by P. N. Elrod
It would be as smooth as satin, she realized. She knew it in the core of her being.
Yes, she wanted him, and powerfully. Claude had dipped his own brush deep into her soul and revealed that hidden truth, one she’d been trying to escape ever since the first dream.
The knight never spoke during those nighttime visitations. He beckoned, he implored, he charged . . . usually with the sheer intensity of his eyes. They were gray blue, just like Claude’s. Perhaps her patron was some descendant of the mysterious man?
With her own eyes still closed, she stroked his painted hair once again.
And swore she felt the Templar gold come alive, right as his voice traipsed across her skin and soul. Caution, Anna. He is a dangerous man.
The sound was husky, heavily accented.
She jolted backward, stumbling as her eyes flew open. But only the painting stood before her, still propped upon her easel.
“Oh, my God.” She blinked, raking a loose tendril of hair out of her eyes. “I did not just imagine that.”
Silence; the rumble of the air conditioner shutting off; the soft meow of her cat, Cézanne, from the bedroom.
She sucked in several deep breaths, working to calm her rapid heartbeat. Still, no matter how long she stared at the canvas or at the knight himself, she knew she’d heard him speak to her. Not in some dream, but here. Now.
All right, all right, she coached herself. What were you doing when he talked? You were touching him.
Stepping forward, she pressed her eyes shut again and lifted a shaking hand to feel the raised surface of the paint. “Talk to me. Please. I need to know more about you.”
A purring answer vibrated through her mind. He is a devil.
She shook her head, still touching the painted surface of her knight’s body. “No, that’s not true. He’s trying to free you.”
For his own purposes.
“But you’ve wanted freedom. You’ve begged me for it.”
Her eyes flew open, and there he stood. Well, “stood” was far too generous a description for his stance. The knight shimmered in the air, wavering off the canvas into a multidimensional, ghostly form and then resetting himself within the painting’s context anew.
“Come back!” She pressed desperate fingertips against the canvas. “Tell me what I don’t know. What does Claude want from you? From me?”
The figure flickered slightly beneath her hand, rising until, for a brief moment, she felt the heat of his armor, the physical strength of his body. Claudius seeks to possess me.
“How? How can I stop him?”
His answer was eerily simple, stark as the painting displayed before her.
Prepare the gold, Anna.
A sharp knock at her door caused her to drop the heavy velvet bag that she still clutched in her hand.
“That’s probably him,” she whispered at the canvas, but no further instructions came forth. “If I paint you, what happens? If I finish, are you free?”
Another knock, even more impatient than the first.
She backed away from the work, not wanting to take her eyes off the knight; terrified of the man who demanded her attention with his harsh knock.
Finally she composed her face into a mask of strength and calmness, emotions she definitely didn’t feel. She could feel her naturally pale Irish American skin flushing hot and tried to will away those betraying red splotches.
Claude stood beyond the threshold, and as soon as she cracked open the door, he pushed past her to the interior.
She placed her right hand on her hip, working to seem in charge. “I thought you were leaving.”
“I did,” he answered cryptically, gliding far past her.
“Yeah, like ten minutes ago. Tops.”
“I forgot something very important.” He sauntered toward the painting, inspecting the image. It hadn’t changed at all physically—yet for her it had altered completely in the past few moments.
Anna’s heart slammed in her chest because Claude must have known that the knight was trying to warn her. Why else would he have returned so quickly and unexpectedly? Somehow, damn the man, he suspected that she’d been interacting with their knight.
She cleared her throat, strolling toward Claude with forced casualness. “Something wrong about the image?”
“I did not forget the painting, Anna.” He tossed her a narrowed glance and then looked slowly toward the floor. “But you have forgotten your gold. Dropped so casually? I am shocked that you’d dishonor something so precious.”
She swallowed, bending to retrieve the bag. “I was painting, and I, uh . . . set it down.”
“Then why does the gold cry out?” He pointed toward the satchel, and she clutched it against her breasts protectively. Only then did she hear the soft, muted cries coming from within the bag itself.
She untied the lace and reached gently inside the bag, taking the gold within her palm. At once the complaining sound stopped, replaced by the rhythmic hum of satisfaction. “I’m sorry,” she murmured to the substance, watching it spread about her wrist. “I was working.”
“Working? Are you certain?” Claude demanded, the words rough and accusatory. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her impolitely. Something in his entire demeanor was transformed. Even his accent had thickened.
“You’re the one who told me that tomorrow’s our deadline.” She walked toward the burner that she’d used to heat the first application of gold. “I’ve got to heat this up so I can get busy.”
“I will remain here while you paint,” Claude said, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
“So what was it?” she called to him, turning on the burner.
Claude did not answer, so she prompted him further. “You said you forgot something.”
He settled at her desk as if he owned the workshop, relaxing into her chair. His mercurial gaze was fixed on her as he formed his fingertips into a thoughtful temple. “I forgot his nature,” he said coolly. A blinding white smile formed on Claude’s lips. “And I underestimated yours.”
The melted gold flowed off her paintbrush in all its living, powerful glory, just as it had when she’d applied the texture to her knight’s hair. The metal moved across his armor with the same undisguised joy it had expressed in her palm, as if bringing the man to life were the substance’s sole destiny. Its one true purpose.
As she applied the last bit, Claude moved close behind her. “It is nearly midnight,” he purred against her ear. She shivered at what seemed to be a concealed threat, that hint of something much darker beyond what his words conveyed.
“We have a full day for this to dry and for me to cut the pieces.” She studied the image before her, blinking at the way it gleamed with what appeared to be supernatural energy.
“The puzzle must be completed by midnight tomorrow. You must not miss the mark, Anna. Do you understand?”
“You told me that already.” It was one of the only definite answers or facts he had supplied during the past days. “But why is the solstice so important?”
“He was trapped on the summer solstice hundreds of years ago. Your completion of his puzzle will finally free him.”
“He will . . . what? Just emerge?”
Claude slid a heavy hand along the nape of her neck, sweeping her long dark hair to the side. His fingertips were soft, those of a man who had never used his hands for dirty work. Maybe he’d only ever manipulated others, just as he’d done her.
Maybe he wants something darker with my knight, she considered, feeling Claude’s fingertips clasp about her neck.
“Careful, Anna,” he warned, his grip firm yet light. “Remember whom you serve.”
“Him. You said I serve him.” She gestured at the painting. “That you do, too.”
He bent down, pressing his lips to her exposed nape. “I have served him for the duration of his captivity. You are the one who will free us all when you finish the puzzle.”
She sidestepped, and he released her easily. Facing him, sh
e pointed an accusatory finger. “I won’t finish unless you tell me the whole story.”
Claude smiled slowly. “Go to sleep, Anna. Perhaps your answers await you there.”
She stared incredulously. “I can’t believe your nerve. I’m telling you I won’t finish if—”
“Oh, you will finish. I am certain,” he said, still smiling thinly. “You want him too much now to be denied.”
The sudden pull of desire came over her anew, coiling through her whole body. Demanding that she touch the knight physically, not just stroke his painting or dream of him. He’d spoken to her earlier—perhaps Claude was right. If she slept again, she might know more about him, might understand his sinister warning from earlier.
“You are very tired, are you not?” Claude asked, tilting his head sideways as he studied her.
And that same blanket of exhaustion she’d felt the first day overcame her at once, leveling her and pulling her down into the darkness before she could take a single step toward her adjoining bedroom.
She entered the painting itself this time. Never, not once in any of her previous attempts, had anything so material—so supernatural—occurred. Drawing in quick breaths, she glanced about the scene, unsteady as she tried to gain her bearings. As she studied her surroundings, she saw that she stood to the right of the knight as he held out his sword toward the lion, which roared in agitated complaint.
“Go on! Kill it,” she yelled because the lion had turned its green, feline gaze upon her. Those eyes were deadly, yet the knight did not move.
But the lion did.
“Now would be a very, very good time to do your thing,” she screamed, stepping backward. Her bare foot caught on something, and she stumbled, falling onto the grassy field, which put her nearly eye level with the lion as it rushed her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the lion was on top of her, jaws open. Lifting protective hands to her face, she started to scream but was shocked by what the creature did next.
A warm, rough tongue began lapping her on the cheek, then the nose. All the way down her face and neck, nuzzling her.
“What the . . . ?”
The truth hit her then: some elemental structure of her own painting had altered, changing the knight trapped inside. He was no longer the one in the armor but had become the lion itself. The same big cat that was now affectionately licking her all over, a supernatural manifestation of her own little kitty, Cézanne. But this killer was no tabby cat.
You heard claws against stone in your dream that first day that Claude arrived, she reminded herself. The knight must have transformed then, briefly, as well.
She slid hands around the lion’s powerful neck, feeling the warm lushness of the creature’s fur. His mane was thick and soft, and she found herself stroking him all over just as he blanketed her with such sweet affection.
You are very close, he whispered within her. Near to freeing me.
The words rang inside her center, unspoken yet keenly felt.
“You warned me against Claude. What am I supposed to do? Finish the puzzle?”
I will protect you from him. But you must . . . heed my instructions. Trust . . . me.
She slid hands deeper into his fur, petting him just as she would Cézanne, unsure what else to do except treat him like a giant house cat. For one long moment, he rumbled in deep, satisfied reaction. Then she said, “You’re a freaking lion, man. What happened to you being the knight in the painting?”
He burrowed his heavy head against her breast. Claudius has claimed my form. He believes his will to be nearly dominant over mine now.
“Is he wrong?” She worked her fingers through his thick mane. “You’re not even human anymore.”
I am as I have always been. The true slayer.
“Tell me your name,” she insisted, holding his heavy body even closer. “It’s all I’ve ever asked or wanted out of this. To know who you are.”
He lifted off her, staring down with stark eyes. To hold a man’s name is to hold him captive. Claudius knows that truth above all others.
“I want to free you. You know that. You’ve always realized that. Surely you trust me by now?”
He backed away, opening his mouth with a roar as he turned toward the knight. Only then did she realize that the other figure was frozen. Dark hair, dusky skin, murderous expression. The knight was now Claude. Her lion stared up at the paralyzed figure, baring his sharp, gleaming teeth in a threatening expression.
He turned back to face her, his words moving inside of her mind and soul. If you learn my name, Claudius could use it as a weapon against you, he explained. The very speaking of it has slain much stronger knights than you.
She shook her head firmly. “I’m not a knight. . . .”
He moved forward and nuzzled her one last time, breath hot against her cheek. Finish the puzzle . . . and I will finish what Claudius began in me so many years ago.
She held the saw in her hand, wielding her “sea wave” pattern. As her favorite design, it had seemed most appropriate for her knight’s task. They’d been forced to wait until the evening to begin cutting the pieces, the gold not fully dry on the canvas until then.
Although Claude paced, growing increasingly impatient, she’d warned against how disastrous rushing might prove, reminding the man of her previous failed attempts. As those last hours ticked off, the gold slowly drying, Claude had nearly lost his impenetrably cool composure.
As she worked beneath the light now, nearly finished with the design, he hovered much too close beside her. She paused, saw in hand, and glared up at him. “If I make a mistake, the whole thing’ll be botched.”
He inclined a slight bow, backing away from her table. “As you say, Anna. You are the expert in this matter.” But then he gestured toward the clock that hung over her desk. “Still, allow me to indicate the time. We are fifteen minutes from the solstice.”
She bent almost eye level with the puzzle, squinting as she moved the saw. “And I’m no more than a minute from being done. That leaves plenty of time.”
And then what? she wondered, panic seizing her as she recalled her knight’s warnings in that final dream. He would battle Claude for his very soul, apparently. Where would that leave her?
The tool made a dull, buzzing sound as it reached the edge of the puzzle, and she turned it off, staring down to examine her handiwork. It was a splendid, rare piece, without a doubt. Perhaps her greatest work ever. If she’d wanted, she could have sold it for tens of thousands of dollars, an almost unimaginable sum, really, when you considered the rare Templar gold involved.
Setting the saw beside her on the table, she stared down at the burnished pieces. They seemed to grow more luminous with every passing second, in fact, and she glanced at the work light, wondering if the reflected light was creating the effect.
“You are done?” Claude’s words were breathless, excited. “The puzzle is completed?”
“See for yourself.” She rolled her chair back from the table, allowing him access.
Claude bent over the table, and she’d have sworn he was panting slightly. “He’s stunning. You are a master of your craft.”
“He’s still inside the puzzle,” she pointed out, hating how fast her heart had begun beating. A creeping sense of dread fell over her. Definitely not the lion from her dream. “It’s minutes until the solstice. How do we free him?”
“We must break apart the pieces now, scramble the image.” Claude reached toward the edge of the puzzle, but she stopped his hand.
“Don’t touch it.”
Claude stood upright again, studying her through narrowed sea gray eyes. “He was first ensorcelled within a chess set. Did you know that?”
She shook her head. “I know nothing. You made sure of that.”
“You knew enough to set about painting him. To realize the Templar gold was necessary.”
She shrugged, not wanting to tip her hand as to how intimately she and the knight were attached. “Call it a lu
cky guess.”
“From the chess set, I nearly freed him, but he moved into an illuminated Bible, of all things.” Claude laughed heavily. “That didn’t last long.”
Slowly she broke apart the first piece, the lower left corner, and then hesitated. “I’m not sure about this.”
Claude reached past her, blocking her from the puzzle with his large body. “This task, truly, should be mine. He must not have a way of reentering the image once he emerges.”
“Would he want to?”
“Sebastian Fray has a talent for many violent acts, especially moving from one image to the next.”
A name! Finally. She was certain that Claude had used it intentionally, too. That he was preparing some sort of trap—perhaps for her or more likely for Sebastian himself. But she had her knight’s name; all she’d wanted to know, really, or so she’d believed. Now she knew that her desire ran far deeper, was an unquenchable thirst to free a doomed and captive man.
“When you put it that way,” she said, “it doesn’t sound like Sebastian cares too much for freedom.”
Claude didn’t answer, focusing instead on disassembling the puzzle. The pieces formed a shimmering mound beneath his palms as the last bit fell from his grasp. “He is complete.”
That declaration seemed particularly perverse considering that the puzzle she’d painstakingly created lay in broken bits. She was about to remark on that fact when a humming, electric energy began, emanating from the work itself.
A swirling, living image began to take shape within the air, an amalgam of puzzle pieces that seemed to be alive. With a gasp, she looked at the table, but the small heap of cut work remained intact. No, whatever multidimensional tableau was emerging, it breathed with a life all its own, imbued with a dark, otherworldly essence that literally burned the air around her.
She tried to back away but found herself enthralled. Captivated. Even when she heard the lion’s roar, she remained manacled to the floor of her studio as if unseen hands gripped her ankles.
