bordering him—the same work-men from the bar, who had managed somewhere along the way to change into discreet, charcoal suits—and confronted his abductor. “Zadkiel?” He asked. But Karen had already entered the door and was greeting the elderly gentleman with a bright smile and two quick kisses on the cheek. Hunter’s guards nudged him forward, and he followed Karen through the door and into the foyer.
Unsurprisingly, the interior of the house was as impressive as the exterior, with the same swirling, leafy patterns and muted browns and greens. The gentleman, who had stepped briefly aside to admit Hunter’s guards, glided forward and motioned for the group to follow him.
They moved from the foyer to a long hallway of sage-green and ivory. He couldn’t say for certain, but Hunter guessed it was one of the connecting corridors joining the satellite buildings to the hub. As they marched along the corridor, Hunter examined the strange sets of portraits that hung from the walls. A matched series, they appeared to portray the same set of characters in each piece. The family, Hunter supposed, who probably paid a fortune to immortalize the exploits of its members.
The first of the series showed a man and a woman standing behind a group of three children against a backdrop of farmland. The painting itself was nothing special, and would have blended easily into the background if it weren’t for the look on one of the children’s faces. The boy—and despite the androgynous cast of his features, Hunter was sure it was a boy—stood between his taller brother and younger sister with an expression of pained frustration. The artist, who had only made a glancing study of the rest of the surroundings, had paid special attention to the young boy, giving him stronger features and penetrating eyes. Eyes that were a dark, inky black .
As the party continued down the hallway Hunter was pulled to the next in the series, where he saw the same boy, older now and posed with a bird-hound in front of the same track of farmland. Only this time the family was absent, and the quality of the land and the scattered equipment seemed far superior to the earlier painting. The grass was a clean, even green, the barn was sporting a new coat of brick-red paint, and a spotless tractor was parked in the distance.
In the next the boy had clearly entered manhood, overseeing a construction company as it tore down the remains of the ancient farmhouse. He wore the same frustrated look, but this time the artist had chosen to focus on the demolition of the barn rather than the specifics of the man’s face. Hunter marveled at the detail of the half-destroyed upper building, before he was pushed forward again, nearly tripping on his feet as one of the guards nudged him.
The next four paintings all showed the same event: the destruction of the farmhouse and the building of the mansion. Through them, the boy—or old man as he had become by the last of them, where the mansion could be seen in its full splendor—oversaw the project with the same distant stare and frustrated expression. His eyes never strayed from a steady black.
By the time they reached the end of the hall Hunter was almost sorry to see the paintings go. There was a sensitive touch to the artist’s depictions, a melancholy that surrounded the old making way for the new. Exiting the hallway, Hunter found himself wondering if the young man with the dark eyes had ever lost that frustrated stare.
As they entered the first connecting building, Hunter found himself before a large, elegant ball room. The ceiling arched high above, hungry for the sky, and chandeliers of varying colors and designs hung throughout the room like static fireworks. The dark, wood-grain floor stretched several hundred feet to the far wall, and was filled with groups of men and women dressed in crisp tuxedos and ball-gowns. Servants in black and white livery circled elegantly through the crowd, offering tall glasses of
Unsurprisingly, the interior of the house was as impressive as the exterior, with the same swirling, leafy patterns and muted browns and greens. The gentleman, who had stepped briefly aside to admit Hunter’s guards, glided forward and motioned for the group to follow him.
They moved from the foyer to a long hallway of sage-green and ivory. He couldn’t say for certain, but Hunter guessed it was one of the connecting corridors joining the satellite buildings to the hub. As they marched along the corridor, Hunter examined the strange sets of portraits that hung from the walls. A matched series, they appeared to portray the same set of characters in each piece. The family, Hunter supposed, who probably paid a fortune to immortalize the exploits of its members.
The first of the series showed a man and a woman standing behind a group of three children against a backdrop of farmland. The painting itself was nothing special, and would have blended easily into the background if it weren’t for the look on one of the children’s faces. The boy—and despite the androgynous cast of his features, Hunter was sure it was a boy—stood between his taller brother and younger sister with an expression of pained frustration. The artist, who had only made a glancing study of the rest of the surroundings, had paid special attention to the young boy, giving him stronger features and penetrating eyes. Eyes that were a dark, inky black .
As the party continued down the hallway Hunter was pulled to the next in the series, where he saw the same boy, older now and posed with a bird-hound in front of the same track of farmland. Only this time the family was absent, and the quality of the land and the scattered equipment seemed far superior to the earlier painting. The grass was a clean, even green, the barn was sporting a new coat of brick-red paint, and a spotless tractor was parked in the distance.
In the next the boy had clearly entered manhood, overseeing a construction company as it tore down the remains of the ancient farmhouse. He wore the same frustrated look, but this time the artist had chosen to focus on the demolition of the barn rather than the specifics of the man’s face. Hunter marveled at the detail of the half-destroyed upper building, before he was pushed forward again, nearly tripping on his feet as one of the guards nudged him.
The next four paintings all showed the same event: the destruction of the farmhouse and the building of the mansion. Through them, the boy—or old man as he had become by the last of them, where the mansion could be seen in its full splendor—oversaw the project with the same distant stare and frustrated expression. His eyes never strayed from a steady black.
By the time they reached the end of the hall Hunter was almost sorry to see the paintings go. There was a sensitive touch to the artist’s depictions, a melancholy that surrounded the old making way for the new. Exiting the hallway, Hunter found himself wondering if the young man with the dark eyes had ever lost that frustrated stare.
As they entered the first connecting building, Hunter found himself before a large, elegant ball room. The ceiling arched high above, hungry for the sky, and chandeliers of varying colors and designs hung throughout the room like static fireworks. The dark, wood-grain floor stretched several hundred feet to the far wall, and was filled with groups of men and women dressed in crisp tuxedos and ball-gowns. Servants in black and white livery circled elegantly through the crowd, offering tall glasses of
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