Page 24 of Craving Venom

“Yeah, nope,” Tria agrees, pulling me away. “Why is that so much worse than the other ones?”

“Because it’s too real,” I say, rubbing my arms. “Like, who hasn’t felt like someone’s watching them in the dark?”

Tria shivers dramatically, and we both laugh nervously, but the image sticks in my mind. As Tria and Xaden move on to the next piece, I linger for a moment, and let my eyes scan the room. My feet move on their own, pulling me toward the painting in the far corner. It’s larger than I thought, framed in dark, weathered wood that seems to swallow the light around it. The plaque beneath it reads:“At the Edge.”

The painting shows a girl sitting at the very edge of a jagged cliff, her back to the viewer. Her white dress billows around her, flowing like it’s caught in some invisible breeze. The fabric is impossibly delicate, almost glowing against the harsh backdrop of the cliff’s rocky surface. But the longer I stare, the more I notice the darkness creeping up the hem of her dress.

It’s subtle at first, like shadows playing tricks on my eyes. The black tendrils climb the fabric in uneven streaks, stretching higher and higher toward her shoulders. It’s not just shadows; it’s alive somehow, curling and twisting like smoke or ink bleeding into water.

The background is stormy. The sky is smeared with angry streaks of deep gray and violet, as if the heavens themselves are tearing apart. Below the girl, the abyss stretches endlessly, swallowing everything in a void so black it’s almost dizzying to look at. The edge of the cliff she’s perched on is sharp and uneven with broken stone and brittle weeds

that look like they’d crumble if she so much as shifted her weight.

But she doesn’t. She’s completely still. One hand rests loosely on her knee and the other is dangling over the edge like she’s tempting gravity to take her. Her hair spills down her back in soft waves, the same pristine white as her dress, blending almost seamlessly into the fabric.

The eerie part, though, is the faint reflection in the abyss below her. It’s not her reflection, at least, not exactly. The figure in the darkness doesn’t sit still. Its head tilts, its arm shifts ever so slightly, and though its face is blurred and indistinct, it feels like it’s watching.

The longer I look, the more the entire painting feels wrong. It’s too still and too alive all at once. The way the darkness clings to her dress reminds me of something between possession and decay.

I step closer to the painting, scanning the bottom corner where the artist’s name should be, but there’s nothing. I lean in further, almost pressing my nose to the glass, and that’s when I see faint, almost imperceptible words stitched into the hem of her dress. They’re so faint I can barely make them out, but they’re there.

I narrow my eyes to get a closer look. The words aren’t in English—or at least, not in any language I recognize.

“That one’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice is so close, so sudden, I nearly jump out of my skin. I whirl around, clutching my chest. Standing behind me is a man, He is tall, sharp-dressed, and wearing a black hat tilted just low enough to cast shadows over his eyes. His suit screams money, just like everyone else here, but there’s something off about him. His smile is too wide, his teeth just a little too perfect.

“Uh…” My voice falters as I take a half-step back, putting some distance between us. “Yeah, I guess.”

“It has a way of pulling people in. Don’t you think?”

“Sure.” I glance back at the painting. I clear my throat, trying to focus. “Do you know who the artist is? There’s no name on the plaque.”

His smile tightens, and for a second, I think he’s going to laugh. Instead, he leans forward slightly, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “It’s unknown. No one knows who created it.”

That’s… unsettling. “Really?”

He nods, his eyes flicking to the painting. “It’s part of the allure, isn’t it? A masterpiece with no origin. Makes you wonder what kind of mind could conjure something so…” He pauses, searching for the word. “Ethereal.”

I don’t answer, because I’m too busy trying to figure out what his deal is. He feels like someone straight out of an old noir film.

Before I can respond, he straightens up and adjusts the brim of his hat. “It won’t be unknown for much longer, though. I’ve decided to take it home.”

“You’re buying it?”

He nods once. “Sometimes, beauty demands to be possessed.”

Okay, that’s officially the creepiest thing anyone’s said to me today. He tips his hat, turning away before I can come up with a response, and disappears into the sea of wealthy art enthusiasts.

I shake my head as I turn back to the painting. The words are gone. They were there a second ago. I swear they were.

But now? They’re gone.

I press closer, my breath fogging the glass again. My eyes scan every inch of the girl’s dress, but there’s nothing there anymore.

“Faith!” Tria’s voice pulls me back to reality, and I turn to see her striding toward me with a grin plastered across her face. “Who the hell was that? I just saw you talking to the hottest guy in this whole place!”

I blink at her, still rattled. “What? No. He was just…” I wave my hand vaguely, trying to find the words. “Some weirdo who’s buying the painting.”

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