by Amelia Oz
Chapter 21
Star Reversed
Stella
ime passed without meaning. The entire world had shrunk to remembering that Silvan was gone and brief moments when I would forget. In the forgetful spaces, there was sleep, my paint brushes, Alaric…and the bird. The arctic tern had appeared in the garden about a week ago. Watching him inspect my latest canvas, I recalled the raw sunflower seeds requested from Grayson. After cleaning my brushes in the outdoor sink, I dug a hand into the loose pocket of my jeans and pulled out a handful of the seeds.
"Want some grub, Bird?" I emptied my offering onto an outdoor table. "Maybe you could tell your friend Thomas that I'd like to speak with him," I suggested, feeling more than a little foolish. Thomas had believed the bird could communicate, but so far I didn’t see how.
A sparkle flashed, and I poked through the seeds to find a small glittering stone. The bird made a series of excited "Kee-ee" sounds. White feathers set off his black eye mask and orange-red beak, giving him the appearance of a scolding bandit.
Raising the stone to the light I recognized it as the same stone Bird had given me that night in Thomas' grove. It had been in my jeans pocket this entire time. I thanked Alaric silently for bringing me my own clothing.
I drifted over to the standing hammock. Lying down, I absently kicked off into a slow swing before holding the stone up to afternoon sunlight. It was small, perhaps the size of my thumbnail. Its brilliance reminded me of a diamond, yet the center was milky with a strange shimmer. It felt content in my hand and I squeezed it within my fist a few times, trying to think of what it could be. Bird flew closer—making soft "kip" noises as he watched me.
"Sorry, Bird. I won’t lose it again." I stood and tucked the stone back into my pocket. He seemed appeased as he tapped his feet and nabbed a seed before taking flight towards Central Park.
I wandered to my room and changed into a soft t-shirt and a pair of Silvan's old sweatpants he’d outgrown years before. Exhausted, I crawled into the huge bed and curled beneath the covers with my crystal treasure. I knew that Sam would not always be with me. The thought of being alone in life had been an ever-present specter. But Silvan had been so young. Alive. Any future I’d imagined, Silvan was a cornerstone. How could so much potential just disappear...his life-force no longer exist?
I could still feel him sometimes—and then my mind would remind me that it was impossible. He would never be with us again. I would never hear him tell his stupid zombie jokes. He would never become an adult. He would never fall in love and realize his dreams of becoming a master violinist. So much wiped away, and yet the sun kept rising with ridiculous oblivion that he was no longer alive beneath its promise. I'd come to hate those sunrises. Sleep was a reprieve. Sometimes I would wake and be okay for several seconds until the inevitable happened. I would recall that he died. Realize something that was forever lost; his dimpled smile, the way he set himself adrift in his music, our shared love of popcorn, our mutual hatred of hot weather—and the sobs would begin unabated until fatigue took me into blessed sleep.
In the darkest moments I would recall his bravery at trying to save Amanda. The fear in his eyes when he struggled to breathe. Thank goodness for Alaric and his ability to keep the worst at bay. He would stroke my hair and guard against the awful pain until I could drift off.
Once I dreamed that I was in the body of a woman, crying in the rain with such loneliness I woke up clutching my aching chest, crushed by the sadness choking me. I dreamed of a blonde girl who could make dandelion wisps dance at will. I dreamed of Sam, a younger, stronger version with a shockingly full head of brown hair. I even dreamed of waking in a coffin. Clawing uselessly until my screams shattered the glass above.
I kissed Bird's stone gift, feeling it warm against my lips and wishing that it might help keep the nightmares away. Then I put it in a zippered pocket so it couldn't be lost in the twisted sheets. In time I heard my bedroom door open and anticipated Alaric's weight on the mattress behind me as he would sometimes lie down with me between his work. Then the room was filled with bright sunshine as the curtains were thrown back. I hissed and buried my face in the covers.
"Stella Avery. Sam will be so disappointed in you," came a hard male voice.
I went still, terror freezing my limbs. That was not Alaric's voice. Where was Alaric? I imagined Marcus at the foot of the bed, leering over me with a large knife. Before I could move, the covers were ripped from me in a forceful yank. I scrambled towards the headboard, unable to see for the tangle of hair in my face. I screamed for Alaric and he crashed into the room.
"What are you doing?" Alaric roared, standing over me.
"Kardeṣim, stay out of it," the man said. I pushed my hair from my eyes and gaped to see Murad watching me from across the room with a stormy expression. The Noble King looked me over, his expression softening.
"Stella, dear. When did you last eat something? You're wasting away." Murad scolded gently. I hated that he used the word, “dear”. It was what Marcus had said.
I glanced down at my jagged fingernails, suddenly ashamed. I longed for the sanctity of my darkened room and blankets. I squinted at Alaric, beseeching him silently, but he just looked at the wall above my head, his handsome face an impassive mask. My voice was rusty with hurt. "I eat."
"Um hmm. Well in that case—how about you come and take a walk with me?"
I stared at him in amazement. The last thing I wanted was to leave this room. I didn't want sunlight and people. I craved what every wounded animal wanted. A peaceful cave in which to lick my wounds or die.
"You are worrying Alaric, sweetheart," he said kindly. My eyes shot to Alaric, but he was glaring daggers at Murad. The last thing I wanted was to cause Alaric distress. He'd been my rock in a tsunami-whipped sea. Deep down, though, didn't I already know that I'd taken advantage of his unjudging care? Distracted him from his normal life? He must be tired of having a guest all the time.
"How about a compromise? If you come with me now for a single hour, a short walk, then I will not ask you to eat or even comb your hair," Murad coaxed with a gentle smile. Panic rose at the thought of stepping out of my haven—yet a short walk seemed a reasonable exchange if it meant putting Alaric at ease. I ran my hands through my hair, feeling the tangles. When was the last time I’d washed it? A few days…perhaps longer. Warmth crept into my cheeks.
I slid to the edge of the bed and stood slowly. Alaric kept his distance and it hurt. I'd gotten used to his solicitous presence and touch. But he wouldn't touch me in front of Murad, would he? For all intents and purposes, I was the King's betrothed. Murad might be a decent ruler to his Primati, but he was still a king. I didn’t want to get Alaric in trouble.
When I returned from the bathroom, it was with clean teeth and my hair twisted in a low bun. Alaric was gone and Murad was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a pair of my sneakers. I put them on and we walked silently to the foyer where a pair of ornate gold doors embellished with snarling lions parted to reveal an elevator.
When the doors opened to a lobby, I hesitated. Since arriving with Alaric, I hadn't left the apartment, although I knew we were in New York City from Alaric and the long hours spent staring out at the landscape. We passed through two security sections until a doorman held the door for us. His examination of us was discreet but thorough. The world shifted the moment we stepped outside into the humid air. Murad paused infinitesimally and the doorman moved inside so fast I barely saw his retreat. Weird.
For September, it was hot. Much hotter than back home. The dense flow of people was uncomfortably close, one or two giving me a dirty look as I stood like a stone in a river. Murad touched my elbow and moved us in the direction of Central Park. My shoes might as well have been lined with lead. To his credit, Murad kept to my unhurried pace, somehow discouraging others from bumping into me. In time we passed vendors selling used books. My senses were on overload. The thick odor of subway exhaust wafted in blisteri
ng waves from sidewalk grates. Sour garbage and warm pretzels added to the complex layers of scent around us.
“So you’re a—you-know-what—but you can still be outside in the sun. How is that possible?” I asked, too embarrassed to say the word “vampire”. Murad leaned close, as if to hear me better.
“What was that you said? A you-know-what? Do you mean a good-looking investment banker?” he teased. I rolled my eyes and he laughed softly.
“I am a vampire but I’m also more than the stories report about our kind. We’ve had plenty of time and money to invest in the entertainment industry and its false portrayals. There aren’t many in the world today and each continent has a group that call themselves a family—who act as an oligarchy for that part of the world.
“Many of us can be in the sun, although those with the greatest longevity prefer to keep distance from humans during daylight hours. Less temptation that way. A particular issue for younger vampires who don’t get enough sustenance.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him what he meant exactly by “sustenance” but then he brought us to a halt in front of a massive stone building with fountains and imposing marble steps leading up to its entrance. The steps were crowded with people who were lounging, taking pictures or eating. The scent of hot dogs made my stomach take notice.
"This is it. The MET," he announced, gesturing to the building with its colorful banners. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. My heart raced. I'd studied its collections online and in books. Mark Rothko and Van Gough under the same roof. There were even Egyptian mummies, which I’d always wanted to see. I turned to him, energized. "Can we go inside?"
Murad responded with a huge grin and gestured towards the entrance. I soaked up every detail of the interior hall as Murad paid our admission fees. Once we reached the bottom of the main marble staircase, he pulled me aside, waiting until my awed gaze shifted from the spacious ceilings to his face.
"I have several paintings on exhibit here. All under aliases. The museum likes to move things around and rotate collections, yet I'm hoping the piece I want to show you is on display. I want to play a little game and see if you can find this painting without any help from me." I frowned uneasily. The museum must have thousands of paintings. No way would I be able to find Murad's without knowing his style or the name he’d assumed.
"Take your time. Meander. I have all the time in the world," he said calmly. I shrugged. If he wanted to follow me around while I soaked up the museum, he was welcome to it. There was no way I could locate a painting with so little to go on. I wandered, noticing the startled glances of a few people we crossed paths with. Murad would nod with a tight smile, and they would bow their heads deeply, hastily moving from our path. It was an unwelcome reminder that he was more than what he seemed and that the world I thought I'd known was really much more complex.
He followed me patiently as we explored the Egyptian wing and ancient Greek grave stelae before making my way up the wide marble staircase. According to the map I swiped from a kiosk, European paintings here were categorized by type and time period. I stood mesmerized before the brushstrokes of impressionist masters and great artists who'd captured iconic imagery with passion and sly wit. Many I'd seen in books or posters. As we walked, a mild tugging sensation took root in my chest. I noticed that Murad began watching me with a half-smile, as if anticipating something. The longing intensified as we moved room to room. I hurried across creaking parquet floors, my eyes scanning and discarding as I went. Once I even wormed my way in front of gawking tourists and was reprimanded by security guards who hushed when Murad came to my side.
When I entered the room, it was as if we'd entered the hushed sanctum of a house of worship—one in which generations of hopes and prayers had permeated the very structure. The oil painting filled almost an entire wall in the smallish room. A polished wooden bench sat before it. I approached slowly, along the edge of the opposite wall, stalking it. The frame was old and decorative, its paint flaking away in places to reveal wood. The painting itself appeared at first glance to be a jumble of dark hues with no form. It was a reconciliation that made no sense.
I drew nearer, sitting on the bench. I stared and stared, knowing I was witnessing something both mysterious and authentic in a mad world. The colors lightened and I gasped. What I had taken for a mass of brown and russet strokes became a forest at nighttime; the sun's dying light caressed bare branches and hidden places. Fallen trees lay on the forest floor, giving life to a future ecosystem. It was the grandeur of nature and its fallow season fully understood and executed. Details came to life as my eyes adjusted and contrasts appeared. I stood and stepped close to the canvas. Two tiny figures walked through the forest floor. A third figure appeared as a half face and shoulder, peering out between a tangle of branches.
The painting continued to lighten the more I studied it. Leaning over, I read the simple white placard beside its frame. The Woods Before Dawn by William Carter. He'd used an alias.
Murad stepped near and handed me a white handkerchief. I accepted the soft cloth, wiping my face before blowing my nose. I silently dared him to say something, but he only smiled ruefully. He really was very handsome. I wadded the fabric into a ball and sank onto the bench.
"Is this your painting?" I asked quietly.
"Yes." He sat next to me and placed his palms against spread thighs. "It is."
"How...why?"
He leaned forward, his hawkish gaze on the painting for what seemed an eternity.
"Many years ago, in my search for Lila, I followed a tip from an informant that led me to Fontainebleau Forest, outside of Paris. It was less populated then, very rural; Clara and Tess joined my search, thinking she might reveal herself to them, if not to me. No one confessed to seeing anything useful, least of all a sleeping woman in an elaborate glass box." His half-smile was sheepish as he cleared his throat.
"But I knew she’d been there. I felt her there in my bones. So close. The agony of hope is something I have lived with for a very long time." The tightness of his voice resonated with the uncomfortable pain in my own heart. Without thinking, I touched his hand and he was suddenly clasping mine. It felt nice.
"I understand your grief, Stella. Lila was lost in her own anguish over my savagery. I caused it. I lost the love of my life to something I had no control over. This painting was my outlet and what you feel when you see it is likely a shadow of intense longing. Alaric showed me your work and I felt grief. I think you have the ability to paint magick into your art. Certain humans over time have held this magick but not to the degree of your work. It is rare even among the Primati."
I studied the painting with fresh understanding. He’d painted Lila peering from a tangle of winter branches, elusive within the enormous landscape. Without careful study, she wasn't immediately visible, adrift as she was in the dark. I ignored the magick comment, figuring he meant it figuratively.
"As to why you were drawn to it—I've noticed over the years that humans who are sensitive in nature seem the most affected by it. I worked off and on for over twenty years on this piece. Perhaps imbued it with a piece of my soul, if I were capable of having one.” I would never want a soul so bleak, no matter how beautiful, I thought. But wasn’t all observed art like touching someone’s soul?
"It certainly has a magnetic quality. I think I could sit here and look at it for days," I said truthfully.
"And that is the trap, Stella. It is not healthy to wallow in our sorrow. Grief is love in equal proportion, but whereas love is selfless, its equal measure in grief can become a madness that consumes as surely as a black hole upon the cosmos.
"No one can tell you when your grief for Silvan is ready to evolve into something you can live with. That's okay, Stella. Just know that I understand what you are going through, and you’re not alone."
His words broke something fragile inside. You’re not alone.
"It was my fault," I whispered. He stiffened beside me.
"Am
anda didn't want to come but I made her anyway. If Amanda hadn't been there, then Marcus wouldn't have found me there, and Silvan would still be alive." The words left me in a rush. There was no relief with sharing their weight.
Minutes passed and then Murad spoke in a calm, measured voice.
"I will say this but once. It was not your fault, Stella. What happened was the result of a thousand small decisions by many people, over many years, that had to have occurred beforehand. It is the web of life itself. One day you will see this clearly, but for now you can only feel and then release this undeserved guilt." He patted my hand.
"Let it pass through you like a fog, moving through you to the other side." We sat in silence for a while longer, studying the painting. As it became harder and harder to lift my eyelashes, Murad stood with a reluctant smile.
"You’re tired. We should go back."
We strolled back to the apartment building in comfortable silence. There was no identification of the penthouse on the floor selection buttons but Murad typed into a keypad. As we entered the elevator, I forced past a new shyness to make eye contact. "Thank you."
He nodded with a tilt of his chin. The elevator opened to melodic peals of laughter. Alaric stood near a grand piano in the living room, a beautiful strawberry blonde hugging his arm as she smiled up at him. My entire focus zeroed upon the exact spot where she leaned against his arm. He seemed at ease, as if they were old friends.
"Stella!" Tess leapt up from a couch and hugged me. It was a very brief embrace. "Uh, when was the last time you showered?" she whispered in my ear. I flushed, folding my arms and trying to appear smaller. When did everyone get so opinionated over hygiene? The Titian-haired beauty approached. I glanced at Alaric, who greeted Murad in muffled tones. His overt disregard stung.
"Hi, Stella! I'm Clara. I've known you since you were six years old but you wouldn't know that. I'm very glad to finally meet you in person." Clara? We appeared the same age. How could she be the leader of an entire continent of witches? Who would ever take her seriously?