“I don’t smell it,” Echo said from my pocket.
“You’re a ghost. You can’t smell anything,” Peasblossom scoffed.
“Not much here,” Andy commented, pacing the perimeter. The entire living space wasn’t bigger than seven by ten. Pale grey carpet had seen better days, but splatters of paint on the wood siding along the floor suggested someone had painted the walls in the last year. He searched the minuscule closet. “One change of clothes. Covered in paint.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not washed often.”
I studied the bed with its pale tan sheets and single pillow and the stand beside the bed with a small lamp. The walls were bare, with no knickknacks or books to hint at Simon’s personality. “Is this a bedroom or a prison cell?”
“There are paint stains everywhere.” Andy pointed to the sheets, then the clothes in the closet. “I don’t see any paintings. Think he sold them all?”
“He goes to the basement a lot,” Pete said, his words carrying through the door. “It’s his studio. He said he needed one, and we’re, like, patrons of the arts. Our parents think we’re, like…not responsible, because they pay for this house and stuff, but we’re…”
I raised an eyebrow at the door, waiting for him to finish. He didn’t.
Andy pressed his lips together and shook his head, and we left the room, walking past the two trust-fund children in the hallway. I worried they’d try to follow us down to the basement, but they stopped at the door as if there were an invisible fence at the threshold.
“Well that explains why he wasn’t going to the shelter anymore,” I said.
“But it doesn’t explain why he wanted Keegan to come here,” Andy replied.
“Based on his art on the wall by the rec center, I’d say he suspected what Keegan was,” I said. “But it’s hard to say. Kids can be symbolic with their art.”
Like the front door to the building, the door to the lower level wasn’t locked. Caged areas sectioned off the basement, so each apartment had dedicated space. Dark sheets covered one partition, turning the cage into a cave.
“My money says it’s that one,” Peasblossom said, pointing to the cave.
Andy lifted the padlock holding the cage shut. “We need to ask them for the key.”
“No we don’t.” I stepped around him and reached into my pouch to feel for my lockpick set. By some miracle, I found it right away, and in less than a minute, I had the padlock open.
“I smell blood,” Peasblossom said suddenly.
I sniffed the air, then met Andy’s gaze.
“I smell it too,” he said grimly. He drew his gun and stepped inside, sweeping his attention from one side to the other. “Shit.”
I blinked, surprised by the profanity. Then I stepped inside. “Blood and bones.”
“No,” Andy said. “Just blood.”
Artwork surrounded us. Canvases littered the floor, leaning against the cage walls, propped on wooden crates. Some of them towered above us where they hung higher up the cage walls with nails and wires. The subject matter ranged from original to copies of the old masters, but they all shared a common theme—blood. The air inside the blankets draped over the walls was thick with the scent of copper, but as was always the case with this much blood, it filled the air with a rancid, decaying smell. The aroma of death.
Some of the canvases had been slashed with a blade, the torn corners tinged with blood and left to droop like ravaged skin. I nudged a pile of plastic in the corner and frowned. “These are blood-drawing kits. Needles, tubes, ampules, gauze, alcohol swabs.” I wrinkled my nose at the discarded medical refuse. “He’s been drawing blood to use in this art.”
“Shade.”
Screams had begun somewhere in the corners of my brain, and I almost didn’t hear Andy. I pressed my lips together, holding in the screams, then swallowed hard, as if that would keep the sound from rising in my throat as I turned.
The largest of the paintings hung opposite the door, the crowning glory. Images of the first three kids to go missing from Constellation House. They lay on the ground in a field, surrounded by blood-darkened soil writhing with worms and insects. At the edge of the field was a forest, thick with rich green trees. A sidhe stood before the woods—Keegan. He held a blade in his fist, as if he’d slaughtered the kids and cast them out. A boy stood beside him, triumph in every line of his face.
Simon.
“Shit,” Andy said again. He jerked a thumb at the painting. “Want to interpret that one?”
“Shit,” I agreed.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Andy and I both whipped around.
Simon stood in the cage doorway. His tall frame took up most of the empty space, and his anger took up the rest. Fury pulsed outward from him like a physical extension of his body, centering on the crackling hatred in his eyes. He pointed an accusing finger at Andy, but I didn’t think either of us were paying attention.
We were too busy staring at the bloody knife in his other hand.
Chapter 10
“What are you doing here?”
Simon’s voice burned through the air between us, his anger a physical heat. He threw the door to the cage so it slammed against the wall in a rattle of metal, planting his booted foot on the cement floor to stop the door from hitting him as it bounced back. Nostrils flaring, he stormed inside, his aura writhing with potential violence. Andy brought his gun up with one smooth, practiced motion.
“Drop the knife.”
Simon sneered and held the blade higher, letting it catch some of the muted light shining through the opening in the blankets behind him. “You put the gun down. We both know you won’t shoot me. You’re the ones trespassing. I have every right to be here.”
“Put. The knife. Down.” Andy’s gun didn’t waver.
Simon didn’t lower the knife. When he shifted his weight, something in his other hand caught my attention. A narrow plastic vial with a colorful stopper that resembled the ampules used to collect blood for testing at hospitals. It was full.
“All right, let’s all stay calm.” I held out my palms, showing him I was unarmed. “Simon, we talked earlier at the café. We just have a few more questions.”
“You calm down. I’m fine. Can’t really blame me for being pissed to find two uninvited guests in my studio.” He ignored Andy and strode to the side of the room to put the knife and the vial of blood on a splintered wooden crate next to an unfinished painting.
“What’s going on, Simon?” Andy asked. He lowered his gun, but didn’t put it away.
“Nothing that concerns you.” Simon faced us with his arms crossed. “Unless you have a warrant, get out. I have work to do.”
We didn’t need a warrant. Peasblossom shifted behind my neck, stirring my hair. “Pleasant fellow, isn’t he?” she muttered.
I smiled at Simon, reaching into the well of magic inside me and pulling on a long thread of purple energy. I inhaled deeply, drawing the power upward so when I spoke again, it spilled past my lips and wound through the air between us.
“We don’t have a warrant because we aren’t here to arrest you. You aren’t a suspect, Simon, not at all. In fact, we’re here because we need your help. More kids have gone missing. Participants in the art program at the Memorial Youth Center.”
Simon’s lips parted, but only for a second. Then he composed himself, hiding any further reaction behind a mask of indifference. “Sounds like a job for the cops.” He stared at Andy.
I debated pushing him harder with magic, but it would be tricky. Simon wasn’t merely disinclined to cooperate—he was downright hostile. A little charm wouldn’t change his disposition—at most, I’d push him from outright hatred to uncooperative. I needed to soften that resistance first. If I could get past this hostility, the magic would loosen his tongue and we’d get the information we needed.
“We’re working on it,” Andy promised. “It’s in your best interest to help us.” He indicated the art hanging around us, fastened to the ch
ain links through tatters in the blankets. “He’s attacking artists. You’re an artist.”
A snippet of conversation floated through my memory, following Andy’s words. Inspiration struck as I remembered what Keegan had said.
“Your art is incredible,” I said, fixing my gaze on the painting closest to Simon. The enormous painting featuring the dead children. “If I’m completely honest, your technique needs improvement, but your passion is undeniable.”
Simon zeroed in on me with such intensity and such speed that I rocked backward, fighting to keep from retreating. He flowed toward me, the vein in his temple pulsing, his arms no longer crossed.
“What did you say?” He flexed his fingers as if resisting the urge to grab me and shake me until the truth fell out. “What do you know about art? What makes you say that about passion?”
The closer he came, the more tension flowed off Andy. I wanted to reassure him that everything was all right, but I didn’t want to take my attention off Simon.
“Absolutely.” I extended an arm, indicating the paintings. “I’m not saying I don’t see the skill that went into these—the lines and brush strokes bring a real cohesion to the painting. But there’s so much emotion radiating from these images, as if at any second they’ll leap off the canvas.” I steepled my fingers and pressed them to my lips. “And using blood? That’s…raw.”
Simon nodded, the gesture too fast, too shaky. “Yes. Yes, exactly. And not just any blood—my blood. I literally bleed life into my work now. I poured blood, sweat, and tears into every one of these.”
I gestured at the vial. “That’s your blood?”
He glanced to the ampule lying on the crate. “No, not that. Sometimes I get blood from other people. It’s for the art—sometimes it needs something extra, another source to portray the dichotomy, you know?”
“Whose blood?” I asked.
Simon shrugged. “Some girl. It doesn’t matter.”
Andy’s jaw tightened. “Who?”
“I don’t know her name,” Simon said, his tone thick with growing annoyance. “I find them hanging out at the rec center. I tell them I’m an artist and mention using their blood in my work, and before you can say ‘sheep,’ I’ve got a throng of drama hounds who can’t roll up their sleeves fast enough.”
“All too willing to donate, huh?” I said, swallowing a tide of disgust. I couldn’t decide what was worse: the fact that these girls made themselves vulnerable to disease and physical violence by going along with Simon, or the fact that Simon had encountered the Otherworld and still treated spilling blood with such ignorance. He obviously had no idea how dangerous it could be if the wrong person got hold of that blood.
He snorted. “God, yeah. Hell, this one”—he pointed at the blood sample—“was so caught up in how tragic and romantic it was to have her blood in ‘real’ art, it was all I could do to convince her not to use the knife to slit her wrist and bleed into the vial. Then when I’m done she’s trying to come with me to ‘watch me create.’ Like I want to be some sort of her stupid sex fantasy.”
I resisted the urge to fix him with a witchy look, to let him know what I thought of the way he talked about these girls. Now wasn’t the time for a lesson in manners.
Later.
“You favor mythic themes,” I said, pointing at his masterpiece. “Faerie kidnappings?”
Simon gazed at the painting, and there was a raw hunger in his face that hurt to see. This wasn’t art to him. This was wish fulfillment.
“The faerie realm lends itself well to art,” Simon said. “The sidhe are more…real.”
Surprise tried to lift my eyebrows, but I fought to keep it from my face. Peasblossom hissed. Few humans referred to the faerie as “sidhe.” “Faerie” or “fair folk,” even “elves,” but not “sidhe.”
“They can be foolish, too, though,” I said. “I used to read stories of fairy kidnappings and wonder, how many of the artists they took were actually the best? How many artists in that same village had more skill or more passion, but didn’t get noticed?” I thought of Echo. “I wonder if they ever knew they’d been left behind?”
Pain squeezed Simon’s features, and his breathing came faster, more labored. “It would be torture. Constant, unending, unbearable pain. Knowing it should have been you. That they’d taken someone who wasn’t as good, someone who was inferior. Living a mortal life, knowing some wannabe took your place in their world, while I was left to rot.”
I didn’t know if he realized he’d referred to himself at the end. Tears shone in his too-bright gaze, and he swallowed hard. In that moment, I hated the sidhe. I hated them because they’d preyed on children. Children with no home, children more vulnerable to pretty lies. Simon may be narcissistic, and he was certainly unpleasant, but he was still young. He wanted to be accepted. Recognized. Valued. And he’d been left behind.
The hostility had left him, so I poured more magic into my words, the thread of energy churning with deeper streaks of violet. “I spoke to the scout. The one who so horribly misjudged your work before. If only I’d seen these paintings earlier, I—”
“You talked to Oisean?”
Simon snapped back to reality as if I’d slapped him. Before I could react, he surged forward and grabbed my arms. Andy tensed, but I stopped him with a shake of my head. I could deal with Simon.
“I didn’t realize you’d managed to learn his real name,” I said softly. “How clever you must be.”
“What did Oisean say?” He shook me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “What did he say about me?”
“He’s always searching for new artists. He seeks passion above all else.” I cast my gaze over the room. “I wish I’d seen this before. I would have told him about you, told him about your passion. But he’s gone, and I have no way to contact him.” I met Simon’s eyes and forced him to hold my gaze. “You’re so clever, Simon, to figure out his name. Were you also able to track him?”
The layers of energy that had rolled out each time I spoke lay thick over Simon now. His features had lost the hardness of anger and defiance, and were now soft, almost friendly. “Yes,” he whispered.
Andy held still, as if afraid to break the sudden willingness of our witness to talk. I kept my breathing even, not wanting to startle Simon out of his cooperative mood.
“Tell me,” I urged him. “Tell me everything.”
He released my arms, his irises once again cloudy as he stared beyond reality. He shuffled to the edge of the cage and eased himself down onto a crate.
“I was the best,” he whispered. “Last year? The show. I was the best. Everyone said so; everyone knew. I could paint like any of the masters. I was born with that gift. There was talk of me getting my own show. When Oisean showed up, calling himself Keegan and pretending to be an art critic, everyone thought he’d pay attention to me.”
Pain pinched his features, and he curled in on himself, his shoulders bowing forward, his head drooping. “Technique. I had good technique. That’s all he ever said to me before passing me by. But to the others it was ‘What passion!’ Emotion everywhere, guts and blood and tears. He praised them, coddled them, treated them like they were gifts to the art world, unique, special, important.”
He slid his fingers into his hair and grabbed hold as if he’d rip it out. Tears spilled over to slide down his cheeks. “It should have been me.”
“How did you first see past his disguise?” I asked.
Simon snorted. “That bitch Lindsay. She was always trying to latch on to me, a disgusting parasite wanting to glom on to my talent, my future. I always ignored her, but that last night was different. She snapped. She was trying to lecture me about my art, like she was in any position to teach me how to improve. I told her to try finger-painting and leave the real artists alone.”
A spark of anger lit his gaze, a flare of the arrogance he’d had when he first stormed into the basement. “She told me I was nothing. Told me she was better than me, and that Keegan knew it. She said he
was taking her away. He wasn’t human—he was ‘Other.’ He was sidhe. She said she and the others were going away to live in unimaginable beauty, and I would be left behind to enjoy a plebeian life with whatever future my ‘technical skills’ bought me.”
His face paled. “I didn’t believe her. She was full of shit, half-crazy anyway. But then they disappeared…”
“Then you believed her,” Andy said. He, too, kept his tone low, even. I noticed he kept himself between Simon and the open door, staying close enough to jerk me out of the way if Simon reached for the knife on the crate beside him.
Simon stared into space. “It should have been me. I had more skill. I had more passion. Why didn’t he see it?” Hysteria pushed a tremor into his voice, and he wrung his hands in his lap. “Oisean was wrong, and I need to make him understand that. I need to prove to him he should have taken me.”
“So you hung around shelters that had art programs,” Andy guessed.
“It was the only lead I had. Oisean had said something about young people being less restricted, purer. I talked to all the art students at the centers in the area, getting a feel for the ones like Lindsay, and Matt, and Grayson. I watched for any strangers to show up. I wore my clothes inside out so I’d see through the glamour if Oisean returned, and I kept Pam’s picture of him without his glamour.”
“Did you carry iron?” I asked.
He grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it down in a nervous gesture. “No. No, they don’t like iron. I didn’t do anything that would push him away from me.”
“And the graffiti?” Andy asked.
Simon smiled. “It was to lead him here. Barring that, I hoped to whet his appetite, give him a taste of what I’m capable of so he’ll see the passion I have, not just the skill. He has to be ready.”
“Ready for what?” Andy asked.
“The invitation,” Simon breathed. “I’m planning my own exhibit, my own show. I’m going to show him I’m better than the others.”
“How will you send the invitation?” I asked.
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