8 Baz
8
Baz
Since Screwtape is already hiding in the bedroom, I shut the door to keep him confined while Dorian goes to answer the doorbell. A long-faced, blue-haired young man in a gigantic silver-studded jacket breezes in, carrying a leather satchel. He wears one fingerless glove of scarlet leather, with holes for his knuckles, and the other hand is laden with ponderous silver rings. His legs are pencil-thin, clad in the tightest of dark, ripped jeans.
“I got your text, Dorian,” he says breathlessly. “My god, what are you doing in this place? It’s so basic.”
“I had a date.” Dorian cuts me a sidelong glance to see if I’ll challenge his use of the word. “And then I had an accident with a dog.”
“A dog? God, Dorian!”
“I’m fine. But my clothes—”
“Right!” The blue-haired guy hands over the satchel. “The clothes you wanted, your YSL cologne, your Ferretti hair gel, and a pair of shoes. I didn’t know if you needed shoes. You didn’t mention shoes. God, this place is positively carpeted in cat hair! I can’t stay in here a second longer or my throat will close up completely. May I meet you outside, Dorian? Do you need anything else?” His query is tentative, almost submissive. Does he work for Dorian?
“I’ll be fine, Vane,” Dorian says dismissively. “Go on.”
The young man breezes back through the front door, and it bangs shut behind him.
“It is not carpeted in cat hair!” I say to the door. “Screwtape doesn’t shed much, and I’ll have you know I vacuum. Often.”
Dorian chuckles. “Vane is an actor. Theater, not movies. He can be overdramatic in real life, but I swear he’s magic onstage—when he’s sober. Not bad in bed either.”
I blink at him, exasperated. “Do you sleep with everyone you meet?”
“Are you slut-shaming me, Baz?” Dorian gives me a slow grin. “Because that’s impossible, you know, since I have no shame. And to answer your question—yes.”
“I–I don’t slut-shame people,” I reply. “Okay, I try not to, but maybe I have a couple of times, a little bit.”
He clicks his tongue at me. “How very old-fashioned of you. You’re into men, obviously…girls too?” He pulls a pair of jeans out of the satchel and tugs them on.
“I’ve kissed a couple of girls, but—how is any of this your business?”
“Not business at all. Frivolous curiosity.” He hitches the jeans higher on his hips and slowly draws the zipper upward along his crotch. His long fingers manipulate the button at the top, pressing it through the hole and popping it into place.
Why am I so mesmerized by the act of him putting on pants?
My mind races to compose a painting, a cross-section of his hips and stomach, fingers poised in the act of zipping his fly. I know exactly how I’d mix the right color for his skin, how I’d shade the inguinal creases, those tempting, slanted ridges of muscle where the planes of his abdomen yield to his hips. There’s not a hint of hair on his body—he must shave or wax everything. Although if his original portrait was painted without body hair, maybe he doesn’t have to.
The soft gray of a jersey T-shirt curtains my view of his abs and hips. I wrench my gaze up to his face. He’s dimpling again, genuinely this time.
No use denying it. I was ogling him. My artist’s eye is a curse in his case.
“I guess it never gets old, watching people admire you,” I mutter.
“I do enjoy it. Though I prefer it when attractive people admire me. Ugly people look at me with this envious agony in their eyes, this jealous, angry craving.” He shudders.
“That’s your perception. Not everyone is obsessed with fitting a particular standard of beauty. And you wouldn’t be the standard everywhere anyway.” I tug the fringe on one of Aunt Jessie’s vintage lamps. “Do you think I’m attractive?”
I wish I could eat the words the moment I exhale them. I’m happy with my looks. Why should I need affirmation from Dorian Gray?
Besides, if there are leagues—and I don’t believe in those—he’d be far out of mine.
“Do I think you’re attractive?” His lashes droop languidly over his blue eyes as he rakes his gaze along my body. “No.”
My heart throbs with disappointment, a heavy, sodden pang.
“High arches,” Dorian says slowly, gazing at my bare feet. “Dainty toes, symmetrical and well kept. Legs, long and toned, adorned with a delightful selection of tattoos celebrating what’s important to you—nature, moon cycles, and goddess energy. Hips, wide, gliding smoothly into a trim waist and a belly with a slight natural curve. Breasts, medium-sized, full, definitely tempting. Arms, well-shaped, with the delicate wrists and fingers of a princess. Neck, slim and graceful. An adorable chin, high cheekbones, smooth brow—small ears, straight nose, and a mouth with the most delicious pout of displeasure over everything I’m saying—eyes sparking with the desire to slap me… Ah no, Baz, you’re not attractive. You’re exquisite.”
The knuckle of his forefinger notches under my chin. He’s tipping my face up to his while I struggle to comprehend why I feel flattered and hot and also vaguely angry.
“That’s all external beauty,” I murmur, pulling back as his mouth approaches mine.
Dorian sighs, rolling his eyes. “Is there any other kind? And don’t say ‘inner beauty,’ or I shall vomit. You were asking about your appearance, weren’t you?”
“I guess I was.”
“And you have my answer. Now come to the car, and we’ll go see Lloyd-Henry. He’ll know something about our stick-wolf, I promise you that. Also, if his name is too much of a mouthful, call him Lloyd. Personally I can’t be bothered with names longer than a syllable.”
***
Several minutes later, I exit the Tesla Model S—the first electric vehicle I’ve ever touched—and follow Dorian and Vane through the entrance to the Chandler Apartments. Glittering chandeliers, glossy lakes of marble flooring, and crisp postmodern furnishings cascade through my vision as we cross the lobby and enter the private elevator for the penthouse suite. There’s a key code, which Dorian doesn’t bother to shield from me as he punches it in.
The elevator has sleek mirrored walls with brassy trim and a windowed side overlooking the coast, the marina, and the sea. We rise higher and higher until the elevator doors open on an immense living space, like a peaceful grotto of low light, cream-colored couches, and rich leather chairs. A few plush white rugs cover parts of the hardwood floor. There’s a wall of windows, shaded deep blue with the darkness of the night outside, a gleaming, pearly kitchen, and a full bar. It’s a thoroughly modern, luxurious space, but there are touches of old-world richness in the ornate framed art, the occasional bronze sculpture, and a recessed library stocked with thick books, some of which look old and rare.
On one of the creamy couches lies a man who looks several years older than Dorian, maybe early thirties. He’s tanned, muscled, and barefoot, dressed in a loose ivory shirt and jeans. Shaggy brown hair and a goatee half conceal his serious, rugged face. If this were a movie, he’d be the Aragorn to Dorian’s Legolas. Idly he swirls a glass half-full of ice cubes and amber liquid while a documentary about the global fishing industry plays on the immense TV.
He glances over at us, and I’m instantly struck by the intensity of his dark eyes, the sudden, ravenous interest that leaps into them at the sight of me.
No, I must have imagined it. He’s yawning, blinking at us, an easy smile spreading over his mouth. He sits up slowly, placing his glass on a nearby table, a molded acrylic piece that probably costs a fortune.
“Dorian, love of my life, who’s this? Did you bring me a treat?”
I’m nobody’s treat…and I’m also not a fan of the love-of-my-life business, which sounds more like lovers than best friends. The affectionate drawl of Lloyd’s voice over Dorian’s name makes my dumb little heart sink again. I let my walls down a bit tonight with Dorian. The conversation I had with him was the longest I’ve had with anyone in weeks. I thought maybe we were bonding—shared trauma, dramatic events, and a mutual knowledge of supernatural crap. Not that a bond between us would mean anything. Because I could maybe save his life, and I plan to let him die.
“Lloyd, this is Basil Allard,” Dorian says. “Baz, this is Lloyd-Henry, my oldest friend.”
“Welcome, Baz.” Lloyd stands, extending his hand. He clasps mine carefully, warmly.
At this point, the blue-haired guy, Vane, seems to realize that I’m more than some tattooed cat lady who lives in an old house. He sidles up to us. “Why didn’t I get an introduction?”
“You were too busy being rude,” Dorian says coolly. “Go tell Sibyl I need her to check socials and make sure no one got any videos or photos of me being attacked by that dog tonight. It happened on Wentworth Street, between Circa 1886 and the address where you picked me up. About an hour ago. I don’t think anyone noticed, but if she finds anything, she needs to scrub it immediately. Stay with her until it’s done.”
“Got it.” Vane hurries across the expansive living space and down a hallway.
“Lloyd knows about me,” Dorian says quietly. “But the others don’t.”
I mime zipping my lips. But the mention of socials reminds me of the hours I spent stalking Dorian online—and that raises a question. “Why are you even on social media? Aren’t you afraid someone will figure out you don’t age?”
“Au contraire,” he says. “Not being on social media would be far more suspicious. It’s better to be present and to curate that presence with the help of someone like Sibyl—part brand manager, part social-media expert, part hacker. She’s the best.”
“That she is,” Lloyd agrees. Rolling up his sleeves to reveal sinewy, tanned forearms, he walks over to a well-stocked bar, complete with soda guns, rows of jewel-toned bottles, and sparkling glassware. He flips an empty rocks glass right side up and drops in a large ice cube with a clink. In a mixing glass, he puts a teaspoon of sugar, a few dashes of bitters, and a little water, stirring before he adds crushed ice and bourbon. There’s more stirring, and then he strains everything into the rocks glass.
After finishing off with a twist of orange peel, Lloyd rounds the end of the bar, handing the drink to me.
“Old-fashioned,” he says. “I’m guessing you need it after the night you’ve had with this one.” He jerks his head toward Dorian. “What’s this about a dog attack, Dorian? I thought you planned to show the lady a good time. What happened?”
He’s smiling, but there’s concern in his tone. He has a stake in this, too—the survival of his friend.
“It wasn’t a dog that attacked us.” I glance at Dorian, and he nods slightly, so I continue, describing the creature we saw, how it acted, and how we burned it to ashes. “It sounds really dumb when I say it out loud,” I finish. “But Dorian says you’ve had some experience with—weird stuff.”
“I’m a mythologist, parapsychologist, historian, activist, preservationist…”
“All those long, boring words mean that he actually cares about things beyond himself,” Dorian interjects. “Do I get a drink, too, Lloyd? My back was ripped to shreds. Cleaved to the bone. Blood everywhere. It hurt like hell.”
“For you, whiskey, neat.”
“My savior.” Dorian takes the glass. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me smoke in here.”
“Take it out on the balcony. You know the rules.”
“Bastard.” Dorian flings himself into a chair, somehow managing not to spill his drink.
“Dorian Gray, everyone,” Lloyd says dryly. “You’re his savior one minute and his nemesis the next.” He’s half smiling, but his eyes, when they catch mine, carry that same intensity from earlier. As if he’s trying to communicate something to me—some warning he can’t put into words.
It weirds me out, watching the two of them. They don’t act like normal guys at all. I feel as if I’ve stepped into an episode of Interview with a Vampire . Which is at once supremely cool and also nerve-jangling.
I need to focus on the reason I came here with Dorian—to find out if Lloyd-Henry knows anything about hobbledy stick-wolves.
“So the thing we saw…” I press gently. “It looked like a wolf or a dog, only made out of branches and debris.”
“Right.” Lloyd strokes a fingertip around the rim of his own glass. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you. This old city is full of ghosts, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And sometimes what people interpret as a ghost is really a touch of the Otherworld, pressing against the veil. Not deceased spirits but reflections of old myths, crooked creatures, and eldritch entities.”
“Lloyd is very spiritual.” Dorian tilts his head against the back of the chair, his blond waves like swirled sunshine against the dark leather. “He believes in all sorts of things.”
“Don’t you , though?” I ask him. “I mean, your very existence is proof of the supernatural or, at the very least, of something beyond normal human experience or perception.”
“I like her.” Lloyd points a finger at me. “You should bring this type of girl around more often, Dorian.”
“I bring plenty of clever girls around,” Dorian replies. “You just never bother to talk to them. And this woman happens to be one of a kind, as you well know.”
A tingling flush spreads through my chest and—other parts. I like being “one of a kind.” Maybe a little too much. After weeks of wandering like a small new ghost in the churning whirl of this city, it feels good to be noticed.
Lloyd eyes me appraisingly. “She is indeed one of a kind. You know, I believe I may have a book that will shed light on this topic after all. Wait here.”
Setting down his glass, he disappears down the same hallway Vane took. I wander over to a chair near Dorian and perch on the armrest.
“I believe in something beyond ,” I say. “I’ve tried for years to touch that reality, to find proof of it. No luck, unless you count a few spiritualistic close encounters where I felt like something was trying to reach out to me, you know?” I hesitate, chewing my lip. “I didn’t always try to connect with the supernatural, though. I went through other phases where I just wanted to fit in and forget about everything that makes me different.”
“I can understand that.” Dorian’s eyes are fixed on me, evaluating, calculating. “Do you believe in the burden of beauty?”
“I’ve heard of ‘pretty privilege,’” I say.
“Yes, of course. But there is a burden that comes with being truly, heart-stoppingly beautiful like I am.”
I don’t bother to chide him for being vain. He’s just stating the truth.
“Everyone wants you when you’re beautiful,” he says softly. “But they are so enamored with your physique, your features, your charm, your body that they can’t see anything else. They can’t really hear you. You become their vision of you—nothing deeper, nothing true. You are a work of art, and all that matters is how you affect them, the emotion you engender in their hearts. The way you make them feel. To most people, I exist solely for their visual or physical enjoyment—to evoke a response from them. I am valued only as a piece of art is valued.” He pauses, smiling a little. “Even now, as you’re listening to me, you’re watching my mouth. Thinking about the shape of my lips. Don’t bother denying it. I can tell.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “It’s just—”
“You can’t help it. Because humanity was made to worship beauty. Out of necessity, we’ve learned to appreciate the imperfect, the decayed, and the grotesque as another form of art, but at our core, we all crave perfection. The ultimate in symmetry and loveliness.”
Dorian places the glass on the floor and rises, advancing toward me. His scent—faint cigarette smoke, sage, and lavender—suffuses the air. I freeze, perched on the chair, while he moves in, stroking the backs of his fingers down my arm.
“Artists are most deeply afflicted by this diseased desire for beauty,” he murmurs. “Even you, with your macabre paintings, the lurid loveliness you create… You’re helpless when it comes to me.”
The heat of his body is a magnetic surge over my skin. Every inch of me thrills, vibrant and quivering in his presence. Somehow I have let my walls fall apart; I’ve lost all the power I intended to claim. I inhale sharply, trying to steel myself again.
“You don’t want to be the trembling supplicant at the altar of beauty,” Dorian whispers. “You’re trying to tell yourself you’re better than all the others who have been infatuated with me. Earlier tonight, you gave that little speech about how no one has ever pleased you well enough in bed. You thought I couldn’t resist the temptation, that I’d want you, and then you could reclaim your power by refusing me. By abstaining from what you crave, you’d become less weak and more worthy in your own eyes.”
My right hand still clutches my drink numbly, while my other fingers clamp the armrest on which I’m seated. I can hardly breathe as Dorian Gray flays my mind, slices into the layers of my motivations and spreads them open, naked and raw.
“You’re so desperately afraid of being like everyone else,” he murmurs. “You want to believe you’re better than all of them.” He exhales, collecting a pink lock of my hair and running it through his fingers. “And maybe you are. Because I’ve never spoken to any of them like this.”
I draw in a quick breath, and he nods, his pupils dark and dilated in the blue pools of his eyes.
“And I do want you,” he breathes. “I want you badly. But that means nothing at all. I want everyone. I am insatiable, you see. Never quite satisfied. Once I’ve had you, I’d be bored with you immediately. And that won’t do, because you and I have two weeks of luscious living ahead of us. It wouldn’t be right to ruin the anticipation with a quick fuck.”
I think I’m melting onto the armrest, I’m so embarrassingly aroused. But at the same time, my skin prickles with a warning flush of adrenaline. Like I should maybe run from this man who’s looking at me with such lust in his luminous eyes. Impossibly beautiful eyes, eyes I would love to capture in a…
“You’re dying to paint me, aren’t you?” Dorian’s hand drops to my knee, his fingers stroking my skin. “That expression of yours—it reminds me of Basil. I thought I’d forgotten his face…” His voice trails off as Lloyd strides back into the room and plops a large, leather-bound volume onto the bar top.
“Stop tormenting the poor girl, Dorian.” Lloyd opens the volume and turns a few pages. “God, you’re always so horny every time you almost die.”
“That’s not—” Dorian exhales a sharp sound of frustration, backing away from me. “Never mind. What did you find?”
“Well, when you first mentioned this wolf or dog creature, I thought of the Irish legend of the pooka, or púca, which is a shape-shifter and takes the form of a black goat, horse, dog, or some such thing. But there is a lesser-known variant on the same theme—not a shifter, more of a manifestation of centralized energy. Did the creature make a sound? Like a shrieking or screeching sound?”
“Yes.” I hop down from the armrest and sidestep around Dorian, feeling the tug of his presence through the air between us. I fake indifference as best I can and head for the bar, eager to see Lloyd’s book.
“It’s a skriken.” Lloyd points triumphantly to the page.
I lean closer. “I can’t read any of that.”
“It’s written in a blend of two languages, Old Welsh and Old Norse. It’s a variant I’ve never come across anywhere else—almost as if two people took turns writing down the phrases. Took me a while to decipher it the first time, and I haven’t read it in a while, but I’ll see if I can give you a rough translation.” Lloyd clears his throat. “‘The skriken is a manifestation of cosmic energy and natural forces drawn together at a single point. This creature assembles itself from any readily available natural materials and seeks out anyone powerful nearby. Its goal could be one of two things—either to devour the energy of that powerful person and strengthen its own form, or to bring its target back to the nearest dhia, or god, as either a worshiper or a sacrifice.’”
I stare at him. “What the hell?”
Dorian comes over and rests both forearms on the bar top, cupping his drink in both hands. “For fuck’s sake, explain, Lloyd.”
Lloyd shrugs. “I can tell you the version of the lore I’ve read in here.” He taps the page.
“Is it long?” Dorian lifts his eyebrows.
Lloyd sighs. “As if you have anything better to do.”
“I’d like to hear it,” I chime in. “Like I told Dorian, I’ve been looking for stuff like this all my life. This is the first proof I’ve found that there’s anything besides me out there, anything weird or witchy. I’ve felt stuff when I’ve burned incense and meditated—impressions, maybe a presence—but nothing tangible, you know? Nothing real, until now.”
Lloyd-Henry meets my eyes, that intensity flickering in his gaze again. “There is so much more out there, little leannán sídhe.”
“Leannán sídhe,” I murmur. “That’s what my mother called us. We’re a branch of that family, she said. But she never really explained, and the stuff I got from googling didn’t seem to fit.”
“The muses of Irish lore,” says Lloyd. “Some are gifted with their voices, wielding influence through speech or song. Others can deceive or delight through dance. And some, like you, work magic through art. Though I have to admit, before my encounter with Dorian, I had no idea any of the leannán sídhe could accomplish a soul transference. It seems your particular family line was an anomaly. The only ones graced with this gift.”
I would debate his use of the word gift , but I’m too desperate to know more. “What else can you tell me about the leannán sídhe?”
Lloyd gives me an indulgent smile. “I’m happy to tell you everything I know sometime, but I think the skriken is a more pressing matter, don’t you?”
I bite my lip and nod.
Dorian shifts his weight restlessly. “You said a skriken goes after people with power? Like her?” He jerks his head toward me. “It wants to bring her back to something? Some god? What the hell?”
“Not an actual god, dearest.” Lloyd chuckles as if Dorian has said the most ridiculous thing. “Not in these enlightened, civilized days of ours. Gods don’t exist, at least not in the form you might be thinking of. At most, the skriken would want to drag her to the nearest locus of supernatural or psychic power so it could absorb her energy into itself.”
“That’s it? God, I feel so much better,” I mutter.
“I need an explanation, Lloyd,” Dorian says tightly. “She hasn’t experienced this before, that much was obvious, so why is this thing after her now? Why here?”
“If you can be patient for a handful of minutes, I’ll explain,” Lloyd replies. “Keep in mind, I’m an amateur. I don’t know everything, and I may have mistranslated some of it.”
“You’re no fucking amateur,” Dorian growls. “Go on.”
“Let’s sit, then, shall we?” Lloyd gestures to the seating area.
Somehow Dorian and I end up on a couch, side by side, while Lloyd sits across from us, with his ankle propped on his knee.
“The Irish have had a rough time of it for centuries.” Lloyd sips his drink, then chuckles, low and dry. “Which is the understatement of the millennium. All of it started when their god-race, the Tuatha Dé Danann, left them almost two thousand years BC and came to this continent. But there were already gods here, you see, and those gods did not take kindly to the idea of sharing the land. The Tuatha Dé Danann were already weak from war, and they succumbed easily to the will of those first gods. Some of them dissolved altogether, a graceful end. Others gave up most of their powers, took on human aspect, and lived as mortals, passing some of their remaining abilities to their progeny. Others refused to dissolve or die, and those few were corrupted and conquered by the first gods, until they were forced into sleep under the earth. Some stories claim that remnants or relics of those gods still in exist in a dormant state, somewhere beneath this city and others.”
Something in his tone jars my memory. The abandoned building I visited yesterday evening—the way the door hummed against my palm and the voice I thought I heard, distant and insistent: Let me out, let me out .
Unnerved, I glance at Dorian. The taut stillness of his face makes me believe he has never heard Lloyd speak like this before.
“A lot of Irish immigrants came down South, and many of them settled right here in Charleston,” Lloyd continues. “They were despised, as most impoverished and underprivileged people with a unique culture are despised by the ruling class—in this case, the southern whites of British and French ancestry. The Irish were labeled drunkards and brawlers’ turbulent and pugnacious,’ one historian called them; I believe it was Rosser H. Taylor.”
“When people are poor, desperate, miserable, and mistreated, they do tend to drink more and be angrier in general,” I put in. “Not really their fault.”
“True,” Lloyd concedes. “And their religion didn’t help matters, what with the Protestants so firmly in control at the time. These Irish were devotedly Catholic, you see. Some of the community’s wealthier members developed a society to aid the Irish—the Ancient Order of the Hibernians.”
“Wait, is that connected to Hibernian Hall?” I exclaim. “I’ve seen that building on Meeting Street.”
Lloyd nods. “It’s one of the oldest of such buildings on this continent. A perfect example of Greek Revival architecture. The Irish contributed much more to Charleston’s infrastructure: defenses for the harbor, the Custom House on East Bay Street, and the railroads to and from the city.”
“So sorry to interrupt,” says Dorian languidly, “but what on earth does all this have to do with skriken?”
“I’m getting to that,” Lloyd replies. “Most of the Irish settlers were staunch Catholics, with anti-pagan tendencies. But some secretly clung to their belief in the old gods. They brought with them relics from the homeland, items of power, still imbued with magic. Some of them even carried the blood of the Tuatha Dé Danann or the sídhe in their veins—like your ancestors, Basil.”
“I like to be called Baz,” I say, and he nods.
“The devotees of the old religion hunted for remnants of the god-race. No one knows how close they came to achieving their goals. I haven’t found any clear records on the matter. But I do know that the churning forces of ancient magic became so strong that the Ancient Order of the Hibernians, the local military leaders, and the Protestants finally banded together to stop it. They built churches and other buildings of power over sites that might contain relics of the gods. The iron lines of the railroads, the stifling presence of Christianity, and the increasing pollution spewed out from the city put an end to any possible resurrection of the arcane magicks.”
Lloyd tips back his head and pours the remaining contents of his glass into his mouth. I’m still processing what he said, trying to sort through what’s believable and what isn’t. I can’t decide.
“How much of that is true, Lloyd?” Dorian says quietly.
Lloyd shrugs. “Probably not much. Shreds of truth at best.” He laughs lightly. Perhaps it’s meant to be reassuring, but to me it sounds dismissive. “To my mind, a race of influential muses is much more believable. The existence of muses is corroborated in other mythologies and cultures as well. But that’s a conversation for another night!” He pushes himself up from the chair. “I’m going to bed. Basil, you’re welcome to stay in the guest room, or one of us can take you home.”
“I need to go home and feed my cat,” I say. “I can walk. It’s not far.”
Dorian catches my arm as I rise. “What if another stick-wolf comes after you?”
“Unlikely,” says Lloyd. “As I said, I don’t put much stock in the remnants or relics of old gods. But I do believe in fluctuations of cosmic and psychic energy that can occasionally become intense, especially around areas that were once hotbeds of supernatural activity or conflict. Such fluctuations can cause visual manifestations, like the skriken, to people who are already open to extrasensory perception.”
Dorian and I stare at him.
Lloyd sighs, half smiling. “Basically, the universe farted and you two smelled it. It probably won’t happen twice in one evening. At least not in the same spot.”
Despite the long, convoluted speech about Charleston’s mythological history, it feels like he’s brushing off the skriken’s appearance, as if all that information delivered in his calm, measured tones was offered as a means of calming us down. I don’t like his patronizing attitude, and I hate that I do feel reassured, that I feel sort of silly, as if I overreacted to something that’s really quite simple. “So you’re saying it was random chance? A one-time thing? I’m not in danger?”
“Exactly. You’re perfectly safe, both of you. And now I’ll say good night. Lovely to meet you, Basil.”
“It’s Baz.” Why does he insist on calling me Basil? “Nice to meet you, too.”
“I’ll have Vane take you home,” Dorian says in an undertone as Lloyd walks away. “I’d drive you myself, but I need to check on something.”
He seems eerily calm as well. Relaxed, as if Lloyd has petted his ruffled feathers back into smooth complacency.
“Have you thought about my proposal?” Dorian gives me a smile that practically sparkles with dazzling temptation. “Two weeks of professional introductions and personal delight?”
I should say no. But this single evening has been more enlightening than any research I ever did on my own. My people’s history, my very existence—Lloyd and Dorian could be the key to understanding more about both.
Two weeks, and then I can give Dorian my final refusal. I’ll have connections in the art community by then, and a wealth of experiences I couldn’t achieve on my own. And I’ll have the opportunity to pick Lloyd’s brain about my heritage.
After that, I can go back to pretending that I’m just a simple artist with a weird aversion to painting portraits.
And I’ll never have to deal with Dorian Gray’s mind-bending beauty again.
I look up into the blue eyes of the man I plan to condemn to death. “Two weeks,” I tell him. “You get two weeks to change my mind.”
His whole face illuminates with hope. “You won’t be doing any painting in that dreary studio tomorrow,” he says. “I’m taking you shopping. Then we’ll do dinner. And after that, we’re going to Scoundrel.”