Drawn to Death Read online

  I spluttered. Stammered. Couldn’t pull myself together fast enough, despite my mind blubbering an apology for intruding. I just couldn’t manage to force my lips to move in the shape required or air to leave my lungs to support the words I said in my head.

  She didn’t seem to care I remained locked in place, her height a match to mine but her rage making her feel gigantic. Not that I was a big chicken or anything. I’d learned to stand my ground. Selene would never have allowed otherwise, nor would Isolde. But there was something so volatile in the way this young woman leaped into fury that had me stunned and immobilized, not to mention realizing I’d intruded on the very person I’d hoped to meet and whose art I was also here to admire.

  While (wince, guilt, shame) thinking of them in the wrong pronoun.

  “Why are you still standing there?” They (Genesis openly shared their pronoun in the press and I’d been thinking of them as female when I knew better) practically spit in my face, shaking all over, leaning forward on their bare toes to confront me while I finally flinched back, hands rising to protect myself, an automatic gesture against such animosity. “You little idiot, do you have any idea who I am? And what you just ruined?” They waved one hand back behind them like I’d stomped all over their piece or torn the canvas or something. Funny thing was, the angrier they became, the more they pummeled me mercilessly with words and sheer furious energy? The quicker my own reaction flipped. Selene’s attitude finally kicked in along with a solid dose of my grandmother to combine into a rather uncharacteristic mass of heck nope I’d never felt before.

  Except, I didn’t get to snap back, to let out the searing (okay, probably pathetic attempt at searing, but I had hopes) response I was about to unleash (snort). We were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a young woman who hurried through the door behind me and physically placed herself between me and who had to be Genesis.

  “Gen,” this newcomer said, her back to me, facing off with the irate artist. “It’s fine. I’m sure it was an accident.” She glanced over her shoulder at me, hazel eyes widening a little, facial expression encouraging me to agree.

  I did, grudgingly, a little petulant, truth be told, though I nodded. “I’m very sorry,” I said. With a sharp edge there wouldn’t have been a need for if they’d just been nice about it. Which only made me feel young and vulnerable and embarrassed I’d let Genesis bully me like that, not just into silence but now into chastised childishness.

  I was better than that. I was a Monday.

  Oh, Phoebe.

  “Get her out,” the artist snapped, spinning and striding back toward their canvas while the young woman, sighing softly and now turning toward me, her simple sundress swishing around her calves as she did, smiled apologetically as one hand settled on my arm and firmly guided me to the door. Which she passed through with me, closing it behind her, leaning back against it, that smile still in place.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” she said, offering one hand. “Brielle Skylar, Gen’s partner.” She grimaced then, shook her head. “I hate that term, but girlfriend feels weird.” Was that eye roll meant to disarm my anger? It worked, though I fought off the need for deprecation of another to make me feel better. “They’re just focused and hate to be interrupted.” Brielle looked like she wanted to say more, then shrugged as though there wasn’t anything to share.

  “Phoebe Monday,” I blurted then, knowing she was trying to be kind. “Sorry. I was looking for a ladder.” That sounded uniquely pathetic to me, but it was the truth, so what was I going to do? “I got turned around.”

  Brielle nodded instantly. “I totally understand,” she said. “This place is a bit of a maze, and huge.” Now her smile was genuinely nice, so I shook off what was left of my embarrassment and anger and smiled back, surprised to find the hit of adrenaline left me trembling. “Please, forgive them. You know what artists are like.”

  I’d encountered enough in my time—was one myself, thank you, if not of that caliber—and never found a good reason for being temperamental. But Brielle was trying, and I had interrupted, so I exhaled the last bits of resentment, about to write the whole thing off. After all, this was about Dark, not me.

  Turned out I didn’t get to let it go.

  “Nothing excuses arrogance.” We both turned, my surprise at the interjection of a biting voice catching both our attention. Brielle’s instant unhappiness had me spinning back to her, coming off her in waves I could feel. As for the speaker, the thin blonde who’d shared her thoughts wasn’t done, apparently, her model-perfect looks and elfishly lean and tall body clad in casual jeans and front-tucked T-shirt feeling like an affectation, a persona, as much as her attitude did. “Then again, I’d expect childish behavior from someone like Maya Kenny.”

  “Genesis,” Brielle said between clenched teeth. “Don’t let them hear you use their dead name, Lydia. You know how hurtful that is.”

  Wow, wait, Lydia Dow? That realization triggered—another well-known (if not as famous as Genesis) West coast painter in house—at the same moment as my wince and flicker of temper. Because I was acutely attuned to the cruelty of anyone who would use someone’s previous name. Pickle’s transition to his true gender had meant him dealing with people from his past (either out of ignorance or outright arrogance) questioning his decisions and, sadly, trying to identify him with his dead name. While my best friend took it in stride with the kind of strength and resilience I envied, it stirred anger in me, a defensive protectiveness, thanks to the fact there really wasn’t anything I could do but be an ally.

  “Oh, please,” Lydia snapped, pausing to give me the once over before ignoring me completely in favor of focusing her vitriol on Brielle. “A bit pretentious, wouldn’t you say, for someone who’s already washed up before she even got going?”

  “They,” the young woman next to me said between clenched teeth. “Genesis is they.”

  Lydia’s cynical laugh followed her as she walked away, waving dismissively over her shoulder at Brielle, but at least keeping her mouth shut as she did.

  The young woman at my side inhaled slowly, cheeks bright pink, gaze angry, but when she exhaled, her smile returned, somewhat forced, but her obvious attempt to regain control encouraging me to assist as much as possible.

  “Jealousy doesn’t look good on anyone,” I said.

  Brielle’s eyes widened before she snorted, her anger washing out of her in a rush as she grinned suddenly. “Tell me about it,” she said. Shook her head, her dark hair swinging over her shoulder. “Are you an artist, Phoebe?”

  Her question took me by surprise, suddenly shy about admitting it but unable to stop my lips from moving. “Mostly portraits right now,” I said, knowing I was blushing. “And I work with the police as a sketch artist.”

  Brielle’s attention felt real enough as she inhaled a little gasp. “How fascinating,” she said. “Art never ceases to amaze me, you know. There are so many ways it can improve our lives, impact us and the world around us.” I caught myself bobbing a steady nod at her kindness and authentic delight. “Are you showing tonight?”

  “No,” I let out a little breathless laugh of my own. “I’m here with a friend. They’re so talented.” That gushed out to Brielle’s widening smile and her own nod. “Just trying to help them set up. Dark took a last-minute spot.”

  “I’m excited to see their work,” Brielle said. “You’ll introduce me later?”

  Of course, I would. And whether Brielle knew it or not, she’d just cut Genesis so much slack, even if they’d showed up at the door right at that second to berate me again, I wouldn’t have blinked.

  Except it wasn’t the famous painter who interrupted, but a tall, dark-haired man in a cream suit, his youthful face handsome, dark eyes deeply set, who strode with distinct purpose to Brielle and paused next to her, not even glancing my way.

  “My dear,” he said in a Spanish accent, “I must speak with Genesis immediately.”

  “Sothram.” Br
ielle had paled out, glancing at the door beside her, shaking her head, her discomfort with his appearance obvious. “They’re working and can’t be interrupted.”

  He scowled immediately at the block and pushed past her, jerking the door open, his shoulder impacting Brielle and shoving her out of the way as he strode through and slammed the way behind him. I caught her instinctively and helped her straighten up, glancing at the closed door, the sound of shouting erupting from the other side. And though I couldn’t make out the words, the intent was clear enough from the furious exchange that had Brielle staring herself, breath caught, distress visible on her face as she clutched one hand to the base of her throat.

  “Should I get help?” Surely someone should intervene. The screaming had turned to shrieking and was coming closer.

  Brielle shook her head, eyes brimming with tears when she met my gaze, though hers immediately dropped to the floor as though she didn’t want me to see her upset. “Mr. Alacandor signed Gen for the next show,” Brille whispered. “Things have been… strained.” She blinked and flinched as she looked up again, shaking her head. It was pretty obvious by her expression embarrassment had joined worry, the fact she’d said too much to a stranger likely the cause. “I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem.”

  “Bree!” The once quiet corridor was becoming grand central, apparently, another man joining us, this one blond, his thick, unruly hairline controlled by careful styling product, his dark suit crafted to fit him, though he was barely taller than me. He paused, glancing at the door as the sound of Genesis’s fury became impossible to ignore. “I take it this is a bad time?”

  “Not now, Marco, please,” Brielle said, her voice shaking just a little, lower lip trembling. Just as the door slammed open and Genesis stormed out.

  “You’re supposed to keep everyone out!” They screamed at Brielle who shuddered in response to the abusive volume and accusation, the lovely young woman next to me reaching out to her partner while Genesis carried on their temper tantrum, gesturing at the booking agent. “I told you to stay out of my way. I’m working and your constant interruptions aren’t making my job easier.”

  “Perhaps if you weren’t behind on your delivery for the show in New York next week,” he snarled back, his own anger flaring again. “Not to mention the pieces you promised me for Milan.”

  Genesis focused on him a moment. “That’s the least of your worries, wouldn’t you say?” Sothram flinched, took a half step back, but the raging artist wasn’t interested in carrying on what was obviously some kind of threat. “Don’t you people understand?” Genesis shook with barely contained violence, manic madness twisting their face as fury took them over. “I’m working!” With that, they spun and slammed the door behind them.

  ***

  Chapter Three

  Genesis’s departure left the furious Sothram Alacandor to swear (something in Spanish, but the meaning was obvious) and then refocus his attention on Brielle. Who hardly deserved the furious finger jab he aimed at her.

  “Like it or not,” he snarled, “they owe me work and if they don’t deliver, they will never, ever be trusted for another show. Ever.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, stalking off instead, still muttering what had to be curse words in Spanish.

  While the man Brielle named Marco paused with a faint smirk on his face that fell away as he caught me looking. “I’m also waiting on a painting,” he said. “Not that you need to be reminded, Bree. But I made my client a promise, and so did Genesis. My business relies on the ability of artists to follow through. If Gen can’t deliver, I need to know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brielle stammered. “I promise, I’ll talk to them.”

  He nodded then, handed over a card she took willingly enough, though it dangled without solid purchase from her fingers. “I know you have one,” he winked as I glanced down at it, Marco Findlay etched in raised gold letters across the surface, “but just in case you lost it.” That sounded like sarcasm to me, but who was I to judge? With that, he shrugged and retreated, heading back the way he came. In pursuit of Sothram or just a coincidence? Didn’t matter, not my problem, though it was impossible not to feel for Brielle.

  And since I’d been left alone with her, clearly shaken and traumatized, my compassion for the kind woman had control. But Brielle didn’t give me time to comfort her or ask her if she needed anything. As Marco Findlay strode off, she seemed to jerk herself under some kind of control before abandoning me without a word, opening the door to the studio and disappearing behind it with a quiet snick.

  Well then. I suppose that meant my empathy could take a hike. Which it did, as I slunk away, feeling more than a little embarrassed by the entire episode now that I was outside the adrenaline rush of it. The feeling of watching an impending train wreck rose inside me and I had to quickly banish it, or I knew I’d be lingering over it with far too much intensity for my own good. Besides, I had a ladder to locate and while the entirety of the encounter had lasted barely a few minutes (no matter it felt like months), Dark was sufficiently anxious I needed to make them the focus, not the temperamental painter on the other side of the door who clearly had no interest in anyone but themselves.

  As I turned the corner, heading deeper into the side hall of the gallery, I noted Lydia Dow standing near a draped canvas, her arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow rising as I tried to slip past with a grimace.

  “Impressive, isn’t she?” Her bitter cough of a laugh said much more about Lydia than it did about Genesis. But I couldn’t help myself or the angry reaction to the continuing, and hurtful, insistence the other artist had to use the wrong pronoun.

  Not that I spoke up about it or anything. No way was I risking Dark’s chance to have their work seen in such a place. Didn’t mean I couldn’t scowl at the floor as I hurried away with my head down.

  And despite knowing Lydia’s reaction was more than likely jealousy-based, I couldn’t help but wonder if some of her cynical anger was grounded in fact, especially considering it sounded like Genesis was struggling to keep up with their production schedule. I had a hard enough time with structuring my portrait business and ensuring I put in the time and effort needed to satisfy my clients. I couldn’t imagine the kind of pressure someone of Genesis’s caliber and fame was under. Still didn’t excuse their attitude or anything, but if they were in trouble, I went back to selfish hope that it wouldn’t negatively impact Dark.

  Loyalty to my friend beat out fangirling, anger and curiosity any day. Since I’d just dealt with all three and still had Dark as my focus? Kind of proved my point, to my relief. Helped elevate my mood as much as the ladder I finally located—propped in a corner and waiting for me where someone had abandoned it—was going to do so for my body.

  I hurried toward the corner of the gallery on the other side of the large space, catching a startled breath as I circled one of the art-laden pillars and almost ran right into a roundish man in a tweed jacket and bowtie, his cream shirt buttoned to the neck in what looked like an uncomfortably tight noose, excess skin mushrooming out over his collar as he blinked at me past round glasses, dabbing at his forehead and cheeks where a sheen of moisture had risen.

  “Do take care,” he said rather gruffly for someone who’d been just as much in the wrong as I had, thank you, waving his white handkerchief at me before slipping it inside his jacket, chubby hands tucking into his front pockets while he attempted to look down at me with only a few inches between us. The bright overhead lights shone on his balding head, enhancing the pink of his cheeks and the depth of his inset eyes under barely-there eyebrows, giving him an oddly blank and unfinished look to his round face. “You shouldn’t be running around with something like that all willy-nilly.” He practically tsked at me, chastising tone, while perhaps understandable?

  Kind of my limit. I’d had enough of strangers and meanness today.

  “Excuse me,” I said, hurrying past him, careful not to come close with the heavy ladder but not tak
ing blame or apologizing. Huffing, in fact, not like me, but honestly.

  So done with these people.

  “Tobias Kash!” Naomi ignored me completely as she strode past me on her way to the man I’d just encountered, that same sadness so deeply embedded it was a part of her. She held out her arms to him and the pair exchanged air kisses on both cheeks. “I’m so delighted you could make it.” She didn’t sound all that happy, not really, pushing her authenticity to the limit. While my magic sniffed around, wanting to understand her grief better. I firmly reined it in and focused on the task at hand because the gallery owner’s sorrow had nothing to do with me.

  “Naomi.” I did pause a moment to glance back over my shoulder as the pair stepped apart again, show of friendliness complete. At least he was smiling, if more a smirk than a real one. So, he could be nice, just not to the help. Sniff. “I’m excited to see the show.”

  “Enough to promise me a good review?” Her laugh sounded forced, harsh, as did his answering one.

  “I write what I write,” he said. And then they were out of earshot while I sighed over the fact I’d just irritated an art critic. Great, just what I needed, to unduly influence him over Dark’s work. Well, I’d stay out of the way and be a good girl and if I needed to apologize after all to make sure my friend wasn’t wrongfully reviewed thanks to my actions, I’d be sucking up my pride.

  Ah, loyalty. Always a challenge.

  Dark and Pickle were still talking when I joined them and neither seemed to have missed me, my very green bestie beaming when I panted my way to their side with the ladder in tow.

  “Just what we needed.” He took it from me, setting it up with cheerful abandon, and within minutes had the lighting set exactly how Dark wanted it. I hung back with them while Pickle did the deed, hugging myself a little, not realizing I was showing my misery until they gently shoulder bumped me with a faint, sad smile.

  “Thank you for your help,” they said, those crystal blue eyes intense and rimmed with enough moisture I knew their outward show of emotion was nothing compared to what was going on inside.