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“I have to paint it,” he answered automatically. “I can’t see it until it’s painted.”
Johnny burst through the doors not long after, a box in one hand with a canvas sheet rolled on the top. Neo was behind him, an easel in one hand and a tarp in the other. Reese and Marilyn weren’t far behind.
“Got you some stuff, pal,” Johnny said cautiously. “Do you want me to set up?”
“I’ll do it,” Sariel said, rising from the bed. Neo left the easel in the middle of the room and Johnny laid the box next to it.
“No problem,” he answered. He grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the room after him.
“We’ll be right out here,” he said and then he closed the door.
“You’re leaving him in there alone?” I snapped. “What if he needs something?”
“He has every single thing he needs in that box,” Johnny answered. “Depending on how big that painting is, he could be in there for days without eating or drinking or showering or doing anything other than painting, Aria.”
I swallowed.
“Is someone going to explain what the hell is happening?” Reese whispered.
Johnny turned to her with a frown, one hand on his waist and the other running through his hair. “Sariel has these ‘prophetic’ moments, where he paints the future, the present, or the past. They’re like compulsions. Whenever he gets the urge, hehasto paint his vision or he won't be able to function. There aren’t specific triggers, but high emotions are the most common denominator.”
Neo’s eyebrows had hit his hairline. “You’re telling me there’s a half-blood angel in there possibly painting our future?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And what are we supposed to do while he’s in there?”
“Did you see that horrified look on his face?” I asked quietly. I couldn’t get it out of my head, myself; it was like he’d seen something truly terrible.
Johnny turned to Neo, his expression grim. “All we can do is pray.”
15
A MORBID FUTURE
Sariel
Before I was fully cognizant of my surroundings, I knew that I’d just spent an unknown amount of time painting.
I could feel sticky paint on the tips of my fingers, and make out the numbness in my legs from however long I’ve been standing for.
My vision cleared, and then my knees buckled, sending me crashing into the brushes and tubes of acrylic paint all over the floor.
The door slammed open suddenly, and I was never more grateful to have Johnny by my side than I was now.
Aria was on my other side, saying something, her voice like a glass of briskly-cold water for me, a man dying of thirst, as I struggled to focus on what she was saying.
I needed this. I needed to hear her.
Coming down from this shit had become a hellish torment to me. No matter how many times I thought I was prepared for it, it always knocked me to the ground. So far, only Credence and Johnny had seen me this way, all exhausted and weakened to an embarrassing point, but now Aria was a part of that list.
I was grateful that it wasn’t the same kind of exhaustion I’d felt at the hands of the Paras at the Isolation Center. At least I knew I could recover from this with just a few hours of rest.
“You’re okay,” Aria’s voice came through like a light in the dark. My senses blossomed like a flower at the sound of her voice. They’d managed to pick me up and take me to the shower. “I’ll be right outside—”
“Stay,” I managed to blurt.
I took a steadying breath as Johnny helped me strip; he always did this with a clinical efficiency that scared me sometimes.
