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He winced—the smallest tic in his jaw. “What could possibly give you that idea?”
“You said most demons work from the Other Side. But you’re here. You have your own place, your own money. You want a portrait of when you were…alive.”
“I miss nothing about being human.”
I smiled gently. “You don’t sound very convincing.”
“Fine. We’re both liars.”
Hope flared in my heart, stupid and bright. “Youdomiss it? So maybe if—”
“There is noif, Cole Matheson, and you ask too many questions. Have you done your research?”
Down to business. Good. That’s what you want, right?
That was debatable, but the work was the only thing that could—or should—happen between us. I’d been protecting my heart for years; keeping my distance from a demon shouldn’t have been this fucking hard.
I rummaged in my bag and brought out the art history book. I flipped it open to a section on Elizabeth Le Brun.
“Talking about Marie Antoinette yesterday gave me some ideas. Le Brun was one of the greatest portraitists of your era, known for her portraits of the queen. But this one had me thinking.” I showed him Le Brun’s portrait of King Stanislas II in his red coat and white wig. “Is that what you had in mind? I remember you first came to me dressed like this.”
“The clothing I died in.”
“But there was no wig—”
“It was torn from my head.” He took in my pained expression and quickly waved a hand. “Save it, Cole Matheson. The time when kindness might’ve been useful to me has come and gone. I only want the bloody painting.”
I shut the art book. “Maybe we could just talk about composition. I have some thoughts.”
“I can’t wait.”
“When I do a portrait, I like to get a feel for who my subject is. If I know them better, it helps me to—”
“See directly into their soul?” Ambri snapped. “I’ll spare you the trouble—I haven’t got one.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I said quietly.
His eyes flared and flashed black. “No? You knownothing.Nothing of the afterlife, nothing of the forces raging around you, even as we speak, and you certainly know nothing of me.”
I weathered the storm of his sudden wrath, my pulse pounding. But the pain in him was as tangible as the couch under me. I didn’t know what set him off today, but it was eroding my will to keep things professional with every passing minute.
“Tell me,” I said and pulled out my sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. “You talk and I’ll sketch, and after, we’ll have a better idea about how to proceed with the painting.”
What hurt you so badly?
I glanced up to see him watching me with narrowed eyes.
“You think you can help me, don’t you? Me, a creature of the underworld. Do you thinktalkingaboutbeing burnt alive is going to save me? Impossible. I’ll never need—nor do I want—a human’s pity. Ever.”
The wordsburnt aliverattled around in my heart like bullets.
He sneered at my expression. “I thought so. Forget it.”
“You want this portrait, Ambri. And I want it to be the best it can be. This is how we do it.”
“It’s too sordid for you, Cole Matheson.”
“It made you who you are,” I said. “That’s what I want in the painting.”
