Page 53 of Drawn to Death
His mouth twitches up at the corner. “I know. I saw.”
Of course he did. Talon notices everything, even when I think he’s back at the house. He never really leaves me alone, not totally. Not yet. But he gives me enough room to breathe, to soak up the sun, to chat with strangers without his shadow looming over every word.
“Have you been lurking this whole time?” I ask, not really annoyed, just curious.
He shakes his head. “Just checking in. Perimeter’s clear.”
Always the security assessment. Always scanning for threats. Even here, where the biggest danger is sunburn or maybe a splinter from the wooden promenade railings. He’s dressed down for the beach in faded jeans, a plain navy T-shirt that makes his eyes almost blue in the right light. No visible weapons, but I know better. He never goes without.
“I’m almost done,” I say, turning back to the canvas. “Just need to catch these last colors before they’re gone.”
He moves beside me, close, a solid warmth at my shoulder. I feel his hand settle on my back, resting there, gentle and steady, heat seeping through my thin shirt. He’s been touching me more this week. Less hesitation. Little gestures, a hand at the small of my back, fingers brushing mine when he passes me coffee in the morning, his arm slung over me as we drift off at night.
The sky deepens, gold bleeding into embers. I work faster, trying to catch the shift before it vanishes. Kids run past, shrieking, sand flying from their feet. From the restaurant across the promenade come the clink of cutlery, low voices blending together. Just normal sounds. Just life, easy and ordinary.
“You’re getting faster,” Talon says, watching my hands. “More confident.”
I nod, not looking away from the canvas. “It’s easier when I’m not fighting the visions. When it’s just me and what I see.”
What I don’t say is how strange it feels, this freedom. How I still wake up reaching for a pencil, certain I’ve seen something urgent, something I need to draw before it slips away. How I still flinch at strangers on the beach, bracing to recognize them from dreams where I’ve watched them die. How I keep waiting for the darkness to creep back in, for bloody images to claw their way through my hands onto the page.
“Are you hungry?” Talon asks, nodding at my bag with the empty lunch containers.
“I could eat,” I admit. I’ve been painting for hours and hadn’t even noticed.
He nods. “I’ll get us something. Finish up.”
He walks away, and I watch him go. That easy, controlled stride, always alert even when he looks relaxed. He still checks over his shoulder. I wish he’d stop. I want him to walk down this promenade one day and not scan for threats, not plot escape routes, not carry the weight of constant vigilance.
I turn back to my canvas, adding the last touches as the light fades. A woman stops to watch, her face softening as she takes in the scene I’ve made.
"That's beautiful," she says. "You have a real gift."
I mutter thanks, the words clumsy and strange on my tongue. A gift. Is that what I have? For so long, it’s felt like a curse, the visions, the dreams, the knowledge of deaths I couldn’t prevent. But here, now, maybe it’s something else. Something I can control, instead of something that controls me.
She asks about prices, and I name a number that sounds reasonable. She doesn’t even blink. Just reaches for her wallet. A weird flutter goes through my chest. Pride maybe, or just theplain satisfaction of making something someone else wants to keep.
As I wrap the canvas, I see Talon coming back, paper bag in hand. He pauses at the edge of the pier, watching me finish the sale with that quiet, intense focus he brings to everything. When the woman walks away with my painting, he comes over, footsteps so soft on the wooden boards I barely hear him. Just enough to know he’s there, and I’m not alone.
“That's three sales today,” he says, handing me the bag. “You’re going to need more supplies at this rate.”
The bag is warm. Inside is clam chowder and fresh sourdough, still hot. My stomach growls, and I realize how hungry I am, lost in the work.
“I can’t believe people actually want these,” I say, dropping onto a bench and opening the container. Steam rises up, thick and salty, making my mouth water.
Talon sits next to me, thigh pressed close, steady and warm as the air gets colder. “Why wouldn’t they? They’re good.”
I shrug, tearing bread. “They’re just… normal. Pretty things. Nothing special.”
He looks at me, serious in the fading light. “That is special, Quell. After everything.”
I can’t hold his gaze. He’s right. Creating something beautiful after years of recording death, it’s a kind of miracle. I just don’t know how to believe in it yet.
We eat in silence, easy and companionable, watching the last bit of light vanish from the horizon. The ocean turns black, with only the white edges of waves showing in the dark. Tourists drift off, heading for dinner or back to their rentals. The air gets colder, sharper, clean with salt.
“Did you take your medication today?” Talon asks, casual.
I nod, smiling a little. He always checks. Always steady. The anti-anxiety meds were his idea, a way to help with the panicattacks that still hit, even without the visions. I fought it at first, then gave in. They help. He noticed before I did.
