Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The morning arrived with little fanfare as outside the blizzard howled.
With a cup of coffee in hand, I studied the painting with fresh eyes, staring at the tide, wondering if there was a beautiful man beneath the waves.
I headed for the shower to prepare for the day as if it were any other.
If the storm let up, I’d pack everything up and head to Xavier’s.
If it didn’t… maybe I wouldn’t have to face my parents.
Steam curled around the bathroom mirror as I toweled off, obscuring my reflection, including my puffy eyes.
I didn’t need to see the variance mark glowing on my bicep like some kind of brand.
Or that I’d been crying in the shower like an idiot at the thought of my parents finding out I was a variant.
The painting leaned against the wall. The waves were choppier than I remembered, but maybe that was all in my head.
The clouds loomed large over the cove, as if they would open up at any moment to a torrential downpour, and outside the apartment, the storm howled, shaking the glass in the window frames.
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 my reader 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 a cursed painting? 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.
Your choice. Make it what you will.
“Argh!” I scowled at the phone and threw it on my bed, annoyed. With my hands on my hips, I stared at the painting, waiting for it to drip, though it remained motionless. “My boss says it’s my choice. And I choose for you to not be cursed. Got it?”
Silence. Not even a mocking drip.
“Great. Glad we had this talk.” I stomped to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and shoved it under the frame. “For the record, my last swim lesson was at age twelve, and while I mastered the doggie paddle, it was only in the shallow end.”
No haunting voices. No mystery drips. Not even a suspicious ripple.
I took this as divine permission to return to my book.