The Memory Painter

“That’s a beautiful name,” Diana said, and snuggled closer to him.

Michael nodded, his mind full with the memory of their son. “He was a beautiful boy. They had a good life, up until the end.” Michael didn’t tell her that the end had come too soon, and with incredible violence. Instead he pictured their farm as if it were projected on his bedroom wall—he only wanted to see the laughter and love.

Anssonno had been the light of his life, asking endless questions about the world. He had been at Bjarni’s side when his own father, Herjólfr, had died and helped him to shoulder his grief, as only a son could. And, growing up, Anssonno had sat by the fire at Aldar’s feet, just as Bjarni had hoped he would, and heard the old poet’s stories.

The thought brought back the bitter knife that had killed his son and stabbed Michael’s heart once more. Anssonno was dead.

He stroked Diana’s arm in the dark, the movement lulling her to sleep.

“What happened that made you so sad?” Diana murmured.

Michael shook his head, unable to speak the words.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and drifted off.

Michael felt an unchecked tear slip down his cheek. He did not want to cry again—he feared he would never stop.

Instead he recited the words silently in his head, I am here now. I’m here now. I’m here now, I’m here now while he listened to Diana’s breathing deepen. Waiting until he felt sure she was asleep, he took his journal out of the nightstand and began to write.

DAY 25—MARCH 2, 1982

I feel like Tarr is near me, along with d’Anthès and Kira. Are they the same man? If these are truly past life memories and my instincts are correct, one soul has tried to destroy me across time. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I cannot ignore the feeling. It lives in my bones.

I am beginning to see a pattern and I find myself wondering if the laws of karma exist. Are souls destined to love or hate the same souls again and again? Or can we achieve some kind of resolution or enlightenment?

If a tragedy is destined to be repeated, we need to figure out how to break the cycle. Until we do, I have to trust this gut feeling. The malevolence that has shadowed so many of my lives is coming for me again.



TWENTY-THREE

“There you are.” Linz’s voice jolted Bryan back to the present.

Bryan was still standing in Conrad’s antique gallery. Within the span of a few minutes, he had just recalled moments of two lifetimes that were nearly a thousand years apart. They were the quickest visions he had ever experienced—it had felt like an electric shock.

He stared at the stone trapped in the glass case and his eyesight blurred. Conrad had Garnissa’s vegvísir. How? He tried to focus on Linz and saw Conrad standing next to her, and again he felt the chill of Bjarni’s death. Now he wasn’t sure if it would be wise to expose his identity to Conrad. Maybe the explosion hadn’t been an accident—maybe Michael’s fear had come to pass. Bryan felt light-headed, like his legs were about to buckle.

Linz saw the look on his face and rushed to his side. “Hey, are you okay?”

Bryan couldn’t take his eyes off the vegvísir under the glass case. “I’m not feeling well. I have to go.”

He staggered toward the door. Once he’d exited the room, the spinning subsided but he was still nauseous.

Linz put her arm around him for support. “I’ll take you home.”

“No, I’ll get a cab. I don’t want you to have to leave the party.”

Conrad stepped forward. There was a hint of impatience in his voice. “I take it you’re Bryan.”

“Sorry, Dad, I’m being rude. It’s just he … Bryan, this is my father.”

Bryan was unable to look Conrad in the eye. He was going to be sick.

“I hear interesting things about you, Bryan. Perhaps we’ll meet again when you’re more yourself.” He gave Linz a tender kiss on the forehead. “Drive safe, I’ll see you at the office.” He left them and went to talk to a few guests who had wandered into the foyer.

Linz touched Bryan’s forehead. “God, your skin is like ice. Let’s go.”

Conrad watched them holding hands as they headed out the front door.