“Of course not,” Pax growls. It sounds as if he is fighting to keep his voice level. I understand his need to fight anguish; Max Blanck is in this painting, too? “You came to me, remember? Did you tell him to paint this, Stella?”
I know what he’s asking.Is this your vision, or the boy’s?
“No.” I place my hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. He flinches, but he doesn’t shrug away.
Ah, the poor young lad.
Stella, his gifts are dark but useful. He touches an object, and then he sees.
Past, present, future: If the energy is there, Nirav can read it.
“This is Nirav and it’s his vision.”
Pax tugs at his undershirt collar, stretches it. He can’t quite seem to catch his breath. My heart surprises me by feeling sudden, deep empathy. He is making me ache; he is so tormented by this painting.
Wanting revenge’ll do that to ye!
A man that tastes revenge keeps his wounds green.
Revenge?I think.
Spirit falls silent. It’s a question without me even meaning to ask one.
Pax gnaws at his thumbnail, then seems to realize he’s doing this, and spits his disgust. That sleek manicure of his—it’s to cover up bad habits. What other bad habits does he have?
Pax looks up at me at last. His eyes are red, glassy. “Do you know who this man is?” He practically jabs a hole through the canvas, he points at it with such force.
I didn’t, at first. But now I do. When he said the name, I knew immediately. I nod.
Pax takes a deep, steadying breath. “Max Blanck. He is the asshole who—”
Murdered my sister.
“Murdered my sister,” he says.
My every muscle clenches. Both of us? Both of us lost a sister in… “The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire,” I whisper.
His eyes are knives. “That’s him.”
I feel ill. I close my eyes, droop onto the settee.
We contain the same pain. The two of us are drawn together in our mutual anger and anguish. This is how we found each other. This iswhy.
I’m shaking my head as if I’m already rejecting whatever comes next. I don’t want any part of this. Of the brackish delicious ache that comes when the Darkness washes in. No,thisdesire to share our wrath? It is too intense. It’s unhealthy.
Pax studies the painting again. His steely eyes never scan past Max Blanck. A vein in his neck throbs, pulsing purple anger.
It is a low, angry note, the one my soul plays. One I am familiar with. My grief turns, catches aflame. I taste it. Revenge. It takes like fine wine, and it’s just as intoxicating.
This is destiny, is it not? That Pax and I would meet this way?
(Questions. Spirit is silent.)
“Can I see the others?” Pax lifts his chin at the stack of canvases I’d tossed onto an armchair. I’m still so shell-shocked, I forgot we’d brought the lot of them. “The other paintings.”
I pull out the first: a swollen-to-flooding river washing away a terrified cow. The second: dozens of dead bodies littering a beach. I shudder.
Aye, the earthly realm serves up much sadness.
