Chapter Thirty-One
Nicole
KYAN WAS TAILING HER.
Nicole could feel his steady presence as she headed to her favourite place: a world of calm and quiet, where the paintings of their hidden world were displayed in all their mythic glory.
The city grew around her. Previously a World Heritage site, Liverpool was a mix of old and new, industrial and historic. Two sculptures of its mythical Liver Bird watched over the river and city from a double-fronted clocktower that near reached the heavens.
To get to the gallery she had to cut through streets of noise and supernaturals. Kyan had said it was better to go a longer way to avoid the Wake’s headquarters at St George’s Hall, but it meant there was so much to try not to let knife into her mind.
The seagulls above, gliding towards the waterfront.
The rush of the chunky black taxis. The sun bright off the white limestone buildings.
And the chatter. Even the last of the blossoms dancing across the pavements beneath her low patent heels.
She’d worn them to feel more put together, the strap on them allowing her to run if needed.
But darting across the streets to avoid brushing against creatures that had varnished themselves to blend with the city folk, had her body at a near prowl.
Nicole forced her mind away from sensation and onto details, spotting several Irish pubs with their Celtic fonts proclaiming live music and live sports.
A cheer went up from inside one as she passed and she fought the urge to look back at Kyan, the invisible draw to him like the sun on her back or the hot press of it on her cheek.
She couldn’t stop to talk to him. Not with the slightest chance the Wake knew where they were. Not without giving them away.
She nearly stopped on the busy pavement when her gaze snagged on a nondescript but ancient stone doorway, its matching lintel carved with a triskelion. The entrance was shadowed between an Irish pub and a neighbouring building, making it look like a portal to another world.
‘One of the few, hidden pagan temples in the city,’ Kyan said from ten paces behind her, as if talking to himself. ‘It’s glamoured so only those who need or appreciate it can see it.’
Intrigue nearly kept her rooted to the spot, but she didn’t want to look too suspicious going into such a hidden location in the middle of the day.
Nicole forced herself onwards, noting how certain streets had Old Masters’ paintings gracing their walls in exquisite street art.
Some had depictions of creatures never found in the originals, images that were more specific and actually accurate.
The paintings seemed to distinguish certain parts of the city, along with the glimmering circle logo of the Wake on shop windows that alerted other creatures to the supernatural produce.
Outside, the buildings were warded and glamoured so all humans saw were run-down or poster-smothered windows, when inside they were thriving businesses, with groups of supernaturals milling and chatting outside.
Nicole kept her eyes away, even as her Empyrean instincts twisted and scanned. How she’d love to peacefully browse them with a coffee, after a few hours in the library working on her forgotten dissertation.
Finally, she broke through a leafy park and the museum rose into view.
Nicole relished the cooler breeze, calming the anxious hum in her bones from the noise and the Muse’s cryptic words.
She strode past trees and sculptures and onto the cobbled road lined with Victorian orb streetlamps that curved a sloping path up to the gallery and its neighbouring museum and library.
The austere, neoclassical buildings were lined up on a slight hill, all in the same dark sandstone.
Hurrying up the steps, Nicole passed the Walker Art Gallery’s fluted columns and Carrara marble sculptures of Raphael and Michelangelo – time-worn and missing some of their features – and into the pale marble hall.
The immediate hush bathed her in relief.
She hadn’t realised how much the city had affected her ability to think.
She didn’t want to go back to the townhouse yet.
Not without something clearer to work with.
Not without some idea of what she was supposed to do next or some way to work through the Muse’s clues.
A small, foolish part of her had hoped to walk into the apartments, come out with the next clue, or better yet, next goddess-blessed item, and head off again.
To think, she’d been upset about having to wait six months in Burghley House. Now, any moment could rip away the remaining safety Kyan was keeping alive.
Instead of heading straight ahead to the circular welcome desk, she took a right into the sculpture gallery. Even just a glance that way revealed Kyan’s dark shape in her periphery. Anticipation shimmered, hot and magic in her blood, while her pulse was soothed.
Her shoes clipped against the stone floor as she entered, finding it blessedly empty of visitors.
Nicole headed for the first, most obviously supernatural sculpture: ‘Psyche at the Well’.
The mythological Greek figure’s small, rounded butterfly wings were drooping behind her.
She had a tiny oenochoe jug and her rippling hair was tied in a marble bun, the smooth, pale expanse of her nude upper body glowing in the sunlight.
Nicole took in the hypnotic quiet, the creak of the wooden floor, and the cooler, temperature-controlled space that blew softly at the tendrils of hair that had stuck to her neck, and took a breath as her heartbeat slowed.
Then she dug out her notebook to jot down another thing the Muse had said before it escaped her.
She hadn’t expected Kyan to follow her inside, maybe just linger by the doors. But when he did, he didn’t speak, merely passed by, his powerful form shadowed as he headed to the far right-hand side of the room as if browsing. As if they didn’t know one another.
What was it her mother had first told her to do if an Empyreal discovered her?
Pretend.
Or run.
She was desperate to speak to him, to ask him about the Muse, to sit and theorise together. Even just ask more about the glimpse of his life she’d got when he’d mentioned the violin and his cousins back at the townhouse.
But for now, all she could get was stolen closeness.
Nicole glanced at the side of his face. So strong and handsome with a stoic, feral regality.
They moved around one another, behind a marble arm, the curve of a naked stomach, the arc of wings.
She scribbled some more, circled the key words the Muse had focused on.
Temptation.
Artist.
‘How was it?’ Kyan asked quietly.
Nicole jolted. He’d spoken too quietly for any nearby human to hear and still stood facing the other direction, examining a sculpture.
‘Everything she said was as mysterious as it was beautiful,’ Nicole replied as quietly as possible. ‘But … I don’t know what I’m looking for.’
Until they were back in the townhouse, Nicole wasn’t willing to mention the glass flower. For now, she just needed some perspective and to check any depictions of flowers here to know what she was working with.
A few humans strolled in, interrupting the intimate silence.
Nicole turned and headed out, her eyes sweeping over the rest of the sculptures, recognising a bust beside the door as the Greek Goddess Artemis, from the crescent moon atop her head like a pair of horns.
Heading out into the hall, she passed the front desk to reach the double curving staircases that led up to the painting gallery.
Kyan took the mirroring stairs on the right, while she took the left, and together they ascended.
She tried not to look at him – focusing instead on the great painting hanging on the wall above.
A wicked, dynamic piece, featuring a dark-haired man being wrestled by more than five others, while a mischievous witch-like figure looked on with glee from the right.
It was so intense, so beautifully painted, she nearly missed a step.
That, and something about the image of the straining man fighting so many people reminded her of Kyan.
The gilded glass door at the top of the stairs announced Victorian Art beyond, so Nicole pushed into the large rectangular space, scouting for any paintings that were remotely similar to the Muse or her mysterious stolen flower.
The whole room displayed mythological, biblical, or historical pieces, exactly the kind of images that made Nicole’s supernatural academia instincts bloom to life.
She swept her eyes over the Angels and monsters, the Grecian stories and the tales of Dante.
Between every thick gilded frame was deep pink damask wallpaper that caught the light from the arched skylights above.
There was so much colour amid the romantic, dynamic poses: in the largest Rossetti painting she’d ever seen, and a Perseus and Andromeda that made her loath to move on, fascinated by the dragon whose great inky wings stretched over the twisted nude woman with her spill of red hair.
Then, there was an angel with wings not of white or black, but lilac-silver and peach-tipped like the dawn.
She strolled by a sulky Helen of Troy with flaming red curls, pausing to note it since the Muse had mentioned Helen.
And female artists – Nicole perked up at their names.
Annie Swynnerton and Evelyn De Morgan, who had painted The Angel of Death piece that had hung behind Westmoore’s desk.
‘Anything?’ Kyan asked.
Nicole sighed as her eyes roamed, reluctant to go back into the city. ‘Not yet.’
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Her instinct was to brush off the question, pretend she was fine. That she’d figure it all out. But she hadn’t been able to be honest with him in Estwood.
She wanted to be now.
‘I’m fine, it’s just – very loud. I was … having trouble drowning it out and not panicking.’
‘Do you want help?’
Her lips almost curled up. ‘I wish I did it instinctively.’
She could hear the slight smile in his voice. ‘Of course you do. But, you’re used to suppressing yourself. It makes sense.’