Eden caught the middle of a conversation and frowned.
“But angels are heavenly beings. Innately good,” the critic argued with a friend. “What the heck is that?”
That was one of her favorite pieces.
Eden painted only angels, but their variety was as vast as her imagination. Rarely did she paint a winged angel descending on a beam of light from the clouds. That image had been overdone.
And really, she knew fluffy wings and white robes were all wrong.
Hence, her titanium angel with steampunk-geared wings of binary code. Its face was hollow, exposing honeycomb bone, and silver filaments sprouted on the skull. A halo spun like the rings of Saturn at the back of its head. The angel’s grin was more seductive than some of the expressions Eden had seen on her lackluster dates of late.
“It’s blasphemous,” the critic decided.
Eden shrugged and walked on. Definitely not her sales base. Didn’t matter. She wasn’t showing her work to make a profit; she simply wanted to hear what others thought. And so far most of the feedback had been awesome.
A particular man caught her eye. He stood before The Fall, her depiction of an angel falling from the heavens. The angel wore a devious smile on its glass face and its redwood wings blazed with blue fire. Steel rain extinguished some of the flame. Its halo, detached, cut through the rain, spattering it like oil stains. A single crystal tear dripped from the angel’s eye and stained the ground it had yet to touch.
Though he was unusual in appearance, the man who studied her work didn’t shock Eden. All sorts crowded Manhattan; she loved the exercise in individuality. Silver-white hair punked about his head. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, and a tight white T-shirt enhanced considerable abs. Gleaming silver hardware hung from his ears, nose, eyebrows and chin. Leather pants hugged his lanky legs like plastic wrap, rendering the belts buckled about his thighs and hips unnecessary. The entire look screamed anarchist raging for a fire to fan.
Paralleling him, Eden waited to see if he would make the first comment. She didn’t like to influence her viewers one way or another.
A familiar scent emanated from him. Sweet and subtle like fruit. He smelled enticing, which baffled her because she was not attracted to his type—it was Wall Street business suits all the way for her.
Her forearm tingled again, like the pins and needles sensation she got when her arm or leg fell asleep. What could it be from? She hadn’t challenged Cammie to a match of tennis for weeks. She shrugged up her sleeve to scratch, then reminded herself to be cool.
When finally the punk jerked a shoulder back and looked at her it was as if she had materialized beside him out of the blue.
“Sorry,” Eden offered politely. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”
“My fault. I was lost in the painting. It’s interesting. You are very … “ His one pale gold eye squinted as he studied her face. Rather, gold was the prominent color. Many colors glittered like a kaleidoscope in that single eye. A trace of blue curled out the bottom of the eye patch. Must be a tattoo.
“Unremarkable,” he finally announced. “Your voice is green,” he continued. “Square. And your scent.” He sniffed. “Smooth. But those shoes. Violet. Yes. Nice. Short leather skirt. Hair … chestnut.”
His weird inventory unsettled Eden. She didn’t judge people by their clothing choices, personal habits or even religion. Hell, she’d been judged far too many times.
Intuition, on the other hand, had a tendency to knock a little too late on her skull.
“Who are you?” He tilted his head and looked her up and down. It was the most uncomfortable dressing down Eden had ever experienced. She should politely dismiss herself.
Yet what was with her arm? Eden’s divided attention pestered her. Something strange was going on beneath the silk sleeve. That was the last time she took her shirts to the dry cleaners on Fifth. She suspected they weren’t as green as their ads claimed to be.
“I’m the artist,” she offered and thrust out her hand. The punk looked at it a few moments before shaking it. “Eden Campbell.”
“Eden. How … sardonic. Means nothing. What I want to know is how you know all … this.”
“This?”
“That!” He gestured angrily toward the painting. “You’ve quite the talent. One could call it a preternatural talent.”
“You think?” Heartbeats skipping, Eden beamed at the painting. No one had ever labeled her work that way. She was the only one who believed she had—
Stop it, Eden. He hasn’t a clue. Do not make a fool of yourself.
“If I were of the mind to purchase I’d buy them all,” he remarked, “but unfortunately I’ve no permanent residence. Bit of a world traveler.”
“That must be exciting.”
“There is something about you, Eden.” He leaned in close and his fruity scent enticed her to remain in place, despite the creepy stranger signals he was sparking out at her. “Do you by chance,” he whispered, “wear a sigil on your body?”
“A sigil?” That was a weird question, but oddly intuitive.
Could he also know what she knew?
The man glanced about the crowded gallery, not appearing too interested in her response.
No. What Eden knew about her paintings was private, personal. He hadn’t a clue, and she didn’t dare discuss it because she had a healthy fear for mental wards.
Compelled to get away from the man, Eden slipped away while he studied the painting, insinuating herself behind a few tall men in business suits.
Todd appeared and slipped a goblet of pinot noir into her grasp. “I thought you were taking off before six, Eden? I can close up shop and handle the stragglers.” He tugged at his pink tie; it clashed brilliantly with his purple shirt and his soft emerald eyes.
“Thanks, Todd. Did you talk to the guy with the white hair and all the nose rings?”
“Not yet. He just wandered in. Creepy?”
“To the tenth degree. He makes me feel uncomfortable.” And yet, intrigued. Could a person be compelled and repelled at the same time?
“Want me to go punch him for you?”
She hugged Todd across the shoulders. “No. Save those valuable fingers for your IT work. I think I’m going to sneak out, though. I’ve been here six hours. Need to sit and put my feet up. See you tomorrow evening for part deux of Eden Campbell’s fabulous debut.”
“I’ll be here. But it’ll be a close call. I’ve a shift at Cloud Nine until five.” He kissed her check. “Talk to you later, sweetie.”
Eden tilted down the wine and claimed her purse from the office before deftly making her way toward the front door.
Rolling up her left sleeve as she gained the door, she spied the top of the strange man’s white hair. He still stood before The Fall. His attention was rapt, so she was able to slip out without his notice.
After hobnobbing in the stuffy gallery for hours, Eden welcomed the refreshing summer rain. She lifted her face to catch the light mist. She should have utilized her father’s limo, always at her disposal, but the driver’s son turned twelve today, so she’d given him the day off. She wasn’t one of those trust-fund babies who thought they were entitled to everything. At least, she tried not to be.
The July sun peeked through the clouds and glinted high on the windows of another trendy little gallery across the street. She examined her forearm. It had stopped tingling and the skin wasn’t red so it couldn’t be a rash.
Tapping the birthmark below her inner elbow, she wondered at what the punk had asked her.
Do you wear a sigil on your body?
“How could he know?” Was it possible he knew things like she did?
“No.” He must have seen her tug up her sleeve. Talk about a cheap pickup line at its strangest.
