Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [129]
Besides several large canvases there were a couple on easels and a dozen much smaller items of art on the side. All were concealed beneath heavy cloth, so he uncovered the first to reveal a large image of an animal that he couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it had several limbs beyond necessary. Its shape suggested something primitive; it generated a distinct feeling of unease.
“Would … would you like to spend the night?” Tuya asked tremulously.
She had closed her eyes, was lying on her side on the bed, wearing only a corset. Tryst could see the hideous scar on her face clearly now. He ignored her, and scrutinized the paintings further.
“You’re a handsome one,” she snickered. “I’d like it if you did. Come on. You know you want to. You men are all the same.”
“Maybe,” Tryst said. “Just a moment.”
She sat up suddenly. “What’re you doing? Don’t look at those.” She pushed herself off the bed, stumbled forward into his arms, her bare feet sliding on the tiles. She was surprisingly heavy, as he eased her back on the bed. “Don’t look at them,” she repeated.
“Why not?” Tryst said soothingly. “I think you’re a wonderful artist. I want to see your real talents.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that?” She sounded confused again. He knew the drug would affect her for a little while longer.
“No, I’m not just saying it,” he said. “I want to see more.”
“But …” she trailed off.
He could sense her frustration now as she battled with the effects of the sannindi powder. She wanted to order him away from the paintings—the need so clear in her eyes—but she also seemed to desire to please him, to offer him anything she could.
Either way, he didn’t care.
“I want to look at your paintings,” he insisted.
She began to take off her corset.
“No,” he commanded, and grasped her hands softly at the wrist. She looked genuinely confused, then gave him a smile tinged with venom.
It said she hated him, without saying anything at all.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Tuya,” he said, to reassure her. The last thing he wanted now was to create a scene. “But I don’t think we should, because you don’t really want to.”
He pushed her away slightly so that she fell on the bed. She sighed and closed her eyes and just lay there, with her corset still intact.
Tryst walked back to the canvases, this time unveiling another.
What magic is this?
He lurched back in shock. A blue shape appeared to be emerging from the canvas, pumping up and down as if it were someone’s breathing chest. No form to speak of. Tryst stared at it for some time. He wanted to question Tuya about it, but thought better of that.
With caution, he revealed another, this time a sketch of the city as seen from her window. Nothing remarkable there. With his eyes fixed on the pulsating blue form, he pulled back the cloth on a fourth painting.
He took several steps away in disgust, holding his hand to his mouth.
Tuya still lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His face creased in horror, Tryst examined the image before him: a hacked-open carcass that seemed altogether too real. A heart—or something resembling one—beat inside it, and streaks of red paint, possibly even blood, had dried while dripping down the canvas. Whatever was in place of a face stared back at him with one unblinking eye. He looked around the room and picked up an empty candlestick and prodded the thing. It squelched away from where he applied gentle pressure.
What the hell is this? Tryst wondered. Is it alive?
“What you … doing now?” Tuya said suddenly behind him. She was grasping a knife, pointing it at him threateningly. “Get away from them!” she hissed.
The drug was obviously wearing off, fast.
Tryst stood with hands raised, palming the air gently. Trying