I chuckle, following her gaze.
The bartender has allowed Dorian behind the counter, where he’s flipping and catching bottles with expert hands, fingers flying so quickly I can barely see what he’s doing. He mixes a variety of complex drinks in what must be record time, because everyone starts cheering and clapping. He ends the demonstration by spinning a flaming bottle of alcohol up and down and around his body before taking a mouthful of liquor from a glass and spraying it through the flame to create a massive fireball as it spews from his lips, a spectacular display that has me rising from my seat and cheering along witheveryone else in the club.
He bows, grinning, and makes his way back to our VIP booth, draping his long frame on the bench seat across from me.
“Show-off.” Sibyl plants a kiss on his cheek, gives his shoulder an affectionate pat, and goes back to join Noel, Vane, and Cherith on the dance floor. Lloyd isn’t dancing; he’s standing by another table, speaking to a pair of the nightclub’s guests. He glances up, his eyes snapping straight to mine, and I swerve my gaze, suddenly nervous at being caught watching him.
Lloyd’s a bit of a mystery. He’s Dorian’s best friend—sort of like an older brother maybe. And he knows Dorian’s secret, which is big. But I get the feeling there’s something else between them, and not necessarily a romantic connection.
Maybe I can find out what it is.
“That was pretty cool, with the fire,” I tell Dorian. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“In Portugal,” he replies. “It’s amazing what you can learn when you don’t have to worry about physical harm.” He leans against the back of the booth, folding his hands behind his head. “I’ve been everywhere, Baz. Done everything. I suppose you’ll say that’s a good reason for me to…end.”
Okay, the thoughthadflashed through my mind.
“How do you always know what I’m thinking?” I make a cross with my fingers and hold it toward him, a playful ward.
“I’ve observed people for decades. There are different categories of people, you know. And I’m not talking about personality types exactly, though there’s some validity to that system. You’re an interesting blend of types. As if you were meant to be one thing, but your birthright and the tragedy in your life set you on a different path. I find you fascinating, Basil Allard.” He shivers a little at the name onhis own lips. “Why did your parents name you after that particular ancestor? Especially since it seems you were taught to shun your gift? Why give you such a powerful reminder of your heritage?”
“I’m not sure.” I thumb the rim of my wineglass. “Mom would never give me a straight answer. Something about a woman who told her to name me that. Said it was lucky or meant to be. Fated or whatever.”
“A woman? Like a soothsayer or a fortune teller?”
“I guess.”
A haunted look etches Dorian’s face, and I quickly add, “You know I’m not him reincarnated or something, right?”
“Of course I know that.” He scoffs lightly, shifting in his seat and swiping a hand over his mouth and jaw.
Normally I don’t care to hear about people’s breakup stories. They annoy me, honestly. I always feel like standing up and screaming,You think you’ve got it bad because your boyfriend texted that he needs a break? I killed my dad with my magic powers! Beat that, bitch!
It’s not some kind of demented contest, and everyone’s entitled to feel their own grief. Sure. I get that. Still, I’m not the listening ear most people want for their tiny personal “tragedies.”
But for some reason, I’m very interested in hearing more about what happened between the original Basil and Dorian Gray.
“You said he broke it off,” I nudge gently.
His gaze skips away from mine, travels to some distant spot above the bobbing heads of the nightclub guests. He clears his throat, wets his lips. “I wanted to travel with him so we’d have more freedom to be together. We could never have been completely open about our relationship, not in those times, but we could have found cities and communities where we had more liberty to exist. He didn’t want that. Not with me. Certainly not after I told him about thepainting.”
“Wait… He didn’t know what the portrait does?”
“Not at first. I told him about it the night he left me. He wanted me to have it exorcized or splattered with holy water or destroyed. But I didn’t want to tell anyone else about it—certainly not a fucking priest.”
“He wanted it destroyed?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Did he know that would kill you?”
“Back then, he didn’t understand his powers. He rarely painted portraits, simply because he preferred still life and landscape paintings.”
“So he might have painted other portraits like yours without realizing it.”
“I thought of that. But I never bothered to find out if anyone else had a soul-bound portrait from him. If they did, that was their story, not mine.” Dorian tips wine into his mouth. “I refused to have anything done to the portrait. I asked him, once again, to travel with me and be my husband in life if not in law. But he wanted to get married to a woman and have a family. Do things the ‘right’ way. He cared about what people thought more than he cared about me. Always so restrained for an artist.” Dorian scoffs again. “So fucking straitlaced, except when I was buried deep inside him. And then—god, the way he’d come undone…”
My cheeks feel like a pair of glowing lanterns, and my stomach thrills.
Dorian’s gaze, distant for a moment, swerves back to me. He inspects my face, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
I swallow. “No.”
