“These paintings,” Pax says without looking up from the canvases. “They’re excellent. Technique, color, perspective, brushstrokes… they’re magnificent.”
Nirav’s presence lightens beside me, at these compliments.
The third painting is of a man, bearded and gray, sitting in a posh room, drinking brandy and smoking a cigar. Water streams down the walls, floods around the man’s ankles. The juxtaposition—the calm man, the gushing waters—is horrifying and oddly serene.
“It’s Stead,” Pax whispers. “My mentor.” He turns to Nirav. “Did you know this gentleman?”
Nirav shakes his head.
The next painting makes me want to vomit on sight. I realize now what it depicts. My eyes sting. The smell of smoke fills my nostrils.
“The Asch Building,” I mutter. “Where the Triangle Fire took place.” I don’t even want to touch the painted flames. I amunbearably hot. “I can’t even walk that city block. It’s too painful. The screams are so loud.”
Pax thrusts the canvas toward the boy. “And this one… do you know this tragedy?”
Nirav looks down, shakes his head. He can barely keep his eyes on his own creation. It’s almost as if he can feel the flames licking his skin, the smoke eating his lungs.
Before I realize it, Pax snaps the painting of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire across his knee. The wooden bars stretching the canvas crack.
Nirav nods at Pax, his eyes wet.
Pax picks up the original painting and sinks into a silk chair. “We’re at a cocktail party?” he mutters. “With Max Blanck?” And that setting—New York society. Rich, colorful wallpaper. Long, expensive silk draperies. Bright Oriental rugs. It sickens me, this wealth in the hands, in the bank account, of that murderer.
I reach over Pax’s shoulder; the heat emanating off him could fuel a lantern.Do not touch. “That’s the Woolworth Building under construction there, out the window. Do you know which apartment this might be?”
“We can definitely find out.”
I try to push down the feelings that accompany this new connection I’ve just found: I am lessalone. I know someone else who feels the exact pain and anguish that I feel: a sister, murdered by greed and fire. A bond like that is not safe. It knows no boundaries. It is dark and hungry and filled with shame.
Does he feel it, too?
“Is this our future?”
Pax is nodding before I can even finish asking the question,and the force I feel near him, like an ocean pulling me under the surface, strengthens. “I can get justice for my sister’s murder.”
Why haven’t you told him about your sis, Stella?
Pax’s silver eyes connect with mine, clicking like the tumblers of a lock,snick. “If you could get revenge on someone who murdered a loved one, would you?”
Not everyone gets asked a question that pierces their soul so deeply. One question that becomes a defining moment of their entire existence. A pivotal query.
And of course it’s a question, what Pax asked. A blasted inquiry, so Spirit is mum.
I feel dizzy, I am so overwhelmed with desire for revenge. I didn’t know the Dark Legion could call me so loudly. I hear them beckoning:
You can have justice for Daisy. You can exact vengeance on her murderer.
I can’t… I don’t…
“Yes,” I whisper. My throat is dry with retribution.
This is a mistake. I feel it deep in my bones. Joining Pax, it feels like looming death. Mine? Or someone else’s? I’ve been able to keep the Dark Legion at arm’s length, but this feels like inviting them in. Pax swims in darkness; his aura is tornadic. I not only don’t trust this playboy and his intentions, but I sense deep danger near him.Inhim. He’s a smooth talker, a secret keeper. Why trust him?
Questions.
Pax paces his apartment, the boards beneath his bare feet squeaking. “We’ll need to get you set up in a nearby boardinghouse.”
“No,” I force through my dry, tight throat. I cannot afford to be in such close proximity to him. “I cannot afford this neighborhood.”
