Nightbloom (2 page)

“Ella is just filling in for our receptionist, Sherrie, who’s been on maternity leave, but she’s back next week.” Sorcha’s face lit up. “Hey, I have an idea. Ella, you should go work at one of Paxon’s galleries. That’s right up your alley.”

My heart plummeted into my stomach. I tried not to throw up on his shiny shoes. His creased brow arched in interest.

“Um, I don’t know if… Well, I don’t think—”

Sorcha waved me off with a manicured hand. “She has a degree in Fine Arts. She’s brilliant, and her talents are being wasted here. She’s even an artist herself.”

Paxon’s interest intensified. “Are you now?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Sorcha leaped ahead of me. Of course.

“Yes! She is. Are you still doing sculpture, Ella? Those you made in school were beautiful.”

“No. I don’t do sculpture anymore.”

“What do you do?” His velvet voice dipped lower.

My eyes hit the floor. “Something else.”

“She’s modest, Paxon, seriously. You should give her a job.”

I shot daggers at Sorcha while his attention diverted to her. He pulled something from his back pocket and handed it to me. His card—white letters on solid black.

“We could use a good curator who knows what she’s talking about. With the new marketing you have in mind, Sorcha, I know we’ll be expanding soon.”

I took the card, noting he moved his fingers forward till they grazed mine. Butterflies in my stomach, I stared at the block letters of his name—bold, masculine, strong. Just like him.

“Ella?”

I started, then forced myself to meet his gaze with complete calm, hoping my knees didn’t buckle under his intense scrutiny.

He took my hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” Giving my hand a gentle squeeze, he then released me and trailed his index and middle finger down the underside of my wrist and across my palm. “I hope to be hearing from you soon.”

I gulped. He walked out the glass double doors, tucking his huge wings in tight to manage the human-sized doorway. I couldn’t help but stare as he took three long steps onto the pavement, flared out great black wings, and lifted off into the air with a graceful whoosh.

Sorcha giggled. “Pretty, isn’t he?”

“Stop, Sorcha.”

“Here.” She snatched a tissue out of a box on the desk and waved it at me. “You drooled a little.”

“I did not!” I snatched the tissue and checked just to be sure. “He’s…interesting.”

“I bet he’s
real
interesting…in bed.”

“Stop it. I have a boyfriend, if you didn’t know.”

“Who? Clayton? Give me a fucking break, Ella. That dude is a douche.”

“He is not. He’s handsome and wealthy. He comes from a good family.”

“Bo-ring.
Please.
You can do so much better. Besides, I caught Pax watching you.”

“What?”

“That opening night at Spire Maiden.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. He had eyes for you, Blondie.”

“You’re delusional.” I gave her a look, then took my purse from behind the counter. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait, Ella. Don’t run off. If you like Clayton what’s-his-face, then I’ll try to be nice to him. You just don’t know guys like I do. He’s not good for you.”

I wanted to scream at her, tell her she didn’t know anything about him or what I knew or didn’t know about guys. But the truth was, she tended to be right. And that ticked me off even more.

“I’ve gotta go,” I repeated.

“You ought to give Pax a call.”

I glared at her from the doorway.

“I mean about the
job
! Jeez.”

“Yeah. And how do you think that will go over with my parents?”

Sorcha tilted her head and gave me her sassy smile. “Who said they have to know?”

I rolled my eyes and pushed through the door.

“Think about it!” she yelled after me.

All the way home, Paxon Nightwing was
all
I could think about.

A ghost of palest blue

drowned by every vivid hue

A world that screams in red

won’t hear my whispers said

or note my gentle words

so rarely ever heard

I see a world sun-bright

from my place in darkest night

No eyes seek me here

I am

unseen

A violin concerto hummed through the room. I poured the paste into the flat basin on my worktable, then submerged the white parchment that bore the scripted words until the entire page was soaked. Lifting the slick paper from the basin, I let the excess drip away. After tearing the edges close to the words, I then smoothed the remaining fragment onto the canvas, dead center of the image in charcoal. A wan figure of a young woman in a flowing gown stood in a grove of wintry trees. Tendrils of her hair blew across her face.

Now sealed in clear paste, I skimmed my finger from top to bottom of the verse, dragging the ink away from clean lines, making the words bleed black.

I stepped over to the sink, rinsed, and wiped my hands on my stained apron.

Having cooled next to the kiln, the crackled glass was ready. Removing the brittle blue sheet, I set it on my worktable, covered it with a cloth, and hammered it in five precise places. Unfolding the cloth, I was happy to see it had broken exactly as I’d wanted.

I brushed the clear sealant onto the canvas, then placed the broken shards in the arrangement that suited best—large chunks over the trees, small, jagged pieces over the girl, edging around the poem, but none touching the words. My fingers moved in a fluid motion to the rise and fall of the violin music.

When finished, I stepped back and stared. Through a mosaic of shattered blue, the sharp-edged trees and willowy girl in shades of black and gray looked out. My blurred words stood at the center—stark, bare, vulnerable.

Yes. I’d captured the emotion just as I’d envisioned. The same catharsis swept over me as before when I’d made
Untouched
and
Unknown
, now standing on easels under cover of white sheets in the corner. Not that anyone came down here to the basement, not after I asked everyone to stay out. Including my parents. Knowing how private I was about my art, and because I rarely asked for anything, they respected my wishes.

That was the thing. Most people thought my parents were controlling asses. Overprotective jerks. They might be overprotective, but it was because they loved me. Dearly. I never doubted that.

My fears manifested from within, stemming from some unknown point, spreading outward, bleeding into my speech, the way I moved, the way I doubted, the way I curled inward under direct attention.

But being quiet didn’t mean I was stupid. Being modest didn’t mean I was a prude. Being shy didn’t mean I was invisible. Still, my whole life, I’d felt that way. And my indecisiveness had spread like a plague from childhood through adolescence and well into young adulthood. Here I was. A woman on the precipice of life, hiding in her parents’ basement and pouring her soul out through pen and paper and glass.

Perhaps that’s why my best friends were Jessen and Sorcha, both far from invisible, far from insecure or indecisive. Hell, Sorcha was like a beacon of the brightest light—loud, vibrant, so alive. Something I could never be.

Sighing, I tossed my apron on the table and marched upstairs.

“Ella, dear! You better hurry. Isn’t Clayton picking you up at seven?”

My mother swished around the granite countertop in the kitchen, eyeing the hors d’oeuvres set on a silver tray. Milla and Marion stood in their neatly pressed dress livery, awaiting her orders.

“Yes. But it won’t take me long to get dressed. Who’s coming for dinner?”

“The usual. Your father’s business partners, their wives,” she said as she buzzed around the counter, placing a few more green olives on the tray before picking it up and handing it over. “Here Milla, they should be arriving in the front parlor. Marion, would you please take the tray of cocktails over there?”

I leaned on the counter, stealing a pastry stuffed with something warm and creamy. Milla winked at me as she took the tray. Living at home did have its advantages, like the creature comforts of good, gourmet food, but that also meant your mom could still stick her nose in your business. Something my mother thrived on doing.

“So where is Clayton taking you?”

“We’re going to the Vaengar games.”

“Again?” Mom’s brow pursed disapprovingly. “Why does he take you to those terrible shows of violence? Do you want to go there?”

I shrugged. “Not really.”

“Then why don’t you tell him so?”

Funny. I hadn’t thought of that. Why
didn’t
I tell him?

Mom tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear, her sapphire bracelet sparkling.

“Yeah. I will.”

“You know, I don’t like it when you’re around so many Morgon men.”

“Mom. There’s nothing wrong with them. No more than any other men.”

She winced, bit her lip, then smoothed her face with a too-bright smile. “Right. Well, you better get going. Have a wonderful time, dear.”

She skirted around the island and sauntered off toward the front parlor. I sighed and headed upstairs.

Every time conversation ventured into the subject of Morgons, my mother took on this sort of glassy, brittle appearance, always pasting on a plastic smile to hide some dark secret. I knew a Morgon man had hurt her in the past. There was no other explanation for what caused her eyes to glaze over with fear at the mere mention of a Morgon. But I would never ask. I didn’t want to hear her confess such a hard truth.

* * * *

“Gooooooo, Slade!”

A chorus of Morgons and Clayton cheered on a silver-winged player who zipped past our box like a rocket, showing off for his friends. Clayton had been chumming up to the Rowanflame twins all night, drinking just as heavily. Unfortunately for Clayton, they were much bigger than him, so the weight-to-liquor ratio was doing him serious damage. I just tried to stay out of the beer-sloshing way behind them. Brown suede boots were the wrong footwear for tonight. But they just looked so damn good with these jeans and my rose-colored top. Not that Clayton noticed.

A bell tolled, signaling players to ready themselves for the final round and game point.

Though I never had been a sporty kind of girl, the Vaengar matches lured me in. They were a feat of athleticism and beauty combined. To watch the Morgons in flight, flipping and shooting through the air with sharp movements and unbelievable speed, I couldn’t help but sit near the rail, riveted.

Conn and Corbin’s friend, Slade Silverback, was the stealer for the Gladium Province’s team, the Sabers. The opposing team, the Pikes, were from the Drakos Province where most Vaengar teams originated. Both teams wore nothing but pants of some fine leather, dyed in the team’s color. I didn’t mind going to the Vaengar Games, which I’d never in a million years admit to my mother. The magnificent display of Morgon muscle and wings was on full display for the fans. For me, it was such a rare and beautiful sight, I couldn’t resist drinking it all in.

The ten defensive Pikes stood in a circle around the tower at the center of the arena, facing out toward the audience. In stoic silence, legs apart in defensive stance, they awaited the three bell-tolls to signal the final match.

The six offensive Sabers stood in their starting positions along the outer ring painted on the dirt floor. They faced their opponents from fifty yards away, also in ready stance, shoulders hunched, legs bent, muscles flexed and tight. Slade, the seventh offensive player, stood on the stealer’s platform at the farthest end of the arena, staring at his goal dangling from a spire at the top of the tower—an iron torque.

Bong!
The first bell tolled.

Players went rigid, ready to burst into flight. An electric current snapped in the air, some kind of Morgon trait they inherited from their dragon ancestry.

The second bell tolled.

Defensive players glared at their targets, ready for a battle.

The third bell.

Slade rocketed straight into the air. The Sabers shot toward the Pikes. Only defensive players were permitted to use fire in order to protect the torque. A stream of flame spewed from a brown-winged Pike, singeing one of the Sabers. Our home team’s player winged out of range, while the Pike spun to face another.

“So we meet again.”

My heart hammered, recognizing that distinct voice. Paxon stood over my shoulder, a little to the right.

“Hi,” was all I could manage with a swift glance.

“Oooh!” yelled Corbin. “Garth better watch his back. That Pike, Braden, is out for blood!”

Feigning interest in the game, I watched Slade disappear up into the sky through the dome’s oculus—a typical stealer’s trick—to await the right moment for attack. Only the stealer could take the torque and win the match. The teams were tied, both having won three matches each. This was the seventh and final match, which would determine the game winner. I often marveled at the stamina of Morgons. Each round was ten minutes long. With the amount of flying and grappling and tousling, it was no wonder they were pure muscle from head to foot.

He leaned close to my ear, his lips brushing my hair. “You enjoying the game?” The heat of his body lined my back, a protective shield from the rowdy throng surrounding us, including my boyfriend.

I nodded, mutely.

“Damn! That Pike just got slammed,” yelled Clayton, pointing at a player crumpled against the arena wall. He was talking to his buddies, not me, having already forgotten I was there.

The Saber who did the damage rocketed back toward the circle of players defending the torque.

A bell tolled the three-minute warning.

“No, you’re not enjoying it.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Paxon’s infectious smile made my lips quirk up.

“No,” I agreed, “I’m not.”

The home team intensified their attacks, trying to distract the Pikes for Slade. As he dove like a missile straight down from the Oculus, the big guy, Braden, shot out a stream of flame clear across the arena directly at our stealer.

“Holy shit. Watch out, Slade!” screamed Conn.