A Speck of Green Paint Who: Ellie, John What: Art and Secrets Revealed When: Night Where: Las Vegas, Arts District Warnings: Blood
As far as talents and tastes ran, the Arts District in Las Vegas, which was situated northeast of the strip, was a mixed bag.
One could wander into a concrete fortress called the Arts Factory and explore twenty small galleries interspersed with working studios of talented potters and painters hard at work. A block away, the Brett Wesley Gallery featured a rotation of local, lesser known artists selling their wares, one of whom was currently attempting to convince the public that a display of plastic backpacks on pegs qualified as contemporary art. Tucked inside the Art Square, aspiring playwrights showcased rough drafts within a tiny venue called, aptly, the Cockroach Theater. A little farther north, the Metropolitan Art Gallery was the largest fine arts exhibition space in the city. No matter which portion of it called to a person, the entirety of this section of the city teemed with life, both natural and eternal.
John had spent the better part of ten minutes in the Arts Factory watching a woman weaving on a loom to a soundtrack of Tibetan singing bowls. He was fascinated by the rhythm of her hands, the patience she dedicated to her craft, shaving hours off her life to create an elaborate tapestry. At the entrance of her studio, a colorful flyer extolled the virtues of tapestries as home decor, citing their ability to transform a home into a space that enlightened the spirit and soothed the soul.
If all it took was a wooden hanger and braid of yarn to make things right, John thought, a person’s soul could do worse. He eventually turned to leave the factory, thinking that a trip to the Metropolitan might be in order. He cut a striking figure in a pair of dark jeans, a button-down shirt, and a sport coat, his hair wavy and black, his jaw clean-shaven. A bit of footwork took him around a promotional easel that had inched too far into the walkway.
Ellie knew she had talent. She didn’t brag about the way her art became more than just a piece of canvas littered with colors and shapes. Her hands seemed to know how to illustrate the things her mind came up with without her needing to spell it out, but she felt intimidated often by other artists. She often asked herself why her pieces weren’t good enough to make a bit of extra money, and then she remembered that nobody had ever seen them.
Rows and rows of finished and unfinished work lay in various sizes leaned against a few of the walls in her apartment. Soon she would need a place to store them or there would no longer be room for her to exist. Presently, any furniture or solid objects hid beneath tarps like children pretending to be ghosts with their bedsheets. A single stool sat next to a canvas and a cart filled with medium. That was what she paid rent for.
Quite often she found herself drawn to the Arts District without realizing why she wanted to be there.
Today, her long, wavy hair was pulled back from her face and secured with an electric blue scrunchie. She was clad in fitted jeans, a simple white tee shirt, and a denim jacket to cover her arms and shoulders. Her handbag hung at her side. A freckle of green paint flecked a cheek. She swore she scrubbed every inch of skin and yet never seemed to be able to find all of the dots of paint.
Those large blue eyes were grazing the text on that sign board, the one that boasted about the woman inside who was weaving. Ellie didn’t always notice other people when she was caught up in something that demanded her focus. She wondered if the woman was any good at weaving and figured she may have been if the sign were any indication.
John had fitted his thumb into the dip beneath his lower lip, a gesture he adopted when thinking ahead to something, like the promise of better art nearby or when he might catch his next warm meal. John being the taller of them, he easily caught sight of the woman over the display as he sidestepped its spindly, wooden pegs. She was pretty and fresh faced, caught up in the biography of the artist in residence. With a predatory mind and quick reflexes, all it took was an instant to turn happenstance into an opening. He subtly bumped his rear heel into the leg of the easel. The foam-core sign tipped forward onto the brunette, glossy print of a woman at work looming large as it neared Ellie’s face.
“Oh!” John looked back in mock alarm.
She should’ve been used to bumping into things by now. It was as if some capricious little ghost or spirit followed her anywhere she went, knocking things over or running into people. Or maybe she was clumsier than she recalled, though she wasn’t quite sure how the large, thankfully lightweight sign came unsettled from its easel.
Things of that nature happened, though, from time to time without a rational explanation. She always found an excuse, a reason, to explain the unexplainable circumstance. Perhaps the sign itself had been ready to tumble and a small gust of wind was what it needed, the catalyst to the tumble forward. Regardless her eyes widened and reflexively she lifted her hands to catch it.
“Oops,” she breathed, trying to set the sign to rights before anyone saw her. Instantly her cheeks had flushed from embarrassment and once she felt the sign had been placed properly she took a half step backward to ensure it was even.
To the man standing not far, Ellie turned, already red in the cheeks again. “Sorry,” she breathed. Apologizing for nothing but that was a reflex, too.
“Not at all. I think that was my fault.” John stared at her, seemingly just as embarrassed and bewildered as the woman with the blue tie in her hair. He burst into a laugh and offered, “Here.” John took the liberty of relocating and parking the sign in the entranceway of the studio, where it ought to be. “Let’s save someone else the same fate.” When he looked certain it wasn’t about to careen over and attack someone else, he returned to the woman’s side. “No injuries, I hope. You haven’t got a papercut, have you?”
People continued to swirl around them, moving in and out of artists’ spaces, some making small purchases or carrying warm drinks in lidded cups. The scent of hazelnut coffee wafted by their noses. John could smell her, too. She smelled faintly like…
Paint. An artist, then. His eyes lit up at the prospect.
Ellie emitted a breath of relief and satisfaction as the man took the sign and relocated it. Avoiding harm was one of the things she seemed not to be so good at, and as such the lack of obstacles made her feel a bit better. “Good idea,” she offered, nodding with approval. Her smile broke out, then, and she turned to look up at the tall man.
She shook her head, “No, thank goodness. I’m alright this time.” Her words came out slow and sweet, unable to hide the drawl in her tone. Her hands would lift as if to inspect for any sneaky abrasions, though she didn’t see any. That was the pitfall of papercuts, though. They were apt to sneak up on you when you least expected it, shouting when you used soap or sanitizer on your hands.
And then Ellie motioned to the inviting mouth of the threshold of the doorway, “Is she as good as the sign says?” She wasn’t sure if the man had even stopped to see the artist, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.
John pocketed his hands. “I think it depends on if you appreciate this sort of thing. I suspect she’s better than most. I tend towards other types of visual art… sculpture, painting, photography. Things I recognize from life are more likely to evoke some sort of response from me. But I try to keep an open mind to new things, so! Here I am. Have a look.” He smiled and created space for Ellie if she wanted to take a peek at the woman’s work. “Apologies, by the way. I tend to rattle on.”
While he made room for her at the door, John noticed the speck of green on her skin. He had the impulse to touch it but kept himself in check. The accent might have marked her as an out of towner, but he didn’t know many tourists who brought paint on vacation, and she seemed to be alone. Thus, he presumed she lived nearby.
Ellie listened to the words spoken. She nodded. Some viewed artistic mediums as hit or miss, while others indulged in the opportunity to see the perspective of the artist and the work, not necessarily judging on the terms of good or bad. There weren’t lines drawn in a metaphorical qsense when it came to deciphering whether a work was deemed good or any other interpretation. Merely it served as a representation of an artistic viewpoint - you either understood the perspective or you did your best to try.
Her smile broadened a bit toward John. She nodded with understanding. “Sometimes the smallest things overlooked evoke the largest feelings,” Ellie murmured.
She crept closer to the door and leaned across the threshold to peek in, finding she could catch a glimpse of the woman while she worked. Had she gone in further she would’ve seen nimble fingers playing strong as one might a harp, but Ellie didn’t venture further, nor did she haunt the doorway more than a few moments.
John nodded. What the woman said encapsulated his predilections perfectly. In his darker times, when he was bored or depressed, or drunk, his personality ran towards obsession with the oddest things. Trivial ones. But John wasn’t in a dark time. He often got a bump from a new city, or new people, and it sustained him for a little while and he’d be downright cheery.
“That really is the truth of art,” he agreed. “What would Vermeer’s muse be without the earring?” He backed up to let her exit the doorway, then added, “I was on my way to see the Neil Kerman exhibit at the Metro. I hadn’t heard of him until I saw this brochure.” John pulled a trifold leaflet from his inner coat pocket and handed it to her. “Apparently he’s from Brooklyn. I’m not often drawn to modern abstractionism but his use of color is striking.” His eyes flicked from the slick paper to the fleck of paint on her face, to a curl of hair barely held in place by her earlobe. If he concentrated hard enough, John thought, he might isolate her pulse from the others.
It had been weeks since he’d bitten a human. Going on a self-imposed diet of sorts to see what he was capable of, how long he could hold out, was just the sort of torment he liked to inflict on himself for shits and grins. It would be a mistake to look at her neck, so he guided himself back to the safe terrain of the advertisement.
She smiled with genuine feeling at his response. This stranger seemed to understand, or at least know the premise of art. It was highlighting the little, overlooked, trivial things in a way words could never describe. It was evoking feelings inside someone without uttering a single breath. Ellie had been chasing that dance of wind all of her life, and even still ran after the moment.
Ellie nodded, and then found herself being offered a brochure. She accepted it, opening the flaps. Her eyes browsed the information, drinking it up. With approval, she nodded, folding the flaps gently. “Very nice work.” The pamphlet was offered back with a smile. “I hope you enjoy the experience.”
There was nothing unusual about this gentleman that she picked up on. He seemed normal, willing to indulge about art with her. “Please don’t let me keep you from going.”
“There’s plenty of time. This is Las Vegas. Nothing sleeps at a decent hour… Not even art.” John tucked the brochure from whence it came. “Especially not art.” He averted his gaze to the ebb and flow of people, most of them young, forties and under. It was common for him to see students at places like this. He had an amicable relationship with them and he didn’t hesitate to speak, but it was one of the reasons he frequented tourist traps: not only did tourists provide reliable meals, the locals who might recognize him stayed far away. This rule did not hold true of the Arts district.
But tonight was fortunate. John saw no familiar faces.
“Is there anything you can recommend to me before I head over? Or explain in layman's terms?” he asked, keeping his smile light. “I take it you’re somewhat of an expert. You have a bit of green,” he indicated his own face in reflection of hers, “Just here.”
Upon the realization she had paint on her face, Ellie’s cheeks went scarlet and she lifted her fingers up to the indicated spot, rubbing circles on the skin. She didn’t know whether or not that would work, if she could get the paint to flake away or if it would require the attention of soap and water.
“There’s a small alcove of modern abstract Impressionism work if that moves you,” she explained, offering a smile. Sometimes the chaos of the works and the media were calming. They had spoken earlier about evocation, and abstract Impressionism was simply genius thriving in chaos. “It’s just down the way.” Her lithe fingers would move in the direction of the place she was talking about, which thankfully was on the way to where this man was heading.
The manner to which this gentleman spoke, carried himself, led Ellie to believe that he would know what she was referring to, but if he needed a break down of the details she found she was happy to oblige. Talking about art was a subject she could go on for ages.
“Abstract impressionism... Like Cohen’s infamous squiggles and grids?” John smiled and headed that way along with her, lowering his voice to make a confession. “He taught me an important lesson when I was living in New York. Never get high and wander through one of his exhibits. You’ll have security after you in no time.”
The vampire turned his shoulders to get past a narrowing in the crowd. “What do you paint, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Ellie’s smile broadened at the mention of Cohen. “Not as famous but almost as good,” she promised. Falling into stride, she found herself moving through the crowd in the direction of the little gallery with John.
She found herself also laughing at the remark. She didn’t know what that was like, having never experimented recreationally with anything stronger than a bit of alcohol now and then. But she did her best to understand anyway.
At the question, Ellie nodded, “Portraits. A bit of abstract as well, and some scenery.” Sometimes a creative muse would take control of her and wouldn’t relinquish hold until she’d put it onto some sort of canvas or worked it out of her system.
“So… everything but still life?” He was teasing her, but it was in good nature. John took a deep breath. “Here’s where it will become painfully clear that I’m a casual fan of the visual arts and no expert. My favorite painter of portraits is John Singer Sargent, which is a bit like declaring that your favorite jazz singer is Ella Fitzgerald. Of course it is. I know just enough to keep up appearances. But maybe someday you’ll be famous and we’ll all be declaring that our favorite painter of portraits is…” He opened a hand to her. “This is the part where you say your name.”
Ellie nodded, emitting a soft laugh. “Pretty much.” She nodded, a wisp of her hair falling into her face. Even casual fans had a place in the art world, they were the ones who offered loose, raw interpretations where the more seasoned art lovers could be overly critical about their personal interpretation on pieces thus skewing the meaning (or lack of) behind the particular piece.
“Elladine Sawyer,” she offered, laughing softly. “And you are…?”
The vampire considered whether to give her his full name or not. Giving Elladine that kind of information might determine the course of the evening, should he ever get her isolated, in a way that painted them into a corner, so to speak. Real names could be recalled and searched on the internet for matching photographs. Real names, more often than not, spelled a person’s death once you’d bitten them. “John Andrews,” he replied. Neither real nor one of his pseudonyms.
“Anyway, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to paint a bowl of fruit. What’s the name of that odd fellow who threw a skull in with the pears? Cezanne?” He shook his head at the juxtaposition. “So much for subtle metaphor.” John was silent for a moment. “Is this it?” He gestured at the exhibit up ahead. “I’m depending on you to walk me through it.”
At the offer of his name, Ellie brightened. “Nice to meet you, John Andrews.” She nearly called him Mister and already heard her mama scolding her for leaving out her manners, but Ellie had found people weren’t receptive to those types of titles anymore unless they specifically offered them to you or held a profession of notoriety.
So she bit back the formality and kept things casual.
In her distraction of getting to know John, she had nearly missed the little gallery. Thankfully one of them was paying attention, and Ellie turned to look. She nodded, “Yes, this is the place.” The tour would be taken in stride - these were modern works and she hadn’t heard of many, some were local and some featured artists abroad.
“Well.” After a few moments, John stood at the center of things. “Which one do you like best? Or are they all terrible?” he whispered, looking around as if searching for an artist with a wounded ego. “Unless you’re too nice to say when something is. ‘Oh, you know… they’ve all got their merits,’” he drawled, his English accent sliding seamlessly into an impression of a very Texan one.
He elbowed her arm harmlessly.
Ellie didn’t realize she had snorted a laugh until it had happened. Then her cheeks blew out and she really did laugh, cheeks flaring as her hand came up to block her smile and mute the sound. “Sorry,” she said to an onlooker, giggling again.
She bit at her lip and turned her big blue eyes on John. “They’re not all terrible.” Ellie bit the inside of her cheek to stifle another laugh, but her expression gave her amusement away.
“Right.” John winked, a spark of mischief in his green ones. “Some are merely knocking on terrible’s front door.” He leaned up to scrutinize an impressionist painting of… something, was it a blue car with smudges of white? He gave Elladine a bewildered look and made a bird shape out of his hands, directing it to fly above the hood of the car.
That was a good way to put it, and so she nodded though the amused smile lingered. Those blue eyes would rise like the sun and watch the way his fingers replicated the illusion of an avian, flying course over the impression of the vehicle. “Oh. Yes, now I’m inspired,” Ellie quipped, teasing John gently.
“You flatter me with your praise.” John caught sight of another group wandering up to be underwhelmed and stepped aside. “It’s an interactive piece,” he assured them, patting a younger man on the shoulder as he squeezed past him. He looked at Elladine. “If you’re finished, I’ll walk you to your next stop. You’re welcome to come along to the Metropolitan. I promised a friend I’d give her an opinion on the exhibit and I’d sound much more intelligent if you told me what I was looking at.” He smiled, a shrug of his shoulders within the coat suggesting there was no pressure, either way.
She had not necessarily been in a hurry to any particular place; that was the thing about art - you needed it the way you did oxygen or sunshine, and you found yourself drifting back to the same places and the same pieces for interpretation. Ellie had simply been retracing old steps when she had nearly collided into the sign, and John.
“Ah, sure, I don’t mind accompanying you at least to the Metropolitan.” From there she would leave him to gather his own observation of the works within. He seemed quite capable enough for formulate his own interpretation without her bias on the subject.
James nodded and headed towards the exit onto Charleston. Outside, the night was dry and cool, in a fifty degree ‘cold snap’ for Nevada, but the wind was still and it helped. On the left side, the Arts Factory was bordered by a fenced patio with seating. On the right, a dark parking lot. He headed northeast, the rough direction of the Metropolitan, which carried them on the sidewalk towards the lot.
“I appreciate the company,” he told her, a muscle twitching in his cheek now that they were outside in the dark. John could feel a familiar restlessness, one that made his senses kick into overdrive. Though he could not see it anymore, he thought about that fleck of green paint on her cheek and the way her voice might sound if she screamed. No matter where a person was from, all the accent and dialect stripped away in those moments of panic. He resisted the urge to pass a hand across his lips. “It must be the famed southern hospitality.”
Her footfalls were quiet as she fell in alongside his stride. By now, she had the way to their destination nearly memorized by heart having been so many times. But she enjoyed the stroll regardless as there was always something else to see, or gawk at if you were a tourist or new to the area.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she replied with a smile. Perhaps it was the hospitality piece, or maybe part of her wanted to make sure he got where he was going without incident. She wouldn't stand a chance if it came to a situation but at least she could feel good about ensuring he made it to the Metropolitan in one piece.
A decision needed to be made. John glanced at their surroundings, letting opportunity dictate fate. The door of the Art Factory whispered shut on the heels of an enthusiast, the red taillights of a departing car took away the nearest observer, and for a moment they were alone. The only noises were the sounds of distant traffic, horns beeping, and bass thumping in cars. It would not last. John sought Elladine’s profile out of the corner of his eye: it was a shame in a sense that he had to bite this one, as he found that he liked her demeanor. What was important to an artist, besides the eyes? The hands. John mentally replied the night and tried to recall which hand had seemed to be her dominant one.
Faster than seemed possible, the vampire grabbed hold of it and twisted it into a painful position behind her back, his fingertips mashing into the pressure point of a nerve. For most, it would have meant fiery pain and a question of whether bones might snap. John’s other hand secured her free arm. His feet and the weight of his larger body directed them towards a space between two parked SUVs in the dark lot.
“Elladine?” His mouth was at her ear. “I really am sorry for this. Parking lots are not my style, but if you hold still and keep quiet, I’ll let you go after.” If his intentions were at all unclear, it did not last long, as his mouth was quickly open, sharp teeth resting on the exposed skin of her neck in preparation to bite.
Pain began to shoot through her wrist, up the bones of her arm to tighten and twist in her shoulder. Her mouth fell open, eyes widening simultaneously yet the scream dancing across her tongue fell to silence. Everything had happened so quickly. One moment she was strolling along a predetermined pathway and then she found herself in a world of pain being nearly dragged into an alcove between two vehicles dense enough to obscure them from view.
The limb blazed as if set on fire. She could feel the bones twist as if ready to snap on cue. Finally she did manage a noise, a soft whimper of desperation and the life she lived so far flashed before her eyes like a movie on a large screen. Not even the warm moisture falling from her eyes was comforting.
And then the world seemed to fall deathly silent. She knew other things in the world existed that humans weren’t supposed to know about - her classmate at college divulged that she could change into an animal at the full moon and Ellie had witnessed that change solely by accident - but she had never felt in danger. Nor had she met a vampire until now. Her mind began to analyze their meeting - where had the signs been?
Those teeth managed to pierce through skin. She felt no pain as if that were the intent, to subtly soften the blow so to speak. Next to them, one of the SUV’s rocked on its tires. It swayed from side to side like a tree in a heavy breeze. She noticed it move, found that motion odd, but then something changed and the SUV began to slide toward them quickly. As that one moved, the second one also began to inch closer as if backing up the first.
The wounds were relatively small, not the mangled, cruel mess of flesh a vampire could leave but wasn’t necessary for sucking blood from a human body, especially when John had no intention of killing this one. The taste of her flooded his senses, the blood coursing over his tongue and down his throat, waking him up in a way nothing from an animal ever could. The only other things that made him feel this alive were a stroke of creative genius, great sex, and that rare kind of afffection that he thought might be love but had a hard time telling apart from infatuation. It was utterly distracting. If he’d been drunk he might not have noticed the motion of automobiles until he and Elladine were pinned between them, but he was sober.
John unlatched and lifted his dark head of hair. The first thing that popped into his mind was ‘earthquake,’ but it was localized and the thought was dismissed immediately. He looked around. There was no witch in sight. So it must be coming from nearby. From her. Of all the luck…
“You’re a psychic!” he whispered, somewhere between awe and disbelief. His painful grip loosened on her right arm. John watched the cars to see if he needed to bail before his spine was crushed.
The pain in her shoulder overshadowed the radiation of discomfort in her neck. Ellie breathed out a heavy sigh, one laden with desperation. One of the cars shook again and scooted closer, creeping toward where they stood. They would’ve been pinned between them had one not smashed into the other at an angle, the corner pressing into the other corner on the same side enough to leave a blemish in the paint, dents.
His words were nearly lost on her. And then her arm was released. She worked it free with a yank, twisted around and out of his grip, then hauled off toward the nearest exit.
From what she knew about vampires was that John could easily catch her, she couldn’t outrun him, but she hoped that someone was watching over her and would get her as far away as possible with her sanity still intact. Two revelations: there was something more to her than she realized, there was more to the world than she had previously known; not all of which were good.
John let her go, his mouth falling open with an expression of surprise and delight. A telekinetic! Imagine that. He wiped at his face to remove any remnants of blood and left the parking lot at a quickened pace, relieved not to have taken a talent like that from the world. It never occurred to him to be worried over leaving her alive.