The wooden handle of the sable brush felt impossibly heavy in Clara’s palm. She stared down at the bristles, then up at the man who had just commanded her to rewrite his flesh.

Julian Thorne stood before her in the dimly lit gallery, the shadows clinging to the planes of his chest and abdomen. He

The gallery was a war zone of shredded canvas and pulverized marble. The air was thick with the acrid stench of cordite, pulverized plaster, and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

Clara lay flat against the cold floorboards, her hands clamped over her head as bullets chewed through the pedestal of