Page 6 of Muzzled

“Of course I took my cut,” he huffed. “You sure you’re okay if I go out tonight? You look a little pale.”

Waving off his concern, she pulled up her online cart and added another package of sealant. “Just make it back for a noon start,” she muttered, flipping between two canvas packs. “Saturdays are always long and painful, so keep the hangover to a manageable level.”

Logan tugged his shoes on and pocketed his phone. “Yeah, yeah, Mom. I’ll be good. Text if you need anything.”

Flipping him off, she submitted her order and opened her music player, clicking on the eight-hour nature sounds to drown out the noise of the street outside as she settled into her bed.

The first festival of the season in a new place was always exhausting. The pressure of being on display, of standing out among the talent lining the sidewalks, was draining both mentally and physically. Adapting to regional clientele preferences in subject and medium, filtering out the music of the buskers, and becoming accustomed to the smells of the food trucks always took a toll on her for the first week.

She was exhausted.

Exhausted and restless. And it was only getting worse.

Pushing herself out of bed, she tugged on her jeans and slipped her leather jacket over her tank, scrawling a quick note to Logan in case he arrived back before her.

The festival street was quiet in the early morning hours, the revelers having returned home after the bars and patios shut down. The few people scattered on the sidewalks walked slowly, their whispered conversations hushing against the quiet of the abandoned site. The cleaning crews were already loading their trucks, all evidence of the earlier crowds packed tightly away in the black bags piled high in the beds.

She walked along the storefronts leisurely, peering into the windows at the displays and scanning the night sky for a glimpse of the brightest stars over the glaring streetlights.

She needed this break.

Her mind had been whirling with images all evening, her fingers itching to get them down before she lost the vivid pictures in her head. Without the inundation of all that made the street festival what it was, her thoughts began to settle, to catalog the visions and file them neatly away for a later time.

When her phone buzzed, a chastisement from Logan lighting up her screen, she wrinkled her nose and began her trek back slowly, relishing the peace of the night before the mayhem once again descended on the quiet street.

She passed her claimed corner, a movement in the shadows catching her attention moments before a huge black dog darted across the road in front of her, sending her pulse through the roof. The animal disappeared down an alley as quickly as it appeared and she unclenched her fists, exhaling loudly.

“Damn dog.”

*

Ryan stood underthe weak spray of the shower, his gaze locked on the uneven tile and yellowing grout.

The scent had been faint, but it had been there. A flicker across his muzzle as the last of the trash was cleared away and the stench of acetone faded from the cement.

His attempts to follow it had been fruitless, the trail too weak and too broken to get a bead on the target.

But it had been there.

Running his hands through his short hair, he gripped his shoulders in a futile effort to release the knots forming in his muscles.

He was so close he could almost taste the foul blood of the Pirithous on his tongue.

Chapter Three

Mike squinted atthe canvas, angling her brush to finish the final touches on the river before turning her easel toward the crowd and wiping her hands off on a stained cloth. She gave a tight smile as the audience applauded, grateful when Logan stepped in front of her and began auctioning it off.

Pouring turpentine onto the cloth, she began to clean the paint from her skin, anxious to start her next piece while the crowds were gathered and attentive.

She reloaded her easel and looked over the spectators, brow lifting when she spotted a familiar blond guy standing across the street, his attention wholly consumed by a paper in his hand. She set her watercolors aside and rifled through her bag for her charcoal, huffing in exasperation when she felt her thumbnail scrape across an open package.

“Dammit, Logan,” she muttered, searching for an unsoiled piece of cloth to scrape the black from her thumb.

He glanced over at her, wincing as he saw the mess. “Ah. Right. I meant to wrap those before we got here.” He pulled a clean rag from his back pocket. “Sorry.”

“I’m docking you a dollar,” she mumbled, dumping the charcoal onto her table and selecting a fine tip. “Might as well pack the paint up for now before it dries out. I won’t be needing it for this piece.”

He finished up a sale and knelt beside her, cleaning off her paints and brushes while he organized her station.

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