I never know what causes my shivers. Cold or evil? Could be either.
“Snuff?”
A tin can clatters and I jump. Across the way, a fellow huddles over a barrel fire. He is surrounded by paintings propped against cold brick, standing in gutters. Snuff is there, winding around his feet, purring. The two-timing scoundrel cheat.
I cross the street and pick up Snuff, who scowls at me for ruining his fun game of chase. “I believe you have met my cat, the dirtbag.”
The fire tosses heavy shadows up onto this fellow, carving his face into a skull. The fellow isn’t really a fellow—it’s a boy, maybe thirteen years old. He’s skinny and dirty with long hair and tattered clothes and oh!His eyes.
His deep brown eyes can see things mine can’t.
I know this because my ears can hear things his can’t.
Look at the paintings.
In the dim, leaping light of shadow and fire, I see it.
Me. In a painting.
With Pax.
Me, Pax, and this young boy.
My breath steals away. There is no mistaking my wild brown curls, my dimpled chin, my blue eyes. Pax’s silver-green eyes, iridescent like a sleek fish. Even here, in this painting, I am pulled to his spirit. Magnetized. It is a very unwelcome sensation.
There are others in the painting, too. Some dressed elegantly, some dressed as entertainers. The setting is a party in a penthouse, and art and statues crowd the background. It’s a soiree. Nice clothes, shiny gems, lots of people and food, a string quartet in the corner. And visible out of the window in this painting: the skeleton fingers of the Woolworth Building. Based on that, I know the timeframe of this painting is the near future, or thereabouts.
Without a doubt, the three people in the foreground are me, Pax Princip, and this dark-eyed boy. Pax is a painter. Did he create this?
I narrow my gaze on the boy. “Did you paint this? Or did someone else?”
He pauses, then points to himself. His reluctance to take ownership makes me think he’s telling the truth.
I swallow. “Do you…seethis?”
He pauses and reaches toward me. He pets Snuff, still snuggled in my arms. He nods.
“Does this occur a lot? Do you see things and paint them? Before they…?”
Happen.
Nods.
I study the painting closer. The signature in the corner readsNirav.
I tap the canvas. It is taut and springy under my fingertip. “Your name—Nirav?”
He nods.
“How does it work for you, Nirav? Your… gifts?”
Nirav lowers his eyes. I understand this; it is his grain of rice. But then he sets his jaw and points to the cat.
“Snuff? The… cat tells you?”
He shrugs, then shakes his head no. What does that mean?
There are crumpled tubes of paint and makeshift easels and tins of chalky water all around us. Other paintings: a sinking ship, a burning building. The back of my neck prickles. Dark knowledge, this one has. Such detailed visions of despair and grief. A small sleeping pallet rests in a nearby crook of stairs. “Do you have family, Nirav?”
