Isabelle thought of John, of the arguments they’d had on this very subject, and all she could do was shake her head in denial.
“And to make them real,” Rushkin went on, “costs so little. They will step into your sleep and take a small morsel of your soul. A memory, a hope, a piece of a dream. Nothing you can’t live without.”
“You were in my dreams once,” Isabelle said, “and you weren’t nearly so benign. You killed the winged cat. You would have killed Paddyjack, too, if John hadn’t driven you away.”
Rushkin neither denied nor agreed to what she said. “It’s harder for you and I to step into each other’s dreams. It’s because we are both makers—dreamers. It’s much easier for what you call numena since they are already so close to our dreams. They are born from our art and our art is born from our dreams—from what we remember, and what we envision.”
“You still killed the winged cat.”
Rushkin shrugged. “There was a need upon me that night. In retrospect, I should have been more patient. But I must remind you, Isabelle: none of your numena that I took were real. They need that piece of your soul to fuel them and I would have known if you had given it to them. I would never harm any that you made real. I am not the monster you make me out to be.”
“Oh no? Then what would you call yourself?”
“A man who has lived for a very long time and who is not yet ready to end his stay in this world.”
“No matter what the cost.”
“There is always a cost,” Rushkin agreed. “But in this case, it is not the one you assume it to be. I did not want to come back into your life and bring you more heartbreak, Isabelle. But I was weaker than I thought and in the two years since Giselle died, I have found no one with the necessary talent to take under my tutelage. It was Bitterweed who reminded me of you and even then I would not have returned into your life except that I heard that you would be illustrating a new collection of stories by your friend.
Since I knew you would once again be creating numena ...” He shrugged.
“How could you have heard that? I only agreed to it yesterday.”
“Really? I heard about it over a month ago. Or perhaps it was only that you were being considered for the project. It makes little difference, now, since here we all are.”
“So this was all Bitterweed’s idea,” Isabelle said. “Kidnapping me and bringing me here.”
“He is very eager to become real,” Rushkin told her, “and like your own John, headstrong. We meant to wait until you had completed the work for the book before we stepped in, but then ...”
“But then what?” Isabelle asked when he hesitated.
“There are so many things that could go wrong or delay such a project,” Rushkin said.
He kept that same earnest expression in his eyes that he’d been wearing throughout their conversation, but Isabelle didn’t think that this was what he’d meant to say. He was hiding something.
Then she had to laugh at herself. When had she known Rushkin to ever be straightforward about anything?
“You can see how weak I am,” Rushkin added. “Bitterweed was afraid that I wouldn’t survive the wait. And besides, he is so eager. So impatient. I think he would do anything to become real.”
“But he already is real.”
Rushkin sighed. “The numena do not need to eat or sleep. They are unable to bleed or dream. They are not real.”
“You say that only because it suits your purpose.”
“Then what would you call them?”
Isabelle glanced at his numena. Scara lounged on the floor, cleaning her nails with a switchblade, and didn’t even seem to be paying attention to the conversation. Bitterweed leaned against a wall beside her, arms folded, listening, but his face was a closed mask. Unreadable.
“Different,” Isabelle said. “That’s all. Not better or worse than us, only different.”
Rushkin smiled. “How very open-minded of you. How politically correct. Perhaps we should refer to them as the dream-impaired in the future.”
“I’m not Izzy anymore,” Isabelle told him. “I’m not that impressionable teenager that you took under your wing and who’d believe anything you’d say because you were Vincent bloody Adjani Rushkin.
God, I hate you.”
“And yet you named your studio after me.”
Isabelle gave him a withering look. “You know up until this very morning I couldn’t have said which was stronger: my admiration for you and the gratefulness I’ve felt for everything you taught me, or my fear and loathing for everything you stand for. You’ve certainly clarified that for me today.”
“And yet you will help me,” Rushkin said.
Isabelle shook her head. “I can’t believe you. Aren’t you listening to what I’m saying?”
“If you help restore me with your numena,” Rushkin told her, “I will give you the one thing your heart most desires.”
“What would you know about my desires?”
“I’ll bring her back—the friend you still mourn.”
It took her a moment to understand what he was getting at. She was sure that she was wrong.
“You don’t mean Kathy?” she asked dubiously.
When Rushkin nodded, Isabelle stared at him in disbelief.
“That’s impossible,” she said.
“And the numena aren’t?”
“Just because one improbable thing is true doesn’t mean anything can be true.”
“I promise you, I can bring her back to you.”
How many times had she longed to see that mass of red-gold hair tossed aside as Kathy turned to look at her the way she always did, the welcoming smile, the kind light in those grey eyes? How often had she seen something, or read something, or felt something, and thought, Wait’ll I tell Kathy, only to remember that Kathy was dead? Five years had passed, and it still happened. Not every day. Not even every week. But enough.
And how often had she railed against the unfairness of Kathy’s death? How often had she thought she’d do anything to have her back? Anything at all. But this?
She’d considered painting Kathy herself, waking her the way she had John and the others, but knew it wouldn’t work. The numena were new to this world. Kathy had lived here and died here. There was no return for her. This world had been hers before.
But even knowing that, even knowing that Rushkin would call up a ghost, a simulation, not the real Kathy, she couldn’t help being tempted. Because what if Rushkin really could do it? There were so many questions she had for Kathy, so many riddles that needed answers only Kathy could give.
I realized that I had fallen in love with her from day one, but I never once got up the courage to tell her.
I hope I do before either of us dies.
I’m not attracted to men, but I’m not attracted to women either. It’s just Izzy I want. She had to know if it was true.
“Well?” Rushkin asked. “Do we have a bargain?”
Isabelle blinked, startled out of her reverie. She gazed at the insectlike cast into which his features had fallen. Slowly she shook her head.
“You’ll bring her back,” she said. “And what will she be? Like him?” She jerked a thumb in Bitterweed’s direction. “A flawed copy of the real thing? A monster?”
“No,” Rushkin said. “I’ll bring back an angel.”
“I don’t believe your lies anymore, Vincent. I haven’t believed them for a very long time.”
“And if I bring her back first?” Rushkin asked. “If, before you paint one stroke for me, I bring her back and you can judge for yourself?”
“What ... what are you saying?”