Page 77 of There Are No Saints

For now, I know one thing for certain: Cole is dangerous.

I should run far away from him.

I know this, rationally.

Yet I want the exact opposite.

I’m fascinated by him. Drawn to him in every possible way: physically, mentally, emotionally.

I’ve been readingDracula. It’s a cautionary tale. A warning to young women not to give in to the seduction of a man who wants to devour you.

And yet . . . not all of us were drawn to Prince Charming. Some little girls ate up the stories of ball gowns and castles and knights who slayed the dragon . . .

While some little girls read the stories of a dark pathway into the woods . . . a twisted mansion with black windows and fog covering the grounds . . . That’s where we wanted to go. No matter what we might find inside . . .

I’ve started my second painting.

It will be just as large as the first—life-sized. The primary figure is part human, part animal, with a ram’s horns and bat-like wings outstretched on either side. Four arms and two sets of hands. One pair of hands are slim, pale, elegant. The other hands are thick, coarse, brutish.

I put on my music, as loud as I want because there’s no one else in the adjacent studios.

Gasoline — Halsey

Spotify → geni.us/no-saints-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/no-saints-apple

The canvas seems to expand until it appears as large as the room. It fills my whole field of view, it becomes the whole universe. Each tiny detail unspools from my brush, bursting into life.

I forget about Cole.

I forget about everything outside of the painting.

Time flows by while I stand still.

I don’t even realize someone has walked through the door until Cole says, “First a saint, now a demon.”

He’s standing right behind me. I don’t know how long he’s been in the room.

I whirl around, brush upraised.

Cole looks down at me, our faces only inches apart. He’s paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes. He definitely wasn’t asleep. He might not have slept last night either.

It must be raining outside. His clothes are damp. Droplets glint in his thick, black hair, the tips wet like my brush.

The rain amplifies his scent. He smells cold and clean, like a windswept street. His eyes are black as asphalt.

“I was looking for you,” he says.

“I was hiding,” I reply.

“I know that. I know you were hiding. I also knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.”

His voice is as cold as his clothes. It makes me shiver.

He knows me too well.

“It’s not a demon,” I say. “It’s the devil.”

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