31 Baz
31
Baz
I’m pretty jumpy after the night’s events, and I’m not about to trust the good intentions of whoever is arriving. My first instinct is to protect Dorian’s new picture, so I slide the whole pad of paper underneath a nearby love seat. Then I prop a blank canvas in front of the love seat to hide what’s beneath it. The picture is far enough from Vane’s body to stay clear of the blood and be hidden from anyone who might enter the room.
There’s nothing I can use to cover up Dorian or Vane. No use trying to hide what happened here.
With my left hand, I pick up the gun I discarded. My right hand is trembling too badly to be of any use now. Something inside my damaged wrist is twitching spastically, over and over. I hope I didn’t do permanent damage to the nerves.
If I did, it’ll be worth it, as long as Dorian lives.
Crunching steps on the gravel path. The thunk of shoe soles on the porch—two pairs of feet.
My left palm is sweating against the gun grip.
A massive male figure enters the house, moving into the front room. A man with huge, bronzed muscles and a mane of red hair. His green eyes are startlingly bright, and under his big coat, he’s wearing only a pair of black shorts.
He is the man who should not exist, the character who disappeared from my tablet.
He’s real. Three-dimensional, though there’s an effervescence to his edges, a quivering intangibility, as if he’s not entirely corporeal.
The gun nearly drops from my nerveless fingers. “The fuck,” I whisper.
“Daughter,” he says, and my whole body reverberates, bone-deep, to the cadence of that single word.
It’s the voice I heard from the building.
“You’re not my father,” I whisper.
“No. But I am your progenitor.” He’s advancing, both huge hands outstretched. “Be still, little one.”
I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I’m bound by the power of that voice, crushed into submission by its ancient weight.
“He’s not going to hurt you, Baz,” says a voice from behind the big red-haired man. “You did set him free after all. Well…partly.”
I tense. “Lloyd?”
Lloyd-Henry wears a brown leather jacket, his wavy dark hair tied in a low ponytail at the back of his neck. His stance is loose, easy, casual. Unworried, even though the bodies of two of his friends lie on the floor, one partly corroded, the other leaking blood.
“You,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. “You caused all this. You—”
But my anger is interrupted when the big man’s hand closes on my left wrist. His fingers lack the solidity of flesh, but a raw, buzzing energy supplements whatever muscular strength he’s missing. It reminds me of what I felt when I touched the door of the abandoned building.
He pries the gun from my hand easily and tosses it aside. Then he takes his pointed thumbnail and drags it along my forearm, opening a slit in my flesh. I gasp, tears welling up in my eyes at the pain, but somehow I manage not to scream.
Chills race over my skin, and I want to pull away, but I can’t. I’m forced to be still, cowed by some inner sense of awe—my consciousness bowing to the force of an entity greater than I am.
“Blood of my offspring,” he says and lifts my arm to his mouth.
His body flickers briefly, the pressure of his fingers vanishing for a second before solidifying again. His mouth presses to the wound he created, and he drinks.
Drinks my blood.
Like a fucking vampire.
This isn’t happening. I’m in shock. I must be dreaming it—
“I should thank you,” Lloyd says, stepping forward. “I’ve been feeding his burial site with fresh blood for over a year now without success. I was able to partly wake him, but there was too much iron, too much pollution, too many chemicals. He couldn’t rise—until you . You must be a direct descendant. And with the ability to conduct soul transference, too?” He laughs, shaking his head. “What a treasure you are, Basil Allard.”
The giant man is still drinking from me, his red beard coarse against my skin.
“I don’t understand,” I say weakly.
“You drew him, didn’t you?”
“But he was just a character from my imagination,” I falter. “He doesn’t exist.”
Lloyd chuckles. “You must have connected with him somehow. Have you been around any abandoned buildings lately? Like the one near the Chandler Apartments?”
I swallow hard, pressing my lips together.
“Ah, you were poking around there.” Lloyd grins, triumphant. “Everything I told you and Dorian was true, except for my professed disbelief in the gods’ existence. In fact, I’ve been a believer for a long time now. There are no relics, Baz, and the skriken didn’t want your energy for themselves but for the god they serve—the god who was desperately trying to swallow enough energy to manifest in true corporeal form, with his powers intact. See, the gods can’t raise their bones, not with all the iron and shit piled over their graves, but with the right combination of elements, I theorized that their essence could detach from their carcasses and take on a new form. I’d been working on this one for a while, priming him for an awakening, but it seems I was missing a key ingredient—you.”
This has to be a nightmare. A weird-as-shit nightmare that I’ll wake up from any minute. That seems easier to accept than the alternative—that there never was any ancient relic…that instead of the One Ring, we’ve been dealing with fucking Sauron himself, clawing his way out of an ancestral grave to gulp blood from my veins and call me his “daughter.”
“Your physical proximity to the god woke some latent allegiance, some remnant of your forebears’ worship,” Lloyd says. “You had a genetic memory within you, an ancestral echo of the god’s image, the form he used to take among humans. When you drew him, your ancestry, coupled with your unique artistic magic, manifested a partial incarnation. With an infusion of your blood, that incarnation can be complete. That’s why I brought him here. On the mainland, he was too weak to hold his visible form very long, and he couldn’t exercise his full influence over you. But here, surrounded by the sea, he can exert the power of his will and voice. Not too much now, my lord. I need her for the future world.”
The big red-haired man lifts his mouth from my arm, tipping back his head. Blood glazes his lips, trailing in scarlet rivulets through his beard.
“It is done.” The words break from him in a groan of relief.
Lloyd raises both hands, his eyes gleaming. “A god is reborn. The first of several I plan to awaken. Thank you, Baz. Thank you. You’ve shown me the missing element in my attempts to resurrect them. Not just any human blood or worship is needed but the devotion and blood of a direct descendant, one with inherited power.”
I clamp my palm over my bleeding wrist and back away from both of them, finding my voice at last. “What…the hell ?”
“Hush, child, and kneel,” commands the big man, who seems to be growing bigger by the second.
My knees fold automatically, as if someone else is in control of them. “Shit,” I whisper. “Who are you exactly?”
“You should use honorifics when speaking to your god,” he growls. “This world has lost its reverence. Since I began to wake, I have learned more than your new tongue. I have learned of your poisonous machines, your rebellious minds, and your foolish pride. Your reeducation will take time. For now, know that I am Manannán mac Lir, lord of the Tuatha Dé Danann, god of the sea and of illusions.”
His voice is fuller now, richer, with an undercurrent of rumbling thunder. “I must leave this place and reacquaint myself with the sea. I ache to be free of this small form, restored to my true aspect. We will speak again.” He nods to Lloyd, who bows as the god strides past him. Though Manannán’s head and shoulders are hunched, he still brushes the ceiling.
As I struggle to my feet, Lloyd saunters into the room, nudging Dorian’s body with his foot. “I see our lovely idiot met his end or is in the process of meeting it slowly. May as well hurry it along.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a lighter, flicks it—
And drops it onto Basil Hallward’s turpentine-soaked painting of Dorian Gray.
Flames leap from the canvas immediately, illuminating the room in macabre orange light.
A scream rips from my throat, and I lunge forward, but Lloyd pushes me back, both hands gripping my upper arms. “Now, now, Baz. Can’t have you burning those talented hands.”
Struggling, sobbing, wrenching in his grasp, I stare past him, trying to blink away the blur of tears, fumes, and smoke.
What if my magic didn’t work? What if he’s…
My gaze drops to Dorian’s body, lying a few feet from the blazing portrait.
He hasn’t ignited.
And the cut I made on his hand is gone.
Lloyd is looking at Vane now. He hasn’t noticed that Dorian isn’t burning, but he’s going to realize it the minute I stop fighting him.
I need to keep him distracted while Dorian’s body finishes whatever it’s doing.
“You were his friend,” I seethe into Lloyd’s face.
His lip curls. “Dorian was an oddity. Someone to keep around for further study or in case he ever decided to cough up the names of Basil Hallward’s descendants. Truth be told, if none of my other ventures paid off, I was willing to torture the name out of him. But as it turns out, there was plenty to keep me busy until he destroyed himself so thoroughly that he was forced to go looking for you.”
I twist, grimacing and glaring at Lloyd, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Dorian. Is it my imagination, or do Dorian’s blurred features look even sharper now? High-definition instead of soft and melted.
It’s working. Maybe I secured the soul bond by signing the portrait; maybe I triggered the healing transference by cutting Dorian’s hand. I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I care about is the ferocious hope surging in my heart.
“I’m going to kill you,” I spit at Lloyd. “Like I killed Vane.”
“That was unexpected, I’ll admit. Hush now, little gold mine.” Lloyd gives me a grim smile. “Don’t hurt yourself. I need those pretty eyes and those clever fingers. I’m not sure why you’re so angry, sweetheart. I gave Dorian extra time, after all. Once he found you, his purpose was fulfilled, and I could have disposed of him immediately. But I gave him a chance to charm you, win you over, get you to paint for him willingly. I prefer gentle methods to violence. But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”
He shoves me backward onto the love seat under which Dorian’s new portrait lies. I struggle, making Lloyd keep his hands on me to pin me down. Forcing him to keep his back to the fire, which has died down as the old portrait crumbles to ash.
Dorian should be ashes right now. One backward glance, and Lloyd will realize what I’ve done.
“Look, I’m not a violent man,” Lloyd says in a gentler tone. “Not like that love-crazed fool Vane. He didn’t hurt you, did he? I warned him not to harm you , just Dorian.”
“He broke my wrist,” I retort.
“That’s unfortunate. We’ll have the best doctors look at it as soon as possible.” Lloyd places a hand on my chest as I start to rise. “Now be still, Basil, so you and I can have a civil conversation. You’re a smart girl. I have a proposition for you, and I think you’ll be able to see reason.”
I buck against his hand, and with a sigh, he exerts more pressure, holding me in place. I keep my eyes locked with his.
“I’m not sure where to begin,” he says. “There’s so much to tell, about who I am, what I plan to do. Suffice it to say that I’m older than Dorian. I’ve watched the evils of the world multiply, seen humanity rip itself to shreds and shit all over this beautiful planet. Hunger, poverty, depression, mass shootings, religious violence, hate crimes—I’ve watched it all happen. And like any sane, sympathetic person, I want to fix it. To repair the wounds of the world.”
“By killing people,” I say.
“Bad people, like Dorian Gray…yes. Sometimes. If I have to. When I fed the burial sites of the gods, I used people who were wicked, who deserved death.”
“And you’re the judge of who deserves death.”
He puckers his lips in frustration. “That’s not the point. I am trying to bring back the old gods, the old magicks. It’s time for a cleansing of this world, a resurgence. And yes, I know how it sounds.” He scoffs a little, shaking his head. “Very supervillain. But think about it, Baz—if magic could solve problems like aging and disease. If the gods could assist us with crops and food shortages, like they used to, before they were driven out. Before industry, iron, smoke, and pollution poisoned the earth so much the gods could not wake, even if they wanted to. Before the repressive influence of Christian religions.”
“You want to wake all the gods…because you think they can help humanity?” I vent a faint laugh of disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Yes, and I’ve enlisted the help of the remaining devout to bring back the old deities. But that’s only part of it, Baz. Some decades ago, I unearthed the remains of an abhartach, the ancient Irish equivalent of what you might call a vampire today, though there are some differences. I gave those remains to a medical researcher I knew, and with that gift, he created a new breed of vampire. I’ve been monitoring them, urging them to expand and multiply. I’ve just come from visiting their colony on Glassy Mountain, as a matter of fact.”
I swallow, trying to stop my knees from knocking together. I’m shaking, chilled, just like I was after the encounter with the skriken on Hunting Island. And the knowledge that vampires are real might just be enough to send me into shock. Which I can’t afford to do. I need to breathe more slowly; I have to make myself calm down.
From this angle, I can’t see Dorian. I can only hope he’s recovering, that he’ll be able to help me get the jump on this delusional son of a bitch.
“When I was in North Carolina, I met a girl who can make the abhartach, the vampires, do whatever she wants,” Lloyd continues, a fervent light in his eyes. “Her father can do the same thing to humans. They are leannán sídhe, too—a different family, but they are your brothers and sisters in magic. People like them can tweak people’s minds, not enough to steal their whole will but enough to make a difference—to eliminate hate crimes or homophobic speech, for example. To remove racist impulses.”
“If vampires keep multiplying, you’re going to have a whole new problem,” I say. “The vampire apocalypse. Limited blood supplies. Can you say Daybreakers ?”
“I’ve thought of that.” He leans in, gripping my shoulders. “I went to Glassy Mountain because the vampires there have made a breakthrough in the development of a viable blood substitute. But even if that fails for some reason, I have you . You’re the solution, you miracle—you can paint portraits of people, hundreds of them, thousands, and those soul-bound portraits can be safely stored in vaults while their owners go about their lives without fear. The people whose portraits you make—they will be self-healing blood bags, an endless supply for those who prefer the path of the abhartach, the vampires.”
“You really want to stop everyone from aging.”
“Eventually, yes. The solution is not a single technology or one kind of magic but many. A synchronized effort, a synthesis of ancient power and new science. You can see it, can’t you? You’ll have to have as many children as possible, of course, so your artistic gift can persist into future generations. Your particular ability doesn’t seem to have faded with each successive generation, like some other gifts do. Yes, you’ll need to breed—but not just any man. You’ll mate with someone of powerful magical stock. Me.”
“Are you fucking insane?” I gasp. “I would never.”
Lloyd stares at me. After a moment, he releases my shoulders and pulls himself upright. “So you don’t see it. You don’t understand the world I’m trying to build—cleaner, safer, more merciful and tolerant.”
“I see it,” I say. “But a person who throws away friends like garbage, like you did with Dorian and Vane, isn’t someone I want to follow into the utopian future.”
Lloyd sighs, stroking his jaw. “Dorian failed to lure you softly. I suppose it was overly optimistic to hope that I could. So force it is.”
“You’re going to force me to make babies with you and create portraits for your blood bank?” I choke on a laugh.
“I’d consider adjusting the attitude if you want to enjoy your life on this little island,” Lloyd says coolly. “Play your cards right, and maybe I’ll let one of my friends turn you into a vampire once you’re past child-bearing years. Then you can leave the island and see the world with me, if you’re a very good girl and do as you’re told until then.”
I’m about to respond, but Dorian appears suddenly, looming right next to Lloyd, and presses the gilded gun to his temple. “Not a chance, motherfucker,” he says and fires.
Lloyd wavers, shock galvanizing his features. He staggers a step, and his eyes flick to something behind me—the fireplace? A vague smile twitches his lips.
“Mors aperit ianuam,” he rasps.
And then he falls, a column of bone and flesh slamming against the hardwood floor, limbs outflung, blood surging from beneath his punctured skull.
Dorian drops the gun and grabs for me as I fling myself at him. My hands claw at his body, exploring the shape of him, questing for differences, for damage—but he’s here, all of him, just as he’s supposed to be.
“You painted me,” he whispers.
“I drew you. Pen and ink. And you—you died for me.” I kiss him brutally, crushing my lips to his, cupping his face with my left hand while I cradle my right wrist against my chest. God, does it hurt.
“What about your vow?” Dorian murmurs eventually through my kisses. “What about everything you said—”
“It’s all still true. I just decided not to think about it.” My cheeks are burning. “As far as I’m concerned, you redeemed yourself. By choosing love over your own life.”
Dorian rears back, hooking an eyebrow. “Baz, that’s super cheesy.”
“Very out of character for me, I know.”
“I think you’re cheesier than you like to admit.”
“Maybe.” Blushing harder, I pull back from him. “We need to grab your new portrait and get the hell out of here. All the smoke, the turpentine, the bodies—it stinks to high heaven.”
“Time to go,” he agrees. “Once you’re safely on the boat, I’ll come back and burn the place down.”
“Burn it down?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time it’s been destroyed,” he says. “It’s been smashed to bits by multiple hurricanes, according to Lloyd.”
“So whoever owns it just keeps rebuilding it?”
“No. It resurrects itself. One day, it’s destroyed, and a few days later, it’s back, with all the same furniture, same colors, right down to the same scratches on the walls.”
“Seriously?” I stare around the room, a shiver running over my body. “Is it magic?”
“I’m not sure of its exact history, but Lloyd told me it was built by some old founding family of Charleston. The Lockwood family, I think.” His gaze travels to Lloyd’s body. “He set my portrait on fire, didn’t he? I couldn’t see anything for a while, and I couldn’t move, but I could hear. I heard everything he said to you.”
The ache of betrayal in Dorian’s eyes is more than I can bear. I can’t imagine how it must hurt, finding out that sixty years of friendship meant nothing to the man you viewed as a brother.
“So you heard about the sea god I incarnated,” I say lightly.
The distraction works, for the moment. He nods, turning back to me. “A new aspect to your power.”
“One I don’t plan to use again, even if I could.” I bend, retrieving the portrait from under the love seat.
Now that the desperation to save Dorian isn’t galvanizing my body, I can actually look at what I’ve made. A neat, lovely ink-and-pencil creation, with a small smear of my blood on the corner of the paper from the cut on my arm where the god drank. Dorian’s image is crisp, fresh, and clear-eyed, wearing an expression of relief, wonder, and love.
Dorian gazes at the picture, a storm of emotion swirling in his eyes. “It’s beautiful, Baz.”
My gaze drops to the tiny cut on the hand of the Dorian in the portrait. I clear my throat and blink away the mist clouding my vision. “It works. That’s what’s important. We need to put this inside your bulletproof case. I’m guessing it’s waterproof too?”
“Once it’s sealed and locked, yes.”
We secure the picture, and Dorian carries it down to the Seraph . He helps me into the boat, too, then goes back up to the house.
Within moments, the mansion is ablaze, fire streaming from its windows as Dorian jogs down the gravel path and leaps into the Seraph . There are two other boats bobbing by the pier—Lloyd’s and Vane’s.
“I’ll have someone deal with those later,” Dorian says, starting the motor. “There’s a blanket in that compartment, Baz. You should wrap yourself in it. Oh, and your purse is in the compartment under your seat.”
I retrieve my purse, wrap the blanket around my shoulders, and settle in for the ride.
As he steers, Dorian bites his lip, casting me tortured glances. Finally, when we’ve left the burning mansion far behind, he shuts off the motor for a moment.
The dark sea is choppy, vaguely threatening, but the storm is over. The cloud cover leaks silver starlight in a few places, and the lights of Dorian’s boat slice far into the night, golden ribbons on black water.
“The moment I left you on that island, I regretted it,” he says. “It was unforgivable, Baz. I hated myself for it. I would have come for you sooner, but the storm… I had to get back to port. And Lloyd got in my head, and I’m ashamed to say I listened to him. When I checked on you, you were already asleep, so I thought you would be all right until morning. Then later I saw someone breaking into the house, so I headed for the island again, weather be damned. A few times, I thought the boat would be swamped. I thought I might drown over and over until the portrait couldn’t take it and I sank for good. But the Seraph is as feisty and stubborn as you are, thank the gods, and I made it.”
“You risked the storm for me,” I say quietly. “You poured paint thinner on your own portrait for me.”
“And you broke your vow for me.” He looks more pained than pleased. “Baz, I want you to know I’m going to be different this time. I will find a balance—more generosity, less self-indulgence. I’ve already destroyed my drugs, and I swear I’ll be more careful about the people around me. I’ll make reparation wherever I can…” His voice trails off, registering my expression. “You don’t believe I can change.”
“I do. I–I hope so. I want to believe you.”
“Let me prove it.” He pulls the portrait case nearer to him, across the floor of the boat. He busies himself with the locks, and I frown.
“Dorian, you shouldn’t unlock it here. What if seawater gets on it?”
“I’m not opening it—just resetting it. Look. Press your thumb here.”
“What are you—”
“Just do it.”
I place my thumb where he indicates.
“Now enter the code,” he says. “Make sure it’s something you’ll remember, something I can’t guess. I won’t look.”
“Dorian…”
“Please.”
I enter my mom’s birth month and day with my dad’s birth year. The case beeps, registering the new thumbprint and passcode, securing itself again.
Dorian grips the top edge of the case, holding my gaze. “The portrait is yours, Baz. If I prove myself unworthy, you can destroy it.”
It’s the greatest assurance he can offer. And I’m too much in love with him to refuse his sincerity, his trust.
I place my hands over his. “Damn you for making me love you,” I whisper.
Dorian leans forward, his eyes brilliant even in the dark. “If it wasn’t already clear, I love you back.”
Hearing him say it is—Well, it’s fucking blissful. I release a long, shaky sigh.
“So now what?” he says carefully.
“Now…” I chew my lip. “Now I have to deal with the fact that I’m descended from actual fucking gods. That’s something I have to cope with somehow.”
“The muses were part of the god-race,” Dorian says. “So it’s not that far off from what you already knew. Still, I can imagine it was a shock.”
I glance down at the dried blood on my forearm. “That’s putting it mildly. And to be honest, I kind of want to flee as far inland as I can get and never visit the beach again.” My voice shakes, because the more I think about my ancestry, about Manannán being awake and active somewhere out there in the dark, the more I think I might lose my fucking mind. “I have woken the sea god—the literal sea god, Dorian. Let that sink in for a second. All the moths, the skriken, the illusions I kept seeing—it was all Manannán, reaching out. Trying to get to me so he could become corporeal. And…shit…he’s out now. What does that even mean?”
“I have no idea.” Dorian blows out a weary breath. “Lloyd’s plans involved Manannán, but Lloyd is dead, so I’m not sure what the god will decide to do. The sea is heavily polluted and full of ships, so maybe Manannán will be too weak to do anything drastic.”
“But there’s another god buried under Old Sheldon Church. We know that much from Mrs. Dunwoody, may she rest in peace. Which means I still need to put some distance between me and this area. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty damn curious about the other thing Lloyd talked about—the Glassy Mountain vampires. I’m thinking we should go there and figure out what’s going on. This Gatsby… You’ve met him?”
“I have. Seems like a well-meaning guy. Not that I’m any judge of that.” Dorian gives me a wry smile. “He talked a lot about someone called Daisy. Maybe she’s the girl Lloyd mentioned, the one with the powerful voice.”
“A long-lost relative of mine,” I murmur. “Yes, I think we should go there and learn all we can. Especially since we need to report Manannán’s awakening to someone, and we have literally no one else we can tell.”
“There’s a thriving art community in Asheville,” Dorian says. “I think you’ll like it.” He grins suddenly, broadly—and then the smile falls and he releases a broken laugh, almost a sob.
“You okay?”
“You said ‘we.’ Like you’re planning for us to go together. Like we have a future.” He sweeps a hand over his eyes. “And that thrilled me—until I remembered that Vane and Lloyd are dead. God, what is wrong with me? I feel so strange.” He touches his chest. “I can sense that I’m tethered to your drawing, but it’s different. Cleaner, lighter. I feel…new. I feel everything.” He looks at me helplessly, his eyes sparkling with tears.
“A fresh start.” I smile back at him. “It’s okay to miss them, and it’s okay to be happy, too.”
The words resonate in my very soul. The father I killed, the mother who killed herself… I miss them. Always will. But that pain doesn’t have to color the rest of my life. And my guilty vow doesn’t have to restrict my gift forever.
The boat bobs on the waves while Dorian and I sit in peaceful silence, our hands clasped over the top of the portrait case. Somewhere in the distance, far out to sea, we hear a long, low sound—a deep drone, unsettling and unnatural. And I could swear that for a moment, I see something—a shadow, big as a mountain, moving along the horizon, blotting out the stars.
But the next instant, it’s gone.
Maybe it was only the distant smoke of the burning mansion, collapsing on the charred bodies of Vane and Lloyd.
Dorian starts the boat, and we head back to the marina, reaching it just as the first blush of dawn suffuses the sky. Dorian carries the portrait case with a blanket over it so we can avoid questions from curious passersby.
“What are you going to tell Sibyl about Vane?” I ask Dorian as we walk back toward the Chandler.
“I’ll tell her he overdosed.” Dorian adjusts his grip on the painting. “It’s not much of a stretch.”
“And his family?”
Dorian winces. “When I select the people close to me, I choose those with few relatives or connections. No one will miss him but me, Sibyl, and you. Maybe a couple other acquaintances.”
“I’ll burn incense for him today. And I’ll say some prayers.” I tilt my head, considering. “Maybe I should do some more research into the deities of my ancestors. Before I came under Manannán’s influence, I felt called to a specific goddess—Brigid. Maybe I need to pray to her more directly.”
“Or not.” Dorian chuckles. “You might wake her up.”
“Fair point.” I curl my hand against my chest, whimpering a little as a bolt of pain jabs through it.
“The minute this portrait is secure in Lloyd’s vault, we get that wrist taken care of,” Dorian says. “And then we’re leaving Charleston. I don’t know who the ‘devout’ people are that Lloyd was working with, but I’d rather not be around when they come looking for him.”