In Darkness We Must Abide: The Complete Second Season: Episodes 6-10 by Rhiannon Frater Page B
Authors: Rhiannon Frater
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into one nice, psycho albino package.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Armando raked his hands through his hair nervously. He had much to do in a short amount of time. He had to be in Austin by morning. Althea’s assassins would determine that Vanora was not in Houston and track her to Austin.
“ What will you do?”
Armando floundered for an answer. At last he said, “I’m not sure.”
“Good luck with whatever you do. When Aeron arrives, this city is going to burn.” Hank tossed the butt of his cigarette away. “A part of me wants to see it happen, another part wishes there was somewhere safe to run to. Oh, well. This always was a shitty town.”
Alisha hated it when she felt compelled to paint. It only meant that her brush would reveal bad news. Since Vanora had fled from the mansion, Alisha only entered her art studio when forced to by the power she had inherited from their ancestors. The compulsion, if ignored, was almost crippling in its intensity. All her senses dulled until all she could see and hear was the image pulsing in her mind.
As paint dripped from the brush clutched in her hand, Alisha stared at the white canvas with dread.
After Vanora had left, Alisha had given up on her mortal life, her ambitions, her art, and her belief in herself. Though she abstained from human blood, she was more vampire than mortal in the absence of her sister. So was Roman. When they had failed Vanora, they had failed themselves. Their new life was one of darkness, surrounded by vampires like them, and far removed from the one they had created around their younger sibling. But the one thing she couldn't leave behind were the premonitions that spoke through her talent.
The cacophony of sound and the blinding pressure behind her eyes caused her to whimper. Her hand began to fly across the canvas, swift strokes releasing the pent up vision trapped in her mind. As always, she wasn't even certain what image would be unleashed beneath the sweeps of her brush. It was as if an invisible hand gripped hers and guided it across the blank space, dabbing and brushing paint to form the final image. Time became meaningless and all that existed was the canvas on the easel as she swept the first bit of paint onto the surface before her.
Alisha was exhausted and famished by the time she completed the work. The buzzing in her head had finally ceased and she set her brush down with trembling fingers. Covering her face with her hands, she rubbed her eyelids then her temples. A bit dazed, she sat on a stool and felt the power of her gift drain out of her.
“I don't want to see it,” she whispered.
Dread filled her. All her recent paintings tormented her. Usually they were oracles that confounded her, their true meaning swathed in symbolism and vagueness, but lately the imagery repeated the exact same scenario that was difficult not to interpret in just one way.
Raising her eyes at last, Alisha stared at painting, the light reflecting off the still moist paint. A large empty throne dominated the painting. Lying before it, staked through the heart, was Roman.
“Fuck me,” she groaned.
Alisha was tired of painting the death of her brother. Roman had dismissed them as a manifestation of her fears and unresolved emotions over his mortal death. Even when she tried to show him other paintings she was convinced had already come true, he had been his usual pragmatic self.
“You're reading into them. I could decipher all these paintings completely differently and make it work,” he'd said.
It drove her crazy how he regarded her abilities as figments of her imagination. Staring at her creation, she knew it was a warning that her brother was in danger.
In the last few years, many more vampires had arrived in Houston to follow Roman's Laws religiously, making Roman their leader. Her brother easily fit into that role. Even Alisha had to admit that he was charismatic and imposing. Though she knew he was not as perfect as many of his
“Thanks for letting me know.” Armando raked his hands through his hair nervously. He had much to do in a short amount of time. He had to be in Austin by morning. Althea’s assassins would determine that Vanora was not in Houston and track her to Austin.
“ What will you do?”
Armando floundered for an answer. At last he said, “I’m not sure.”
“Good luck with whatever you do. When Aeron arrives, this city is going to burn.” Hank tossed the butt of his cigarette away. “A part of me wants to see it happen, another part wishes there was somewhere safe to run to. Oh, well. This always was a shitty town.”
Alisha hated it when she felt compelled to paint. It only meant that her brush would reveal bad news. Since Vanora had fled from the mansion, Alisha only entered her art studio when forced to by the power she had inherited from their ancestors. The compulsion, if ignored, was almost crippling in its intensity. All her senses dulled until all she could see and hear was the image pulsing in her mind.
As paint dripped from the brush clutched in her hand, Alisha stared at the white canvas with dread.
After Vanora had left, Alisha had given up on her mortal life, her ambitions, her art, and her belief in herself. Though she abstained from human blood, she was more vampire than mortal in the absence of her sister. So was Roman. When they had failed Vanora, they had failed themselves. Their new life was one of darkness, surrounded by vampires like them, and far removed from the one they had created around their younger sibling. But the one thing she couldn't leave behind were the premonitions that spoke through her talent.
The cacophony of sound and the blinding pressure behind her eyes caused her to whimper. Her hand began to fly across the canvas, swift strokes releasing the pent up vision trapped in her mind. As always, she wasn't even certain what image would be unleashed beneath the sweeps of her brush. It was as if an invisible hand gripped hers and guided it across the blank space, dabbing and brushing paint to form the final image. Time became meaningless and all that existed was the canvas on the easel as she swept the first bit of paint onto the surface before her.
Alisha was exhausted and famished by the time she completed the work. The buzzing in her head had finally ceased and she set her brush down with trembling fingers. Covering her face with her hands, she rubbed her eyelids then her temples. A bit dazed, she sat on a stool and felt the power of her gift drain out of her.
“I don't want to see it,” she whispered.
Dread filled her. All her recent paintings tormented her. Usually they were oracles that confounded her, their true meaning swathed in symbolism and vagueness, but lately the imagery repeated the exact same scenario that was difficult not to interpret in just one way.
Raising her eyes at last, Alisha stared at painting, the light reflecting off the still moist paint. A large empty throne dominated the painting. Lying before it, staked through the heart, was Roman.
“Fuck me,” she groaned.
Alisha was tired of painting the death of her brother. Roman had dismissed them as a manifestation of her fears and unresolved emotions over his mortal death. Even when she tried to show him other paintings she was convinced had already come true, he had been his usual pragmatic self.
“You're reading into them. I could decipher all these paintings completely differently and make it work,” he'd said.
It drove her crazy how he regarded her abilities as figments of her imagination. Staring at her creation, she knew it was a warning that her brother was in danger.
In the last few years, many more vampires had arrived in Houston to follow Roman's Laws religiously, making Roman their leader. Her brother easily fit into that role. Even Alisha had to admit that he was charismatic and imposing. Though she knew he was not as perfect as many of his
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