Page 79 of Love the Way You Lion
“Various subjects… I draw from memory—though not always my own. I filch from the woman’s memories, but she’d be mad if she knew.” He picks up a sketch of Aradia, curled by a fireplace on a Persian rug. That’s my home with the minx, and I just replaced that rug, so I know he’s being truthful. He jerks his thumb at the corkboards behind him. “The left one is my memories and the right one is hers.”
I’m interested because my primary has spun some heady tales of his talent, so I stand and go look, stopping as one catches my eye. It’smy golden goddess dressed as a sexy, badass cop with the mother of all attitudes. That must be from the night they met.
“Impressive.”
I mean that, though he doesn’t know how hard it is to get that kind of praise from someone who steals art as part of his job. I move to the next board to look and there’s a dreamy watercolor from the night of Beltane, depicting the night sky and the circle, followed by several others that are so accurate that I’d assume he saw them through her eyes.
His depiction of fire, of the Egyptian gods, and of the spirits is astounding. The minx and I look like we’ve been born from the fire. That bugger could sell these—if one of us wouldn’t kill him for it—for no small fortune.
He’s not just talented; he’s a master.
“You’ve got a lot of talent. Then again, talent runs in your family in ways that death runs in mine.” I grin. I don’t know if he realizes how sodding wonderful everything in this room is, even the throwaway sketches at his feet.
“Thanks. It’s been a hobby since I was at the Company. Someone wanted me to learn for a training mission. I started sketching and figured out I was good at it. It stuck with me. Now it’s my thing, I suppose.”
My lips curve at his humility. He has no idea how good he is; he knows he enjoys creating. Rafe doesn’t want praise—he displays his work in this room no one enters. Perhaps the reproductions I saw around the house were done by him. It would explain why I had to look twice to make sure they weren’t authentic. From the Monet to the Rembrandt to the Van Gogh, they looked authentic enough that I almost checked to make sure the originals were in the last place I saw them.
I walk over and brush the smudge off his chin because I can’t help myself. “When the only things you’re good at are pissing people off, stirring up hornets’ nests, and killing, you grow an appreciation for those with the Renaissance skills.”
“That’s not all you’re good at,” he murmurs.
“Well, I’m a fair hand at pool. I don’t think that’s what you mean, though. If it’s the between the sheets shit, that’s nothing big—that’s genetics and training. You know that.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “I could argue that, but since it’s not the point, I would believe that you have plenty of talents you don’t talk about. There are some that you don’t know about. The Rift works that way. Everyone also knows that.”
I shrug, feeling uncomfortable tooting my horn with him. I love crowing about myself to anyone who’ll listen—the goddess and my wife can attest to that—but this situation is putting me on an uneven keel. People rarely ask about much besides the clothes and the job, and I’m fine with that.
“I sing. Play a tune on a piano or guitar. I’m not bad with a saxophone.”
“Exactly—not everyone can do those things. You prefer to be known for the other stuff because it doesn’t fit with your image.” He watches me as I stalk to the other side of the room, wiping his hands off.
“It’s easier being known for this stuff.”
“It’s a magnificent wall to hide behind.”
“Well, it helps that I enjoy the killing and the pissing off vacuous cows,” I smirk.
“Enjoy your work, or what’s the point?” He rolls to his feet and stretches, all lithe frame and grace. It makes me wonder how hestays so sodding fit, being so stationary all the time. “You want some food? It feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve eaten. Leo will whip something up for us.”
I blink.How in hell’s name does he not know when he ate last?“Sure, Sampson. I’ll get a bottle if you find something in the kitchen. My knowledge of this place extends from the bedroom to here—which I learned today.”
He nods, padding off to find one of the many members of his house I’ve never met. I apparate a bottle of my eighteen-year-old Macallan scotch because I figure we’re due a conversation that might require alcohol. I wander around his studio for a bit, looking at all the drawings, paintings, and sculptures tacked or shelved on the walls. He’s beyond prolific, and I see a few cabinets on the far wall that hold more works. There are plenty of pieces featuring my minx in various costumes, portraits, and situations. I see the love he feels for her radiating off the page.
There are quite a few of the other members of his household, too, but it’s not all light—there’s darkness, too.
I figure that he’s taken anything that represents the old family members and stored it because there’s not a trace of them. As much as he’s done of my wife and my primary, I can’t believe he didn’t use them as subjects. My guess would be the only cabinet that has a padlock on it is where they live. I see their influence, though, as the displays seem to flow chronologically, and if you look closely, you see an ebb and flow of happiness to pain in the artwork.
There’s him and my wife in the middle of her circle, drenched in the moonlight and holding one another. The pain radiates off the page. Another piece looks almost like the cat is sporting bruises and dents; she’s curled up in a closet and surrounded by spider webstying her to a wall, beast face on as she struggles against an unseen captor.
That might be the most interesting one so far—or so I think until I come to one that feels the angriest in style. The subjects are small, yet intricate, and curled up in a corner as the looming darkness creeps towards them. It’s very abstract, and I don’t know what all the pieces around them mean, but I can only assume they’re symbolic. A ribbon, a bottle, a tooth, a jester hat, a crown, and a match are in various places in the room. There are roots extending from the figures, going deep into the ground, and planting them in place.
It’s not the subtlest of symbols, that one.
Again, it feels like they've buried more than I realized. That painting alone, sitting next to the spider webs on one side and flanked by one of the Minx in extreme closeup, tells a tale. She has a tear of blood and a look of anguish so deep that it hurts my heart to look at it. It tells me they’ve gotten hurt far worse than I knew. There’s a space next to the tear sketch, and I can only wonder what piece he took down and put away that follows that timeline.
Whatever it is, I doubt either of them is ready to share it. He must have taken the more controversial pieces down after my primary started visiting here.
“I brought the food, mate,” he says, and I turn on my heel, pretending to be interested in a shelf full of gorgeous ceramics. “The glasses are on the bar unless we’re drinking from the bottle.”
