CHAPTER FOUR

Sharp, jagged brush strokes stabbed at the canvas, leaving behind violent images in its wake.
Robert spent years, lifetimes even, learning to perfect his art, but not out of love. His need
derived from pain. Midnight blues and black iron oxide swirled and mixed with blood red
streaks. Blackcurrant red. Venetian. The darkest plum.
Paint.
The impulse undeniable. He knew every way possible to paint death. An experience gained by
living over five centuries. Sweat poured down the sides of his face, his worn t-shirt drenched
front and back. He blinked to clear the stinging sweat out of his eyes.
Paint.
Body shaking, agony crashed through him once more. A wave starting from his chest ripped
outward and tore at his strength, constricting his muscles tighter until he feared they would shred
apart. Only one piece of knowledge remained beyond his reachhow to die.
PAINT.
Her painting had done this, sent him spiraling into a curse he could no more control than he
could break.
Burning agony seared along every nerve ending. Robert was on fire. No, not him, the figure in
Kyrissa's painting. The body, for Robert couldn't tell whether it was male or female, curled into
itself in the center of the canvas. Head tucked into one arm, knees pulled tight against the chest,
surrounded by black flames. The pose suggested submission, of giving into the agony of death
by flames.
Except for one arm.
Stretched away from the body, palm flat, the hand acted as a barrier to the darkness that
loomed around the outside of the fire. A blackness so real, the acidic stench of charred material
and burned paint caught in Robert's throat as though smoke filled the room. No matter how hot
the flames burned, how intense the agony, the figure fought.
Defiant to the end.
Unlike Robert.
Cursed to paint death, yet never allowed to achieve that state himself. Year after year, century
after century, he continued to go through the pretense of living. Changing personas like replacing
a worn out pair of shoes, his deaths were meaningless. Unlike those around him who often died
protecting him. He fought at first. But the pain won out, Elsabeths death his breaking point, and
eventually even his existence became a cruel joke. Succumbing to the dark compulsion to paint
the abominations, this corruption of his power became the only means to ease his pain. Unable to
even express his grief for fear of triggering the frenzied painting and strengthening the dark
immortality of the one who tricked him into this so-called life.
How had Kyrissa's painting done this? The heartbreak in her image called out to his curse,
triggered it, until stumbling out of her apartment, he nearly collapsed on her stairs. He didn't
even remember Lucien getting him home. Only agony existed, coursing through him until he
wished for death, prayed for it. A prayer never answered in over five centuries.
PAINT!
Darkness covered the canvas, the slickness of the oil paints smearing and mixing. It wasn't
enough. The material soaked his energy up like bloodhis blood. Violence, aggression, things
he abhorred. The more brutal and horrific the painting, the greater the dark energy released.

There was no technique, only need.

Brush strokes jabbed and slashed. Darker emotions came to life on the canvas. Paralyzing
fear, heart-wrenching grief, a loneliness so profound Robert could barely draw breath against the
suffocating weight. Each stroke transferred life away from his abused body. Yet, unlike his other
works, the power wasn't locked into this canvas. No. Another painting absorbed the agony, a
painting currently lost to him.
Pain relented as more layers of colors and emotion twisted over the canvas. Robert's senses
returned with each new brush stroke. A muffled gasp sounded from the studio's doorway.
Lucien. His newest Guardian, his protector. Only he couldn't protect him from this. The cologne
of the young Romani threatened to smother him, mixing with the invasive linseed oils and his
own less than pleasant odor. Two swipes of his brush and he stilled. His breathing ragged, he
swallowed, attempting to dampen the moisture-starved tissues of his mouth. The agonizing pain
of the curse, the compelling need to paint, dissipated.
Until next time.
Cramps in calves and back muscles, the only indication of the extended passage of time.
Stumbling backwards, Lucien's strong arms kept him from collapsing into a heap on the floor.
The brushes and palette dropped to the wood floor from hands long gone numb.
"Bathroom." The word croaked out before the sour taste rising into his mouth forced him to
clamp it closed. Even as Lucien dragged him to his feet, Robert couldn't look away from the
abomination before him. Golden streaks of hair flowed around the figure's shoulders, the
woman's face a blur. One hand rested on the dark hair of a crumpled body.
Black flames claimed them both.