“Yes. Even lived together for a decade or so. Platonically, as I told you. And he hasn’t changed a bit since the day I first saw him. Well…he’s quieter now. More reserved. He’s always been the quiet type, but we don’t talk as often as we used to. In fact, I got the sense he’d lost interest in me completely until I called and told him my painting was decaying. He told me I needed to hunt down Basil Hallward’s descendants.”
“It was his idea.” Something tugs at the back of my mind, but I can’t tease the thought forward enough to grasp it.
“He asked me once what name Basil took when he moved to France. I suppose he was curious and wanted to find Basil’s descendants himself, if any existed. I didn’t want to talk or think about it, so I never told him. But I knew Basil’s new name—Allard, much easier for French tongues to pronounce. It wasn’t the first time he’d changed names either. Before he came to London, he wasBasil O’Halloran. It was too Irish a name for him to be accepted in the upper circles of London society, so he became ‘Hallward’ instead.”
“O’Halloran,” I murmur. It’s a strange, warm feeling, knowing a true name from my family tree. “So Lloyd was interested in my family?”
“Of course he was, once I told him about my portrait. The whole thing is in his wheelhouse, you see. The kind of anomaly he likes to pursue and dissect.”
“Any idea how old he is?” I move to my altar and shift the candle over half an inch.
“No.”
I narrow my eyes. “Seems like that should have come up. Shouldn’t he have shared some of his secrets while you were sharing yours?”
Dorian shrugs. “I didn’t think his age mattered.”
He may not think so, but I am very curious about Lloyd-Henry now. Despite Dorian’s keen eye for people’s characters and personalities, he seems to have a blind spot where Lloyd is concerned.
“He’s a patient man,” Dorian continues. “He doesn’t rush into things. He likes to mull them over, investigate thoroughly, and draw conclusions slowly. And he prefers to focus on one thing at a time. He’s completely invested in whatever Gatsby’s doing up on Glassy Mountain, and only when he completes his time there will he be able to focus on our problem.”
“Great,” I mutter.
“Shouldn’t be long, though. He said he’d be back in a few days.”
“Maybe in the meantime, we should do some of our own investigating. I’d like to go back to that abandoned building near the Chandler.” Briefly I tell Dorian about the feeling I had whenI touched that door on the day I met him. “I don’t have any proof there’s something supernatural buried there. Just a feeling.”
Dorian leans back on the couch, doubt warring with interest in his blue eyes. “And you want to poke around there? Doesn’t seem like a smart choice, Baz. Especially if that’s where the skriken want to take you. More of them are bound to show up.”
“We can bring more flamethrower thingies to defend ourselves. Dorian, we need more information. We need to know what’s happening and why. Maybe I’ll be able to sense something else from that door.”
“And you want to go tonight?”
“Hell no. Tomorrow morning. It’ll have to be early, though, before all the runners are up.”
“A predawn investigation.” Dorian nods. “I’m game.”
***
At 4:30 a.m., we drag ourselves out of bed. Dorian is a little grouchy, but less so than yesterday morning at the hotel. We stop by Lloyd’s place so he can change into something more casual than yesterday’s outfit.
The lights in the penthouse flick on automatically when we enter. All is quiet, and when Dorian comes back from his room in a hoodie and jeans, his face is grim. “Sibyl’s gone. Cleared out. Probably went back to Nashville to get the rest of her stuff from my house.”
“You can still be friends,” I say. “She may not work for you anymore, but I doubt she wants to cut you out of her life completely.”
“That’s exactly what she wants.” He hands me a pair of thin leather gloves. “Here. In case we need to throw flames again.” He slings a gym bag onto his shoulder, the clink of spray-paint cans betraying what’s inside.
“What about Vane?” I ask. “Is he here? Should we check on him before we go?”
“He’s probably sleeping off a shitload of dope. I’ll check on him when we get back.”
The predawn air is cool, sharp with the scent of fish and salt and moisture. Dorian and I walk down the driveway of the Chandler, and I glance back to admire the golden beauty of the building, uplit and silent. The palmettos stir lightly in the breeze, and a fountain on the grounds gurgles pleasantly, a foil to the background murmur of the ocean’s distant breathing.
Something stirs in the shadow of one of the palmettos. A man, I think. Probably one of the guests out for a walk.
As I turn away, the thought races through my mind—
Maybe it’s something else.
