30 Baz
30
Baz
I wouldn’t say I’ve had a good life. To be honest, it’s been a fucking nightmare at times.
But until now, it hasn’t included guns being pointed at me. And since I met Dorian Gray, that’s happened twice.
The second time is right now.
After exploring the old mansion and discovering no phone and no way to contact anyone, I binged on snacks and fell asleep on the old four-poster bed. The bed might be old, but the mattress and bedding are new and damn comfortable.
I don’t regret the snacking or giving up on escape and falling asleep in my new prison. But when I open my eyes and see Vane at the foot of the bed, pointing a pistol at me, I do regret meeting Dorian Gray.
“Vane,” I say slowly, easing myself to an upright position. “What the fuck?”
He’s gaunt and shaky, his eyes red-rimmed, pupils dilated. He’s also soaking wet, and I realize that sheets of rain are spattering the windowpanes of my room.
“I almost died getting here,” he says faintly. “But I couldn’t wait. This needs to end.”
Okay, he’s dangerous. High as a kite and in lots of emotional pain. Nervous and jumpy and holding a gun. A really bad combination.
“What needs to end?” I speak as softly as I can, though my own pulse is scary fast and my limbs are burning with white-hot adrenaline.
“You. This. Dorian.” He nods emphatically. “Dorian needs to end.”
“Okay… Look, I am so sorry that it didn’t work out between you two. Dorian can be thoughtless, and I–I never meant to care about him the way I do. I’m sorry, Vane. I’ve had my heart broken, more recently than you might think. I know how much it hurts, how it feels like the world is ending—”
“Don’t.” He spits the word with a little shake of the gun. “Don’t pretend you understand me.”
“Okay. Okay.” I hold up my hands placatingly. “I won’t. Just tell me what you need from me, all right? I’ll try to help however I can.”
“I need you to get out of the bed and come downstairs,” Vane says. “He’ll be here soon. He can see us.” He glances up at the frame of a huge, ornate mirror, and I peer at it, confused.
“What do you mean he can see us?” But even as I say it, I notice the tiny camera clipped to the mirror frame. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah. He’s been spying on you. How does that feel?” Vane vents a scoffing sound threaded with a sob. “You know, I think you’re a basic bitch pretending to be a creative, but I honestly feel sorry for you, because he’s tricked you, too. That’s what he does. Makes sure you can’t live without him, and then he pushes you down, holds your head underwater”—he knocks the hand holding the gun against the side of his skull—“until you can’t fucking breathe. Only way out is to shoot the hand that’s holding you down, bite the hand that feeds you, bite it right off—”
“You want me to come downstairs?” I slide to the edge of the bed, pushing aside the remains of my snack-fest. My arms feel like noodles, and my legs are trembling.
“Downstairs, yeah. Downstairs. When he gets here, I’ll do it.”
“Do what? Shoot him?” I inch toward the bedroom door, trying to gauge whether I dare make a grab for the gun. But Vane backs up, pointing it at me again, so I postpone that plan and move out into the hall. He follows me.
“I’m not going to shoot him ,” says Vane. “I’m gonna shoot that picture of his.”
Shit. Oh shit.
“What picture?” I say with forced lightness.
“Don’t play dumb. I heard the two of you talking in his room. He showed it to you. And I saw it downstairs, in a big fucking case. Probably bulletproof glass.”
“Technically it’s acrylic.”
“I don’t fucking care. Walk faster.”
I hurry toward the staircase, casting around desperately for anything I could use as a weapon. There’s nothing.
“I’ve picked up bits and pieces, you know,” Vane says. “People think I’m some junkie idiot, but I’m not. I’ve overheard conversations between Dorian and Lloyd-Henry, and it all finally made sense when I heard you two talking. When I saw Lloyd today, I asked him, straight out, and he told me the truth. The painting is the reason Dorian can heal and survive anything. Destroying it destroys him.”
“Wait, what?” Dread thrums in the pit of my stomach as I descend the stairs. I left a light on in the kitchen, and its glow leaks into the foyer below, a distant yellow haze, just enough so I can see where I’m going and avoid toppling down the steps. “When did you see Lloyd? I thought he wasn’t back yet.”
“He’s in town. I went for a run, and I saw him near that ugly old building. He told me where the painting was. Said Dorian had stashed you and the portrait way out here in this freaky house. You know Dorian brought me here once? Well, me and some others. Best orgy of my life.” His face twists with pain, and he refreshes his grip on the gun. “Go sit in that red chair in the living room, and don’t move, not a fucking inch.”
The stairs flow down into the foyer of the house, which joins with the large living area where Dorian set up my painting supplies. Lightning flashes outside, starkly illuminating the rain-streaked windowpanes and the makeshift studio, complete with the two easels and their canvases—one rotting, one blank.
The chair Vane indicated sits between the second easel and a table full of paints, pencils, and pens. Two more huge canvases are propped against the table, and a pad of thick, creamy paper lies on its surface.
Still side-eyeing me, Vane walks over to a switch on the wall, and the overhead lamp flares to life. It’s an old-fashioned thing, with tulip-shaped glass shades and a glossy ceiling fan that begins to twirl slowly overhead.
As I take a seat, my brain spins, much like the fan. Why would Lloyd betray the secret of the portrait to Vane of all people? In one brief conversation, he handed Vane everything he needs to kill Dorian.
But Lloyd and Dorian are friends. Aren’t they?
How could Lloyd be in town? Surely Dorian would have told me if he was back.
Sibyl seems to think Lloyd pushes Dorian to be his worst self. Lloyd had to know that Dorian’s unbridled debauchery would speed up the decay of the painting.
What if he encouraged Dorian’s excess on purpose?
What if Lloyd suspected the painting would one day reach a critical maximum capacity?
Bringing me and the painting to this mansion, to this island, was Lloyd’s idea. Dorian also told me Lloyd was interested in the original maker of the portrait.
The pieces of the puzzle swirl in my head, but they’re starting to settle into place, and I can see one thing clearly.
Lloyd-Henry wants Dorian dead.
He’s been working toward it, first by coaching Dorian to destruction and now by urging Dorian to bring the painting out of its layers of protection. There’s just the bulletproof casing left. It has two locks on the side: a combination lock and a biometric one. I messed with them both a little tonight. I was so angry at Dorian that I thought fleetingly of hurting him through the portrait somehow.
How can I love him and want to hurt him at the same time? In that respect, I’m no better than Vane. Not quite as desperate, but I might be if I had to watch him falling in love with someone else right in front of me.
God, I need to focus. I grip the edges of the chair, trying to sort out why, why, why Lloyd would want to kill his best friend and what my part in this might be.
“Did you tell Lloyd you were coming here?” I ask.
“None of your damn business.” Still holding the gun on me, Vane walks to the window and peeks out between the curtains.
If I were a girl in an action movie, I’d grab a couple paintbrushes and throw them like darts into Vane’s carotid artery. Or I’d throw something heavy at his gun hand, and my aim would be perfect and he’d drop the weapon—
But he’s already glancing back at me to make sure I’m staying put.
“We’re going to wait for Dorian,” he says. “We’ll wait right here until he comes.”
He begins pacing the room, gun in hand. At least he hasn’t thought of tying me up yet. That’s one benefit of him being high right now—his judgment is addled. Which works both for me and against me.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he says suddenly. “When I was listening outside the door, you said you need to put his soul back in his body. What does that mean? Are you some kind of witch?”
So he doesn’t know what I can do. And I’m not about to explain it, not with him in this unhinged state. “It was a figure of speech. I wanted him to try to be a better person.”
Vane snorts. “Wow. You think you can fix him? The hubris.” He stops in front of Dorian’s portrait. “No one can fix this. He needs to be stopped, Baz. Before he ruins any more lives. You’ll thank me for this someday.”
A jolt of twisted hope runs along my nerves. “Wait, so…you’re not planning to kill me?”
“I will if I have to. But I’d rather not. And Lloyd made me promise—” He stops, his mouth twitching.
“Lloyd made you promise what?”
Vane shakes his head. “Shut up. Just sit there, and be quiet.”
Did Lloyd make him promise not to hurt me? And Lloyd obviously didn’t explain my power to Vane. So he wants Dorian dead, but not me.
I’m so fucking confused.
While Vane paces the room, I have plenty of time to mull over the situation. I try to ask him a couple more questions, but whenever I start to talk, he points the gun at me with a shaking hand, a manic light in his eyes. So I shut up.
Part of me wishes I could draw Vane’s portrait and then damage it, thereby damaging him. But a larger part of me is still dedicated to my vow and to the memory of my dad. I won’t use my gift to kill someone.
Not that I could even if I wanted to. Anytime I make the smallest of movements, Vane yells at me to be still.
Minutes ooze by, marked by faint clicks from the minute hand of the morose grandfather clock in the corner. If I hadn’t been kidnapped, imprisoned, and held hostage here, I might find this house weirdly inspiring. Ponderous, ancient furnishings loom in every corner, and there’s a massive fireplace whose mantelpiece is one thick beam, polished and engraved with leafy swirls. On the stone chimney above the mantelpiece, there’s a shield-shaped plaque, like those old coats of arms in British manors, with a picture in each quarter: a dog, a door, a skull, and an eye. The carved banner swirling underneath it bears three words: MORS APERIT IANUAM.
I might be a college grad, but I don’t know much Latin. I’m pretty sure it’s something about death.
“Not long now,” mutters Vane, still pacing.
I venture a slow, hopefully imperceptible movement, reaching toward the nearest pen on the table. Maybe I can use it as a weapon. Better than nothing.
But Vane’s head snaps my way instantly. “Stop.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “Look, you’re not really going to shoot somebody, are you? You’re acting like a guy in a movie.”
The minute I say it, I want to laugh—hysterically, wildly—because yeah, this is a movie. It’s Vane’s movie, in which he is the main character, saving himself and everyone else from the villain—Dorian. He’s an actor, with big emotions, a flair for drama, and a deeply wounded heart. Add some hard-core drugs to that mix, and what he’s doing actually makes a kind of sense. Right now, he’s playing the role of his life. And what better setting than an old mansion on an island in the middle of a storm?
“This isn’t a movie, Vane,” I say quietly. “It’s real life, and there are going to be real consequences. You can still leave, right now, and no one will ever know what happened. Not about the gun, the threats, or any of it. No one will know except me, and maybe Dorian if he was watching the security feed. I won’t tell, and I can make sure Dorian doesn’t retaliate against you, okay? You’re just hurting and stressed. I get it. I don’t blame you.”
He chews his lip, staring at the gun in his hand.
“How do you know Dorian was keeping an eye on me anyway?” I ask. “He might be sound asleep. We could be waiting here for hours. You must be hungry. And what if one of us has to pee? What are we gonna do then?”
“Fuck,” Vane mutters, lowering the gun.
I’ve got him. I’ve talked my way out of a hostage situation with the logic of biological needs—
And then I hear the faint burr of a boat motor.
My eyes snap to the three big windows, darkly glazed and peppered with rain. Judging from what I can hear, the storm seems to be over, but drops are still running down the windowpanes.
Vane leaps for me, grabbing me by the arm and shoving the gun into my ribs. “He’s here. Come on.”
Shit.
He hustles me to the front door, throws it open, and shoves me in front of him, wrapping an arm around me and jabbing the gun under my chin. Basically using me as both a human shield and a threat.
The scent of the rain-washed night floods over us, carried on a stormy whirl of air that skitters leaves across the porch. I’m barefoot on the threshold, eyes fixed on the slope of pebbled ground leading from the house down to the dock.
Not a glimmer of starlight leaks through the heavy underbelly of the clouded sky. Beyond the dim swath of light cast from the doorway of the house, all I can make out are distant black shapes.
I can’t speak to Vane anymore. With the mouth of the gun jammed into the tender flesh under my jaw, I hardly dare to breathe.
If I were Dorian, if I had a portrait like him, I’d have nothing to fear. I might be brave enough to grab Vane’s wrist, pull it down, and twist out of his grip. I might not be so terrified that if I try something like that, I’ll end up with half my face blown off.
Damn it, I hate guns. And I hate people. And most of all, I hate Dorian Gray for making me care about him. It’s like instead of running from his red flags, I fucking collected them. Carelessly. Eagerly. Clutched them to my chest like a big bouquet of roses.
And now the owner of all those red flags is emerging from the darkness, clad in a billowing black coat that makes my heart sink, because damn does it make him look exactly like the storybook villain Vane thinks he is.
Vane could shoot him, and Dorian might survive. The painting might have enough lifesaving juice left in it.
But Vane knows shooting Dorian directly isn’t going to kill him. He wants to get to the portrait itself. Which means he’ll need leverage. A way to force Dorian to unlock the painting’s impenetrable shield.
I’m guessing that’s where I come in. I’m the hostage, the leverage.
“He won’t do it,” I hiss through my teeth.
Vane shoves the gun harder against my throat, and I almost gag. “Shut up.” Then he yells into the night, toward the approaching figure. “If you have a gun, you better drop it now. Throw it into the grass.”
Dorian keeps stalking closer, not answering, not yielding.
“Now!” screeches Vane. “Do it now, fuck you, or I’ll start blowing holes in her!”
Dorian halts, not far from the watery border on the grass where the light from the house fades into gloom. He lifts his hand. Tosses a gun onto the lawn.
“Anything else?” yells Vane. “You come in here with a weapon, I’m gonna shoot off some of her fingers.”
I think I’ve been pretty fucking brave so far, but that does me in. Vane might not be planning to kill me, but he could do permanent nonlethal damage. Tears well up in my eyes, burning hot, spilling onto my cheeks. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. A tightness expands in my chest, aching to burst out—but I won’t cry and sob and beg. I won’t.
Blood on the sofa…blood sprayed across a hardwood floor…maybe this is how every one of my kind ends. Maybe this is how we should end, my family line and our unnatural power.
“I don’t have any other weapons.” Dorian’s cool voice flows over me, raising goose bumps all over my body. A sob stalls in my throat.
“What’s this all about, Vane?” Dorian continues his slow pace toward the porch. “Why are you here?”
“In the house, now,” Vane orders. “And don’t try anything stupid, or Baz gets it.”
I stifle a hysterical, tearful giggle at that last bit. God, this guy has watched way too many movies.
Vane backs up, pulling me with him, until we’re back in the center of the studio setup, several feet away from Dorian’s painting. It’s angled toward us, a seeping, gory monstrosity, impossible to ignore.
When Dorian enters the room, my veins turn to ice at the sight of him, juxtaposed with his leaking, bilious portrait. He’s keenly, painfully beautiful, with his rain-darkened blond hair and his handsome features, pristine as if they were carved from pale stone.
He and the portrait share just enough similarity for the sight of them both to be deeply unsettling. Seeing them side by side in this gloomy old house is worse than seeing them in the bedroom back at the penthouse.
Dorian’s blue eyes meet mine for one aching second before he focuses on Vane again.
“What do you want, Vane?” he says softly. “I can give you anything, you know.”
Vane shifts the muzzle of the gun, tucking it beneath the corner of my jaw. “I want you to unlock that case. The one with the portrait inside.”
“Anything but that,” Dorian says smoothly. “You want money, Vane? Or a role in a play? I’ve tried to get you movie parts before… I can try again, though I can’t guarantee any better success unless you agree to do rehab first.”
“See this, right here?” Vane’s grip on my arm tightens. “This is what you do. You make someone feel like they’re the most important person in the world, fuck them and fawn over them—and then you ignore them. Use them as tools. When they get sick of it, you bribe or threaten them. Well, I’m done, Dorian.” His voice is shaking, but there’s a molten core in it that frightens me. “I’m done playing your games. I won’t listen to you talk or let you manipulate me. I won’t be threatened or bribed. You’re going to open that case for me, right now, or I will kill her. I don’t care what Lloyd said. I will do it.”
Dorian’s eyebrows lift. “Lloyd? What do you mean?”
“Never mind that. Open it. Now.”
A muscle along Dorian’s jaw flexes. His mouth is a grim line, his eyes cold stars. “What are you going to do if I open it?”
“I’m going to destroy that painting,” Vane says hoarsely. “I’m going to end you so you can’t hurt anyone else. And then I’ll let Baz go. You open the case, she goes free. That’s the deal. Or you refuse, and she dies.”
“He won’t open it.” My voice is a broken whisper, sobs threading through it. “He can’t.”
If Dorian has communicated one truth about himself during the two weeks I’ve known him, it’s that this painting is his ultimate treasure. He gave up his one great love for it. And I’m not such a fool as to think he would choose me—not this man who fears death so fiercely.
He’s staring at me, a distant calm in his eyes.
“It’s all right, Dorian,” I gasp, hating the tears on my face. “You can’t, and I understand. It’s all right.”
“Do I need to prove I’m serious?” Vane grabs one of my hands and lifts it. “I’ll put a bullet through her hand. I will. I’ve always wanted to shoot someone with a prop gun. You know that. This is even better. Don’t think I won’t do it. Make your choice.”
“But it’s not a choice at all really.” Dorian holds my gaze, his eyes brilliant and soft. He gives me a wondering smile, as if he just discovered the best surprise of his life. “I think I will go gently into the night after all.”
He walks over to the acrylic case. The bulletproof case. And again a movie scene plays in my head. If he were Jason Bourne, he could spin around with that case and knock the gun from Vane’s hand. Dorian and I could hide behind it, shield ourselves from Vane’s bullets—but Dorian can’t do that, not from this distance, not without putting me in danger, and he doesn’t want to put me in danger, because he’s opening the locks. He’s applying his thumbprint, entering the code.
“I am sorry, Vane,” he says quietly. “Those are weak words, I know—useless in the light of everything that knowing me has done to you. I’ve ruined you. I’m not asking for mercy, but please know that I sincerely regret it.”
“Shut up,” Vane whispers. “Just do it.”
My brain can’t interpret this. Can’t make sense of what’s happening, because if Dorian opens that case, it means he loves me. He loves me, and he’s going to fucking die for me.
I can’t bear this. I can’t.
“Dorian, don’t,” I beg him, choking on sobs. “Don’t open it, please, please—”
A whir and then a click. A soft hiss of air as Dorian swings open the front of the case. “You told me once that I always have a choice. To be the person I think I am or someone better.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “This is how I become better.”
A sob cracks from my lips.
“Take the painting out,” Vane says. “Lay it on the floor, right there.” He jerks his head toward a spot near the table.
Gingerly Dorian takes the painting out of the case and places it on the floor. There is no glass over the canvas, only the glistening, oozing surface of the rancid paint within the ornate frame. A stench like vomit and rotten meat rises from the picture.
“I could destroy it,” Vane says. “But I think you need to do it yourself and watch it happening.”
“First, let Baz go,” says Dorian tightly.
“In a minute.” Vane’s voice trembles, but there’s a vindictive eagerness in his tone. No regret. Not a shred of mercy. “There’s turpentine on that table,” he continues. “Open the bottle, and pour it over the painting.”
Turpentine is paint thinner—useful for artists, but when dumped onto a fragile, ancient portrait—
“No!” I scream, and I start to wrench free of Vane—fuck the gun, fuck my own life—but he’s got my wrist still, and he bends my hand backward so far that something pops and I shriek. Stars erupt across my field of vision, and in the middle of those stars, I see Dorian opening the turpentine, casting lines of the clear liquid over his portrait. The harsh smell fills the room, stinging my eyes.
“It’s done,” Dorian gasps. “Just go, Baz. Go! The key is in the boat. Take it and go back to the marina.”
“Yes, Baz, you can leave now.” Vane shoves me away, still brandishing the gun. “I’m going to stay and watch. Go. Get out.”
My first instinct is to say Fuck you and make some big speech of love to Dorian—but to hell with that, because I’ve thought of something better.
As I run out the open front door, I hear Dorian screaming—a dark, rasping sound of utter agony.
The turpentine is eating away at the portrait. Eating away at him .
I fling myself off the porch. Stagger across the grass to the spot where Dorian threw his gun. The weight of it sends a spear of lightning-sharp pain through my damaged wrist, but I bite back the shriek and clasp the grip in my left hand. I took a gun safety course in college once, with a guy I was dating. Went to the range with him a couple times. At least I know where the safety is and how to toggle it off.
No time for doubt or second thoughts. I have to do this.
Dorian’s cries of anguish rip through the night as I run back up the steps, onto the porch, into the front room—
Dorian is sprawled on the floor.
I don’t dare look at him. I focus on Vane, who is leaning over Dorian, gaping at whatever’s happening. I lift the gun with my left hand, use my right to help with the aim, and I fire into Vane’s body.
The bullet enters his side. He jerks, flailing. The gun flies from his hand and slams against the floor, going off with a deafening bang .
I don’t want to shoot him again. But what if Vane recovers and keeps coming at me, like the bad guys in horror movies? I can’t risk it.
I squeeze the trigger again, horrified at how easy it is now that I’ve done it once. The second shot sinks in just above Vane’s hip. He half turns toward me.
My third shot hits him square in the chest.
His spirit vacates his body in that moment, his eyes blown suddenly wide, glassy, and vacant. He sinks, crumpling slowly to the floor, and my soul screams in silent horror.
I killed him. I killed him. He’s the second person I’ve killed—
I can’t think about it, I can’t, because Dorian, Dorian…
Dorian is wheezing, his eyes glazing over. His skin sizzles, and the edges of his features are beginning to blur, to melt, to run . He is slowly corroding as the effects of the turpentine degrade the portrait.
My vow snaps in two, broken with a thought.
I’m saving Dorian Gray. I will save him. I have to try.
In one of my art classes, we did speed sketches. Bless Mrs. Radley for giving us so many of those assignments. I need that experience now.
I grab a pad of paper and a handful of pencils and pens, and I sit down beside Dorian.
Angrily I whisk the tears away from my eyes and grit my teeth against the pain in my wrist as I start sketching.
I can do this. I’ve drawn him so many times—all the little parts and lines and colors of him, over and over. He’s in my heart, my blood, my brain.
He is my art. He’s the only art that matters.
I am going to draw him, not because he asked me to, not for any lavish gifts or future promises, not for bribes or benefits. And certainly not because he deserves it. Not for any other reason than my will. This is what I want. I am the goddess who can resurrect him.
My wrist is definitely sprained at best, cracked at worst. I hiss sharp breaths through my teeth, wordless curses at the pain. I can’t stop. I have to work through this. Control, control. Don’t let the pencil shake. Mind over matter. Don’t overthink it, Baz. You know him. Just bring him to life.
He’s taking shape on the thick paper—long legs, broad shoulders, tapered waist. Arms relaxed at his sides. His features, frozen in the moment when he looked at me and made his choice to save me. To love me.
Something tugs inside my body, near my spine. Energy uncoils from a deep recess of my soul, from the core of my being, and it travels outward in burning lines, along my arms, into my fingers. I recognize this feeling. The flood of mental illumination, like the high of creation, but stronger. I felt it when I drew my father’s portrait as a kid. I felt it again when I created the red-bearded man on my tablet. And I feel it now as I desperately sketch all the beautiful lines of Dorian Gray.
My energy expands, an aura I can’t see, but somehow I know its extent. I know when it touches the ruined portrait, the one my ancestor painted. My power calls to that painting, summons its dying magic with an imperative that can’t be resisted, because all the force of my will and my love is behind it, and I’m pulling, I’m pulling with all my might. I’m hauling the soul of my darling out of that cursed thing, and I’m drawing it into this new design, this new picture of Dorian Gray.
I don’t know if it’s working, but I’m visualizing the hell out of it, actualizing, whatever the fuck. I’m working on shadows now, on details. My crayon sketch of my father wasn’t much, yet it still had enough power to capture a soul and destroy my family. I have to believe that this sketch of Dorian will save him.
When the blood pooling from Vane’s body creeps too close to me, my brain nearly spasms into a flashback. I feel it coming, and I ground myself desperately with the acrid smell of the turpentine, with the dry smoothness of the paper, with the breath surging in and out of my lungs. The flow of the magic must not break, not even for a moment. Clinging to that inner power with all my might, I scoot over a few feet, away from the pooling blood, and I keep drawing. I’m inking some of the lines now, perfecting them.
But it doesn’t have to be perfect . It just has to be him.
I repeat that to myself over and over as I work.
It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be him.
This is purpose. This is knowledge, intent, consent—not like the day I killed my father. I didn’t know back then. I didn’t understand what I was doing. I have taken responsibility for that act, suffered for it, for years. I’ve paid for it in nightmares, tears, and pain.
What if I didn’t let myself feel that guilt anymore? What if I released it, along with the shards of my broken vow? What if I let myself finally move forward and become the whole person I’m supposed to be—mythical gifts and all?
My stomach is churning, a strange contrast to the hum of the magic through my chest and arms. I risk another look at Dorian. His face looks like a melted wax statue, and his hands aren’t much better. But he doesn’t seem any worse than he did at last glance.
The pain in my right wrist is horrific. Nausea stabs through my belly, and I almost retch, but I manage to control the impulse.
I remember signing the portrait of my father. I have no idea if that’s essential to the magic, if it acts as a seal, locking in the soul transference, but it makes sense, so I sign my name to the pencil-and-ink sketch, right under Dorian’s feet.
I think I’ve stopped Dorian’s deterioration. But as for healing him, restoring him—I have no idea how to do that.
More tears slick my cheeks as I rise and rummage through the supplies on the table, locating a Faber-Castell colored pencil set in a metal tin. Thank goddess he didn’t skimp on the supplies. These pencils are top of the line.
I take my time coloring the portrait, keeping the colors light so I don’t interfere with my pen-and-ink work.
When I glance over at Dorian, my stomach flips.
Still unconscious. But he looks better. As if the lines of his face and body are slowly beginning to clarify.
With trembling fingers, I set my drawing on the easel, and I search through the art supplies until I find a palette knife. Lifting Dorian’s melted-looking hand, I draw the blade across the skin. A scarlet line forms, blood beading along it.
A sound in the distance startles me—the growl of a boat motor.
Someone else has come to the island.