by P. N. Elord
Unfortunately, permits from the labyrinthine, bureaucratic halls of the Union came down the pike only one way—by greasing the Artistry Czar’s palm with some serious coin. Money she definitely didn’t have. Heck, she didn’t even have enough in savings to impress the lowly Fiber Arts Subczar.
Anyway, the point wasn’t the ever-tangling administration of the U.S. government, but rather that she didn’t have the kind of bucks required to obtain usable Templar-grade gold. It was like realizing that a drowning man needed saving—but that first you’d have to use your Nikes to hop to Mars for a rope.
The only way to get her mitts on that gold, she’d finally realized, was to sell a bit of her own freedom in exchange for his. She would have to do what had always been unthinkable to her sleep-till-noon-and-work-when-you-feel-like-it mind-set. Acquire a patron.
Eerily enough, she landed one almost immediately once she committed to the decision. Spookily fast, given the creeping hands of Artistry Union time, where just filling out paperwork for basic requests could take months. The patron application, however, was apparently greased with hot wax, so slippery smooth that her new benefactor arrived at her door within twenty-four hours of her request. She’d landed the beneficent assistance of one Claude Edwards. Now that imperious name, she was certain, should belong to a governmental czar, if not to someone from the twisted corridors of history itself.
She’d been under his thrall since he’d appeared at her workshop almost two weeks ago, that bloodred velvet pouch dangling from his fingertips, swinging like a hypnotist’s pendulum. The tassel tangled in his grasp as if he were working a marionette, wheedling it back and forth in his magnetic hold. He’d stood there, with his smoky blue eyes and exotic skin, like some wise mage bearing gifts, as if one of him were enough to do the work of all three famed magi.
From the first, suggestive promises dripped from his tongue, as liquid and entrancing as true Templar gold would be, she was certain. “I have what you require,” was his opening seduction gambit. That haughty half-smile of white teeth against dusky skin was the second pearl. “I have in my grasp everything that you seek.”
She hadn’t mentioned specifics on the application.
“That’s saying a lot if you knew what I want, mister.” She folded her arms right beneath her breasts, knowing that her size D French bra would appreciate the added lift for effect. “I want a lot of things.”
“No desire should be too much for a woman of your talent,” he answered in a silky whisper. “Or beauty.” He bowed slightly, a sort of almost gesture that left you wondering if it had happened at all.
She slid her gaze up and down his expensively suited body. He had the lean look of a barely restrained panther, the kind that some jet-setting heiress would collar with diamonds. He was also the type of guy who would make a woman, particularly an artist, into another collectible, so she made sure to objectify him as a sort of preemptive strike.
She slid her gaze up and down his form once again. “Most of the things I want, sir, don’t come packaged in thousand-dollar suits. Or looking fine as you do. Just saying.”
Except patrons, some teensy, obnoxiously logical voice reminded her. You are looking for someone exactly like this man.
He patted the front of his jacket, smoothing it elegantly. “Three thousand dollars,” he corrected in precise British English. Since preciseness was obviously high on his priority list. His smile widened, one dark hand poised against his jacket in explanation. “Savile Row.”
“I love London.” She sighed dreamily in response, unable to help herself from the demiswoon. It was, after all, her favorite city on all of God’s good earth.
“London.” He sighed in kind, clearly indulging her appreciation. “It is my home.” He gave another little nonbow, making her blink to be sure she’d not imagined it. “I could take you there. Perhaps. If we arrive at a mutually beneficial arrangement. I believe you would appreciate such a journey.”
She stood taller and stared shrewder. “Look, how can I help you?” She gestured over her shoulder toward the workshop’s interior. “I’m kinda busy, you know. Clients to please, jobs to do.”
His smile faded, and his tone became businesslike. “None as important as mine.”
“You’re awfully vain.” Damn, why had she swooned over London? Talk about credibility erosion.
“Your task remains incomplete. This haunts you. Especially at night. When you dream.” His voice was low, as hypnotic as the noise machine she used in an effort to hold the nightmares at bay. “I bring a solution.”
He dangled the pouch higher, forcing her gaze to its heavy velvet. Blood crimson, like liquid rubies, the color magnetized her gaze—when it wasn’t slipping upward to meet his own moody eyes, smoke blue and turning down at the corners in a perpetually melancholy expression.
She stood in the open doorway, blinking at the bright Charleston sunlight. Two blocks off the river and the midday sky reflected bright, piercing rays. She’d spent the morning huddled over her worktable, squinting under artificial illumination as she worked her saw, swirling a pattern she called “sea wave” into her latest box. Close as she’d get to the ocean this summer, at least with as hard as she perpetually worked. She’d finished the painting itself last week, but it was the cutting of the pieces that could be most problematic.
“So, Mister Savile Row, what do you want with a lowly artist like me?”
“You have no idea what I have here, do you?” He seemed affronted, shocked that so far his sideshow temptations hadn’t lured her into his scheme.
She gave an offhand shrug. “Starbucks? If I’m lucky.” She pointed at the crimson-colored pouch. “But I don’t think they’ve figured out how to pour liquid coffee into a little satchel like you’ve got there. Caffeine-laced scones would work, though.”
“Didn’t bring any with me from England, I’m afraid,” he replied, the edges of his thin lips turning up slightly. So did the edges of his crisp accent, just enough to betray impatience. An indication that despite all his heady promises, he considered her simply a means to an end. A trifling, pesky insect that he couldn’t quite be bothered to squash.
“Then I’ve got it.” She leaned against the door frame, propping her wire-rimmed glasses atop her head. “And I know, it’s a really genius leap on my part, but . . . you’re a puzzle collector.”
His too-thin smile expanded and he moved closer, the movement as languid as his graceful way of speaking. Lifting his fingertips, he swung his velvet pouch closer and closer to her eyes, the motion counting off time itself like a cosmic metronome.
His voice was husky low as he said, “I’ve brought you what every poor Artistry Union member craves.”
Her gaze flicked back and forth, tracking the bag’s motion; her throat tightened compulsively. Sanity demanded that she break the spell; temptation dragged her deeper beneath the undertow of the man’s magic.
She swallowed again, trying to blink. “I’m not . . . that poor.”
Back and forth, heavy. Filled. Weighty. “Not that rich, either, Anna.” A hint of Middle Eastern colored his pronunciation of her name. A touch of it; one red drop of paint falling into clean white. A total alteration to the purity of the hue.
He moved right up against her, the heat of his body radiant. “But not rich enough for what you’ve been chasing, either. Not for what I can provide freely. Abundantly.” He leaned two inches closer, lowering his melodic voice. “You can almost touch him, can’t you, Anna.”
She reached a shaking hand, ready to seize hold of the velvet satchel, but it swung right out of her grasp, vanishing. She searched the ground, his hands, but saw nothing. Desperation swamped her in a heartbeat. “I want it,” she admitted in a rush, almost ashamed, but not quite. “Yes, you’re right. I need it. Very much.”
His white teeth flashed in a sudden broad smile, a rich contrast to his moody skin. Beautiful. He was absolutely stunning, just like that bag of his.
“Hold out your hand, Anna,” he mur
mured, and she didn’t bother to wonder—just as she hadn’t earlier—how he knew her name. Or why he felt he could pronounce it with that bedroom voice and feline gaze. Then again, he’d come to her workshop, received her application. That had to be the reason he seemed so familiar with so many details about her, didn’t it?
She complied, extending a palm with almost childlike obedience. At once, her hand was filled, the heavy sack even weightier than she’d imagined.
She laughed, staring at the satchel in pure wonder. “This can’t be. Nobody’s had access to this stuff for years.” Despite her demurral, she could feel the solid, burning strength of the metal slipping inside the velvet, the way it coiled and moved like a living thing. A snake hissing its twin temptations of beauty and knowledge. She shifted the bag, yearning to feel the substance of it, her fingertips already painting, swirling, designing . . . even though she wasn’t at her easel yet.
“Those with enough money have always held it in their hands.” He took hold of her palm and very deliberately ladled the heavy pouch’s contents into her palm. The slithering, living gold came more alive the moment it made contact with her skin.
“Feel it. This is only a small quantity. I can provide this and more, as much of it as you require. As much as you’d ever dream of wielding with your brush or tasting with your artist’s tongue.”
She allowed the substance to coil about her palm, loop about her wrist, to twine between her fingers.
“It recognizes what you are, Anna. The artistry of your hands cries out to it; see how it responds to you, how it yearns to be touched.”
“This isn’t real.” She turned her hand, watching the way hundreds of unexpected hues and subtleties gleamed in the midday light. “I must be dreaming now. That’s what this is. Just another one of my whacked-out nightmares.”
“Are you afraid?” He seemed genuinely affronted, stepping through her doorway and into the dark interior of her studio. When had he taken position just inside the frame?
“I don’t believe it.” She reached her free left hand and drew her eyeglasses down onto the bridge of her nose, studying the substance more closely.
“Living gold. That’s what all the legends call it,” she observed, watching the thick substance band about each of her fingers, forming swirling rings.
“You are holding that very thing.”
“They also say that Templar-grade, liquid gold can drive the artist mad. Did you know that, too?”
He walked all the way into her parquet-floored hallway, studying the intricate paintings she’d applied across her floor. “Lovely,” he observed, staring down his nose at the patterns. But he didn’t answer her question.
“Or maybe you just think a little madness is good for the artist’s soul?” She followed him inside, closing the door with her bare foot. “That we should be inspired.”
“No, you are incorrect.” He turned and looked at her, seeming very somber. “I am aware of the insanity side effect, yes. And no, I do not think any artist should suffer thusly.”
She stared at her hand, only then aware that she’d begun petting the gold with an absent gesture as they spoke. “Then why offer it to me? I didn’t mention what I needed in my application to the union.”
He cocked his head. “Application?”
“Yeah, you obviously got hold of my patronage app, right? I mean, that’s why you’re here. How else would you know my name?” She bobbed her head impatiently; every bit of conversation pulled her away from studying her new possession.
“I do not know of any application.”
Her heartbeat quickened, and in reaction, the gold shimmied right up her forearm, escaping inside her shirtsleeve. “Then . . . why are you here? Who sent you?”
“The one you seek.” He gave a full bow this time, lingering in the position. “I serve him, as you do.” Finally he rose to his full form, smoothing a hand over the front of his suit.
“Look,” she said, peeling the gold from around her upper arm and clumping it into her fist. “I’m a free agent. That’s how it’s always been; that’s why applying for a patron was a big thing. I don’t serve anybody.”
“No?” He lifted a significant eyebrow. “You have made no pledges?”
Three failed tries. Three broken promises. Yeah, she’d been serving him for months now, allowing him to winnow his way into her dreams and paintings and thoughts.
“So tell me one thing. Why are you willing to trust me with something so precious?” She cradled the gold in both palms, walking toward him. She’d just give it back and forget the man who stalked her mind’s dark alleys.
Except the stranger’s answer changed everything. Altered the odds, tilted the gaming table.
“Simple,” he answered, British accent melting into something far more ancient and foreign. “I want to free him, too.”
As soon as Claude left, a heavy wave of exhaustion overcame her, the kind that had your eyelids closing no matter how determined you were to continue working. Anna left the studio area of her apartment, dragging herself toward the bedroom, already half-asleep before she collapsed onto the bed.
She had never been one to nap.
Her mother always said she was born with an extra helping of energy, wired with enough stamina to dedicate herself to her many artistic passions. Although puzzle making was the greatest of those, she also created stained glass by commission, dabbled in weaving and intricate crochet, and piddled away her spare time by tiling mosaics.
As she rolled onto her side, the somnolent sound of the noise machine nailed her into sleep, the dream already reaching out to claim her.
It was different this time; she realized that at once, even as she remained fully cognizant that she was dreaming. Previously, the knight had been in scenes straight from some tapestry or medieval book of hours. Not now. She was cocooned in darkness, and she heard him breathing somewhere in that black space.
“Where are you?” she cried out, not that she expected an answer. The knight never spoke aloud, although he was very expressive with his eyes and gestures. His silence seemed a prison of its own, almost as if words were forbidden to him. “I can’t see anything.”
Heavy, labored breathing answered her, and extending both hands, she felt around herself tentatively. The slick, damp surface of stones met her fingertips. They were slimy, wet, and cool to the touch, and she began shaking. Her knight was in danger. He had to be; otherwise, they’d be in another downy meadow or flowery field, azure sky expanding overhead.
The rattle of heavy chains split the darkness, a rumbling moan following in the wake of the sound. She moved forward, feeling about her as if she were in some hellish version of blindman’s bluff.
“I’m coming. I’ll find you,” she tried to reassure him, only to hear another soulful moan.
Her right foot hit chilling iron, and she dropped to her haunches. Feeling the links of chain, she could tell they were encrusted from years of use. She felt her way toward him, using the iron as a guide.
His hot breath hit her face, a panting heat of desperation as he clasped her shoulders. Without being able to see his eyes or read his expression, she didn’t understand what he was clearly begging of her.
“Tell me,” she urged, reaching toward him. She felt a sweat-slicked chest, smelled the heavy odor of captivity all over his skin. “I don’t know what you need!”
I am not allowed . . . to speak.
“You just did. Now.”
Inside . . . you. Only. By . . . my will.
“Then do it again.”
Grimy fingers felt her face, her jaw, her mouth, more desperate and aggressive than he’d been in any of the previous dreams. She mirrored the gesture, trying to absorb him, to comprehend what he needed. “Tell . . . me,” she whispered, feeling the heat of her own tears as they rolled down her face.
Freedom. Life.
He released her, shoving her backward, and for a dim, black moment she would have sworn she heard the rustle of fur. The click of nails
upon decaying stone.
But then there was only piercing light and the drone of her noise machine.
Claude insisted on overseeing every moment of her work as she handcrafted the costly puzzle he’d commissioned, and although it should have made her nervous to have him seated just beyond the penumbra of light, studying her with his shrewd gray blue eyes, she found his presence oddly soothing. The illogic of that effect, how counterintuitive it was to his physical demeanor and shady behavior, didn’t even bother her.
Her new patron revealed few secrets as to his own provenance, and she was fine with that fact, but not with how closemouthed he remained about her knight. With the painting nearly complete, she grew frustrated with his lack of communication.
“Look, Claude, I need to know who he is,” she said, studying the scene on her easel. It was an image of a dazzling, armored knight battling a lion—just as he had requested. It was also a radically different painting from the one she’d created on her three previous attempts to free the warrior.
Claude had been very detailed in his specifications for the puzzle’s image. From the man’s golden hair—to be applied with the Templar bullion—to his height and weaponry, to the other knights watching his display of gallant bravery. Even in his description of the open Bible that a monklike figure held, standing off to the far left side of the display. His insistence upon twin deer appearing in the far background only made her laugh. Talk about medieval stereotypes; Claude produced them in spades.
“What are the deer really doing?” she asked at one point, but he merely inclined his head.
“They are part of our scene, Anna. Would you deny them entry?”
As long as nobody in the painting sat in a deer stand, her southern girl soul was fine with including the creatures. So she worked at the canvas day after day, compliant as she fulfilled each of her money man’s specifications.