Page 5 of Thirst
My rendering of the Quebec City Syndicate—beauty on the verge of decay, danger slithering around every corner.
But tonight, I wasn’t thinking about the nest of snakes that was my father’s syndicate. I was unashamedly eavesdropping on the couple next to me.
“Such unbridled power, and yet the simplicity...” murmured the woman.
“A modern take on Dark Romanticism,” her companion replied.
The first speaker nodded. “She paints my dreams.” (One of the few facts known about me was that I was a woman, and a supernatural.)
I moved to the second painting. The group around it was equally complimentary. In fact, the room was buzzing.
My heart swelled with pride and happiness. I had to dig my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself from grinning like a fool.
The third showed a masked couple dancing in a moody, candlelit ballroom. The gold-and-black mosaic floor beneath them had begun to crack, fissures spreading outward like the ground itself was cracking open to let in something new. Leafy vines pushed through the breaks and a cloud of blue butterflies rose into the murky light.
The vampire’s platinum hair shone, his black suit molded to every line of his hard body. Heat curled low in my belly as I recalled that night…
I gulped and glanced around the gallery.
Ichika, my gallery rep, stood a few feet away—her black hair in a sharp crop, her dress a sleek, architectural gray.
I started to smile, but caught myself in time, giving her a small nod instead. She dipped her chin in return, polite but blank. Of course she didn’t recognize me. The only time we’d met, I’d glamoured myself as a middle-aged, square-bodied human.
A vampire slid up to her—Baptiste, a collector and Paris Syndicate enforcer. They exchanged greetings, then he murmured, “Introduce me to The Haunt. I know she’s here. Who is she?”
Everything in me came alert. I accepted a glass of blood-wine from a server in a red corset and fitted pants, pretending not to listen. I wouldn’t meet with the man, of course—not even under the guise of a glamour.
“I’d love to, Enforcer,” Ichika returned. “But The Haunt chose not to attend.”
“Ah, oui?” he asked disbelievingly. “If she were here, I think she’d be eager to meet with me.” He slid a hand into his pocket. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Ichika. “And it wouldn’t do any good. I’m afraid The Haunt isn’t present.”
“Then arrange a meeting. Tell her I want to commission a painting.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But she’s adamant about remaining anonymous. Not even I know who she really is. And she doesn’t take commissions,” Ichika added, spreading her palms in a what-can-I-say gesture.
Baptiste’s face darkened. “But you will pass on my request. Perhaps she will reconsider.”
“Of course, Enforcer.”
He inclined his head and moved away.
Ichika exhaled audibly, then slipped past me with a soft, “Pardon.”
I let out a tiny breath myself. I’d half expected the enforcer to try and compel Ichika to let him meet The Haunt. But even if I’d agreed, it wouldn’t have done him any good. As Ichika had said, I didn’t take commissions. My process didn’t work like that—I couldn’t drag a painting out of myself on command. It had to rise on its own terms, unforced.
But wow. An enforcer had wanted one of my paintings badly enough to pressure Ichika. I held that fact close, a balm against my father’s cutting dismissal of me and my desire to be an artist.
And on top of that, my paintings were selling. Each of the three I’d checked so far had a little red dot beside it, marking it as sold.
I hid my smile behind my wine glass.
Added to the cash I’d already stashed in an anonymous Swiss account, I should have more than enough to fund my escape—and to stay hidden, where my father could never find me.
He kept me close—paying my bills but denying me anything resembling freedom. I was expected to charm his friends, obey his associates, carry out little “jobs” for him.
I was suffocating under his rules, his demands, his near-constant surveillance. I wanted out. I needed out.
