve exceeded my expectations. You’re lovely. We should begin. Please, if you would step this way, I have set up over in this corner,” he says, leading the way to a lighted area that has a dark backdrop and a Grecian style chaise. I sit stiffly on the chaise, feeling uncomfortable in the spotlight.

  “Now, has Debra told you the theme that I’m going for with this portrait?” he asks.

  “She mentioned the Goddess Persephone,” I say as I lean back against the bolster of the chaise, following the gesturing movements of Mr. MacKinnon.

  He lifts my feet onto the chaise and arranges the train of my gown in such a way as to drape over the end of the lounge. In this position, I face Reed directly. We make eye contact, and there is a heat in his eyes that I can feel. My body becomes liquid; all of the tense embarrassment flows out of me, and it is just the two of us. I can hear that Mr. MacKinnon is taking pictures, but all I can do is watch Reed watching me.

  “You’re Reed Wellington?” Mr. MacKinnon asks Reed as he continues to snap photos of me from different angles.

  “Yes, that’s right, sir,” Reed answers him politely as he approaches the set and stands near the light.

  “And how do you know our model here?” he asks charmingly, making small talk.

  “Genevieve is my…girlfriend,” Reed says in a sexy, possessive way.

  I’m somewhat taken aback by the term girlfriend. It is almost ridiculous that someone as perfect as Reed would desire someone like me, insane really, and yet, he’s becoming so much more than my boyfriend that the term seems inadequate to
describe what is between us.

  “Your girlfriend, is that right?” Mr. MacKinnon replies with a smile.

  “Yes, she’s mine,” Reed says, never taking his eyes off of me. His words warm me, making me feel desired. Reed’s eyes soften as he says, “She almost allowed someone else to accompany her here today, and I can’t help but think of how close I came to missing seeing her like this.”

  “Yes, that would’ve been unfortunate. But there will be the portrait,” Mr. MacKinnon assures him.

  “I’m eager to see how it turns out,” Reed says.

  “As am I,” he replies from behind his camera. “Genevieve, I want to try something else…a different pose. Allow me to tell you about the Goddess Persephone, so that you might better understand what I’m thinking.”

  Drawing nearer to me and holding his camera away, he says, “Pretend you are the Goddess Persephone, Queen of the Underworld. Hades, the ruler of the Underworld, has taken you from your home and your mother Demeter. You love Demeter dearly and wish to see her again. Hades has given you a pomegranate to eat. You know that if you eat the pomegranate, you will have to remain in the Underworld with Hades for all of eternity. However, if you do not eat the fruit, you will have to leave the Underworld. You would then never be allowed to return to the Underworld or to Hades. You care for both Demeter and Hades, so you must choose which of your loves will have you for eternity.”

  Stepping forward, Mr. MacKinnon places a pomegranate in the palm of my hand. I look at it dumbly for a moment, and then the scope of his words hit me. Reed or Russell. Angel or soul mate. I have to choose which of them will be the love, not only of my life, but also of my existence. Anguish in its purest form rolls over me in wave after wave of torment.

  “That’s perfect, Genevieve. You’ve captured the very essence of the struggle,” Mr. MacKinnon says as he snaps my photo at different angles. I can’t look at Reed now. I don’t want him to see my struggle because I don’t want to hurt him, just as I don’t want to hurt Russell. Mr. MacKinnon purrs with satisfaction as he says, “Well, you’ve certainly provided me a range of things I can work with. I think I prefer the sultry pictures we took in the beginning of the sitting to the others, but it will be a tough decision.”

  I’m not listening to Mr. MacKinnon. I want to escape from the lights and hide myself away in a dark corner. I rise from the chaise and begin to walk to the bathroom to change out of the gown, but I hesitate, and turning to Mr. MacKinnon, I ask, “What did Persephone decide? Did she eat the fruit?”

  “Yes, she did, but not all of it, only enough so that she could return to Hades for half of each year. A divine compromise, they are rare amongst the gods,” Mr. MacKinnon says softly.

  I am quiet on the car ride to Reed’s house for dinner. I’m feeling edgy after my experience at the art studio with Mr. MacKinnon. I want to erase today and start again. All the knowledge I’ve gleaned is beginning to eat at me, and I feel like my brain is corroding.

  When we reach Reed’s house, he opens up my door and escorts me into his home. He must’ve called ahead to Andre, or maybe Greta, because the large, formal dining room table is set for two; the finest china graces the table, as does what appears to be real silver silverware. Reed holds out a chair next to the head of the table for me, and then he seats himself. I look around the cavernous room in awe; this isn’t Saga, and it is also far from the dining I do with my Uncle Jim. Andre, Reed’s personal chef, enters the dining room with two dinner plates not long after we are seated.

  “This smells wonderful, Andre,” I say, breathing in the aroma. “Thank you.”

  “It is very nice to have a guest. I hope you enjoy it,” Andre says, and then he turns and leaves the dining room.

  “Do you eat here every night? In this room, I mean?” I ask Reed contemplatively, while tasting fish that melts in my mouth.

  “Usually, why?” he asks as if evaluating my question.

  “It’s nothing…it’s just that…” I say, my voice trailing off when the image of Reed eating here all alone in this big room comes to me. How lonely this must be with no one to share things with, but then again, it may be his idea of unwinding after having to pretend to be human all the time.

  “It’s just what?” he asks me curiously.

  “Well, it’s so formal. I feel like your parents are going to walk in any minute and scold us for using all the good china.” I say plainly. Reed laughs at my comment. “Does Andre know about you…I mean…you know…that you’re special?”

  “No, I’m sure he has seen some things that have made him wonder about me, but I don’t believe he knows my secrets. I try not to keep the same staff around for long because people do catch on,” he says wryly. “I compensate them well when I have to let them go,” he adds as he fills the glass stemware in front of me with wine.

  We eat together in silence for a while. I feel awkward and stiff, not knowing which piece of silverware I should use, since there are three forks, and although the food is delicious, I can’t enjoy it in here.

  “Okay, Reed, let’s go,” I say, rising from my seat and picking up my plate and wine glass.

  “Where are we going?” he asks in surprise, but stands immediately when I do, probably out of politeness.

  “You do have a kitchen, don’t you?” I reply, selecting one fork and one knife from the several on my place setting.

  “Yes, this home is equipped with a kitchen,” he replies with a puzzled expression.

  “Well then, let’s go to the kitchen. I’ll follow you until you can draw me a map,” I say, smiling at him encouragingly. We need less formality between us, and I’m not going to get that in the dining room. A look of intrigue crosses Reed’s face while he picks up his plate and begins leading me from the dining room to the kitchen.

  Reed’s kitchen is the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen. It has sleekly crafted wooden cabinetry that hides the appliances so that you have to guess where the refrigerator is located. The granite counters gleam in the light from the fixtures above, and a polished wooden table sits just in front of a large, stone fireplace. The fireplace is not lit, but it doesn’t need to be; it is romantic even without a fire.

  I set my plate on the table next to Reed’s as he pulls my chair out for me. “Better?” he asks when I am seated.

  “Much. Thank you,” I say, smiling at him. This is better. It’s intimate and cozy, more personal.

  “I have never eaten in here. It is nice,” he comments before gazing around the room as he takes in the scenery.

  With an expression of amazement, I say, “You’ve never eaten in here? Reed, you are baffling. I keep trying to figure out what you are doing here.”

  “I told you what I’m doing here,” he replies, picking up his fork again and continuing with his meal.

  “I don’t mean the smoting thing. Or is it smiting? Anyway, no I mean, why are you at Crestwood? It hardly seems to be a big draw for demons,” I say.

  “It is not, and that is why I’m here. I don’t like to just run across them when I’m not prepared to fight them. That is why I chose Crestwood. It lacks the, what were your words, draw for demons?” he asks smiling. He becomes serious though, when he says, “No, Crestwood is not a place the Fallen find interesting. That makes it a sanctuary, Evie. If you want to avoid them, you find the places they don’t like. I wish to avoid them when I’m not hunting them, so that I do not have to be in a constant state of vigilance.”

  “Why don’t the bad angels come to Crestwood? I mean, I would think that fallen angels could recruit at schools,” I point out.

  “The Fallen can at most schools, but Crestwood is different. There is not much of nightlife in this sleepy town and there is almost nothing to do here other than study. That is not very conducive to sin. Quite frankly, it is boring here,” he smiles.

  “It’s not boring,” I say incredulously, thinking of the past few days.

  “It is not boring with you around,” Reed amends with a grin.

  “S
o, when you are looking for demons, please excuse the trite terminology, demon hunting, where do you go?” I ask. It sounds like such an absurd question when I say it out loud.

  “The Fallen are drawn to the prison that is located a couple of towns away, in Jackson. They enjoy extreme suffering,” Reed explains. “They enjoy watching a soul in torment, and some of the prisoners have already shown a weakness for evil.”

  My eyebrow rises as I ask, “Really? So the suffering going on inside the prison attracts them, like bait, and you send them back to Hell…uhh the abyss place, is that it?”

  “Some make it back to Sheol and some do not,” he says offhandedly.

  “What do you mean, some do not?” I ask in a puzzled tone.

  “I mean, some of the Fallen just cease to be,” he says. “Since angels do not have souls, there is no chance to be redeemed. The Fallen will never be allowed into Paradise again. But if they survive, they could go back to Sheol, theoretically. I try not to let that happen.”

  “Could that happen to you?” I ask in fear. “Could one of the Fallen kill you?”

  “It will not happen to me. I am extremely good at what I do,” Reed replies confidently. “I succeed because I know myself and I know my enemy.”

  “But, it’s a possibility?” I ask doggedly, scanning his face for his response.

  “Genevieve, since I have met you, I am beginning to believe that anything is possible, and now I have more of an incentive to maintain my advantage,” Reed says gently. I feel off-kilter for a moment as I think of losing Reed. What would an eternity be like for me knowing that I would never see him again? I shudder, and fear must show on my face because Reed frowns as he asks, “What is wrong, Evie?”

  “I don’t want you to be a soldier anymore. Can you do something else?” I ask him softly.

  Reed’s eyes widen. “Why?” he asks in surprise.

  “Because, Reed, I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, but there always seems to be something bigger and badder out there, and I can’t—how would I—I don’t know how to grieve for an eternity,” I say worriedly, looking down at my plate.