Calling the Wild Page 14

  Moira herself had done a double take. It seemed like every time he appeared as a human he was dressed differently. Today his clothes reminded her of those the boys at her college had worn. They’d prized comfort above all, but were just vain enough to be sure that their clothes were designer and fit well. There was a pattern of gothic swirls on the left side of his back, curling over the top of his shoulder, the jeans hugged his ass and thighs. The cuff was clearly visible with his sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, and it received more than a few interested stares. His eyes were hidden by lightly tinted sunglasses they’d bought on a street corner.

  “The Institute also houses the largest collection of Impressionist paintings outside of Paris,” he continued. His accent was more pronounced as he was reading, which wasn’t helping Moira’s cause. He looked like sex on a stick, sounded like a vacation-fling fantasy and smelled like old forests and new grass.

  “I think we can skip the Impressionist section,” she said, peering at the brochure he held.

  “Why?”

  A sleek brunette, wearing a skirt and a blazer, probably designed by the plastic surgeon who’d done her boobs—they fit so well—tipped her sunglasses down to peer at Kiron.

  Moira shifted, letting her hip brush against Kiron’s leg. She gave the brunette a once over, tip to toe, and then smirked. The brunette returned the favor, then raised a brow, asking what, exactly, Moira though she had that was better than the brunette.

  As the unnaturally tight ass in pinstripe flounced away, Moira smoothed a hand down her own brown cargo pants. For self-esteem’s sake she would pretend she’d come out the victor in that little skirmish.

  She was still blonde, and had curled her wet hair into a bun so they wouldn’t waste time while she dried it this morning. After finding a place to leave the van, an ordeal in itself, Moira had unwrapped her bun, so her hair was now falling in soft waves around her shoulders. The cargo pants, a beloved item of apparel, hung low, held up by her hipbones and then flowing comfortable and loose to her feet. She’d wrapped her feet in brown and black Pumas.

  Kiron had a few choice sarcastic remarks when he saw how many athletic shoes, of varying colors and styles, she’d packed into one of the trunks.

  “You should have seen my flip flop collection if you think this is bad,” she’d warned him. “Besides, I’m on the run a lot, and sometimes I’m literally running.”

  “Moira.”

  “Huh?”

  “Moira!”

  Dragging her attention back to Kiron, she huffed out a sigh. “Why are you yelling?”

  “You didn’t answer my questions. And you are preventing attractive humans from approaching me.” He smiled, and Moira blushed. She hadn’t realized she’d been that obvious.

  “Sorry, buddy, you can’t have them, we don’t have time and you’d better think again if you imagine I’ll sit outside while you screw some bitchy brunette.”

  “I already told you, it is only you I want. Besides, they are humans. Disgusting.”

  “You’re a study in tolerance and kindness, you really are.”

  “Are you planning to answer my question, ever?”

  “About the Impressionist gallery? I don’t think we are going to find a list of book titles in a painting of water lilies.”

  “I thought you said it is a code.”

  “Well, yes, a code list.”

  “But what if the code is an impressionist painting, what if the colors mean things, or that the number of strokes in a flower corresponds to letters or words.”

  “First, why do you know so much about art made by ‘disgusting’ humans? Second, I’m pretending you didn’t say that because the idea is so horrifying it makes me want to curl up into a pathetic ball and cry.”

  “Not all this art was made by humans. Very few of the great artists and writers humanity call their own were really human.”

  “I always wondered about that.”

  “And if you need me to pretend that this will be easy we can do so.”

  “Way to be a team player.” Moira tilted her head, looking at the imposing stone façade of the museum. “Of all the museums in the city, why did the thing I want have to be in the biggest one?”

  In step they started up the stairs to the entrance of the Art Institute of Chicago. Along with the Field Museum it was the largest and most recognized of Chicago’s cultural attractions. People came from all over the world to see the paintings housed here, and somewhere inside was a piece of Moira’s future.

  They shuffled through the line to buy tickets, Kiron curling his lip at the monkeylike child who swung through the rails that outlined the path of the line. The wild beast’s younger sibling peaked at Moira over her mother’s shoulder, and Moira smiled. The tow-headed child’s eyes widened and then he buried his face in his parent’s shoulder.

  Snubbed by a toddler, what an auspicious start to the day.

  Moira paid for their tickets, pulling her wallet from one of her handy cargo pant pockets. Wincing at the price, she peeled off some twenties and handed them over. When she bent to stuff her wallet back into her pocket, the emerald swung free of her scooped neck shirt.

  The ticket seller paused, hand half extended, staring at the swinging gem. There was no way she could know what it was worth, uncut it looked like a hunk of murky green rock, but something about it must have fascinated her.

  Straightening, Moira tucked it into her shirt, and then snatched the tickets. Kiron planted an elbow on the counter and leaned toward the woman, peering at her not with lust, but curiosity. Moira grabbed his wrist, pulling him away.

  “I don’t think that thing was human.”

  “Of course she was. What do you think she was?”

  “Something of the sky, didn’t you feel it, the wind that blows inside her?”

  Moira was half tempted to go back and see if she could feel what Kiron was describing, but refrained.

  “I didn’t feel it.”

  “It’s because you aren’t looking, you aren’t opening yourself up to the possibility. You trust humans, or things that look like humans, when you should not. What if your enemies come after you wearing human skins?”

  “Shut up.” They were still in the foyer of the museum, warm wood beneath their feet as the glorious windows threw sunlight against the pale, reflective walls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re angry.”

  “Yeah I am. You know more than I do, but I’m not stupid. I do pay attention, I do keep my guard up.”

  “I did not say you were stupid, but you are not as careful as you should be. You should be wary of humans. Your enemy could come in any form.”

  “I am!” Moira’s angry shout startled a group of tourists, who moved off at a brisk pace. “I’m wary of humans, rocks, plants… I’m wary of everyone and everything. Until you came I had no one. No one. Maybe I’ve gotten sloppy because I don’t feel…because I’m not alone anymore.”

  Her voice ached with the truth of her words, and the scrollwork on his cuff glowed with light. She was drawing on his magic, her body instinctively seeking the power to heal the pain she was in, but this pain was old, a wound she’d cauterized by running. It no longer bled, but neither did it heal.

  “Who hurt you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She turned away, towards the main staircase, but Kiron caught her arm. Moira stilled, knowing it was futile to try and jerk away from him, but also refusing to turn, scared of what he might see in her eyes.

  He stepped forward, bridging the distance between them himself rather than forcing her to move. His arms came around her, one around her shoulders, the other across her belly, in a hug.

  “I’m sorry you were alone. No creature wishes to be so, for the heart begins to die. For that alone your enemies owe a great deal.”

  Moira rested her chin on his forearm. “I’m fine. I didn’t mind being alone.”

  “Yes, you did.”

 
; She couldn’t deny it.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” he asked.

  “The story is nothing special, nothing relevant.”

  “Your vehement response marks that as a lie.”

  Moira gently freed herself. She stroked his bare wrist as she moved away, gentling the rebuff.

  Folding open the massive map, Moira looked to the legend on the side.

  “Okay, where should we start?”

  Kiron came up beside her, but was silent. She looked at him and they shared a long stare. Finally, he nodded, and turned his attention to the map.

  Moira let out a relieved breath. Time for business. “Here are the categories: African, American, Amerindian, Ancient, Architecture, Arms and Armor, Asian, Contemporary, European Decorative Art, European Painting and Sculpture, Modern, Photography, Prints and Drawings, Textiles and the Thorne Miniature Rooms. Then each of those is divided up into a variety of galleries by medium.”

  “That is a long list.”

  “Yup.”

  “Which of these would be the most logical?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You know what you’re looking for. You know the nature of the thing we search for.”

  Hmmm, would evil books be classified under Decorative Arts or American Art? Moira smirked at her own wit, but shook her head when Kiron raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Never mind, it wasn’t funny. I think we should start in Modern paintings. The list was created in modern times, so that is the most likely place to find it.”

  Following the map they made their way to the modern wing, where they were met with a rather rude surprise. Half of the modern art exhibit was in storage as they constructed a new modern wing. The most famous pieces were still on display to appease the tourists, but the full depth of the collection was not there.

  Moira stared at the glass encased 3-D model of the new wing in rising horror.

  “What if it’s not on display?”

  When there was no response Moira looked up. Kiron had been standing beside her only a moment ago. She called gently on Kiron’s magic, pulling on the spell. Even with the gentle tug, she got a good-sized dose of power, meaning he was nearby. She studied the magic she’d pulled, tasting it as a connoisseur would examine a fine wine.

  There was no hint of fear or anger in his magic. During their battle at the warehouse he’d tasted of musky adrenaline and bitter aggressiveness, while at their first meeting, that initial drawing of power had burned her with its red-hot anger. This trickle of magic was lemony cool.

  Opening her senses, letting her awareness swell around her just incase, Moira moved into the truncated Modern Art exhibit. The paintings ranged from small splashes of color in thick wood frames to wall-size canvases featuring darkly rendered caricatures of the human experience.

  Moira turned the corner and found Kiron studying a painting. He’d pushing his glasses onto the top of his head where they held his hair back. She’d cautioned him to keep the glasses on, hiding those inhuman and disquieting eyes.

  She moved forward, a reprimand springing to her lips, until she saw the expression on his face. It was love. Like Eros aching for Eurydice he stared with rapt adoration at the painting.

  Moira turned at his shoulder, examining the art that had entranced him.

  Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist” hung in solitary indigo splendor on the long white wall.

  Moira had taken a college art history class to satisfy a GE requirement and had a vague memory of Picasso’s infamous blue period. Looking curiously at Kiron she turned back to the painting, trying to understand what fascinated him.

  The lone figure in the painting sat on a simple earth floor, legs crossed, his guitar held in his lap by skeletally thin fingers. There was a simple beauty in the painting, in the lone musician’s tired passion. But she couldn’t see what fascinated Kiron so.

  “Can you see them?” he asked.

  “I see a man with a guitar. There’s no ‘them’.”

  “You’ve taken on human blindness.”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “You’ve opened yourself to the darkness of the world, you see and are aware of it, but you must open yourself the beautiful and amazing also.”

  Kiron raised his hands to her face. He placed the index and middle finger of each hand on her forehead, middle fingers on her eyebrows. His ringer and pinkie fingers curved over her cheekbones, so that his hands framed her eyes.

  His hands felt hot against her face, and grew hotter with each second. A lance of apprehension filled her as the heat pressed down threateningly on her eyes.

  “Kiron…”

  “Look.”

  Moira swallowed her apprehension and looked at the painting again.

  The guitarist was moving.

  The old man unfolded, becoming hale and strong, blue skin flushing cream with health. His fingers, still thin but not skeletally so, strummed the guitar, dancing over invisible strings. He rose on long legs, stepping to the edge of the frame.

  A ghostly woman, her young face aching with an unnamed agony, sat in the blue and white background. She raised her hands, covering her face and curling into a pained ball, rocking back and forth.

  Suddenly she threw her arms up, wide, head back as she screamed in silent agony. Her arms dropped, and she turned her head, looking out at the long-gone artist, and froze. The murky white window the guitarist had sat beneath cleared, revealing a sidewalk café. There was a flash of white and red, a jagged splash of color in the predominantly blue landscape. A dark form with vague impressions of arms and legs fell away from the star of color.

  The window clouded, hiding the street scene. The distraught woman also faded, hiding herself in the background. The guitarist moved to the center of the canvas, sinking down to sit with his legs crossed. Left ankle under his right knee, the toes of his right foot disappearing off the bottom of the canvas. The right side of the painting began to darken and the guitarist turned his face to the left. His hands withered, legs and arms growing lean until the tendons and bones became visible.

  The warm flesh paled to blue, azure, cobalt and sapphire.

  Moira blinked, and the painting was still. She stepped forward, Kiron’s hands falling away from her face, and reached her hand out to the painting, stopping just short of the layer of glass that protected it.

  The emotions of the painting rolled through her, though they no longer pulsed off the paint and canvas.

  “It’s so powerful,” she whispered in awe.

  “Yes.” Kiron’s hand slipped over her left hip, fingers finding the strip of soft skin between her shirt and pants. “Art is where magic is hidden, where suffering and joy too great to be lived with, can be stored.”

  “Is every piece of art like this? Why have I never seen it before?”

  “No, not all, only those created by those who were not human.”

  “Picasso was—”

  “Not human.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  “My kind, the centaurs, saw a time of great art. Art, in all its forms, is a great part of our culture.”

  She jerked in surprise at his words, and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Do not think that the power and heart of The Wild is immune to the power and heart of such refined things as art.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re right, I shouldn’t be surprised every time I find out that you are more than I expected.”

  “Slotting people into boxes is humanity’s game, not ours.”

  “Seriously, enough with the human bashing.”

  “I don’t know why you care, since you aren’t one of them.”

  “Is every piece of art like this?” Moira asked again, subject change as subtle as a brick to the head.

  “No. Some were made by human artists.”

  “That was amazing, thank you for showing me.” She turned and smiled. “Come on, we’ve got to find this list.”

  They scoured the
Modern art, painting, then sculpture galleries. Eager as she was to stop and examine some of the pieces, see if she could find the magic in them on her own, Moira kept moving, scanning each piece of art and the labels beside them. She picked up every brochure and handout she could find. Nothing.

  They decided to look at the Contemporary art section, which was separate from Modern art, a distinction that left Moira puzzled, but which Kiron seemed to understand. There they found things that Moira would have called “Modern Art” including pieces made out of scrap materials and garbage.

  This is where it would be, she was sure of it. What better place to hide a list, than to papier-mâché it to a towering sculpture of trash? Many of the pieces had materials with printing on them, others had stenciled or hand-drawn words. Moira examined each piece from all angles, crouching to check the bases of freestanding sculptures and peering at words covered by bold sweeps of paint. She found a thousand possibilities and none.

  A window frame filled with clippings from magazines and old grocery lists seemed to be her best bet. The frame itself was decorated with a long repeating phrase. “Is this who I am, is this what you expect of me?” It echoed Moira’s thoughts and feelings. The clippings that filled the spaces where there should have been glass were half painted over. The artist had created, in vivid canary and cobalt acrylic, a loaded gun, overlaying the simple domesticity. The vaguely threatening nature of the piece, domesticity overlaid with violence, fit the dark nature of what she searched for.

  One grocery list, half obscured by a great swoosh of cobalt paint, seemed to be the most promising item.

  “Find something?” Kiron moved behind her, examining the painting as she carefully jotted down the words on the list.

  “This seems to fit. The theme of the artwork feels right and there are a variety of words and phrases built into the painting.”

  “But this was created by a human, there is no magic in it.”

  “You can’t see any? I thought maybe I was just doing it wrong.”

  “There is no magic here.”