Page 41 of Secrets in Salem: Part One

It takes a few tries to form words, and when I do, they're shaky and high-pitched. "I don't even know! I drew a man's face, and he had these horns, and it blinked at me, and then the ink started bubbling and spilling over the damn canvas until it flowed toward me like a heat-seeking missile set on killing me!"

To say I’m bordering on hysteria would be putting it mildly. My body is trembling all over as I cling to Aleric. Forgotten is the fact that he and his brothers have lied to me, forgotten is the betrayal and hurt I've felt. It's all been replaced with a terrified confusion at what I've just done.

We both watch as the bubbling dies down, the scorching ink cooling on my once white floor before drying completely. Aleric moves us around the ink to stand next to the large art piece. What once was a distinguished-looking man, with a dangerous aura I could feel from the painting alone, has now morphed into one of those grotesque devil photos that I found pinned to my door. The eyes are blackened, his features no longer sharp and sophisticated. Instead, it looks as though his skin has been burnt and his features disfigured. It sends a new round of shivers racing through my body, my hold on Aleric tightening further.

"Willow, what is that?" Aleric asks quietly, staring at the painting with an intense look that does nothing to calm my nerves.

I shake my head and tell him, "I didn't paintthat. I painted a man with horns, but not like that. The ink that spilled over ruined it."

Aleric looks over at me, likely seeing fear-widened eyes best suited for a bunny being chased by a fox. His hold on me tightens, his arms drawing me closer to his body with one under my ass to keep me holstered to his waist. I just barely refrain from digging my nails into the skin of his neck to make sure he doesn't let go of me, my levels of crazy hitting a new high after witnessing yet another impossible thing.

Using the arm under my butt to hold me up, Aleric’s free hand grabs his cell from his pocket, dialing a number before holding it to his ear. Whoever he's calling picks up instantly.

"Can you come meet us at Willow's studio? Now would be great," Aleric says, bypassing any niceties or greeting.

A deep baritone answers Aleric's request, to which he replies, "Yeah, I didn't know either. I'm putting my location on so you can track my cell. Get here as fast as you can."

And with that, the man effortlessly holding me with one arm hangs up the phone and shoves his cell back in his pocket, all before wrapping his free arm around my thigh that’s pressed tightly against his stomach.

"Do you want to get down?" he asks, making no move to actually release me. My arms tighten on their own accord, my thighs clamping harder around his lean waist. That's answer enough for Aleric. With a smile I can hear more than I see, he quips, "Alright then. Guess I'm carrying you."

Clearing my throat and hoping my words don't come out all high and crazy sounding, I say, "Can we go downstairs? I've decided I don't like being up here with the possessed painting. It's creeping me out more than I care to voice out loud."

I can feel Aleric shaking, and one look at his face tells me he's poorly trying to suppress his laughter. I don't see a damn thing funny about any of this shit. Not one thing. These things shouldn't be happening. How can anyone explainanythingthat's happened since I received those photos on my door? Aleric doesn't answer. Instead, he carries me down the stairs and out the door, walking steadily to where I see his car parked. Or is that Bishop's car? I don't know, and I can't say I really care when paintings are looking at me and then acting all possessed and shit.

"You want to get down now?" Aleric asks, hoisting me further up on his waist.

"I don't have shoes on. There's gravel on the floor. No, I'm staying right where I am, thank you very much," I inform him, turning my eyes onto the door we just left through. An unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach begins to grow, like we made a mistake in leaving the painting alone in my studio. But that's ridiculous, right? Who should be worried about a painting being by itself in an empty room? I should. The person who just witnessed it spurt ink like it shouldn't be able to.

Keeping my voice just above a whisper, I say, "Something doesn't feel right."

Just as I mutter the words, a car drives down the long road toward my studio the very same time as smoke begins to billow from an open window on the second story.

I slap the side of Aleric's face with the tips of my fingers before struggling to get down from the man's arms. He releases me with a face filled with confusion until his eyes finally see the blackened smoke sifting through the air.

Without hesitation, I run back to my studio, ignoring the gravel that's digging into the naked soles of my feet. I rush through the door and find the entire upstairs filled with thick, suffocating smoke.

Thankful some of my mom’s paranoia paid off and I’ve been raised to believe in safety first, I run to the fire extinguisher on the far end of the wall before returning to the stairs, taking them two at a time as I wield the nozzle of the extinguisher like a weapon.

"Willow! Wait!" someone calls just as I reach the second level.

Before I can turn to see which brother is talking, I'm enveloped in clogging smoke, the black misty substance cloaking me effortlessly. Darkness takes over my vision, and the ringing in my ears grows to an unbearable level while the smoke begins to choke me unrelentingly. A horrible feeling overtakes me, my mind growing hazy. The last thought I have is that I have made a very big mistake.

Chapter 22

Willow

Dizziness cloudsmy mind, my throat becoming sore and scratchy. Turning one way and then another, I see nothing but an endless stream of blackness, though I feel no warmth. Surely, if there's smoke, there's a fire, and a fire would carry heat. So why am I as cold as an icicle in winter?

Using one hand to waft away the smoke stinging my eyes, I slowly walk through my upstairs hoping to stumble across its source. I trip and stub my toe on something metal, cursing through the coughing that wracks my chest. There’s a vague, familiar sound, like my name being called, but it’s muffled by the ringing in my ears.

Just as I grow light-headed and the dizziness becomes too much for me to handle, I stumble over what I’m looking for. The painting isn't on fire, but smoke is billowing from where the ink has spread over the canvas and floor.

Coughing and spluttering, I fall to my knees on the floor as I tightly grip the extinguisher. I aim at the painting just as my body starts to rebel against me, turning faint. The extinguisher turns heavy in my hand, my now-numb fingers dropping the entire thing. Face first, I fall to the floor, my vision growing hazier as the stinging in my eyes draws tears to the surface.

I can feel something beneath me, a corner of something solid digging into my chest. Weakly, I raise my hand and it falls onto the canvas I'm lying on top of. Almost instantly, my hand heats. Though dizzy and afraid, I don't feel in the least bit panicked this time, but my hand warms until I can see a faint red glow through the thick smoke.

The heat grows and grows until a spark leaves the tips of my fingers and the canvas beneath me goes up in flames. The flames chase the black smoke, singeing the tendrils until every last plume of it is gone.

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