Death Song (Tales from the Tarot)

3. Rex

Chapter three

Rex

I t is home.

The painting on the wall in front of me is home. I know this small cottage in the countryside like the back of my hand. If I close my eyes, I can picture the rooms contained inside of it. There’s the hearth along the right wall and the den beside it with two pillow soft chairs. The floors are hardwood, cut and crafted by my own hands. I’ve walked on them before, and I know the squeak of the boards beneath at the mouth of the hallway that leads back to the bedroom. I know who slept in that bed beside me, and that thought nearly takes my breath away.

My Marius, who now only exists in memories and dreams.

I built this cottage for him. For us. Though the outside of it is painted with spray paint like some modern street artist has tagged the place, the building beneath called to me the moment I stepped into the gala.

It is home.

Or rather, it was home until the day Marius died. That was the day I closed it up for good, unable to exist in spaces that no longer contained his heartbeat and breath. I would have turned him, if he had let me. I would have made him one of my kind, but he had refused adamantly, unwilling to give up his human soul in exchange for eternal vampire life. Falling in love with a human was something I’d been warned against, but it wasn’t until Marius breathed his last, a hole torn in his body so deep I could never heal it up with my own blood, that I understood the depth of the grief I’d been cautioned against. He had been out in the garden when a rogue vampire seeking my head caught him. I’d made quick work of ending that one’s life, but it was too late. His claws had already torn apart the one being I’d sworn to love until his last day.

I’d never imagined that day was coming anytime soon.

I’d thought we’d have more time together to create a life outside of the malicious royal court we fled from like thieves in the night.

I’d thought that the cottage tucked into a hidden corner of the Roman countryside was safe.

Now, a thousand miles away and a hundred years removed, all my mistakes and foolish beliefs have come back to me, and while the painting makes my heart ache, I can’t look away.

The gallery owner, a pompous wolf shifter named Bowman, noted my interest in the piece and zeroed in on me the moment I stepped in front of it. He is aware of who I am and can smell the money lining my wallet, I’m sure. He took his leave shortly after saying hello to me and has gone to fetch the artist who painted it, believing that will clinch the sale for him. He doesn’t know that that is not necessary. By the end of the night, having met the artist or not, I will own this painting on the wall. I can’t say that I’ll hang it in my home on the upper floors of this building to serve as a constant reminder of all I’ve lost, but I can’t imagine letting it go into hands other than mine.

Buying new artwork wasn’t on my radar for the evening. I had only intended to pop downstairs to see the venue in full swing, having never seen it before filled with people. This building is a new purchase for me, and while I’ve moved myself and my chosen group of brothers into the upper floors, the main floor with its strange pinwheel layout hasn’t been used until tonight. The previous owners were hoping to create a space with an arcade in the center and escape rooms down each of the hallways, but they ran out of funds before they got to see their dreams become reality, and I snatched the entire building up at a steal of a deal. I’m still debating whether or not to gut the main floor out to make it an easier space to rent out for events, but tonight, all of those thoughts have been pushed to the background of my mind while I stare, captivated by the painting of a cottage.

“This is the artist, Charlie Polston,” Bowman announces from behind me. “Charlie, this is the man who owns the building and he is interested in learning more about this painting.”

As I tear my eyes away from the painting and turn to greet the artist who has somehow reached into my mind and plucked out a memory, time seems to creep to a halt. My nose fills with the scent of honey and apples, pulling a different memory from the depths of my mind. A happier one of a childhood spent huddled around the hearth with my kin, waiting for our honey cake treats to bake in the flames. I inhale again, the scent comforting and warm like a blanket draping itself over my senses.

I haven’t smelled something so delicious in so many years. I have to stop myself from sniffing at the artist like I’m a dog, and that is when I notice that he is staring at me as intently as I was once staring at his painting. His green eyes are filled with confusion and wonder as he looks at my face, and his body is tensing up like he is either about to throw a punch at my nose or run away as fast as his feet can carry him.

What strikes me is his height. I often tower over humans, but Charlie Polston is tall enough to meet my eyes without having to tilt his head upwards too much. Other than my fellow vampires, I rarely meet anyone that can nearly meet my six-foot-five height, and that is unique.

“I’m Rex,” I offer, extending my hand to see if he takes it.

He steps forward, his eyes still staring into mine as he holds his own hand out. The closer he gets to me, the more the honey smell of him fills my nose, but there’s something else there. I catch the harsh scent of something chemical underlying the honey and it churns my stomach. A medicine? Could be. Maybe he’s unwell. Humans are often catching germs and bugs, and I’ve smelled chemicals in their blood before. I take stock of the small spate of freckles that dash across his cheeks and nose, and the way his coppery hair gleams in the dim overhead light, but can find no reason for the scent of medicines to be clinging to him, other than the bags beneath his eyes that become more visible the more I search his handsome face.

“Charlie,” he says, though his voice is slightly louder than a whisper. As he takes my hand in his, giving it the smallest shake, something stirs deep inside of me, and when he takes his fingers away, I find myself wishing for them back.

“I’ll leave you to your conversation,” Bowman announces, calling my attention his way. Charlie takes his departure as an opportunity to step away from me, taking his honey chemicals with him, and I turn to the painting of my home.

“You made this?” I clarify, though it’s a silly question. He was literally just introduced to me as the artist of the piece, but I am at a loss for anything else to say.

“Yeah. I did.”

Silence moves between us, and I realize that Charlie also has nothing to say. This is awkward as hell, but while I’m sure he can feel it too, I know he hasn’t run away from me, though he is still tense where he stands. He hasn’t punched me either, which is hopeful.

“Tell me about it,” I ask, not turning away from the cottage on the wall.

“I like buildings,” he starts, sounding uncertain and hesitant. “I started on the streets with spray paint cans when I was a kid and after a few run-ins with the police, my foster parents sent me to a summer art camp to get me off the path I was on and on to something new. A few short years later, here I am. Still spray-painting buildings, but in a different way.”

“A lucrative way,” I add to his story, taking note of the word ‘foster’ in his admission. “Why this building?”

Charlie hesitates again and when I turn to face him, he’s staring at me. The moment my eyes connect with his though, he turns away before confessing, “I saw it once in a dream.”

“A dream? You dreamed of this place?”

“Yeah. I dream of lots of things,” he replies, though there’s a bitter note to his words. He shuffles on his feet uncomfortably, and I can feel the rising anxiety and worry rippling off him like a wave. A low alarm bell starts ringing in my head as I stare at the man beside me. The last person I met who painted the things they saw in their dreams was the Bloodrend Court’s seer, and that dreadful man spent the last years of his wretched life locked in the basement of the castle at the command of my now fallen brother, Lord Nikandros.

The very same brother that called for my burning death in the morning sun before Marius and I fled into the night.

The same Court that labeled me enemy to the crown and sent feral vampires to tear my love to shreds.

And all because a seer whispered words of a vision of Nikandros seated upon my throne with my crown upon his head, into the ears of my jealous brother. He could not have known the path of destruction Nikandros would embark upon after hearing of the things he saw in his dreams, but the seer kept beneath the castle to rot in his madness was the catalyst that spurred my brother on in his horrid path to the glory of my throne.

“What else have you dreamed of, Charlie Polston?” I whisper, the words shaky as they leave my throat.

“I have to go,” Charlie says, stepping back and away from me. He wraps his arm around his midsection, hand falling right where the wound in Marius’ side seeped his precious blood and life out of his body.

“You are not in danger from me,” I offer, hoping to placate the poor human with the delicious smell. For the moment, Charlie is safe from harm by my hand, but if the pieces I’m putting together in my head about his true nature are right, he is in some danger. While I have known peace for many years, I am all too aware of how fast things can change. A seer is a powerful tool in the wrong hands.

“If you wish to make a purchase, please speak with Bowman,” he gets out before turning tail and hustling away from me as fast as his feet can carry him without breaking into a full-on run.

I watch as he disappears into the crowd of people, my heart aching and my head spinning with questions I don’t have answers for. As I stand there, trying to put all the pieces together, Bowman approaches, offering a practiced smile.

“He’s a unique sort,” he says, stepping beside me. “Artists. Flighty as birds. You know the type, I’m sure.”

“I do,” I reply, turning to the painting Charlie did out of a dream. “I’ll take it. Whatever the price is.”

“I had hoped so. I can have it wrapped and brought up to your living space this evening if you’d like? At the close of the gala?”

I nod my agreement, and Bowman offers me a handshake. I hesitate for a moment, not wanting to cover up where Charlie’s fingers laid before with a hand that isn’t his but shake his hand in the end. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my wallet, watching as Bowman’s eyes grow large while I rifle through bills. Finally, I settle on my credit card instead of cash, plucking it out and handing it to him.

“If he has anything else here tonight that doesn’t sell, I’ll take it.”

“Oh! I see he’s made you a new fan of his. Charlie has a way of doing that. He has many that contact him through me to get pieces done on commission.”

I swear he’s offering these breadcrumbs of information to get more money from me, but the mention of commissions has my ears perking up. “He entertains those?”

“He does, but only if the subject suits his abilities and time.” Bowman grins, knowing that he’s got me. “If you’d like, I can make arrangements for a discussion and you two can see if your thoughts align.”

“For a fee, of course.”

“I take no fee for commissions. I simply provide a location for artist and client to meet on neutral ground.”

I nod, sensing a deeper thought Bowman is not saying out loud. Protective instincts run deep within shifter packs, and it makes sense that that has extended to Charlie. “Set it up then. I agree to your terms.”

“Expect a call in a few days’ time, if he is agreeable as well.” Having settled that, I anticipate Bowman walking away, but he lingers at my side, turning his eyes up to the painting of my cottage.

“Charlie is special to me, Vampire King,” he murmurs, his voice lowered so that only I may hear his words. “Though he bears no wolf that I can scent and knows nothing of our kind, Mother Moon guides me to call him pack. If you seek to do him harm, I will bring harm to you in return.”

“I do not wish him harm,” I vow, a bit startled to hear mention of the shifter’s sacred deity in relation to Charlie. “I only wish to know him. To understand him, if he will let me.”

“He may, but he may not. You will respect his decision either way.”

“I will.”

He glances back to me, his entire disposition changed from the pompous arrogance into something softer. Gentler, perhaps. He inhales a deep breath and looks back to the artwork on the wall before asking a question that reveals he knows more than he’s told me about Charlie Polston. “What did he give you in this painting?”

I am silent for a few moments, trying to figure out how best to describe all the things that happened in that cottage Charlie has captured in finest detail, but can only find a single word.

“Home.”