He’s tied to a chair in the center of the room, an old Polaroid camera set on a tripod in front of him. He appears unconscious, and a second figure faces away from me, wearing a hood while busy lighting what is easily a hundred candles. I let my vision adjust to the glare of the burning wicks as they blaze around a set of easels, illuminating the golden frames of The Four. They stare mournfully at Noah, and I see the whole setup for what it is—a ghoulish art exhibition. The self-portrait isn’t here, but I don’t have time to wonder where it is right now. My heart pounds so loud it might as well be announcing me with a drumroll, but the figure doesn’t seem to hear it.
Good. Time for the next part of the plan.
I step back, my hands clammy as I reach into my pocket and pull out the little black box. I’ve never used a personal alarm, but I’m guessing they must be pretty loud to scare off potential attackers, so I’m hoping it will provide a good enough distraction to give me some time to check on Noah. I study the device andwrap my fingers round the black cord loop as I approach the balcony. If I pull this too soon, it will start screaming and give my position away, so I need to time it just right.
God, I hope this works.
I take a deep breath, hold the cord tightly and bring my arm back with as much power as I can manage before snapping it forward over the edge, praying the alarm is more robust than it looks. There’s a split second of quiet where I hear the grenade-like snap of the metal pin detaching from the box, and then a deafening siren splits the silence as the alarm soars through the air and drops down into the foyer below. The sound stops for a second and I worry the device has smashed to pieces, but then it starts wailing again, though it’s slightly distorted.
“What the hell is that?” a hoarse voice echoes out from the gallery.
Here we go.
I race for the stairwell and yank the door shut as fast as I can, pressing all my weight against it, ready to run if the killer comes this way. Instead, I hear the clatter of someone dashing toward the balcony and then footsteps fading as they yank open the door and disappear into the opposite staircase, the one that leads straight down to the foyer. I wait a beat once the other door shuts and then peer out. The corridor is empty, so I run into the gallery, dodging candles as I approach the figure bound to the chair in the center of the room.
“Noah?” I ask, touching his face.
He’s warm, which I take as a good sign, but there’s a cannula in his arm that leads into a tube, just like Alessandra’s, andjudging by the amount of blood I can see in the container below it, I’m here just in time. I think back to a blood test I had a few months ago and remember the nurse pressing a piece of gauze on the needle site as she eased it out.
“Noah?” I repeat, patting around in my pockets for something I can use. I find a hopefully clean tissue and wad it up, listening for any indication that the alarm has been found, but I can still hear the distant, slurring wail. I speak to Noah in a low voice. “We have to get out of here, okay? Noah? Can you hearme?”
“Fliss?” He groans, and I almost collapse in relief.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m so sorry we left you here.” I peel off the medical tape keeping the cannula in place and position the tissue just above it, pressing down hard, hoping I’m doing the right thing. “This might hurt a little.” He groans as I keep the pressure on his arm with one hand and tease the needle out with the other. A spurt of blood soaks the tissue, but within seconds the steady flow stops and Noah groans again.
“I know you found the necklace,” he says. His voice is so weak, I wonder how much blood he’s lost. “Izzy texted me. I wanted to explain, but then all this…I didn’t take it off Jen, I swear. I found it under your sink. It must have snapped when she was helping clean up.”
“You don’t have to explain. I know it wasn’t you,” I whisper, dropping the cannula with a shudder and pressing his other hand on the tissue in the crook of his arm. “Can you keep some pressure on that?”
“I think so,” he mumbles.
I scramble around to look at the rope holding him in place, ready to start tackling the knots, when I hear the door to the stairwell opening. It’s only then I notice the alarm has stopped screeching, which means it was found and probably destroyed.
Noah pries his eyes open to look at me. “Hide.”
I swallow a sob and move the tissue, taping the cannula back to the crook of his arm so it looks as though it’s still attached. Then I retreat to the back of the gallery, hoping the shadows there will provide cover. I press my back to the furthest wall as a figure appears silhouetted in the doorway, removes their hood and speaks.
“Come out come out, wherever you are.”
FORTY-ONE
Grace
New York City, July17, 1911
The artist watched his finalvictim’s breathing slow to a halt as he put the finishing touches on her portrait. Grace had been a pretty young thing, and he had almost felt sorrow as he went through the motions of robbing her pocketbook and drugging her brandy. But the consumption had grown stronger in his body in recent days, and he knew he didn’t have long to live. He had to find a fourth woman to complete the ritual; otherwise it would all be for nothing. This was his only chance to be cured.
He left Grace’s body bound to the chair as he carefully packed up his brushes and paint, then wrapped the canvas loosely in a dust sheet and collected his gas lamp. He left the building without looking back and started the short walk home. Someone would surely find her in the next few hours, the latest victim of a deranged killer the New York press had dubbed BBK.
He let himself into the tenement building at 105 Orchard Street, where he had initially marked his victims. People movedin and out constantly, so no one questioned four women leaving within two weeks. It happened all the time.
He entered his small ground floor room and placed Grace’s portrait on an easel, unwrapping the fabric slowly to keep it from smudging more than he had intended. He studied the first three paintings where they were lined up against a wall; Lorenna, Frances and Nicole were complete and waiting for Grace to join them. The paintings were beautiful in their own way, even though they bled suffering and horror, but that was part of the deal he was making. Not only did these women have to suffer, but he also had to capture their agony so it could be passed on to anyone who viewed them. He was trading their agony to save his ownlife.
The artist—Grace had known him as Niko, due to his habit of taking the name of the last woman he had killed—stood up and emptied his pockets as a thick, wet cough folded him in two. He ignored the burning pain in his chest, wiped his bloody lips on his sleeve and pulled a lock of Grace’s blood-soaked hair from a handkerchief. He leaned over, fighting off another fit of coughing as he took it back to his seat. He lifted it to Grace’s portrait, using a still-deft hand to work it into the composition with a thin paintbrush. Once he was satisfied, he sat back, staring at it as it dried. He was almost finished.
The artist placed Grace’s portrait with the others and dragged himself to the fifth and final canvas in the room, propping it on the easel where Grace’s had just been. He had already used this once, but now he painted over it with thick blocks of color, allowing a hint of the bone beneath to remain. He painted himself as he thought he truly must look. A face began to emerge,covering the grinning skull, demonic and bloodthirsty, a tortured man who craved life at any cost. He stared into his own empty eyes and consulted the ragged parchment he had bought along with the tarot cards when he had been in London. This was the final step. If he was to be cured, then he must use his own blood and hair as well as that of the women.
The artist took the strands of all the bloodied hair that he had saved over the last two weeks and placed them on his worn palette. He could feel his life ebbing away as he worked, but he pressed on. Surely this dark magic would work. He cut a piece of his own hair with a pair of dull shears, then used the blade to slice into his hand, though it did little more than nick his flesh. He managed to squeeze a drop or two of his blood onto the palette and muddied it into the paint as his strength left him. He pushed onward to finish his self-portrait and mutter the words on the parchment, believing they would truly save him. But it was too late.
