We grab lunch on the way—big cheeseburgers with lots of fries because that doesn’t affect his health, and honestly I’d rather die of a heart attack in my sixties than live to be ninety. But I don’t tell Dorian that, and he doesn’t press me for my decision.
When we get to my house, Dorian carries the bag of food to the coffee table while I scoop Screwtape into my arms. He hisses and wriggles, and I almost let him go—but then he quiets suddenly.Lets me cuddle him to my chest and knead his little head with my knuckles. His fur is so silky I want to cry.
When I release him, he stalks away haughtily with a backward glance of pure disdain.
Dorian and I eat in silence, watchingThe Haunting of Hill House. In spite of how delicious the food tastes, I only eat half my burger and a few of my fries. My stomach keeps knotting up and twisting tighter. There are too many thoughts racing around inside my head.
Talking about death scared me, and it cemented my conviction that Dorian and I need to find some help. We can’t keep fighting off the skriken ourselves, not really understanding why they show up and what they want. Lloyd-Henry was useless, and I doubt Mrs. Dunwoody is willing to provide any more information now that she thinks I’m a devil worshiper. I don’t know… Maybe I am. I’ve been praying to some higher power at my altar, someone other than Brigid. Who knowswhatexactly I’ve been talking to.
Maybe I should walk right up to that old, abandoned building across from the Chandler, knock on the door, and see if I hear the weird voice inside my head.
And what about that guy, the one who looks like the character I designed? He can’t be real, because he looked filmy, incorporeal. He has to be a hallucination. Maybe I should see a therapist again.
And Dorian—sweet, tragic, terrible Dorian, who’s lounging on the couch beside me with his shoulder propped against mine and his legs kicked up over the armrest—what the hell am I going to do about Dorian?
Maybe I should just give in and see if I can paint him a new portrait.
But I vowed. I’ve promised on my dad’s grave so many times,and I can’t help the nagging fear that breaking the promise would wreck something inside me irreversibly—that the shattering of my vow would have karmic repercussions.
There’s no guarantee I could even manage to pull Dorian’s soul into a new picture. I’ve only done a soul transference once. I’ve had no practice, and while the process is simple in theory, I’m terrified to try it on someone I actually care about. What if I killed Dorian while I was trying to save him?
And if Ididsucceed, what would Dorian do with his second chance? Would I be freeing him up to continue careening through people’s lives, leaving addicts, convicts, and broken souls in his wake? I can’t see much good that he’s done with his decades. The kind of pleasure he gives people is fun, sure, but it doesn’t last, and some of it actually makes things worse for them afterward.
“I don’t think you’re watching this show at all,” drawls Dorian. “The coffin just fell over, and you didn’t even blink.”
“I’m thinking.”
He drops the remnant of his burger on its waxy paper wrapping and sits up, looking into my eyes. “About?”
“Things. And stuff.”
“Things and stuff.” A smile twitches on his lips.
“What if you just kept your current painting and tried to be really good?”
“What if I’m injured in an accident and the whole thing disintegrates?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The back of my bandaged hand twinges.
“I know I dropped a lot on you today, and right after the incident with the skriken last night,” he says. “It’s partly because of our encounter with them that I’m so eager to resolve this. I needprotection, Baz. From aging and from death. Don’t you want to havethisavailable to you for as long as you like?” He gestures to himself with a sly smile.
“As long as I like?” I try to ignore the low-down flutter prompted by those words. “I’m not the sharing kind, remember. Won’t you get bored of me?”
His gaze narrows, intensifying, heating my very skin. “As if.”
Those two tiny words incite a quick, compulsive throb between my legs and a quiver of delight in my heart. But then images rise in my mind—papery skin and purple veins, yellowed teeth and wrinkled mouths.
“ButI’llget old,” I whisper. “You’ll keep existing, pretty and perfect, while I decay.”
Dorian reaches for me, pulling me close. I yield and tuck my head against his shoulder.
“This is one passion Lloyd-Henry and I share,” he says. “The idea that for the human race, the only goal worth pursuing is the eradication of the aging process. The elimination of natural death. It’s really the only thing that matters. Everything else is frivolous.”
“But you haven’t pursued that goal. You’ve spent most of your time indulging in all the pleasures you could find.”
“True. I suppose that’s because I know smarter people are working on the problem. Lloyd, for one, and some friends of his. I have a feeling that’s why he left in such a hurry last week. Gatsby must have had a breakthrough with whatever he’s doing up in North Carolina. If we can find a way to spare even one person from aging or dying, I’ll make sure you’re that person.”
“As part of my payment for doing your portrait?” I say glumly. “You’re adding immortality to the package now?”
