~ Jaxon ~

There are no replacement parts among the maintenance supplies, so I wait around until most of the students and professors have left, then strip what I need off an identical window in an empty classroom. Around 6 pm, I return to Ava Blackwell's office.

She greets me with a show of surprise, as if she hadn't expected to see me again so soon; the easel in the center of the room, with paints and canvas at the ready, tells another story.

She notes my gaze and lifts a shoulder in a self-conscious shrug.

"I'm an optimist," she says, smiling. "As a fellow artist, you understand. When the muse calls, we must answer."

It's almost the same thing she said earlier, and once again I'm flattered that she finds me worthy of inclusion among her kind.

Flattered and wary.

As a precaution, I'd crafted myself a simple protective amulet to guard against unwanted influence, but either Professor Blackwell isn't using any, or my charm isn't working.

I return her smile. "This shouldn't take long. You'll be painting in no time."

Crossing the room, I lay out my tools and get to work dismantling the window crank. Blackwell follows and watches with apparent interest, leaning a hip against the far side of the sill, arms folded over her buxom chest. I try not to notice, but her blouse seems to have even fewer buttons than it did before.

"You're good with your hands," she comments as I finish unscrewing the rusted parts and set the new in their place. "Do you ever work with three-dimensional media?"

I know she means stuff like wood, stone, clay—any kind of art that exists in three dimensions—but I pretend ignorance and keep my attention on my work.

"Oh, uh...no. I'm not good with computers."

She laughs. "Neither am I; neither are most Crafters. I mean art, Jason: carving, molding, chiseling—welding, even. You seem like a man who would enjoy the more...physical...mediums."

I shrug. "Nah. I just draw. Pencils and charcoals. I like to keep it simple."

"Simple tools for a simple man, hm?" She chuckles softly and reaches over to brush something from my shoulder. "Ever thought of going professional?"

"Doubt I'm good enough for that," I say, ignoring the warm ghost of her unwanted touch and twisting the last screw into place with a bit more force than necessary.

Blackwell lifts her hand and waves it dismissively. "What is 'good enough?' Who decides? All you can do is put your work out there for the world to see, and let the world judge."

"Guess that's what I'm afraid of," I say as I test the crank, opening the window and closing it again, before opening it once more. "Well, that should do it."

I turn away and start packing up my tools.

"I think you have nothing to fear," Blackwell says, reaching around and leaning against me as she tries the crank for herself. "If the artist's goal is to share the vision in their heart, then you have that gift."

Finished packing, I step away from her and retreat a bit, turning my attention to the art on the walls once more. "You can tell that much from one sketch?"

She follows me and stands at my side, observing me observing her work. "Yes. True art is a window to the artist's heart, and you revealed a glimpse of yours in that girl you drew. Imaginary or not, you are in love with her."

I sigh and rub the back of my neck. Ava Blackwell is the closest thing to a lead I've found. Her paintings are full of dark symbolism—stuff she'd have had to learn somewhere—and I'd hate to get on her bad side before I have a chance to suss out what she knows. On the other hand, it's clear she's interested in more than my art, and I need to clear things up before she gets the wrong idea. I open my mouth to tell her that the 'girl' is a man, and that I am indeed very much in love with him, when she goes on.

"The love beyond our reach is often the most potent," she says, "especially when great beauty is involved. Lyssa Lovecraft certainly is a great beauty, isn't she?"

A shock goes through me and I fail to completely hide my surprise.

Ava smiles and nods at her desk.

I follow her gaze and see a glossy magazine lying open on the surface. One page is taken up by a large photo of Lyssa herself, wearing a slinky red dress that shows enough skin to make me uncomfortable—not because I'm a prude, but because she's Sylas' sister, and because last time I checked she was still seventeen.

As I stare down at her image, I realize I'd forgotten how much she resembles her brother. No one would mistake them in person—it's not that Lyssa looks like a boy or Sylas like a girl—but their features are similar enough that a drawing of one could easily be of the other.

I'd drawn Sylas undisguised, too: his silky hair shining black instead of dyed a lighter shade; his eyes unobscured by unnecessary lenses. With Lyssa plastered all over the latest gossip and fashion sites—and now, apparently, the equivalent printed magazines—it's no surprise Blackwell concluded I'd sketched her.

At least she doesn't seem to have connected me to Marcus; he, Aurelio, and I are cast in the same mold, for sure, but dress us up different and no one would guess we're related.

"So, do you know her? Or have you just...watched from afar?" she asks.

I swallow, my mind racing as I try to weigh the risks and advantages of several answers. Finally, I settle on playing with a mix of truth and lie.

"My family and hers go way back," I say. "We used to work for them."

"You grew up together?"

I raise a shoulder; a non-answer she can take as she likes.

Ava nods and chews her bottom lip thoughtfully. "When did you fall in love with her?"

I re-cast 'her' as 'him' and answer truthfully. "At first sight."

Her mouth turns down in a little moue of sympathy. "Aah, but she never 'saw' you in return, did she?"

I shake my head; I don't know if Lyssa can even see past the end of her own perfect little nose, at this point.

Ava smirks. "Well, what if I told you I could get you close to her—give you a chance to see her again? Even if it's just one last time?"

I squint at her, wondering what she's getting at.

She uncrosses her arms, saunters around the back of her desk, and retrieves a small black envelope from a drawer. A large S is engraved on the cover in gold leaf, and I know what it is before she opens it and hands it over.

I make a show of reading it anyway, and stare at the fine calligraphy within, which spells out an invitation to my brother's wedding.

"I can bring a guest," Ava says. "That guest could be you."

I glance up at her. "And in return?"

Nobody does something for nothing these days; especially not someone like Ava Blackwell.

She smiles. "You're exactly what I've been looking for, Jason—in a model. My next piece—my inspiration—requires just such a model, and I want it to be you. Pose for me, and I'll make your dreams come true."

I keep my eyes on the rectangle of fancy card-stock in my hands.

"You don't know anything about my dreams," I say evenly.

"No?" She quirks a brow, plump lips bent in a little frown. "How about this then: you pose for me, I share my knowledge with you: a personal teacher—one-on-one." She narrows her eyes and smiles. "And, as a bonus, you attend the wedding as my guest and show your unrequited love just exactly what she's missed out on."

She circles back to stand behind me, and rests her red-nailed fingers on my arm.

Again, I'm caught in a tangle of uncharacteristic indecision. On the one hand, letting someone with clear knowledge of dark Craft paint my likeness is a terrible idea; on the other, it's the perfect opportunity.

Besides, if Sylas and I fail to find the Devil's Song in time, attending the wedding might our last chance at stopping it.

I look down at the card in my hands again.

"Alright," I say. "Deal."

✧ ✧ ✧

It's late when I get home. Ava wasn't lying when she said she didn't like to wait, and she'd asked me to sit for her while she got a few rough reference sketches done. Fortunately, she hadn't asked me to take my clothes off or anything like that, and when she wasn't coming on to me, she wasn't bad company. The time passed so quickly, in fact, that I was surprised three hours had gone by when she finally set her pencils and brushes aside and told me she was finished.

As she'd worked, she'd told me about her classes and her own training and history, which had begun when she discovered her Sign at age seven.

It was a paintbrush—a little, fine-tipped one for details—and she only used it to put the finishing touches on her work. The spells, that is.

"You wouldn't know it from this series," she'd said, gesturing at the wall of macabre paintings at her back, "but I'm often commissioned for portraits. It's not my art they want, though: it's my Craft. Blessings of beauty, health...virility. Whatever the commission wants. It's all in the details."

She'd winked like we were sharing a joke of some kind, and I'd wondered if 'blessings' were the only commissions she accepted, given that the opposite of a blessing is a curse.

It made me glad I had a gifted spell-breaker on my side, though at the moment I wonder if he's not liable to curse me himself.

As soon as I'd walked through the door I'd sensed something was off. His pack was dropped carelessly in the hall beside his shoes, which looked as if he kicked them off haphazardly—not his habit—and the house was dark. It was late, but not that late, and I'd expected him to wait up for me.

In the bedroom, I'd found him asleep, and in the bathroom, his clothes in a messy pile on the floor, as if he'd stripped them off for a shower and not bothered to pick them up afterwards. When I bent to collect them, the stub of a bus ticket fell from the pocket of his jeans, and now, as I read it, I understand.

BUS 110 — 16:00
FROM: HARBOR CITY
TO: SWEETWATER

I swear under my breath. Sweetwater is the nearest 'town' (really just a gas station, a cafe, and a few run-down homes) west of Covey Bend, about ten miles inland, closer to the major highway. I hadn't realized that was the nearest the city buses ran; I also hadn't linked money to our new phones, so Sylas couldn't have called a ride with an app.

It would have taken him around three hours to walk home.

Returning to the bedroom, I switch the light on low and sit on the edge of the bed, leaning over to look at him. There's a line between his dark brows and a slight frown on his lips. Lightly, I touch the smooth skin of his bare shoulder and the side of his face, and he wakes up and blinks sleep-bleared eyes at me.

"Sweetheart, why didn't you call me?" I ask softly. "I'd've come and got you."

"I did," Sylas mumbles. "I tried, anyway."

"What? When?"

I pull my phone out to check, but it won't turn on.

"Shit. When did that happen? That battery usually lasts all day."

"S'okay. S'just a long walk."

"Not on a summer afternoon with no food or water," I return, laying a hand on his brow to feel his temperature. "That's a recipe for heatstroke or dehydration. Did you eat something already?"

He sits up, pushing my hand away and rubbing his temple. "I'm fine, Jaxon. Stop fussing. What did you find out, anyway?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing yet. Just a possible lead. With one of the professors."

I frown at my own words. I'd intended to tell Sylas everything, immediately, but now I find I'm reluctant to speak of Ava Blackwell at all.

I just don't wanna get his hopes up, I tell myself. No sense making him worry over nothing.

"What about you?" I ask, standing and going to the closet as I strip off my shirt. "Learn anything new?"

I hear him sigh. "Yeah. I blew my cover on day one, went on a secret mission with Aurelio, and agreed to Craft for the first creepy guy who asked me to."

For half a second he gets me; then I realize he's joking and laugh. "Nice try. If I thought you were that dumb, I'd keep you locked up for your own good."

When I face him again, I find him watching me with an odd expression.

"What?"

He looks away. "Nothing. Let's talk about it later, okay?"

"Sure," I agree, and come back to wrap my hand around the back of his neck and lean in for a kiss. He returns it, but I can tell he's not into it right now, and let him go. "I'm sorry about the bus," I say, offering him an apologetic smile. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

He nods without meeting my eyes.

"Sure."

Something in his voice seems a little off, and I lay my hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

"Hey, Sylas—anytime you wanna walk away from this, just say the word. We're gone."

He looks up, his eyes like shadowed pools of darkest night, and for a moment, I hope he'll say he wants to go now: leave everything—my family, and his, and the whole messed-up Crafter world—far behind, and find our own way to our own happiness.

Instead, he just nods again, and returns my twisted smile, and repeats the same empty word.

"Sure."