Ruby Red Sky (The First Realm #1)

Chapter 1

C assia

The front door slammed shut, and I straightened my shoulders and gathered my colored pencils, pushing them to the side.

The sun was low on the horizon, the angle just right to reflect off the building next to ours.

It splashed a beam of liquid light right across the paper in front of me.

The illumination highlighted my pencil strokes and made the color look vibrantly alive.

Jagged mountains rose to meet an ombre sky.

Shades of red, orange and yellow melted together, tinging the peaks with a warm glow.

Beneath the stark scene, a winding river split the valley into two.

I was going to draw a couple of colorful fish jumping and chasing bugs and add some ivory shades to show where the water broke, the splashes and crests of the waves.

To me, this piece was really pretty. It was a weird feeling, falling in love with my own work. Other people were supposed to think it was great, not me. Right?

The drawing was so detailed and alive that it almost seemed like I could reach inside the paper and dip my fingers inside the cool refreshing stream or cut the pad of my index finger on a mountain top.

The longer I stared, the more it felt like I was there, with a soft, warm breeze stirring my hair.

Leaves would be rustling above me, and birds would call each other in the distance.

The air was sharp and clean. I could smell the crisp scent of crystal-clear water while blue and red fish jumped and caught the flies hovering over the surface.

Years had gone by since the last time I went around to any art galleries to try and see if they would feature some of my work, see if they had an amateur night or display area for newcomers. This illustration boosted my confidence. I will have to try again.

“What are you doing?” Bryan asked.

He stepped into the den where I painted and drew and tossed a manila envelope onto my work desk, dislodging my caddy of paperclips. They spilled onto the floor, clattering against each other.

“Drawing,” I gestured toward the sheet in front of me. “Come see.”

“I don’t have time for this, Cassia. I have to land this client,” he flexed his hands and then ran one through his hair, “or the past three months will have been a waste.”

There was always something with him. He never stopped to take a break or pay any attention to the people around him unless they furthered his career.

“Two seconds. It’ll take two seconds. Come see what I’ve been working on and then you can tell me about your day.”

He pulled at his tie, loosening it. “Will yours get us the brownstone in the village?”

I ignored him. We lived in a small penthouse that most people could only dream of.

His chest heaved with a sigh as he gave in and strolled over. “Okay?”

He’d glanced at it for a fraction of a second. “What do you think?” I asked.

Bryan’s phone was buzzing, and he tugged it from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Huh?”

“This one,” I gestured toward my work. “It’s good, right? I got the lighting just right. I think I’m going to bring it to one of the galleries.”

He was texting someone and smirked at the screen in his face. He brushed his hair back again and whatever product he’d used made the stiff strands move between his fingers. The result reminded me of a fading wheat field.

“What?” He flicked a glance at me before returning his attention to his phone. It buzzed and he chuckled, adjusting himself through his pants.

“Bryan,” I said. “It would mean a lot to me if you’d take a closer look. I really think this one could open some doors for me.”

With a short eyeroll, he approached my easel. His brows furrowed as I watched him scan my art. “You draw wagons and steak platters. You’re no Rembrandt—grow up.”

My head felt like a balloon as he strode away. The majestic mountains and bucolic valley wavered before my eyes as if I’d dipped my face inside the river on paper right in front of me. A deep ache filled my stomach.

I left the drawing in quarters on the floor.

* * *

Bryan was gone when I got up in the morning. Before I went to make myself some coffee, I padded into the room where I did all my art and flicked through one of my portfolios.

Today, I would try again. I wasn’t a quitter and someone out there, besides me, would love my paintings and drawings. I didn’t think it made me arrogant to believe that some of them were truly decent. I was allowed to admire my own work, wasn’t I? If it was that bad, I would know.

Before stopping at one of the galleries I’d chosen, I went and ordered a matcha at the shop down the street. It was spacious and busy, and I’d been coming here for years. Someone held the door for me, and I ducked inside; my portfolio tucked against my hip.

The line moved quickly, and I took a deep sip of my drink as I made my way to the exit. There was a jam of people in front of the door, with a cluster lingering and talking. They blocked the way.

Someone tall reached over, shoving the glass door open, and I ducked under their arm when they stopped. A swath of long white-blond hair snagged against the stiff cardboard envelope protecting my drawings before the strands fell away and finally, I was outside.

The gallery I picked to visit was the one closest to home, so I headed south, stepping into the flow on the sidewalk.

The unnerving sensation of being singled out and watched tingled down my spine.

I glanced over my shoulder. Everyone was walking to work.

Some were talking on their phones, others tapping away at their screens.

A few were getting car service or flagging down a taxi. Everything was as it should be.

The art gallery was full of light, with soft violin music playing in the background. The current pieces being shown were thematically the same as the ones in my folder—stark landscapes.

My timing was perfect.

“Cassia!” Giovanni greeted me. He managed the studio and was the nicest guy, always gracious and friendly. “It’s been a hot minute. How have you been?”

He air-kissed my cheeks and his eyes lowered to the folder. “I just wanted to show you what I’ve been working on—if you have a minute?”

“Of course. Let’s see what you’ve been doing all this time.”

We walked over to a table, and I set my portfolio down. Giovanni was silent other than making an occasional cooing noise or grunt.

Instead of staring nervously, I decided to look around the room. Visualizing my own work gracing the walls or being displayed on one of the wooden easels was comforting. I knew I could get there, one day. What was it my dad used to always say?

Persist, persist, persist.

He straightened and looked at me. “Your boyfriend had a great idea,” he said, gently placing the sheets back inside the folder as I stopped breathing. “Why don’t you come work for me? We pay better and instead of making cartoons, you can help other artists and have a real job.”

My lips pressed together before I let the oxygen fill my lungs again. “How do you know Bryan?”

Giovanni looked surprised. “That night the two of you were here? He tried to bring us on as clients. He’s stayed in touch here and there, of course.”

“He failed to mention that to me.” Me and Bryan had attended the showing of a new, local artist months ago. I should have known Bryan would throw me under the bus like this. Cartoons .

“As you can see, cartoons are not my passion. That’s not what I want to do.”

He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Of course. But by working here, maybe you’ll meet the right people.” He waved a dismissive hand at the current display. “As you can see, it has nothing to do with talent.”

Hot tears pressed at the back of my eyes. Common courtesy dictated I say, “Thank you so much, Giovanni. I’ll be in touch.”

By the time I got outside, a single tear drop spilled onto my cheek. I straightened my back and wiped it away.