Enthralled: Paranormal Diversions (Wicked Lovely 5.50)

A floor lamp stood in one corner, its dim, naked bulb shedding just enough light to outline shapes among the shadows. But as my eyes adjusted, I began to pick out more detail, in the room and on the walls.

“I brought you some pencils.” I saw no sign of her among the old, scarred furniture—a low twin bed, a dresser, and a three-legged table with two folding chairs. But as far as I knew, she’d rarely left the room, and her years of solitude were documented in the massive mural her walls had become. All of the walls.

Every inch of wall space she could reach was covered, charcoal sketches blending seamlessly into oil paintings so intricately detailed I was half convinced I could step right into them. But most of the images were done in plain old number 2 graphite or black ballpoint ink. Because the harpies were cheap bastards, and they wouldn’t spend money if they didn’t have to.

Most of the color had come from supplicants—a good deal of it from me. Crayon drawings near the floorboards showed an eye for perspective and proportion before she’d even been out of diapers—long before I’d discovered Syrie and her glimpses into the future. Eerie collages of faces, places, and events marked the maturity of her ability, which had prompted the harpies to start charging for her time. But the occasional sketches of her own face were the most haunting. And the most puzzling.

To my knowledge, Syrie hadn’t seen her own face since she was a toddler. Her attached bathroom—also claimed by her art—had no mirrors. Yet there the self-portraits were, sprinkled among the other bits of genius at odd intervals. Some were achingly realistic, while others showed an understanding of cubism and surrealism she’d surely never been exposed to. But all of them—every last one—defined her scars in meticulous detail.

Left eyelid, slashed and left to heal crooked. Skin shrunken and puckered around the pale red tissue inside her empty eye socket. Troy said she’d tried to dig both eyes out of her face when she was little, to make the visions stop. That was her first and only trip to a human doctor, but even the doc couldn’t save her left eye. And the visions had only gotten stronger.

Sometimes I wondered what those self-portraits said about her self-awareness. Like maybe she actually had some. More likely, hers was just one of the many faces in her visions. She might not even know who it belonged to.

“Syrie,” I tried again, still staring at the art, which stopped about five feet from the floor—as high up as she could reach. “I brought paper too.”

The sudden shuffle behind her dresser said I’d made contact, and I headed for the table, careful not to step on the images that had begun to trail across the floor since the last time I’d been here. The footpath was clear—she’d obviously learned that art couldn’t survive the traffic—and a second after I set the mini notebook on the table, Syrie slid into her folding chair, without even glancing at me.

I sat across from her and put the twelve-pack of colored pencils next to the notebook. Syrie snatched them, setting the whole box on her lap with one hand while the other flipped the notebook open.

Her long, slim fingers were stained with ink and smudged with charcoal, but they were definitely bigger than the last time I’d seen them. She was bigger. Her hair was past her waist now, hanging over her face in hopeless tangles, in some dark color that might once have been auburn, but was now just . . . dirty. She was growing, in spite of the lack of sunlight, questionable diet, and minimalist hygiene philosophy.

“Syrie, I need to ask you something,” I said, and a rare pang of guilt clanged around in parts of my mind I seldom found use for. I felt bad using her like everyone else did, but not bad enough to leave without what I’d come for. I would absolve myself later with the understanding that if people stopped paying for Syrie’s time, the harpies would have no use for her, and I didn’t want to think about what would happen to her then.

She didn’t answer. I didn’t expect her to. But her plum-colored pencil flew over the inside cover of the notebook—she wasted no surface—sketching something that looked vaguely human in shape.

“Do you remember what you showed me last time?” I asked, and her hand never paused. “I asked you to show me what I’d lost.” The only person I’d ever loved, and the other half of my heart he’d taken with him, when his family moved away while I was in state custody at Holser House.

&n

bsp; I had no idea if Syrie understood me, or if she’d understood what she was doing the night she’d drawn Nash, sitting on the end of a pier in a letter jacket with a big green E on one side and the number nine on the other. It had taken me weeks to find him, based on only that jacket, and months after that to get myself placed with a foster mom in his school zone. And on my first day at Eastlake, I’d discovered what hadn’t been obvious in Syrie’s sketch. Nash had stopped looking for me. He’d found Kaylee Cavanaugh instead.

But I knew what neither of them seemed to understand: Kaylee wasn’t right for him. She wanted to “fix” him—to drive out every dark impulse that didn’t fit into her romantic ideal. She was sterilizing him, bit by bit, excising the pieces she didn’t like, as if love were a buffet you could pick and choose from. She didn’t understand that those dark bits were an important part of him. Those were the bits of his soul that recognized the darkness in mine. The parts that let him see me as more than a born predator.

“I need to know one more thing, Syrie.” I took a deep breath, silently stamping down my own nerves. “I need to know if I’m ever going to get him back.”

The only indication that she’d even heard me was the smooth slide of her pencil from the inside cover of the notebook to the first page, where her fingers moved almost too fast for me to follow. Syrie was talking to me the only way she knew how—by showing me what she saw.

My heart pounded as the drawing took shape, beautifully detailed, yet frustratingly incomplete. Syrie wasn’t sketching now, content to fill in the details later. She started on the image and drew her way across the surface so that what she’d finished was unmistakable, but the rest of the page was blank.

The wait was agonizing, but the payoff was . . . unreal.

When she’d finished and moved back to the inside cover, I stared at the image on the first page, rendered all in plum, but expertly shaded, with particular attention to depth and a set of eyes that would be bright blue in life. Kaylee.

I couldn’t see the face of the boy holding her—his embrace too intimate to mean friendship or comfort—but I could see his short curls and the outline of his shoulders. It wasn’t Nash.

For nearly a minute, I couldn’t look away, and I couldn’t stop smiling. I’d tried and failed to drive a wedge between Nash and Kaylee, when—if I’d been willing to wait—someone else would have done the work for me.

Sure, Nash would be heartbroken for a while, but then he’d get over her. And I would get a second chance. He would finally truly see me again.

“Thank you, Syrie.” I leaned over the table and slowly reached for the notebook, afraid with every second that she’d snatch it away. But her pencil never paused, the exposed tip flattened now, almost flush with the wood around it. She kept sketching as I carefully tore the first page from the notebook and folded it, then slid it into my back pocket, eager to go. I had mere minutes left before the harpies would come back, and I’d only gotten half of what I needed from Neiderwald.

When I stood, Syrie looked up, as if surprised to realize she wasn’t alone. Her right eye—her only eye—was still bright green and shiny, and she was as alert as I’d ever seen her. But when she blinked, her disfigured left eyelid didn’t completely close, and I had the sudden eerie certainty that the empty eye socket still watched me, and that it somehow saw more than her remaining eye ever could.

Uncomfortable, I glanced down at the table—and gasped at what she’d drawn on the inside cover of the notebook. Emma, in perfect detail from the terror in her eyes to the dark freckle high on one cheek. And behind her, holding her, if the suggestion of an arm around her waist was accurate, was Troy, broad, dark wings spread and ready. All around them stood mounds of stuff—junk, mostly—collected by the harpies over a lifetime.

“Oh, shit! When is this? Is this now?” I asked, not really expecting an answer, yet hoping for one anyway. Em could be a pain, but that didn’t mean she deserved to be eaten alive. Besides, if I started feeding the harpies, they’d expect a meal every time I came. . . . But Syrie just turned to her drawing again and began detailing Troy’s arm.

I ran for the door, hardly noticing the art I stepped on, then raced through the living room and into the grimy kitchen, where I threw open the basement door. The stairwell was dark, but a weak glow lit the bottom step and a rare glimpse of the concrete floor. But I heard nothing and sensed no movement from below.