by AJ Brooks
Serissa parts the Unfated with a sharp flick of her hands and affectionately scratches the tops of the Hellhounds deformed dog-like heads with long pointed fingernails.
“Oh, Cassius. Not kill. You have such little faith for a god so young. I heard you were on your last assignment before being restored to a full god. But you've decided to take on another extra project? Tsk, tsk, Cassius, have you not learned your lesson?” Her head tilts to the side and her dark eyes laugh at me. "Mommy will be so disappointed in you."
I can’t peel my eyes off her, but all I'm thinking is what a bastard Curo is. He had to be her source, even if by accident. Serissa is the goddess of the underworld and the second most beautiful woman in the world, next to my mother. Mortals and gods alike give Serissa what she wants. Her appeal is hard to resist.
What makes her so beautiful is that she can transform her appearance and will always be exactly what the onlooker finds most attractive. But not for love, only for lust. She becomes the ultimate for sexual attraction and desires. That’s why my mother has always been superior.
I have learned to see Serissa the way she truly is—still beautiful, but manipulative, deceitful and filled with jealousy. Her eternal burning hatred of my mother's status and freedom has always gotten in the way of us being friends. But not of us being lovers. A long time ago. Before I fell in love with a mortal. Before I was stripped of my status and sent to the Fates as their minion.
Serissa used me to get to my mother but that did not stop her jealous rage when I turned her down for Lena. Every few years she comes to find me, but I never know if it’s to kill me or sleep with me until it happens. I’m better at saying no, and since Lena, I’ve been with no one.
"I was not expecting a visit, Serissa. So nice to see you’ve been let off your leash.”
Serissa’s lips pull into a half amused smile as she makes her way to me.
“My dear Cassius, how you change every time I see you,” she whispers against my cheek. Her fingernail runs down my chest and stomach until I stop her by grabbing her wrist. “What a god you have become. Still so handsome. Too bad your skills aren’t put to better use. The Fates still control your every move, yes?”
My jaw sets and I push off the wall, making her step backward.
“As your husband controls you?”
Her hand strikes my cheek, and as a goddess with full status her strength exceeds mine. My head snaps to the side but the smile stays on my face. It’s so rare to see another god. To be up against something that is equal to me. To not have to hold back. In a blur, I grip her by the neck and spin her so she’s the one against the wall. Her eyes flash but she doesn’t stop me. Our tryst went much like this, as I was young and eager and full of blind passion. Passion that she happily used against me.
The goddess raises her hands and stretches her neck so my fingers can dig into the flesh because she enjoys the violence. It’s exhausting. Her disturbing desires drain me even now.
“Hmm, I always thought you and I would have been the best choice for the Fates. We could do so much together, and you know it. But you were such a momma’s boy. So eager to please. You were so much easier to be with before that peasant girl ruined you.” She breathes out heavily and I shake my head. Her tricks don’t work on me anymore.
“Why are you here, Serissa? Why do the Unfated seem like they’re working for you? Why did they attack Zarah?” I lean into her and she smiles wider.
“We’re on first name basis with the girl? This is quite the side project.” Her eyebrow goes up and I press harder into her.
“Answer my question.”
“A girl is allowed to have some secrets, Cassius. You know that.”
“Not when you work with the Unfated, Serissa. Not when you go against Fate.”
She pushes me, her expression suddenly fierce, and I’m the one that stumbles.
“Oh, you sound exactly like the rest of them. Fate. The way. Follow your little string until that old hag decides to cut your life. I don’t believe in fate. I believe in power. The one with the power controls the fate, Cassius.”
Serissa laughs, which is the only part of her that makes her sound as evil as she really is. She moves back to her Hounds and takes hold of the long silver chains that hang from their necks.
“We belong together, Cassius. Someday you’ll see it.”
The Hounds snap and snarl as they struggle to free themselves so they can devour me. She walks past and I press myself against the wall to avoid the beasts. She pauses and tilts her head to the side.
“If I were you, handsome, I wouldn’t get too close to that girl of yours. The Unfateds have taken a particular interest in her. If you know what I mean.” She winks and walks away, more like an uppity modern woman walking her Chihuahuas and less like the most deceitful and powerful bitch that ever existed.
I turn toward the Unfateds who have completely disappeared, leaving nothing but thin black smoke swirling in the air around me. My thoughts are fuzzy. There’s too much to process.
Zarah.
The thought of her slams me into motion, and I run as fast as I can back to the loft.
I stop in front of her place. It’s dark. She’s not here.
This is good. It’s probably best to look around instead of ask her. I mean how would I even broach that topic.
Hey girl who can only see me sometimes. I'm the guy that snuck through your bedroom window to sit in a closet with you and tell you stories of heartbreak. I’m trying determine whether your best friend would be a good soul-mate for this guy I’m stalking, but I think an evil goddess and her army of undead soulless creatures are hunting you. Care to tell me why? I laugh at the thought and move toward the brick wall and the spot where the staircase used to be. In its place a tall ladder has been placed and lashed on to the small little landing in front of the door. I scale it quickly to break into Zarah’s home.
Once inside her open loft, I stand in the middle of the room. I’ve never felt guilty before. But with Zarah, breaking in feels different. I’m invading her privacy. Being here feels wrong, urgent or not.
I spin around and take in everything. The apartment looks so much different than when I was here as Max. I don't know if it's because it's dark, or something's changed. The furniture is all mismatched and scattered around in a different pattern than before, bathed in a soft orange glow from the street lamp shining through the huge panes of glass that cover the entire ocean front wall. I continue to scan the room where the only clean and organized space is the back wall, filled with shelves of paint and brushes organized by size and color, when an image catches my eye and makes my heart stop.
A cold dead eye of the Unfated—a close-up of half its’ face because that’s all that will fit on the canvas. It’s an unfinished painting propped on a large wooden easel in the back corner of the loft by the paints. Zarah’s painting. The swirls of black and grey like smoke around the blue veiny flesh, just as horrifying on canvas as in real life. How does she know about Unfated? I barely know anything about them.
But she couldn’t have known about Nona either, and she does.
I move to the painting to see the rest of the image. The eyes. No iris, no pupil, just death. There's a reflection in the eye. Her reflection. Her sad eyes thickly rimmed with black eyeliner. She looks like she carries a weight far heavier than her years would have allowed her to experience. It tugs at that place in my chest that forces me to care and protect people.
I divert my attention to a massive stack of canvases to the next painting. As I flip through them my heart races.
Nona. Decima. Morta. The Hellhounds. Arrows. Faces. So many faces. My face.
My face.
I stop and try to settle my speeding heart. My racing lungs. I lift the painting of me. A perfect replica. Exactly how I look, but not in this world. In my own world. Thin sandy cracks split my face and neck as I stare directly into my own tormented expression. She painted my mother’s curse. This isn’t right. I never told her about that
.
I continue to sift through the canvasses, placing each one against the wall next to the last. I recognize almost every single one.
But as I uncover the last painting, hidden in the depths of all the others, my whole world slows and my limbs go numb. Of course she’d be in here after all the times I told Zarah my story, but it’s no easier to look at her.
Helena. My Lena.
It’s been two hundred years since I’ve seen her, but the cracks in my heart are just as deep.
XII
Zarah
I stand in the dark alleyway next to my apartment. Mr. Conroy, the landlord, set up a ladder to the small landing. But instead of moving toward the ladder, I pause next to the car where I first felt the rush of cold on my back.
Sue explained to me once that I created Monet in my closet to help me cope with a stressful situation. And if those creatures had appeared after Crystal fell, I’d believe that’s the case here too. But they took the stairs. They ripped them from the wall. They were here before Crystal fell.
I wasn’t the only one who was affected. I watched as creatures I painted attacked us. Monsters that can’t be real should not make more sense to me than the stairs simply being old and rusted out. But something deeper than my memory knows they were to blame.
The blood is only partially washed away, creating a large blotch on the pavement. I crouch down again, waiting to feel what I felt last night. Waiting for the golden eyes to appear. For Monet to appear.
Instead, the ferry horn blows and a car honks and the ongoing sound of city traffic buzzes in my ears. Even now, in the darkest part of the night, this alley feels a million times safer than it did when Crystal walked up the stairs.
I stand and start for the ladder. “Zarah. You need a shower and some sleep.”
Unlocking the door, makes a loud click in the open space. Maybe I should shower here and sleep. But instead I shove a few changes of clothes into an old duffel thinking that the walk to Max’s might do me good. Maybe he’d bring me the comfort he has before. I toss the bag next to the open door when a warmth embraces me from behind. I spin around and see him. Standing in my living room.
I fold my arms as I stare, trying to hide how my hands are shaking. “How did you get in here?” I ask, knowing that no matter how he answers, his response will be suspect. Whether he stepped out of my painting or busted through the front door, the only thing I know for sure is that he shouldn’t be here.
He doesn’t move, only watches me, his eyes angled a little off to the side. He is my painting, come to life.
“Are you going to answer?” I ask.
“I…” His gaze flickers to the side, and I instinctively follow it.
All the air’s left the room. My paintings. All of them. In a row resting on the wall, nearly going all the way around our large space. I don’t… I don’t look at them all at once. There’s a reason they stay stacked over each other. There’s so much emotion with each picture that I don’t know how to take them all in like this. My fingers tremble.
Each emotion and each story that comes with the scenes I paint is a reminder of how my brain doesn’t work right. How vibrant things are when I close my eyes. I know every detail. Every feeling. My painting of the broken face guy is the first one. And he’s standing in the middle of the loft, watching me. His face unbroken.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth just like Sue taught me.
Dead eyes. Decaying faces. Stone walls. Lanterns. Silver threads. Women with no eyes. Film. Scissors that made me shake while I painted them. A blue house that looks as if Marie Antoinette herself could have lived there. A wooden boat—dirty and worn. So many people, places, and things I don’t understand.
Tears stream down my face.
“You’re just someone I paint,” I tell him. “That’s all.”
“Yes… That is definitely me.” He finally speaks. His voice has an awkward tone, as if he’s just as confused about the picture as I am.
“No!” I yell, keeping my eyes closed. “You are not possible.”
My heart pounds so hard, my legs are turning to rubber. I open my eyes and he’s gone. I grab the back of a chair before my legs give out and hang my head. Okay. Breathe. Three counts in. Three counts out. I think about calling Sue. Hearing her soothing voice.
I feel his presence, but now I’m afraid to look. Afraid he’ll be here. Afraid he won’t.
“Venia?” he asks quietly. Slowly. A sharp inhale floods my body with oxygen and I hold it until I’m dizzy.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I plead. “I’m not supposed to see you anymore. You came to me when I was high because I needed something to latch on to. You’re an imaginary friend, a painting, that’s all.”
“You’re right. That’s how it was supposed to be,” he says softly. “But I’m afraid Fate has bigger plans for us.”
I almost open my eyes, but decide it’s still safer to keep them closed.
“Fate?” I stumble.
“Fate controls the world, Venia. You and me aren’t finished yet. Will you look at me?”
I shake my head.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to need you anymore.”
He chuckles lightly and it’s like music, forcing my head up to hear him better. My eyes stay closed.
“You don’t need me. Open your eyes and you’ll see. You never needed me.”
A long sigh pushes through my teeth as I replay all those nights he sat with me. Told me his story. Comforted me. How much I needed his touch to feel calm. Centered.
“May I touch you, Zarah?” Hearing him say my real name shocks me and I nod.
His fingers are cool and smooth as they run across my jaw. My eyes open and he looks more deeply into me than anyone ever has. His fingers stiffen, like his muscles are tightening, solidifying, but still he looks into my eyes.
I grasp his hands with the same urgency I used to grasp his shirt. They feel cold and hard, like marble, or polished granite. I close my eyes again and slowly the tension I felt from him begins to melt away.
“Why can’t I just be normal?” I sigh, looking at him again.
“Why would you ever want that?” He blinks a few times when something passes across his face and he disappears again.
Logically, I should be freaking out. I should be calling the cops or looking up people who study paranormal activity, but instead I stare, stunned at my paintings.
He reappears in my kitchen, rubbing his face and mumbling.
“How did you do that?” I ask.
His head snaps my direction as he watches me. “How did you do this?” He points to my painting of the dead guy’s eye.
“Because this is all a figment of my imagination. I make them up.”
“But they feel real?”
“Very.”
“How are you so calm?”
What else is there to do? Nothing makes it better. I shrug. It’s less calm and more shocked. Lost maybe.
He takes a step closer to me, watching me in a new way. Still looking at me deeply, but every few seconds he closes his eyes, or looks away.
“Nobody who was dealt the life you were would say that.”
“You only know what I’ve shown you. Told you...or...” I’m so losing my brain. “Or maybe since you’re something I created, you do know everything.”
My heart hammers as I sit on a stool. He stands in silence, looking out the dirty windows.
“Come here?” I ask.
He moves so slowly I’m starting to wonder if I’ve offended him somehow. He stops only a foot away, the feeling of him crashing over me in a wave of comfort.
“May I touch you?” I ask him the same thing he just asked me. His jaw twitches but he agrees. I’m not brave enough to touch his face, so I take his hands and close my eyes.
I’m in a nightgown in front of something wooden. Something for dressing. His face is unspeakably sad. My heart is unspeakably broken. He touches me and it ne
arly undoes me, but I manage to stay standing. And then I do the unthinkable and ask him to leave.
I know this painting. The broken people. I don’t want to see them now.
I open my eyes to see him staring at me with an unfathomable depth. I feel it in my heart, in my gut. As impossible as he is, he has to be real. We’re talking and touching and I’m not high and I’m not in a tiny closet. Maybe he did step out of my painting, but he’s solid flesh beneath my fingertips. Flesh and stone.
The light from the streetlamp slants through the loft and across his perfect skin. He’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
“Come.” He slides his hand into mine and squeezes, making me stumble as we walk to another picture.
“These two. Here.” He stops at the painting I just saw again in my head. Felt again. “Tell me why you painted this.”
“I don’t want to.”
He squeezes my hand with gentle affection. “According to you, I know why already. I want to hear you tell it.”
As I stare at the couple, her head bent down and his shoulder slumped in defeat, my body weighs down. The desperation and sadness engulfs me so I can barely breathe. “I just saw this. Felt how they feel. They lost each other. And I think… I think they chose it.”
“I know they did,” he whispers. “He did.”
He studies the painting, but I turn my gaze to him. His eyes flick over the painting. I can almost see his mind working, thinking, agonizing over something.
“So you just feel these things. Like close your eyes and this is what happens?” he asks, gesturing to the painting.
I nod.
“Can you do another?”
“Huh?” I wrap my arms across my stomach and grip my elbows, unsure if I can handle the amount of feeling that comes with paint while he’s in the room. My Monet. My imaginary person.
“Paint for me.” His eyes are soft and pleading. They swirl with golden curiosity, but I feel like he just said get naked for me. “You’re somehow in my head, and I need more clues.”
