The skriken limps and straggles forward, approaching the porch. It’s not charging or prowling. It seems to still be in the process of assembling itself.
I’m about to do the smart thing and run back inside when another shape emerges from the darkness. A massive, burly, bearded shape, with lines and curves I know and a face I know.
It’s the man I drew on my tablet. The not-Dorian man, the imaginary man. Heisimaginary, isn’t he? Oh god—maybe I did see him somewhere and drew him from memory without realizing it! Which means he’s in some kind of trouble—or looking for revenge, maybe…
He’s just staring at me. Each of his irises is circled by a whiteglow, like the reflection of a ring light. He seems vaguely translucent, like he isn’t quite all there, literally.
My mouth opens to ask him who he is, what he wants—but the grind of tires on pavement right in front of the house catches my attention. I turn my head for a split second, and when I look back, the man is gone, and so is the skriken.
Hastily I toss the trash bag into the can and run to the end of the porch. It’s Dorian, his face tight with purpose.
“I changed my mind. I can’t leave you here alone tonight,” he says. “You’re coming back to the Chandler with me. I texted Sibyl, and she said you can sleep in her room tonight. Feed your cat, grab some stuff, and shove it in a bag. No excuses.”
17
Baz
Dorian couldn’t have picked a better day for this trip. I shove uncomfortable thoughts of yesterday’s freaky events to the back of my mind and enjoy the rush of the salty wind blowing past the Tesla’s open windows, tossing my hair into a wild mess.
I slept well last night, thanks to a sleeping pill Dorian gave me and also thanks to the luxurious bedding in Lloyd-Henry’s penthouse. Dorian and I stopped by my house this morning before we set off to feed Screwtape and check for disturbances. Everything was exactly as I’d left it—except there was a half-chewed rabbit lying on the porch, with several dead moths scattered around it. Black, velvety moths, just like the swarm we saw at the Chandler. Dorian picked up the rabbit and tossed it in the trash.
“A stray dog must have dragged it there,” he said, but although I nodded, we both knew better. Which is why, despite the glorious beauty of this sunny day, he and I aren’t talking much.
After half an hour of silence, wind, and occasional sips of coffee, I decide to say something.
“I looked up Hunting Island while I was getting ready thismorning,” I say. “It’s a beach. Well, a beach and a swamp. Not to burst your bubble, but that’s nothing I haven’t seen.”
Dorian’s eyes are unreadable behind Cartier sunglasses, but he grins, dimpling. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“There’s other stuff in the area—hiking, fishing… God, please tell me we’re not going fishing.”
“No.”
“Then what’s so special and inspiring about this place?”
“You must not have done much searching. Just a cursory glance at the website, yeah?”
I reach into my bag and take out my phone, but Dorian snatches it and tucks it into the pocket of the driver’s side door.
“Hey!” I try to reach across him. When I can’t, I unbuckle so I can stretch farther across his lap.
“Baz, sit your cute little ass back down and put your seat belt on. And no messing with the driver. One massive car wreck might cause enough damage to make my portrait disintegrate entirely.”
“At least that would get me off the hook with you.”
“You’d probably die with me. How romantic.”
“Give me my phone.”
He sighs. “You impossible woman—just let me surprise you. Relax and put on some music. You don’t need the phone right now.”
“Fine.” I slump into the seat, faking a pout, but secretly I’m even more curious about our destination—and pretty damn flattered that he’s going to so much trouble for my sake. Today’s trip doesn’t seem to have much to do with his eventual goal—convincing me that a life of wealth and indulgence is worth yielding my principles and breaking my vow. Taking me out here is about inspiring me creatively. Which I guess might circuitously feed into his goals, but I prefer to think it’s more personal than that.
For the next hour or so, we take turns finding music we like. His taste tends toward the classics and oldies—Etta Jones, Julie London, and Nat King Cole, but he’s got some newer choices in there, too—Kooma and Main-de-Gloire. He plays Sinatra’s “Call Me Irresponsible” and then Blondie’s “One Way or Another.” I introduce him to Ghost, Marianas Trench, a little Paramore. And the song choices lead into a discussion of music in movies and TV shows, like the brilliant infusion of Neil Diamond’s music intoMidnight Mass.
Suddenly Dorian is pulling off the road into a sloped, narrow parking lot by a reedy marsh. There’s a weathered building ahead.
“What are we doing?” I ask.
