“A lot of Irish immigrants came down South, and many of them settled right here in Charleston,” Lloyd continues. “They were despised, as most impoverished and underprivileged people with a unique culture are despised by the ruling class—in this case, the southern whites of British and French ancestry. The Irish were labeled drunkards and brawlers’ turbulent and pugnacious,’ one historian called them; I believe it was Rosser H. Taylor.”
“When people are poor, desperate, miserable, and mistreated, they do tend to drink more and be angrier in general,” I put in. “Not really their fault.”
“True,” Lloyd concedes. “And their religion didn’t help matters, what with the Protestants so firmly in control at the time. These Irish were devotedly Catholic, you see. Some of the community’s wealthier members developed a society to aid the Irish—the Ancient Order of the Hibernians.”
“Wait, is that connected to Hibernian Hall?” I exclaim. “I’ve seen that building on Meeting Street.”
Lloyd nods. “It’s one of the oldest of such buildings on this continent. A perfect example of Greek Revival architecture. The Irish contributed much more to Charleston’s infrastructure: defenses for the harbor, the Custom House on East Bay Street, and the railroads to and from the city.”
“So sorry to interrupt,” says Dorian languidly, “but what on earth does all this have to do with skriken?”
“I’m getting to that,” Lloyd replies. “Most of the Irish settlers were staunch Catholics, with anti-pagan tendencies. But some secretly clung to their belief in the old gods. They brought with them relics from the homeland, items of power, still imbued with magic. Some of them even carried the blood of the Tuatha Dé Danann or the sídhe in their veins—like your ancestors, Basil.”
“I like to be called Baz,” I say, and he nods.
“The devotees of the old religion hunted for remnants of the god-race. No one knows how close they came to achieving their goals. I haven’t found any clear records on the matter. But I do know that the churning forces of ancient magic became so strong that the Ancient Order of the Hibernians, the local military leaders, and the Protestants finally banded together to stop it. They built churches and other buildings of power over sites that might contain relics of the gods. The iron lines of the railroads, the stifling presence of Christianity, and the increasing pollution spewed out from the city put an end to any possible resurrection of the arcane magicks.”
Lloyd tips back his head and pours the remaining contents of his glass into his mouth. I’m still processing what he said, trying to sort through what’s believable and what isn’t. I can’t decide.
“How much of that is true, Lloyd?” Dorian says quietly.
Lloyd shrugs. “Probably not much. Shreds of truth at best.” He laughs lightly. Perhaps it’s meant to be reassuring, but to me it sounds dismissive. “To my mind, a race of influential muses is much more believable. The existence of muses is corroborated in other mythologies and cultures as well. But that’s a conversation for another night!” He pushes himself up from the chair. “I’m going to bed. Basil, you’re welcome to stay in the guest room, or one of us can take you home.”
“I need to go home and feed my cat,” I say. “I can walk. It’s not far.”
Dorian catches my arm as I rise. “What if another stick-wolf comes after you?”
“Unlikely,” says Lloyd. “As I said, I don’t put much stock in the remnants or relics of old gods. But I do believe in fluctuations of cosmic and psychic energy that can occasionally become intense, especially around areas that were once hotbeds of supernatural activity or conflict. Such fluctuations can cause visual manifestations, like the skriken, to people who are already open to extrasensory perception.”
Dorian and I stare at him.
Lloyd sighs, half smiling. “Basically, the universe farted and you two smelled it. It probably won’t happen twice in one evening. At least not in the same spot.”
Despite the long, convoluted speech about Charleston’s mythological history, it feels like he’s brushing off the skriken’s appearance, as if all that information delivered in his calm, measured tones was offered as a means of calming us down. I don’t like his patronizing attitude, and I hate that Idofeel reassured, that I feel sort of silly, as if I overreacted to something that’s really quite simple. “So you’re saying it was random chance? A one-time thing? I’m not in danger?”
“Exactly. You’re perfectly safe, both of you. And now I’ll say good night. Lovely to meet you, Basil.”
“It’s Baz.” Why does he insist on calling me Basil? “Nice to meet you, too.”
“I’ll have Vane take you home,” Dorian says in an undertone as Lloyd walks away. “I’d drive you myself, but I need to check on something.”
He seems eerily calm as well. Relaxed, as if Lloyd has petted his ruffled feathers back into smooth complacency.
“Have you thought about my proposal?” Dorian gives me a smile that practically sparkles with dazzling temptation. “Two weeks of professional introductions and personal delight?”
I should say no. But this single evening has been more enlightening than any research I ever did on my own. My people’s history, my very existence—Lloyd and Dorian could be the key to understanding more about both.
Two weeks, and then I can give Dorian my final refusal. I’ll have connections in the art community by then, and a wealth of experiences I couldn’t achieve on my own. And I’ll have the opportunity to pick Lloyd’s brain about my heritage.
After that, I can go back to pretending that I’m just a simple artist with a weird aversion to painting portraits.
And I’ll never have to deal with Dorian Gray’s mind-bending beauty again.
I look up into the blue eyes of the man I plan to condemn to death. “Two weeks,” I tell him. “You get two weeks to change my mind.”
His whole face illuminates with hope. “You won’t be doing any painting in that dreary studio tomorrow,” he says. “I’m taking you shopping. Then we’ll do dinner. And after that, we’re going to Scoundrel.”
9
