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’sinfluence, 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.”
32
Baz
When you have limitless resources, moving is super easy. You can hire people to pack your stuff, drive the truck, unload your crap into a storage unit—everything. Dorian arranges for all my things to be taken to Asheville while he and I drive there in his Tesla, with the portrait safely stowed in the trunk. Dorian doesn’t have much luggage himself, since he was only visiting Lloyd, and I bring a duffel bag with clothes and necessities—and Screwtape, of course, who gives me royal glares through the door of his pet carrier every time I glance into the back seat to check on him.
Asheville is a busy, rambling town with twisty streets and sprawling squares. We check into the Grand Bohemian Hotel, which technically doesn’t allow cats, but Dorian hands over a chunk of cash to ensure Screwtape can stay in our room. I’m not sure when I became so attached to the hellcat, but I know he belongs with me—with us.
Once we drop our bags, set out the litter box, and tuck Dorian’s picture under the bed, I flop onto the blankets and search for Jay Gatsby.
“There’s nothing except an Instagram page for these big parties he hosts,” I tell Dorian. “And he’s not tagged in any of the photos.”
“It’s been a few years, but I think I’ll recognize him,” Dorian assures me.
“You were right about socials, though. Not having a presence anywhere is like hanging out a sign that says, ‘I’m hiding some criminal or paranormal shit.’ Or both. Damn, it’s hard to handle a phone with this brace on my wrist.” I adjust my position and scroll back to the top of the page. “He’s having a party tonight. Do you think we should go? I mean, the sooner we find him, the better, right? We need to know what he knows and then tell him what we know.” I groan, tossing the phone aside. “Shit. I don’t have anything to wear to a fancy party.”
Dorian eyes me, his cheeks coloring slightly. “I may have kept the dress you wore to Scoundrel. And it might possibly be in one of my suitcases.”
“Dorian Gray. You told me you donated everything.”
“Everything except that dress.” He flings himself onto the bed beside me. “I think I started loving you when you ground your cute little ass all over that random idiot. I hated the thought of you dancing like that with anyone but me. So yeah, I kept the fucking dress. Sue me.” He rolls onto his back and tucks both hands behind his head.
“Look at you, being sentimental.”
“Sentimental?” He scoffs. “You want sentimental? Sometime I’ll play you the song I composed for you last week.”
“Are you serious? You wrote me a song?”
“What can I say? You’re my muse.” He flashes me a grin.
I crawl over him, careful of my wrist, and settle my body along his. He relaxes under me, his lashes drifting shut as I kiss his softlips. Peace glows on his features. The tension, the studied facade, the public image of Dorian Gray—he lets it all dissipate when we’re together.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” I whisper. “Music and art, travel and fancy hotels, and kissing you whenever I want? That sounds—”
