each other.”
“She did, did she?”
“Mm-hmm. She says it’s better to be more tolerant, and then both species will flourish together.”
“Smart teacher.”
“Yep. She is.”
I could hear the admiration in Moira’s voice. For a fifteen-year-old, sheltered under the watchful eye of our father, she was wildly bright and perceptive. She was what some called an old soul .
Her brow pushed together into a frown. “There are some kids who don’t agree with her.”
“Hmph. I’m sure there are.” I slid her a knowing glance, whispering conspiratorially, “But I think she’s right.”
Moira giggled, still one of the sweetest sounds I’d ever heard. “I do, too,” she whispered back.
I gazed up the wall of glassy skyscrapers, catching a glimpse of a Morgon winging onto a rooftop. Morgon-owned buildings primarily housed Morgon-owned shops on the top floor. Humans stayed street-level with various offices on other floors. Most owned and rented property on the other side of Gladium Province where the Cade Empire squatted like a tentacled behemoth. Morgons still kept to the west side. But these few blocks of the Warwick District were the blurring line where the two merged, sharing space and apparently working together as evidenced at the handbag store.
Considering whether Morgons would ever own street-level businesses and cater to humans outright, the familiar crest of three black dragons caught my eye. A small imprint at the bottom of an etched name in glass read “Flaming Hearts Art Gallery.” My pulse pumped faster.
“Muffin? You mind if we step inside? I’d like to take a look in this gallery.”
“Sure.”
A Morgon woman smiled at us when we entered. I’d never seen wings her shade—deep indigo. She fluttered her delicate wings and did a double take. She frowned before plastering a serene, welcoming expression onto her pretty face.
“Good day, ladies. Please let me know if I can assist you in any way.”
I nodded in greeting. A Morgon art gallery for human patrons. How interesting. And I knew exactly which clan owned it.
“Oh, Jess. Look at this. It’s simply beautiful.”
An abstract sculpture of a Morgon in flight stood at the front of the gallery. While Moira circled the piece, I ventured to the paintings, a mystical pull drawing me forward. I ambled slowly along the wall, first past a study of mountains in black and white. Next was an abstract series of Morgons in different stages of flight, all a vibrant smear of color, presumably by the same artist who created the sculpture up front. I moved on.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
A nude, fair-skinned human woman stood on a balcony, peering over one shoulder back at the artist, as if he’d called her name. Black waves of hair poured down her back, revealing a smooth curve of hip. I knew this woman. I’d seen her often enough in the mirror. I knew this artist’s brush, too. I’d seen it on the ceiling in Lucius’s living room. Sweat beaded along my brow.
The next piece was a rectangular painting in blacks, browns, and golds—a close-up of a pair of deep, brown eyes, promising mischief. Maybe more. I gasped.
My heart hammered a drumbeat against my ribs as I moved to the next. In the foreground, the muscular shoulder of a Morgon man and part of an open wing framed the raven-haired muse. Though the artist only revealed bare shoulders and the profile of her face, she appeared to be nude again. At the same time, this scene reeked of protection, keeping this woman safe within the shadow of his wing.
I trembled as I stood staring at a perfect rendition of my profile. My profile! I could hardly breathe. How could he possibly have recreated me in oil and canvas so true to life? He’d only seen me twice. My pulse throbbed in my throat as a slow dawning washed over me. I wasn’t the only one haunted by forbidden desire.
I moved on to the final painting and froze in place. It was the largest of the four, and by far the most intimate.
“She did, did she?”
“Mm-hmm. She says it’s better to be more tolerant, and then both species will flourish together.”
“Smart teacher.”
“Yep. She is.”
I could hear the admiration in Moira’s voice. For a fifteen-year-old, sheltered under the watchful eye of our father, she was wildly bright and perceptive. She was what some called an old soul .
Her brow pushed together into a frown. “There are some kids who don’t agree with her.”
“Hmph. I’m sure there are.” I slid her a knowing glance, whispering conspiratorially, “But I think she’s right.”
Moira giggled, still one of the sweetest sounds I’d ever heard. “I do, too,” she whispered back.
I gazed up the wall of glassy skyscrapers, catching a glimpse of a Morgon winging onto a rooftop. Morgon-owned buildings primarily housed Morgon-owned shops on the top floor. Humans stayed street-level with various offices on other floors. Most owned and rented property on the other side of Gladium Province where the Cade Empire squatted like a tentacled behemoth. Morgons still kept to the west side. But these few blocks of the Warwick District were the blurring line where the two merged, sharing space and apparently working together as evidenced at the handbag store.
Considering whether Morgons would ever own street-level businesses and cater to humans outright, the familiar crest of three black dragons caught my eye. A small imprint at the bottom of an etched name in glass read “Flaming Hearts Art Gallery.” My pulse pumped faster.
“Muffin? You mind if we step inside? I’d like to take a look in this gallery.”
“Sure.”
A Morgon woman smiled at us when we entered. I’d never seen wings her shade—deep indigo. She fluttered her delicate wings and did a double take. She frowned before plastering a serene, welcoming expression onto her pretty face.
“Good day, ladies. Please let me know if I can assist you in any way.”
I nodded in greeting. A Morgon art gallery for human patrons. How interesting. And I knew exactly which clan owned it.
“Oh, Jess. Look at this. It’s simply beautiful.”
An abstract sculpture of a Morgon in flight stood at the front of the gallery. While Moira circled the piece, I ventured to the paintings, a mystical pull drawing me forward. I ambled slowly along the wall, first past a study of mountains in black and white. Next was an abstract series of Morgons in different stages of flight, all a vibrant smear of color, presumably by the same artist who created the sculpture up front. I moved on.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
A nude, fair-skinned human woman stood on a balcony, peering over one shoulder back at the artist, as if he’d called her name. Black waves of hair poured down her back, revealing a smooth curve of hip. I knew this woman. I’d seen her often enough in the mirror. I knew this artist’s brush, too. I’d seen it on the ceiling in Lucius’s living room. Sweat beaded along my brow.
The next piece was a rectangular painting in blacks, browns, and golds—a close-up of a pair of deep, brown eyes, promising mischief. Maybe more. I gasped.
My heart hammered a drumbeat against my ribs as I moved to the next. In the foreground, the muscular shoulder of a Morgon man and part of an open wing framed the raven-haired muse. Though the artist only revealed bare shoulders and the profile of her face, she appeared to be nude again. At the same time, this scene reeked of protection, keeping this woman safe within the shadow of his wing.
I trembled as I stood staring at a perfect rendition of my profile. My profile! I could hardly breathe. How could he possibly have recreated me in oil and canvas so true to life? He’d only seen me twice. My pulse throbbed in my throat as a slow dawning washed over me. I wasn’t the only one haunted by forbidden desire.
I moved on to the final painting and froze in place. It was the largest of the four, and by far the most intimate.
Similar Books
