“I guess not, as long as the window’s open. I don’t like the smell of stale cigarette smoke in a house.” Because of Mom.
Dorian lifts the cigarette to his lips. Takes a long drag. “I supposeyou’ve never smoked?”
“I have. I quit. Not a fan of lung cancer.” I cock my head at him. “But you don’t have to worry about that, do you?”
“No.” His smile is broad, exultant, but there’s a hysteric glitter in his eyes. “I don’t have to worry about overdoses or withdrawal, alcohol poisoning or hangovers, STDs or lung cancer. My body is an immaculate temple to hedonism.”
I want to ask more, but I need to get the teakettle off the stove. “I’m making tea. Come to the living room when you’re done with that.” I nod to the cigarette. “And wrap yourself in a towel or something.”
After steeping the tea, I carry two steaming mugs into the living room and set them on the slick cherrywood coffee table I inherited from Aunt Jessie. It already has several cup rings, all formed since I moved in. I’m not really a coaster girl.
Planting myself in a chair, I sip my tea and wait.
Dorian saunters into the living room a few minutes later and sets our phones, his wallet, the lighter, and the pack of cigarettes in a neat row on the coffee table. Then he drapes himself on the couch, one arm along the back. He’s not wearing the towel I requested, just the boxers. At least they provide decent coverage, and nothing’s peeking out.
“Where would you like to begin?” he asks. “With the wolf made of yard waste or the other thing?”
I’ve already decided which matter is more pressing. “Who painted you the first time?”
“Your ancestor, Basil Hallward. Back in 1886.”
“Wait, so…” That’s too much of a coincidence. The restaurant, Circa 1886, and now this…
“The restaurant’s name is a little private joke between me anda friend of mine, someone who invested in the place when it first opened. He’s the only one who knows my secret. Or at least hewasthe only one, until tonight.”
“1886… So you’re—old. Really old.”
“One hundred and seventy-ish.”
“And you want a new portrait because…”
His gaze shifts from mine, and he puckers his lips briefly. “Let’s just say I’ve enjoyed my invulnerability to the fullest, thinking I had no expiration date. But my deeds have taken a toll on the painting. It’s been a decayed wreck for years, and now it’s beginning to disintegrate.”
“I didn’t know that could happen.”
“Apparently it can. And I fear once the decay works its way inward and touches my actual form within the painting—”
“You’ll begin to die,” I murmur.
“Don’t look so fascinated.” He lurches up off the sofa, nervous energy humming in every line of his long body. “This is my life we’re talking about. I noticed the decay three months ago. In the interim, I’ve been more careful about my…indulgences, trying not to hasten the portrait’s decline. But I’ve grown used to a certain standard of living, Baz, and I won’t give it up. That’s why I had to find you.”
“What makes you think I can help you?” I sip my tea, watching him warily over the edge of the cup.
“Don’t play dumb.” He halts in front of me, a pillar of lean male muscle. “You’re Basil’s last living relative. You bear his fucking name, for god’s sake. You have to help me. You have to redo the spell and transfer my soul into a new painting without killing me. Can you do it?”
“It’s not a spell,” I reply.
“Fine…an ability, an inherited power, whatever. Baz, you mustdo this for me. I’ll pay you well, as I’ve promised.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell him. “For a complete, perfect soul transference to occur, the circumstances have to be right. And the painter must be emotionally connected to the subject on some level. The depth of the connection influences the strength of the bond between the portrait and the subject. It’s complicated.”
“Emotionally connected,” he murmurs, nodding. “Yes, that makes sense.”
“You and Basil were friends?”
“Lovers.” He says the word with a sneering hitch of his lip. “A dangerous thing for two men to be in those times. He couldn’t allow himself to live the life I wanted for us. He left me, ran off to France, and married some woman to please society. He betrayed his own nature and me.” His gaze turns suddenly malevolent. “In a way, you’re the product of my heartbreak.”
“I thought you didn’t have any heartbreak in your past,” I say softly.
