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 whatIwant. 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 onmy 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 beperfect. 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 thatact, 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. Ascarlet 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.
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.
