They ended up going out to eat. Gremma had no compunctions about staying out after curfew, so they found a Thai restaurant and conquered one of the corner tables.
They ate spring rolls and stir-fried vegetables and some kind of coconut milk soup. Gremma ended up using one chopstick like a spear, and when Dee picked all the cashews out of her veggies, James scooped them onto his plate.
Gremma and James regarded each other like cats—seemingly unsure if the other was friend or foe. Gremma made a few cracks about James’s wardrobe, and James only replied with a grin, which seemed to annoy her.
Somehow, this relieved Dee. Gremma had a way of dominating a room, of drawing the eye, and Dee seemed to shrink in her shadow. That James appeared immune to Gremma’s charisma was reassuring.
It wasn’t as if Dee had a claim on him or anything, she thought, but it would be disappointing to realize that whatever connection she felt with him was something he forged with everyone he met. She knew people like that, who bonded as easily as breathing, but it seemed James wasn’t one of them.
When they left the restaurant, Gremma forced a path through the gathering crowds on the sidewalk; James slowed, fell into step with Dee. “Thanks for doing this,” he said. “I usually spend weekends alone. It’s kind of nice going out with people.”
She looked at him. For all his hobo clothing, James carried himself with a breezy confidence. He spoke easily, smiled frequently, and laughed at his own jokes. He could have had any number of friends or half friends, or even acquaintances. “Why?” The question slipped out. “I mean—it’s not like you’re truly a hermit or terrifying or anything. Why don’t you go out?”
“No family,” he said simply. “And too busy for friends. I sort of count Cal and Cora, but Cal is busy with his research, and Cora—well. She’d probably chew her own arm off before spending an afternoon with me.” James looked remarkably uncomfortable for a moment. “And… you’re easy to be around.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she liked it.
The gallery had transformed itself in a matter of hours. Long gone were the catering trucks and the harried-looking employees. Tea candles were set up along the walkway, and when Dee, James, and Gremma strode up the sidewalk, it was to find a crowd trailing from the front door.
Gremma went first, like the bow of some warship, cutting her way through the tide of people. Dee trailed in her wake, with James taking up the rear. They managed to navigate the crowds until they were at the wide-flung front doors. The receptionist had smoothed her hair and donned a fresh shade of lipstick, her fingernails glittering in the dim light. She recognized them instantly, and she pushed Gremma aside, reaching for James’s arm. “Oh, good. My boss will be so glad you decided to show up.”
The receptionist took his arm in what was likely meant to be a polite gesture, but somehow it reminded Dee of a person clinging to the leash of a badly behaved show dog. James reached for Dee’s arm—Dee reached for Gremma. They were pulled around the velvet rope barrier, and Dee found herself in the gallery proper.
All the sawdust was gone; the floors were polished and the strings of lights were hung overhead. The drapery along the walls still muted the sound, giving everything an intimate feel.
A man in a pressed black jacket had champagne flutes balanced on a tray. James took two, handed one to Dee.
She sniffed; it smelled crisp and sharp, but she did not drink. Even so, it was nice to have something to do with her hands.
Gremma was already talking to someone—an old lady who had paused in front of a statue that was… rather anatomically correct. Dee choked back a laugh and turned to James. He was walking around the edges of the room, eyeing the paintings. “These ones are mine,” he said, and nodded to the five before him.
The first was a painting of an old woman. The left half was all oils and elegant colors—a traditional painting. The detail was incredible; Dee could see the wrinkles in the woman’s face, how her skin was thin as parchment in some places, the way the sunlight caught in her far-seeing eyes. But the woman’s right edge began to bleed away into charcoal lines, into muted colors until it was all black-and-white sketches. They faded away into blank paper. It gave the whole painting a deliberate, unfinished look.
A HALF-LIVED LIFE said the plaque beneath it.
“It’s a very interesting piece,” drawled James. There was a middle-aged man eyeing the painting critically.
“Yes,” replied the man. “A deliberate statement about regret in old age. It’s very well done.”
“I don’t know,” said James, grinning. “It looks like the artist was trying a little too hard. You can see where he left off the brushstrokes—like he got bored and gave up.”
“It’s a metaphor,” said the man. “Didn’t you see the title?”
“Right.” James nodded as the man trundled away.
“For the record,” said James, “I did get bored.”
Dee gazed at him. “Do you do this often? Show up at places with your art and pretend not to be… well, you?”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I’m a ghost,” he said, leaning into her ear. “I drift in and out of these functions, unseen and unheard.” He gestured at the gallery and Dee followed his gaze.
A woman strode by; her heels clinked against the hardwood floor, and the sound was muffled, swallowed up by the swaths of fabric. The twinkle lights sparkled off someone’s champagne glass, and she imagined for a moment that she felt as he did. An observer, as untouchable as one of these paintings.
“No one really sees me here,” said James. “They don’t have to—they’re all staring at my work. I like seeing how people react to it, seeing how it affects them.” James smiled at her, the lights catching his white teeth. “Haven’t you ever wanted to change someone’s day? Alter the universe just a tiny bit? See if you could leave a mark on the world?”
Dee thought of the times she had tried watering down her parents’ bottles, of learning how to unscrew a cork when she was eight, her small hands strangling the neck of a wine bottle, dribbling in white grape juice, all the while hoping that if the drinks weren’t drinks at all, things might change.
They never did, though. People didn’t want to change.
But maybe a person could.
Dee swirled the champagne around in her glass. All the bubbles were nearly gone. “So, what were you thinking?” she asked, and nodded at the half-finished painting. “If it wasn’t a metaphor for a half-lived life.”
“Oh, it was definitely a metaphor,” he said. “Just because I got bored halfway through doesn’t take away from that. But I mean…” His eyes slid over the painting, brows drawn and mouth pulled up to one side. It was a focused look, one she had never seen him wear. Perhaps, she thought, this was what he looked like when something truly mattered to him.
“I saw an old woman on a curb that day,” he said. He spoke the words slowly, as if sorting them out while he said them. “She looked… well, she looked like that. Sad, somehow. She was waiting for a bus and she was all alone and I just kept thinking, I don’t want to end up like that. I don’t want to be old and sad and alone.”
Dee frowned. “So what’s the alternative? Party it up in a retirement home?”
He laughed. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s the kind of life I’ll lead.” He tilted his head back, smiling at the painting. “I figure I’ll live for now, as much as I can. And if I crash and burn before I’m old, then I won’t regret it. There are worse things than living hard and dying young. Byron certainly recommended it.”
Her stomach twisted in on itself. “There’s nothing romantic about dying young,” she said firmly. “A life is not diminished by the fact that it wasn’t romantic or short-lived.”
He looked taken aback. “Ah. That’s… one way of looking at it.”
Gremma found them by another one of James’s paintings—one depicting a teenage girl stepping into a river. The angle was from the back, the sunlight pouring around the girl so she was nearly all silhouette.
It took Dee a good thirty seconds to recognize the frizzy hair, the cardigan, and the flip-flops.
It didn’t take Gremma nearly so long.
“Oh my god,” she said, mouth gawping open. She had a miniature sandwich in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. “That’s Dee.”
James swallowed the last of his champagne. “It… might be.”
“It totally is,” said Gremma.
James slid Dee an anxious glance.
“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 was perverted or anything. 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 Gremma dragged 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.
“Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said curtly. He reached for her arm. His long, pale fingers closed around her wrist and—
It was like when he had taken her heart.
There was a yank.
There was the sensation she was falling, falling through the floor, gravity pulling her downward—
Her feet slammed into pavement and she wobbled, blinking at the sudden darkness and the cold night air.
She stood alone on a dark stretch of pavement.