by Ophelia Bell
“Come on, April,” Josh said in encouragement. “You’ve got this.”
I’d managed to fend off the worst of the self-doubt. My skills weren’t the issue; it was the material, the very atmosphere around me that failed me. I’d gone back to paper sketches and blacksmithing for a little while, which seemed more forgiving than glass. Hammering out the iron and twisting the copper for the trunk and branches of the sculpture was also cathartic and let me work out some of my frustration. The alternative was throwing the malformed chunks of glass at the wall just to hear them smash. There was a time and place for that kind of destruction, but I needed to keep my mind solidly focused on the concept of creation. My sculpture was about life, after all. Not death. Order rather than chaos.
Which perhaps made my affinity for fire somewhat ironic. Fire and earth often destroyed each other, but in my hands, with my skill, they worked in synergy. First with the creation of the vessel. It began as an elaborate steel filigree setting, not unlike an enormous piece of jewelry. One of the bases rested on the floor beside me, an empty metal cage waiting to be filled.
When the taffy-like fluid clinging to the end of my blowpipe was the right size, I would press it into its cage, blowing on the mouthpiece of my pipe just enough for the glass to bulge out from between the metal, like a balloon wrapped in a net. Once the mouth of the vessel was opened up, I would secure the completed piece in the annealer to slowly cool down enough to handle.
The second step was to add more life to the empty vessel. Rich soil and tiny plants would fill it, and with enough sun and water, would bloom in time to be admired by the patrons of the gallery at the show in a few weeks.
I was in the zone, every ounce of energy focused intently on each step of the process. It was finally working, but it wasn’t until we’d locked the piece securely in the annealer that I realized I’d been holding my breath.
I exhaled a weary groan, leaning into Renee as she flung her arms around me. “I knew you could do it! You’re amazing!”
“Now I just need to repeat the process nineteen more times.”
I still had three weeks until the show, but the globes all needed to be done within the next few days to allow time for planting the mini-lifescapes that were meant to grow inside each one. I’d either need to stop sleeping entirely or hire more help, but I didn’t know anyone skilled enough to trust with my design.
“I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee,” Josh said in a resigned voice, anticipating my needs as always.
“Good call. I’m going up front to double-check the dimensions of the space. If I adjust the scale, maybe we can save time fabricating the branches.”
I grabbed my tape measure and headed into the gallery, though I already knew there was no way I could compromise my design for the sake of the schedule. It was meticulously planned, the dimensions of every piece intended to reflect the golden ratio, so I couldn’t alter a single piece without radically altering the whole sculpture. That would never do. But I needed some busy work just to get my head back in the zone, and visualizing the final product where it would rest within the clean lines and natural light of the gallery always helped.
Pushing through the back door between the warehouse studio and the gallery was like emerging from a cave into the light of day. The whole building was situated in a refurbished industrial district close to downtown, but the public-facing gallery had been renovated with hewn logs surrounding the metal columns and frosted glass skylights spanning the entire roofline. The interior walls were painted white, and the hardwood floors gleamed. The afternoon had turned sunny for once, and the gallery had a handful of customers browsing among the art.
I slipped in and couldn’t help but fall under the spell of the space myself, my eyes catching on one of the enormous floor-to-ceiling canvases that graced the rear wall. It was an abstract study in color that always made me feel like I was either falling up into the sky or diving into the ocean, depending on how the light hit it.
Needing a break from thinking about my own shit for a bit, I let myself get sucked in and just breathed. It was a sky day today, which was my favorite, and I absorbed the variegated blues and golds that spanned the canvas, fading into white at the bottom, and a deep indigo at the top.
I sensed rather than saw a presence slip up beside me, evidenced by heat as intense as my glass furnace and as comforting as the sunshine. Somehow, whoever this new arrival was enhanced the sense of flying I always got when I gazed up at the tall canvas, the scent they exuded reminding me of the crisp, clear air on the peaks of Mt. Rainier.
God, if I could bottle that scent and carry it with me, it’d do wonders to keep me in my head when the rest of the universe seemed intent on throwing me off-balance.
Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes, basking in the calm that seeped into me. I wanted to look at whoever this angel of a person was but didn’t want to shatter the moment.
When the air shifted, and I sensed them moving away, I had to act. I wasn’t ready.
“Please don’t go. Not yet. I just need another minute.”
They stopped, returning to my side with their delicious heat and calming aura. “My pleasure,” said a low, deep voice that cascaded over me like warm water, clearly identifying my new favorite person as a him.
My body warmed for other reasons at the sound of his voice, and I finally gave in to the need to see him. While the moment of calm reflection was sadly over, I didn’t mind the potential for other distractions. I opened my eyes and made a deliberate ninety-degree turn, but had to shift my gaze up a lot more than I’d anticipated just to meet his eyes.
First impressions are everything, but I wasn’t sure if I could trust mine. Two things went through my head when I finally craned my neck and looked into a pair of eyes the palest gray I’d ever seen. The first was dragon, the second, incongruously, was the line from the Fate’s Fools song, “Firestorm”: It’s all over now; you lit the spark that sent me up; it’s all over now.
His eyes seemed to flicker and darkened back to a more human gray until there was nothing about him that didn’t look human. He had thick, wavy black hair and a deep tan, and was pretty much the embodiment of tall, dark, and handsome in gray cargo pants and a black fleece Henley. Had I imagined the whole dragon idea?
Except when his lips spread in a slow, knowing smile, a voice resonated inside my mind.
“You’re Bloodline, aren’t you? And I’m guessing you carry dragon blood.”
My eyes widened, and I blinked slowly. “Did you just…in my head?” I pointed to my temple.
His laugh echoed through the gallery, the rich sound making my skin tingle.
“The fact that you just responded answers my question.” He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back a little on his heels, taking me in from top to toe. His eyes flickered again, light flashing briefly before they returned to gray. I didn’t think he was really checking out my body though. Or at least not just my body. “You have more than dragon blood, don’t you? Your aura is a lovely tangle of elements. Do you know what they are? Is it nymphaea or ursa?”
“Hold up,” I said, raising one hand. “I need a second to absorb this. Are you what I think you are?”
The prospect of finally, finally getting the chance to interact with one for real had me ready to pounce, though I had no idea where that urge came from. There had been dozens—hundreds—of opportunities over the past year to speak to other members of the higher races. They lived among us, blended in so well normal humans had no clue. I could have gone up to any of them and struck up a conversation. Yet, somehow, I never felt the urge. On the contrary, my instincts always compelled me to steer clear. Except now that he’d broken the silence, I didn’t see how I could stop myself. Was I even allowed?
He bit his lip as if he struggled to hold back another laugh. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
This time the response came in my head, not from his lips. “Br
oadcasting your thoughts. You must have dragon blood to be able to do that, and to hear me too.”
My mouth fell open. “No! I wasn’t…was I?” Oh, shit!
“No shit,” he echoed my silent thought, grinning as my cheeks went molten.
I covered my face with both hands, shaking my head. How mortifying. My first chance having a conversation with a dragon, and I had to just blurt out all my thoughts? I was still doing it, wasn’t I? Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Warm hands gripped my shoulders and squeezed, then, strangely, he pulled me against him, sliding strong arms around me and shushing me softly. I went because somehow sinking deeper into that cocoon of warmth and calm was easier than resisting. By the time he had me completely within his embrace, my body had relaxed, and I couldn’t help but slip my arms around his torso and sigh in contentment.
“God, you feel good,” I said, the words muffled against his chest and probably way too honest, but if I was going to think it, what the hell did it matter? He’d hear my thoughts anyway. “Sorry for the thought diarrhea. You were kind of the last thing I expected to see today.”
“You’ll learn to control it with practice. It’s an amazingly rare thing to see in a member of the Bloodline though. Usually, powers don’t manifest without a high concentration of higher races blood.”
I sighed again, closing my eyes. “So you’re saying I have a superpower? Is it being able to identify the best hugger in the world? Because, holy shit, I feel like I fell into a bubble of hug. Honestly, I felt it before you even actually hugged me. Is that weird?”
“Not any weirder than two virtual strangers hugging each other before they’ve even been introduced.”
I stiffened at the jolt of realization, but he squeezed me tighter, stroking my back gently, and I went practically boneless. “My name is Gray,” he said, his breath gusting across the top of my head. “And you are?”
I turned my head to look up into his eyes, expecting some awkwardness to take over, but it didn’t. It felt like I knew him already. “I’m April. And I don’t suppose you can explain why this really doesn’t feel weird. Like, at all.”
He gazed into my eyes, his flashing again with light. My pulse picked up, and the entire world slowed down, the tiny motes of dust in the air stopped floating, suspended in the sunbeam that fell where we stood. And in that moment, something resembling a halo appeared around his head, a silvery glow pulsing with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
“Sweet Mother, you are powerful,” he murmured. He lifted one hand and brushed fingertips down my temple, his strange, pale eyes still fixed on mine. “Can you see my aura, April? Is that what you’re looking at?”
“I—” My mouth fell open, and I shook my head, struggling to find words. “I’ve never seen one before. Usually, I only feel them, like a static field around someone. Wow.”
It was my turn to raise my hand in wonder. I traced the edge of the glowing field that hovered several inches from his head, curving around his broad shoulders. It rippled when my fingertips passed through, leaving my skin tingling pleasantly, but it offered no real resistance, and I was almost startled when my hand landed on the side of his head. But rather than pull away, I sank my fingers into the luxuriant thickness of his hair.
My heart rate jumped at the increased intimacy with this man I’d just met, but he didn’t seem put off by the familiarity of my touch. He tilted his head into my hand, his eyelids sliding closed and a slow breath escaping his lips.
“So unexpected,” he said, seeming to vibrate like a contented cat while I petted him.
“But in a good way, yeah?” I watched his face as I combed my fingers through his hair, sliding to the back of his head. My mouth began to water when my gaze fell on his lips, a perfect full bow of lusciousness.
“The best. So good—”
I cut him off with a kiss, giving in to the craving to feel his lips against mine. My fingers tightened at the back of his head, and he responded by pulling me tighter, humming as my lips merged with his. They were as soft and warm as they’d looked, and he kissed me back with the same tentative gentleness, as if neither of us wanted to reveal the core of our desire too quickly.
Inside, I was on fire, but I understood the way fire worked, so I pulled back. I didn’t want to burn too hot too soon and risk a shock if I found myself in the cold. That drastic a shift had been disastrous for enough of my pieces that I knew better. Burn too hot, and you could shatter with a breath.
I cleared my throat and reluctantly stepped away from him for the first time in what seemed like an eon. He looked flushed and bewildered, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Gray, huh? Well, it’s nice to meet you. Gray the dragon.”
He cleared his throat, swallowed, and raked his hands through his hair, one hand lingering at the back where my hand had been a moment ago. A thoughtful look crossed his face, and he chuckled. “It’s Graziano. My full name, I mean. Graziano del Verrocchio.”
The name rolled off his tongue, the syllables shaped by a mouth whose native language was something other than English. It rang a bell deep in the back of my mind where I’d shoved all my art history courses from college.
“Verrocchio…like da Vinci’s teacher? Any relation?”
One dark eyebrow arched, and he smiled conspiratorially. “Maybe. I just go by Gray Verro now.”
“Then this must be fate.” I stuck my hand out to him. “April Vincent. Dad always insisted da Vinci was his ancestor. I have no issue claiming it even if he was full of shit.”
Gray’s throat rippled as he swallowed and extended his hand to grasp mine. I almost sighed again at the overwhelming sense of calm his touch transferred to me. God, he was like a drug.
“I’m sorry to say, da Vinci never had children, so your father is indeed full of shit. And I think Fate is busy at the moment, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other forces at work. That I would meet you here today can’t be a coincidence.”
I waved a hand. “Psh. I’m always here. What brought you in? It’s actually not raining today, so it can’t be the weather.”
I didn’t miss the wary look over his shoulder toward the gallery entrance and his narrowed eyes. “I came to visit the school. They have an opening for an instructor I was hoping to apply for. But I had trouble finding parking any closer, and when I walked by, the pieces in the window caught my eye.”
“The school… You mean the glass school? Olympic Glass School?” My voice pitched higher than I intended. The gallery was only a block away from Olympic’s downtown office. Renee and Josh were students at the school, which was located about thirty miles outside the city in the midst of the lush Washington forest. My years there had been the most defining period of my life. “Are you a glassblower?”
“I’m a lot of things. My last job was more associated with music than art, but I’ve always been a craftsman. Since that job ended, I hoped to get reacquainted with my…um…” A pained look crossed his face that seemed completely incongruous to the sense of well-being his presence gave me. I frowned.
“Your roots?”
He exhaled softly, his eyes growing wet. “Yeah, my roots.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m not quite sure.” He gave me a perplexed look, then shook his head. “I came in because I was curious about those pieces in the window. They remind me of someone, and I wanted to find out who the artist was. But then I saw you back here communing with this painting, and I couldn’t help myself. It was like some force pushed me.” He glanced back at the door again, the wary look returning. “If there are fate hounds here, Deva has some explaining to do.”
I blinked, not sure what he meant, but there was one thing I could help him with, at least. “It’s me,” I said, grinning. When he just stared, I clarified. “The artist of those pieces? That would be me.” I slipped past him, heading toward the entrance and the display of mixed-media sculptures that filled the window.
There were four handblown glass sculptures, and the
y were each a study in one of the four seasons. I’d created them while I was in my incubating phase for the larger piece, which was a philosophical representation of the fragility of life and the strength we draw from the earth to survive.
When I reached the window display and stopped beside one of the pedestals, I looked back at Gray, who stood in the center of the gallery, his mouth hanging open.
“You’re the artist? I thought you were just a fellow lover of art who wandered in like me.”
“Nope. Well, I am a fellow lover of art, but I didn’t just wander in. I live here. Kind of literally.” I grimaced at the reminder. Venturing out of my cave and meeting him had been my first glimpse of the outside world in way too long. Ever since Dad’s visit, in fact. Christ, I lived practically behind the gallery in an apartment situated above the shop next door; had it been that long since I’d gone home? How did this beautiful man not get completely grossed out by having me rubbing all over him? I hadn’t showered in three days!
But he didn’t seem to care about my appearance. His attention shifted to the display as he walked toward me, and I took the opportunity to thoroughly check him out. His clothes weren’t form-fitting, but boy did he fill them out well. The strength of his chest and biceps were evident beneath the dark fleece, and he moved with easy grace uncommon in a man so big. If I hadn’t met him in an art gallery, I’d have pegged him as a lumberjack. Except his face was way too smooth and beardless, and frankly too pretty, which was a shame because I liked a beard as much as a clean-shaven man.
Still, I couldn’t deny the kiss we’d shared had lit something inside me, beard or no beard. I wasn’t about to let him slip away and was already mentally rehearsing ways to convince him to hang around and watch me work. Maybe I could offer him a tour of the Olympic campus this weekend if I managed to catch up on the project. I’d just have to find time for a quick shower first.