A weather alert blinked angrily across my phone screen:
Blizzard Warning: Travel Advisory. Threat Level Immediate.
I clicked on the link to read the details. Record snowfall expected, which was saying a lot for Minnesota weather, though it was a little early for that sort of accumulation. Add in the wind, heavy overcast clouds making the day look like night, and this sucker was here for the next twelve hours at least.
Guess that settled that.
If it miraculously cleared before four, then I’d stomp my way over to face the firing squad. If not… I shrugged to myself, figuring I had a fridge full of food, books on my e-reader, and lots of warm blankets. The painting leaned precariously against the wall, as if it could fall over again with the wrong touch. I needed to put it up.
“Alright,” I muttered. “This place could use some décor anyway.”
I debated hanging it in the living room before settling on the bedroom. Opposite the bed, where I could stare at it as I fell asleep. Like a masochist dreaming of pretty men swimming in stormy seas.
The nail went in crooked. The frame tilted slightly left though I adjusted it twice. Whatever. It was up.
I drew the curtains closed, sealing the raging cold out of the apartment, and left only a single lamp lit as I crawled into bed with my e-reader. This sort of day was best suited for reading.
The storm rattled the windows. I’d picked a romance about vampires and fated mates, but the words blurred after twenty minutes. My attention was drawn back to the painting over and over. The dim light from the storm outside mixed with myreader light made the waves seem to move, and a dozen times I thought I felt eyes on me.
The cove’s water swirled. The longer I stared, the more the strokes seemed to shift, waves undulating. Subtle, possibly an effect of sleep deprivation and stress, or as if the ocean in the painting were alive.
Not possible.
I turned the page, needing something to distract me. Three more pages and we had our first kiss; that wasn’t bad. I flipped the page and paused, listening to hear beyond the wind. What was that?
A hum. Low and resonant, faint but memorable. A soft tenor. It was the same melody from my dream.
“Probably just a neighbor,” I muttered as if my voice would interrupt the sound. Never mind that I’d never heard a neighbor while inside my apartment before. This building had excellent soundproofing.
“It’s the wind,” I added more firmly, but sat up, staring at the painting, gaze locked on the shadowed art, heart speeding up as I watched. A single bead of water dripped from the bottom edge of the painting.
I blinked a dozen times. Then three more drops plinked, tapping on the hardwood flooring, then a dozen more, like the water verged on overflowing each time the waves hit the shore.
I leapt from the bed and stalked to the painting, hand outstretched to catch a falling drop, but nothing landed, and the overflow vanished. Had it been a trick of the light?
I flicked on the overhead light and glared at the picture, searching for movement.
Nothing.
“I’m going crazy,” I grumbled. Or maybe I wasn’t. The painting was a gift from the Fae after all. Fae with a capital F meant trouble, or so I was beginning to learn.
Is this painting cursed?
I texted my boss.
The three little dots undulated for what felt like forever.
Yes.
A few minutes passed and my heart sped up. My boss had given me acursedpainting?
And no.
What the hell?
Which is it?
I demanded, annoyed by his cryptic answers. Maybe someday he’d fire me for it, but I doubted it was today.
