“Dorian Gray, everyone,” Lloyd says dryly. “You’re his savior one minute and his nemesis the next.” He’s half smiling, but his eyes, when they catch mine, carry that same intensity from earlier. As if he’s trying to communicate something to me—some warning he can’t put into words.
It weirds me out, watching the two of them. They don’t act like normal guys at all. I feel as if I’ve stepped into an episode ofInterview with a Vampire. Which is at once supremely cool and also nerve-jangling.
I need to focus on the reason I came here with Dorian—to find out if Lloyd-Henry knows anything about hobbledy stick-wolves.
“So the thing we saw…” I press gently. “It looked like a wolf or a dog, only made out of branches and debris.”
“Right.” Lloyd strokes a fingertip around the rim of his own glass. “I’m not sure how much I can tell you. This old city is full of ghosts, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And sometimes what people interpret as a ghost is really a touch of the Otherworld, pressing against the veil. Not deceased spirits but reflections of old myths, crooked creatures, and eldritch entities.”
“Lloyd is very spiritual.” Dorian tilts his head against the back of the chair, his blond waves like swirled sunshine against the dark leather. “He believes in all sorts of things.”
“Don’tyou, though?” I ask him. “I mean, your very existence is proof of the supernatural or, at the very least, of something beyond normal human experience or perception.”
“I like her.” Lloyd points a finger at me. “You should bring this type of girl around more often, Dorian.”
“I bring plenty of clever girls around,” Dorian replies. “You just never bother to talk to them. And this woman happens to be one of a kind, as you well know.”
A tingling flush spreads through my chest and—other parts. I like being “one of a kind.” Maybe a little too much. After weeks of wandering like a small new ghost in the churning whirl of this city, it feels good to be noticed.
Lloyd eyes me appraisingly. “She is indeed one of a kind. You know, I believe I may have a book that will shed light on this topic after all. Wait here.”
Setting down his glass, he disappears down the same hallway Vane took. I wander over to a chair near Dorian and perch on the armrest.
“I believe in somethingbeyond,” I say. “I’ve tried for years to touch that reality, to find proof of it. No luck, unless you count a few spiritualistic close encounters where I felt like something was trying to reach out to me, you know?” I hesitate, chewing my lip. “I didn’t always try to connect with the supernatural, though. I went through other phases where I just wanted to fit in and forget about everything that makes me different.”
“I can understand that.” Dorian’s eyes are fixed on me, evaluating, calculating. “Do you believe in the burden of beauty?”
“I’ve heard of ‘pretty privilege,’” I say.
“Yes, of course. But there is a burden that comes with being truly, heart-stoppingly beautiful like I am.”
I don’t bother to chide him for being vain. He’s just stating the truth.
“Everyone wants you when you’re beautiful,” he says softly. “But they are so enamored with your physique, your features, your charm, your body that they can’t see anything else. They can’t really hearyou. You becometheirvision of you—nothing deeper, nothing true. You are a work of art, and all that matters is how you affect them, the emotion you engender in their hearts. The way you make them feel. To most people, I exist solely for their visual or physical enjoyment—to evoke a response from them. I am valued only as a piece of art is valued.” He pauses, smiling a little. “Even now, as you’re listening to me, you’re watching my mouth. Thinking about the shape of my lips. Don’t bother denying it. I can tell.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “It’s just—”
“You can’t help it. Because humanity was made to worship beauty. Out of necessity, we’ve learned to appreciate the imperfect, the decayed, and the grotesque as another form of art, but at our core, we all crave perfection. The ultimate in symmetry and loveliness.”
Dorian places the glass on the floor and rises, advancing toward me. His scent—faint cigarette smoke, sage, and lavender—suffuses the air. I freeze, perched on the chair, while he moves in, stroking the backs of his fingers down my arm.
“Artists are most deeply afflicted by this diseased desire for beauty,” he murmurs. “Even you, with your macabre paintings, the lurid loveliness you create… You’re helpless when it comes to me.”
The heat of his body is a magnetic surge over my skin. Every inch of me thrills, vibrant and quivering in his presence. Somehow I have let my walls fall apart; I’ve lost all the power I intended to claim. I inhale sharply, trying to steel myself again.
“You don’t want to be the trembling supplicant at the altar of beauty,” Dorian whispers. “You’re trying to tell yourself you’re better than all the others who have been infatuated with me. Earlier tonight, you gave that little speech about how no one has ever pleased you well enough in bed. You thought I couldn’t resist the temptation, that I’d want you, and then you could reclaim your power by refusingme. By abstaining from what you crave, you’d become less weak and more worthy in your own eyes.”
My right hand still clutches my drink numbly, while my other fingers clamp the armrest on which I’m seated. I can hardly breathe as Dorian Gray flays my mind, slices into the layers of my motivations and spreads them open, naked and raw.
“You’re so desperately afraid of being like everyone else,” he murmurs. “You want to believe you’re better than all of them.” He exhales, collecting a pink lock of my hair and running it through his fingers. “And maybe you are. Because I’ve never spoken to any of them like this.”
I draw in a quick breath, and he nods, his pupils dark and dilated in the blue pools of his eyes.
“And I do want you,” he breathes. “I want you badly. But that means nothing at all. I want everyone. I am insatiable, you see. Never quite satisfied. Once I’ve had you, I’d be bored with you immediately. And that won’t do, because you and I have two weeks of luscious living ahead of us. It wouldn’t be right to ruin the anticipation with a quick fuck.”
I think I’m melting onto the armrest, I’m so embarrassingly aroused. But at the same time, my skin prickles with a warning flush of adrenaline. Like I should maybe run from this man who’s looking at me with such lust in his luminous eyes. Impossibly beautiful eyes, eyes I would love to capture in a…
“You’re dying to paint me, aren’t you?” Dorian’s hand drops to my knee, his fingers stroking my skin. “That expression of yours—it reminds me of Basil. I thought I’d forgotten his face…” His voice trails off as Lloyd strides back into the room and plops a large, leather-bound volume onto the bar top.
