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“Mother?”
I was having a dream—a nightmare. Warning bells rang loud and clear even in my unconscious, sleep-induced state.
I stood in her studio, watching her paint white walls in hues of red. I called out. She wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t even acknowledge my presence. Her blonde hair fell long around slim shoulders, shrouding her face, as she streaked the room in scarlet shapes—winged angels falling from the sky, mouths gaping and twisted in horror as they fell into a blood-red abyss. Somewhere, staccato, operatic voices chanted in Latin, urging her onward. I called her name again. She swiveled. Soulless eyes widened, the color of her dripping brush, staring from a ghostly pale face. Her mouth opened to speak or scream; I wasn’t sure.
I awoke in the dark, bolting upright. A cold sweat dampened my scalp and neck. I nearly choked on my own fear. Pain rippled across my stomach, where my stitched wound throbbed.
“Ow!”
I sucked in a breath and pushed a fleece blanket off me, vaguely wondering when Jude had put it there. What time was it? Glancing down, I realized I was barefoot and wearing an oversized gray T-shirt that was definitely not mine. I panicked for a moment, wondering how the hell I’d slept throughthat. Some blue pill. I calmed when I realized I was still in my bra and jeans. Okay. Not too mortifying, I suppose.
The vision of my mother had faded, yet the music still played in my head. No. It was coming from down the hall.
Jude’s bedroom door stood open. A desk lamp revealed an empty room, a made bed. I followed the operatic music, quickly recognizingCarmina Burana. I didn’t know the music from my mother, however. Professor Minga had made us translate the Latin lyrics as a class project last quarter. Songs about wine, women, and lascivious behavior, ironically composed by a randy gang of defrocked monks in the 12th century. My classmate Mary and I had laughed, imagining “monks gone wild” with their brown robes and tonsured heads.
I padded farther down the hall, edging closer to the source, realizing his home was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. I passed several closed doors. A sliver of light peeked from a crack in the last one on the left. I tiptoed closer, pushing the door open as the final and most famous song of the piece blared from within. I translated as the words streamed in dramatic Latin verse.
O Fortune, like the moon, you are changeable.
The door creaked ajar, revealing Jude wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting, black workout pants. He swiveled and spun across the wood floor, swinging two great broadswords in fluid movements. It was a long empty room with no furniture but an iPhone docking station and tiny, powerful Bose speakers in each corner. The back wall was windowless with brick facing, typical of older homes in the Quarter, but I barely registered any of this since my eyes were glued to the dark god moving across the floor with his eyes closed.
He seemed to be working through a memorized routine, almost dancing, with sharpened steel in each hand. As he moved, sinewy muscles rippled, accentuating the contoured lines of his body and dynamic works of art covering his skin. A faint golden glow shimmered along his limbs, shoulders, and back. Raw energy pulsed in the room. All the while, a choir chanted the Latin song about fate.
Fate, monstrous and empty…
He swung his left arm low, slicing through an invisible enemy, shifting right to swing at another. The heavy weapons appeared like something out ofGladiator. I’d watched that movie a thousand times with my dad, mesmerized by Russell Crowe’s epic sword-fighting skills. No offense, but Crowe had nothing on this man.
The size and bulk of the weapons should weigh a man down with dull, heavy strokes. Not Jude. The Latin chorus steadily grew louder, leading him into a rhythmic dance of sweat and steel. Always in control, he’d never shown an ounce of emotion on his face until this moment. The pain etched into his brow as he fought an unseen rival broke my heart and fascinated me at the same time.
You are malevolent, well-being is vain and always fades to nothing.
As the music built to a climactic frenzy, words of despair screamed in perfect harmony. I trembled at the sight of him, as if he was in the midst of a great battle, doomed to fail.
Since Fate strikes down the strong man…
Then it happened. My senses sharpened on every level—sound shattered my eardrums, heat burned my skin, sweat and fear coated my tongue, and the sight of him whirling like a warrior in agony slapped me into another time and place altogether.
The room shimmered. For a split second, I saw Jude, thinner, perhaps younger, bare-chested with no tattoos and much longer hair, braids at the temples. Clad in some kind of natural-leather pants and covered in blue war paint, he wielded a single sword, surrounded by thatched-roof houses engulfed in flame.
The fire roared into the night, mingled with the screams of women and children. Grim-faced, Jude clanged metal against metal. His weapon bore down upon the head of a beautiful, fair-haired man dressed in a Roman tunic. His enemy grinned back at him with malice. The overpowering feeling of hatred mingled with fury stemming from Jude filled my veins as if I were there battling the sneering foe, not him.
I sucked in a loud, gasping breath, like coming up for air after being submerged too long underwater. The vision came and went in a blink, tearing through me like opening a wound. I trembled from the strange, almost painful sensation of being thrust into the horrific memory of the man standing before me.
I knew without a fraction of a doubt that this was part of being a Vessel. Whatever vision I’d conjured, the power came from within me. I quivered in my bare feet from the aftershock, rage—not mine—still coursing through my frame as I stood in the doorway.
Jude faced me, frozen, eyes wide open, betrayal flitting across his face. He held the swords low in each white-knuckled fist. The music crashed to a halt at the end of the song.
Silence.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. He glared at me with that obsidian gaze before finally snapping out of his trance.
Walking to the wall at my right, he popped open a cabinet. Inside, a case for swords in various lengths, widths, and designs was stacked in sheaths from top to bottom. Breathing heavily, he used a towel to wipe the first blade before placing it home.
I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the vision and by Jude’s current state, glistening skin and all. I struggled to regain composure, still shaking with the lingering taste of rage,hisrage, sharpening my senses. Still, I couldn’t help but notice his ink—harsh and beautiful, delicate and jagged, soft curves with razor tips. Just like him, a paradox of beauty and predator. Alluring and lethal at the same time.
“What did you see?”
I flinched. How did he know? “What do you mean?”
