plaque on Micah’s front door. She studied his chiseled face and blonde hair. There was no mistake. It was a leer she couldn’t forget. It was Drake.
Zara closed her laptop. “Shit,” she said. She got up and made sure the front doors were locked, then texted Twig.
Can you come by in the morning? I really need your help.
It only took him a minute to respond.
I know. I’ll be there.
12.
Her father had gotten up to make breakfast. Zara was still hunched over her laptop. Although she had stayed up all through the night and early morning searching the internet for more about the painting, she had found very little. The painter was an unknown person of possible Italian origin, and the painting had not been given a title until the 1800s, when it had begun to be referred to by museum curators and in historical art circles as: The Dragon’s Touch . The subject of the painting—the grinning sadist—was rumored to be an unknown nobleman of possible Germanic origin, who, judging by the Ottoman dress of those lying dead in the background of the painting, was a supporter of the Hungarian king at the time during the Ottoman war.
Zara read the Wikipedia page over and over. The painting was created during an era that was chock-full of cruelty and horror. The page was rich with misery. It was the time of Vlad the Impaler, one of the great pioneers in atrocity.
Her father was happy to see her so hard at work. He was wearing his other work uniform: the khaki pants and the blue, collared shirt he sold mattresses in. He placed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of her, which she took no notice of.
“Long night or early morning?” he asked.
“I just got up,” she lied. She didn’t want to worry him.
“You should eat, you look a bit run down. Everything okay?”
She smiled and closed the laptop, “Everything’s just dandy,” she took a nibble of bacon to appease his fatherly concern. It didn’t seem to taste like anything to her but she feigned delight so he wouldn’t guilt her with the starving kids in China speech.
Her dad ate his food while standing up, threw the dish in the sink, and sighed. “I’m off. Have a good day at school my darling daughter.” He walked over and kissed the top of her head.
“I will. Sell some beds.” She waved absently as he left the apartment.
She printed a copy of the painting and put it in her book bag. Sunlight was coming in strong now through the curtains and she got out her blue neon-framed sunglasses from her room and put them on. Her eyes were sore from staring at the computer all morning, and the daylight wasn’t helping. She sat on the couch and waited, watching the door.
Twig had barely knocked once before she had leapt to door and opened it. He looked worn out as well, even though his aviators and mustache hid his face well. She grabbed him and hugged him and he hugged her back. She began to cry.
“What’s…going on with me…everything is so…” she said.
He pushed her back and took off his sunglasses, and looked her over,
“What?” She wailed.
“You’re becoming one of them,” he said calmly.
“Oh God,” she moaned. She now went over to her couch and sat down. “Don’t even say a vampire. This isn’t even funny.”
“Okay then: demonic creature of the night. Draculady. Hellspawn. Do any of those work for you?”
She put her hands over her face. She stopped crying. “No. They don’t. I don’t believe in that stuff. This isn’t happening.” She sounded more like she was convincing herself.
Twig sat next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him and noticed a long cut along his arm that had been stitched up with what looked like dental floss and was red with inflammation.
“It
Zara closed her laptop. “Shit,” she said. She got up and made sure the front doors were locked, then texted Twig.
Can you come by in the morning? I really need your help.
It only took him a minute to respond.
I know. I’ll be there.
12.
Her father had gotten up to make breakfast. Zara was still hunched over her laptop. Although she had stayed up all through the night and early morning searching the internet for more about the painting, she had found very little. The painter was an unknown person of possible Italian origin, and the painting had not been given a title until the 1800s, when it had begun to be referred to by museum curators and in historical art circles as: The Dragon’s Touch . The subject of the painting—the grinning sadist—was rumored to be an unknown nobleman of possible Germanic origin, who, judging by the Ottoman dress of those lying dead in the background of the painting, was a supporter of the Hungarian king at the time during the Ottoman war.
Zara read the Wikipedia page over and over. The painting was created during an era that was chock-full of cruelty and horror. The page was rich with misery. It was the time of Vlad the Impaler, one of the great pioneers in atrocity.
Her father was happy to see her so hard at work. He was wearing his other work uniform: the khaki pants and the blue, collared shirt he sold mattresses in. He placed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of her, which she took no notice of.
“Long night or early morning?” he asked.
“I just got up,” she lied. She didn’t want to worry him.
“You should eat, you look a bit run down. Everything okay?”
She smiled and closed the laptop, “Everything’s just dandy,” she took a nibble of bacon to appease his fatherly concern. It didn’t seem to taste like anything to her but she feigned delight so he wouldn’t guilt her with the starving kids in China speech.
Her dad ate his food while standing up, threw the dish in the sink, and sighed. “I’m off. Have a good day at school my darling daughter.” He walked over and kissed the top of her head.
“I will. Sell some beds.” She waved absently as he left the apartment.
She printed a copy of the painting and put it in her book bag. Sunlight was coming in strong now through the curtains and she got out her blue neon-framed sunglasses from her room and put them on. Her eyes were sore from staring at the computer all morning, and the daylight wasn’t helping. She sat on the couch and waited, watching the door.
Twig had barely knocked once before she had leapt to door and opened it. He looked worn out as well, even though his aviators and mustache hid his face well. She grabbed him and hugged him and he hugged her back. She began to cry.
“What’s…going on with me…everything is so…” she said.
He pushed her back and took off his sunglasses, and looked her over,
“What?” She wailed.
“You’re becoming one of them,” he said calmly.
“Oh God,” she moaned. She now went over to her couch and sat down. “Don’t even say a vampire. This isn’t even funny.”
“Okay then: demonic creature of the night. Draculady. Hellspawn. Do any of those work for you?”
She put her hands over her face. She stopped crying. “No. They don’t. I don’t believe in that stuff. This isn’t happening.” She sounded more like she was convincing herself.
Twig sat next to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked at him and noticed a long cut along his arm that had been stitched up with what looked like dental floss and was red with inflammation.
“It
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