Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [130]
“Just get over by the bed.” She sliced the air as if to reinforce her words. She looked vaguely ridiculous waving a blade around while wearing only a corset.
He did as she ordered. There was a knife concealed in his boot, but he did not want to use it yet. Manipulating her mind would be a much more powerful weapon, if he could get inside her. It was what torturers were trained to do, seeking to work a little beneath the surface.
“I don’t mean any harm, Tuya,” he said, noting the slight drowsiness still in her eyes.
She looked at him uncertainly, and he could perceive that she didn’t quite know what to do next. She held the knife too close to her, so she wouldn’t strike him with it yet.
From her behavior, these monstrous paintings suggested something deeply personal.
“Tell me about your art,” he said. He glanced to and from her creations, noticed they were still throbbing dully. She turned toward them, and he acted quickly. With the same candlestick, he leaned forward and struck her across her head, and Tuya stumbled, but remained upright, so he hit her twice more, with sharp and clinical blows.
She fell with a groan to the floor.
That was not what he had wanted, but she had forced it hadn’t she, so it had to be done. He placed the candlestick down, then began to rummage through her bedside drawer. He picked out a couple of belts, then tightly bound her hands and feet. There’d be no more of this delicate, tiptoeing around the issue. There was some serious shit going on here, and he was going to find out what the hell she was up to.
He left the room silently, taking one last glimpse at the horrors on the canvases.
An hour later, he was in possession of more sannindi from his contact on Sigr Gata, enough this time for a prolonged session with Tuya.
Those paintings caused him distress and he wanted answers.
When he got back, there she was, sprawled face down on the floor wearing her corset, just as he’d left her. Tryst slung his damp outer cloak on a chair, lifted her back up against the bed, then ran his palm across her scalp to feel the bruises. They weren’t too bad, and she groaned in his arms like a lover seeking comfort—ironic, and he knew it. Tilting her head back further, he tipped a larger dose of sannindi down her throat.
While he waited for her to wake up, he stood in front of the paintings, shaking. He couldn’t get used to the horror of these depictions, despite his years spent in the Inquisition torture chambers. This was a different horror, however, some artificial life force pulsating impossibly before him. With one finger extended, he poked it several times. His immediate thought was that this must be some cultist evil, manipulating the arts of the Dawnir. Why did she have such monstrosities in her room? How did she sleep at night with these things hidden only by a cloth? Was it her who had painted something that could come alive? Or did she purchase them from a cultist?
There was coughing behind him, obviously some of the powder having caught in her throat. He stepped toward her. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.
She looked up at him through the hair covering her face. “I feel terrible,” she croaked, then ran a hand across the top of her head, delicately tapping the lump that had formed there.
“Good,” Tryst said. “Now I want you to tell me the truth.”
She brushed a thick tress of hair back behind her ear.
“First of all, your name?”
“Tuya Daluud.”
“Your age?”
“I … honestly, I don’t know,” she replied.
“Okay, Tuya Daluud. I’d like you to explain those paintings to me. Tell me, why do they appear to be alive?”
“They are alive.”
“Ask a stupid question …” Tryst murmured. “Well then, how’ve you done it?” He knelt down before her face-to-face, in an almost threatening manner—their pose a corruption of a lover’s kiss.
“Many years ago I formed a relationship with a cultist. To keep things short, he provided me with special materials. A couple of relics. He showed me some techniques that would breathe