9: The Inquisition
“I’m so sorry,” she said, kneeling down in front of her, “I remembered I had to go do something. I didn’t mean to leave you like that,”
Shelley looked up from behind her dark hair. The make-up around her eyes was smudged, just like Kaori’s when she was upset. Shelley sniffled, her lips trembling as she struggled not to make eye contact.
“I-I didn’t think you’d come back. Everyone else leaves me alone; I thought you’d do it too…”
The darkness of her despair was powerful, but Phantasia ignored it. “I’m not going to do that, silly! Why would I do that?” she noticed some of Shelley’s ‘friends’ looking at her oddly, which only made her smile broader, “You’ve gotta remember that I’m not like everyone else, after all!”
Shelley hid behind her knees, then glanced over at her peers. They were ignoring her, like she was some kind of disease they wanted to go away. For a moment she cowered under their disdain, but then she broke free of their shackles, dropped her guard and flung her arms around Phantasia. Phantasia was reminded once again of Kaori, and wondered why the two girls were so antagonistic if they were so alike.
Humans really were complicated, she thought.
***
Phantasia returned to the gallery later that night, once the majority of antagonising teenagers had returned to their homes. A few were loitering around inside the building, but it wouldn’t be difficult for her to avoid them, she hoped. If she had been an Earth faerie she could have sensed the physical layout of the world around her and created a complete mental blueprint of the gallery, which would have made her task even easier. There was no point regretting what she couldn’t do, though. Focusing on what she could was the priority.
Inside, the gallery was encased in darkness. Though the large entrance allowed some light in, it only intensified the shadows cast by the odd sculptures that sat in the middle of the spacious interior. The ill-treated artworks were faded from centuries of age, while sculptures had been adapted into makeshift tables and chairs. One painting, an image of a beautiful, radiant figure with outstretched avian wings, had a large gash across its face, as if someone had attacked it with intent. The rip itself harboured more emotion than what was left in the painting itself, but Phantasia wasn’t capable of deciphering much further.
Elsewhere, the Hawks had begun assimilating the gallery to suit their own tastes. Contemporary pieces sat in stark contrast to those from the pre-ruined world: whereas the art of the Old World appeared to focus on the surreal and conceptual, the art beloved by the Hawks was anchored firmly in reality. Photographs of varying sizes sat in plain frames, depicting stylish young people wearing identikit clothes and posing in identikit positions. A corner was adorned with musical instruments of elaborate design, alongside photographs of groups posing with them like proud warriors. Poems and lyrics covered another wall, and in some places the Hawks’ works even covered the ancient pieces, as if they were just plaques to support the works of the current generation.
Phantasia could feel plenty of negative emotions around her, but it was coming from the Hawks’ self-centred pride. There was no sign of any jealousy-devouring entity; nothing that reminded her of the suppressive forces at work in the nightclub. Maybe the demon had just been passing, or had somehow latched on to one of the Hawks just as the fear-wraith had latched on to Kaori.
