Page 17 of The Fire Went Wild

He’s changing the subject away from Edie, which just makes skin prickle with icy fear. “If you killed Edie, why don’t you just say so?” For the first time, my voice comes out shaky. I think it’s because, for the first time, I’ve found a topic of conversation that feels genuinely dangerous.

Jaxon fixes his eyes on me, and it’s like they’re burning through my skin. I press against the wall, my feet tangling up in the curtain.

“You’re asking the wrong questions about Edie Hensner,” he finally says, and his voice is flat.

I don’t really understand what he means.

Before I can respond, though, he points at the table. “Why didn’t you eat the oatmeal?”

Because you’re a psychotic killer and fuck knows what’s in it. But with that sharp deadliness radiating off him, I bite my tongue and instead say, “I’m not hungry.”

Jaxon narrows his eyes. “I made it for you.”

All the more reason not to eat it, as far as I’m concerned. Still, I just repeat myself. “I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t change, either.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Hard to change with my foot chained to the bed.”

“That’s why I brought you a dress.”

Then he steps backward, slams the door, and leaves me alone in the room once again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

JAXON

Iresolve to ignore her for the rest of the day.

She doesn’t make it easy. She keeps thumping around her room, dragging her chain across the floor, just generally making noise. At one point, I hear a loud, splattery crash, like she’s showing me what she thinks of my oatmeal.

Fine. If she won’t eat in her room, then she’ll eat downstairs, with me. After all, I’m the one with the upper hand here. She’s inmyhouse, wearing the chain thatIwelded around the bed three years ago. If it weren’t for my gods, she would be in my studio now, a beautiful art piece preserved by frost and ice until I find the sculpture hidden in her flesh.

I’m the one with the upper hand, and yet I feel like she controls me every time she fixes me with those brown eyes.

So I go to my studio to try to find some solace in my work. Not that I have much to work with; I haven’t brought anyone back to my studio in quite some time. At least two months. There are a few limbs in the deep freeze, the skin marred useless by freezer burn; I should be able to salvage the bones, though. A few jars of old blood that I could stretch with paint. Assorted ephemera—locks of hair, loose teeth, finger bones. I dump themout on my work table and rattle through them, looking for inspiration. Nothing.

My gods are silent, too, having retreated into the Abyss without any word of advice, as useless as Ambrose. I sweep the ephemera back into their box and pull down one of the jars of blood. Charlotte told me she was a painter. Perhaps I can paint her. I can’t kill her, but I can still capture her essence in that way.

It would be better if I had her blood, though.

Thatidea perks me up, and perks up my Guardian, too, given its love of fresh hot blood.Only a little,it whispers to me.Don’t kill her.

I know, I know.

But how the hell am I going to get her blood? If I get too close to her, she’ll fight me; I can sense that intention radiating off her. Now, I wouldwin, of course, but I don’t want her fighting me when I’m trying to cut her with a knife. It’s not like she’s going to sit still while I bleed her out into a bowl.

A syringe? Do I even have a syringe? Probably not a clean one.

I give up that little fantasy for the time being and just use the old blood, pouring a few drops into my pallet and then mixing it around with gouache from some crusty old tubes I found shoved in the back of my paint drawer since Charlotte said she paints with gouache most of the time. It mixes better than I would have expected, the blood thickening up the gouache and giving it a kind of rusty undertone that I like. Dilutes pretty well in water, too.

I don’t plan anything, just start painting her from memory, using the four colors I was able to find: a sickly yellow, a dark blue, some ancient white, and your basic Kelly green. All of them are streaked with rust from the blood. I’m not crazy how the colors look together, even when I try to blend them, but I like the way her eyes start to come out from the thick, smeary lines I slapon the watercolor paper I’m using. It’s an ugly mess except for her eyes. They peer out at me, pinning me in place even as I’m trapping her in the gouache and blood.

I lose track of time. It’s not until the light in the window starts to change that I realize how late it is. How hungry I am, too—I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. And I was going to bring Charlotte down for dinner.

I put the paint away and leave everything else and go back into the house, which feels warm after being out in my chilly studio. I keep that cold for obvious reasons. Charlotte’s quiet. No thumping, no screaming. I can’t help myself; I go upstairs to check on her before dinner.

She’s stretched out on the bed, still wearing her dress from yesterday. I think she’s asleep, but she lifts her head when I open the door and looks up at me the same way she looked out at me from the painting.

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