The Painter Mage: Books 1-3

by D. K. Holmberg

  Devan sniffed the air, eyes scrunching as she looked from tree to tree, likely seeing something that I could not. “I still don’t see it.”

  “An artist, but like none I’d ever seen,” I explained. “What she did here?” I motioned to the way the mark worked. “This is something like a sculpture. She drew through the trees, using them as she pulled power.”

  Devan frowned. “She shouldn’t be able to do that.”

  I knew she shouldn’t, but it didn’t change the fact that she had. “We were wrong. The explosion we saw last night? That wasn’t the shifter. That was Taylor.”

  * * *

  I circled my property, looking for any other signs of Taylor’s work. Devan didn’t believe I fully understood the pattern, but I was certain of what I saw. It wasn’t flat, not like the paintings I made. What I did required color and shapes and intent. What had been worked into the bark of the tree had been something different, almost three-dimensional. Working a pattern that complex required painting skill I’d only seen one other time.

  Streaks of black ash worked along the gray paint of the house. What I’d thought before to be an explosion pressing against the house now had a certain direction. Pressing what I could through the patterns worked into the siding, I could trace the effect of Taylor’s painting. More than ever, I was certain she had been the source of the massive power I’d felt last night.

  And I had thought my father the only powerful painter I knew.

  Devan had disappeared into the garage, where we’d set up her shop. It hadn’t taken long to acquire the tools and equipment she needed, but really, with the skills she possessed, there wasn’t much she actually needed other than time and heat. With that—and with her natural ability—Devan could make pretty much anything.

  I ran my hand along the side of the house. Power tingled beneath my fingers, giving me a connection to my father. Had he not disappeared, I never would have learned any of the things I had. Likely I’d still be in Arcanus, studying under the same Masters so afraid of the arcane patterns. Of course, had I remained in Arcanus, I might not have nearly died as often.

  Trade-offs, I guess.

  When I pulled my hand away, some of the ash came with it. Only then did I appreciate the full extent of what Taylor had done. She hadn’t simply funneled power and energy toward the house, she had added strength to the house itself, coating it with a layer of dark ash in a pattern so intricate, I couldn’t even understand what had been intended.

  I almost couldn’t be mad at what she’d done. She might have taken my father’s book—and whatever else she’d found in the basement—but she did what she could to protect me from the shifter in the process. And here I thought she came to me looking for help.

  I took another look around the yard before slipping back inside and making my way to the back hall. Swirling patterns were worked into the wall and mixed with a series of jagged lines, something like steps, that wove together in such a way that they seemed unending. It was an impressive pattern, a masterwork of arcane patterns, and done simply in stark black against the off-white paint. Over time, some of the paint had chipped and faded, but not much.

  When I’d returned to Conlin, dust had settled over much of the house. Someone had kept up the lawn—I still didn’t know who, but likely one of the neighbors annoyed with the grasses getting too long—and the inside had a heavy, musty odor from a decade of dust. A single trail of footsteps had worked through the dust, leading toward this hall. I still hadn’t learned who had been here. Or where they had gone.

  Questions and no answers. Typical when it came to my family.

  I tapped along the pattern, infusing it with a sharp draw of power as I did. The outline of a door formed in the middle, slowly revealing a handle. With another force of will, I opened the door.

  A narrow stair led down from the door. I’d been down these stairs hundreds of times since returning and could make my way along them with my eyes closed. Even without touching the stairs, I felt something off.

  I wished I hadn’t spent so much energy yesterday. Now I didn’t have enough strength to detect whatever Taylor might have done to the basement.

  The hairs on my arm stood as I stepped along the stairs. Energy charged this place. Devan should have felt it too, but why hadn’t she said anything? Likely she knew what it was she felt, even more than I did.

  In spite of the power, the air still smelled damp. When I reached the bottom stair, where wooden steps reached cold concrete, I flicked the switch. Faint yellow light spilled over the basement. Moisture seeped through the block walls, leaving strange swirls of dark along the stone. I’d wondered at first if the moisture pattern had any power, but I’d decided the water spilling into the basement was more due to poor construction. The house may be well protected magically, but it wasn’t much otherwise.

  It was only through protections worked into the table and the shelves that the books lining them had survived moisture damage. A long table piled with books took up much of the center of the room. I hadn’t disturbed much as I tried to understand what my father had been working on. A few jars of caked-on colored inks sat beside the books. A box of unopened pencils rested on one end. A roll of blank parchment rested in the middle. My father had planned to return here.

  The books on the shelves were mostly old tomes that reminded me of the books back in Arcanus. Some were nothing more than photos of Renaissance paintings. I’d scanned through these, looking for something that might explain why my father had them here, but discovered nothing more than a few marks along the margins, commenting on the use of scale or sweeps of color, nothing that told me he appreciated them for any other reason beside their artistic appeal. Other books were anything from ancient history to hand-drawn maps to books on mythology. Given everything I’d encountered since leaving Arcanus, I wondered if the mythology books should actually be considered historical works. There were others, like ledgers written in code, but I hadn’t figured out his intent with them.

  I stood in front of the table. The single working light bulb hung overhead. It was an old bulb, and dust still clung to it. Every so often, it surged, sending a flickering light through the basement.

  The book had been here, lying where I’d left it. I’d never bothered to hide it. With the patterns restricting access to the basement, I wasn’t really worried about who might make it down here. It didn’t have anything I could use, anyway. Unlike the other books on the shelves, the one Taylor had taken was a thick, bound notebook filled with row after row of patterns. As far as I could tell, there was no way to decipher it, not without my father. I’d think it meaningless, as if he wrote it in some confusing language all his own, if not for the book I’d once found in Arcanus that looked much like it.

  “She had to know it was here.”

  I looked up. Devan stood at the bottom of the stairs. She had a small wooden box in her hands that she held at arm’s length. Probably more charms, though I didn’t know why she’d hold them so carefully. Normally she threw them around as if they were harmless. For the most part, they were, at least until I infused my will and my energy into the painting formed by the ink stored within them.

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t found anything in his records that indicated a reason for anyone to know what he kept down here. The only answer I could come up with was that she had discovered something in Arcanus that I had not.

  “Is anything else missing?”

  Devan set the box on the edge of the table. I glanced inside to see a series of shapes: impossible spirals, inverted triangles, connected squares, and combinations of each. She’d made similar ones before. All would be filled with ink I could trigger with a quick squeeze of my fingers. And once they fired, all I had to do was infuse the ink with my power. I barely had to worry about making the right shapes with Devan’s creations. It was her way of keeping us safe.

  “Not that I can tell, but you
know I never really took a full inventory.”

  “She was quick.”

  “She shouldn’t have been. The pattern on that door should have kept her out.”

  “Unless she knew how to open it.”

  I looked down at the desk and stared at the roll of blank parchment. The book should have been resting next to it. “Unless she knew,” I agreed.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  Devan made her way around the desk and nodded toward the charms she’d made. “You should be ready.”

  “Devan, I’m still pretty tired from last night. You’re going to have to pretend I’m as dumb as you usually say I am.”

  “Who has to pretend?” She grabbed the box and set it in front of me. “If you’re going to return to Arcanus to find out what she wanted, you’d better be prepared.”

  6

  Preparing to leave took longer than I expected. I’d only been back in Conlin a few short months, but I had begun to feel a sense of being settled. Around the house, things had a place, I even had a place. There was comfort in that. I hadn’t felt that way for a long time, since leaving Arcanus a decade before, really.

  I gathered my necessary supplies carefully. I filled waxed satchels with various colored inks and tacked them to my belt. A box of thick carpenters pencils went into the pockets of my long canvas jacket. The jacket had been with me since living in Arcanus and had more scars than I did, most of the time from protecting me. Wearing it made me feel like some sort of Western gunslinger, only I’d never shot a gun and had only ridden a horse a couple of times as a kid. At least I didn’t put on a wide-brimmed hat. The faded woven driver cap I wore suited me better. I grabbed a blank notebook from the basement and stuffed that into one of the pockets as well, not sure when I might need the ability to sketch something more formally.

  Then I sealed the door to the basement closed.

  I worked with a thick band of black ink, tracing it along the trim of the wall, keeping it close against the edge so it couldn’t really be seen. Someone with enough skill would be able to reach past my protection, but it should fool a casual glance. Stopping casual attention was really all I wanted.

  After taking a deep breath, I infused the ink with my will, sealing the pattern and leaving the illusion of a fresh coat of paint. Doing that took almost all the strength I had remaining. I would need to recover soon if I was to be of any use.

  While I prepared, Devan made her own arrangements. She managed to make another dozen charms, which she kept to herself. These were like the figurines I’d found around myself when I woke this morning. They were tiny figures, some looking like gargoyles or what I imagined trolls or dwarves would look like. Not all were humanoid in appearance. I didn’t know what they did—if anything—and Devan wouldn’t say. But she always made a point of keeping a couple with her at all times, sort of how I kept the charms in my pocket.

  Devan carried a green backpack that matched her jacket. A pair of barrettes pinned her short, cropped hair up and out of her face, leaving her looking more pixie-like than usual. A silver amulet shaped like a circle inside a triangle hung around her neck. She’d made it herself. I had a matching one, though mine was tucked under my shirt. Not because I didn’t like it—I loved that she’d made it for me—but because I didn’t want anyone who might have enough magical draw to recognize the symbol. Besides some of its other uses, it allowed me to know when she used her power. With Devan, I might be attuned to her anyway, but the amulet ensured I knew when she felt the need to protect herself. Usually that was when I needed to get involved.

  “What else do you need to do?” Devan asked.

  I stopped at the front door and turned to look over the house. It had been emptier when we first came, but neater in a way. Now that we’d been here a few months, it had a lived-in vibe, even though there wasn’t much in the way of furniture. The circle scratched into the living room floor had taken me the better part of a week, but it was mine.

  I let out an annoyed sigh. “I guess nothing.”

  “You don’t have to go after her.”

  “And I probably shouldn’t. But I want that book back.” If we were going to learn enough from my father to stay alive—from the Elder—we needed that back.

  Devan laughed and pushed me with a little more force than needed as she slipped past me and out the door. “But you will. Never could pass up a pretty face.”

  “It’s why I met you,” I said, pulling the door closed behind me. A quick flick of my wrist left a simple hexagonal pattern on the ground in front of the door. I tapped my toe through it, shifting the shape just enough and infusing it with a hint of power, enough to seal the door closed. It would keep your run-of-the-mill thieves out of the house, but not much else. It was the same pattern I’d found when we first returned to Conlin.

  “Like your flattery would work on me,” Devan said.

  “Couldn’t hurt.”

  She snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

  “What? Tall, pale, and not quite handsome doesn’t work for you?”

  Devan shot me a look as we walked toward the garage. The sun beat down, warmer than usual for late September. Already, I was starting to sweat in the duster. At least the truck had air conditioning, so long as Devan had repurposed some part for it. That was why the chest freezer that used to be in the house no longer worked. She’d needed parts and took what she needed to finish her charm. Since quite a few of her charms were for me, I wasn’t about to argue, especially since I wasn’t really sure how she made them work.

  “You’ve got a bit more baggage than I like.”

  “Hey—”

  She punched me on the shoulder. “Besides, I like to keep things simple. And with you… there’s nothing simple about you, Ollie.”

  I laughed again as I lifted the garage door. Devan had been with me through some strange times. And she was right: I did have baggage. Part of it came from losing my father, but part of it came from what I’d gone through on the other side. Devan never blamed me for the things I’d done—for what her father had required of me—but she didn’t need to. I blamed myself enough for both of us.

  Heat washed over us as we stepped into the garage. It was stale and stuffy, but not completely because of how warm it was outside. Devan’s tools occupied over half of the garage. Where I worked in inks and pencils and sometimes brushes, she used long metal shapers and heat and something that came from deep inside her. An aging bench lined the far wall. We’d found it there when we returned, though I didn’t remember my father ever having a bench like that, and Devan claimed it was perfect. Atop the bench were the remnants of her recent projects. A smattering of colored dust remained after she’d loaded the charms.

  Older, more traditional tools lined the wall on a neat pegboard. Those had been my father’s, and I was somewhat surprised to find them mostly untouched. Considering how empty the house had been, what was in the garage was about the only thing worth stealing. Well, besides the truck.

  The truck wasn’t anything too exotic, an old, faded red Ford F150, but it had a solid motor. When we’d found it in the garage, both of us had been pleased. Devan hadn’t needed more than a few hours to get it running. Considering her ability, it was probably better than new. I think she took it as a challenge.

  “Does Big Red do anything… fun?” I asked.

  Devan tapped the passenger side panel and ran her fingers along the edge. “Nothing you’ll care too much about.”

  “Besides keeping us safe?”

  “You don’t think you’ll be safe?”

  If we made it into Arcanus, we’d be safe enough. And then I could ask about Taylor, find out why she’d come for the book. She’d stolen it from me, the one thing of my father’s that I considered irreplaceable. Had she asked, I might have been willing to share it with her.

  I hopped into the driver’s seat. The engine started with a soft rumble. The truck was built in the late eighties and had that stale odor to it, a mixture of rotti
ng foam from the seats and the sickly air freshener Devan had picked up at a gas station because she thought we needed to overpower it. Devan shifted in her seat, not bothering with the buckle. The braided seat cover twisted as she tried to get comfortable.

  Subtle lines were worked into the steering wheel that hadn’t been there before. The wheel itself provided some protection, especially as long as I drove, but with the pattern Devan had added, I could amplify any protective painting tenfold. Other lines were etched into the dash, stretching down either side and wrapping onto the doors.

  “Nice work,” I said eyeing the inside of the truck carefully. She’d even painted a simple pentagram on the gear shifter.

  Devan shook her head. “Didn’t mess with the transmission.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

  “Maybe if I would’ve been a bit more bored, I’d change the gearing to match.”

  I tested it to be sure, shifting into each gear to ensure it worked as I expected. It wouldn’t do us much good to have me stripping the clutch fumbling around. After backing out of the garage, Devan hopped out and pulled the door closed, locking it with one of her protective rituals. I felt the drawing of her energy, the familiar way it tingled against my skin even though I couldn’t see what it was she did.

  As she started to hop back into the truck, she paused and turned. “You expecting someone?”

  I looked out the window. A white car with city markings made its way up the long drive. With a flash of red lights, my stomach sank. “Guess we’re not going anywhere too soon.”

  Officer Jakes stepped out of his patrol car. He didn’t wear the same sunglasses as the day before and sunlight caught his deep brown eyes, making them nearly glow. Otherwise, he was dressed crisply in his uniform. Devan’s eyes eased from his head down toward his waist, lingering when she saw his arms rippling beneath his uniform.