“All right,” he said. “Tell me now. Is it nice or creepy?”
Dee studied the painting again. It was a gorgeous depiction of the river: She could see the little flows and eddies of the current. The girl looked beautiful from the back—strong and carefree. And it wasn’t like the painting wasperverted oranything. The most visible skin on the Dee in the painting was of her ankles and calves, her jeans rolled around her knees.
She found herself catching smaller details, as well. The way the girl’s curls seemed to catch the sunlight, shining like embers; the play of shadow across the water; and something in the girl’s posture gave the impression of determination, of stepping into freezing cold water. She would have been lying if she had said having an attractive boy paint her wasn’t flattering. She’d never had anyone pay attention to her like this, and it made her feel too warm.
For the first time, she wondered if that trip to collect river rocks had really been about having another pair of hands. Perhaps it had been an excuse, a way to talk to her without the awkwardness of asking her to coffee. But her mind shut down at the idea.
“If I was naked, it would be creepy,” said Dee. “This is just… well. I mean. Artists get inspiration from real life, right?”
Relief broke across his face. “Yes.”
But even so, it made her feel odd. He must have been watching her more closely than she realized.
“Come on,” said Gremma, taking her hand. “I need to pee and I need company.” She flashed James a bright smile before pulling Dee away.
They made their way through the crowds, and Gremmadragged her into the small private alcove, before releasing her.
Gremma crossed her arms. “All right,” she said. “Talk.”
Dee squirmed, glancing at the single-occupancy restroom not far away, wondering how annoyed Gremma would be if she simply ran and locked the door.
“Your boy painted you,” said Gremma. “I thought people didn’t even do that outside of cheesy romantic flicks.”
“For the last time,” said Dee, “he is not my boy. And he doesn’t want me.”
Gremma gave her a look.
“He doesn’t!” Dee insisted. “Trust me—I’m not that kind of girl!”
She snorted. “What kind of girl is that?” said Gremma. “The breathing kind?”
“The datable kind!” Dee waved her hands uselessly about herself, trying to gesture. “I’m—I’m—”
Not worth it.
But there were some words a person didn’t say—couldn’t say. In real life or in fairy tales, there were some things that could not be uttered aloud. And this fear, this deepest fear of hers, was something she dared not even whisper.
With that, she turned and strode into the bathroom, leaving Gremma with her mouth open in a reply. Dee slid the dead bolt shut, stood in the darkness for a moment. This was one of those old-fashioned restrooms without automatic lights, and Dee was glad for it. It was almost a relief to stand in the dark, alone with herself. When she thought she could breathe again, she fumbled for the switch.
The light came on.
And someone was already in the restroom.
Dee choked back a shriek. Her hand reached for the doorknob, ready to yank it open and run, but then she recognized the figure standing between the sink and toilet.
The Daemon.
He gazed at her, his face unreadable. “Hello.”
“You are in a girls’ restroom,” said Dee, once she had caught her breath. Very observant, she thought. Very astute. She would likely win some kind of award for intellect. “You are not supposed to be here.”
“Well,” said the Daemon, “I would have done this outside, but that would have drawn attention.”
He reached for her.
Dee jumped back. “What—what are you doing?”
“There is no time,” said the Daemon, and despite the stoic expression, she saw something flicker in his eyes. Unease.
