Memory and Dream

student killed herself because she realized the truth: that’s the only way to get out of his clutches. I don’t think there is anybody else. And even if there is, I doubt he’s strong enough to live through the time it’d take to train them.”

“Unless he feeds on whatever numena of yours that are still around. Paddyjack and Cosette. The painting of Annie Nin that I’ve got. The reading woman at the Foundation.”

Isabelle nodded. “I guess it’ll have to be up to you to protect them,” she said, lifting the blade of the utility knife to her throat.

Marisa turned her face away, unable to look. At her side, Alan made an inarticulate sound and lunged forward. He knew he couldn’t possibly reach her in time, but he had to try.

IX

A few rooms away, Rushkin sat on his pallet, back against the wall, oblivious of the drama taking place in the makeshift studio down the hall. He still held the knife he’d used to destroy The Spirit Is Strong, gently thumbing its edge as he looked across the room. Finally consuming the obstinate John Sweetgrass had been far less satisfying than he’d imagined it would be. He was stronger now, much stronger than he’d been for weeks, but the gnawing hunger continued to eat away inside him, unappeasable.

He remembered when Bitterweed had first brought the painting to him, how angry he’d been at the numena’s stupidity until he’d felt the unmistakable aura of the otherworld rising up from under the paint Barbara Nichols had used to cover Isabelle’s original painting. He’d picked away at a corner of the canvas, working at the dried oil paint with his thumbnail. The garish top layer had come off in small flakes under his effort, revealing the richer tones of Isabelle’s oils hidden under it.

That had been clever of Sweetgrass, but not clever enough. Did Sweetgrass think that he hadn’t kept tabs on him, that he hadn’t been aware of the friendship that had developed between Isabelle’s first fully-realized numena and his own erstwhile student? Who better to guard the painting for Sweetgrass than lovely Barbara with her quick tongue and a temper to match Rushkin’s own? Rushkin hadn’t expected The Spirit Is Strong to be hidden under another painting, but that had been the only surprise.

That, he amended, and the singular lack of substance he’d acquired upon consuming the numena.

Perhaps it had something to do with Barbara’s having covered Isabelle’s original under her own work.

The additional layer of paint could well have worked subtle changes in the properties of the original.

Although Barbara hadn’t stayed with him long enough to fully learn the craft of bringing numena across, there were still traces of enchantment in her work—enough to create some slight imbalance.

A pity about Barbara, he thought. She’d been so promising. Much more talented than poor Giselle.

Perhaps more talented than Isabelle as well, though it was hard to tell. She hadn’t been with him long enough. She’d certainly been more volatile. Not at all like poor innocent and trusting Isabelle. He smiled, thinking of Isabelle. Even now, even after all that he’d done to her, she couldn’t sift fact from fiction. As though she would ever have set the fire that consumed her farmhouse and all her numena. As if it could have been any other hand but his own that had struck the match, just as he’d had to do a few years later in Paris with Giselle’s studio.

Rushkin held up his hand and studied the way light played along the edge of the knife he held. He regarded it for a long moment, then leaned over the side of the pallet and tossed the knife on the floor where it landed beside Bitterweed and Scara’s gateway paintings.

A shame you couldn’t feed on your own, he thought. It would make life so much simpler.

He stretched out on the pallet and put his hands behind his head. Staring up at the cracked and water- stained ceiling, he tried to ignore the hungry gnawing in his belly by imagining how Isabelle would finish the painting he’d glimpsed on her easel. It was such an interesting choice of a palette. He could almost taste the sweet angel it would bring across from the Garden of the Muses.

Poor Isabelle. She imagined her subject as an angel of vengeance, a stern-faced, winged Amazon who would leap the bridge between the worlds, redressing wrongs with the edge of her bright sword.

But numena were really only sustenance, nothing more. In this he hadn’t lied: it took a piece of the soul of their maker to make numena equal to humans and who would be fool enough to do such a thing? Let the creatures run one’s errands. Let them remain food. Anything else led only to needless complications.

That was something that Isabelle hadn’t stayed with him long enough to learn. Undoubtedly it had been for the best. Had she stayed, she would have continued to grow stronger and one day she might have tried to wrest control from him—as he had wrested control in his time.

His smile deepened and a dreamy look came over his features. Now, that had been a bloody night.

He had bathed in the hot crimson gushing from the man’s throat, astonished at how much blood one human body held. He’d been so strong in those days—even without the sustenance stolen from another’s numena.

He would be that strong again.

X

A sudden relief flooded Rolanda when she realized that the rapping she heard was coming from inside the storeroom where she’d locked away the paintings for safekeeping. Not bothering to put the baseball bat down, she hurried to the door, disengaged the lock with the key from her pocket and flung the door open.

“Cosette,” she cried. “God, am I happy to ...”

Her voice trailed off and she backed away as a tall, red-haired woman walked out of the storeroom.

The stranger was oddly familiar, but Rolanda couldn’t immediately place where she knew her from. She seemed to be in her early thirties and stood a few inches taller than Rolanda. She had a striking figure and carried herself with a stately grace. Her solemn grey eyes were the same color of the calf-length gown she wore over a rust underskirt.

“I ... I know you,” Rolanda said, as recognition finally dawned on her. “You’re the reading woman from the other painting.”

The stranger smiled. “Indeed. And from your greeting I take it you’ve already met Cosette.”

“That’s who I thought you were.”

Rolanda couldn’t stop herself from staring at the woman. She’d accepted the existence of numena, been witness to their ability to appear and disappear at will, but she still wasn’t quite used to having a conversation with someone who had just stepped out of a painting. She didn’t think she ever would.

“Where is Cosette?” the woman asked.

Rolanda gave her an apologetic shrug. She had the sudden uncomfortable sensation of having been entrusted with someone’s child and then simply letting her run off, unattended.

“I don’t really know,” she said. “She went off with Alan and Marisa—do you know them?”

“I’ve ... heard a great deal concerning Alan.”

“And I guess Marisa’s his girlfriend.”

The woman smiled. “That must have been a grave disappointment for Cosette. She was quite taken with him.”

“So I noticed.”

“And where did they go?”

“Ah ...” Rolanda cleared her throat, her uneasiness returning. “They went off to deal with Rushkin.

He’s—”

“I know who he is all too well.” The woman sighed. “And she promised me she’d be careful.”

“I tried to stop them,” Rolanda began.

The woman raised a hand to forestall an explanation. “You’re not to blame. Cosette only listens to reason when it suits her.” She shook her head and gave Rolanda a self-deprecating smile. “I suppose I’m far more protective of her than I should be. While she looks like a child, I don’t doubt she’s as old as you and certainly capable of accepting responsibility for her actions.”

“But still,” Rolanda said.

“But still,” the woman agreed. “I can’t help but worry. Especially at a time such as this.”

“If I can help ... ?”

The woman glanced back toward the storeroom. “You seem to have already done what I came to do. John sent word that we should all guard our own gateways because the dark man’s creatures were abroad again, hunting us.”