Page 81 of Nocte
Caspian
Ihave been here before. Once. Twice. Many times. Under Cassius? I think.
No.
Before Cassius…
My skull aches. I can’t remember. I hold her hand, and I can’t remember. Good or bad. The past means nothing. I hold her hand, my stupid, foolish, smiling, little fae…
And her reality is all I give a damn about remembering. Ensuring. Protecting.
She wants her paintings, so I take her down a winding hall and shove her before one.
Oh.She should say. Then, we move on to the next. Done. Her will is fulfilled.
And she will smile that stupid smile again.
I wait for her sound of awe. That gaspedOh.
She says nothing. She stares at the portrait on the wall before us and says nothing. She stares. Wide, black eyes fixate on canvas and splatters of paint as though they are the most beautiful things in existence. The way Cassius would never look upon his horde—he never cherished us anyway. Not all of us.
Just me. She looks at this wall the way Cassius would look at me. But her obsession doesn’t irritate. Doesn’t disgust and make me want to rip out her fucking throat.
I want her to look atmethe same way. The way she looks at this piece of canvas and oil and pigment is the way I want her to look at me.
In silence. In terrible, woeful awe. As though it holds her entire soul within its woven threads, and after just one look… She will never be the same again.
“Speak,” I hiss at her. Scattered mortals flinch and stare. They, too, strive to create silence in this place by staring at images of blocky, distorted paint and perspective. I look where she looks. I see nothing. Color and ugliness and nothing.
“It’s…” She trails off. Her eyes water, and my entire body is repelled. More tears from her. Tears not caused by me. But these are different. Not of pain or utter disappointment.
These ones… I reach out and brush one along her cheek and watch it disintegrate. These ones can stay, even though I don’t understand their purpose. Their cause. They can stay and speckle her pretty, pale, hollow skin.
One by one, they fall. They adorn her face like diamonds and gold. They drip, drip down. But I need to know why.
“Speak,” I demand, low enough for only her to hear.
She sucks in a ragged breath. Sighs. “It’s so beautiful. Art… is so beautiful.”
Beautiful. She says it with the breathless awe of some precious, incredible thing. I look, and I see ugly smears and meaningless marks.
“Show me,” I demand, stepping closer, insisting upon it. “Tell me how to see what you see.”
She swallows, her eyes still fixed on her painting. She shakes her head. Then takes our combined hands and presses them to her chest, right over her beating, thumping heart. “It’s in here,” she murmurs. “You see it with this.”
With this. A beating heart. But mine doesn’t pump and churn hot, flowing blood. It hasn’t for a long while. Not since the night Cassius crept in…
Did he creep? I can’t remember. That’s the funny part. I can’t remember one damn thing about the night he took me. Made me. Turned me into this.
“Tell me what you see,” I snarl at her. “Tell me. Show me.”
She takes my hand in both of hers and stares forward, fixated on her own painted world.
“The color is so beautiful,” she says. Then hesitates. She’s used to shutting up. Her stupid male fae would shut her up. I should shut her up.
“Tell me.” I step into her, crowding her little body closer to the wall. With my lips near her ear, I stare forward and try to see what she sees. I want to see what she sees.
How better to destroy it. Embody it. Make her look at me and see the same stupid view she sees now.