Moonstone Maelstrom: A Paranormal Why Choose Romance (Club Sanguine Book 1) by Ruby Night & JL Madore

Author:Ruby Night & JL Madore [Night, Ruby & Madore, JL]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781990853821
Publisher: Dauntless Publishing Inc
Published: 2023-11-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SEBASTIAN

I should be in my coffin, pleasantly in the grasp of daysleep. Dead to the world. Rune parted ways with me to do just that, but there is too much going on in my brain to shut it off. It would be like powering down Fintan’s computer while one of his video games is downloading. A definite no-go. Instead, I hope to ease my plagued mind and find some solace in creating before retiring to my chambers.

Putting paint to canvas has always been a cathartic practice, even before my vampiric second life. Today is the exception to that. The taut canvas in front of me remains defiantly blank and blindingly white, a stark contrast to the chaos of thoughts scattering through my brain.

Doing my best to ignore them, I dip my brush into the paint and let my worries converge and fade until there is only the canvas and the subject to be portrayed through deliberate strokes. The bristles glide against the edge of the glass jar with a satisfying swish as I wipe the excess off before raising my hand to make the first mark—and hesitate.

Again.

The image slips away, and with it all hope of creating anything but a mess. With a growl of frustration, I stab forward, smudging a charcoal streak from the center and off the edge of the canvas.

“Damn this artist’s block.”

It’s the Dumont witch’s fault—I know it is.

I can’t focus. No matter how I try, there’s no getting this witch out of my head.

Even the angry blotch of black haphazardly thrown across the canvas reminds me of her.

My paint brush clatters to the ground as I give up and collapse onto the chaise lounge that sits across the room, covered by a dingy, stained cloth to protect it from the carnage that is an artist’s workspace. The brush rolls back and forth, smearing paint atop the layers of color already there after years of splattered and dropped acrylics, oils, and gouache.

There are even some pieces of marble and a blanket of dust encased under it all from the time I thought I might try my hand at sculpting. It didn’t take long to figure out that my talent was with a brush, not a chisel.

If I can’t muster up the ardor to go on with my painting, it might be time to give sculpting a second chance.

“Damn you, Celine,” I say to the ceiling.

All of this, all of my problems, can be traced back to her.

Perhaps my disgruntled Unity Witch cursed me before departing the physical plane—cursed every aspect of my life to shrivel and dry up, leaving me no crumb of happiness until I became nothing but a husk, neither fully living nor fully dead.

I chuckle to myself at the thought, though there is no humor in any of it. Celine had certainly been vindictive enough to do just that.

And now, a twist of fate has brought me her daughter.

If I have any hope of overcoming this block, I need to clear my head of Josephine Dumont.

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