15 Baz
15
Baz
Things calm down once everyone is thoroughly buzzed. I change into a pair of shorts and a tank top and reapply dark purple lipstick from my purse. Vane orders Chinese food and puts a dance movie on the TV. I half watch, munching an egg roll and trying not to think about the weird supernatural connection between me and whatever just happened.
If I’m stirring something up, maybe I need to leave Charleston, or at least this neighborhood. I don’t think I could bear to leave the city altogether, not when things have just started picking up for my career as an artist.
Maybe I’m imagining the connection. The only truly supernatural thing that has happened was the attack by the skriken, which Lloyd explained away as a random occurrence. After all, legend is full of “black dog” appearances, from the hound of the Baskervilles to the Irish púca, from hellhounds to the beast of Gévaudan in French folklore.
The pool thing could have been a chemical issue of some kind. And the moths…maybe there just happened to be a bunch of moths migrating or something. It’s September, the time for migration, right? I know monarch butterflies migrate; maybe certain species of moth do, too.
I could fetch my purse, grab my phone, and look it up, but I don’t. Maybe because I don’t want my rationalization disproved. Just like I want to believe that seeing my red-bearded, muscled, imaginary character and the two enormous skriken standing on the street corner was just a hallucination.
But they were right there, near the abandoned building.
Coincidence, hallucination, or fucking precursor to the apocalypse—I can’t decide, and I can’t spare the brain juice right now. I need to get inspired to create some art, stat
But I’ve been in such a daze of parties and glittering clubs and rooftop restaurants, markets and museums and art shows, tumbling into bed at 4:00 a.m. and waking at noon, that I haven’t had time to be inspired.
I should be able to glean inspiration from everything I’ve experienced, but for some reason, I can’t. The settings and the objects are all too…finished. Too elegant, gleaming, pristine, polished, too carefully presented, too exquisitely balanced.
The people within those settings are the interesting elements, messy and unfinished. Vane, with his blue hair, his theatrical manners, and his dramatic outfits. Sibyl, with her relish for tech, her big-sister kindness, and her affinity for vodka.
And Dorian.
Dorian, who still hasn’t let me in.
Granted, I haven’t really tried to tease him out of his shell. I’ve been too busy enjoying myself, loving the little compliments he pays me, the attention and the luxury. He’s been spoiling me, and I’ve been letting him get away with it.
I have a pile of late-night paintings and a notebook of sketches, all emphatically not Dorian but also representing pieces of him, aspects of him, moods and motions and moments. It’s some of my best work. Objectively, I know that. I know I could put it up on my shop to sell or save it for the upcoming shows. But the thought of displaying it for other people’s consumption makes me cringe. It’s even worse than having to talk about my morbid art to those high-tea, fancy-ass southern women. Showing off this art wouldn’t be me, stark naked; it would be me without my skin. Me with my muscle and viscera exposed and raw and quivering, nerve endings painfully bare. I can’t do it. So I have to keep those paintings a secret and try to get inspired by something besides Dorian Gray.
I swallow the last bite of egg roll, grab my purse, and get up from the sofa. “I’m heading home. It’s late.”
“It’s only eleven, girl,” Sibyl protests. “Stay! We can play a game, or—” Her phone buzzes, and she picks it up, scanning the message. “Never mind. I’m out, too. Got a text from that cutie, the one I met at Scoundrel. Gonna get me some of that sweet little ass!”
“I’m off to bed,” Vane says. “Audition tomorrow. You’ll come with me, won’t you, Dorian?”
“You actually got an audition?” Dorian quirks a brow. “After New Orleans?”
“Don’t.” The word is pained, pleading. “You said you wouldn’t mention it again.”
Dorian gives him a cutting look, and Vane flinches as though it were a verbal rebuke.
“If they see me with you, they’re more likely to choose me.” Vane adopts a pleading tone. “You’ve got a name around here, Dorian, besides your following on socials. Come on. Please.”
“Can’t,” says Dorian airily. “I’m taking Baz to Hunting Island tomorrow.”
“First I’ve heard of it,” says Vane.
“I just decided.”
“After I asked you to come with me.”
“Vane.” Dorian’s eyes turn to ice. “Remember your place here.”
Oh, he did not just say that. As if we live in some past century…
Well, I suppose Dorian was alive during the times when England’s class system was still firmly in place. To him, Vane is a sort-of friend, but he’s also an employee.
“Remember my place ,” Vane says with a bitter twist of his delicate mouth. “Sure, Dorian. I remember.” He gets to his feet, clutching his scarlet kimono around him, and stalks down the hall toward the bedrooms.
“I’ll drive you home, Baz.” Dorian selects his keys from a bowl on the console table near the door. He’s wearing board shorts and a T-shirt now, looking stupidly hot with his feet bare and his blond hair still darkened and tousled from the pool. But I won’t let his beauty blind me to the ugliness I just witnessed.
“You’re cruel to him,” I say.
“This again?” Dorian shoots me an annoyed look.
“Yes, this again.” I follow him into the elevator. “You surround yourself with people who won’t tell you the truth because they’re too afraid of losing your favor and your money. They’re all toadies and sycophants.”
“Toadies?” Dorian scoffs. “Calling Vane names now, Baz? Isn’t that cruel? And you’re lumping Sibyl into the toady class as well?”
“She’s awesome, but yes, she plays the same game.”
“And what game is that?”
“‘Let’s all flatter Dorian and never call him out on anything he does, or he might kick us out of the posse.’”
He surveys me with stormy azure eyes. “And you’re not afraid I’ll kick you out?”
“Nope. You need me.” I flash him a wide grin. “You’re stuck with me for a little while. So I’m gonna try to do you some good.”
“Oh, I know you can do me good,” he says, a sly smile curving his mouth.
I put out both hands, warding him off as he approaches. “That’s not what I meant.”
“You’d be surprised how many women—and men—have fantasies about elevator sex.” He advances until his chest presses against my palms.
Damn it. I’ve had that fantasy before. “Never appealed to me.”
“You beautiful little liar.”
His heart thunders under my palms, and its hectic pace softens my resolve. I relent, letting his body close in. His scent overwhelms me—lavender, sea salt, and smoky sage. Ribbons of tingling arousal quiver through my abdomen, rippling between my legs.
“I thought you didn’t want a quick fuck,” I whisper.
“Maybe I changed my mind.” He moves to kiss me, but I press my fingers over his soft lips.
“Promise you’ll apologize to Vane. And go with him to the audition. You and I can visit Hunting Island another day.”
“I’ll promise the first but not the second. Tomorrow is the only sunny day for the rest of the week. And I need you to see something special. Something I think will inspire you.”
I wince, hesitating. “Fine. Apologize, and promise to go to the next audition with him.”
“Done.” His fingers close around my wrist, pulling my hand from his lips, and then his mouth seals over mine.
At first, kissing him is like drinking the glow of a warm, southern summer afternoon. It’s liquid sunlight, blended with the soft hum of bees, dripping with golden honey, fragrant with the scent of fresh grass.
But then a harsh sound breaks from his throat, and the kiss changes. It’s like the frantic, heaving waves of the sea under a storm, like a torrent of fierce rain, like wind stealing away my breath.
He crushes me against the wall of the elevator, and I lace my arms around his neck, my fingers diving into his blond hair. His mouth is soft as the wings of black moths, but it’s galvanized to mine with trembling force, with a desperate craving he can barely hold back. He’s shaking against me, rigid and wild, devouring me with a ferocity that sends fireworks shooting through my blood.
Does he kiss everyone like this? No wonder they fall for him.
I kiss him back like I’ve never dared or wanted to kiss anyone. I’m fully open to him, my jaw wide, my tongue thrashing in his mouth, twining with his tongue. It’s messy and wicked and wonderful.
The elevator dings. My eyes flash open, and I see a couple hesitating by the elevator doors, staring at us.
Dorian slams a palm against the wall right next to my head and takes my mouth one more time while his hips sway hard against my body.
And then he backs away. Grabs my hand and pulls me out of the elevator while he nods to the other residents of the building. “Have a nice night.”
“You too,” replies the woman faintly.
I’m breathless, gulping air, trying to center my thoughts while arousal pulses between my legs. I force myself to remember that other things exist besides his mouth and our bodies, that we’re in a strange and dangerous situation.
When we leave the building, I glance around anxiously for moths, but none are in sight. Maybe it really was a migration, and they moved on.
“We could walk to my house,” I venture.
Dorian shakes his head. “What if another wolf-monster shows up? I’m not taking any chances with your safety or mine.”
Once the valet brings his car around, we hop in. The air between us is thickly charged during the drive to my house, but we don’t talk, and Dorian keeps both hands on the wheel.
He swings onto Wentworth Street, stops the car in front of my house, then frowns toward the building. “The fuck is she doing?”
I follow his gaze and see Mrs. Dunwoody, in a floral-print housecoat, standing in front of my door. Her arm is moving like she’s writing something.
“I don’t know. Not sure I can handle any more weird tonight.” With a groan, I step out of the car, and Dorian does, too. Though he doesn’t follow me, his presence bolsters me as I walk up to the house.
The dim light by the door casts a watery glow over Mrs. Dunwoody’s frizzy auburn hair, streaked with gray. A handful of large black moths flutter near the hissing bulb of the light. One of them is on her head, its delicate feet perched on the auburn fluff, its huge wings waving gently. Mrs. Dunwoody doesn’t seem to notice. Her arm continues its jerky movements.
As I approach, the moths stir, flying more erratically, but they don’t swarm me, thank god.
“Mrs. Dunwoody?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She turns around. Several necklaces with cross pendants hang around her neck, and she’s holding a big black Sharpie. Her eyes are pink along the edges, bloodshot and stricken with anxiety. “I saw something lurking around your house, and I… Well, I thought you could use some Scriptural protection, bless your heart.”
My gaze switches from her face to the pale blue surface of my door—now covered in crooked black writing. Bible verses, from the look of it. I recognize snatches of it, ragged remnants left in my mind from a period in Mom’s life when she decided to be Catholic and see if that helped with her depression. Spoiler alert—it didn’t.
“You wrote Bible verses all over my door?” Anger leaks through my tone. “Why would you do that?”
“I told you. For your protection, from them .” Her eyes peer up at me, wide and earnest, begging me to understand.
The scent of smoke trails through the air, announcing Dorian’s approach. He halts at my elbow, a cigarette between his fingers, and casually exhales a swirl of smoke toward my neighbor.
“Evening, ma’am,” he says. “I hope you realize you’ll have to pay for that door to be repainted.”
“You don’t understand.” Mrs. Dunwoody tries to cap the Sharpie, but her hands are shaking too badly. “It’s happening. I saw the Devil’s wolves wandering around this place about an hour ago.”
“Oh shit.” I cover my mouth with both hands.
“Wolves?” Dorian asks.
“Wolves made of sticks, of driftwood and moss.” My neighbor manages to cap the Sharpie. She points it at Dorian. “I’ve been here a long time, like my family before me. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Come inside, please.” I unlock my door and beckon to her and Dorian. “I think we all need to talk.”
When Mrs. Dunwoody enters my house, she looks around, taking in my altar, my incense burners, the morbid art I’ve hung around the place, and my collection of tiny jars carved from bone. Her fingers clasp her crucifixes tightly as alarm floods her face.
“I thought you were a victim,” she says. “A wayward innocent that the Dark Ones wanted to devour. But you’re one of them. You’re a pagan. A witch.”
“Sort of?” I wince. “But I’m not some ‘Dark One.’”
She fumbles in the pocket of her housecoat and pulls out a palmful of metal bits—iron, maybe?
“Touch these,” she orders.
With a shrug, I run my fingertips over them.
Muttering, she returns them to her pocket and extracts a tiny bottle. “Hold out your hand.”
“What is that?” I ask.
“Blessed water. I’m a Baptist, and I don’t hold with the teachings of them Catholics. But some of their practices are useful. Your hand, child.”
I obey, glancing at Dorian. His arms are crossed, displeasure furrowing his forehead.
“What’s the point of all this?” he asks.
“Iron and holy water. Testing her for evil.” Mrs. Dunwoody spills a couple drops of the holy water into my palm. There’s a faint hum through my skin in those two little spots, but it’s not painful, and I manage to keep my face neutral under her scrutiny.
“You’re not corrupted,” she says, corking the small bottle. “Not yet. But you need to clean out all this Wiccan mess. Can’t risk having it here, so close to it .”
“It?” I shake my head. “Mrs. Dunwoody, if you know of some danger around here, you have to tell me. Please.”
She purses her lips. “I liked your aunt. She was good people. Kept to herself, worked hard, was thoughtful of others. What about you, Miss Allard? Are you good people? Is he ?” She jerks her head toward Dorian.
“Far from it.” Dorian’s blue eyes are narrowed, his mouth a grim line. “And because I’m not a good person, I suggest you tell us everything you know, immediately, or I’ll have to make you talk.”
“Dorian!” I shove his arm. “Stop it.”
But he’s holding Mrs. Dunwoody’s gaze with that blank, icy, remorseless look he wears sometimes—the look of a thing utterly soulless. As an understanding passes between them, alarm and fear carve deeper lines into her face.
“Long ago, something was buried near here,” she says. “Over the centuries, pagans have tried to stir it up. But people like me have always been here, holding it down, keeping it under, until now. Something is disturbing the peace, causing these manifestations. If we can’t get it under control, we can expect the apocalypse. The Second Coming, not of the Lord but of the Devil, old Satan himself. Pain and tribulation.”
Her story is way different from Lloyd-Henry’s. But there’s enough similarity to thoroughly freak me out.
“This thing that’s buried—where is it located?”
Mrs. Dunwoody shakes her head. “No, no. I can’t tell you that.”
Dorian uncrosses his arms and takes a single step forward. There’s menace in the rigid lines of his shoulders, in the slow weight of that step. He exudes the lethal confidence of a man who has faced down people much worse than my neighbor and gotten the exact outcome he wanted.
“Threaten me all you want,” Mrs. Dunwoody gasps. “I won’t tell you a thing. And I can’t stay here a minute longer. Take my advice and burn all this nonsense as soon as I leave. Destroy it. Claim the protection of the cross and the Scriptures. Save yourself.”
She totters out the front door, mumbling a prayer. Though Screwtape is lurking nearby, he doesn’t try to dart out. He doesn’t seem to want anything to do with Mrs. Dunwoody, or Dorian, for that matter. His yellow gaze reproaches me for allowing them into the house at all.
I shut the door behind my neighbor and turn to Dorian. “So…time to call Lloyd-Henry?”
He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’m doing that right fucking now.”
“Good idea.”