Eater of Lives(SPECTR #4) by Jordan L. Hawk Read Free Book Online Page B

“Beauty” wasn’t part of it: all
was equal.
    The memories shifted: John’s eyes, brilliant,
burning blue, the first color Gray really ever saw. Shocking.
Beautiful. As was the red of fresh blood, the colored glass
glittering in the alley beside the garbage bin, the setting sun,
and the startling green of some weed pushing up between the gnawed
ribs of the dead man in the swamp.
    Maybe they ought to buy some edible body
paint and slick down John…
    No. Shit, things would go back to normal
soon. Gray would be gone in a few days, so no use planning what
kinky paintings they could do on the canvas of John’s warm
skin.
    Caleb selected a brush and paused above the
palette. This was just a warm-up painting, something to keep his
skills from rusting into total disuse. But of what? Or should he
just start with splotches of color and see what took shape?
    His gaze traveled the familiar confines of
their bedroom. The bed, neatly made by John every morning. The
hamper, the scent of their mingled sweat rising from it to his
amped-up senses. The little altar in the corner, with candles and a
bowl and the image of a lion-headed goddess. Not Bast…Sekhmet?
    Gray offered another memory, this one clear
and cool: something he had seen himself, not a fragment salvaged
from dead neurons. Sand shifted and slid in the night wind, and the
full moon rendered the shadows sharp edged. Huge sandstone columns
stretched away to either side, the linen “roof,” which would
provide shade during the day, snapping in the breeze. Statues
strode between columns, colossal.
    The memory contained no color, of course, but
the thousand variations of gray on the intricately-carved stones
hinted at paint. God, what would it look like in color, beneath the
sun? The temple must have been a blaze of hues against the dull
sand, an explosion of brightness in this lifeless place.
    This is Egypt, isn’t it?
    “ Perhaps. No one called it thus.
Sedgeland, Northland, Land of the River Bank, the Black Land and
the Red Land.”
    A shiver went over Caleb’s skin, either of
awe, or fear, or maybe just inspiration. Thrusting the brush
aggressively into a blob of red paint, he made the first mark
across the canvas.
    * * *
    “Babe?” John said from the doorway. “Are
you…holy shit.”
    Caleb blinked. He’d lost track of time; his
hand cramped around the handle of the brush. Paint flecked his
forearms, and the canvas in front of him wore a thick coat of
acrylic, although he only half-recalled painting it.
    Which made sense, because no way had he done
more than half the work. The technique, sure, and the initial idea,
but…fuck.
    The canvas blazed with saturated color, the
gold of sunset fading into deep purple shadows, with every shade in
between. The painting showed a desert, with cliffs in the distance,
and a temple near at hand, although not a replica of the one from
Gray’s memory, but something more fantastic.
    Something stood half-hidden in the shadows
near the foreground, looking back. Maybe a woman, and maybe a lion,
its eyes the focal point of the painting as it—she—simply watched
the viewer in return.
    “Whoa,” he breathed.
    John’s hand settled in the small of his back,
warm through the thin material of his t-shirt. “It’s amazing.
Really gorgeous.”
    “Thanks.” Caleb swallowed and gestured
vaguely to the altar. “We—I mean, I thought you might like it.”
    “I can’t believe you did it so fast.” The
strokes were rough, but the image contained a surprising amount of
detail for a few hours’ work. “I love it.”
    Warmth flooded Caleb’s veins, and he felt
Gray’s pleasure. “It is good?”
    Yes. Yes, it is.
    Caleb pressed a kiss against John’s lips.
“I’m glad. Guess I lost track of time while I worked. Is it
bedtime?”
    “Past,” John said, with a rueful grin.
    “Did you find anything in Brimm’s book?”
    John’s gaze skittered to the side. “Not
yet.”
    Shit. “But you’ll keep trying, right?”
    “Of course