Golden Stair by Jennifer Blackstream Page A

head.
     
    “What about mystery and adventure?”
     
    He whirled around to find Ivy standing behind him with a small antique hand mirror in her grasp.
     
    “Nothing, I just—your painting supplies are in here?”
     
    He then walked over to a small closet where he’d seen her retrieve her painting supplies last week, aware of the weight of her gaze on him as he proceeded to set up an area on the floor with paints and a fresh canvas.
     
    “It’s been awhile since I’ve done this,” he mumbled, half under his breath. “Bear with me.”
     
    Kneeling on the floor, he grabbed a few cans of paint and splashed them onto the canvas. Reaching deep within himself for the memory he wanted, he laid his hands in the paint and dragged them over the white surface.
     
    Like slipping into a favorite pair of old gloves, the paint welcomed him back into the world of creation. Reality faded away and peace settled on him with the strange buzzing energy that always seized him in these moments. An image of his home, his true home on the astral plane, filled his mind. He remembered the sweet scent of the air, the way the light came from anywhere and nowhere.
     
    Shadows danced with a life of their own under swaying trees. Spindly black branches waved like fingers tickling the belly of the wind, the bark shifting like the pelt of a snake as it crawls. Leaves flickered with different colors, the trees at once the bare sticks of winter, the crisp chartreuse of spring, the emerald green of summer, and the burnished gold and flaming red of fall. Majestic violet-blue mountains that rose up in the background took his breath away. Without looking, he reached for more paint, smearing it in his fingers and flinging it across the canvas. Yearning filled his heart. His home was there, hidden in the mess of colors, he just had to find it, had to dig it out.
     
    “Adonis?”
     
    Ivy’s voice tore him out of his stupor and Adonis sat back on his heels. The painting was an image of the astral plane, so vivid he was certain he could put his hand out and pluck a leaf from one of the trees. The image seemed to move with a life of its own and he had to look away as tears burned his eyes.
     
    “Adonis, are you crying?”
     
    Ivy’s voice was so soft, so concerned, that Adonis almost took the comfort she offered. But his burden wasn’t hers to share, not yet. Not ever. Without responding, Adonis snatched up the hand mirror and thrust it toward her.
     
    “This is a little trick that incubi have used for centuries,” Adonis’ mouth quirked in forced mirth. “Tap your finger on the glass to imbue it with your own magic.”
     
    “How?”
     
    “Considering the strength of your magic, I doubt you have to do anything beyond tapping the glass,” Adonis mused. “Try it.”
     
    Ivy hesitated, but touched her index finger to the image. The mirror’s smooth surface wavered and glowed with rays of sparkling gold strobes.
     
    “Mirror magic is a very old magic,” Adonis warned her. “It takes very little power to access, though perhaps more power to control properly. In some cases, even the power in a wish is enough to bring a mirror to life.” He paused and fixed Ivy with a stern look. “Because mirrors are so sensitive, and so easy to activate without even meaning to, you have to promise me you won’t try to use them unless I’m with you. At least until you’re more experienced.”
     
    Ivy’s eyebrows were furrowed, but she nodded solemnly.
     
    “Anyway,” Adonis continued. “Over the centuries, many, many women have looked into a reflective surface and seen themselves as less than they wanted to be. They felt they were not beautiful enough, not desirable enough.” He grinned at Ivy. “No incubus would let such sentiments go unchallenged. Women are beautiful, every woman in her own way. Such longing calls to us, and if it is directed at a mirror, it gives my kind the perfect window of opportunity.”
     
    “I know what incubi