Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle) (5 page)

“Of course,” he said, pulling his light eyes away from the painting.

“Tomorrow is the presentation;
would it be okay to stop by in the morning for the cups?”

“Absolutely.”
He smiled kindly at me.

I snapped one shot of the portrait, deciding I
would
share his beauty with Stacey and my class. The strange over-protectiveness had slightly lifted, and I knew he would be safe here with Mr. Riley. We talked a little bit more as I took some pictures of his other artifacts, but we left Brendelon out of it. By the end, I was happy with the pictures I got, and I knew Stacey would be pleased.

“Thanks again
, Mr. Riley. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I waved and quickly made my way back to my car. It was already getting late, and I still needed to get the photos developed. I grabbed my phone and sent Stacey a quick text to not wait up.

*****

              I stopped by Mario’s Sandwiches, while my pictures developed at the One-Hour Photo Shop. I couldn’t help wondering why my grandfather had kept all these secrets. He knew I loved history and adventurous stories, and the medieval era had always been one of my favorite time periods. Why had he kept it from Mr. Riley? They were close friends and obviously Mr. Riley would have shared his passion for the documents he must have had on Brendelon. It seemed odd to me, and it was irritating that it was a mystery I would never solve. I sighed and dropped my half eaten turkey sandwich back into the little paper boat. I wasn’t very hungry, so I wrapped it up to save for later. I couldn’t afford to waste money; my account was lower than it had been in a while, and a stressed out butterfly soared through me but I shook it down.

I glanced up at the digital clock above the cashier. I still had time before the photos were ready
, so I yanked open my book bag, finding my Anthropology notes. The final was tomorrow; I felt pretty good about it, but I needed a distraction. These thoughts were too depressing.

The tall, beautiful, regal woman took a deep sigh
. The curse was not the worst thing that could have happened. In fact, it rather worked out better than she could have hoped. Perhaps, she would have to thank the sorceress’ temper for that, as long as he was never freed of course.

She preferred to not use magic
, but this spell was imperative for the well-being of Britain. She held out her long white hand and said a small, whispery chant above the well then carefully removed a single stone, a marker. It was more of a manipulation, she reasoned, manipulation of the eyes, and it would remain unseen as long as the stone was secure. She looked at the wide-eyed fair-haired noble beside her. The responsibility would befall on him, but he was worthy of it; she could see his pure heart.

“Keep this ston
e in your family,” she sang out. “It cannot be destroyed. Pass it along throughout the generations. Never let it fall into the wrong hands, and NEVER let it near that cursed knight. After all, Britain depends on you...”

              “Wake up sleepy head!” Stacey’s voice was too cheerful for this early in the morning.              

“Ugh,” I groaned. I couldn’t believe that it was already time to get up. I hadn’t slept well at all; my brain wouldn’t shut off. Mysteries lurked in my sleep. I threw the fluffy cover over my face, desperate to close my eyes for just a few more minutes.

Stacey bounced on my bed, yanking the covers off my head. “I hope you got the pictures.” She looked at me mischievously; the look made me nervous.

“Yes, I got them.” M
y voice was still raspy. I looked at her again. “What are you up to?” I knew that look too well.

She giggled and bounded out of the room, suddenly reappearing holding not one but two elegant medieval gowns.

“Oh no,” I groaned, throwing my arm over my face. “I can’t wear that Stacey. I’ll die of embarrassment.”

She rolled her eyes. “O
h, please. This is a guaranteed A.” I peeked out from my arm, as she threw the burgundy colored gown at me. I had to admit it was really pretty. It had a square neckline that went down low but still remained conservative, long sleeves, and a v-cut waist, trimmed in a beautiful ivory thread. As lovely as it was, I really didn’t want to wear it. I was embarrassed just thinking about it, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her after she probably spent a fortune on the costumes.

She looked at me with
big brown eyes. “So…”

“Fine, I’ll wear it,” I mumbled, rolling out of bed.

She squealed, grabbing the light purple dress. “These are top of the line Katarina. We’re going to look like princesses.” She winked at me.

I kind of like the sound of that, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the dread that lingered with me.

I yanked off my gray tank top and pink pajama bottoms, stumbling my way into the shower, feeling exhausted. The hot water was soothing against my skin; I lifted my face to the shower head, letting it run across my face. I decided I didn’t believe Mr. Riley’s story. No, I definitely didn’t believe in magic and spells. It was childish, and I was embarrassed I had even entertained Mr. Riley’s fantasies. It was just too easy to get swept up in the idea of it all.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me and yanking the blow dryer from under the sink, deciding I would dry and curl my hair. A fancy dress should have pretty hair to go with it, and Stacey would be happy I had put more than five minutes into my appearance. I picked up my watch and bracelet, staring at the stone remembering when my grandfather gave it to me. At first, it had been a simple rock that had been passed down from generations to generations; it had belonged in the well of one of our great ancestors who lived in England.

At the time
, I thought it was odd to keep a stone, but then he molded it into a bracelet, just for me. He mailed it to me when I was eight years old and still living in Colorado with my parents before my mother had died. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it, and now it held an even more special place in my heart because it was one of the few things I had of my grandfather.

When I moved in with him,
he hadn’t wanted me to wear it; he said it was valuable and should be locked up and kept safe, but once he passed, I hardly ever took it off. I twisted it over in my hand feeling the smoothness of the stone. I liked it because even though California was usually hot and dry, the bracelet always felt cold and moist; it reminded me of Colorado winters—my mother’s favorite time of year.

I stared at it for a while, wondering if it could really change into that glorious green and purple color with heat. I started rubbing it
, trying to warm a spot, but it still felt cold, and I didn’t have time to continue to test my theory, so I quickly slipped it on. 

I pulled the extravagant dress over my head. Ridiculous as it was, it really was beautiful. I glanced one more time at my reflection, liking what I saw, and blushing that I did.

I yanked the dress off, stuffing it into an old backpack, along with my grandfather’s old journal that I had pulled from my hope chest. Then I took the album I had filled with the pictures I took—admiring the way it looked after I had spent all night carefully burning the edges to give it an authentic feel—and placed it on top. Throwing on a dark pair of skinny jeans and a light pink tank top, I fished in my closet for my brown boots, figuring they would go somewhat with the dress. I’d change back into it at school because there was no way I would wear it to the museum. I glanced at my watch:
Eight o’clock
. My class started at ten, so I had some time, but I wanted to get to the museum early, partly because I was hoping Mr. Riley might have time to translate some of the journal for me, but mostly because I had vowed that after this project was over, I would let go of this silly fixation, and it might be the last time I got to look at him; the photo I took just did not have the same effect as the magnificent painting.

*****

Lost in daydreams, I was at the museum before I even knew it. Inside was crowded with a group of bouncing elementary students and two teachers desperately trying to calm them. I maneuvered my way to the front desk. Melissa was there again. She looked like she was about to lose it. She saw me and mouthed “Oh my GOD!” I smiled as she handed me a note.

Katarina,

I forgot all about the scheduled field trip, please forgive me. You know where the cups are, help yourself. Good luck on your project!

Mr. Riley

              Even though he wouldn’t be able to translate the journal, I smiled at the thought of looking at Brendelon uninterrupted. Mr. Riley really was too kind, and I would have to make sure he knew how much I appreciated his help. I practically skipped my way to the back, away from the ruckus, and on my way to the portrait.

             
I grabbed the beautiful silver cups off the shelf where Mr. Riley had left them, turning them over in my hand admiring the craftsmanship. My professor would love these. Carefully, I placed them into the backpack, using the dress to help cushion them.

             
Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I scurried to the aisle with the painting. My pulse picked up as I pulled back the tattered curtain, feeling a strange sense of relief to see the painting was still safely there.

The eyes seemed greener today; that was odd. I leaned in to see them better, shuddering at the realness. They were focused downward
, and I followed the gaze, as an eccentric glow caught my eye; my bracelet was back to the green and purple swirls. I was almost mesmerized by it. I looked back up to the eyes; they were even lighter than before.
Was it the glow from the bracelet lighting them up?
It really was an intense painting, too life-like that it was almost eerie, but I wouldn’t be swayed by Mr. Riley’s crazy story. I reached up, entranced by his beauty, desiring to look closer at the green peeking out from behind a malicious black curtain, but the closer I moved, the brighter my bracelet became. I pulled back slightly, looking behind me to see if there was a fluorescent light illuminating it, but I couldn’t see anything that would cause such a change. Turning back to the picture, I clambered up on a metal rack, reaching up again, ignoring the strange shine. “A face so beautiful it belongs in a painting,” I whispered, reading the inscription as I put my hand up to the painting. It felt unusually warm and before I could think twice, I was hurtled backwards by a huge force of what I could only describe as a large gust of wind.

             
The frame had fallen to the floor, still remaining upright. The front circled into a large hole, and suddenly there was a surreal vapor as the painting began to move to life, and there he was: charging with his sword swinging forward and he was coming towards
me
!

I tried to scream
, but my heart lurched into my throat blocking all sounds. I covered my face with my arms, curling into a small ball and squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself to wake up because this could not be happening.

“
MORGAINA!”
he roared as I heard his blade slam against the concrete floor of the building. I peeked out from under my arm; he was still there; I was still in the museum, and his dark eyes were piercing into mine. He shifted back slightly, looking me over, still on guard but clearly confused and seeming to be on the edge of shock. As impossible as it seemed, he was more beautiful in life than the picture could ever give him credit for, and I forgot to be afraid, too awestruck by the beauty.

“What treachery is this?” he growled, tip of the sword still pointed at me, carefully keeping me in his line of vision as he glanced around the warehouse. He kept his jaw firm, appearing to be in control
, but his apprehensive eyes shifted rapidly to everything around him.

I held my hands up
in a gesture of surrender, hoping to calm him, and slowly made my way to my feet. “I… I’m not Morgaina,” I squeaked.

His mouth twisted into that alluring half-grin that didn’t match the sinister eyes;
he let out a short dark laugh. “I know your tricks, sorceress.”

Oh. Crap
. I wasn’t sure how to convince him of what really happened. He was absolutely clueless, and there was a fairly good chance he would try to do away with me the same as he had tried with Morgaina. And though I was terrified at the unnatural phenomenon that was developing before my very eyes, I found myself thrilled at the possibility to have the answers to the questions that tormented me.

“I…I know this is going to be hard to believe,” I started calmly, keeping my hands up, “but you hav
e been trapped in that painting.” I pointed behind him to the painting that was now no more than a background scene of an open field surrounded by a forest.

The smile was gone but even serious the very corners of his mouth
seemed to slightly curl upward. He glared, searching my face to find the lie. “Shape-shifter,” he barely whispered, eyes darkening even more.

“I’m telling you the truth,” I pleaded. “My name is Katarina. I’m not
Morgaina, and you’ve been frozen in time.”

He flinched, shifting his gaze
to the ground for a quick moment then his head snapped back up. He took two quick strides closer, forcing me to stumble back, as the silver tip of the sword came uncomfortably close, and kept his eyes fixated above mine, searching my face. “What means you by frozen?” he finally asked gruffly, lowering the sword. 

“Well… I mean trapped in time. Morgaina put a spell on you,” I started. “Nobody was able to break the curse—”

“Then how did you?” he demanded, raising his sword again.

“I … I th
ink it was my bracelet,” I stuttered, holding it up to him.

He grasped my wrist roughly
, causing my skin to prickle as he held tightly, studying the magnificent glow. The light lit his eyes up to a marvelous green, contradicting against his black hair that fell forward into a large soft curl across the side of his forehead. It was fascinating; they weren’t a brownish green or even a bluish green like most eyes I’d seen; they were bright and vibrant, the same shade as emeralds slightly outlined in black that matched his hair. I couldn’t stop staring at the perfectly sculptured face covered by smooth lightly tanned skin, and in that moment I realized I had to be dreaming; nobody could be this beautiful.

The emeralds darted back and forth, darkening. He clenched his jaw, face twisting, as he clutched the small curl above his ear. “How long?” he muttered.

“What?” I asked, coming out of my stupor, wondering if I had missed something.

“How
… long… have I… been trapped?” he asked in a derisively slow tone as though I were mentally handicapped. 

I
decided to ignore his rudeness. “Over 700 years, I think,” I answered, unsure of the exact year he had existed in.

His eyes widened.
“Seven hun—” He put his hand up to his hair again, gripping it tightly then running it down to the back of his neck. “Seven
hundred
… years?” he stuttered out as if it were a foreign language. He started breathing deeply, looking as though he were about to have a panic attack. I saw his body tremble slightly; his eyes focused somewhere else, and he shook his head turning from me, blinking rapidly as he stared into the nothingness of the floor. His hand drifted from his neck and clenched into a tight ball at his side. “All of them are gone,” he muttered under his breath.