Page 17 of Muzzled

“No.”

“A watch?”

Pursing her lips, she looked over the canvas at him with failed sternness. “You really are a literal guy, aren’t you?”

“Completely literal and entirely devoid of artistic imagination,” he agreed, his tension from earlier completely draining as she continued to smile, amused. “So is it a watch?”

*

Mike sat backand looked over at Ryan as he lay stretched out across her bed, one of her early sketchbooks in hand. “Well, I’m done.”

She lifted the easel gently and turned it to face him, watching his expression as he sat up and took in the piece for the first time.

Art reveals never held much anticipation for her, her mind already flipping to the next page in her endless stream of images. Reactions to her work on the street were always enthusiastic, the onlookers revved up by the presence of the crowd as much as by the piece itself. And most of her best work was done when she was alone, photographed for her website and set aside, forgotten.

But this piece had felt different from the moment it flashed into her mind. It felt real, as though she were drawing from a memory and not her imagination. She could smell the faint scent of sulfur in the air, hear the heavy chains grazing on the marble tiles. Even the old woman’s voice was alive in her head, the words too muffled to make out but the lilt distinctive and reassuring despite the overwhelming hopelessness she felt with every stroke of paint.

The urgency she experienced throughout the process was similar to how she felt on the street earlier. Had Ryan walked out, she would have still been compelled to complete it. She’d tampered the single-mindedness creeping in by keeping him talking, but it had been a battle she won through sheer force of will.

She found herself stilling in anticipation as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees and brows knotted in concentration. His eyes traveled over the deep reds and blues, pausing at the corner of the piece where that damn dog had made his appearance again.

“Atropos,” he muttered, clearing his throat and leaning closer to examine the profile of the old woman crouching at the side of the injured dog, hand outstretched, with a spool of thread balancing precariously in her palm. “That’s…wow.” He sat back and shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment before he resumed his assessment. “That’s powerful.”

Rising to her feet, she sat beside him. “It’s a lot darker than my usual stuff,” she said, hoping the apology in her voice more than made up for the strange image he’d brought to the forefront of her imagination. “I’ll probably be painting rainbows and posies by noon tomorrow.”

He reached toward the work, hand freezing before he made contact. “Still wet, right?” When she nodded, his hand dropped. “So, do you know who that is?”

“Some weird old lady trying to feed thread to a dying dog?” she scoffed, refusing to look at the picture. “I can go on and on about inspiration all I want, but the reality is, my head has been kind of messed up over the last couple days and the images I’m conjuring up are reflecting it.”

He continued to stare at the work like he was mesmorized, his hands clenching and flexing at his sides. “That weird old lady is one of the Three Fates in Greek mythology,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Atropos. Once your lifetime has been woven and dispensed, she cuts the line.” He angled the screen to show her a tapestry of the Fates and she leaned in, noticing the whitening of his knuckles as he held it out. “Atropos is the oldest, the end of the journey.”

“Well, that’s depressing.” She groaned, running her hands over her face. “I invite you back here with promises of amazing art and I paint a dying dog.” Slapping her hands on the bed, she stood up. “I’m going to shower this mess off. I’ll totally understand if you take off while I’m in there.”

Turning his attention back to her work, he cocked his head. “The whole dying dog thing is a little unsettling, I’ll admit. But it’s the expression on Atropos’s face that gets me. She doesn’t want to cut his thread, doesn’t want to leave him. It’s almost…nice.”

*

Ryan waited forthe water to start before he snapped a picture of the painting, slid his phone back into his pocket, and flexed the trembles from his hands.

The possibility of a seer topside was remote, the few deity bloodlines from centuries ago having diluted too much over time to produce a human capable of foreseeing the future. But this wasn’t normal. Not by any stretch. He stared at the image.

Mike had captured the lines and creases of Atropos’s face perfectly. Her eyes were determined and focused, softened by an empathy for the beast who lay dying on the marble floor. The old Fate’s scissors remained tucked in the pocket of her cloak, indicating she hadn’t yet made the final cut that would put the animal out of its misery.

Exhaling loudly, he focused on the dog.

On himself.

His amber eye was open in challenge, daring Atropos to finish him off as his blood stained the iron muzzle strapped tight to his face.

“Mike?” he called out over the water as he zeroed in on the details of the background. “What makes you pick the setting? Why this place instead of one of the other halls I’ve seen in your work?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice muffled. “It’s where the scene happens, I guess. I don’t consciously choose the image. Think of me like a fax machine, spitting out the image I’m being sent by my messed-up imagination.”

Studying the curve of the faint river visible behind the dog, he listened for the water to shut off. “Have you ever had a near-death experience?” he asked, thinking about the few stray humans who had inadvertently found themselves in Hades. “Or an out-of-body experience? Excessive déjà vu? Anything weird like that?”

Her laughter echoed in the bathroom. “Sorry. A few drinking blackouts from my early twenties if that counts, but nothing super cool.” She walked into the room, squeezing the excess water from her hair as her gaze fell on the painting. “You haven’t run screaming yet. I’m impressed.”

Rising to his feet, he straightened his collar and smoothed his shirt down. “It’s late enough that I should be on my way, but I didn’t want you thinking I was leaving because of the painting. It’s a little dark, yes, but it’s probably one of the most fascinating ones you’ve done.” He walked to the door and slipped his shoes on. “I also wanted to thank you again for dinner and see if maybe you’d be up to another later this week?”

---