(Kieran POV)
I stood before the portrait like a penitent before an altar, though the woman staring back at me from oil and canvas had been more destroyer than deity. Twenty-seven years, and Lydia's painted eyes still held the same cruel intelligence that had captivated me during those final months of my human life.
She'd been beautiful—that much the artist had captured faithfully. Raven-black hair that caught light like spilled ink, skin pale as winter moonlight, lips that promised secrets worth dying for. But it was her eyes that the portrait couldn't quite render accurately—the artist had painted them blue, when in life they'd shifted between colors like storm clouds, never quite settling on a single truth.
Fitting, since truth had been a foreign concept to her.
"You look just as lov
