What if he encouraged Dorian’s excess on purpose?
What if Lloyd suspected the painting would one day reach a critical maximum capacity?
Bringing me and the painting to this mansion, to this island, was Lloyd’s idea. Dorian also told me Lloyd was interested in the original maker of the portrait.
The pieces of the puzzle swirl in my head, but they’re starting to settle into place, and I can see one thing clearly.
Lloyd-Henry wants Dorian dead.
He’s been working toward it, first by coaching Dorian to destruction and now by urging Dorian to bring the painting out of its layers of protection. There’s just the bulletproof casing left. It has two locks on the side: a combination lock and a biometric one. I messed with them both a little tonight. I was so angry at Dorian that I thought fleetingly of hurting him through the portrait somehow.
How can I love him and want to hurt him at the same time? In that respect, I’m no better than Vane. Not quite as desperate, but I might be if I had to watch him falling in love with someone else right in front of me.
God, I need to focus. I grip the edges of the chair, trying to sort out why, why,whyLloyd would want to kill his best friend and what my part in this might be.
“Did you tell Lloyd you were coming here?” I ask.
“None of your damn business.” Still holding the gun on me, Vane walks to the window and peeks out between the curtains.
If I were a girl in an action movie, I’d grab a couple paintbrushes and throw them like darts into Vane’s carotid artery. Or I’d throwsomething heavy at his gun hand, and my aim would be perfect and he’d drop the weapon—
But he’s already glancing back at me to make sure I’m staying put.
“We’re going to wait for Dorian,” he says. “We’ll wait right here until he comes.”
He begins pacing the room, gun in hand. At least he hasn’t thought of tying me up yet. That’s one benefit of him being high right now—his judgment is addled. Which works both for me and against me.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he says suddenly. “When I was listening outside the door, you said you need to put his soul back in his body. What does that mean? Are you some kind of witch?”
So he doesn’t know what I can do. And I’m not about to explain it, not with him in this unhinged state. “It was a figure of speech. I wanted him to try to be a better person.”
Vane snorts. “Wow. You think you can fix him? The hubris.” He stops in front of Dorian’s portrait. “No one can fix this. He needs to be stopped, Baz. Before he ruins any more lives. You’ll thank me for this someday.”
A jolt of twisted hope runs along my nerves. “Wait, so…you’re not planning to kill me?”
“I will if I have to. But I’d rather not. And Lloyd made me promise—” He stops, his mouth twitching.
“Lloyd made you promise what?”
Vane shakes his head. “Shut up. Just sit there, and be quiet.”
Did Lloyd make him promise not to hurt me? And Lloyd obviously didn’t explain my power to Vane. So he wants Dorian dead, but not me.
I’m so fucking confused.
While Vane paces the room, I have plenty of time to mull over the situation. I try to ask him a couple more questions, but whenever I start to talk, he points the gun at me with a shaking hand, a manic light in his eyes. So I shut up.
Part of me wishes I could draw Vane’s portrait and then damage it, thereby damaging him. But a larger part of me is still dedicated to my vow and to the memory of my dad. I won’t use my gift to kill someone.
Not that I could even if I wanted to. Anytime I make the smallest of movements, Vane yells at me to be still.
Minutes ooze by, marked by faint clicks from the minute hand of the morose grandfather clock in the corner. If I hadn’t been kidnapped, imprisoned, and held hostage here, I might find this house weirdly inspiring. Ponderous, ancient furnishings loom in every corner, and there’s a massive fireplace whose mantelpiece is one thick beam, polished and engraved with leafy swirls. On the stone chimney above the mantelpiece, there’s a shield-shaped plaque, like those old coats of arms in British manors, with a picture in each quarter: a dog, a door, a skull, and an eye. The carved banner swirling underneath it bears three words: MORS APERIT IANUAM.
I might be a college grad, but I don’t know much Latin. I’m pretty sure it’s something about death.
“Not long now,” mutters Vane, still pacing.
I venture a slow, hopefully imperceptible movement, reaching toward the nearest pen on the table. Maybe I can use it as a weapon. Better than nothing.
