Read Online Empire of Light by Gregory Earls - Free Book Online

anyway? It’s all I can do to stop myself from prying open the back of the camera, but since I don’t know anything about the retrofit, I could ruin everything. Edge would kill me.
    For the second time, I almost forget the kid is there. I look up to find him gazing at me, obviously not accepting my dismsive answer.
    “Michelangelo?”
    “Yeah, Michelangelo,” he repeats enthusiastically.
    “Well,” I sigh. “That guy was all ‘Cecil B. Demille.’ Right? He probably would’ve had a beam of sunlight cutting through these majestic clouds, bathing Andrew on the cross in some ethereal brilliant light. Maybe some angels dancing around his head like some 90s boy band with their dicks covered by banners—”
    “Yeah. A lot of bullshit,” he interrupts. “The miracle isn’t bullshit. Right? But the Disney-fication of it is bullshit. Think about how much easier it would be to sacrifice yourself if you had an angel sitting on your shoulder, whispering in your ear, Easy, cowboy. Everything is going to be cool. Just gut it out a few more hours and then you’re hangin’ in paradise. Shoot, that’s no trick, man,” he says, staring down at his sandals.
    The kid starts to rub at the palm of his right hand, blood spilling from it and onto the pristine wood floor.
    “Shit!” I exclaim, scooting the hell away from him.
    “Try being murdered when it’s so dark that even though your eyes are wide open in panic,” he continues, “you still can’t see into the eyes of the soldier nailing your hand to the cross. No angels appear to comfort you, and all the evidence at that moment tells you that there is no God. Or if he does exist, he sure doesn’t seem all that concerned with your pain. Yet, you believe in him anyway . Now that’s faith. That is faith. That’s my belief system in that blackness,” he says pointing to the painting. “But you know what I’m saying.”
    I have no goddamn clue what this guy is talking about.
    “Dude. What the hell is going on with your hand?”
    “What?” he asks as he gazes down at it, mysteriously now not a drop of blood to be found, neither in his palm nor on the floor.
    “Your eyes still messing with you?” he asks sincerely.
    “I guess. I thought I—”
    “You know what you need?” he asks, interrupting me. “I’m kind of the Johnny Appleseed of art around here,” he says as he digs around in his messenger bag. “I work at this art supply store, and the boss likes to convert new customers with some freebies.”
    I set the Brownie onto the ground as he hands me a brand new sketchpad and a pouch full of drawing pencils, kneaded erasers and a sharpener.
    “If you like Caravaggio so much, then you need to sketch his work. Kind of rattle around in his boots for a bit.”
    Still a bit confused by the flash and the blood I know I saw pouring from his palm, I can only speak like a monosyllabic idiot. “Thanks?”
    “Name’s Andy,” he says, offering his hand.
    “Jason.” I take one last look at his hand before shaking. It looks as clean as the board of health. I grasp it. Strong grip. Cold. However, as I gaze into his old eyes while he holds my hand, I am instantly at ease. I feel like I’m gripping goodness and times gone by.
    He gently lets go, and I take the opportunity to divert my eyes by admiring the bitchin’ sketchbook he just gifted me. I run my hands across the cloth cover, so soft I could sleep on it.
    “I can’t believe you just hand this stuff out, man.”
    I look up, and the kid is ghost. Gone.
    I slowly shift my gaze skyward, hoping to God I don’t see the dude crab walking on the ceiling with his tongue flicking in the air.
    A little kid suddenly runs into the gallery, shrieking, followed by his parents. Normally I’d be pissed at the commotion, but right now I welcome the sound of earthly clatter.
    The sketchbook.
    I quickly flip through it hoping to find a clue pointing to which art supply store Andy worked for. Instead, I find an inscription on