Page 136 of Summoned
My favorite challenge has always been to manipulate the audience into doing the unthinkable, the unnatural, the immoral—and to make them enjoy it. I should be on fire tonight, yet the only thing burning is the time I have until midnight.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours scheming how to escape Madeline, but the more I think about it, the more I realize she won’t rest until I serve her Nicole’s soul on a platter.
I settle into the armchair tucked between the wall and the easel. Nicole lingers near the entrance, pretending to be a recent arrival as she studies the card she pulled from the box. Her expression tightens when she reads her role for the night.The Baroness. Our eyes meet across the room, and the corner of my mouth lifts.
The first guests—aside from Nicole—also draw their cards. The two men do so with raised eyebrows and mildly skeptical looks, while the woman with them lights up with a bright smile, as if she already suspects she’ll be the star of the evening.
The illusory hostess tells them that Signor Neri usually starts each soirée by sketching his guests. Later, the portraits he chooses become part of his next collection, displayed in galleries around the world. The woman’s eyes open even wider.
A trio of blondes drifts into view behind them, indistinguishable from one another in the faint blue light. Nicole slips her card into her clutch and strides across the room. She spots me—the artist tucked away where the brightest light is, separate from the rest.
“Signor Neri, may I be your first model?” she asks. The music muffles her voice from everyone else, but everyone’s attention shifts in our direction.
I rest my ankle over my knee and let my gaze trail down her body. Slipping easily into character, I channel the eccentric artist: mildly aloof, faintly intrigued. With a subtle wave, I indicate the empty chair across from me.
She lowers herself into the seat with deliberate poise, her elegant heels crossing at the ankles. Her posture is flawless—shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted. The Little Baroness. My stomach tightens. I want to soothe her and whisper that I have everything under control. Except I don’t.
So, I begin sketching in swift strokes. Most of them I apply not with my hand, but with magic pouring from my fingertips. Every movement follows not simply her form, but my hunger for her. My eyes trace her curves with ruthless precision. I’m not seeking perfection. Every feature, every line of her body, reminds me of what I stand to lose. The easel faces the wall, concealing the blank canvas. That doesn’t stop the few guests from drifting closer, their curiosity stirring as they lean in, trying to catch a sneak peek of the sketch.
Five minutes later, the portrait is finished. I lift my gaze from the easel and tell my model, “Just one final ingredient, and we’re done.”
The moment I speak, every head turns. My voice carries the hard edges of Bulgarian, softened by the warmth of a Mediterranean accent.
“What do you mean, Signor Neri?” Nicole asks, her tone laced with delight.
I lean over the case beside me and retrieve a thin, sealed needle. “A drop of blood. Only then does the portrait come alive. Only then does it seal not just the shadow… but the soul.”
A soft gasp escapes from the crowd. One of the men pulls out his phone to record. He’ll soon realize the footage shows nothing but an impenetrable haze.
I hand the needle to Nicole, along with a small white plate, then glance at the clock on the wall. I check how many minutes remain until midnight, yet to the crowd, the gesture will seem like boredom. They’ll assume the model is wasting the great artist’s time by fussing over something as trivial as a drop of blood.
Nicole lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. She surveys the needle with feigned panic, then glances at the onlookers around. “Just so you all know, if I die, it’ll be on you,” she says with theatrical seriousness. “Every single one of you.”
Someone in the back laughs. “Do it! I want to see what happens.”
Without rushing, she tears open the packaging, inhales deeply, and studies the needle once more. “My grandma uses one of these to check her blood sugar.”
I watch her with a calm expression. “It’s sterile. You’ll barely feel it.”
She raises her eyebrows with fake determination. “All right… just one drop.”
The needle pierces her fingertip. A small bead of blood wells up. Her eyes search mine, and I nod toward the plastic plate. She presses her finger against it. A thin stream of red trails down, collecting on the white surface. Then, with a quiet, resigned smile, she hands it back to me.
I take the plate with her blood, set it beside the palette, and dip the tip of the brush into the thick red. Touch the canvas. A single stroke, and the magic unfurls. The colors quiver, blur, and the layers shift. I weave the spell into the technique, just as my father taught me. Conceal what must remain unseen. Season with illusion.
At last, I turn the easel toward the crowd. It’s in black and white, but the shadows are deeper than ink, and the light glows with a brilliance no canvas should hold. No one speaks. It’s unclear what they perceive—each sees something different. Whatever it is, it keeps them spellbound. One woman covers her mouth. The man beside her squints as he leans in. Even Nicole holds her breath.
They’ve fallen into the same trap as every soul who’s ever gazed upon a masterpiece. Talent, enhanced by witchcraft.
“And all those colors from just a single drop of blood?!” someone exclaims.
“And in just a few minutes!”
I meet the gaze of a young man in a sharp suit, a drink poised in his hand. “There’s magic in blood,” I say, my voice a blend of artistic detachment and languid disinterest. “Next.”
The woman, whose entire being lights up at the prospect of becoming a star, nearly pushes Nicole aside in her eagerness to take the chair.
I sketch her. And in the end, she offers her blood to the Black Joker of her own volition. As the summoning demands.
