And the smile that met Cordelia’s eyes danced with such triumph and sadism that Ana had to swallow when the witch drew her own knife.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SAM PICKED ANA up on his bike after three in the afternoon. She was casual that day: faux leather skirt and a ripped band tee, black jacket, and tall boots. Her hair was a wild beauty of curls, and her eyes… he swore they became more of a violent green every time he saw her.
He took his helmet off and offered it to her when she approached. “Hi,” he managed, giving her entire body a once over that he didn’t try to hide the lust in.
Ana’s lips twisted at the corner, and she bent to kiss his cheek as she took the helmet. “Stalker,” she answered. “Where are you taking me?”
“I can’t ruin the surprise,” he replied. He jerked his chin in the direction of the helmet. “Have you ever ridden?”
“I know my way around a bike,” she said, and there was something about the way she said it made him think perhaps she was very well versed in motorcycles. From what he knew about her past, it wouldn’t have surprised him.
“Let’s ride then, wicked girl,” he told her.
The museum was busier than Sam had anticipated it would be. Apparently, the local school had taken an after-school field trip. A few kids ran down the main entrance hall, their teacher shouting after them. He couldn’t help smiling at a few, but the pair ignored them as they made their descent into the first room.
Sam inhaled the smell of the old in that room as Ana walked to one of the paintings. The old smell was one of his favorites. Antique. Dust. Leather. Paint. Perhaps that was why he left so many things as they’d been for centuries in his castle.
Sam pushed his hands in the pockets of his leather coat as he followed Ana to the first art piece on the walk, recognizing it immediately.
“Furor, 53 A.S.M.,” he said. He remembered the man who had painted it. Remembered how even though it had been fifty-three years after the split of the Myers and Moors, this man had remembered what the sun looked like as a child.
“Some say he painted this from memory,” he continued.
“It’s beautiful,” Ana said. “Amazing the detail he recalled,” she added, stepping closer. “This here… the lighting over the water ripples, how the rainbow is clear. Imagine how painful this must have been for him to see so clearly.”
“Why do you say that?”
Ana’s eyes traveled wholly over the great canvas, a wonderment and agony stretched over her features. “The last time he’d seen the sun was at the end of a war that ended in ruin for so many. He came here for… what, exactly? Salvation?”
The question knotted Sam’s stomach. “Do you think this place is a prison?” he asked.
Ana didn’t look at him. “I think it’s what your king thought was best at the time,” she said. “But it’s been centuries. Why continue hiding?”
“People are safe,” he said, and he had to guard the tightness in his voice. “Maybe he wanted to make this place as strong as possible before throwing away everything the people have built.”
“Or maybe he is a coward and a possessive asshole who is scared of change,” she said, finally turning to him.
Sam couldn’t stop his quiet huff of amusement. Of all the things he’d been called, coward wasn’t one of them. Possessive asshole…
Well, he was Death, after all. He did like his things.
“So passionate,” he teased. “Have you always enjoyed politics?”
They started walking to the next exhibit, and Ana sighed, a soft smile on her face. “Not really, no,” she answered. “My father loved the politics. When we lived in Firemoor, he was really involved in local government and things like that.”
“What were you interested in?”
“Art,” she answered. “In every form. You know, there are so many talented people. The things people created from their pain and sorrow, even from the small blips of joy they could find… I fell in love with it. Art, music, poetry…” She hung her head as she kept walking, and they paused at the next painting.
Another oil painting with a more impressionistic style than the last, entitled ‘Last beginnings,’ by Greene, 107 A.S.M.
Ana sighed heavily as she stared up at it, her gaze softening like the painting had washed every tense bone out of her body.
“My father fell in love with the dream of a once more united Myers and Moors. I fell in love with the people who would create it.”
Sam couldn’t stop staring at her. He was as confused about her as he was the first night meeting her, actually more confused. The way she spoke about the beauty of the world, the people within it…
