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Putting paint to canvas has always been a cathartic practice, even before my vampiric second life. Today is the exception to that. The taut canvas in front of me remains defiantly blank and blindingly white, a stark contrast to the chaos of thoughts scattering through my brain.
Doing my best to ignore them, I dip my brush into the paint and let my worries converge and fade until there is only the canvas and the subject to be portrayed through deliberate strokes. The bristles glide against the edge of the glass jar with a satisfying swish as I wipe the excess off before raising my hand to make the first mark—and hesitate.
Again.
The image slips away, and with it all hope of creating anything but a mess. With a growl of frustration, I stab forward, smudging a charcoal streak from the center and off the edge of the canvas.
“Damn this artist’s block.”
It’s the Dumont witch’s fault—I know it is.
I can’t focus. No matter how I try, there’s no getting this witch out of my head.
Even the angry blotch of black haphazardly thrown across the canvas reminds me of her.
My paint brush clatters to the ground as I give up and collapse onto the chaise lounge that sits across the room, covered by a dingy, stained cloth to protect it from the carnage that is an artist’s workspace. The brush rolls back and forth, smearing paint atop the layers of color already there after years of splattered and dropped acrylics, oils, and gouache.
There are even some pieces of marble and a blanket of dust encased under it all from the time I thought I might try my hand at sculpting. It didn’t take long to figure out that my talent was with a brush, not a chisel.
If I can’t muster up the ardor to go on with my painting, it might be time to give sculpting a second chance.
“Damn you, Celine,” I say to the ceiling.
All of this, all of my problems, can be traced back to her.
Perhaps my disgruntled Unity Witch cursed me before departing the physical plane—cursed every aspect of my life to shrivel and dry up, leaving me no crumb of happiness until I became nothing but a husk, neither fully living nor fully dead.
I chuckle to myself at the thought, though there is no humor in any of it. Celine had certainly been vindictive enough to do just that.
And now, a twist of fate has brought me her daughter.
If I have any hope of overcoming this block, I need to clear my head of Josephine Dumont. An impossible task when every thought circles back to her, bringing with it a pain, raw and unyielding.
I can’t even look at the witch without seeing her mother.
Losing my Unity Witch, the bond that briefly tethered me to the world of daylight and infused me with unimaginable power, left a void deep within my immortal soul.
How dare Josephine appear before me—a living embodiment of what I was denied—and act as if she is entitled to anything more than the ire she has earned? The injustice of it all sears through my veins, fueling a storm of resentment.
The very presence of this girl threatens to unravel the fragile stability I’ve maintained since her mother’s death. And the worst part of it is how oblivious she is to the power she possesses.
They say time heals all wounds, but this wound has only festered over the last twenty-five years. And then Josephine Dumont barrels into New Orleans, driving the knife into my chest and giving it a harsh twist.
She has aggravated the wound, ensuring it will never heal.
I throw an arm over my face, hiding from both my own thoughts and the overhead light. Even at the dimmest setting, it stings. I really should get to sleep. Somehow, I doubt I would be safe there, either. Dumont women always slither their way past my defenses.
Eager to prove my point, Josephine’s visage pops into my mind unbidden. She looks nothing like her mother—aside from the long, pitch-black hair falling in waves and kinks to her waist. But her hair is different too. The way the ebony of her hair transitions into a pale pink… it’s like a beacon of naivety.
She knew nothing of my bond with her mother.
She knows nothing of the workings of New Orleans.
Claudette took her away and wiped her slate clean, filling her head with prejudices and lies. She hates us.
Well, that certainly reminds me of Celine.
That angry defiance in her gaze—the one that says ‘you may overpower me, but I won’t back down without a fight’. That look of hers is certainly a blast from the past. Even in the grip of terror, both Josephine and her mother remain foolishly obstinate.
