Drawn to Death

  Drawn To Death

  Phoebe Monday Paranormal Cozies #3

  Patti Larsen

  Kobo Edition

  Copyright Patti Larsen 2021

  Find more at www.pattilarsen.com/home

  ***

  Kobo Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

  Chapter One

  The edge of the heavy metal frame warmed in the palms of my hands as I supported my end, my best friend and fellow artist, Pickle Pickford, grunting as he lifted the opposite side free from the bed of the jacked-up black truck parked at the rear of the gallery.

  “Careful, please.” I’d only rarely seen my other friend, Dark Mood, in any state of agitation, their typically calm and quiet nature one of the things I adored about them. So, to witness their anxious concern over the massive painting Pickle and I eased out of the truck bed, their icy blue eyes wide and shining white in contrast to the black liner, mascara and shadow creating an almost bulging effect, their pale cheeks ashen under the layers of ivory powder, full lips pulled into a black slash of a line over a grimace of worry that had me actually near giggles at Dark’s obvious nervousness.

  I didn’t find their discomfort amusing, I promise. It was more so the fact the normally stoic and withdrawn, if always kind and caring, artist and owner of the warehouse collective where I lived and painted were showing, for the first time since I’d met them, actual nerves.

  Since this was their first major invitation to participate in a mainstream show, I understood completely, though it was still funny to see Dark in such a state.

  Pickle paused as he hopped down to ground level, the weight of the frame and painting it encased now balanced between us. Not so much heavy as it was awkward, since the multi-media image wasn’t so much a painting, per se, as it was a built-out expression of Dark’s angst and artistry, the jutting pieces of spiraling souls they’d built on the surface of the canvas a 3D struggle to escape the confines of the piece always giving me shivers in its realistic portrayal of trapped people fighting to free themselves from the interior of the bleak and fiery work.

  “Don’t bump it.” Dark’s normally confident self-possession was nowhere to be found and I could only be grateful I hadn’t had need to tap into my power lately. It meant, at least, my luck was nominal and normal without interference, though I had to admit even my regular, everyday setting wasn’t always on the positive side of advantage. Still, I was fairly certain we’d manage without damaging Dark’s pride and joy, though from the lingering anxiety on their face they were sure they had made a terrible choice trusting the two of us to assist in the move from Lofty Aspirations to the Caesar Gallery.

  “Deep breath, Dark,” Pickle told them in his cheerful voice, winking his green feather lashes so the impossibly long and extravagant embellishments stroked his prominent cheekbones, my friend blowing back his freshly dyed green bangs with a hearty exhale. “It’ll all work out. Though,” he said with a faint grumble showing up when I slowly backed toward the open door leading to the rear of the gallery, balancing Liberation Reborn as carefully as I could, “they could have given you a bit more time, right? The show’s tonight, for pity’s sake.”

  “Last minute asks to join big shows with this kind of talent don’t come along every day, Pickle.” Dark’s chastisement was so out of character and delivered with such grim and growling aggression, even they stopped and shook their head, apology replacing the worry that had dominated since I’d agreed to help just an hour ago. “I’m sorry,” they said. “I’m just…”

  “Nervous,” Pickle tossed his head, winked again with a giant grin, bracing the painting’s frame against the green denim of his overalls, a bright frog flashing a wave from over the top of the bib he’d left dangling from one loose strap. “We get it. But you, my darling Dark Mood, have zilcho to be worried about.” He flashed me a smile. “Right, Phoebe?”

  I nodded instantly, our forward (well, my backward, but you get the point) motion carrying on in slow and careful steps until I felt my heel hit the slight raise of the doorway’s threshold, sunlight giving way to the dimmer interior of the gallery’s back hallway. “Absolutely,” I gushed, and with little provocation, honestly. “Everyone’s going to lose their minds over your work, Dark.” And no, I wasn’t stroking their ego. I loved their creations, the massive and often eerily realistic multi-dimensional expressions of Dark’s innermost thoughts equally creepy and oddly liberating while offering hope despite the content. How they managed it, I had no idea, and my awe for their talent had me as excited for this show as they were nervous. “I’m so happy you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”

  Dark just shrugged, and while I understood it, lived it myself, I hated that they doubted their art.

  “We’ll see,” they said.

  “Dark!” And that ended our private conversation, a young woman hurrying toward us, her short, brown hair in a clipped pixie that suited her round cheeks and pointed chin, the scattering of deep freckles across her nose and down her jawline starkly appealing. I smiled and nodded politely while wishing she’d hurry as she hugged Dark, tall enough to do so without my big friend having to bend but slim where Dark was broad-shouldered, almost delicate in comparison in her thin brown dress, Dark’s Goth kilt and black leather jacket, studded black boots and blunt black bob the total opposite to the woman who embraced them. Not that it seemed to matter to the newcomer, her smile, while rather sad, felt genuine enough, one of her small, slim hands sliding down Dark’s arm to take theirs. “Thank you so much for doing this,” she said, lovely alto a bit husky as she nodded and smiled back to both myself and Pickle. “Naomi Caesar,” she said. That would make her the gallery owner.

  “Phoebe Monday,” I said, unable to shake her hand, Pickle introducing himself, too, before Naomi smiled up at Dark again, that sadness in her lingering.

  “When I had the last-minute cancelation, I knew I had to call you. I can’t wait to see this hung.” She gestured at the work we held between us. “This way.” Pickle gave me a little push with a grin, getting me moving again, while my aching hands begged me to hurry.

  Despite the growing weight (or so it seemed) of the art piece and my sudden concern I might not be up to the task after all (please, don’t let me ruin this chance for Dark by dropping their favorite work), I sighed a deep exhale of relief when Naomi stopped us not too far inside the main gallery space, pointing to an empty stretch of wall.

  The frame holder made a faint ringing sound as the metal settled on the concrete floor, my cramped and unhappy hands begging me to shake them out, which I did as quickly and privately as I could, not wanting Dark to see my discomfort. They had enough to worry about. Not that I should have even considered they’d pay any attention, as they backed off with Naomi to talk about the space in question, Pickle bumping hips with me and waggling his eyebrows, making a funny face that had me giggling.

  “Taco Tuesday at your place this week.” He frowned at one of his chipped fingernails, the matching green polish his favorite shade of everything. I so admired my best friend, how he’d taken a childhood bully’s nickname for him and turned it into a lifestyle he embraced, long after the bully was forgotten. He shrugged off the damage to his manicure. “Need help setting up?”

  I shook my head, already planning the gathering, so excited to host for the fir
st time since moving into my new place. While I’d imagined what living at the warehouse would be like, the truth of it was far more awesome than I could have ever come up with in my head. With the greenhouse indoor garden right outside my apartment window, the massive building’s interior lined with plants, trees and an actual burbling stream, I not only got to live in a thriving green space community of like-minded artists, I was on my own for the first time in my life.

  At a newly minted twenty-five. Finally. Not that I didn’t love my family, I did. More than ever, as a matter of fact. But being the youngest—and unexpected fourth—child of the triunity that was the Monday family, having no actual place in the Maiden, Mother and Crone power structure, being the outsider looking in no matter how much love and attention and welcome Selene, Mom and Isolde offered up, this was the first time I actually felt like my own person.

  I shifted my feet, the flicker of discomfort that under rode my happiness surfacing again as it did when I let myself think about the choice I’d made to take Dark up on their offer of the apartment in their amazing complex. While I knew my family was happy for me, it was impossible to miss their undercurrent of sadness at my decision to leave. Mom was, I think, the best at hiding it, though her continual offers of food and deliveries of my favorite meals via power showed how much my absence affected her. As for my sister, Selene’s multiple phone calls per day had dwindled finally to a single long conversation each night around midnight that often ended with her voice thick and, I had no doubt, her hiding the fact she cried when she hung up. She might have been two years older than me and the wielder of the powerful Maiden energy, but she retained an innocence I lacked that always made her feel like the younger sister despite her twenty-seven years.

  As for Isolde, my grandmother’s lack of communication had me the most worried, though I knew how busy she was. Her distance and lack of familiar connection troubled me and while I tried not to let it interfere with my joy and freedom, it was that step off that had me the most distressed.

  When I let it. Which wasn’t as often as perhaps I should have since they were my family and I loved them very much.

  Freedom was still fresh enough that I chose selfishness.

  Dark finally rejoined us, gesturing for us to follow, leaving Naomi with the first piece we’d brought in. I hung back, Pickle chattering away at our friend as I sighed and let the rest of what was bothering me surface. Because if I didn’t allow it to emerge and accept and feel it, I’d only end up lying awake all night with my head spinning and mental chatter controlling me.

  Instead, I welcomed the sadness that came from the image of Cooper Hudson’s handsome face in my memory, how things had ended between us, knowing it wasn’t my fault but not able to tell him that his leap of judgment had been orchestrated by someone the young officer never should have encountered in the first place, and wouldn’t have if I hadn’t come into his life.

  The fact I’d briefly dated someone outside the magical world wasn’t exactly frowned on, but it wasn’t always the best choice, considering it exposed someone without power to those who could make their lives uncomfortable. Case in point. I caught myself scowling at the ground under my feet as I stomped my way to the back of Dark’s truck for the second piece of three, thinking about Cooper and the fact my family’s position made me a target—and anyone I cared about, for that matter—to people like Jericho Richmond.

  And yes, I still knew it was for the best Cooper believed that oldest son of the ruling Richmond family, accepted the word of a stranger—and a fake image of me with someone else—as proof I deceived him and led him on. Still hurt, ached deeply, that I hadn’t been able to defend myself. I longed to do so, of course, I did. It wasn’t lost on me that meant I was heartily controlled by my ego and my need to prove myself as much as I clearly cared about the young cop I’d come to adore. Both of those facts made stepping back from Cooper—keeping him safe while living with the daily struggle of wanting to both lash out at Jericho and his ridiculous posse and beg Coop to listen to the truth—the right decision.

  I barely noticed when Dark directed me to grasp one end of the long, narrow sculpture encased in bubble wrap and cardboard, the image of a blade being sliced open by a human body, the dichotomy of the peeling sword’s failure under the pressure of a homogonous and perfectly proportioned human shape so beautiful in its creation it usually gave me goosebumps. Whether it was the distraction of my thoughts or the careful wrapping that had me nonchalant about it this time around, I instead settled further into my own mind and went on autopilot while Pickle urged me to retrace my steps.

  Did my family know part of the reason I moved out was strategic? Not likely, though perhaps Isolde suspected, which could explain her distance. I’d already caused them enough trouble along the way, and not just from being the odd fourth Monday where only three had ever existed in the past. I was well aware they’d come under scrutiny and question thanks to my abilities and the lifelong curse I’d only just started to unravel and attempt to understand. Being away from them, moving from The Heathenry and their triunity gave them the best chance to restore their position and presence. They certainly didn’t need me mucking about with my good luck/bad luck, memory moment magic no one seemed to really get—not even me—creating more issues with the ruling council and Academy of Adepts. Especially when I was on the hunt for information against Jericho Richmond himself.

  And no, I hadn’t uncovered anything further. Partly because I hadn’t really made a huge effort, admittedly. Excuses about the move, getting settled, working with the police as a sketch artist and expanding my portrait business to pay my bills seemed logical enough when I let them. But at times like this one, while I let myself actually accept I’d dropped the ball?

  Only made me more determined to work things out on my own.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  A little magic went a long way, the leveling of Dark’s work a continual conversation that went on between them and Pickle despite the fact I ensured all three pieces were in perfect balance. Knowing Dark would be a while, their scrutiny nearing epic proportions, fed and nurtured by Pickle’s wicked sense of humor and gentle teasing, I simply stood back and observed, unable to control the grin of delight that took over. It was just so fun to see my friends this way, to experience this with Dark. They would never know their generosity, how I was well aware my own art didn’t warrant a show of this nature and likely never would. Still, I loved what I made, was perfectly accepting of my talent and ability, and, instead, was more than happy to live vicariously through Dark and their work.

  It helped I’d found contentment within. I’d fully aired my internal struggle sufficiently without wallowing (go me!), which meant I had at least several minutes of peace and tranquility ahead (just kidding, but not really). Wanting only to help while staying out of the way (yes, I was fully aware of how that reflected on my childhood and how I felt about myself, so you don’t need to bring it up, thanks), I was the first to volunteer when Dark mentioned needing a ladder to adjust the overhead lights.

  “Check with Naomi,” Dark called after me as I hurried away, toward the opposite side of the gallery’s large, main room, filled with concrete columns already graced with art from other creators, the empty center of the space hosting a platform and nothing else, the main event—and the guest star painter, Genesis—as yet set up for the show. I’d long admired their work, knew they had a penchant for the dramatic, figured they’d be revealing their art with flourish. Having someone as famous as Genesis as the main event meant a great crowd and more opportunity for Dark’s work to be seen.

  At least, that was the hope. I slowed as I passed the center pedestal, then hurried on at the sound of voices coming from the other side of the gallery. But when I circled the false walls of concrete hosting yet more art and into the black-painted hallway on the other side, whoever it had been I’d heard was long gone. Not sure where to seek out Naomi, and finding it odd the place felt so empt
y, I hesitated in the fully blacked-out corridor, noting even the knobs on the few doors I could see were painted the same hue. Which meant every one of them looked the same and could easily have been the way out or a maintenance closet. Trusting my luck (when maybe I should have known better), I drew a breath, chose a random door, and turned the knob.

  The collection of giant canvases piled up around the walls and paint-covered tarps strewn about made the cluttered space seem more like a private studio of a prolific painter than anything I expected from a gallery’s back room, but it felt enough like storage I hoped I’d chosen right. As I looked around in the hope of spotting a ladder, however, I realized two things very quickly. One, I wasn’t alone and the other person, headphones over her ears and baggy overalls hanging from her slim, tiny frame, wasn’t staff but an artist fully engaged in a towering canvas she addressed with the aggressive passion of someone who either loved or hated her art.

  And two, as she spun to refill the small cup of paint she’d just thrown with a windup gesture at the dripping canvas, she spotted me standing there, gaping at her, she made it clear to me I wasn’t welcome.

  Because she instantly lost her mind.

  “How dare you?” She jerked the headphones from her head, dark eyes huge, long, blonde dreadlocks woven with colorful thread and sparkling silver beads wound into a giant mass behind her neck coiling and moving almost like a nest of snakes hissing in my direction. The parallel I drew to Medusa came to fruition as I literally froze in place, not sure how to react as she threw the cup she’d been using as a tool (or weapon?) to the side and stomped toward me on bare feet, the too-long cuffs of her overalls dragging behind her, rage darkening her cheeks to deep red, hands swinging wildly as she gestured to add to her fury. “You’re not supposed to be in here. Get out!”