“You’re very grumpy,” I tell him.
“No shit. The perfect day I planned for you went to hell, you got hurt, and now I’m stuck in this shithole for the night.”
“We could still drive back to Charleston.”
He mumbles something unintelligible into the pillow, but he doesn’t get up.
“At least you were prepared for the skriken,” I say. “Without those flamethrowers, we might both be dead. They would have dragged me away to be sucked dry of all my magical energy or whatever. You might have survived, but who knows how much more damage your painting can take.”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
The dark pathos in his voice stings my heart.
“I want you to know that I’m not just stringing you along,” I say quietly, staring at the dark ceiling. “I am thinking about painting you. I just… I vowed not to do this, Dorian. Vowed it on my father’s grave, the day he was buried and again with my hand on his tombstone every year afterward. That means something to me. I guess by now you know I’m kind of a spiritual person—not in a religio-Christian way, but I believe in the mystic. I believe promises have power. Hell, I believed in the supernatural even before this.”
I pause, but he doesn’t say a word.
“What happened to my father wrecked me,” I continue. “And even without my vow, I’m not sure it’s my place to give you another portrait, if it’s even possible.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, softly, “So you want me to die.”
“I don’t want anyone to die. But tell me this. The girl who died of an overdose at your party… Was she the only death for which you’ve been responsible?”
A long pause. “No.”
“How many?”
“I’ve lost count.”
My chest tightens. I expected there to be a few more, but so many that he lost count? That can’t be true. That would make him a sociopath, a callous, unfeeling monster. “Bullshit. You’d remember.”
“Why should I? None of them were important. Cogs in thewheel of humanity, worms writhing on the hot pavement of the world. Fools screaming toward their own destruction. They deserved death. Everyone does.”
“Even you?”
“Of course. I know I don’t deserve immortality, Baz. But I want it. I’ve lived more, done more, experienced more than anyone else, so I want it harder than anyone else. I have to believe that I can achieve it by sheer force of will.”
“What about karma?” I retort. “What about suffering the consequences of your actions?”
“A weak concept circulated by pompous religious leaders, a threat devised to pin the lower classes under the grinding heel of the oppressive rich, to make them fear going after what they really want.”
“You sound like Lloyd-Henry. He thinks conscience is cowardice.”
“I won’t lie. I’ve learned much of my personal philosophy from him. Or perhaps we’ve shaped each other’s viewpoints.”
“And you want to shape me. To make me believe that living the life I want, full of the pleasures I enjoy, is the ultimate goal of existence. That other people don’t matter, as long as I’m beautiful, young, happy, and rich.”
“Exactly.”
“You can’t believe that, Dorian. I don’t think that’s how you really feel at all. As much as you pretend not to, I’ve got to believe that you do care.”
“You want me to be deserving of the gift you can give me, when I know I never will be.” His voice is hard now. “I’ll never live up to the ideal you imagine, Basil. I can’t, and I won’t try. The most I can be is myself, and if that’s not enough for you—”
“Yourself?” My laugh has razor edges. “But you won’t show meyour real self, Dorian. You’ve been acting a part since I met you. Playing the role you’ve designed, keeping all your layers carefully in place. You’ve given me a few glimpses underneath, always by accident—and that’s who I want to see. The real you, not the fake one you serve up to everyone else.”
I can hear him breathing heavily and quickly in the dark. “You think you want to see that,” he bites out. “But you really don’t.”
“I do.”
