The Artist's Touch

by E. J. Russell

  “I chose you,” Luke whispered.

  “What?”

  Luke’s eyes refocused on the heavy oak mantelpiece under his hands. “‘I chose you.’ That’s what Edward said to Arcoletti. His last words.”

  “How do you know?” Franklin’s voice at his shoulder startled him.

  “I . . .” Bile burned the back of Luke’s throat at the memory of Arcoletti squatting in his mind. Jesus, if only he could disinfect his brain. Scour the inside of his skull with steel wool and erase the residue. “Arcoletti sort of . . . ah . . . possessed me, too. But he sure as hell didn’t want me to paint.”

  Franklin’s eyes glittered in the glow of the Tiffany lamp. “You must be more like him than I thought.”

  “Am I?”

  “Or else you have something he needs.”

  “What could I have?” Luke rubbed his chest, the spot that had burned in his nightmare when Arcoletti realized what he’d done. “I don’t even have Stefan anymore.”

  Franklin grabbed his wrist, the grip of his frail-looking hand strong enough to bruise. “What did you say?”

  “I said I don’t have Stefan. I expected him to choose me, but he didn’t.” Not back at the conservatory and not tonight. Not that Luke had given him much of a chance. “So I left.” Both times.

  “Jealousy.” Franklin’s tone held no surprise. Why should it? He’d had a ringside seat to jealous-asshole behavior when he was an eight-year-old kid. He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what Arcoletti wants from you.”

  “What?”

  “Redemption.”

  Luke laughed at the satisfaction in Franklin’s voice. “Then he’s shit out of luck. Stefan kicked me out. After I told him about Boardman selling the paintings.”

  “And you went?” Franklin harrumphed. “Never figured you for a quitter.”

  “This is not about me.” Luke pressed his fist against his forehead and took a deep breath. “I’m begging you,” he said, voice ragged. “Don’t go through with the sale. Don’t make Stefan collateral damage in your vendetta against Arcoletti.”

  “Are you fool enough to think that’ll save him?”

  Desperation clogged Luke’s throat. “You want me to confront Boardman, I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll enjoy it. He’ll be lucky to sell a fucking postcard after I’m done with him.”

  Franklin leaned forward, both hands braced on the head of his cane. “How’d it feel, having Arcoletti invade you? Want to do it again?”

  Luke shuddered. “God, no.”

  The old man nodded. “No room in one body for two souls.” He pointed a bony finger at Luke. “Ask yourself, Morganstern. What does Arcoletti want from your friend? What’ll he do once he’s got it—and what’ll be left when he’s done?”

  Luke remembered how Stefan had seemed more gaunt between one day and the next, as if he was being consumed from the inside. How many times could he play host to that homicidal parasite before nothing remained of Stefan anymore? He needed to get out of that freak-show studio now. Tonight.

  Luke froze, hand clutching the mantelpiece, his stomach in free-fall.

  Tonight. The dark. The mountain. The ghost. How could he face them a second time in less than a day?

  Screw it. Because, God almighty. Stefan. “I’ve got to go.”

  Nothing like the fear of vengeance from beyond the grave to cure his switchback-phobia. Luke made it up the twisting mountain road in fifteen minutes flat, topped out on the plateau, then gunned the car across the gravel, braking in the patch of sodden weeds between the cabin and the studio. He leaped out of the car before the engine died, breathing hard like he’d run up the hill instead of driving like a maniac.

  Around him, tree branches lashed in the wind, roaring like surf in a sea cave. The drizzle, a constant since his arrival in Oregon, had vanished. Static crackled in the air. On his skin. In his hair.

  No smoke curled from the stovepipe on the cabin roof. No light flickered in its windows. No guttural hum from the generator, but the studio windows glowed with an eldritch light that was coming from outside the building, about three feet from the north wall, as if beamed from some cosmic projector.

  Dread washed like ice water through his gut. “Stefan Cobbe, you son of a bitch,” Luke shouted into the wind, “don’t you dare leave me for a goddamned motherfucking ghost.”

  He sprinted for the north side of the studio, promising the pain in his hip and back that he’d coddle them later. Stepping into that unnatural light to look through the window was like breasting a wave of filthy, electrified water. Every hair on Luke’s body stood up, and his skin tracked with pinpoints of heat like fire ants were feasting on his flesh.

  Stefan was standing at the easel, palette and brush in hand, his back to the window, his body blocking Luke’s view of the canvas. The Glenlivet sat on the workbench behind a box of jumbled brushes.

  “Stefan!”

  Stefan glanced over his shoulder and a trick of the light—God, please let it be a trick of the light—turned his eyes into empty, black pits. He shook his head and faced the easel, shoulders hitching toward his ears. The paintbrush jerked into higher gear.

  Luke stumbled away from the window, out of that hellish light, Franklin’s question replaying in his mind. What would Arcoletti do when he got what he wanted? Best case, he’d decamp. Worst case, he’d decide he liked having hands again, a body again, and his greedy spirit would roost inside Stefan until nothing remained but an empty husk. Luke refused to let that happen.

  “Ghost, you’re going down,” he growled.

  A swirl of rusty-brown pine needles rose around him, redolent of dust, mildew, and decay, pricking his skin like a shower of tacks. He threw an arm up to protect his eyes and limped to the south side of the studio.

  When he grabbed for the door, static sparked between his hand and the door handle. A crackle, a boom—and then he was flat on his ass, halfway to the tree line, gasping for air and blinking at the sky where clouds twisted like tattered rags across the field of stars.

  A handful of pine needles hovered over him, defying the wind. They burst into flame and arrowed at his chest.

  “Shit!” Luke beat at his coat and the tiny sparks died against the damp wool.

  He scrambled to his feet, heart beating double time. He snatched a fallen tree branch off the ground used it to jam the door handle down. He kicked the door open and lurched into the studio, slamming the door against another barrage of pine needles. The door vibrated as if it had been hit by a dozen knives. God, don’t let them be flaming this time.

  With his breath sawing in his lungs, he scanned the room. The easel and canvas blocked Stefan’s head and upper body. Luke took two steps forward until the top of Stefan’s head was visible, hair standing in a ragged crest. Another two steps and he could see Stefan’s forehead, lined, and his eyebrows, lowered. Luke clenched and unclenched his fists. “Stef. We need to get out.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” Stefan’s voice was rough, a growl.

  “If you’re here, I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Not again.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Did you drink the Scotch?” A gust of wind broke over the studio like a tidal wave, rattling the windows, its howl drowning any answer Stefan might have made. Luke forced himself to take the last step and peer over the canvas. He cleared his throat. “Ah . . . am I speaking to Stefan Cobbe or Jeremiah Arcoletti?”

  Stefan’s mouth twisted in a not-quite-smile, but his brush never faltered. “Christ, Luke, this isn’t the freaking Ghostbusters. I didn’t drink the damn Scotch, okay? Now shut up and let me finish.” From under his shaggy bangs, his gaze flicked up to Luke’s for an instant before riveting on the painting again, and his eyes were his own—clear, Gulf-blue, shadow-free.

  Luke released his pent-up breath. “Finish later. We have to get off this fucking mountain before Arcoletti’s shit hits the studio fan.”

  “I mean it, Luke. I can fix this, but you have to let me paint.”
<
br />   “Paint faster. I’m afraid—” A pile of rags on the worktable erupted in flames. Stefan whirled around, dropping his palette facedown on the floor as Luke ducked. “Aaannnnd time’s up.”

  All along the worktable, tubes of paint exploded in a machine gun rat-a-tat.

  “Jesus.” Luke grabbed Stefan’s arm. “I didn’t know paints could do that.”

  “They can’t.” Stefan threw his brush down. The seat of the rocking chair at the end of the table bloomed upward, sending wooden slats flying toward them like spears. Luke knocked Stefan to the floor and flung himself on top of him. The slats clattered against the wall.

  “Neither can chairs,” Stefan said, voice muffled under Luke’s chest.

  Luke rocked back on his knees and Stefan sat up, dust smudging his cheek. Luke grabbed his arm and hauled ass toward the sofa. Another series of pops erupted from the worktable and globules of something hit Luke’s back like body-temperature hail. He vaulted off the cushion and landed behind the sofa, Stefan right next to him.

  Luke peered over the sofa back at the flames dancing on the worktable. “Was the easel Arcoletti’s?”

  “No. I built it after I moved in.”

  “He’s only hitting things familiar to him. The paints, but not your easel. The rocker, but not your butt-ugly seventies sofa.” The slats tore loose from the rocker back and winged across the room, thudding against the sofa cushions. Luke and Stefan hunkered down, covering their heads.

  “Don’t dis the seventies sofa,” Stefan said. “It’s saving your ass.”

  “My point is, seems like he’s only hitting shit that belonged to him.”

  “But didn’t the whole property belong to him?”

  Fire roared up the wall behind them, and smoke roiled under the ceiling like thunderheads. Luke hauled Stefan back over the sofa. “You had to say it, didn’t you? He’s dead, not deaf. Cover your mouth with your shirt and get out before the generator blows.” Or the propane tank. Goddamn, the place was a fucking bomb.

  “You go. I have to get the painting.”

  “Are you nuts? Forget the painting. This guy wants to fry us.”

  Stefan shook his head, and Luke was tempted to knock him out to stop him from arguing. “No, he doesn’t. Not really.”

  “Maybe not you. But me? I think—“

  Another row of paint tubes burst in a rainbow splatter, and Stefan broke for the easel. Luke grabbed for him, missed his arm, and got the sleeve of his flannel shirt. It ripped, leaving Luke holding the ragged cuff. Stefan pulled his undershirt up over his nose and staggered forward to gingerly remove the canvas from the easel.

  Luke sprinted to the door as fast as his gimpy leg allowed. He yanked on the door handle and it didn’t give. Damn it, no. He braced his feet and heaved, lips stretching in a grimace, muscles straining as he forced the door open. He kicked a convenient bucket between the door and the frame just in case Arcoletti tried to shut it again, breathing a sigh of relief that turned into a cough.

  Eyes watering, he peered through the smoke at Stefan, who was shambling toward the door with the still-wet painting held away from his body. Move faster, damn it. He lunged for Stefan’s arm and yanked him out the door.

  “Head for my car,” Luke wheezed. “Once we get—” The weeds under the rental car flared, engulfing it in flames. “What the fucking hell? The grass is soaking wet. How can he do that?”

  “He’s a ghost,” Stefan panted next to him, holding the painting as if it were made of glass. “You expect logic?”

  “Shit. Next time, I’m opting for the extra rental insurance.” Luke put his hand between Stefan’s shoulder blades and pushed him toward the forest.

  Stefan dug his heels into the spongy ground. “Stop. Other people live on this mountain. The forest has barely recovered from the Tillamook Burn. We can’t just walk away.”

  “How the fuck do you suggest we handle it? Garden hose?”

  “I’m not an idiot. We call it in. The sat phone—”

  “Don’t say it.” Luke flinched, expecting the impact of a propane explosion when Arcoletti ignited the cabin. Instead, his leg heated from the inside as if the titanium rod in his femur rested in a bed of red-hot coals. He collapsed on the ground, clutching his thigh. “Jesus H. Fucking Christ.”

  Stefan’s eyes widened. “Luke. What—”

  “Run.” Apparently, Arcoletti considered Luke his possession too, but Luke refused to let him have Stefan. “Get away before the gas tank blows.”

  “Like hell I will.” Stefan spun around, faced the studio, and shouted into the dueling roar of fire and wind. “Jeremiah! Jeremiah Arcoletti!”

  “Damn it, Stefan. Don’t poke the bear.” Smoke burned the back of Luke’s throat, and the pain in his leg robbed his lungs of air. “Not when the bear has a big fucking flamethrower!”

  “He’s not yours, Jeremiah. He’s mine. But I know what you need.” Stefan held the painting out in front of him and walked toward the studio. The flames hadn’t spread. Could Arcoletti contain fire? Who the fuck knew? Luke just wanted to remain conscious long enough to drag Stefan down the mountain.

  Stefan held the painting higher, angling it right and left as he moved, displaying it to the burning studio, the watching forest, and the pissed-off ghost. He turned around and Luke got a look at the picture in the flaring light from both fires.

  A portrait. In Stefan’s own style.

  Edward Franklin.

  The wind died as if the clearing held its breath, and the crackle of flames from the car and the studio sounded louder in Luke’s ears.

  “Here it is.” Stefan’s voice turned soft, coaxing. Luke would have followed that voice across broken glass on his hands and knees. “The last painting. The one you should have done if you’d known. If you’d had the chance. Here he is. Not facing away from you. Not distorted in a rain-drenched window. Your Edward. Tall, strong, unafraid. The real Edward. The one who’s still waiting for you. But you’ll never find him if you don’t let go of your anger and see who he is. A man who can stand on his own.”

  Arcoletti’s nightmare words echoed in Luke’s brain. “I’d paint him every day if I could. If he’d let me.” And Stefan’s words from earlier tonight: “What if I don’t want to be taken care of? What if I never did?”

  God, Stefan was fucking amazing. He’d gotten it right, Luke felt it in his bones. This was the one painting Arcoletti had never done, but should have. The acknowledgement Edward had craved from his lover but never received—recognition of his worth outside of Arcoletti’s shadow.

  The same recognition Stefan wanted but never got from Marius. Or from me. No wonder he understood.

  As if the combination of the portrait and Stefan’s words had conjured him, a figure stepped out of the trees. A man in a tuxedo, his bow tie undone, the flames casting orange glints on the round lenses of his spectacles. Semi-transparent, like his reflection in Last Chance Cafe.

  Edward’s ghost met Stefan’s gaze with a quirk of sensitive lips and a brief incline of his head. He took in the clearing, the car, and the studio, and shook his head like a fond parent admonishing a naughty child. He beckoned once as if inviting someone unseen to join him, then turned and walked back the way he’d come.

  If Luke squinted really hard, past the spots flashing in front of his eyes, he could see a taller, loose-limbed shadow by Edward’s side, head haloed in a wild aureole of hair.

  The two disappeared into the trees and the burn in Luke’s leg vanished. The flames of both fires snuffed out, leaving only smoke, a damaged studio, and a seriously barbecued rental car.

  Luke pushed himself to his feet. “Holy shit. What just happened?”

  “He finished.” Stefan’s arms fell, and his shoulders relaxed, the portrait dangling from one hand. “They both did.”

  Considering the shambles of the studio, Stefan’s delighted laughter was inappropriate, but so what? He’d done it. He’d painted again without performance-enhancing spirits—alcoholic or ectoplasmic. Not only
that, but Luke was back, and he’d seen the evidence Stefan hadn’t lied, not about anything.

  A deafening report stopped his laughter cold. God, had something exploded after all? He spun around, ears ringing.

  Luke lay on his side with a hand pressed to the outside of his thigh, lips drawn back in a rictus of pain, and Stefan’s euphoria vanished. Luke’s injuries. Shit, why hadn’t he remembered? He dropped the portrait face-up in the weeds. “Luke, is it your leg? But Jeremiah’s gone. I thought—”

  “No,” he barked. “Get down. Gun!”

  Stefan dove for where Luke lay. “Gun? Are you okay?”

  “Never mind. Just stay down until I tell you to get up.” Luke squinted at the dark blot on his sweatpants. “Damn it. Asshole winged me.”

  From beyond the cabin, a figure emerged, long coat flapping in the rising wind. A pale ribbon of fabric detached from the figure’s neck and fluttered to the ground in a familiar twist of silk and fringe. Thomas. Stefan heaved a shaky sigh. No matter how shady Thomas’s business practices might be, he’d never failed to help.

  But if someone was running around with a gun . . .

  “Thomas, watch out!” Stefan called, his voice still rough with smoke. “There’s a shooter. Take cover!”

  Luke flopped onto his stomach. “Are you kidding me? This is Thomas Boardman? Jesus, I’ve been shot by Truman Capote in opera drag.”

  Stefan’s eyes widened, and his hands fisted in the weeds. “Thomas shot you?”

  “He’s the only one up here waving a gun around. Check it out.”

  Stefan lifted his head—sure enough, Thomas held some kind of weapon. He stopped by the blackened hulk of Luke’s car, his pale eyes white in the moonlight. “Where is he? My uncle?”

  Stefan jerked as if Thomas had shot him too. He knew. He knew about the ghost. Well, of course he did. He’d seen the goddamn paintings. Shit, no wonder he’d been so careful to keep the Scotch fully stocked.