For Whom the Spell Tolls (11 page)

I could see right through him though. He was obviously trying to make me jealous and it wasn’t going to work. “Yes, Caressa is very attractive. No arguments there.”

“Are you curious whether I have known her in the way I should like to know you?”

I shook my head and sighed deeply. “For Hades’s sake, Bram, get to the damn point!”

“Answer my question, please,” he answered with his chin stuck out defiantly.

“No, I’m not curious; and no, I don’t want to know about your sex life, or lack thereof, at all!”

He frowned momentarily. “Ms. Brandenburg has informed me that the Netherworld is up in arms regarding a newspaper article your leader ran in
The Netherworlder Today
,” he started.

“Really?”

“Yes, and I, too, noticed many handwritten signs posted along roads and highways that supported the fall of the current regime.” He cleared his throat as he smiled at me. “By all appearances, the Netherworld seems ripe for rebellion, Sweet. And as such, your father grows more desperate each day. I am certain we both know what Hippocrates had to say about that?”

No, I had no clue Hippocrates had anything to say about it, but I sensed where Bram was going with his point. “Desperate times call for desperate measures?”

“Exactly, Sweet,” Bram said and nodded. “Exactly right.”

“Then you still think we can win even though the Netherworld Guard outnumbers our own soldiers?”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “Yes, I believe your side can prevail, if you proceed cautiously and correctly.”

“I need to know precisely where my father is,” I interjected quickly, realizing my father’s whereabouts were the crux of the entire matter. “We won’t have a chance in hell if we don’t know where to find Melchior.”

Bram chuckled. “Sometimes I believe you can read my mind, Sweet.”

He reached into his pants pocket and produced his pocket watch, handing it to me. I accepted the expensive-looking timepiece as I brushed my fingers against the face of it. I wondered why he’d handed it to me and glanced up at him with curiosity in my eyes.

“Long ago, I found it necessary to my well-being that I track your father’s comings and goings,” Bram said softly. Pointing to the watch, he added, “This pocket watch will allow you to do the same.”

“How?” I asked, glancing down at it again.

“It is a compass programmed to pinpoint your father’s location at any given moment.” He took it from my hand, placed it flat in his palm, and lifted his palm to eye level. The hour hand began turning counter clockwise before it settled onto the twelve o’clock position. Then the area at the bottom of the watch, which previously showed the date, displayed what appeared to be GPS coordinates.

“West, one hundred twenty-two degrees, by north, thirty-seven degrees,” Bram read aloud. Then he faced me with another smile. “It seems your father is close to Splendor, only in the Netherworld, of course.”

I dared not believe my own good luck. I’d known Bram would come through and in providing the answer to the problem of finding my father, he’d come through with flying colors, and then some. “Thank you,” I said earnestly.

Bram said nothing more as he stood up suddenly. “If it pleases you, there is one more item I would like to unveil to you before your departure this evening.”

I figured the business portion of our evening was now finished. And that was fine—there really wasn’t anything more I needed to know. “Sure,” I said as I clutched the timepiece in my palm, and warned myself not to leave it anywhere. That was the huge bummer about wearing gowns—there wasn’t a damn place to put anything.

I followed Bram through the dining room and into the wine cellar where I immediately noticed a painting, covered by a tarp, hanging on the wall. Bram strode up to it, but stopped short before unveiling it. Then he turned to face me with a broad smile.

“I do hope this will please you, Sweet.”

He grabbed the tarp and pulled on it gingerly, exposing the portrait he’d had painted of me. At first, I didn’t know what to say or think. Maybe it’s natural to feel shock when you see yourself reflected back at you in anything other than a mirror. But, I could only say that as far as the artist’s ability, he was more than simply talented. The painting looked exactly like me. It was the state in which I’d been represented that threw me for a loop.

SIX

It was a full-scale rendition of me, from head to foot. I was standing on a stretch of grass spotted with bluebells, a forest of pine trees behind me in the distance. The sky was an cerulean blue, interrupted by a few whimsical clouds that looked like white cotton candy. On one side of me was a lake, interrupted by a waterfall that coursed down the face of a craggy mountainside. On my other side, two deer, an owl and a few squirrels looked on curiously. But it wasn’t the Winnie the Pooh surroundings that struck me as completely baffling. Instead, it was the fact that nothing about the painting screamed ANC Regulator or law enforcement in general, which was something I’d expected given the title.

“I thought the painting was supposed to be titled ‘Fairy Law’?” I asked doubtfully, turning to face Bram who stood in silent appreciation of the portrait, his arms crossed against his chest.

“It is,” he insisted in a less-than-interested tone and then proceeded to point to the monogrammed silver plate inlaid at the top of the dark oak frame. The plate proclaimed the “masterpiece” to be The Fairy Law, just as I’d intimated.

The information reinforced, I refocused my attention on the painting, trying to glean some connection between it and the title. It was a little off-putting at first—seeing yourself reflected back at you and in a way that completely defies your own perception of just who and what you are. After a few seconds of trying to make a judgment regarding whether or not I liked the thing, I was left not knowing what to think. I mean, it was me clearly—the artist was obviously a good one because he’d been able to capture everything that made me me pretty well. But, at the same, time, there were definitely details that weren’t so much me. For one, my hair was totally off. Even though my hair is naturally long—ending at just below my elbows—and while I do have some good hair days when it adopts an inkling of a wave, my hair as pictured in the portrait was anything but mine. It trailed down to my butt in bouncy waves of full, golden curl—the shade a lighter gold with less honey tones than my natural color. Not only that, but the strands were interlaced haphazardly with rose, daffodil and lily blossoms, a baby pink ribbon snaking in and out of the tresses, like some slithering sea creature. 

The Dulcie O’Neil I knew and loved so well would never do flowers in her hair and would never, ever, under any circumstance, do baby pink. Ever.

The expression on my face was neither happy nor sad but merely contented, the ends of my lips slightly lifted as if I was going for the Mona Lisa. There was an overall youthful naiveté to my face—my cheeks were round which made it look like I was all of eighteen years old. My eyes were wide and could have portrayed surprise if not for my eyebrows, which weren’t raised but sat idly above my eyes, appearing haughty with the way they arched so perfectly. As to the color of my eyes, they were much more of an emerald green than in real life and my lips were plumper, my nose a bit more pert and upturned.

But what really attracted my attention was the portrait me’s clothing. I was dressed in a lemon yellow gown (that had more in common with a negligee than a dress) that seemed like it was made out of chiffon, the material was so delicate and almost see-through. The dress was very short, ending at my upper mid-thigh and edged in fine white lace. My arms appeared to be clasped behind my back, one hand delicately reappearing at my upper thigh where I inched the hem of the dress up to the V of my torso. Even though the viewer wasn’t able to see anything he shouldn’t have, based on the angle of where I was holding the dress, it was pretty obvious panties hadn’t been of concern to the artist. And the fact that the portrait me’s arms were pulled back behind me, in turn, pushed my chest forward and allowed the viewer’s attention to wholly focus on my incredibly alert nipples which protruded from the translucent material and were the first things to grab the viewer’s attention. I felt myself coloring with embarrassment at just the thought that I was basically unable to stop staring at what were supposedly my own nipples.

As to the rest of “my” breasts, they were in a word: gargantuan. They had to be at least twice their actual size of a full C (which isn’t anything to scoff at!). The rest of the “dress” was painted so as to appear clinging to my curves, being both sleeveless and plunging in the front, revealing the swells of each side of my ample breasts. The empire waist flared into a short skirt which, again, was obscenely tiny over one leg. With the way “my” face portrayed a youthful sensuality and the fact that “I” was nearly baring my feminine fruit, it appeared as if the portrait me were beckoning to the onlooker, teasing him seductively. I could just imagine that the follow up to this stunning piece of art would reveal an image of this woman on her back with a man between her legs while the forest creatures continued to look on nosily.

As to the link between the painting and the title, I was still baffled. “I give up. There’s nothing about this picture that in any way says law enforcement,” I said, shaking my head as I attempted not to be rude because, I mean, it was a portrait of
me
which in and of itself was supposed to be flattering. ’Course, I also couldn’t say the sexual way in which I was represented was in any way pleasing, but I also couldn’t say I was surprised. I mean, this
was
Bram we were talking about …

The vampire chuckled, facing me with an arched brow of amusement. “You misunderstood, Sweet.” Then he glanced at the painting again. “The title refers to the law of nature, my dear, not the law of man.”

“I don’t get the law of nature from it either,” I grumbled, deciding I wasn’t a fan of my portrait. “I look like a woodland prostitute.”

Bram chuckled again but it didn’t appear his attention was in any way focused on me, the real me. Instead, he seemed fully enraptured by and with the painting. The chuckle died on his lips, not even leaving the ghost of a smile in its wake. “It is an absolute masterpiece, the finest specimen of art on which I have ever had the fortune of laying my eyes.”

“Then it must also be the only painting you’ve ever seen period.”

But Bram shook his head, still unable to pull his attention away from the portrait. I glanced up at it again and sighed. “Instead of titling it the ‘Fairy Law,’ you should have called it ‘Fairy in need of a bra,’” I finished, deciding I’d now had enough of the painting and of Bram for the evening. Nothing like ruining an evening by being forced to confront a barely clothed rendition of yourself.

“I have stood and admired your portrait more times than I care to remember,” Bram said in a level, serious tone. “I must admit I am wholly transfixed by the beauty of the subject, how she teases me and flaunts her feminine loveliness, showing me just enough but not too much.”

“Holy Hades, it’s getting late, Bram …”

Finally he turned to face me and seemed to study me, as if he were comparing me to the painting. He glanced at my portrait and then at me again, his eyes narrowing. “I will admit the portrait does lack your edge, your feistiness. It is what I imagine Sweet would be had she not experienced the ugliness that exists in this world.”

“How poetic,” I said with a quick but unconvincing smile. “But I fail to see how that picture has anything in common with me.”

Bram didn’t shift his gaze, just continued to stare at me as if he could see through me to the other side of the room. There was no expression on his face. “She is the absolute embodiment of you,” he whispered.

I shook my head, throwing my hands on my hips as I forced my attention back to the Forest Slut. “She is not. For one, she’s coy—I don’t do coy. Second, her boobs are bordering on an E and third she looks like a whorish version of Rapunzel because her hair is so ridiculously long. And my eyes are nowhere near that shade of green.”

“Then you fail to recognize your own splendor,” Bram muttered, unmoved. “She is you and you are she.”

“Then I guess we’ll agree to disagree,” I said quickly, taking a few steps away from the portrait and toward the door in a charade of “I hate that painting and let’s get going.”

But Bram made no motion to accompany me. Instead, he stood rooted to the same spot. “I have lost count of the evenings I have stood here alone staring into her intelligent and glorious eyes, bemoaning the fact that I do not possess magic, otherwise I should have magicked her into reality, created my very own creature such that Mary Shelley dreamt of.”

“A monster Dulcie, that sounds really nice,” I grumbled, shaking my head.

“Far from a monster,” Bram said sadly and took the few steps that separated us. His lips lifted into a strange smirk that wasn’t a smile but hinted that there was something going on in the gray matter between his ears.