When I don’t respond, she adds, “There are many things in this world we still don’t understand, to say nothing of the worlds we have yet to explore. But I have a theory, if you want to hear it,” she offers.
“Why not?” It can’t possibly leave me any more befuddled than I currently am.
“Dark matter,” she says, as if this clears it all up.
“You’re talking about energy?” I ask, confused.
She smiles lazily. “I’m talking about the void.”
My brows crease. “The void?”
“Chaos,” she whispers.
“And what about magic?” I dare to ask, thinking of my own family, our many tales of woe.
“What about it?” She regards me coolly.
“You’re talking about dark matter and the void, but I want to know where magic fits into your theory,” I repeat.
Her eyes drift away, untethered. “Who says they aren’t the same thing?”
I fall back in my chair. I’m not sure what I came here for. An explanation? Reparation? But this woman didn’t do anything. She’s just a channel. I, of all people, should know what that is like.
“I’m retired from academia,” she says after a moment, “but let me give you a brief lesson.” She points to my painting. “Primordial beings—I call them theold ones—exist in every culture, every corner of the globe. Maybe they go by different names—this one Nephthys, that one Tiamat, in my own country, Nerthus—but there are similarities.”
“What similarities?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “They governunknowablethings—often the things that scare us most, warnings buried in our subconscious by our ancient ancestors. Things like—”
“Fire,” I interject.
She smiles. “Yes, things like fire or night. Things like magic, dreams, and clairvoyance. Things like death.”
Me, Twig, Rock, Cadence. Brennan’s words float back tome—She’s collected us, a full set.
“What does this have to do with the painting?” I ask her.
“Everything, Miss Cole.”
I stare at the canvas, unnerved. “I’m giving her back,” I blurt. “I don’t want a refund. You can keep the money, and you can keep her.”
She grins. “Sounds like it’s far too late for that. She found you. She knows where you live.” She pulls the painting over to her side of the table and studies it a moment. “Yes, she belongs to you now. Thalassa, goddess of the sea. It’s where we get the wordthalassophobia.”
“Thalassophobia,” I repeat, reluctantly taking the painting back when she holds it out for me.
“Fear of the deep,” she says, leering.
Come if you dare. Learn what waits in the deep.The last two lines of the invitation the Fathom left me.
“I study goddesses, and I paint them,” Anneli says now. “But it’s these—theoldones—that I revere the most. You should, too, if you know what’s good for you.”
I gulp. “Are you saying she flooded my condo as a punishment?”
Anneli smiles. “A punishment or a blessing. With these old ones, they’re often the same thing.”
“How do you mean?”
Anneli takes another drag on her joint, coughing it out. “It’s like my sight. Many people would view this as a limitation, but it enhances my art. I wouldn’t change it.” She holds out one palm and then the other, the joint still pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “A punishment and a blessing.”
