Page 15 of Lux

A painting: a series of them in a tiny little display festooned with a sign I don’t bother to read. There are twelve of them, displayed in a neat little row. Ugly little visions of things. Nothing like the jaunty, happy portraits upstairs.

These are the demented figments of a very disturbed mind.

A familiar mind…

How?

I try to remember. For once, Iwantto remember. What sick mind created these visions, so unlike the other mortal-made images?

A twisted soul.

With globs of oil and pigment, they depicted vile things that remind me of Cassius. Pale creatures reminiscent of my fae.

Moreover, they depicted this world as burning.

All of it burning.

And she, my Niamh, stands at the center of the destruction, dark eyes blazing, fixed straight ahead, glaring at me through space and time.

I failed her and she hates me.

It’s me she’s burning.

Me she’s trying to kill.

CHAPTER 8

Niamh

In front of me is a painting of a woman with hazel eyes. With her head partially turned, she gazes longingly at the viewer, her eyes wistful, soulful, and beautiful. How I wish to give her whatever it is she seeks so forlornly. It must be more precious to her than a visit to a museum or a wayward mother. Something she fears she may never find again.

I wish I could reach out and touch her cheek and tell her that all isn’t lost. Sometimes dreams can be delivered in the darkest of places by the unlikeliest of deliverers.

And some dreams become dashed horribly by unforeseen circumstances.

I hear the cries of startled viewers around me, like a piercing siren. Someone shouts. Screams.

A man in blue storms forward, waving a blunt, black instrument toward the nearest exit. “Everyone! Attention, everyone! We’re issuing an evacuation. Please file calmly and quietly out of the nearest exits?—”

Panic.

Pandemonium.

People scream. Women grab the hands of children and all rush to one of the doors with gleaming green words portraying the way to safety.

Safety. Because there is danger in this beautiful, sacred place. Distant shouts rise from the distance. “Move, move, move. West Gallery!”

Something is wrong.

But where is Caspian?

Reaching out, I expect him to appear from nowhere and take my hand. He doesn’t. Neither is he over my shoulder, or anywhere nearby as I spin around.

“Miss?” The man in black waves his device menacingly in my direction. “Please, leave. This is an evacuation.”

There is no argument. No discussion. The press of mortals around me swells and expands, jostling me among them toward the doorway. Out, only a busy street swarmed with masses of scared, terrified people.

Their emotions slam into me. Jar and disrupt.

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