"Can you imagine it, Micah?" Ezra whispered, his voice low and seductive. His fingers touched my jaw, turning my face to his. "The man who tried to exorcise your demons becoming the vessel through which your true nature finds expression?"
Saliva flooded my mouth, and the rush of blood to my groin made me light-headed. Sweat beaded along my hairline despite the gallery's cool air.
"Yes, Daddy," I breathed, unable to deny the rightness of it. The shadow that had always lived inside me, the darkness Ezra had recognized and nurtured, now strained toward this opportunity with single-minded hunger. "It's... perfect."
"I thought you might appreciate the symmetry." Ezra's smile revealed the edge of a canine tooth. His pupils had expanded, nearly swallowing the gray of his irises. His fingers stroked my throat briefly. "I know you’ll make me proud."
Around us, the gallery hummed with appreciation for Ezra's artistic genius. Critics and collectors praised the collection's"organic light" and impossible textures, blissfully unaware of its true source.
And among them moved Reverend Morris, thin and austere in his clerical collar, completely unaware he had just accepted an invitation to become my first independent creation. The man who had once held me down for exorcism now casually sipped champagne, blissfully ignorant of his impending transformation.
Ezra's hand touched my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a gesture too intimate for our public personas but too quick to draw attention. His eyes said everything his words couldn't in this public space.
The shadow inside me stretched hungrily, no longer fighting for release but settling into my bones. For the first time in my life, I felt no shame in its presence. Only anticipation. Only certainty.
I was becoming something new under Ezra's guidance. Something that both terrified and thrilled me.
Something true.
Ezra
The man wouldn't stopstaring at my paintings.
Throughout the exhibition, I'd watched him circle back to examine the same pieces. His unused camera hung around his neck as he leaned in to study the textures. His attention focused particularly on the centerpiece containing bone ash from the pianist's hands, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head at various angles, trying to figure out what created that impossible luminosity.
Now, two weeks after the exhibition closed, he sat across from me in my university office, a portfolio of photographs spread between us on my desk. His name was Daniel Harlow, a photography professor at Westlake's sister institution. His specialty was macrophotography of unusual artistic media.
"These are remarkable images, Professor Harlow," I said, examining a close-up photograph of my centerpiece. The camera had captured microscopic variations in texture. Too much detail.
"Please call me Daniel." He leaned forward, eyes bright. His gaze strayed to the framed photograph on my desk of Micah and me at the gallery opening. "You and your... protégé have created something extraordinary. I've been watching both of you closely."
"You found it compelling," I supplied.
"Beyond compelling. Revolutionary." He selected another photograph, this one showing an extreme close-up. "The structural components you've achieved here defy conventional artistic materials. I've spent weeks analyzing these images."
I kept my expression pleasantly neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in my head. "Technical innovation has always been central to my practice."
"This goes beyond innovation, Professor Bishop." His voice dropped. "The organic quality of these textures suggests material of biological origin."
My fingers tightened on the edge of one photograph. "Many natural materials are incorporated into contemporary art. Beeswax, plant fibers, mineral compounds."
"Something more complex than that." He pulled out another photograph, this one enhanced to show the luminous quality in the darker portions of the painting. "This texture and luminosity are extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it in contemporary work."
"You have a good eye. Traditional materials combined in non-traditional ways can yield surprising results."
"It reminds me of bone ash. It was used in the Renaissance, you know," he said, clearly impressed with his knowledge. "Artists mixed it with oils, varnish... created depth that syntheticmaterials can't match. Whatever you're doing, the effect is remarkable."
"The old masters understood something we've largely forgotten," I replied carefully. "Materials of organic origin carry their own history. Synthetic substitutes can never truly replicate that quality."
"Your process must be extraordinary. I'd love to understand more about how you achieve these effects. Most contemporary artists rely too heavily on commercial products, but you've clearly gone beyond that."
"My techniques are somewhat... proprietary." I smiled smoothly. "Though I appreciate your interest in the technical aspects of my work."
He studied my face, searching for something. "That's actually why I'm here today. My admiration of your work led me to something potentially concerning. It's about your student. Micah Salt."
"What about him?" My tone cooled noticeably.
He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "I believe you may be in danger."
