Dominions

29-1

29

- 29 -

There was not much Rodin could do.

Sertio was still up in his studio, so Rodin could only focus on the lower level of rooms. He started with the food prep. Sharp blades went into one drawer, and with a bit of force he wedged it shut. It would need a hefty pull to release it now, not something that could be done on the sly. Sertio might not be too happy, but that was the least of Rodin’s concerns.

Next, he considered escape routes. He needed to prevent her fleeing, but still leave an exit should he require it. He didn’t want to leave Sertio alone with the assassin, but he had to consider his own life first. If that meant using the man as a distraction‌—‌well, it wouldn’t be the first time Rodin had done something like that.

They were too high up for the windows to be an issue, so that only left the lift. He hacked the system and set up an alert on his screen. If someone followed her up, he’d know about it‌—‌and his screen would fit snugly into a pocket in his trousers. If either Paskia or Sertio commented, he could say he was expecting a message.

He cursed himself as he did this‌—‌it was an action he should have taken the moment he settled in here. He’d been lulled into a false sense of security, and he’d let his guard down. If this were the districts, he’d be dead by now.

The lift alert buzzed‌—‌so soon?‌—‌and the feed from the Eye showed that Paskia was alone. She wore a long flowing jacket, and the folds could conceal any manner of tools.

Rodin turned the temperature up a few degrees. Sertio liked it warm anyway, but the heat would force her to remove that jacket. She’d have to rely only on whatever weapons she wore closer to her body. The warmth would make them both sluggish, though, so he’d have to work to stay alert.

Rodin took a couple of deep breaths and walked to the lift. He stopped a few paces back, to one side. Paskia faced the door, arms by her side. But Rodin, watching the feed, was alert for any movement they made, any indication she was reaching for weapons.

The lift door slid open. Her hands didn’t move.

He forced a smile. “Paskia. So good to see you again. Please, come in.”

She met his gaze. “Thank you. I hope today is‌…‌more fruitful than the last time I was here.”

Fruitful for whom, he didn’t ask. She hesitated, and he wondered how many contracts she had fulfilled. Not that many, he’d guess. That didn’t necessarily work in his favour, though. Nerves made people act irrationally, harder to predict.

He took a step down the corridor, beckoning for her to follow. But he kept his head turned, his eyes on her. “Can I take your jacket? Sertio does keep this place unbearably warm at times.”

She followed, her steps small, and when they reached the main living area she nodded, shrugging the material off her shoulders. “Thank you. I didn’t notice the heat last time.”

He took the jacket, surreptitiously running his hands over the fabric. “We didn’t have the luxury of clothing for most of the time.” He could feel no unusual bulges, and he laid it over the back of a sofa.

“There is that, I suppose,” she said.

It would be hard for Paskia to hide anything in her remaining clothes. Her small top was tight, barely reaching the waist of her trousers, with straps over her shoulders. The trousers were too tight, with no visible pockets. On her feet she wore sandals.

Without weapons, she must be planning to take him by surprise. Even though he was larger, heavier and‌—‌he didn’t doubt this‌—‌stronger, surprise counted for a great deal. If she was quick, a well-placed kick could bring him down.

But he’d be ready. He’d never turn his back on her.

“Is that you, Terrell?” came Sertio’s voice from studio. “And do I also hear the sweet tones of our dear friend Paskia? Please, come up, both of you. I have something I’m absolutely dying to show you.”

“Of course,” Rodin answered, and motioned for Paskia to lead the way.

He studied her in more detail as she climbed. Hair tied back, possible to conceal something small and sharp there, but unlikely. Thin soles on her sandals. No bulges in the back of her trousers, slight ridges showing the position of her underwear. The waistband looked elasticated, a fraction thicker than the rest of the material‌—‌thick enough to conceal cord of some kind.

Strangulation, then. He definitely couldn’t risk turning his back.

Strangulation, then.Sertio met them both with a huge grin, arms open wide. “Ah, my dear Paskia, it’s wonderful to see you again. Once again I apologise for the manner in which our last session concluded, but I hope that seeing the work in progress might go some way toward healing any rift that exists between us.”

“Please, don’t worry. There is no rift. Last time‌…‌let’s just put it down to my inexperience, and the after-effects of my recent‌…‌troubles.”

She glanced at Rodin, but he was unable to read her expression.

“So kind of you,” Sertio said. “But please, both of you, come this way, come this way. I’ve prepared the area for viewing.”

He shuffled across the room. Rodin held out his hand, indicating for Paskia to follow, as he brought up the rear. He watched her, following the movements of her head. What was she checking out? Were there possibilities he had missed? No‌—‌after a quick glance round the studio, she was focused on what lay in front of them.

What was she checking out? Were there possibilities he had missed?Sertio’s work area was no longer surrounded by cloth. Instead, the artist’s sketches were pinned to thin wires, casting pale shadows as the sun’s light beamed through the skylights. The sculpture itself was in the midst of these sketches, covered in a white cloth‌—‌a fresh one, Rodin noted, rather than the stained sheet Sertio had been using earlier.

One of the sketches caught Rodin’s eye. It showed two heads touching, hands at the back of each neck, fingers crooked, nails digging into flesh. Sertio had used red to highlight flowing blood. But the expressions on the faces showed no indication of pain. Rather, they showed contentment, even satisfaction.

He saw Paskia’s eyes passing over the images, lingering on a few, and she shuddered. That might be nerves, or revulsion at what the sketches showed, but Rodin doubted either. Her reaction was all part of her act.

Sertio ushered Paskia around the sculpture, away from Rodin. That was good. They were now almost opposite one other, and while Rodin appreciated having a barrier between himself and the assassin, he needed to be ready when she attacked. He shifted a half-step to the left, bringing her body into view round the bulk under the cloth.

“Please don’t let the nature of these sketches disturb you, Paskia,” Sertio said. “Suffering is an important aspect of this work, but I’m concerned primarily with the struggles we face within.” He clapped. “But I’m talking in riddles. Maybe it would be better if I allowed you to reach your own judgments.”

He reached out with one hand, grabbed the cloth and pulled.

The clay was reddish-brown, the form initially nothing but an unformed blob. But as Rodin looked closer, shapes emerged of two figures sitting on the ground. Their arms and legs were enclosed around each other, their heads held in a similar pose to the image he had been drawn to.

As the shape developed before him, he was aware that the arms and legs were tense. There was tenderness, but also anger, worry and aggression.

Paskia was looking wide-eyed, moving her head to gain different perspectives. She was the first to speak, her voice quiet and uncertain.

“Do they love or hate?”

“Oh, my dear, what an excellent question. You’ve seen into the very heart of the piece.” Sertio waved his arms now, and his eyes sparkled. “Love and hate, so often viewed as opposites, but why cannot they exist side by side? Do they love or hate? They love, and they hate. That is the underlying conflict in us all.”

andAs he spoke, Paskia circled slowly, eyes focused on the clay. She nodded as Sertio spoke, and at one point she raised a hand, reaching for the clay‌—‌but never touching.

“And this is why you had us pose as you did,” she said. “I understand now. Thank you.”

Rodin kept his feet firmly on the ground, one slightly behind the other. He tensed himself as Paskia rounded the sculpture.

“And you were both such perfect subjects for my studies. You both, I would venture, harbour secrets, but also wish to be honest and open. You want to reach out to others while remaining hidden away deep inside. It is a dichotomy that I find truly fascinating.”

Paskia was almost next to Rodin now. He met her gaze. There was a smile on her face, and her eyes glistened.

“It’s amazing,” she said softly.

Rodin heard her breathing, saw the rise and fall of her chest. She moved one hand through the air, like she was caressing the clay. Her eyes were back on the sculpture now, and over the far side Sertio beamed.

“And what does my wonderful assistant think?” he asked, with maybe a note of concern.

Rodin looked to the sketch, the blood running down the arm. “Was this an important sketch? It seems to encapsulate this‌—‌I believe you used the word ‘dichotomy’. It is possible for the pain and conflict within ourselves to show itself through aggression towards those whom we have no desire to harm.”

He didn’t know quite where those words came from, but they sounded good. From the expression on the artist’s face, they were clearly appropriate.

“And once more, your keen intellect shines through, my friend.” Sertio let loose a long, contented sigh. “It does my soul good to hear that the two of you understand this piece, even in its raw form. It gives me every confidence that I’m following my muses as they intend. But now my stomach reminds me that it is time, perhaps, to eat. Unless our delightful guest would prefer to spend more time up here?”

Paskia smiled. “Seeing this has set my mind at rest, and food would be most welcome. Thank you.”

Sertio led the way, followed by Paskia, then Rodin. There was a smile on Paskia’s face, and she walked close to Sertio. Relaxed, then, and confident. Like she’d figured out her plan.

They sat at the table, Sertio with his back to the wall, Paskia on an adjacent side, and Rodin facing the artist, Paskia to his right. He couldn’t have chosen better positions. She couldn’t launch a head-on attack, and she had her weaker side to him.

But before he sat, he went to the food prep. Sertio was already talking of a recent exhibition he’d seen, and this gave Rodin an excuse for remaining side-on, avoiding the impoliteness of turning his back on one speaking to him. But it also allowed him to keep an eye on Paskia. She focused on the artist, not even glancing over to Rodin‌—‌again, she appeared confident. When the food was ready, he approached the table with care. With his hands full, Paskia would have an ideal opportunity to attack.