Page 137 of Summoned
One.
* * *
I count the portraits stacked against the wall. I count theminutes until midnight. I count my options.
The room is packed with people; music and chatter fill the air while the bartender I conjured keeps pouring drinks. Occasionally, I catch fragments of the words from the back of the card drifting through the crowd. They’re enjoying themselves, chasing the Black Joker. Pity he isn’t one of them.
“My compliments, Signor Neri. I’m a fan of the arts, but this is the first time I’ve seen someone paint with blood,” says my current mode—a young man in his twenties, with an angelic face and an arrogant posture.
I don’t lift my eyes from the painting. “Offering their blood frightens people by nature. I channel that fear from their faces into the canvas. That’s where I believe the magic lies.”
“You might be right. I dabble in painting myself, but merely as a hobby for now.”
My gaze moves to the crowd, searching for Nicole. Her role is to nudge the guests into playing the game and repeating the words of the spell. I spot her talking to a man her age, and he’s giving her a look that crawls under my skin. My jaw tightens, but I can’t do a damn thing about it.
Just like I can’t do a damn thing about Madeline. Because, as much as it guts me to admit, the witch outmatches me in every way that matters. If she sets her sights on Nicole, nothing—not rage, not love, not even magic—will stop her from turning me to ash and taking her.
“What do you paint?” I ask, handing the model the sealed needle and porcelain plate.
He opens it without hesitation and pricks the pad of his middle finger. He presses it to the dish and offers his blood to me. “Landscapes mostly.” He passes it back.
Thirteen.
I add the final strokes to his portrait and turn it around.
“Incredible!” He shakes his head as he devours the details. “There’s something in your portraits, but I can’t tell what. And the speed you work with…”
I smile, lifting the canvas from the easel. “Would you like to know the secret? I use blood to define the shadows in the eyes. That’s the only way the soul comes through.”
I glance back at Nicole. She’s no longer talking to anyone, just staring at me. My chest tightens with emotion—warmth, and an overwhelming sadness—as the truth slowly dawns on me.
I’ll do anything to ensure Nicole’s safety.
‘Love clouds your mind, dulls your senses, steals from your power.’
Don’t be so sure, Madeline.
Two girls lean toward me. “Can you paint us together?”
I gesture to the empty chair, my thoughts elsewhere.
* * *
I’ve been drawing for over two hours straight. Canvases pile up in front of me, some bearing a couple of faces. Thirty-two people in total, each one offering their blood to the Black Joker of their own free will.
It doesn’t feel like enough, but time is running out, and I don’t want to leave everything until the last minute. One wrong move, one misstep, and the whole plan could fall apart. I wouldn’t risk Nicole for anything in the world.
The apartment is now crowded. The guests have forgotten all about their eccentric host and are enjoying themselves beneath the pulsing bass of modern music, surrounded by a horror-themed atmosphere and top-shelf liquor. Not long ago, Nicole came over and whispered thatthe Black Joker’s summoning spell continues to spread from person to person, through jokes and laughter.
Good. It’s time to seal the contracts.
Without rising from my seat, I conjure the illusion of the hostess. She materializes as if emerging from the bedroom, microphone in hand. The music cuts off. My thoughts pour out from the speakers, shaped into the melodic voice of the illusion.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, “how many of you have managed to catch the Black Joker?”
“I did!” slurs a young man, raising his drink, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“No,Idid!” another shouts, swaying as he points to himself with exaggerated flair.
