“I know.” Lloyd squeezes Dorian’s shoulder.
The drive home is silent. Sibyl pats and strokes Vane’s blue hair while he slumps against her shoulder. Judging by his occasional glares in my direction, he’s disappointed I wasn’t shot or mad that Dorian would have killed for me. Or both.
Lloyd is in the driver’s seat, and I sit behind him, staring out the window at the sky, bruised along the horizon by the light pollution from the city. Now and then, I glance at Dorian in the front passenger seat. The intermittent flash of passing streetlamps and headlights throws the edges of his face into stark relief.
“I have to go out of town for a while,” Lloyd says quietly to Dorian as we turn onto Barre Street. “You remember Jay Gatsby, my friend from a few years ago? He’s in North Carolina now, and he has made some interesting acquaintances I’d like to meet.”
“Gatsby,” Dorian murmurs. “The one you set up with that business opportunity you won’t tell me about?”
“I’d like to claim ownership of his idea, but no, he came up with the business plan himself. I may have given him a little nudge, though.”
“You’re always nudging people, Lloyd.” Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do I need to find another place while you’re gone?”
“Not at all. You can stay in the penthouse until I return. I hate to leave you at this”—he lowers his voice, but I still catch the last two words—“crucial time. I’ll be back before the two weeks are up.”
Crucial time. He’s talking about me and my decision on whether to paint Dorian’s new portrait.
As fun as this day has been and as interesting as my conversation with Dorian was, the incident with the gunman has woken me up. Whatever Dorian may say or do, no matter how sweetly he smiles or how much he confides in me, he is after one thing—my gift. He gave up his one great love to keep that portrait, and he isn’t going to take kindly to a refusal at the end of all this.
Is it right to string him along, to give him hope that I’ll say yes?
Obviously it’s wrong. I know it is.
But I want what he’s offering. The food, the fun, the shopping, the introduction to clients, the tour of the best and brightest parts of Charleston society. The chance to build a brighter future for myself. I want all of it.
My desires are more important to me than Dorian’s feelings.
Which is a horrible thing to admit to myself.
Maybe I should stay isolated, living the quiet life of an artist. Because since I’ve made new acquaintances and moved toward having some kind of social life, I’ve started seeing all the morally grayparts of myself again—the parts that are okay with hurting other people. And I don’t like it.
We’re passing the corner where the abandoned Coast Guard building lies like an overgrown tomb in the dark. There’s a single streetlamp on the corner, and—
And in the white glare of that lamp, I see three figures. A quick snapshot emblazoned on my brain.
The central figure, tall and red-bearded, with bronze muscles, wearing black shorts.
It’s the character I drew the other night. The one Screwtape erased from my tablet.
He looks vaguely watery, almost see-through. Flanking him are two tall, hunched, crooked creatures, like wolves made of sticks, vines, and moss.
The image is gone as fast as it registers in my brain.
I twist frantically in my seat, trying to look back. “Lloyd, stop the car.”
“What? We’re almost to the gate. Just let me—”
“No, no, stop it here!” I cry. “Please!”
“Shit, okay, fine.” Lloyd pulls over, and I leap out, ignoring Dorian’s “What the fuck, Baz?”
I leave the car door open and run across the street, distantly aware of Sibyl saying, “Did you give her something, Lloyd? Something that messed with her head?”
I jog to the sidewalk and stare down it, toward the circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
They were right there—the man I drew on my tablet and the two monsters.
But the sidewalk is empty.
