Chapter 13
“They were right there all along,” says Venus, staring at the blank canvas in front of her.
It and the painting of the phoenix are laid out across the Nomad’s desk.
He stands behind the desk, arms crossed, while the two muses peer over the paintings from the other side.
I stand off to the side of the desk, watching them.
“I used to mock this one,” Venus says. “Me and one of the other girls—we used to stare at it and come up with all sorts of pretentious sayings about it. Pretend we were appraisers. And all along, my power was right there in front of me. How did I not feel it?” she asks, running her hand over the empty canvas.
“How do we get the power out?” asks Phoenix, her voice lacking sentimentality. She still hasn’t told me what her magic is, although from the looks of the painting and her name, I have my ideas.
“I regret to inform you that I’m not exactly up to date on trapping magical powers,” says the Nomad.
“Yes, but you knew enough to send Tink into the manor,” Phoenix snaps. “You knew Vulcan was keeping them somewhere. You must’ve heard that from someone who’s more informed than you. And I highly doubt you left that conversation without the information on how to remove them.”
“Think what you want,” says the Nomad, a slight smirk playing at his lip.
My opinion aligns with Phoenix’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Nomad knows exactly how to remove the magic from the paintings and is simply biding his time.
“You’re just going to take them for yourself,” says Venus, fisting her hand against the table.
My thoughts exactly.
“My dear, that’s hardly my intention,” the Nomad says smoothly. “Why would I involve you and your friend at all? I didn’t have to track you after you left. I already knew where your powers were, and I already had Tink ready to steal them for me.”
Venus makes a point of turning slowly away from the Nomad and toward me. “Thank you,” she says in a coyly sweet voice.
I return her smile with equal vitriol.
“Did you see anything, Tink?” asks the Nomad. “Find any clues as to how to remove the magic from the painting?”
I take out my notepad and write, The man who was stealing them turned invisible.
“So there is some way to use them,” Venus gasps, running her hands all over the painting frantically. “What if the thief took all of them? What if our magic is gone?”
I chew my lip. The same concern has been itching at me ever since I got far enough away from the manor to think about anything other than escaping.
“No need to panic yet,” says the Nomad. There’s a firm grit to his jaw that tells me if he’s not panicking, he’s at least concerned.
“I can’t feel my magic,” snaps Venus. “If it were still in there, I could feel it.”
What about you, I write, pointing toward Phoenix, who has yet to lay a finger on her painting. Can you feel anything?
Phoenix stares down at the dying bird, hesitates, then, when she realizes everyone is staring at her, places a single finger on the canvas. “Nothing,” she says, snapping her hand back to her side.
“We’ll be adding another member to our team shortly,” the Nomad says. “Someone who I think will have some idea of how to remove the powers and return them to their rightful owners.”
“Come on, Venus,” says Phoenix, carefully removing her friend’s trembling hand from the painting.
Venus says something I can’t hear, to which Phoenix responds, “Yes, well, you haven’t eaten yet today.”
She goes to take her own painting, but the Nomad grabs her wrist and stops her. “These will be staying with me for now.”
She sneers at him. “I don’t think so.”
“The only way we’ll pull off this heist is if you learn to trust me,” he says.
“I care little about pulling off your heist,” says Phoenix.
“Well, you’d better, if you want your powers back,” he says through gritted teeth, lips stretching into a smile that bites.
Phoenix wrenches her wrist from his grip, and she and Venus leave. I’m about to follow them when the Nomad says, “Stay.”
If this were a dream, he’d grab me, yank me into his chest, and wrap his elbow around my throat.
But I’m not in my dreams. I’m on a ship, and for now, the Nomad seems to need me alive.
And if I’m to find out why the Nomad kills me eventually, it’s not going to do me any good avoiding him.
Not unless I intend to run, which I don’t. Not until I have my voice back.
I turn to face the desk and the Nomad. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, just stares at the paintings, until finally he says, “Can you feel it?”
When I raise a brow at him, he reaches out his hand. As soon as his calloused fingers touch my wrist, I flinch, a vision of him taking my wrists and pulling me into him, readying for the kill, flashing before my mind.
He hesitates, a question on his raised brow.
I bury my fears deep before he can ask. There’s another question in his eyes, an asking for permission, and I allow my hand to linger instead of pulling away.
Keeping his eyes on me, he takes it. His grip is firm, but softer than I expect.
Then he leads my hand over the painting, almost touching, barely hovering.
“Can you feel it?” he asks.
The warmth of his palm seeps into mine. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, my heart racing. It’s just a fear response. Terror at the touch I’ve felt so often—touch that so often ends in my death. But I subdue the fear. There’s no reason for him to kill me until he has the artifact.
“Close your eyes.” His voice is smooth, like cowhide leather.
I look at him like he’s crazy, and he smiles, cocking his head to the side. “Really, Tink—you act as if I want you dead.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, then, unable to resist his dare, close my eyes and try to drown out the feel of his touch. It’s difficult, but eventually I feel it—something else. Not on the back of my hand where our skin meets, but in my palm. A gentle, tingling sensation.
I open my eyes quickly, glancing at him. He smiles, and this time it’s not sly or smirking, but something like quiet pride.
“You feel it too, then,” he says.
I remove my hand from his so I can grab the quill. That’s how you knew the magic hadn’t been stolen.
When I look up at him, I realize his hand is still lingering in midair above the painting, where he’d just been holding mine. I glance away at the same moment he returns his hand to his side.
He clears his throat and nods. “Very good.”
Why can we feel it and they can’t? I write. Venus, of all of us, should have been able to. It’s her magic, after all.
“Who knows?” says the Nomad.
Something tells me he does.