Page 1 of Iron Blade

Prologue

Written on the sketchpad, above a portrait of a woman with dark, wavy hair, sleeping on a silk pillow:

Black is the color of my true love’s hair,

Her lips deceive, her eyes despair.

Mask so serene, with graceful hands,

And I love the ground whereon she stands.

Chapter one

Your Master

Kira

Istared into the pompous faces of self-proclaimed art lovers, plastered on my best pensive Marina Abramovic stare, and placed a thoughtful finger on my chin.

“Now this? This is a real masterpiece.” They clung to my every word. They gave appreciative nods of agreement and knowing harrumphs from those who knew this piece of art was a winner. “Look at those aggressive lines.” I pointed to a curved red streak. “The accent of black along the base captures that deep sense of loneliness.”

I wiped my hands on my black sheath dress: chic, intelligent, fashionable but not flamboyant. Professional, but not threatening. Trustworthy, but not that approachable. Every stitch and gesture was hand-picked to make these idiots open their wallets.

“See those jagged edges? They're a commentary on the acuteness of pain. As sharp as the tip of a bullet." I shook my head subtly but dramatically at the same time. "They say this artist, Jerry Vasali, was a veteran. He saw a lot of combat and fell into depression when the VA couldn’t get him the help he needed.” Someone let out a soft “oh”, as if I was reciting some tragedy. “Such a shame. He’s now a psychiatric inpatient somewhere. Can’t paint anymore. This might be his last masterpiece.”

Ka-Ching! I had planted the seeds that Jerry Vasali might commit suicide, which would make his art priceless. This piece of shit canvas would go for a million, easily.

Except it was a lie. There was no Jerry Vasali. I had painted this canvas a month ago while halfway down a bottle of Jack Daniels, with a cigarette dangling from my lips. When I was sober, I forged papers of authenticity with nothing but a printer and a paintbrush. I signed with my own familiar green fountain pen in the art dealer section, using my left hand.

I forged with my right hand. I was myself with my left.

Forgery is in the details. A graphologist would never be able to link one hand with the other. That was the real point.

“Miss Kekoa?” A woman’s voice from behind called me.

I didn’t turn right away, as if I was lost in thought. But I wasn’t lost. Everything I did was premeditated.

It had to be to lead this double life.

I started my turn at my forehead, then followed with my eyes. Then I twisted my shoulders until I faced the captivated eyes of my business casual audience. Skinny champagne flutes full of bubbly in their soft hands.

"Yes?" I acted like I was coming out of a trance.

"Why didn't you ever paint yourself?" the soft voice said, not realizing that they pierced me right in the gut. That fucking bitch.

But I had an answer for that. One that made me seem both relatable and competent at my job. It was a statement that my handler and I had worked on for days, until I got the delivery just right.

"Well…" I coughed, digging the toe of my red-soled Louboutin’s on the ground. "I did go to art school, as many of you know."

It was the first thing on my bio. It was the Curriculum Vitae that made everyone sit up and take me seriously. I wasn’t just some scrapbooking enthusiast or hobbyist with an interest in art. I had spent (or, depending on who you are, wasted) four years and enough money on tuition to have bought a mid-sized, suburban four-bedroom home!

I wasn’t an artist, but I had tried to be, once.

I turned back to the ‘Jerry Vasali’ painting and looked longingly at it. At what my potential had been reduced too. I was a better forger than I was a creator.

"But I didn't have the talent," I sighed, then turned back around.

I smiled kindly to my audience, briefly wondering what person would publicly ask such a rude question. But there were enough of those kinds of people that I had a ready answer.

---