A solitary figure runs down the steps from the second floor of the garage. A bearded man in a silver shirt that glimmers in the white haze of the overhead lights. The man I saw in the club.
He hesitates for a split second when he sees us, then strides forward, his fists clenched and his mouth set. The same hostility I sensed earlier is pouring off him, but now his eyes are red and swollen, like he’s been crying.
“You.” The man points straight at Dorian. “I recognize you. Youused to party with my sister. Yeah. She never told me your name, but she had a photo of you. She called you ‘Prince Charming.’”
“I party with a lot of people,” Dorian says coolly. “Is that a crime?”
“It became a crime when you introduced my sister to drugs. I saw you in Scoundrel, so I went to my car—to get this.” He reaches to the back of his waistband and pulls out a gun.
11
Baz
Vane yelps in terror, and Sibyl and I gasp. Lloyd curses quietly from somewhere behind me.
The man takes aim at Dorian’s chest, and Sibyl cups her fingers over her mouth.
“Yeah, you ruined her.” The man sniffs, his voice cracking. “She was the kindest, sweetest person, and you wrecked her. Last time I saw her, she said she was going to a party at ‘Prince Charming’s’ house. She died of an overdose at that party. Your fault.”
“You have my condolences,” says Dorian. “But I’m afraid I don’t know the woman you’re talking about.”
“You dare deny it? You dare?” The man’s voice shrills, thin with anguish. “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, and I’ll knock off one of your fucking friends, too.” Watching Dorian’s face, he swerves the gun, pointing it first at Vane, who’s half-hidden behind Dorian, then at Sibyl, then at Lloyd, standing farther back, off to the right. Finally he aims at me, still keeping his eyes on Dorian. “Ah! There it is. This is the one you don’t want to lose. I’m gonna shoot this bitch as payback for my sister. Then I’ll kill you, too, Prince Charming.”
My skin erupts in white-hot goose bumps, adrenaline streaking through my veins. Fight or flight—but I can’t do either. I simply stare down the barrel of the gun, perfectly still and silent.
Sibyl releases a tiny sob, but she doesn’t move. Vane is crying, muttering, “Oh my god, oh my god,” over and over. I don’t dare turn my head to see Lloyd’s expression.
“How long ago did your sister pass?” Dorian says calmly.
The man wipes at his reddened eyes with shaking fingers, then clamps that hand to his other wrist, bracing the gun, still pointing it at me. “I–I don’t know. Twenty years, maybe?”
“I’m going to step forward, into better light,” Dorian says. “Look at my face. Tell me how old you think I am.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” rasps the man.
“I won’t,” Dorian promises. He takes a slow step forward and tips his face up. “Look at me. How old do you think I was twenty years ago?”
“I… God, I–I don’t understand.” The man lowers the gun a little, a tear trailing down his cheek. “You’re, like, twenty-three? Twenty-five? Fuck, you would have been a kid back then.”
“You’ve only seen a photo of this person who hurt your sister. Probably a blurry photo, right?” Dorian’s voice is a smooth river, flowing over the man’s panic. My own anxiety is easing as I listen to him. “And the lighting in the club is shit. This person you’re looking for couldn’t have been me. You have the wrong man. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The man hammers his forehead with the wrist of his gun hand. “Fuck… Look, I’m sorry. I think I had too much to drink, and I thought… Shit, I almost shot you.”
“Nothing happened,” Dorian says soothingly. “Do you want me to call you a car?”
“Naw, man. I’m gonna go.” With a gulping sob, the man tucks his gun away again and heads past us, hurrying out of the parking garage into the dark street.
I stay perfectly still, breathing shallowly, as if a sudden movement might make him turn around, might bring him back, might end in a bullet searing through my chest… God, I think I’m going to be sick…
Dorian steps in front of me, towers over me, his chest filling the place where the gun was. He clasps my bare shoulders, and his fingers are cold, with a frenzied strength that belies his calm.
“Baz.” His low voice penetrates my fear, and I suck in a shuddering breath.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
His fingers tighten, tugging me slightly toward him as if he’s going to pull me into a hug. But he doesn’t. “Wait here. I’ll go end this. He won’t ever threaten you again.”
He releases me and stalks away, picking up his pace into a jog, following the gunman.
