Edinburgh, Scotland
The missing poster was disconcerting. Evie saw it every day, twice a day, when she left for work and when she came home. It didn’t matter what time it was, how drunk she was or wasn’t—rain or shine, happy or sad, it was there, lurking, as if Brigit Wallace had stuck her own face to the pole with some sort of enchantment.
The poster had been there for a year. A year of seeing the lost girl’s face staring at her—the large center shot abrupt and forward, eyes straight ahead, as if she could see right through you—and the two smaller candids, one with her head thrown back laughing, another a profile shot from a fancy dress party. She was dressed as an angel. Evie thought that appropriate, considering.
The truth of the situation: Brigit Wallace was so similar to Evie Williams that it was almost as if she saw herself hanging there every day, captured in time, never changing, never aging, never found. Perhaps that’s what drew her to the poster in the first place. (Maybe it was the hashtag. Evie couldn’t imagine having her own hashtag.) Sections of it had faded, but the relevant information was readily apparent.
Those details had long rubbed away. The white paper had aged to yellow, the edges were tattered, a large hole was ripped in the middle of the description of Brigit’s looks.
She is…
What was Brigit? What little detail lived in that blank space? Was it the one clue that would lead to her discovery?
Evie might have those details written down somewhere; when she first saw the poster, she’d followed the case religiously, even went online to the missing people charity and read more about the girl in the chatrooms.
But it had been nearly a year now, and it was clear to everyone Brigit Wallace wasn’t coming home. Even the hashtag was no longer being used. No one was actively looking for or asking about her anymore.
Which led to now. Every day, twice a day, Evie felt guilty when she saw the poster. She should have done more. She should do more. She hadn’t known Brigit Wallace, but it could just as easily have been Evie’s face hanging on that pole. Evie went for drinks at the Glasshouse sometimes. It was a cool place. Artsy. Evie liked art. Couldn’t draw a lick, but liked looking at it.
That’s what had brought her to Edinburgh in the first place. An art history degree at the University of Edinburgh. She was a Nashville girl, brought up on Hatch show prints and the occasional exhibit at the Frist. There was art in Nashville, but nothing that compared to Edinburgh and its fantastic historical programs.
She really liked her life right now. School was good. She had a lovely group of friends who teased her when she used their words in place of her own. Brolly, boot, hen party, all sounded silly and quaint out of Evie’s mouth. She’d even developed the tiniest bit of a Scottish accent. It blended so nicely with her gentle southern drawl.
Yes, she was happy here. All the time, happy. Except for the two five-minute periods, twice a day, when she stood by the poster, waiting for or getting off the bus, thinking, as she always did, of Brigit.
For the longest time, people whispered Brigit had been taken by a serial killer, and Evie, utterly freaked out by this rumor, hadn’t gone for drinks with anyone for a few weeks. “Overdoing it much, Eves?” her friends teased. “Think you’ll be next?”
She could be. Anyone could be. Think about it. At the time Brigit went missing, Evie lived alone. She could be eaten by her cat and no one would know unless they came round to check on her.
Finally, realizing she was being silly, she arranged for a flatmate, the incessant fear left her, and she started going out again. Time passed. The elements ripped holes in Brigit Wallace’s description. Life became normal again. Evie’s original level of concern seemed slightly hysterical.
Now, when her friends suggested drinkies, or an evening at an art exhibition, she was always the first to RSVP. She had plans this very evening for just such an event.
They were in the first few days of the Fringe, three weeks of high art in Edinburgh, so there were tons of new exhibitions and installments for Evie and her friends to attend. The exhibit in question was at the Dovecot. Something about dark art from Scotland’s past.
The party would start in an hour. Evie had suggested the group come to her place for drinks first, then they’d head down to the Dovecot together. Everyone agreed. They were used to Evie’s desire to move about town in a crowd. Indulged her. Besides, she could afford better liquor and wine; they were all still on students’ budgets, but Evie’s parents paid her a healthy monthly stipend. She picked up two good Barolos and a nice Prosecco to start. She’d bought the cheese and meats on the weekend. It wouldn’t take long to set up, but the Barolos needed to breathe and she was running behind.
She clambered off the too-crowded bus, tried and failed to ignore Brigit, who, let’s be honest, had become almost a friend in Evie’s mind. The street was crowded with impartial strangers, and Evie was a small woman. They jostled her backpack and the brown paper bag she clutched that held the wine as she tried to cut her way through the stream to her front door. Couldn’t they see her trying to cross the sidewalk and move down to Johnston Terrace where she lived?
She did hate being invisible. It was the one thing that bothered her. She was working on it, making her personality bigger, brasher, louder, as if that would help her not seem so tiny and easy to miss. Sometimes, it even worked.
When she finally made it down the close, a man was standing by the entrance to her building. He was cute. Dark, curly hair, blue eyes, rolled chinos and ankle boots. Half preppy, half punk rock. She gave him a brief smile and she opened the door, trying to shift the wine into the left arm with her purse so she could do the keypad to unlock the door.
“Let me,” he said, reaching for the wine. Highlander, she thought, pulling it closer. He had the deeper burr of the north in his speech. She was mildly pleased she could recognize it so easily, but totally freaked out, too. He was staring at her, and it was strange.
“I’m fine. Thanks. I’ve got it.”
“You’re Evie, aren’t you?”
Her heart pounded crazily, an adrenaline rush of fear barreling through her even as she thought, Goodness, he is handsome. How does he know my name? Oh, God, I’m in danger. He has a dimple in his chin.
She realized he was still speaking.
“…of course you’re Evie. I’m Thomas. Thomas MacBean. I’m a friend of Ariel’s. She invited me tonight. I’m a bit early, I came down from Inverness this afternoon and traffic wasn’t as bad as I expected.”
“Oh!” She felt like such a goose. Always so on edge, that was Evie. It was just like Ariel to invite people over without telling Evie. “I haven’t gotten things ready, but you’re welcome to come on up.”
“Really, let me,” and he took the wine with a big smile. “Ariel said you were cute. She didn’t do you justice. You’re way beyond cute.”
She pulled open the door, rolled her eyes. “I’m going to give you some of the good wine regardless. You don’t have to try and flatter me.”
“Good wine? I’m in. Lead the way.”
She liked the timbre of his voice, and that ancient Scottish warrior accent. The city boys were much more anglicized than the northerners, who sounded like they’d just stalked off the battlefield, still holding their broadswords.
Turn off your hormones, Evie.
Thomas went directly to the windows, taking in the view. “What a great flat. How’d you luck into it?”
It was a great flat, modern and slick, with a lovely view of the castle, and she took great pride in it.
She was grateful that she’d already cleaned the flat, and that her flatmate was gone to France on holiday, and the cat seemed to have hidden herself away, so she wouldn’t be yowling immediately, demanding Evie’s undivided attention.
Evie dumped her bags on the counter, accepted the wine from Thomas. She grabbed her wine key and started in on the Barolos.
“I looked forever before I left Nashville, and nothing suited me. The day before I was supposed to leave, this came on the market. I leased it sight unseen online, and have been very happy here.”
“So you’re lucky. Born under a star.”
“I don’t know about all that, but it is a nice place. Care for anything while I get ready?”
The look he gave her told her in no uncertain terms exactly what he’d care for. A long, slow, lazy smile appeared, and he crossed his arms. “We have all night.”
“Um, excuse me for a moment.”
Flustered, Evie went to her room, shut and locked the door. She stared into her mirror, saw the hectic spots of red on her cheeks—damn it, she was blushing, and she looked terrible when she was all red-faced and embarrassed. She splashed some cold water on her face, brushed her hair and teeth, changed into a pair of velvet leggings and a tunic she knew set off her eyes. Pulled on her tall brown riding boots, gave herself a little pep talk, and marched back into the kitchen. Thomas had found the cat, who was traitorously ribboning around his legs, meowing happily.
“That’s James Madison. I didn’t know he was a she until after the name stuck. I call her Maddie for short. She doesn’t usually care for strangers.”
Thomas’s eyes were gray, and held a hint of smoke in them. “Aye, most cats don’t like strangers, but they usually take to me.” He stood, stretched his back. “Now, how about that wine?”
The friends arrived. The Barolos were a big hit. And Thomas stuck close by Evie’s side, once even brushing a hand across her shoulders as he talked to the group. She felt warm and wanted. Ariel met Evie’s eye for a few long, unspoken conversations, in which Evie sent silent thanks and Ariel replied with a raised brow that said: I know, he’s totally hot, you’re welcome. After a successful cocktail hour, the whole merry crew headed to the Dovecot.
Evie was trying so hard to play it cool with Thomas, but there was something about him. He was magnetic. She was drawn to him. And he seemed drawn to her. They walked together down the cobblestones, shoulders touching, and Evie couldn’t help herself, she gave him a smile she knew was inviting, and felt a squeeze on her hand moments later. A promise, given and received.
The gallery was stark white with blond hardwoods. Some of the exhibit’s paintings were dark, some light, but a large red painting immediately caught Evie’s eye. At first glance it looked like a Rothko, a red rectangle on a black background, but as she drew closer, she saw it was by a Scottish artist named William Turnbull. She found the painting beautiful, yet restive, with its black and red swirling lines. The more she looked, the more uncomfortable she became.
Thomas was standing to her right, leaning in to read the plate. She admired his jawline, then turned, flushed, toward the opposing wall. She gasped. The painting took up the entire wall, bottom to top. The canvas was black. On it, in graphic profile, danced a rotund white demon with a hooked bill for a nose and a single sooty black eye. It had one breast, the nipple tipped in silver, and what was supposed to be a smile cracked the head apart.
The dance was macabre and gleeful. Evie could imagine the thing leaping right off the wall and grasping her hand, leading her in circles until she dropped from exhaustion. The very thought made the blood drain from her head.
“My God, it’s grotesque.”
Thomas had an amused grin on his face. “You think so?”
“I do. It’s horrible.”
“There’s great beauty in horror.”
“I don’t dispute that. But not in this piece. I can practically feel that thing reaching out of the canvas for me. Whoever painted that must be a seriously disturbed individual. Let’s move on.”
“Chicken,” Thomas said, but the tone was teasing and gentle, and she nodded.
“I am. I hate being scared. And that painting is downright scary.”
“The whole exhibit is meant to be unsettling. It’s called ‘The Endarkenment’ for a reason.”
“I guess Ariel didn’t tell you what a wimp I am, then.”
“She may have mentioned you spook easily. Edinburgh must be a hard place for someone like you.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The ghosts, of course. Can you not feel them when you walk the streets? The Highlands are haunted. Probably more so than the rest of Great Britain. And your close—by God, I could feel them watching from the windows.”
“Ah. I see. No, the ghosts don’t normally bother me. They’ve been very welcoming. There is a weird noise in my flat all the time, I’ve assumed it was a previous tenant. We’re built on top of the old closes. Did you know they used to shut them off when the plague hit? No one was allowed in or out, and the people who lived there died in droves, either from the plague or starvation. I can’t even imagine how terrible it must have been.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Then it’s reality that frightens you?”
“Yes. People do terrible things to one another. I’m sensitive to it. Come, let’s see the rest.”
As she stepped away, she could feel the lone eye of the dancing demon watching.
There was nothing quite so horrid as the demon, but the rest of the art was still unsettling. There was a black snowman in a topcoat, smoking a pipe in a snowy field; a man on his back being force-fed with a funnel; kitsune foxes laughing in a tree; a huge canvas of painted shoes discarded outside the Holocaust ovens.
Outside of the black-and-red painting she’d seen first, there was only one canvas she truly liked, that didn’t make her itch to remove her skin and sit in boiling water. It was a white canvas with a billowy black slit traversing it like a gentle cloud. The blackness could be anything: a crevasse in a glacier, the inside of a broken bone, the space between two standing lovers. It reminded her of Georgia O’Keeffe, pudendal and erotic.
Even though this painting was pretty, standing in front of it Evie felt off-balance, and the discomfort from earlier returned. Art was her refuge, her passion, but this whole exhibit made her jittery. The rest of the group were tipsy and loving every painting, creating dark stories to go along with them; Evie was desperate to leave. Every wall held another story, every sculpture a new tale, but no matter where she went, she couldn’t seem to get completely out of view of the demonic dancer and its macabre smile.
Thomas was attentive to her discomfiture, and led her farther into the gallery, where there were paintings and drawings that weren’t part of the exhibit. He was attentive and kind, fetched her a bottle of water, sat with her and chatted. She didn’t bother to hide her embarrassment. Somehow, she knew he would understand and empathize.
“I’m sorry to be such a killjoy.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I love art. This stuff, it’s just so… dark.”
“Why don’t we get out of here? We could go for a drink next door while the rest of the group enjoys the show.”
“That would be brilliant. Shall we?”
Evie couldn’t leave the gallery fast enough.
They went to a small pub two doors down. It was surprisingly quiet, polished brass and gleaming wood, and with a pint in front of her, Evie began feeling better. More herself.
Thomas was witty and charming. When the group finally caught up to them, Evie was a bit drunk. Food was ordered, glasses tipped. The evening turned merry again, and the darkness and horror she’d felt was forgotten.
On a trip to the loo with Ariel, Evie couldn’t help herself.
“You must tell me. Who is he?”
“Thomas? I knew him in school. In Inverness. Charming fellow, very sweet. Seems rather keen on you, Eves.”
“I didn’t know you were setting me up on a blind date.”
“Oh, I wasn’t. I thought the two of you might get along, is all. Reckon I was right.”
“Well, yes, but he’s from Inverness. It’s three hours away. I can hardly do the long-distance thing.”
“I think he’s planning to move down. You should ask. Seriously, Evie, he’s a good bloke. I had a bit of a crush on him myself when we were younger. I’m not his type, though.”
Considering Ariel was a knockout brunette with a body to match, Evie found that hard to believe. Ariel was everyone’s type.
“What does he do?”
“He’s an appraiser, I believe. A buyer for one of the galleries in Inverness. That’s why I thought you two would get along, he’s quite interested in art.”
“Thank you, Ariel. I appreciate you inviting him.”
She gave her friend a quick hug, and they went back to the raucous tables.
Thomas smiled when he saw her, scooted over so she could sit. His hand brushed hers, and she felt that same warm flush begin. They were inseparable the remainder of the evening, and when the crowd broke up, Evie, knowing she should excuse herself and go home alone, instead invited Thomas back for a nightcap, because Ariel trusted him so thoroughly, and he’d been so incredibly kind and attentive, and the cat had liked him, so there was no way he could be anything but wonderful.
And she was right. They’d barely made it inside the door when he kissed her, and more. The distraction Thomas provided was real and good, and they fell asleep entwined on her small bed in the wee hours of the night.
A noise brought her to the surface, a long, high-pitched scrape on her bedroom window. She wrenched awake, heart pounding, but there was nothing but darkness, and the gentle, deep breaths of the man next to her.
She’d almost forgotten her earlier fear and discomfort. Almost. But while Thomas slept next to her, in the dark of her flat, the image of the dancing demon came back, and the sound of faint scratching on her window lingered in her mind. She finally chalked it up to the ghosts who lived in the neighborhood playing a joke, and went back to sleep.
The following morning, Evie woke with a raging headache, lying next to the warm body of a practical stranger. Refusing to acknowledge the moment of shame that coursed through her, she snuck to the bathroom, showered, and took two paracetamols. Her bed was now empty; she was surprised to find Thomas whistling in her kitchen, the kettle boiling. He’d pulled on his jeans but left the top button undone, his hair was mussed, and she felt a wellspring of something—don’t even think the word love, Evie—course through her.
“Is that tea?”
“Good morning. It is. I found it in the cupboard. Scottish Breakfast from Eteaket—I’m impressed. I hope you like it strong.”
He handed her a mug, fingers lingering on hers, a small smile on his full lips. She took a sip. “Ambrosia. Thank you. I fear I may have overdone it last night.”
“We all did. My head’s fit to burst.”
She fetched the pain pills from her bathroom and shook two into his waiting palm.
“Thanks.” He swallowed the pills, then, with a grin, swept her up and carried her back to the bedroom. “I know the perfect thing to help get rid of these headaches.”
It was even better sober. My God, Evie thought, he’s a magician. And for the moment, he’s mine.
Later, back in the kitchen, her headache all but gone, the cat happily curled in her basket on the counter, they sipped tea. Evie was amazed at how comfortable she felt with him already. Her usual opposite-sex escapades were simply drunken awkwardness. Thomas felt real, adult, full of possibility.
My life has started. My real life. No more waiting. No more in between. This, this is what it’s going to be. Me, and him. Wow.
The thought took her breath away.
“So what are you up to today?” Thomas asked.
“I have class at noon, and I was going to write up my impressions of the show last night. We get credit for all the exhibits we attend. What about you?”
“Me? Well, I, erm…” He suddenly couldn’t meet her eyes.
Shit. He’s taken.
She looked down into her tea, feeling stupid and heartbroken. “Well. It was nice meeting you.” He started to talk but she raised a hand, cracked a wry smile. “No, no, it’s fine, it’s okay. I don’t expect anything from you. I understand.”
A sharp frown crossed his face. “You slept with me, but you don’t expect anything? What if I do?”
“You do?”
He smiled. “Yes, goose. I like you. A lot. What I have to do today, well, it’s only that I don’t want you to freak out when I tell you.”
She laughed, the relief palpable. Wow, she really liked this guy. “If you’re not trying to get far, far away from me, why would I freak out?”
He bit his lip, a tic she found compelling. When he did it, she could almost feel him biting her lip, too.
“Out with it, then.”
He sat at her kitchen table. “I have to go to the Dovecot. To pick up a check.”
“A check? Whatever for?”
“My payment. For being in the installation. There’s a bonus from opening night, you see, and with everything that was going on last night, I thought I’d wait until today.”
“Oh, I see. You loaned a painting from your gallery.”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. I’m one of the artists.”
“You paint? But Ariel said you were a buyer for a gallery in Inverness.”
“I am. But I’m also an artist. Getting my start, really. To be invited into this exhibit with artists of such stature… it’s a big step up for me.”
A feeling of dread came over her. “Which painting, Thomas?”
“The one you hated, of course.”
“That creepy, awful, dancing demon?”
“Yes. Though it’s not a demon, it’s a woman. My mother, actually. She used to dance, all the time.”
“But it’s…”
“Grotesque, I think you called it. Horrifying?”
He was smiling, and Evie was flustered again. How could she reconcile the man standing in front of her with that crazed black-and-white beast hanging on the Dovecot’s wall? His brain had envisioned it, his hands had drawn it, shaped it, bled life into it. His mother?
Evie felt the urge to run, right out the door and down the hall, and never come back.
But Thomas was grinning now. “I’m kidding. That one’s not mine. You’re right, it’s freakish. Mine was the last one we saw. The black-and-white. You walked away from it so quickly, I thought you hated it, too.”
Relief flooded her, pure and golden, like a warm beam of sun. Thank God. Thank God! Of course he hadn’t painted that horrible demon. Of course he’d done the one she loved.
“I didn’t hate it. It was the best one there, and the most beautiful. But why didn’t you tell me last night? And why wasn’t your name on the placard?”
“I paint under a pseudonym. I find it’s easier, I don’t want there to be any conflicts with my gallery in Inverness. I was afraid to admit it last night. As for why I didn’t say anything, the show disturbed you. I didn’t want to frighten you off. And I thought… well, I thought that if you knew I was a part of the exhibit, and a party to your fear, you might not want to see me anymore. And I do want to see you, Evie. Very, very much.”
He moved closer, and she accepted the kiss, deep and soulful. When they parted, she smiled shyly. “And I you. You’re very talented, you know that? Your painting, the movement, the structure—tell me, what is it?”
“What did you see when you looked at it?”
“A canyon. The curve of a breast. A bone. Love. Darkness. Hope. Hatred.”
“Then that’s what it is.”
“Those aren’t right, though. I can’t put my finger on it exactly. Tell me, what is it to you? I must know.”
He kissed her palm. “What I see, what I painted, doesn’t matter. It’s meant to be appealing to the viewer. It’s meant to be appealing to you.”
The flush of new love was enough to carry Evie through the following week. Since her flatmate was on holiday, Thomas simply moved out of his hotel and into the flat with her. He was a good flatmate, quiet, clean, and came with the added benefit of an orgasm or two a night. Who needed rent? Evie thought she could get used to this.
Every night, she heard the scratching at the window. Every night, waking scared and shaking, she snuggled deeper into Thomas’s arms to hide her fear. And every morning, she woke clear-eyed and happy, the terrors of the night before chased away by the sun and his languorous kisses.
It was almost perfect.
The only thing that bothered her was the installation at the Dovecot.
Evie couldn’t stop thinking about the gallery. About the paintings, the way the dancing demon had practically leapt from the wall, and how Thomas had painted something so different, so sublime, so forward yet uninterpretable. She’d never been so affected by art before. Two paintings, so different, so remarkable. Thoughts of them consumed her; she could barely think of anything else.
On Monday, she found herself walking past the gallery, wondering if she should have another look. On Tuesday, she stopped and shielded her eyes against the glass but couldn’t see anything. Wednesday, compelled, she went inside. Thursday, she spent the whole afternoon. Friday, the gallery didn’t open until noon, and she lingered outside for so long she missed two classes, then spent the afternoon snug and warm, chills parading up and down her spine, not even avoiding the grinning, happy demon, who’d ceased to be frightening—now it simply looked silly, goofy, banal, overdone. However could she have been disturbed by such a thing? He was joy incarnate.
Now she walked right past and settled in front of The Crevasse, as she’d taken to calling it. According to the placard, its true name was Milky Way, which didn’t fit it at all—she should discuss that with Thomas, once she was able to put her thoughts into words in front of him.
She didn’t know why she felt she needed to hide her entrancement with the piece; he would surely love her attentions. But she didn’t want him to know, not yet. There was something special going on—her relationship with the painting was as intimate as hers with the artist himself.
Hour after hour, she stared into the ribbon of blackness wondering what, exactly, might be in that darkness. Gazing at it, she realized it was almost as if she could see inside of Thomas, into the chambers of his heart, into his very soul. The darkness had words, too, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t hear them clearly. They were like whispers, carried away on the wind. It was frustrating. And it was becoming harder and harder to pull herself away.
Friday evening, Thomas was waiting when she came home, an open bottle of wine breathing on the counter. She recognized the label. It was a two-decade-old Château Latour, and expensive.
“What’s this?”
“A celebration.” He handed her a glass. “It’s our one-week anniversary. Cheers, darling.”
She smelled the wine, the notes of tobacco and leather and mint reminding her of the trip to France she and Ariel had taken a few months earlier. She let the ruby liquid settle inside her mouth, then took a long swallow. The finish was extraordinary, the wine dark and berried.
“Do you like it?”
“I do. It’s delicious.”
“I wanted something special. We can soak off the label and save it.”
Evie felt warm and blessed. What had she done to deserve this incredible man? A man who loved her body and her mind, who brought her wine and tea. A man who’d painted such a captivating piece of art.
“Thomas, I do believe you’re a romantic.”
“Of course I am. I’m romantic about you. Now, I have a whole evening planned, but first, I have to run by the Dovecot again. They have another check for me. I’m amazed at how often they’re willing to pay—I had no idea it would be weekly. I’m going to take the money, and you, out to dinner. We have reservations at The Witchery at eight.”
Evie’s jaw dropped. The Witchery was the best restaurant in Edinburgh, and priced well outside even her ample allowance. She’d never been, but had walked by longingly several times, admiring the fine parade of well-heeled people who disappeared through its decorated wooden doors.
She threw herself in his arms. “Thomas, you’re incredible. Thank you!”
He tipped her nose with a finger. “I’m so glad you’re excited. Now, you get dressed, and I’ll run to the gallery. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, tops, and we’ll head up the Royal Mile.”
“If you don’t mind waiting for me, I could go with you.”
“To the Dovecot? I thought you hated the installation.”
Evie waved a hand nonchalantly. “There’s no sense in you backtracking. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll tag along. I’ll admire your work—it was the one painting I liked, remember?”
And she thought, Maybe the words will reveal themselves when he’s near.
Thomas nodded, clearly pleased. “Brilliant. Let’s finish our wine, you can change, and we’ll head over.”
They giggled together on the walk. A deep fog had set in, tendrils curling around the lampposts like small ghosts, twisting in the amber light from the lanterns. It was perfect: moody, atmospheric, and Evie longed to break out a brush and oils and capture the scene. She was no artist, but lately, she’d been feeling like she wanted to try again.
“Would you teach me to paint?”
Thomas put his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll teach you anything you want, darling.”
“Good. I love art so much, but I can never seem to re-create it. My mind’s eye doesn’t translate to the canvas. Maybe you can help me with that.”
“I would be honored. Shall we start tomorrow?”
“Oh yes, please.”
He kissed her and they entered the Dovecot. Evie waved at the demon—she’d named him Evan; Evan and Evie dance in the pale moonlight, tra la la!—and took up her favorite position next to The Crevasse.
The words were there again, louder this time, whispering and cajoling. She was right, they were excited to see their master. She swore she heard her name—Evie, darling Evie. She leaned closer, her nose practically touching the canvas.
What were they saying? What were they asking? Why couldn’t she understand them?
A guard stopped to her left and cleared his throat. Startled, she jumped away, slammed right into Thomas, who caught her arm before she fell to the floor.
“Whoops, up you go. Next time I’ll be ready when you leap into my arms.”
The guard was stern; she half expected him to wag a finger at her. “Don’t get so close to the painting next time, lass. I don’t want to have to throw you out, I know how much you love coming here. But don’t test my patience again.”
“No, no, I’m sure you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I haven’t been here since last Friday, and I was only here for a moment.”
The guard frowned. “I thought I saw you this afternoon. I’d just come on my shift. Yes, I’m sure it was you. Standing just there.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I had classes this afternoon, I wasn’t here. Come, Thomas, we should go if we want to make our reservation.”
“As you wish, milady.” And to the guard, “You must have seen someone else. My girlfriend isn’t fond of the paintings in this exhibit, you see. They frighten her.”
“But—”
“Have a lovely evening,” Evie called, and Thomas took her hand and led her from the building.
On the street outside, he seemed to be watching her carefully. “Whyever would that man think you’d been at the gallery today?”
“I have no idea. Come on, I’m starving. Let’s celebrate.”
Long fingers scratched at the window, nails black and cracked, and Evie lay awake in the bed, listening, paralyzed with fright. Whatever was outside her window had changed in the past few days, gotten darker, malevolent. And more aggressive. It was definitely playing with the window lock. What would happen when it got inside? It would kill her, surely. She wasn’t able to fight it any longer. At some point, she would be forced out of her bed to the window latch to allow the thing in. She could feel its lure already, lifting her from her warm nest.
Thomas stirred, and the noise stopped. Evie floated back down to the bed.
“What’s wrong, love?” he asked, gathering her to him. “Can’t sleep?”
“It’s nothing, really. I thought I heard a noise, is all.”
“What sort of noise?”
“Scratching, on the window. It’s silly, it’s been happening for days now. I must be dreaming odd things to wake like this.”
But Thomas was already pulling back the covers. He marched to the bedroom window and peered outside. “Well, of course you’re hearing scratching, darling, there’s a tree branch right outside. It looks like it’s broken, it must have fallen into the window, and the wind has made it shiver and shake. Tomorrow, I’ll get up in the tree and see if I can’t loosen it.”
He crawled back under the covers. “You’re safe with me, Evie. Always.”
And she knew he was telling the truth. She was safe with him. She’d never felt so safe.
As she drifted off to sleep, the scratching started again. She imagined the long branch of the tree scraping against the window and smiled. A perfectly reasonable explanation, of course. She was a silly goose.
But the next morning, teacup warm in her hand, she recalled the conversation, and went to the window to see the offending branch. The closest tree was across the street.
When she mentioned it to Thomas, he grinned and said she must have been dreaming, he hadn’t gotten up in the night. He’d slept through; so had she.
She took him at his word, and she didn’t hear the scratching again.
That day, he started her painting lessons. Thomas was a good teacher, patient, kind, but after a few hours, it was readily apparent that Evie truly lacked the talent for the discipline. Thomas’s painting was bold and inventive. Hers looked like a straggle of black lines.
As they cleaned the brushes and palettes, she said, “Oh, well. It was worth a try.”
“You only need practice,” he replied. “It took me years to master some of these skills.”
She knew he was lying to make her feel better and rewarded him with a kiss. “Thankfully, there is something I am good at,” she said. “Come here.”
Thomas had planned to be in Edinburgh for only a week, so on Sunday, he announced he needed to make a run back to Inverness. He offered to take Evie along, show her his hometown, give her a tour of his studio, help her with her new paints, but she had an exam and had to decline what would certainly have been a very fun trip. He left after breakfast, promising to be back by Wednesday evening, which meant Evie was left alone for two whole days.
A large part of her had wanted to join him on his trek north. She was actually rather afraid to stay by herself. As promised, Thomas had made the scratching stop somehow, and she was worried it would begin again without him there as a buffer. But in truth, she was reluctant to be parted from his painting.
She walked him to the train station, and waved the train away. Then, instead of heading to class and her exam, she went directly to the Dovecot. It had been two days since she’d been there—they’d spent the weekend in, mostly in bed—and she was feeling jittery again.
The security guard who’d confronted her was on duty again. He narrowed his eyes when he saw her, but didn’t make a move to speak to her. She moved past him quickly and stationed herself in front of the canvas.
At first, there was nothing, only the quiet serenity of the darkness. But as she stared, the whispering voices started. This time, they grew in intensity until she could hear them clearly.
“Evie.
“Evie.
“Look inside us, Evie.
“We are waiting for you.
“Look inside.”
They were so loud she was sure everyone could hear them, but no one else in the gallery seemed to be looking her way. How strange. How very strange.
The words manifested and began dancing around her head. She watched them until, out of the corner of her eye, something else moved. Her head pivoted toward the canvas. There was nothing… oh yes, there, in the darkness… a figure moved in the black crevasse. Though not overtly sexualized, she knew immediately the figure was male, and he seemed to be… waving at her. Then he walked away and disappeared. She reached out a hand, she just wanted to touch it, to feel the rough pebble of paint under her fingertips…
“No, don’t. Don’t touch, Evie. Don’t touch.”
She whipped her hand back as if it had been burned, confused. The voices in her head weren’t masculine, but they weren’t feminine, either. Who were they coming from? They sounded familiar somehow, comforting, like happy memories from her childhood.
“Think, Evie, think,” they said, but she couldn’t place them, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many images of grassy fields and red balloons and nights with cocoa in front of the fire and mother’s hugs flooded her mind.
“If you don’t remember, we’ll go home with you,” they said, and she smiled, for she wouldn’t have to be alone while Thomas was away.
“But only until he returns,” she said sternly, drawing odd glances from the other patrons, and the voices laughed in appreciation and said in unison, “Of course, Evie. Only until he returns.”
The voices stayed with her, crooning and happy, hugging her shoulders like the warmest cashmere, while she went to the university and took her exam, even helping in a few places when she got stuck. Then, at their insistence, she picked up two bottles of wine and some groceries. Back in her flat, she took the phone off the hook, turned off her mobile, and opened the wine. She drank deeply and refilled her glass. She felt good. Light. Airy. Different.
The voices approved. “Dance, Evie. It’s time for you to dance.”
She agreed, even took off her clothes so her movements wouldn’t be hampered. She dipped and twirled around the flat until sweat dripped down her body.
Sweat. Paint.
She needed to paint.
Needed to paint, now.
“Paint, Evie. Paint.”
She started with the windows in her bedroom, because if the scratcher couldn’t see in, perhaps it would forget she was there. Black. All black. Thick and opaque. The paint smelled lovely, oily and liquid, alive.
She admired her handiwork.
It was too boring. She added a star. And then another. Within half an hour, she’d painted a full-blown galaxy. Stars and quasars and a supermassive black hole tucked away on the far corner. She’d never known how gloriously beautiful the night sky could be. Now she had something to look at when she woke in the night. A celestial Valhalla, waiting for her.
That’s what the darkness was, perhaps. The manifestation of the universe, empty and cold. He did call it Milky Way, after all.
“No, Evie. That's not right. We aren’t heaven. Try again.”
With a sigh, she cleaned her brush of the black oil like she’d been taught by… what was his name again? Handsome, talented… Thomas, yes, that was it.
Goodness, Evie, you’ve had too much to drink.
“No, you haven’t. Have some more.”
She went to the second bottle and opened it, poured out a glass, then spread fresh paint on her palette and got moving. There was so much to do, so many visions dancing in her head. The voices were such good company. They made her laugh, made her see infinite skies.
She danced and painted and drank, and the cat watched in confusion as Evie moved from wall to wall, room to room, window to window. She ran out of wine but that was okay, she was drunk on something more, something better. The voices pushed her and pushed her, and though her arms and hand were tired, she kept moving until the very last corner was finished.
“Good, Evie, good. Sleep now,” they commanded, and she dropped in place, head blanketed on her arms, and slept without moving.
“What the bleeding hell?”
Evie realized she was awake. Terribly, horribly awake. She opened her eyes to the face of her flatmate, who was standing over her, mouth open in a perfectly round O.
“What are you doing down there? What in the world happened in here? Get up. For heaven’s sake, Evie, did you have a stroke or something? Get up!”
Morag hauled Evie to her feet.
“Ow. Stop that.”
“My God, Evie! You’re black-and-blue. Were you in an accident? A car crash?”
Evie looked down at her naked body. She realized she hurt, badly, all over. She was covered in bruises, huge splotches of deep red and black. Her hands were rubbed raw, her fingers bent like a crone’s. She tried to straighten them, gasped in pain.
“No… crash…”
“Then who did this to you?
“Them…” But the rest wouldn’t come. Her voice was garbled, nothing sounded right. How could she explain the voices to Morag without her thinking Evie’d gone off her rocker?
She breathed deeply, felt some clarity return. “I’m fine. Truly.” She started into the kitchen, tripped, and went down with a howl.
Morag was having nothing of it. “All right, you, off to hospital we go.”
“No, no hospital,” Evie managed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bloody well not. You can barely move. And look around. What in the heavens have you been doing since I left? Where did you find an artist like this? It must have taken the whole fortnight to do all of this. It’s rather brilliant, but you could have asked. Especially since I’m sure it cost.”
Evie shuffled in a small circle, eyes wide.
The entire flat was covered in paintings. Some were abstract, some were detailed. Cityscapes, landscapes, flowers, gardens. People. Lines, circles, squares. A museum’s worth of paintings, all over her walls.
All were in shades of black and white. Not a single bit of color.
A few, the ones closest to where she’d fallen, were in such intricate detail they almost looked like photographs.
It was glorious. Spectacular. A life’s work.
Evie looked at Morag, who was shaking her head, eyes wide and frightened.
“Perhaps we’d best go to hospital after all, Evie. You’re pale as a ghost. And your poor hand, I think your fingers might be broken. Please, dearest, tell me what’s happened. Who did this?”
It took all of her courage to say, “I did.”
“You? You painted all of this? My God, Evie, these should be in a gallery. They’re amazing.” A small V formed between her feathery brows. “I don’t understand. How did you get so hurt?”
Evie straightened, despite the pain in her back and legs. “I’m going to take a shower. I’m sure a little warm water will fix things.”
“But the bruises… Evie, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m fine, Morag. I was inspired, and I worked too long.”
“I didn’t know you could paint like this.” There was a note of jealousy in Morag’s voice, a wistful element that made Evie glow with pride.
Evie cast another glance around the flat. “Neither did I.”
And the voices laughed and laughed.
Thomas came back on Wednesday, as promised. Evie’s bruises hadn’t faded, and her right hand was still bent, as if it permanently held a paintbrush. When he knocked on the door of the flat, Morag opened it.
“Who are you?” he asked, and Evie was surprised by his tone. She’d never heard him say anything remotely cruel, but his words were like a slap. She couldn’t leap to her feet as she wanted, but she managed to turn her head just as Thomas barreled through the door, carelessly knocking Morag aside. He took one look at her and beelined to the couch, dropped to his knees at her feet.
“Evie,” he breathed in horror.
She knew how terrible she looked. She’d covered the mirror in her bathroom with a black towel. It was the one surface she hadn’t painted, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. The towel prevented her from looking at herself. It was too painful. She didn’t know what was happening. Her eyes were blackened, her jaw swollen. Her neck had four black ovals on the left and one larger on the right, as if a spectral hand had choked her. The rest of her was covered in bruises, too, just as bad.
He turned on Morag. “What have you done to her?”
“Thomas, stop. Morag is my flatmate. She’s home from holiday.”
“I don’t care who she is. What happened to you?”
“I… I… I was painting, and I fell.”
At the word painting, Thomas’s eyes cast about the room. He stood, walked to the wall. “My God, you didn’t say how good you were.”
“I’m not. It’s a fluke. I don’t know how I did it, it just… happened. I drank too much, and I painted all night, and then I fell down and bruised myself.”
It was the story Evie had decided on. It was the only logical explanation she could give to the people around her. For how could she share what had really happened? That the voices from Thomas’s painting were inside her, had driven her to these heights? That they whispered and whispered and whispered? That she welcomed them like the warmest caress?
She was clearly going mad. And he’d never understand. Was she to tell him she thought his painting was driving her mad? He’d be out the door in a second and she’d never see him again.
Interestingly, now that their master was here, the voices were silent. But they were not gone. She could feel them inside of her, tensed in all her corners, tails whipping, like cats getting ready to pounce. Her body coiled with the pressure of their tautness.
“Stop it,” she whispered, and they relaxed. The pain in her body lessened. She let out a breath. At least they were still listening to her today. They were unruly children, babies, but growing fast. What would she do when they grew up and got minds of their own? Or banded together and took over, like they had on Sunday night?
She loved them; she was terrified of them. She didn’t know what to do.
Not true, she knew exactly what she must do. Go back to the gallery, to the painting, and ask them to rejoin their parents, their waiting lives in the crevasse.
For it was waiting. Even from inside her flat she could sense it, cocked, at the ready, willing to spring into action and swallow the world whole.
She looked at Thomas in a new light now. He’d created this thing. She didn’t yet know if it was evil or good.
“You know what we are, Evie. We are inspiration. We are creativity. We are the muses. We are you.”
Could he have done such a thing, created a muse? Was he some sort of god?
Maybe not a god. A demon?
Evan the dancing demon popped into her head, his sly smile greeting her like an old friend.
“Won’t you come dance with me, Evie? I miss you.” He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, spun her round, so she twirled like a ballerina on point.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t dance now,” Evie said, realizing Morag and Thomas were standing in front of her. Morag was snapping her fingers under Evie’s nose.
“See what I mean? She’s been like this since I got home Monday. It’s like she just disappears. Her eyes go wobbly, unfocused, she becomes completely unresponsive. And look. There’s a new bruise.”
Evie’s collarbone ached. She put her bent, broken hand on it and hissed in pain. When she looked up, Morag and Thomas were staring as if she’d lost her mind.
“What? What is it? What’s wrong with you two?”
Thomas knelt again. “Darling, I think we need to take you to hospital. Your bruises are getting worse. I think there may be a bleed somewhere. You must have hit your head, you may have a concussion. You’re not making sense. Morag’s right, we need to get you checked out.”
“No. I won’t go,” Evie said, but he ignored her, scooped her into his arms.
“I’ll call when I know something,” he said, voice grave. Morag swallowed her tears and nodded. Evie tried shaking her head but couldn’t, it hurt again, so she nestled into Thomas’s arms and felt some of the pain leave her.
The doctor, older, with a full head of wild gray hair, stood over her, hands shaking.
“Thrombocytopenia. One of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. Her body’s platelet count has bottomed out. Without it, her blood can’t clot, so if she is in an accident, or a fall, she’ll bruise horribly, and they won’t heal. We need to start her on some medications straightaway, try to build up her platelet count. Thank heavens you brought her in. This is very dangerous.”
“I’m fine,” Evie said, though she knew she wasn’t. She couldn’t imagine what she was thinking, she needed help, needed to get the voices out of her head, but something inside her made the opposite words come out. I need help became, “I’d like to go home now.”
The doctor shook his leonine head. “You need to be treated, miss, or else there’s a chance you’ll get worse.”
“Evie, you’re not going anywhere, and that’s final,” Thomas said. “You’ll be treated, and once you’re cured, then you can go home. And that’s the end of it.”
She saw a twinkle in his eye, and knew he was just placating the doctor. He’d get her out of here. He wouldn’t let her be fixed. She didn’t want to be fixed. She did, but she knew what she’d lose if she allowed it.
He held her good hand, and smoothed her hair off her forehead. She relaxed, the voices relaxed, and a few minutes after the IV began dripping, they all fell deeply asleep.
When she woke, all was silent. The bruises were fading, the pain was gone. The voices, too, had departed. She felt empty, blissfully so. Like herself again. She sat up, amazed at how clear she felt.
Thomas was asleep in the chair across from her bed. His head was propped up by his right hand, his left was curled in his lap. The chair’s arm held open his spot in a book. So handsome. Such a lovely boy to look at.
But something wasn’t right about him. She could tell that now. He was wrong inside. Things moved beneath his skin. She needed to get away from him.
She shifted, thinking she’d grab her clothes and steal away, but he came awake at once, looking as protective and worried as he had when he stormed into her flat hours earlier. Surely someone so concerned for her well-being couldn’t be all bad.
“Hi,” she said.
“You look so much better.”
Her hand went to her throat.
“Seriously, the bruises are all but gone. Pretty amazing medicine. How do you feel?”
“Better. I don’t hurt.”
“You’re stubborn, you know that? Trying to avoid coming here, trying to leave. Are you scared of doctors?”
“No. I didn’t think I needed to be seen. Clearly, I was wrong. Thank you for helping me.”
She kept her tone neutral, and in response, he hadn’t gotten up to kiss her, like she’d expected he would. Maybe now that she had this frightening disease he wouldn’t want her anymore. The thought made her briefly sad, but somehow, she knew it was for the best.
Thomas crossed his legs and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I thought you weren’t a painter. I mean, what we did on the weekend, the instruction I gave you, you were faking needing my help to make me feel good, weren’t you?”
“No. I’m not a painter. I told you so.”
“But you don’t deny painting the walls of your fla?”
“I did it, but I don’t know how. I don’t really remember. I was drunk, though. Very drunk.”
The excuse sounded lame and she knew it. He tipped his head. “They’re really quite extraordinary, Evie. You have talent. Real, unadulterated talent.”
“Maybe the platelet issue made me have some sort of fit, and that’s why I painted the way I did. Like a short-circuit of some kind. Morag said she thought perhaps I’d had a small stroke.”
“Hmm. Well, it certainly wasn’t my teaching. Are you sure there isn’t something else going on, Evie?”
She shifted again, drawing her legs to her chin and wrapping her arms around them. His allure was so intense, she was trying to retreat from it, but the more they talked, the more she wanted to be with him. She wanted him badly. She wanted him now.
Resist, Evie.
A single voice, high and whining, like a mosquito in her ear: “No, Evie, don’t resist. You want him. He wants you. You’re perfect together.”
“What do you mean, something else?” she asked.
“I don’t know. You were talking in your sleep. Talking to someone. Begging, really, for them to leave you alone. I know you have bad dreams, but this was terrible. I couldn’t wake you, I had to let you get through it. It was like you were doing battle or something.”
“I don’t even remember. I must have had a strange reaction to the drugs they gave me. When can I go home?”
“The doctor said if you responded well, they’d release you today.”
“Good.” She gave him a tenuous smile. “How was Inverness?”
“Fine. I brought down a few more pieces, the Dovecot asked for them.”
“That’s wonderful news!”
“You think so?” He looked away shyly, embarrassed.
“I do. Thomas, you’re incredible. Your painting… well, I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve been visiting your painting. It’s so amazing. It makes me feel like the world is infinite, that I can do anything. You inspire me, Thomas.”
“Good girl.”
They were back, all of them, buzzing happily.
He came to the bed, sat next to her. “Really?”
Tell him the truth, Evie. Tell him all of it.
She couldn’t help herself now, the words began to pour out. “Yes. I know this is super weird, but I feel like me getting sick like this is a sign of some kind. That I’m meant to do something different. School seems silly now that I know your art exists. I was thinking perhaps I could help you market and sell your work.”
“You did? You do?”
“I think you’re bloody brilliant.”
He kissed her then, and her heart beat faster. A bruise appeared on her arm.
“That’s bizarre. Kiss me again.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Do it.”
He did, and a bruise appeared on her other arm.
“Again.”
This time he went slowly, deeply, until he was stretched out beside her and her gown was rucked up around her waist. The bruising spread all over her stomach and chest.
She looked at it in fascination.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“No. It doesn’t. When my heart speeds up, the bruising occurs. When it slows, they fade.”
“It must be the medicine, Evie.”
“I think it’s you. I think my blood is literally trying to touch you.”
He held a hand over her breast, not touching, and the bruise bloomed, bright and red.
“My God.”
He smiled, and there was something chilling in the way he looked at her. “Apparently so.”
“I don’t understand. How can this be?”
“You’re mine, Evie. That’s how.”
Evie got out of the hospital the next day. She went home with a prescription for prednisone and admonishments not to overdo. The flat was overwhelming—all that black and white staring out at her, Morag giving Thomas disapproving looks—so she asked Thomas to take her to the gallery instead.
“Just for the exercise, the fresh air will do me good.”
He agreed, and Evie went into her room to get her coat.
Morag followed her in and shut the door.
“Evie, stop, right now. Who is this guy? I come home from vacation and suddenly there’s a man living in our flat, and I don’t know anything about him. He gives me the creeps. Ariel said you two have been inseparable.”
“Thomas gives you the creeps? Wow, Morag. I didn’t know you were the jealous type.”
Those heavy brows looked forbidding now instead of striking. Morag was not a beautiful woman. Jealousy made her even uglier. How could Evie have ever thought her pretty? Or a suitable flatmate?
“Evie, I’m serious. You have no idea who he is.”
“Of course I do. He’s friends with Ariel. She knows him from school, in Inverness. Came down for a gallery showing. Happens to be an incredible artist. And he is wildly infatuated with me.”
Evie grabbed her jacket. A card fell out of the pocket. It was the invite to the gallery exhibit. “See? He’s got a painting in the exhibit. It’s rather wonderful, Morag, you should come see it, it’s the most glorious painting I’ve ever seen, this huge white canvas with a dark crevasse through the middle, and there are so many things to see in that darkness.”
“I think I’ll pass. And you should, too. I’m dead serious, something is totally wrong with that guy. And with you. He shows up, you go into a bizarre trance and slap paint all over the flat, then get deathly ill. While you were in hospital, he came back here two nights running by himself and walked around and around the flat touching all the paintings, cooing to himself.”
“Cooing?”
“Cooing. Like a bleeding dove. It freaked me out.”
“You’re being silly. I’m sure he was assessing my work for its value. He was probably saying wow or something like that. It is good, you know. Saleable.”
“No, you freak, he was cooing at the walls. Crooning. Like they were having a conversation. They seemed to be talking back to him. I could almost hear something, like voices.”
They’re mine. Stay away!
“Now who sounds crazy?”
“Seriously, Evie, don’t go out with him. I have a terrible feeling.”
Evie gave her flatmate a pat on the arm. “Worry not. Thomas is a fabulous guy. You’ll see. And if you don’t like him, you’re welcome to leave. No one’s forcing you to stay.”
“Evie…”
But she breezed from the room. There was no sense listening to Morag and her crazy stories. Who was calling whom a freak, anyway? Morag was a jealous, bitter woman, destined to be alone. Not like Evie. Evie was going to be someone. And Thomas was her ticket there.
Thomas was waiting patiently, sitting at the kitchen counter, a half smile on his face as if he’d heard the whole conversation. He gave Evie a nod. “Well said, love. Now, let’s get going.”
Outside, they huddled together as they walked to the gallery. A sleet had started, nothing gentle about it, and the cold seeped down Evie’s neck, chilling her deeply.
“I’m cold. Can we stop for tea along the way? I need to take my pills, too.”
Thomas didn’t seem to notice she was speaking to him. He was walking quickly, almost too fast, and Evie was having trouble keeping up.
“Slow down,” she finally gasped, but he just took her arm—she could feel the bruise start instantly, a hot rush as the bloom of red blood rose to the surface—and pulled her along.
“You’re hurting me. Stop.”
A couple hurrying past glanced at them but kept going. Thomas continued to drag her forward, past the gallery, into a dark alley.
“Thomas. Thomas! Where are we going? You’re hurting me. Stop, please, please, stop!”
No answer.
Evie started to scream, but Thomas was quick. He slammed her against the alley wall and put his lips on hers so she was yelling into his mouth. It was the strangest sensation, almost as if he were infinite inside, and she screamed and screamed and screamed until she was hoarse. To anyone walking by, it looked like they were in the most intimate of embraces, but Evie felt the bruising spreading. All over her body, pain. Every inch of her was being assaulted; wherever he touched, black marks bloomed.
When he released her, she was writhing. He put his arm above her head and leaned in, smiling.
“Now do you understand?”
She couldn’t speak, it hurt too much. She felt like knives were driving themselves into her skin, into her muscles, her bones. Even his voice hurt.
She didn’t understand what was happening, not really, but she nodded, because if she agreed, maybe the pain would stop.
He released her, and it did.
Thomas laughed a little. “I know you don’t really understand, Evie. You couldn’t. There’s no way for you to truly comprehend what’s happening. But you will. Now, we’re going inside, and you’re going to paint for me.”
“I can’t. My hand is in a splint.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
“Here’s how this works, little Evie. I can cause great pain for you. Do what I ask and you can have your medicine after I touch you. Don’t, and soon you’ll be crippled. You’ll be broken and withered with nothing to live for. No one will ever love you.”
He ran a finger along her neck, the path searing and bubbling, blisters joining the bruising. A crushing sensation followed; the pain was unbearable.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
“I am Thomas. Now, in we go.”
The warehouse was black, a maw, empty and obscenely cold. She began to shiver immediately; her teeth were chattering, the bruises fading, the blisters healing.
“Welcome, Evie, welcome home!” the voices called, merry and bright.
“What is this place?”
Thomas flipped on a light, and the warehouse was suddenly aglow. From blackness came white, blinding white—the walls, ceiling, floor, perfectly pristine, empty. On the far wall was a small slit of black. A void. She was in a void. She walked hesitantly toward the far wall, a hand outstretched for balance, until she reached the blackness. It felt familiar, somehow. She ran her fingers along its edges. It was heavy and thick with hardened oil, the paint, was it paint? It smelled odd, coppery, musty. She licked her lips; the blackness was on her, in her, and she started to panic.
Thomas stood next to her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a leg propped against the perfect white. “Do you understand what I’m showing you, dear Evie?”
Her head moved slowly toward his, everything slow, dawning comprehension, then the voices began to laugh, happy, so, so happy.
“Do you understand, Evie? I asked you a question.”
She leaned closer, her face almost touching the blackened wall, and saw the security guard from the Dovecot walk past.
She jerked back with a scream, and Thomas laughed.
“You do understand. I’m so proud of you. It took Brigit days to riddle it out.”
She didn’t want to let the words form in her brain.
She was in the painting. She was on the opposite side of the painting. This was the inverse of the wall in the Dovecot. Did he just say Brigit?
“This isn’t possible. This isn’t happening. I’m having a terrible, awful dream.”
“Oh, it is possible, and it is happening, dear, sweet Evie. You’re mine now.”
As he spoke, the walls around her changed, glowing red. Evie saw a young woman with her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, eyes huge in her emaciated face, holding a paintbrush in a clawed, skeletal hand. She saw a man who looked just like Thomas, a smile on his face, putting the finishing touches on a painting, white with black. She saw many things: beasts, flames, melted faces, dusty bones. She didn’t understand; she couldn’t fathom what was happening to her.
She looked back at Thomas. He was no longer a handsome young artist. He was Evan, the demon, his nose a bird’s beak, his mouth a wide, grinning slash, his hands tipped in black claws.
“Hello, Evie.”
She screamed, but nothing came out.
“Like the other package better? You be a good girl and I’ll put the mask back on. Can I trust you to be good?”
She nodded.
Thomas, her Thomas, was back, though now she could see the infinite darkness in his sooty eyes. How had she ever missed that?
“You aren’t Thomas.”
“Oh, he’s been gone for quite some time. But he is the perfect package. I like wearing his skin. It makes me happy to have so many admiring glances. It made bringing you home infinitely easier.”
“Where is the real Thomas?”
He tipped his head as if in thought. “Oh, Thomas is dead. Very, very dead. Dead and gone.”
“When did you kill him?”
The bird-like face cracked open again, the approximation of a grotesque smile. “Ages ago.”
“Who are you?”
“I am you. I am your destiny. Now, paint.”
A brush appeared in his hand, and he handed it over, along with a freshly daubed palette of black, white, and gray oils.
She thought to refuse, but her hand lifted of its own will, dipped in the blackness, and spread across the white wall.
“Paint, Evie. Paint with us!”
Happiness flowed through her and she danced. Danced and painted, painted and danced, until the entire warehouse was covered in her visions. The voices danced along with her, joyful and happy, for they had a new friend to play with. The darkness wasn’t as dark anymore.
Evie woke in her bed, in her flat. She was alone. There was a bruise on her arm, and her hand was clawed again, her knuckles swollen and red. She fought the pain as she straightened her fingers, slipped on the splint the doctor had given her.
She wanted it all to be a dream, but it wasn’t. She knew he’d come back for her. He’d promised as much. He’d woven a spell around her so she couldn’t tell anyone what was happening or where she’d been. It was the contract, he said, and she would follow it to the letter, or she would be killed.
She got up to make tea. Her bedroom door was locked.
She looked over her shoulder and the bedroom disappeared. The warehouse was back, the walls white and pristine again. She could hear laughter.
The voices said, “Do you understand now, Evie? You are destined to be with us. You make us happy. You make us complete.”
“Where did he go?”
“Away.”
“Who are you?”
Names, so many names, and she understood more now what was happening, that Thomas, no, not Thomas, that thing, had taken all of these people and turned them into his slaves.
“When will he kill me?”
“He doesn’t need to. You will paint until you die.”
“What did I do to deserve this?”
“Nothing. You did nothing wrong, sweet Evie. We are here with you, always. We want to dance, Evie. Please, let’s dance.”
The brush appeared in her hand, and she was off.
It happened three times—the painting, the sleeping, the waking. Days? Nights? Weeks? She had no idea; time did not exist here in any discernible way. All she knew was she had to find a way out. Her body was already shrinking—there was no food, no water. When she had painted the entire warehouse, she stood looking into the gallery, watching people come by. She waved at a woman once, realized it was Morag, coming to visit the painting. There were police with her. Evie listened so hard but couldn’t hear the words. She pounded on the walls, and screamed, but they couldn’t hear her.
She had to free herself. She had to get out of here. But how? And how could she leave the voices behind? All of them, lost together.
She ruined all her work, running her hands through the paint, looking for a catch, a hinge, a knob to a door, anything, anything. She found no exits, nor answers, and fell, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep. The warehouse was pristine again in the morning.
Days passed, she had no idea how many, only that she was smaller and smaller. She could see the outlines of her bones in her arms now.
It took less and less time to paint the walls. She was getting more practiced. The work was improving. She had no idea what the demon did with it; he dismantled it while she slept, or someone else came and painted the walls white again.
She was going to die in here. She knew it.
Over and over, the hell continued. Thomas came to her at night, bringing pleasure and pain in his wake. Once he was finished with her, she’d fall into a dreamless sleep. And the walls were white again when she woke.
Black and white. Black and white. The bruises bloomed whenever he touched her. She was thirsty, so thirsty. She would do anything for a drink. The bruises, red and black, rotting her skin from the inside out.
They hurt. The pain was unbearable, but his touch was worse. It seared her skin. The blisters made her body shred. She dropped bits of skin as she moved now, as if she was disintegrating, her bones turning to dust.
She should be dead. She should have died. She had no idea why, or how, she was still alive.
Even Thomas gave her pitying glances when she disrobed. Gone were her strong girl thighs and shoulders, gone were her breasts. Her hair had sloughed off days earlier. Her teeth were loose in their gums.
She had nothing. She was nothing. Only a paintbrush and a deep, gnawing fear.
And then came the blood. Inevitable as the tides.
And with it, an idea.
“Save us, Evie. Save us.”
Her painting done for the day, Evie—that was her name, right? She was a girl they called Evie?—stumbled around the warehouse. She could see her bones clearly through the skin now, luminescent lines of architecture keeping her upright, allowing her to continue painting. Her ligaments were strained to the snapping point; her tendons glistening as they moved. Her eyes felt like they might fall out of their sockets.
She made her way to the wall opposite the painting, the best approximation she could figure for the entrance to this hell. Centered herself. And began to scratch. Her skin was loose and ready, her nails uncut for weeks, and the blood rose to the surface. The idea had come to her in her sleep, borne on the voice of a young woman, the sound so soft and subtle she nearly missed it.
“Spill the blood. Spill the blood.”
Her blood would open the door, so she kept at it until her fingers were raw and her arms moist with red. She wiped her hands all over her body, the smell wet and musky. When she was covered, she started sliding down the wall.
“Let me out let me out let me out.” The words were her mantra. It took ages, she was slimy and covered in dust and rot, but she finally felt a tiny click. To her left. There, on the wall.
A hinge, hidden perfectly in the crack.
With a cry of triumph, she wedged her finger bones in and pulled with all her might.
The door opened. She stumbled into a pitch-black alley. She could smell and taste and feel everything.
She fell to her knees and began to crawl. She heard voices, not her friends, not the kittens who’d become tigers inside of her, but real voices, people, walking the street.
There was a scream, and then there was nothing.
They let her out of the hospital on a sunny day two months later. She was still underweight, but her hair had started to grow back in, and though the scars were never going to go away, Evie’s skin was whole again, too. Morag offered to bring her to the flat, though she’d gotten a new flatmate while Evie was away—away, what a thing to call it. Said flatmate was on holiday and Evie was welcome to stay.
She didn’t want to go back there. Didn’t want to be anywhere near her old life. Except the cat. She’d ask Morag to deliver James Madison to her.
She took a hotel room on the Royal Mile and made plans for her final escape, spent the day walking, slowly, up and down the street. Her mind didn’t work all the way. She knew she needed to do something, but couldn’t completely recognize what it was. Her thoughts were still consumed with the painting.
Thomas was gone. The demon hadn’t returned. Once she’d broken out of the warehouse, been taken to hospital, and nursed back into being, she’d spoken, haltingly, to a detective inspector. The DI knew Evie had been seeing a young man named Thomas, whose body had been found in the River Ness upstream from the Infirmary Bridge. He’d committed suicide, his arms slashed to the bone.
Evie knew the demon had done it, wondered for the millionth time where he’d gone. Maybe she had killed him; maybe by getting out of the warehouse she’d managed to break his spell. She didn’t know; she oftentimes didn’t care. She was sorry for Thomas, but she hadn’t known him long. Who knew when the demon had taken him over—from the beginning, perhaps. She probably never knew him at all.
The DI wondered if Evie knew who had held her captive. What was she supposed to say, it was a demon? They’d lock her back in the hospital, but the one for the insane people now, where the white walls would be painted with other, baser things.
The warehouse where she’d been kept was an empty space, derelict and broken down, but no one could find the door she swore existed. Nothing reconciled with Evie’s truth outside of her DNA on the ground in the alley, so she lied about who she knew held her and said she had no idea who he was. That he’d grown tired of her and thrown her from a car. They searched the cameras for the area, and thought it strange, as Evie seemed to appear in the darkness on hands and knees, but in the end, they were happy to have her home safe.
She did tell them about seeing the bones of Brigit Wallace. She didn’t know where they were, and it hardly cleared the case, but she wanted the family to know their daughter was dead, so they could mourn properly.
Walking, walking, walking, it hit her. She needed to fly home to America as soon as possible. She needed to get the money from her bank accounts, go to an online cafe, book the ticket. Arrange for the cat to come home with her, too.
She set off, moving slowly—she still had very little strength.
She went through her old neighborhood almost by chance. The sun was too bright, and Evie ducked into the nearest building to catch her breath.
Looking around, she realized she’d walked into the Dovecot.
Muscle memory. So many hours spent on this path. She turned to leave. She didn’t want anything to do with the place.
But out of the corner of her eye, a smile beckoned, a crevasse deepened, and she felt her legs moving of their own accord. The painting was still there.
Thomas’s painting.
She whirled, but the grinning demon was gone. The other walls were blank, the exhibit done, in transition for the next installation, but Thomas’s painting still hung on the wall.
She crept closer. Closer still. Looked into the darkness. Heard the voices.
“Where have you been, Evie? We missed you! Come back!”
“No. No!”
She looked around wildly. There was a palette nearby, with a knife meant for scraping off the dried paint. She grabbed the knife and stepped to the painting, grim and resolute. The blade slashed through the canvas like it was butter, and she ripped and shredded the painting until it fell in ribbons on the floor around her.
Panting, head swimming, she grinned maniacally. She’d done it. She’d killed it. She’d killed him. She could feel the last bits of darkness leave her soul.
“You’ve freed us, Evie. You’ve freed us!” The voices gamboled around her then scampered away. She dropped the knife to the floor.
Felt a sharp pain in her finger. Looked down to see a tiny drop of blood emerge from the cut.
Blood in the cut. She had blood in the cut.
She took a step back. She had to leave. She had to leave now, but she was frozen in place.
The drop grew, glistening in the bright lights, then fell off the edge of her finger. It landed on a small ribbon of the painting.
The ribbon… sighed. It moved. Curled, and lengthened. It touched its brother, and then another. As she watched in horror, compelled, unable to move, the painting resurrected itself, knitted back together, shred by shred, piece by piece.
And the closer it was to being whole, the more transparent Evie became. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t feel. She simply… disappeared. She heard the voices crying out as she was subsumed.
“Welcome back, Evie. Welcome back!”
And the painting was whole again, perfect, undamaged, hanging on the wall for all to see.
Morag hated the poster. She couldn’t help but see it, she’d placed it there, after all, hung it on the pole above the one for that poor Brigit girl, the one Evie had been obsessed with. Saw it in the morning, saw it in the evening.
When Evie had disappeared, only a few days out of hospital, and news of Thomas MacBean’s death spread, she hadn’t known what to think. Evie had been so broken, so hurt. That man had done something to her mind, and then he killed himself. But he’d killed Evie, too, Morag was certain of it, though she put the posters up anyway, just in case.
They were organizing another search, starting at the place where Evie was seen last—the gallery. Morag was to meet Ariel and the others there. She went early, wanting to feel closer to Evie somehow.
The painting Evie had loved so much was hanging on the wall in a place of honor. The death of the artist had made it worth a great deal of money, and he’d apparently bequeathed it to the Dovecot.
Morag stood in front of it. She couldn’t understand what anyone saw in it. It was a nasty white, dirty like old snow, traversed by a big black slash. And they called this art? To each his own. Or her own.
As she turned to leave, she could have sworn she heard a voice calling, “Hello, Morag, hello!”
She glanced over her shoulder but saw nothing. Ariel appeared at the window, waving for her, so she started for the door. But she heard the voice again. She shivered. Took one step back toward the painting, toward that longing, lonely call, then Morag shook her head once, twice, certain her ears were playing tricks on her, and hurried out to the street to meet the others.
And so it waited.
They waited.