“You know what? Do whatever you want with the black. The fact that it’s dull and is going to ruin your painting is your problem—”
“I’m sorry, could you say that a little louder, please?” I put a hand to my ear in the universal “I can’t hear you” gesture.
“I said it’s dull.”
“No, not that part. The part about it being my painting. Mine. Can you say that again?”
“Whatever,” he huffs. “I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. What is it about guys that always makes them want to help—even when no one is asking for it?”
“Do what you want,” he answers, and when he doesn’t say anything else, I think maybe I’ve gone too far. But when I sneak a quick peek at his face, I realize he’s working almost as hard as I am not to grin. Which is absurd, I know. I want him out of my head more than anything, but I have to admit that now that he can’t take control of my body anymore, arguing with him is a ridiculous amount of fun.
With that thought in mind, I grab the darkest red I can find and mix a glob of it into my black. And then wait for the explosion.
It takes about five seconds, which is four seconds longer than I expected, but then Hudson all but screeches, “Are you kidding me with this? Are you trying to blind me?” and I know I’ve scored a direct hit. Another point for me.
Sure, the tally currently looks something like this: Grace 7, Hudson 7 million, but I’ll take the win.
At least until I remember that I’ve got something to ask him.
“Oh, hey. I’ve been meaning to ask. Now that we’re actually working on the spell to get you out of my head… Where did you put the werewolf canine and the athame?”
“Top shelf in your closet. In a bag, far right.”
“Up there? Why would you hide them there?”
“Because I didn’t want you to find them somewhere and totally freak out before you knew where they came from.”
“Good call,” I admit grudgingly.
I keep painting, ignoring Hudson’s objections. I’m still not sure what I’m painting yet, but I know that there’s a compulsion inside me to get it on canvas. Part of me wonders if it’s a memory from those four months I was trapped in gargoyle form, if it’s something important that I don’t remember. But another part of me figures that’s just wishful thinking. That I’m so desperate to regain that piece of my life that I’m seeing portents of good things, even if they don’t actually exist.
Delusional much, Grace? Why, yes, I am. I step back and look at what I’ve done so far.
The background is complete, and looking at it feels strange because it’s unfamiliar but also good—because something deep down inside me is whispering that I’ve gotten it just right.
And to be clear, that something isn’t Hudson. It’s deeper, more primal, and I keep hoping if I paint enough, it will unlock everything else.
I’m cleaning the black off my brush, thinking about what comes next, when a text hits my phone. My hands are covered in paint and I almost don’t get it, but I change my mind at the last second.
And then gasp when I see the text is from Jaxon—and that I’m nearly an hour and a half late for our date.
41
Turns Out the Devil
Wears Armani
Unfortunately, there’s a whole a string of texts from Jaxon—several from six thirty, one from seven o’clock, and then three that just came in.
Jaxon: Running late? I’ve got a table set up at the back of the library, near the study rooms
Jaxon: Why are vampires like wizards?
Jaxon: Because they’re neck-romancers
Jaxon: Sorry, I couldn’t resist
Jaxon: You okay? Did you fall asleep?
Jaxon: Hey, I’m not sure if you fell asleep or if you’re painting, but I’ve found some interesting stuff
Jaxon: Can you text me when you get the chance, just so I know you’re okay?
Jaxon: Miss you
I feel awful. I can’t believe I forgot to meet him. I was looking forward to seeing him all day, and then I got so wrapped up in my painting that it totally slipped my mind. I tell myself it’s because my brain is on overload and the last thing I want to do is spend a bunch of time trying to figure out how to take on the Unkillable Beast and how not to die. To be fair, it’s a valid argument, but that doesn’t mean I feel any less shitty about not showing up.
“I’m sure baby brother will survive being stood up,” Hudson tells me, and there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there just a few minutes ago. “You should keep painting. You’re really on a roll.”