“The Getty.” He smiles, setting the brake and jumping out to open my door. “Have you been?”
I shake my head and avoid his gaze. An art museum is about the last place I expected—or even wanted—to go.
“But—isn’t it closed?” I glance around, sensing we’re the only ones here, other than the armed guards who are probably stationed inside.
“Closed?” He looks at me and shakes his head. “You think I’m going to let something as mundane as that stop us?” He slips his arm around me and leads me up the stone steps, lips at my ear when he adds, “I know a museum’s not your first choice, but trust me, I’m about to prove a very good point. One that, from what you just said, clearly needs illustrating.”
“What? That you know more about art than I do?”
He stops, his face serious when he says, “I’m going to prove that the world really is our oyster. Our playground. Whatever we want it to be. There’s no need to ever feel bored or to get into a rut once you understand that the normal rules no longer apply—at least not for us. We can do anything we want, Ever, anything at all. Open, closed, locked, unlocked, welcome, unwelcome—none of it matters, we do what we want—when we want. There’s nothing or no one who can stop us.”
Not entirely true, I think, ruminating on the very thing we’ve never been able to do in the past four hundred years, which, of course, is the one thing I really want us to do.
But he just smiles, kissing me on the forehead before grasping my hand, leading me to the door as he says, “Besides, there’s an exhibit I’m dying to see, and since there’s no crowd it shouldn’t take long. And I promise, after, we can go wherever you want.”
I stare at the imposing locked doors rigged with the most high-tech alarms that are probably rigged to other high-tech alarms, that are surely rigged to machine gun–wielding guards with their fingers just itching to press the trigger. Heck, there’s probably a hidden camera trained on us now, and a not amused guard tucked somewhere inside ready to push the panic button under his desk.
“Are you seriously going to try and break in?” I gulp, palms damp, heart clattering against my chest, hoping he’s joking even though he clearly is not.
“No,” he whispers, closing his eyes and urging me to close mine. “I’m not going to try, I’m going to succeed. And if you don’t mind, you could really help this along by closing your eyes and following my lead.” Leaning even closer, lips at my ear when he adds, “And I promise, no one gets caught, hurt, or jailed. Really. Cross my heart.”
I peer at him, assuring myself that someone who’s lived for six hundred years has survived his share of scrapes. Then I take a deep breath and plunge in. Copying the series of steps he envisions until the doors spring open, the sensors turn off, and the guards all fall into a long deep sleep. Or at least I hope it’s long and deep. Long and deep would be good.
“Ready?” He looks at me, lips curving into a grin.
I hesitate, hands shaking, eyes darting, thinking that rut we were in is starting to look pretty good. Then I swallow hard and step in, cringing when my rubber sole meets the polished stone floor, resulting in the most high-pitched, screechy, cringe-worthy sound.
“What do you think?” he says, face eager, excited, hoping I’m enjoying myself as much as he. “I considered taking you to Summerland, but then I figured that’s exactly what you’d expect. So I decided to show you the magick of staying right here on the earth plane instead.”
I nod, still about as far from excited as it gets but trying to hide it. Scoping out the ginormous room with its tall ceilings, glass windows, and plethora of corridors and halls that probably make it incredibly bright and welcoming in the daytime, but kind of creepy at night. “This place is huge. Have you been here before?”
He nods, heading for the round info desk in the center. “Once. Right before it officially opened. And though I know there’s lots of important works to see, there’s one exhibit in particular I’m extremely interested in.”
He swipes a guest guide off the stand, pressing his palm to the front until the desired location appears in his head. Then dropping it back in its slot, he leads me down a series of halls and up a few stairs, our path lit only by a series of security lights and the glint of the moon shining in through the windows.
“Is this it?” I ask, watching as he stands before a luminous painting titled Madonna Enthroned with St. Matthew, body still with awe, expression transformed to one of pure bliss.
He nods, unable to speak as he takes it all in, struggling to compose himself before turning to me. “I’ve traveled a lot. Lived in so many places. But when I finally left Italy just over four centuries ago, I swore I’d never return. The Renaissance was over, and my life—well—I was more than ready to move on. But then I heard about this new school of painters, the Carracci family in Bologna, who’d learned their craft from the masters, including my dear friend Raphael. They started a new way of painting, influencing the next generation of artists.” He motions to the painting before us, face filled with wonder as he softly shakes his head. “Just look at the softness—the textures! The intensity of color and light! It’s just—” He shakes his head. “It’s just brilliant!” he says, voice tinged with reverence.
I glance between the painting and him, wishing I could see it in the same way as he. Not as some old, priceless, highly regarded picture hanging before me, but as a true thing of beauty, an object of glory, a miracle of sorts.
He leads me to the next one, our hands grasped together as we marvel at a painting of Saint Sebastian, his poor, pale body pierced with arrows—all of it appearing so real I actually flinch.
And that’s when I get it. For the first time ever, I can see what Damen sees. Finally understanding that the true journey of all great art is in taking an isolated experience and not just preserving it, or interpreting it, but sharing it for all time.
“You must feel so—” I shake my head and press my lips together, searching for just the right word. “I don’t know—powerful—I guess. To be able to create something as beautiful as this.” I peer at him, knowing he can easily create a work with as much beauty and meaning as those that hang here.
But he just shrugs, moving on to the next one as he says, “Other than our art class at school, I haven’t painted in years. I guess I’m more of an appreciator than a creator now.”
“But why? Why would you turn your back on a gift like that? I mean, it is a gift, right? There’s no way it can be an immortal thing since we’ve all seen what happens when I try to paint.”
He smiles, leading me across the room and stopping before a magnificent rendition called Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife. Gaze searching every square inch of the canvas when he says, “Honestly? Powerful doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel with a brush in my hand, a blank canvas before me, and a full palette of paint by my side. For six hundred years I’ve been invincible, heir to the elixir sought by all men!” He shakes his head. “And yet n
othing can rival the incredible rush the act of creation brings. Of crafting something you just know is destined to be great for all time.”
He turns toward me, hand at my cheek. “Or at least that’s what I believed up until I saw you. Because seeing you for the very first time—” He shakes his head, eyes gazing into mine. “Nothing can ever compare with that very first glimpse of our love.”
“You didn’t stop painting for me—did you?” I hold my breath, hoping I wasn’t the cause of his artistic demise.