It’s a sign of what’s coming.
Chapter 7
Morgan
I wake after a night of dreamless sleep to the smell of bacon and eggs wafting through the air. My stomach churns and I realize I’m starving. From the angle of the sun out my window, I get the feeling I slept a little later than normal and I tug a hoodie on over my tank top and head to the kitchen. I’m tying my hair in a knot when I enter the kitchen and find Bunny eating at the table alone. His feet bounce on the floor, bobbing up and down with a fast beat.
He looks up from reading a magazine. He does a fast double take when he realizes it’s me, and there’s no mistaking that he’s checking me out. I tug at the strings on my jacket.
“Morning,” he says in a hoarse voice.
“Did you oversleep, too?” I ask. I’m ecstatic to find the coffee still hot and a covered plate of food on the stove. I groan when I see the fluffy biscuit next to the eggs and bacon.
I walk over to the shiny, stainless steel kitchen table and raise my eyebrows. Bunny nods for me to sit.
“I’m a night owl.” He takes a sip of his coffee. I try not to focus on his missing arm but as in all situations, the more you try not to look at it the more you do. The close proximity does give me the chance to see that his arm is still attached, it’s just not fully functional, and his hand is mangled and mostly useless.
“Is that when you work?” I ask, digging into my eggs. They’re delicious. “I’ve tried writing at night but early morning seems to be the best fit for my creativity.”
He smiles and his soulful eyes light up. “Then we’re opposites. For some reason I can’t get moving until after midnight. It’s like the rest of the world needs to be asleep for me to focus.”
I shovel in a mouthful of eggs and a strip of bacon. After washing it down with a swig of coffee I say, “So tell me about your paintings.”
“They’re uh…well, would you like to see them? That may be easier than explaining them.”
“I’d love to.”
We clean up our dishes, leaving them in the sink as instructed by a note on the counter. I suspect Sue doesn’t want people touching things in her kitchen. Together, Bunny and I walk up the massive staircase and I finally gather the courage to ask, “So how did you get the name Bunny?”
“I don’t know, I’ve just always had it.”
“Your parents named you Bunny?”
He laughs. “No, but my parents are from Ireland. My real name is hard to pronounce. Bunny is just easier.”
I glance at him from the side. “It’s the bouncing thing, isn’t it? You’re constantly moving.”
A slight grin appears. “Could have something to do with it.”
We climb the stairs past my floor up to the attic. The area is divided into two sections but the rooms are different. Bigger—with massive, vaulted ceilings and arched windows that overlook the city. The cavernous rooms have a haunting glow of daylight and instead of the area being split into suites, it’s just a massive studio. An unmade bed is tucked in one corner and mural-sized canvases lean against the walls.
I stop mid-stride when I see them.
“You made these?” The canvases give me a physical reaction, like I’m surrounded by something holy. I walk up to the nearest one—it also happens to be the biggest. The rectangular piece is as tall as the ceiling. A million stars splash against the blue-black backdrop and a woman floats in the middle.
Her eyes are enormous. Her pupils are dark with irises a deep shade of sapphire. Her mouth is heart-shaped and red, and a tiny raven is perched atop her long black hair. The woman’s neck is graceful and thin, stretching fro
m the bottom of the canvas. In her hand is a jewel that sparkles like purple fire against the backdrop.
I blink and look at the others and they’re all similar—each a variation of the girl with the raven and the intense, haunted eyes. In some, she holds a stone. In others, a locket hangs from her neck, nestled between her alluring swell of breasts. She wears a variety of dresses, most delicate and fine. In a few she’s nude. More than once I wonder if it’s actually a photograph I’m looking at and not a painting at all, but the drops of oil and acrylic on the floor tell me otherwise. Upon closer inspection I realize they’re not simply paintings but intricate collages built from paper, objects, and paint.
I glance back at Bunny, who is standing several feet behind me. His hand is shoved in his pocket and it makes me wonder.
“How?” I blurt, before I can censor myself. “This requires such skilled work. Doesn’t your disfigured hand hinder you?”
He shrugs. “It’s a bit of a challenge at times but I’m able to create even with my injured arm.”
“It was an injury? An accident?”