Wrapped in Color and Light

Chapter 6

Craig hopped out of his cab five blocks too soon, handing the driver twice the fare. "Keep it."

"Thank—"

Craig slammed the door and scanned the heavy rush-hour traffic. 

Walking is the right decision, he assured himself before bounding down Eighth Avenue.

He stopped next to a small park, the kind that took up one quarter of a block, thinking he saw little flashes of light, fairies of the forest skipping upon leaves. He closed his eyes, driven mad by the fact that Suntarian landscapes, people, and magic were shadows that never went away. 

He shook his head and walked on, haunted, always haunted.

Robert Cross's new condo on Eleventh Street was located in a prewar building, the intricately carved windows meticulously preserved, the mortar between red bricks gleaming white. 

"I'm here for Robert Cross," he informed the doorman, who raised an eyebrow. "Tell him Craig's here." 

"I'll let him know." 

Craig paced the lobby, his fingers tapping his thighs like a pair of drums. He glanced down to see his distorted reflection in the polished black floor, and he cringed.

The doorman's voice came from behind. "You're welcome to go up. Floor six."

Craig thanked the doorman and stepped inside the elevator. A short ride later, he was in a hallway with two doors. He knocked on the one to the left, and it opened. A thirty-year-old man extended his hand. Craig didn't say hello, nor did he look Robert in the eyes. Instead, Craig's focus went to the paintings scattered throughout the room. 

Celio's work, all fairy tales, had recently been pulled from storage, and they were now hanging in Robert's new Tribeca condo. Craig pushed past Robert, going straight to the piece on his immediate left.

Hanging on the wall, at least five feet tall, framed in gold, was Red.

"My God," Craig whispered. "This was the first. It feels like forever since I've seen it."

The girl in the red cloak held an ax high above her head, the muscles in her face tense. The handle was as tall as her, yet Craig knew that she'd lifted it and swung it not once but several times into the wolf's chest, tearing through his cavity, until she'd found the remnants of her grandmother inside. On a table, behind the girl, sat a bottle of opium. 

Celio, you sick bastard.

Craig closed his eyes, thinking he could smell the forests of Suntaria through the canvas.

Robert's voice interrupted Craig's vigil, "I know why you wanted to see these so desperately."

Craig turned toward the man, and his heart stopped. For a moment, he thought he was looking at Celio. Robert was the spitting image of his father with his small eyes and crooked nose. He even had Celio's prominent chin and chiseled cheekbones. 

And Robert was right. Craig was desperate. While he'd filled The Met's storage room with fairy tales, Celio and Roman were the only artists—that Craig knew of—who had painted portals into Suntaria. Any of the other artists in the exhibit might have visited Suntaria, but none had ever admitted to it. It would sound too insane. But Celio's and Roman's paintings had worked, and Craig wanted them all. 

"Why?" Craig shrugged, hoping to appear indifferent. He sat in a nearby modern leather chair, which was not very comfortable.

"Years ago, when I was still a kid, my dad told me wild fairy tales. He somehow knew things about each story that he could have never read in any book." Robert walked up to Red and stared. "When my dad told me 'Little Red Riding Hood,' he described the cottage in such detail that I would've sworn he'd been there. He told me all about the girl. Did you know her name was really Sarah Jane?"