by P. C. Cast
“Yes,” Candice ground from between gritted teeth.
“Then that is why it is impossible that you have written the poems.”
“What the hell—” Candice sputtered and started to get up, but Godiva’s firm hand on her arm stopped her.
“Candice,” Godiva said. “The poems have magic.”
“Exactement!” Barnabas said, clearly relieved that Godiva had stepped in.
“Magic? But how? I don’t understand,” Candice said.
“You saw the people. Your poems made them cry. They made me cry. When I looked at the paintings and then read your words, I thought my heart would break with sadness. It was awful—and wonderful.” Godiva teared up again just thinking about it.
“That is how everyone has been reacting,” Barnabas said. “Since I put them on display this morning. Weeping and blubbering, blubbering and weeping.”
“But where did you get them?” Candice felt as if she’d just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl and couldn’t quite get her bearings.
“They were in a plain brown package I found by the rear door to the gallery this morning. I opened it, and my heart began to break. Naturellement I instantly put them on display.”
“So who left the package?”
He shrugged. “It did not say. There was only this note in the package.”
Candice snatched the paper from his expensively gloved fingers. Typed on a plain white piece of regular computer paper it said:If the poet would like to work with me again I would be willing.
Tell her that I will meet her here at the gallery tonight at sunset.
“But there’s no signature or anything,” Candice said.
“Artists.” Barnabas sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Okay, none of this makes any sense. The artist seems to know who I am, but I have no idea who this person is, how he or she got my poems. I mean, I just wrote them for the online class. I typed them into the computer, attached them to my e-mail, and sent them to the creative writing professor. Then I put the originals into a file labeled with the proper class. I suppose someone at the university could have gotten to them. The only other copies were blown away one day in a freak windstorm.”
Godiva shifted guiltily in her chair.
Candice shot her a narrowed look. “What do you know about this, Godiva Tawdry?”
“Nothing!” she said quickly.
“So you did not print them in such lovely calligraphy?” Barnabas asked.
“No! Not even my handwritten copies looked anything like those.” Candice got up and marched to the front window. She yanked both framed poems from the easels on which they were displayed. As an afterthought she made little shooing motions at the gawking, crying people. Then she hurried back to Barnabas’s office.
“Let me see them,” Godiva said. Candice gave them to her and the witch studied the poems. “This is hand-lettered with a calligraphy quill—nothing computer-generated about it.” She kept staring at the poetry, and suddenly her eyes widened. “It’s not working!”
“What?” Candice asked.
“The magic. I’m not feeling anything.” She looked apologetically at her friend as she handed the poems back. “They’re perfectly lovely poems, but I’m not crying.”
“So the magic’s gone?” She should have known it. No way would she really have magic. She glanced at Barnabas. The vampire looked stricken.
“Wait. I have an idea,” Godiva said. Flouncing herself over to the window, she grabbed one of the paintings, noting that all the criers had dried up and drifted away. She returned with the picture. “I need the poem that goes with this one.”
Candice looked at the green-eyed woman in the cave of ice, and was in the process of handing the free verse poem to her friend when she gasped and stared at the painting.
“The eyes! I knew there was something about them. She has my eyes.”
Barnabas looked from the painting to the teacher. “Mon dieu! You are right, madam.”
“The other one has your hair,” Godiva said.
“Holy shit,” Candice said.
“Give me the poem.”
Candice let Godiva take it out of her numb fingers. The witch held the poem up beside the picture. Almost immediately the vampire started to sniffle. Through his tears he said rapturously, “It has returned! The magic has returned!”
“It never went away,” Godiva said. “It just doesn’t work without the paintings.”
“That is weird as hell,” Candice said.
“Madam,” Barnabas gushed breathily into the silence, “I would like to commission you and the artist for twelve more poetry paintings. And I would be willing to pay you this amount of money.” He scribbled a number down on a piece of pink notepaper and slid it over the desk to Candice.
She picked up the paper. She blinked. And blinked again. She could not believe the amount of zeros on the paper. “You want to pay me this for twelve poems?”
“Mais non!” He looked offended. “I would pay you this for each of the twelve poems, as long as your artist agrees to illustrate them. “Naturellement, I would pay the artist the same commission. I have already called my brother in Denver. As soon as you and the artist fini, we will have a grand opening exhibit in the city that will be très extraordinaire!”
Candice wasn’t sure she could breathe. “But I don’t even know who the artist is.”
“We’re idiots!” Godiva said. “Isn’t there a signature on the paintings?”
“No, madam sorcière. I studied each painting for the artist’s signature. What I found was odd, not a normal signature at all.”
“Well, what did you find?” Candice asked, staring at the painting.
“In the bottom right corner of each is a miniature reproduction of a full moon. That is the only signature the artist left.”
Candice sighed. “Looks like I’ll be here at sunset to meet this mysterious artist.”
“But I think you should go home and change first,” Godiva said. “Those jogging shorts are frayed and you spilled banana split all over your shirt.”
Candice was too busy wondering at the amazing events to notice Godiva’s self-satisfied little smile.
Eleven
Candice was more excited than nervous. She dressed carefully, purposefully picking artsy clothes instead of the boring teacher crap that hung in the front of her closet. A poetess! she told herself, I’m going to dress like a poetess.
She chose a silk skirt that she’d bought in a funky shop in Manitou Springs the last time she’d visited the Colorado Springs area. Its scalloped hem flirted a couple of inches above her knees and it made her feel pretty and feminine. She matched a sleeveless black top with it and then hung her new necklace around her neck. It was a waterfall of amber beads and she realized that she’d bought it only because it reminded her of Justin’s eyes—but she couldn’t seem to help herself. This job will help me get over him. And if it keeps up it’ll be my ticket out of here. Denver, here I come! She pointedly ignored the fact that rumor said Justin was living in Denver. It didn’t matter. Denver was a big city, and she’d never run into him. She didn’t hang in the coed crowd. Instead of thinking about Justin, Candice slid on a pair of strappy black sandals, gave her hair one more fluff, and rushed out to her Mini.
The sun was just setting when she pulled up in front of the gallery. She was relieved that Barnabas had taken the paintings and poetry out of the display window. She really didn’t want to wade through another crowd of crying people to get to the door.
Stepping into the gallery she was met by Barnabas, who was wringing his hands.
“The artist insists on meeting alone with you, madam,” he said. “I will go, but I will be back in exactement one hour to hear your decision. Au revoir until later, then.”
“But where’s the artist?”
“In the rear gallery. That is where I have hung your work.” With one more worried glance around his gallery, the vampire minced out the door.
Candice straightened her sh
oulders and walked to the rear gallery. He was standing with his back to her, studying the two paintings that hung beside the framed poems. He’s really tall, was her first thought. He was wearing a dark, conservative suit that fit his broad shoulders well and tapered nicely down to his waist. His thick sand-colored hair was short and neatly cut. He didn’t seem to notice that she was there.
“Hi. My name is Candice Cox and I’m the poet,” she said, wishing she’d given more thought to how she would introduce herself.
“I know who you are,” he said without turning around.
Candice blinked. Was she so excited that her ears were playing tricks on her? That voice. She knew that voice. Didn’t she?
“Why did you write these poems?” he asked.
“As an assignment for a class I’m taking.” She felt the air slowly being squeezed out of her.
“Was that the only reason?” He still didn’t turn around.
“No,” she said softly. “When I wrote them I tried to explain how I was feeling.”
“And how was that?”
“My heart had been broken. I made a stupid mistake and jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t the right one.”
Finally, the artist turned slowly around. His amber eyes met hers. “You weren’t all that mistaken.”
She couldn’t believe it was really him. With his hair cut and his suit he looked . . . he looked like a man who could take on the world and win.
“I’ve missed you, Candy.”
“Justin, I—I . . .” She tried to put together a coherent sentence while her emotions swirled.
“I’m sorry!” they said together.
“I should have given you a chance to explain,” she blurted out.
“No! I shouldn’t have gone to that stupid party to begin with,” he said. “I want you to know that I wasn’t going there to be with another woman.”
“I know that,” she said.
He took a couple of steps toward her. “Did I really break your heart?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Is there any way you could let me fix it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered again. Then she closed the space between them and stepped into his arms. He bent to kiss her, but her words stopped him. “You’re the artist!”
He smiled. “I am.”
“So you found your inspiration in my poetry?”
“No. I found my inspiration in the woman whose heart finally became soft enough to be broken, and when I did I understood that separately we are just a gigolo wolf and a burned-out teacher, but together . . .” His lips gently brushed against hers.
“Together we make magic,” she finished for him.
Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
The art gallery, Dark Shadows II, was located in trendy downtown Denver, nestled between a Starbucks and a posh designer jewelry shop. It was a popular place, known for its unique exhibits and for discovering talented new artists. But even for a popular gallery, tonight’s opening was busy. No, not busy—mobbed. The gallery owner, Quentin Vlad (whom everyone in Denver believed to be eccentric and odd, which was partially true . . . the other part was that he was a vampire—something that no one needed to know) was all atwitter. Dollar signs were blazing in his eyes, and he didn’t even mind that he’d had to hire extra security to control the crowd. Sold! Every available piece in the exhibit had been sold within the first hour of the opening.
He could hardly believe his brother’s amazing find! Who would have imagined it? A nonmagical poet and an untrained artist werewolf—put them together and they create art that evokes feelings in the people who view it even outside the boundaries of Mysteria!
Now that was magic.
“Fifty thousand! I’ll up my offer to fifty thousand dollars!”
Quentin looked into the flushed face of the sweaty man who was staring, mesmerized, at the spectacular painting and poem that hung side by side in the central room of the gallery. “Sir, I’m sorry. I told you the first twelve times you inquired as to its price. That particular piece is part of the artist and poet’s personal collection. It is not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale,” the man quipped. “Everything has a price.”
“Not that piece.”
The deep voice came from behind them. Quentin and the desperate man looked back to see a tall, handsome young man dressed in dark jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He had his arm around a woman who wore funky, artsy clothes. Her thick blonde hair was loose, framing the arresting green in her eyes perfectly. She leaned into his side intimately.
“No.” She smiled. “Not that piece.”
He bent to kiss her and, arm in arm, they strolled into one of the other crowded rooms of the gallery.
The sweaty-faced man’s gaze stayed with them a moment, but soon his eyes were drawn back to the painting and the poem—as was everyone’s attention. The painting was wondrous, a blending eroticism and beauty so breathtaking that it, alone, would have been an attention-getter in any gallery. But mix it with the poem that was displayed in intricate calligraphy and framed beside it, and wondrous evolved into spectacular . . . magical. As couples read the poem they gravitated together. Lone readers sighed wistfully. Some rushed out of the gallery, already on their cell phones to their lovers. Some just stood and stared, weeping silently at what was missing in their own lives. Some, like the sweaty-faced man, decided that if they just owned the piece then somehow, miraculously, love would find its way into their lives.
“It’s what I want; what I have to have,” the sweaty man said to no one in particular. “It has to be my story.” He looked at Quentin one last time. “I really can’t buy this?”
“No, you really can’t.”
The man’s eyes moved back to the artwork. “But maybe I can get her to forgive me—ask her for a second chance.” His eyes brightened and some of the desperate flush went out of his face. Quentin decided that he must be much more attractive when he wasn’t so, well, sweaty and florid. “That’s it! I’m going to ask her for a second chance!” He gripped Quentin’s thin hand. “Thank you, Mr. Vlad! And thank the artist and the poet, too!” Then he rushed from the gallery.
Quentin grimaced and discreetly wiped his palm on his handtailored Italian suit. But like everyone in the room, his eyes were pulled unerringly back to the wall where the art was exhibited. The painting was almost life-sized. The medium was textured oil, so the nudes looked rich, their skin almost alive. Their bodies were twined together in an intimate embrace—erotic yet loving—sexual and sensual. Their faces were indistinct, and Quentin thought then, as he had the first time he’d seen the piece, about the brilliance of the artist. He’d created a painting that allowed each viewer to imagine his or her own face within the scene. But the woman’s hair was distinctive—thick and long and blonde. The man in the painting fisted it in his desire as it cascaded around her shoulders. Quentin shivered. Even he was not immune to the passion in the piece. His eyes shifted to the poem and, again, he was captured in the poet’s web as he read:Second Chance
Remember when it went wrong,
When the fabric of our universe tore . . . frayed . . . dissolved?
But then you turned back time
and we escaped from the prison of withered desire
I flung my arms wide and embraced
passion newborn.
Because you turned back time
I dance naked, joyously teasing the fiery sun,
safe in the knowledge that even Apollo’s
warmth cannot compare to
the heat of your caresses.
When you turned back time
I found the way to nurture
soft, sweet words
in my emerald meadow
I wound around you, a clear, cooling stream
soothing and nourishing,
helping you, in turn, to feel renewed.
And in that renewing
found my own magic
with you.
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br /> Beside the poem hung a placard that told about the artist and the poet. It read:The medium of our work is not important. It varies from piece to piece. We do not focus on techniques or styles. We simply focus on the same thing we’d like you to focus on—the true magic of love, which will always transcend time and disbelief. May all of you live happily ever after. . . .
—Justin and Candice Woods
DISDAINING TROUBLE
MaryJanice Davidson
This is for the girls, who know who they are (if you want to know who they are, check the dedication page from Mysteria). They turn these projects into an awfully good time. Who said writing was work? Okay, my grandpa. And Jenny Hildebrandt. And Jessica Growette. And my sister. And my sister-in-law. And—well, I like it, anyway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe many people thanks for this story, primarily all the readers who bought Mysteria without which, natch, there would be no sequel. So thanks for unlimbering the credit cards, y’all!
Thanks also are due to my long-suffering editor, Cindy Hwang, and my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, who really didn’t suffer much at all.
Triplet: One of three children born at one birth.
—The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language
Too good for mere wit. It contains a deep practical truth, this triplet.
—Herbert J. C. Grierson, The Good Morrow
Prologue
When the Desdaine triplets were born on a frigid February night (Withering came first, then Derisive, then Scornful, all sunny-side up and staring with big blue eyes at the ceiling), the doctor and attending nurse screamed and screamed. This startled Mrs. Desdaine, who started doing quite a bit of screaming herself, despite the epidural. Two other nurses and a resident also came running, and so did a custodian, wielding a mop like a lance.