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“Then why does the gold cry out?” He pointed toward the satchel, and she clutched it against her breasts protectively. Only then did she hear the soft, muted cries coming from within the bag itself.
She untied the lace and reached gently inside the bag, taking the gold within her palm. At once the complaining sound stopped, replaced by the rhythmic hum of satisfaction. “I’m sorry,” she murmured to the substance, watching it spread about her wrist. “I was working.”
“Working? Are you certain?” Claude demanded, the words rough and accusatory. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her impolitely. Something in his entire demeanor was transformed. Even his accent had thickened.
“You’re the one who told me that tomorrow’s our deadline.” She walked toward the burner that she’d used to heat the first application of gold. “I’ve got to heat this up so I can get busy.”
“I will remain here while you paint,” Claude said, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
“So what was it?” she called to him, turning on the burner.
Claude did not answer, so she prompted him further. “You said you forgot something.”
He settled at her desk as if he owned the workshop, relaxing into her chair. His mercurial gaze was fixed on her as he formed his fingertips into a thoughtful temple. “I forgot his nature,” he said coolly. A blinding white smile formed on Claude’s lips. “And I underestimated yours.”
The melted gold flowed off her paintbrush in all its living, powerful glory, just as it had when she’d applied the texture to her knight’s hair. The metal moved across his armor with the same undisguised joy it had expressed in her palm, as if bringing the man to life were the substance’s sole destiny. Its one true purpose.
As she applied the last bit, Claude moved close behind her. “It is nearly midnight,” he purred against her ear. She shivered at what seemed to be a concealed threat, that hint of something much darker beyond what his words conveyed.
“We have a full day for this to dry and for me to cut the pieces.” She studied the image before her, blinking at the way it gleamed with what appeared to be supernatural energy.
“The puzzle must be completed by midnight tomorrow. You must not miss the mark, Anna. Do you understand?”
“You told me that already.” It was one of the only definite answers or facts he had supplied during the past days. “But why is the solstice so important?”
“He was trapped on the summer solstice hundreds of years ago. Your completion of his puzzle will finally free him.”
“He will . . . what? Just emerge?”
Claude slid a heavy hand along the nape of her neck, sweeping her long dark hair to the side. His fingertips were soft, those of a man who had never used his hands for dirty work. Maybe he’d only ever manipulated others, just as he’d done her.
Maybe he wants something darker with my knight, she considered, feeling Claude’s fingertips clasp about her neck.
“Careful, Anna,” he warned, his grip firm yet light. “Remember whom you serve.”
“Him. You said I serve him.” She gestured at the painting. “That you do, too.”
He bent down, pressing his lips to her exposed nape. “I have served him for the duration of his captivity. You are the one who will free us all when you finish the puzzle.”
She sidestepped, and he released her easily. Facing him, she pointed an accusatory finger. “I won’t finish unless you tell me the whole story.”
Claude smiled slowly. “Go to sleep, Anna. Perhaps your answers await you there.”
She stared incredulously. “I can’t believe your nerve. I’m telling you I won’t finish if—”
“Oh, you will finish. I am certain,” he said, still smiling thinly. “You want him too much now to be denied.”
The sudden pull of desire came over her anew, coiling through her whole body. Demanding that she touch the knight physically, not just stroke his painting or dream of him. He’d spoken to her earlier—perhaps Claude was right. If she slept again, she might know more about him, might understand his sinister warning from earlier.
“You are very tired, are you not?” Claude asked, tilting his head sideways as he studied her.
And that same blanket of exhaustion she’d felt the first day overcame her at once, leveling her and pulling her down into the darkness before she could take a single step toward her adjoining bedroom.
She entered the painting itself this time. Never, not once in any of her previous attempts, had anything so material—so supernatural—occurred. Drawing in quick breaths, she glanced about the scene, unsteady as she tried to gain her bearings. As she studied her surroundings, she saw that she stood to the right of the knight as he held out his sword toward the lion, which roared in agitated complaint.
“Go on! Kill it,” she yelled because the lion had turned its green, feline gaze upon her. Those eyes were deadly, yet the knight did not move.
But the lion did.
