“You could ask.”
It was…difficult to remember she could ask for things. Beyond that, cooking for herself was a strange experience.
“Well,” she said, holding up the bowl, “I consider this a success. It’s quite nearly edible.” She went to the sink and ceremoniously dumped it out. “But for all my weakness at cooking, Painter, I’m certainly better at painting. It’s time. We should go out tonight and look for that nightmare.”
He walked over. “You don’t even believe this is the reason we’re linked. You think it’s that machine and the scholars.”
“Yes,” she admitted. By now they’d seen that it could legitimately draw its own spirits, without help from a yoki-hijo. It merely did so very slowly, at a rate of one or so a day. “But what if I’m wrong?”
He met her eyes.
“I don’t understand any of this,” she said. “Painter, you said you thought that stable nightmare was the reason. So we need to pursue it. We need to try to find it.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets to think, his brow creasing. Unfortunately they’d nearly run through his meager savings—and his suspension would soon be over. He’d need to immediately go back to work and prove himself to his superiors so that he didn’t get into further trouble.
Therefore, either she needed to start doing his job, or they needed to solve this issue, ending their bond.
Did she want that?
Well, of course she did. She had duties—and more importantly, the spirits had called her to a special task. She needed to see that through to help them. Then she had to return to her life. Improved, yes.
But still irrevocably alone.
She didn’t want to confront that. At least…at least there was that flying ship from his planet, traveling between their worlds. That meant something. For the future.
“All right,” he said, standing up. “Let’s pack the painting supplies.”
She nodded firmly. Today she’d dressed in sturdy work clothing. For working. Something she’d never truly done, but it felt right. Leggings under her dress, a thicker jacket than her lightweight one—short, not even down to her waist, but solid, with numerous metal clasps and buttons on it. Almost like armor.
“Something’s off about this,” Painter said, strolling over as she packed the painter’s bag. “Yumi, that stable nightmare should have been spotted by now. It’s been weeks. The Dreamwatch should’ve been sent for, should be working in the city. But if they were, it would be on the news. The Dreamwatch arriving is such a big deal…”
“Wait,” Yumi said, pointing at him. “Have you been stalling? Is that why you made me practice again all this week? You thought maybe someone else would catch the thing?”
He shrugged. She didn’t want to think of him as cowardly, but there were moments like this when he seemed perfectly willing to let someone else do the difficult jobs. Admittedly, she’d spent her entire life doing very little for herself. To an uncomfortable extreme. So she figured maybe she shouldn’t point fingers.
She shoved the last of the large canvases into the bag, then nodded. It was time, at long last, for her to try being a nightmare painter.
* * *
Painter made them wait past the time when shift started, just in case. He said he wanted to minimize the chances of her being spotted by the other painters—although eventually that would very much be part of their plan. That said, it would probably be okay if she happened to be seen. Someone else would be patrolling his beat until his suspension was up. However, he said that the area was wide, and painters often moved between sections as they patrolled, chasing leads. As long as she didn’t encounter any painters up close who could identify her as Nikaro’s sister, they should be fine.
The plan was simple. They needed to hunt for signs of the stable nightmare, see if it was still prowling these streets. If it was, they’d draw the attention of one of the groups of painters patrolling nearby. Once they’d seen it, everyone could go to the foreman and corroborate what Yumi had told him. The Dreamwatch would be sent for.
It was a straightforward plan in concept, but each of the individual pieces daunted Yumi. She’d brought a device Painter said would make an emergency noise—it was a metal contraption with two round things on the sides that he said were bells. She’d seen bells though, and these weren’t those. How was something shaped like a large biscuit a bell?
But she trusted it would work. Newer painters carried these to call for help. So she’d turn it on if they saw the stable nightmare. But what if no other painters were nearby? How would they get close enough to a nightmare to determine it was the right one, yet stay far enough away that it wouldn’t attack her?
She voiced none of this to Painter. He was too nervous himself, evidenced by how he suggested—no fewer than three times—that she return to the apartment. She resisted, though she’d never seen the streets so empty as she did tonight. Soon she crept out past the last line of buildings—built almost like a fortification, with windowless walls in a ring.
Here she finally got her first up-close look at the shroud: a shifting, seething wall of darkness. It was blacker than common night; night didn’t swallow light. And night didn’t feel like it was looking back. Her nerves failed her, and she didn’t dare walk all the way up to the shroud. Instead she hovered near the last line of buildings, staring at it.
She hadn’t expected it to shift like that. Turbulent. Undulating. Yet because of the lack of color, it was impossible to distinguish details. That gave it the appearance of something much farther away. An impossible visual.
“Do you ever get used to it?” she asked softly.
“You grow accustomed to it,” he said. “Like a persistent noise. In the same way, you occasionally notice it anew—and suddenly it’s alien again. Terrifying again. You have to get used to it all over. It’s almost like making friends with someone who keeps changing personalities. One who stares at you in a way that makes you think they’re eventually going to try to kill you…”
She ripped her gaze away from the shroud, instead looking along the buildings here. Whitewash covered the bricks of many portions—a plainly deliberate design choice, a wall of white to ward off the wall of darkness. And on many of those whitewashed portions were paintings. Large murals painted with the ink of a nightmare painter—monochromatic, but incredibly detailed in contrast and subtlety of shade.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Painters put them up when they feel like it,” he said. “One section per painter.”
“Where’s yours?”
He shook his head. He didn’t have one then? Perhaps no one would be impressed by another painting of bamboo.
They started their patrol, walking back from the shroud through the nearer rings of the city streets. Despite what she’d said earlier, he hadn’t made her spend the last week only on bamboo. They’d talked about patrolling and about protocol for painters. So she understood what it was he did at night—how he watched for nightmare signs.
He still spotted the first sign before she did. “There,” he said, pointing ahead. To the corner of a wall by the street, about five feet up in the air. A smoking black spot marked the bricks there.