CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Eh. Could be anyone.” Aran appeared beside me, still chewing on something. He leaned in, squinted at the painting over my shoulder, then gave a lazy shrug. My hand trembled slightly as I pointed toward the canvas. The vendor’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Ah, you admire it? Beautiful, yes? One of my favorites,” he said with a warm nod.
His accent was close to Vestoni, but not quite.
The vowels stretched a little too far, the rhythm just off enough to sound foreign, like someone trying to speak clearly after a few glasses of wine.
Still, I understood him. And when I spoke slowly, most people here seemed to understand me too. Better than I’d expected.
“Do you know who painted it?” I asked.
He scratched his chin, thoughtful, then crouched behind the stand and began rummaging through a small wooden chest.
“Yes, yes. I have the receipt here somewhere.”
The vendor straightened and held up a folded slip of paper. “Here. This is where I got it.”
I stepped forward and took it before he could even finish handing it over.
“How much for the painting?”
He chuckled softly. “Five coppers. But for you, my friend—three.”
Will leaned in again.
“Why are we buying a painting?”
“Because Licia made it.”
“Oh.” His eyebrows rose. ”OH.”
I turned to Aran, meeting his eyes. “Please.”
He groaned like he was being tortured, but reached into his pocket anyway. With a sigh, he counted out the coins and slapped them onto the table.
“Fine.”
The vendor wrapped the painting with careful hands and passed it to me. It was heavier than I expected, large and awkward in my arms, but I held it close.
The golden buildings. The paintings.
All that remained was finding the serpent.
And then we’d find Licia.
There was an address on the receipt, so we spent the rest of the day trying to find it. Asking questions in broken Alévi, weaving through streets that looped like rivers. Some led to busy markets, others to dead ends. The city was a maze of color and noise and heat.
But finally, we found it. Dusmere Lane 9.
The building looked like it had been forgotten. The plaster along the outer walls had cracked and curled, flaking like peeling skin.The windows were boarded shut, and a rusted sign leaned against the doorframe, its letters long worn away. But there was light spilling out from inside.
Will stood beside me, staring up at it. “It looks abandoned.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the door, the number.
Will shifted closer, lowering his voice. “We should leave, Kera.”
“But what if she’s in there?” I asked.
The door hung slightly open, so I reached out and gave it a gentle push.
It creaked, but swung inward without resistance.
The air inside was thick and stale. A single oil lamp burned at the far end of the room, its flame flickering on a narrow table.
Light twisted across the walls, revealing peeling paint and floorboards gone soft with age.
A man sat by the table, slowly turning the pages of a book.
His coat was stained with dried paint, and his fingers were smudged black and red.
His dark hair was shaved close at the sides. But it was the tattoo I saw first.
A snake, inked in black, winding up his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Golden buildings. Paintings. Serpent.
Everything we’d been chasing, standing right there in front of me. We were in the right place.
“He’s the serpent.” I whispered. Will and Aran stayed silent behind me. Maybe they were waiting for me to go first. Or maybe they didn’t know what to say. I clutched the painting tighter in my arms and stepped forward, my heart pounding.
“Hi,” I said, my voice light, friendly. “Sorry to bother you, but… I’m looking for the person who made this.”
The man barely glanced up.
“What?”
“This painting,” I said, lifting it slightly. “Do you know who made it?”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as they met mine. “Who the hel are you?”
“I’m just trying to find someone,” I said, gripping the frame harder. “Please. Is she here?”
“She’s not.”
My stomach twisted. “So you do know who made it.”
“You need to leave.” he muttered.
Will stepped beside me. “She asked you a question.”
The man turned his glare on him. “And who the fuck are you?”
“Please. Just tell me where she is.” I begged.
“She’s not here,” the Serpent snapped. ”Now leave, I’m busy.”
Aran scanned the room with his usual smirk. “Busy doing what exactly? This place looks like shit. Is it a gallery? A studio? A shithole?”
“None of your damn business what it is,” the man spat.
I tried to keep my voice level. “Please.”
“Get out,” he barked.
Will put a hand on my shoulder. “Kera. Maybe we should—”
I shook him off. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Aran’s eyes narrowed. “You know her, don’t you? Licia?”
The Serpent stiffened. Not much, but enough.
“That is her name, yeah,” he muttered reluctantly.
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing a hand over his jaw like the conversation bored him. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”
“And she just left her paintings here? With you?” I asked, my voice rising.
He laughed, short and humorless. “She made hundreds of them. Sat up in the studio day and night. Used up all my fucking paint.”
“She lived here?” I asked.
“For a while,” he murmured.
I shook my head slowly. “She wouldn’t leave this one behind.”
“She left ’em. I sold ’em.” He shrugged.
Something twisted in my gut, something felt wrong. So wrong.
“You really don’t know where she went?”
“No,” he snapped. “Fuck off already.”
I stepped forward. “Tell me the truth.”
He leaned back against the table, smirking. “Or what, sweetheart?”
“Someone should put you to use, too,” the man sneered, taking a step toward me. “Pretty face like that? Mouthy little bitch like you? You’d sell quick.”
Then Aran moved. No warning. Just fury in motion.
His fist collided with the Serpent’s face so hard, I felt it in my chest. Bone cracked.
The man’s head snapped back and he crashed into the table behind him, sending boards, jars, and brushes flying.
Wood splintered. Something metal hit the floor with a shriek. A canvas stand collapsed.
But he didn’t fall. He staggered, teeth bloodied, and threw a wild punch. Aran ducked, stepped in, grabbed the front of his shirt, and drove him into the ground.
“Say that again,” Aran growled.
The Serpent spat blood. His mouth curled in a broken smile.
“Touched a nerve, huh? What, you two taking turns on her?”
I moved. Instinct. Rage. I didn’t even realize I’d stepped forward until I felt the floor lurch under me, slick with spilled paint. Aran saw me. Even from the ground, one hand outstretched, he gestured, a flick of his fingers, sharp and commanding.
Don’t.
My breath caught. My boots stuck to the floor with each step.
I froze. That hesitation might’ve saved me, because a heartbeat later, the Serpent surged up.
He rammed his knee into Aran’s groin. Aran choked out something raw and ugly as he collapsed.
The man shoved him off like dead weight and scrambled to his feet, breathing hard.
Unsteady, but alive. He turned—straight into Will. They collided mid-stride. Will didn’t punch; he tackled, driving the Serpent backward into a metal shelving unit with the force of a battering ram.
It buckled. A crash thundered through the room as the shelves tipped and collapsed. Everything went with them. Frames, glass, pigment, turpentine bottles, rags soaked in oil. They hit the floor in the wreckage.
Will swung.
Missed.
The Serpent elbowed him hard in the ribs. Will gasped and tried to wrestle him down, but the man broke free, rolling over a busted frame, hands scrambling for anything sharp. He found a rusted pipe.
“Will!” I warned.
The pipe swung, fast, brutal. Will dodged, but not cleanly. It scraped his cheek and smashed into the side of the table with a deafening clang. Glass exploded. Color bled everywhere, thick streaks of black, crimson, bile-green that spread across the floor.
Will charged. Tackled the man again, dragging him down into the mess. They fought dirty. Hands clawing, feet slipping, paint flying. No rhythm. No skill. Just instinct. The Serpent bit. Will slammed his head into the floor. Blood smeared across the wood. They rolled again.
Aran threw himself into the fray, still winded, one eye nearly swollen shut, rage boiling off him like steam. He grabbed the Serpent by the back of the neck and dragged him off Will, slamming him into the edge of the broken table. The man yelped, tried to break free, went for the pipe again.
Too slow.
Aran ripped it from under him and swung. The rod smashed into the man’s knee with a sickening snap. A sound like firewood splitting. The scream that followed was raw. Animal. Too loud for the space.
He hit the ground and didn’t get up. His leg folded wrong.
Awful. Blood pooled fast, mixing with the thick layers of pigment and chemicals across the floor until it looked like someone had spilled an entire artist’s soul.
The Serpent whimpered, one hand twitching near his ruined knee. Aran stood over him.
Then he reached into his coat and drew the gun.
The barrel met the Serpent’s temple like it belonged there.
“Where is she?” Aran seethed.
“Fuck—okay, okay!” The man whimpered, eyes wide. “She’s in Faerwyn! The Theatre! Gold District! Ask for the show called Dahlia!”
“I should kill you,” Aran said. “You don’t deserve to breathe.”
“Please… I have a son. A mother—”
“Pathetic,” Aran muttered.
“And she didn’t? She had fucking family too. Did you care?”
He grabbed the man’s jaw and forced his face up.
“Did. You. Care?”
The man shook his head. His whole body shook. His tears streaked through blood and paint.
“Then why the fuck should we?”