Unleashed: The Deepest Fears Lie Within (Secrets of the Makai) (5 page)

“You do believe me though, don’t you?”

“Sure we do,” Victor said. “But maybe the vision just…ended.”

Tristan examined the empty jar, unsure if he should pretend to understand how visions worked. One thing he knew for sure, it’d be harder to believe what he saw without proof.

4
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O
LD
F
RIENDS
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TRISTAN WANDERED IN RESTLESS CIRCLES, having run out of places to investigate in the cabin. He’d taken the best shower of his life and unpacked his clothing. And then he’d slept so hard, he hadn’t noticed when Landon and Victor brought him lunch. A note taped to the refrigerator said they’d come back for dinner, but that it might be late.

There was also an ornate, decorative drum left on his bookshelf with a note that read:
I’ll explain this later - Victor.

Food had never tasted so good. Sliced turkey on thick homemade bread, with mayonnaise and mustard, lettuce and tomatoes. He’d completely forgotten what real food tasted like, having lived on burnt fish for the past several months. Although to be fair to Gram, she had often supplied him with fruit and bread.

The thought of Gram’s death made him think of Dorian. What would she do on her own? Even if she was a royal pain most of the time, he’d still miss her.

Tristan stepped outside and scanned the trees for the falcon. If he had a lake and a fishing pole, he could catch a fish to offer as bribery. Or as an apology. He held the last of his sandwich as high as possible, silently begging the falcon to come back.

The dense grove of trees surrounding the cabin didn’t have the pointy tips that the falcon seemed to prefer, but twiggy branches that tangled into a single, impenetrable canopy. He retraced the path past Eleonora’s cabin, careful not to disturb anyone, and headed for the bigger clearing. The falcon could be happy in the crisp, mountain air if he would just show up and give the place a chance.

The meadow was much like it had been earlier, lit by dusk rather than dawn. A herd of deer bounded into the trees as Tristan waded through the grass to the nearest building. The bottom stair split in half with his weight, he retreated and tossed a portion of the sandwich to the roof.

The other structures weren’t any better for the falcon to perch on, but he threw bite-sized chunks to each pile and searched the trees for falcon-friendly branches.

On the far side of the meadow, up a slight incline, someone working at an art easel ducked behind a canvas the second he’d noticed. He glanced back at the food he’d been tossing and swallowed his guilt. It wasn’t exactly littering—something would eat it eventually.

He approached the person to explain himself, in case it was Eleonora who’d caught him wasting perfectly good food.

Wrinkles creased the woman’s tanned skin, forcing him to add a few decades to his original impression of age. Beneath a black beret embroidered with red and gold symbols, jet-black hair hung just past her shoulders in loose curls, though the hairline at her temples was silver.

He stood beside her and studied her artwork. She either didn’t realize he was there, or she was choosing to ignore him. He watched as she sorted through a wooden box of supplies with knobby fingers, finally selecting a plastic, paint-smudged bottle. She squirted clear liquid on the bristles of her brush and methodically worked it in. After several cycles, she placed the brush upright in an old tin can with worn oriental writing embossed on the sides.

Her smock must have had years of projects smeared on it, and it seemed far more intriguing than the canvas she was working on. She finally looked at him with hawk-sharp eyes.

Tristan glanced at the row of buildings, then at the trailhead leading to his cabin, through Eleonora’s. Anything to avoid the hard stare.

Without warning, the woman snatched his hand and held it palm up, keeping his fingers straight with the other. Tristan yelped, surprised by the strength of her grip on his wrist. “Let go!”

“Look at me,” the woman whispered.

His eyes automatically flicked to hers, pinning him with such an intense stare, he couldn’t possibly turn away. She held his hand a moment longer, then released it.

“You always were a yob.”

“A what?” Tristan found he could blink again and took several steps back, rubbing his wrist to get the circulation going.

“I don’t expect...never mind.”

“No. Tell me.” Confused and beyond frustrated, Tristan held back his temper as she took a smaller brush from the can and mixed a shade of orange on the palette.

“The cabin is fine?”

“You’re Eleonora?” Eccentric, rude, and very strange, just like Landon and Victor warned.

The woman nodded slowly, piercing him with another hard look. “What are you calling yourself these days?”

“Tristan.”

“Well then, Tristan, the cabin is fine?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he said, still flexing his fingers. “Thank you for letting me use it,” he added as an afterthought, unsure how to get on her good side.

“Well, it was…I suppose it wasn’t exactly yours.” She eyed him from head to toe and went back to work on her canvas. “You went and scared off my subject matter.”

Tristan studied the streaks of color and odd shapes, unable to see anything that resembled deer. Or wildlife for that matter.

“Posh!” she snorted in reply to Tristan’s inspection. “I suppose you could do better.”

“I don’t paint.”

“Don’t you?” The woman seemed genuinely surprised.

Tristan leaned closer to her painting to see if he’d missed something. “Never bothered, I guess.”

“That’s a terrible pity.”

“What do you mean the cabin was once mine, but not exactly?”

“The cabin was built by a man named Jacques. Only, he was with another at the time. If I recall correctly, the name was William.”

An oversized, dusty piece of luggage appeared at Tristan’s right, startling him back a few steps with an audible gasp. He nearly tripped over the leg of the woman’s easel.

“My!” Her amused smile grew suspiciously wider as Tristan scowled. “You are an interesting case.”

“I am not a case. I’m completely normal.” Never in his life had he used these words to describe himself.

“Normal? That’s a shame.” She shook her head and went back to her painting. “Open it.”

Tristan studied the upholstered luggage, expecting the fraying threads to disappear or disintegrate if he touched it.

“Go ahead, it’s yours.”

“What makes it mine?” Tristan knelt at the handle and wondered if there was a catch, or a bad joke he was setting himself up for.

“Consider it an inheritance from William.”

“I’m I related somehow? And who is Jacques?”

“It’s a possibility, and Jacques is more of a free spirit.” She dabbed at her canvas and began humming.

Tristan shut his mouth, deciding against judging the woman as senile so soon.

He unlatched the lid—which lifted unevenly and fell off its hinges. Inside, there were rows of thin wooden boxes containing used oils, pencils, and watercolors. He unrolled a piece of soft leather, which held at least twenty brushes organized according to size. There were several lengths of cardboard tubing, unmarked boxes, and a collapsible wooden easel with brass fittings. Next to that was something compressed in an airtight plastic bag.

Tristan held it up for Eleonora to see. “This too?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t be keeping any of my belongings in there.” She returned to her painting, as if insulted by the thought.

Tristan broke the seal and pulled out an old blanket. A bottle of wine fell from its folds, with foreign script and a frilly 1869. The blanket itself turned out to be a circular poncho.

Eleonora quickly turned back to her painting when Tristan glanced her way.

“It’s yours, go ahead and put it on.”

“
Why
is it mine?” It had to be a trick, but he couldn’t resist slipping the poncho over his head.

Warm, happy feelings eased his mind, soothed his soul. Like stepping into the warmth of summer sunshine after years of winter.

Tristan opened one of the round canisters and poured out layers of unused paper. Another held canvas.

“The paint has probably dried up,” Eleonora said. “But that cotton rag paper should still be in good shape.”

Tristan examined a box of paint tubes and compacts, varnish and thinners. The tubes had hardened, but not completely, and the paint in the compacts had shrunk and cracked. He held a small, darkened bottle toward the sky, certain the liquid inside was linseed oil.

He’d spent a lot of time sketching with pencils, but he’d never used any type of oil for anything. What made him think of linseed?

He jumped again, nearly dropping the bottle, when two armchairs and a small round table appeared in the grass beside him.

Eleonora laughed, shaking her head as she cleaned her hands. “Get some of that wood from over there.”

Tristan looked at the decaying structures. “What for?”

“Do you question everything? I was thinking a fire would be nice as the sky darkens.”

Still skeptical, Tristan left the case of art supplies for a load of wood. On his way back, he noticed the woman had changed completely. She looked both older and more elegant. The colorful smock had been replaced by a full length, earth-colored gown. The beret was gone, exposing a band of silver hair arching over her head like delicate jewelry. Her face seemed less wrinkled and more timeless.

On the table, a wooden serving plate held a decorative arrangement of cheese and crackers. She was smiling at the label on the wine bottle and didn’t seem to notice he’d returned.

He caught himself staring at her again, fighting the returning sense of déjà vu.

“Anywhere is fine,” she said.

Tristan let the wood fall to the ground. The pile erupted into flames—Tristan leaped out of the way. “Do you enjoy freaking me out like that?”

“It is rather peculiar how easily you...freak out.” She pulled a wine opener from her sleeve, which glimmered with copper and gold in the bright flames. “Shall I, then?”

“Sure.” Tristan took a quick glance toward the trail to her cabin and around the clearing, curious if she was expecting someone else to join her. “I’ll just—”

Eleonora bowed slightly and motioned him toward one of the chairs. “At least have some cheese. I think you’ll appreciate it...to some degree, anyway.”

Tristan frowned, trying to determine how serious she was.

Two crystal glasses appeared on the table; she poured a small amount of wine into each. He lowered himself into the chair and watched the woman swirl her wine. The liquid looked black, mixed with the orange of the firelight. She put the glass to her nose, breathed in, sighed, and finally took a sip. “Splendid.”

Tristan picked up his glass, swirling it like she had. “I’m underage.”

“Drinking laws don’t exist in a lot of countries.” She leaned back in her chair and gazed at the sky with a warm smile. “There’s certainly no law governing you here. You must have come from the States?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.”

“My mother’s an alcoholic.” Why was he telling her?

“It must have been interesting...having a mother.”

Tristan was about to object, then shut his mouth. Was not having a mother the norm for her? She definitely wasn’t playing with a full deck. He mentally apologized, in case she could overhear his thoughts like Gram had.

“The Europeans don’t have a problem with their children having the occasional glass of wine,” she continued, “and you don’t see their continent overrun by alcoholic lunatics like you do in the States, where they restrict every imaginable thing with laws and regulations.” The woman used a small fork to pick up a slice of cheese and made several tisking noises. “Laws, laws, laws...as if that’ll make people behave.”

Feeling the need to defend his country, to prove that not all who drank were wild lunatics, Tristan took a sip and felt his cheeks flush with heat. “Laws
do
make people behave,” he finally said.

“Until they discover something that isn’t regulated, or they find a simple loophole…then they can’t seem to figure out what’s right and wrong and write more laws to cover new bases. Do try the cheese, the combination is superb.”

Tristan tried a small piece and agreed.

“What do you think it needs?” Eleonora drew a tight circle with her index finger and the easel with the painting spun toward the firelight. “You’re a good critic.”

“I’m not a critic. I’m not even a painter.” Tristan took another sip and studied the painting.

“Maybe you aren’t, but Jacques was. Surely he’s been an influence in your upbringing?”

“Who is this Jacques?”

“He’s a lovely spirit. 15th century, I believe.”

“And he just goes around haunting random people?”

“No. Certainly not random.”

Tristan tried not to roll his eyes and focused on the painting to change the subject. “Maybe you could explain it to me?”