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 harmyou, 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 somedifferences. 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 sayDaybreakers?”
“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 haveyou. 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 peoplewhose 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 toforceme 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.
