"A trade. Your techniques, your materials, your contacts. In exchange for your precious protégé." Julian paused, letting the threat sink in. "You see, I've been studying your work for quite some time. Those luminous qualities in your paintings don't come from conventional sources, do they? And young Micah has learned your methods so well."
"You have no idea what you're dealing with," I said quietly.
"I know exactly what you are, Ezra. And what you've made him into. And if you want him back, you’ll be at my house on Chesapeake Street in one hour.”
The phone went dead.
I stared at the silent device, mind racing through possibilities and plans. Julian thought he held leverage, but he'd miscalculated completely. Soon he'd discover exactly what kind of mistake he'd made.
But Micah would need support. Cleanup. Someone to help dispose of whatever remained of Julian Frost after my boy finished with him, and comfort once it was done.
I opened a locked drawer in my desk, retrieving items I kept for special occasions. Untraceable tools. Chemical compoundsthat left no forensic evidence. Contact information for people who asked no questions if the price was right.
Julian Frost had committed two cardinal sins. First, he'd assumed Micah was helpless prey rather than an apex predator. Second, he'd underestimated what I was willing to do to support my boy's inevitable retaliation.
My phone buzzed with a text message:
Your boy says hello. Such pretty eyes when he cries.
The attached image showed Micah restrained to a chair, tear tracks visible on his pale cheeks, terror stark in his dark eyes. But I knew that face too well to be fooled. The slight tension around his eyes, the set of his mouth. More telling was the specific crease at the corner of his left eye, the same one that appeared when he concentrated on particularly delicate incisions. This was performance. My beautiful, brilliant boy was giving Julian exactly what the amateur expected to see while undoubtedly planning his captor's destruction.
I picked up the moth toy, its velvet wings soft against the stump where Micah's finger had been, the amputation site he'd offered willingly to our art. The sacrifice that sealed our covenant. The moth's glow strengthened against my palm, as if responding to my determination.
Shed those crocodile tears, sweet boy. Make him think you're broken while you consider which of his bones would create the most beautiful pigment. Daddy's coming to help you clean up the mess.
I gathered my materials and headed for the parking lot, Micah's moth secured safely in my arms. My student had become my equal; my prey had become my partner. Julian Frost thought he was hunting, but he'd stumbled into a den of hungry predators.
Time to help my boy clean up whatever mess he was about to make.
Micah
The smell hit mefirst. Wrong. All wrong.
Antiseptic trying to mask something rotten underneath, like perfume sprayed over decay. My nostrils burned as consciousness crept back. Not the clean, sterile scent of Ezra's studio, where every element served a purpose. This reeked of desperation and amateur chemistry.
My head pounded where crude drugs still clung to my system. I kept my breathing steady, eyes closed, while mapping my situation. My wrists were bound to a wooden chair, the rope already chafing my skin raw. My ankles were tied to chair legs using surgical tubing. The bindings were tight but clumsy. Whoever tied them knew theory, not practice.
The stump where my little finger had been throbbed with phantom pain. I flexed my maimed hand, testing the restraints. Without that joint, I could create just enough space to workmy hand through the bindings, if given time. The sacrifice that sealed our covenant might now save my life.
The hollowness in my chest ached far worse than my head. My moth was gone, left behind on the cafe floor. The comfort of holding it against my chest, watching it glow, had become as essential as breathing. Its absence left me unmoored, adrift without my talisman.
"I know you're awake, beautiful." Julian's voice slithered over me.
I opened my eyes slowly, letting confusion color my expression while memorizing every detail that might save my life.
The room tried to mirror Ezra's studio but failed. The concrete floors were stained, the medical tables drab and scratched, the tools scattered in disarray. But what made my stomach lurch was the wall of photographs. Dozens of images of Ezra and me. At the gallery opening. Leaving his house. Through his bedroom window. Intimate moments stolen through telephoto lenses, some obviously taken using infrared equipment during our most private encounters. There we were, Ezra cradling me against his chest while I nursed at his nipple, seeking the comfort only he could provide.
Julian stood near glass containers filled with lumps of meat floating in murky solutions. He spread his arms wide. "Welcome to my workspace. What do you think?”
“It reeks of desperation,” I spat. “Where am I?”
"Somewhere I can finally show you what a real artistic partnership looks like." Julian approached slowly, his fingers brushing my restrained arm. "I’ve been watching you. Watching him. At first, I was jealous. You see, I’ve been applying for a fellowship with Ezra Bishop for years. But you… You got in on your first try."
"So you thought kidnapping me would win you brownie points?”
He rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't understand. How could you? A boy like you, raised with such meager means, couldn’t even dream of the things Ezra and I could accomplish together. You’ve never been worthy of him. A fact I intend to convince him of when he arrives.”
“If you think killing me will somehow convince Ezra of your genius—”
