Dreamspinner MM

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Art of Death Copyright © 2012 by Ana Bosch Cover Art by Shobana Appavu [email protected] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61372-582-5 Printed in the United States of America First Edition July 2012 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-583-2

Special thanks to Lex Chase for being awesome.

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Chapter 1

“WHAT the hell is this crap? Who put this up on the wall?” A timid brown-haired student shrank back in his chair, and the beads of sweat on his forehead had nothing to do with the scorching Florida heat. Mr. Tobias yanked one of the eighteen canvases off the critique wall, holding it up for all the students seated before him to get a closer look. “Seriously, Brandon, what the hell is this? The model looks like he’s got an elephant head between his legs. I feel like he’s about to spit water at me through his trunk!” At the back of the room, Riley cringed. Even though he was a professional model, he couldn’t help but feel awkward when certain parts of his anatomy were brought up for discussion. A few students snickered at the instructor’s comment, and the boy named Brandon withered in his seat like last week’s produce. “This isn’t even worth critiquing,” Mr. Tobias said, tossing the canvas onto a nearby table. “I’d expect that level of work from a freshman, but you’re going to be in the real world in less than ten months.” He went on to the next painting while Riley adjusted the belt on his knee-length robe, curling his toes in a futile attempt to keep his feet warm. Despite the high temperature that day, it never felt quite as warm when he was standing naked on a platform at the center of the room. Riley had yet to get over the embarrassment of seeing all the merciless student renderings of him each class, but in a way he still enjoyed it. It had the same morbid appeal as looking at old yearbook photos, or perhaps a public execution. But in every session, at least a few paintings stood out from the rest, and Riley liked to use them to try to predict the art industry’s future superstars. As the brochures stated, Prestwick College of Art only accepted the finest, most qualified

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students—with “qualified” meaning “rich” about 75 percent of the time. Nevertheless, it was a prestigious school, and Riley himself was proud to have a Prestwick BFA listed on his resume. “See, this is more like it,” Mr. Tobias continued as he made his way down the line. “This is professional level here, guys. This student has already mastered the basics of anatomy and value and color and has gone on to explore the matter of style.” He glanced at a shaggy-haired student in the front row. “Well done, Porter.” A couple of boys in the back row rolled their eyes at each other, and Riley thought he knew why. In the few months that he had been posing—mostly during the more relaxed elective summer session— he’d lost track of how many times he’d already heard the phrase, “Well done, Porter.” But he couldn’t begrudge the boy. Porter was talented, and even more unusual, he was humble. He took a few steps forward to get a better view of Porter’s painting. It was like looking in a mirror while drunk: he somehow appeared much more attractive in the painting than he did in real life. The colors were more vibrant and intense than in reality, and he hated to admit that Porter had minimized some of his flaws and added a flattering detail here and there. Riley was far from unattractive— twenty-five years old, soft brown hair hanging low across his brows, well-toned and lithe, with that perfect tan that everyone in Florida sought. But he could have been a bit taller, or a little less bony in the face. Although Porter had stayed true to his appearance and physique, the man in the painting put Riley to shame. At least that was Riley’s opinion. “All right,” Mr. Tobias announced, “we have enough time left for a forty-minute painting. Standing pose. I’ll adjust the lighting after he gets into position.” He gestured toward Riley. “Ready, Riley?” With a nod, Riley climbed onto the platform and shed his robe. He adopted a natural stance, and the students began examining him and moving their workspaces in order to paint at an optimal angle. This was the part that was most difficult to Riley; whenever he saw students moving across the room because they didn’t like his pose from their previous position, he always ended up wondering if he was doing a good enough job. But at the same time, he knew the students appreciated

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him. After all, he was the only nude male model under the age of seventy that the school had. The time, as always, dragged by, and Riley’s legs quivered from the strain of standing still. He worried his upper body had begun to droop and tried to correct himself. A couple of students let out disgruntled sighs and wiped out portions of their paintings to make revisions. When his timer let out a high-pitched ding, he lingered for a minute to oblige the handful of students who were scribbling in lastminute details on their paintings. Then he hopped off the carpeted platform and onto the cold concrete floor. He swiftly wrapped himself in his robe before heading toward the corner of the studio, which was concealed by a long, velvety curtain. In the privacy of his makeshift changing room, he dressed in a pair of loose-fitting cargo shorts and a T-shirt. Most of the students were still packing up and cleaning their brushes, the smell of paint thinner permeating the room, as Riley scampered toward freedom. Before he could reach the exit, Mr. Tobias flagged him down. “Riley, there’s something I want to tell you.” “Yeah?” Riley asked, a little anxious. With Mr. Tobias, it could have been anything from “You were great today” to “Maybe you should think about trimming a little shorter down there.” He’d studied under Mr. Tobias back when he attended Prestwick, and he was used to the man’s tactless approach. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but next week we’re having a painting demo during the Thursday morning session.” “Yeah, I heard. Who’s doing the demo?” “Well, that’s the exciting part.” Mr. Tobias set a hand on his shoulder, giving him an enthusiastic shake. “We were lucky enough to convince Coliaro to come and paint for us.” “Dude!” Porter cried, shooting abruptly to his feet and nearly knocking over his easel. He turned to Mr. Tobias with an almost comical look of shock in his eyes. A couple of other students, also having overheard, murmured softly to each other. But Riley simply stared obliviously, waiting for Mr. Tobias to continue.

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“Come on, man!” the instructor said. “You went to this school. How do you not know who Coliaro is?” “I studied illustration, not fine art. I can tell you anything you want to know about J. C. Leyendecker or James Montgomery Flagg, but Coliaro? Never heard of him.” “You’re hopeless.” Mr. Tobias turned to Porter, and the two of them exchanged humoring glances. “Coliaro is a world-renowned figure painter from Chicago. He does alla prima oil, but it always looks like he spent weeks glazing everything.” “He hasn’t been in the spotlight for a few years now,” Porter added as he packed away his paint tubes. “You know the story: scandal and infamy, and so on.” Mr. Tobias shot him an irritated glance. “We don’t need to go there. The point is we have a true master coming to paint for us, and he specifically requested you as the model. He wants to paint you for the demo, and again in a private session that evening.” “He really wants me?” Riley asked. “How does he even know who I am?” “He’s an acquaintance of mine. He’s seen some of the paintings I did of you in class. And of course, you came with a high recommendation from me.” Riley blushed. “Coliaro is very generous with his models. You can expect at least double your usual pay for the private session, if not more. Think it over, and let me know if you’re up for it.” “Think what over? I don’t need to think! I’ll do it!” “All right, then,” Mr. Tobias said. “Remember, next Thursday.” His face aglow, Riley left the figure studio and stepped into the stifling September heat. He should have gone out the back entrance like most of the students, as it led to an air-conditioned hall and was closer to the parking lot, but he hadn’t been paying attention. There was no point in turning around now. This time he’d just have to sweat it out. He hoped he hadn’t kept Nick waiting. Since his battered old Corolla was still in the shop after a busted radiator, Riley had to depend on his boyfriend to take time out of his own very busy schedule to drive

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him to and from work. More than anything, he hated inconveniencing Nick. The man was always so generous and never complained about having to act as Riley’s chauffeur. Relieved, he saw no gunmetal Jaguar parked by the bus stop bench at the edge of campus. There was, however, a young brunet with a French easel slung over his back. Porter was instantly recognizable even from a distance; the haphazard tangle of shaggy hair atop his lanky frame reminded Riley of a dandelion puff. As Riley approached, Porter smiled jovially at him. “Hey!” “Hey,” Riley replied, a little stiffly. “That was a good class today. I really liked the first pose you did—the seated one. That one was fun.” “Thanks.” It was always uncomfortable talking to the students outside of class. Or inside. Or anywhere, really. There had been a couple of times when he’d run into a familiar face at the grocery store or the gas station, and he could never get himself to maintain eye contact. But Porter was good-natured and sociable enough that it relieved a bit of the discomfort. For the first month in which Riley posed for Porter’s class, he was convinced Porter was the stereotypical art school stoner. His laidback attitude coupled with his fashion sense—flip-flops, paint-stained pants, equally stained graphic T-shirt, and the occasional untidy scruff across his jaw—had Riley thoroughly fooled. First impressions aside, Porter was, in fact, driven and ambitious, always trying to improve his art, and he was also known to toss out a surprisingly lucid comment here and there, even when Riley was convinced he’d been zoned out. “You’re really talented,” Riley said awkwardly. Porter scoffed. “It’s not talent. I’ve just been doing this for a long time.” “Can’t be that long. I’m older than you but nowhere near as good.” With a chuckle, Porter took a seat on the bench, waiting as Riley sat next to him. “I heard someone say you used to be a student here. How did you end up modeling?” “Oh….” He kind of hated telling the story. He had yet to find a way to explain himself without feeling like a failure. “I majored in

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illustration, but when I graduated, it was a really bad year for jobsearching. I ended up going into freelance—which is basically just a code word for unemployment if you’re fresh out of school—so I’m modeling to bring in some extra income until I build up a bigger client base.” Especially with the current economy, it was tough for brand new freelance illustrators to make a living without simultaneously holding a day job. Riley worked from home, providing various illustrations for a handful of clients, but none of them sent him enough work to cover his living expenses. It was now several years since his college graduation, and he had expected to be able to drop his day job by this time. He examined Porter’s face, waiting for a condescending reaction. But no sign of judgment came. Instead, Porter looked almost impressed. “Man, I’d never be able to do what you do. Modeling at the school I used to go to, in front of old teachers? Yikes!” “Mr. Tobias was actually the one who talked me into doing it. All the other models were supplied through an agency, but he went out of his way to get me a job, talking me up and telling the school I’d be a good choice.” Porter cackled. “So he pretty much told them you’d look good standing naked in front of the class, after just having you as a student. Hell, how would he even know?” Thankfully, Porter didn’t seem to spot the telltale blush that spread across Riley’s face. He changed the subject. “So, are you an illustration major?” “Nah, fine art. Basically I’ll be a busboy for the rest of my life.” He shrugged. “But painting is the only thing I’m good at.” “With the way you paint, galleries all over the place are going to want your work.” “Eh, I don’t know.” After a pause, he turned to Riley with rapt attention. “This private session with Coliaro—do you realize you’re going to see the inside of his studio next week? I’d kill for that kind of opportunity!” “Really?” “Hell yeah!” He leaned in. “Maybe next week we can get lunch after class, and you can tell me about it!”

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“Uhh….” Riley shifted uncomfortably. With Porter’s easygoing attitude, he didn’t think it was a come-on, but still it was a bit outside his comfort zone. “I’ll check my schedule.” “Awesome!” “Hey.” Riley paused. “What were you saying in class, about infamy and scandal?” “I was hoping you’d ask that!” Porter said with an eager grin. He leaned in even closer, lowering his voice. “So here’s the story. Back in Chicago, about five years ago, Coliaro did a series of paintings he called Oscuro Bello. All male models, all nude. While they were up in the gallery, someone vandalized them. Made it look like all the models had been killed. And then people started turning up dead, killed in a way that looked like the paintings. They could never pin it on Coliaro, but still, it kind of put a damper on his career.” He sighed. “Most artists still respect him, even if the general public doesn’t.” “Damn,” Riley said. He wasn’t sure what to think. Before he could ask any more questions, he saw the slick Jaguar turning the corner and pulling up alongside the curb. Immediately, he pulled away from Porter and turned his head to see if Nick had spotted the two of them sitting so close. “What’s up?” Porter asked. “Nothing. That’s my ride. I gotta go.” Porter still appeared puzzled by Riley’s abrupt change in demeanor, but he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he gave a casual wave and called, “See ya next class!”

“WHO was that guy you were talking to?” There it was, the question Riley had been waiting for. He was surprised it took seven minutes before Nick finally asked. His boyfriend did not divert his attention from the road, but Riley could tell by the slight knot of muscle in his jaw that he wasn’t feeling quite as nonchalant as he was acting. Unable to formulate a suitable lie, Riley said, “He’s a kid in the morning painting class. He’s really, really good.”

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“Good at what?” “Good at painting,” Riley said irritably. “What else would I be talking about?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “You never know.” He supposed he deserved that. Early on in their relationship, shortly before his college graduation, Riley’d had a bit of a drunken fling with a certain hard-edged painting instructor while on their senior cruise. Riley and Nick were both Chicago natives, but Nick was still working in Chicago at the time and hadn’t yet moved down south. Riley hadn’t thought the fling was a big deal until Nick made the decision to find a job in Sarasota so they could be closer together. Two years after his graduation, Riley finally built up the courage to make his confession to Nick. Nick had forgiven him, saying they’d never made an official promise of exclusivity, but even with the passing of another year, Riley still didn’t feel he had Nick’s full trust back. “Cute kid,” Nick said, eyeing Riley suspiciously. “I guess. But not really my type.” Nick shot him a dubious glance, but even he couldn’t dispute the fact that Porter was a far cry from the strapping, authoritative men who usually caught Riley’s interest. Another ten minutes of driving, and this time it was Riley who broke the silence. “Hey. You know that summer before law school when you took a class at the Chicago College of Art and Design?” “Yeah. What about it?” “Did you ever hear about a painter named Coliaro?” Nick glanced at him, a look of surprise on his face. “Of course I know about Coliaro! He taught at the college about twenty years before I took that class.” “Really?” “But even if I hadn’t gone to CCAD, I’d still know about him. He’s only the most famous painter to come out of Chicago in the last three decades. Everyone knows who he is.” “You mean everyone rich?” Nick rolled his eyes, dismissing Riley’s obvious insecurity. Nick had grown up wealthy, become a lawyer, and continued to be wealthy.

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Riley came from a modest family and chose to pursue a career as a starving artist. With the thirteen-year age difference between the two of them, Riley couldn’t help but wonder if people thought Nick was his sugar daddy. “Listen,” Nick said at last, “everyone who was anyone in Chicago wanted a Coliaro painting. Those things are worth thousands. You know that painting we have in the bedroom, the moonlit scene with the two men by the lake? That’s an original Coliaro.” “Really? You never told me that.” “You never showed much interest in fine art.” Riley couldn’t argue; Nick was right. “What about the murders that were linked to his paintings? Isn’t it kind of weird to have a murderer’s painting up in our bedroom?” “The murders had nothing to do with him. They were done by fanatics who were obsessed with him, or jealous of his talent. Who knows how big he’d be now if that had never happened? It’s a damn shame.” “Hmm. So he’s really that good?” “Ask anyone who knows fine art, and they’ll say yes.” “Well,” Riley began. “What if I told you that Coliaro is going to be in town next week, and he wants to paint me?” As Riley waited for an excited response, Nick continued to stare out at the road in front of him, chewing his lip. It took a moment for Riley to notice the deep-set frown on his handsome face and the look of concern in his steel-gray eyes. “What is it?” “Riley, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” He glanced at the young man in the passenger seat. “I don’t know if it’s safe.” “But you just finished saying how great he is, and how the murders had nothing to do with him!” “I don’t know how I’d feel seeing a painting of you with your heart cut out of your chest.” “Those paintings were vandalized,” Riley argued, even as he cringed at the mental image Nick had painted. “It’s not like Coliaro’s going to paint me like that.” “Riley, people were killed because of Coliaro’s paintings.”

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“But none of his models were the victims, right?” “Right. But that doesn’t mean—” “Then I see no reason why it’d be unsafe.” Nick’s jaw tightened. As he pulled into the driveway leading up to his town house and shifted into park, he turned to face Riley. “It’s just one job, Riley. Can’t you skip this one? Why do you want to do it so bad?” “You don’t understand.” Riley gazed down at his hands. “This job is going to pay a ton of money.” “So?” “So I really need it right now. Freelance has been slow this month, and I’m falling behind on my student loans.” Brows furrowed, Nick said, “I don’t see why you’re so worried about money. You know I have enough to cover both of us. And I told you a million times, you don’t need to chip in on the mortgage. I have it covered.” “Maybe I don’t want you ‘covering’ me all the time.” Nick’s face went cold as stone. “Got it,” he muttered. He turned, opening the car door and heading up the driveway. With a wince, Riley hurried after him. “I didn’t mean it like that! It’s not that I’m not grateful. I just don’t want to take advantage. I don’t want to be dependent on you.” “Well,” Nick said, opening the door for Riley and motioning for him to enter, “maybe I’d like it if you depended on me a little more every now and then.”

RILEY was standing at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in soapsuds, when Nick approached him from behind, wrapping his arms around his waist and leaning in close. “You don’t have to do those right now,” he whispered in his ear. Feeling the touch of Nick’s breath at the side of his neck, a shiver ran down Riley’s spine. This was one of the things he most loved about Nick: the man never held a grudge, and he always found the best ways

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to smooth over their disagreements. But alas, Riley just couldn’t ignore the oil slick shimmering atop the sudsy water. “It’ll take me five minutes,” he said softly, wiping down a serving plate. “Come on, you already cooked dinner. Take a break.” He nipped at the top of Riley’s ear. “Come upstairs.” “I will. I promise.” Nick pushed forward, pressing his pelvis against Riley from behind and pinning him against the counter. He leaned in, finding Riley’s mouth and covering it with his own. Riley moaned. The plate slipped out of his soapy grasp and clattered into the sink. He closed his eyes, opening his mouth to Nick’s. He was on fire. It was always like this, always this good with Nick. Nick didn’t just kiss him; he claimed him. He wrapped Riley in his powerful grasp, tilting his head back. Nick’s lips pressed down on his from above, licking and nipping and sucking. Imagining those lips at work elsewhere on his body, a surge of heat shot through Riley. At last, Nick released him, taking a step away as Riley stared longingly back at him. “Upstairs,” he whispered before disappearing around the corner. Slinging the sponge into the sink, Riley hurried after him.

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AFTER a week of being chauffeured around town in a spacious Jaguar with supple leather seats and the perfect new car smell, Riley was surprised at how happy he was to reclaim his second-hand 1994 Corolla that smelled of curry and shoes. Freedom, it seemed, was the ultimate luxury. But with only forty-five minutes before his next class, there wasn’t enough time to celebrate his freedom with a drive home and back for lunch. And if pressed, he’d have chosen to suck up all of Siesta Key’s sand through a straw before resorting to a meal in the school’s dining hall. According to the students, the food was tolerable as long as you got it on Monday. Any other day, you’d be eating Monday’s leftovers. It was Wednesday, and the last thing Riley wanted was food poisoning in the middle of a three-hour pose. He headed across the street to the Nanday Café, where the worst he could expect was a curly hair in his sandwich. It was small and dim, with weathered plastic seats and no sense of interior design, but it was the best choice for anyone looking for something edible within walking distance of the campus. The café’s logo was a hideous cartoon depiction of a nanday conure, a species of small parrot that could sometimes be found in feral colonies in Sarasota. Riley had seen them a few times; the birds were much cuter in real life than the illustration suggested. As he stood in line staring idly at the neon-rimmed logo on the wall behind the counter, he wondered at the fact that someone had actually been paid to draw a parrot with biceps that rivaled Popeye’s while he was stuck posing naked every day in order to make ends meet. He was at last spared the agony of brooding over his pitiful career when he reached the front of the line and was asked for his order. Soon after, he headed to a secluded corner of the café with a bowl of

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vegetable soup and a turkey sandwich on his tray, settling in and pulling out his cell phone to check his messages. He was hoping Nick had sent him a text. It was a sweet ritual the two of them had begun about a year ago: leaving a silly text or voice message around lunchtime, relaying a set of fictitious events that had happened at work that morning. He navigated through his finicky phone, which told him he had a new message but refused to bring it up for him to read. Absorbed in the pixilated screen before him, he didn’t notice a man taking a seat at the other side of the table. It wasn’t until the man cleared his throat that Riley finally raised his head and jumped back in shock. The man looked to be in his midthirties, richly tanned, with chestnut hair done up in spikes. His chiseled face was intense, his eyes so dark they could have been pure black. Even in a T-shirt, he looked somehow impressive, perhaps due to the defined musculature that Riley couldn’t help but gawk at. His gut reaction was to scan the room to make sure Nick wasn’t around to see them together. While Riley thought it was silly for Nick to feel threatened over someone like Porter, this guy was a different story. He turned back to the man. “How long have you been sitting there?” he asked, embarrassed at the squeak in his voice. “You’re the figure model, right?” the man asked, ignoring Riley’s question. “Riley Burke. The one who Coliaro asked to paint.” “That’s me. It’s like I’ve become famous overnight. People are even starting to recognize me with my clothes on.” The man chuckled. “So tomorrow’s the big day?” “Yeah.” “And I hear you’re doing a private session with him in the evening.” Riley narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry—who are you?” “Ah, I didn’t introduce myself.” The man held out a large brown hand. “Westwood. I teach illustration.”

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Riley shook the man’s hand, and something about that warm, powerful grip made his breath catch with anticipation. Once he realized he was gawking again, he shook his head like a wet dog and tried to collect himself. “You teach at Prestwick?” “That’s right.” Riley picked up his spoon, nervously rubbing his thumb along its dipped interior. “I studied illustration at Prestwick a few years ago, but I don’t remember you.” “I’m new,” Westwood said. He looked around before leaning in and lowering his voice. “So I’m guessing you’ve heard the rumors about Coliaro?” “Yeah, I know. Serial murders linked to his paintings and so forth.” “I’m not talking about that rumor.” Again, Riley narrowed his eyes. He set his spoon down and began twisting his napkin into an absorbent little spear—anything to keep his hands busy. Fidgeting was a nervous habit of his that always drove Nick crazy. “What other rumor is there?” Westwood didn’t reply right away. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, as if he enjoyed making Riley squirm. After he’d milked the silence for as long as he could, he finally answered, “People say… that he’s undead.” “I’m sorry….” Riley opened his mouth, then closed it again. He shook his head in almost irritated disbelief. “People say he’s what?” “Undead,” Westwood enunciated, as if the only problem were Riley’s lack of hearing. Why did the devastatingly sexy ones always turn out to be complete nutcases? Riley glanced around, wondering if any other café patrons were close enough to listen in on their conversation. “You said you teach at Prestwick?” “That’s what I said.” “Hmm.” Riley tossed his twisted napkin onto his tray and began running his fingernail over the serrated edge of his plastic knife. Clickclick-click-click. Click-click-click-click.

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Westwood continued as if he hadn’t noticed Riley’s skepticism. “They say Coliaro’s so talented because he’s literally had lifetimes of practice to refine his technique.” He lowered his voice. “See, Coliaro’s Oscuro Bello series was just a standard collection of male nudes. No blood, no gore. Then about a month after each painting was completed, it was altered. The model in the image was shown with his hands severed and his heart removed. But these paintings were under lock and key. No one could access them except the gallery owner, not even Coliaro himself. And the gallery owner had no reason to vandalize his own paintings. After all, he wanted them to sell, and no one was going to buy a painting of a mutilated corpse.” He raised an eyebrow, that tiny smirk still on his lips. “You know, people say Coliaro’s paintings have a life of their own.” Riley leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Are you telling me those paintings changed themselves?” “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Riley could think of no response. Westwood’s face was neutral, unaffected, as if he were relaying the weekend’s weather forecast. Riley had run into his fair share of crazies in Sarasota, but never any who appeared as sane on the surface as this one. He wasn’t sure why he was even giving the man a chance to explain his insane theory; apparently he was so enamored of the pretty package that he hadn’t thought to question what horrors might lie inside. He glanced around, checking if there was an easy way to make a beeline for the exit, but he had a sinking feeling that the man would follow him out—or maybe even grab him—if he tried to leave. The knife snapped in his hand, and he set it down in frustration. “So if the paintings changed themselves, did the murders commit themselves too?” he asked snidely. “Don’t be silly.” Westwood chuckled. “Honestly, Mr. Burke, I don’t believe Coliaro had anything to do with the murders. I think they were committed by his followers.” “Followers?” “Oh yes. The undead have followers, people who perform rituals in their name in order to support them, and in turn to attain some of their power.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his sculpted

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forearms commanding Riley’s attention. “They were ritualistic killings. Only the hands and heart of each victim were found, positioned with the hands cradling the heart. And on each, there was a number painted on the back of the left hand: one through five, then seven through twelve. One for each painting in the Oscuro Bello collection, except for number six. The sixth painting was never altered, and no one was murdered for it.” “So other than the hands and the hearts, the rest of the bodies are still missing?” “That’s right.” Riley’s lip curled as he examined the swirls of flesh in the pressed turkey slices between his two pieces of wheat bread. The turkey was slick with a thin layer of moisture, like sweat. Stomach churning, he pushed his tray away. “You’re not going to eat?” Westwood asked, concerned. Riley’s patience was spent. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked. “Are you trying to scare me away so I don’t pose for Coliaro tomorrow?” “Yes.” Riley frowned. That was not the answer he’d been expecting. “There’s been one murder for every male nude he’s completed, except for number six. No more paintings, no more murders.” “I’m sure he’s done plenty of studies,” Riley said. “There must be more than just the twelve paintings.” “He claims those were the only full male nudes he ever did.” Westwood raised an eyebrow. “At least, those were the only ones he did in this generation.” Riley opened his mouth, but the “Hey!” that echoed throughout the room didn’t come from him. Raising his head, he spotted Porter. “I know you; you’re that naked dude from school,” Porter joked as he approached. After arriving at the side of the table, he turned to Westwood. For a moment they seemed to scope each other out. Riley detected anger on Westwood’s face; clearly he did not appreciate their conversation being interrupted. Porter, on the other hand, showed no

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reaction. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Porter Gomez. I go to Prestwick.” “Right, Gomez,” Westwood said. “I’ve heard many things about you.” “Like?” “They say you’re gifted beyond your years.” “Westwood says he teaches illustration at the college,” Riley added doubtfully. “Illustration, huh?” Porter turned back to Westwood. “Illustration what?” A pause. Westwood’s jaw muscles tightened. “Illustration I.” “Oh, so you work with all the other sophomore illustration teachers. I was in Arthur Hundley’s class before I changed majors. I’m guessing you two know each other?” “Ah yes, Hundley. I know him well.” Porter paused. “Oh wait, what am I thinking? Hundley was my math teacher. I meant Jane Price.” “Oh,” Westwood sputtered. He was glowering at Porter. “Right, of course.” Any trust Riley had for Westwood was now effectively gone. Gritting his teeth, he rose from the table. “You know what? I have to get back to the school.” “Let me walk you back,” Westwood said. “No. No, I really have to run.” He nodded toward Porter. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” “Later, dude!” Porter called cheerfully over his shoulder, heading toward the counter to buy his lunch. Riley stowed his cell phone in his pocket and stumbled out around the table. “Wait.” Westwood leapt out of his chair, catching Riley by the arm. Riley’s gaze shot down at the meaty hand around his elbow, and his heart doubled in speed. “Do you still plan on posing for Coliaro?” Westwood asked.

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Riley stammered for a moment. Now that they were both standing, he could see that the man was well over six feet tall—nearly a head taller than Riley. And there was something alien in his eyes. Something dangerous. “Let go,” Riley said, a slight tremor in his voice. The man met his eyes, and Riley felt a chill course through his veins. But then Westwood released Riley, holding up his hands to show that he meant no harm. “Go ahead and do the demo,” he said. “But I’d recommend you skip the private session.” Riley rubbed the tender spot on his arm. He said nothing. Instead he glared up at Westwood as if daring the man to even consider following him out of the café. Once he was sure he’d gotten his point across, he turned and headed for the door.

COLIARO was a vibrant and healthy man, appearing far younger than Riley had imagined. He was fit like a marathon runner, the only hint of his years showing in his slightly thinning silver hair. He wore a loose dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, sprigs of gray hair popping out from within the folds. For the sake of the demo, Riley was asked to do a draped seated pose. Coliaro would focus only on the bust. Riley sat on a stool atop the carpeted platform, which had been moved to the far end of the room so the students could all stand behind Coliaro and watch as he worked. It was a hot day to begin with, and packing fifty sweaty college kids into the studio didn’t help. “You’re clenching your jaw,” Coliaro barked from behind his easel. His heart pounding, Riley tried to relax his muscles. The artist was quite particular; he’d spent nearly twenty minutes adjusting the lighting before he’d even begun painting, and with every subtle movement Riley made, he demanded a correction. Half an hour in, Riley was sweating so much from heat and anxiety that Coliaro had to ask Mr. Tobias to go and mop off his face. Thoroughly embarrassed, Riley fixed his gaze across the room and tried to count down the seconds, only to be scolded again for clenching his jaw. The students in the audience whispered and pointed toward the painting, their eyes lighting up with amazement at Coliaro’s every

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move. Riley would have given anything to be on the other side of that canvas. It was a two-hour demo, with a five-minute break every twenty minutes. Riley used his five minutes to stretch his legs and chug from his huge water bottle that was sweating almost as much as he was. He wanted to see the painting, but Coliaro continued to work through the breaks, refining the portions he could fix without referencing the model, and the students all remained packed around him to watch. By the end of the demo, Riley’s eyes were dry from staring fixedly into space, and his back was stiff from sitting so straight. It felt like an act of mercy when Coliaro finally announced he had completed his painting. Mr. Tobias took it from the easel, handling it gingerly as he carried it across the room and set it high on a couple of pegs at the center of the critique wall. Riley flinched when he met his eyes in the painting. Coliaro’s work was so terribly honest, so revealing. He knew that he’d felt nervous and queasy and self-conscious as he was posing, but he had no idea Coliaro had been capturing all of that in his painting. Even as Riley had watched Coliaro’s energetic arm movements behind the canvas, he was surprised to see that there was very little in the way of brushstrokes on the surface of the artwork. It really did look like it had been glazed in numerous thin layers over a period of days. With ten minutes left in the class, the students took turns asking Coliaro about his technique and his experience working with galleries. Riley sat at the edge of the modeling platform, his sandals slapping against the soles of his feet as he bounced and fidgeted in his seat. As Mr. Tobias dismissed the students, Coliaro began packing his supplies. Riley made his way toward the exit, but Mr. Tobias held up a hand, motioning for him to wait. Awkwardly, Riley stood next to Mr. Tobias, trying not to stare at Coliaro as he cleaned his brushes and wiped off his palette. After stowing the last of his supplies, Coliaro finally turned to Riley. “My dear,” he said. “You are a gem.” “I’m sorry?” Riley asked, not sure if he’d heard correctly. “You’re exquisite. Painting you was such a pleasure.”

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“Oh.” He felt his face reddening. “Thank you. I’m really honored to pose for you.” Coliaro reached out, and Riley sent a startled glance in Mr. Tobias’s direction as the artist tilted his head up by the chin, moving it back and forth, running a finger across one of his cheekbones. “Exquisite.” The moment had passed far beyond awkward. Riley wanted to pull his face away, but he felt that would be rude. So he allowed Coliaro to examine him, wondering what kinds of blemishes and imperfections stood out to his discerning artist’s eyes. At last, the man released him, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a business card. “Here’s the address to my studio,” he said. “I’d like to do our private session tonight at seven. It’s in St. Petersburg, so you’ll need to give yourself time to drive. And of course, I’ll reimburse you for your travel expenses. We’ll do a nude reclining pose, so prepare yourself however you need.” Behind Coliaro’s back, Mr. Tobias gestured toward Riley’s pelvis and made a subtle snipping gesture with his fingers. Riley cringed. He turned back to Coliaro, reaching out and shaking his hand. “Thank you so much,” he said. “I really appreciate the work.” “Not a problem,” Coliaro replied. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“YOU’RE so tense,” Coliaro said as he adjusted the lighting around Riley. “Are you nervous?” Riley swallowed, his dry throat clamping shut. He was in Coliaro’s spacious studio, lying atop cushions that were draped with violet silk. Back arched, head tilted back, arms above his head. It was a terribly vulnerable position. Around him were rows of candles that provided the primary light source, with overhead clamp lights to further illuminate the scene. As Coliaro shifted the light, it aimed briefly into Riley’s eyes. He blinked, large white spots clouding his vision. “I’ve never done a private session before,” he explained to Coliaro. “And never with a famous artist.”

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“John Tobias was relatively famous in his day. And he’s quite a bit more critical than I am.” He glanced down at Riley. Riley could almost feel the weight of his eyes as they traveled over his jutting ribs and flat belly. “How’s your back? Good?” “Mm-hmm.” He swallowed again; he was parched. After finishing with the lighting, Coliaro began marking portions of the silk around Riley’s body with tape so he could get back into position after his breaks. Riley squirmed a bit; this part always made him feel like a body at a crime scene. Coliaro’s knuckles brushed against him more than a few times, and Riley began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. “Hold still a moment,” Coliaro said. He reached out, turning Riley’s head slightly to the side and gently arranging his hair across his forehead. The man’s rough fingertips grazed his face. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said. “Emerald. I’m looking forward to bringing out that color in the painting.” He gazed down for another moment. “And such long, dark lashes.” Riley laughed uneasily. “I swear I’m not wearing mascara. Everyone always thinks I am.” Coliaro gave him a light pat on the cheek. “Either way, you’re stunning.” The man stared at him for another moment, and Riley wondered what he was looking for. His discomfort began to grow, but Coliaro finally took a step back and turned for his easel. After grabbing his palette, he gave Riley a wink. “All right, my dear. Let’s begin.”

THE moment Coliaro set down his brushes and announced that he had finished, Riley realized he was naked. Granted, he knew that he had been naked for the full three hours, but the candles and the soft music Coliaro had in the background made him feel calm and relaxed. Now, he suddenly felt exposed. He pulled on his maroon silk robe; then he stood up and began doing stretches to loosen his muscles. As Coliaro stepped back to examine his painting, he said, “You were excellent. Better than this

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morning. I wouldn’t have believed you’ve only been posing for a few months.” “I think it helps that I’ve taken so many figure classes as a student,” Riley said. “It’s easier to know what the artist needs if you’ve been one.” “I could paint you all day,” Coliaro mused, admiring his work. He looked back up at Riley. “Would you like to see?” Riley made his way across the studio, climbing over electrical wires and wooden risers on the way. He braced himself as he stepped up to the canvas and raised his eyes. What he saw made his breath catch. He’d never seen himself in such a way before. He’d always considered himself fairly average and not particularly charismatic, despite Nick’s arguments to the contrary. However, in the image he looked incredibly… sexual. Seductive. He wondered if this was the way Nick saw him. “You’re so amazing at what you do.” “Me?” Coliaro asked, brushing him off. “This is all you. This is your essence.” “You flatter me.” As Coliaro sat back to admire his work some more, Riley began looking around, checking out the setup of the studio. During the pose, he’d fixed his eyes on the crack between the back wall and the ceiling, occasionally glancing up at the skylight above him. He only hoped one day he’d have the luxury of owning such a spacious and accommodating studio. Considering that Coliaro was known only for his oil paintings, Riley was surprised to see such a variety of tools and media in the room. An airbrush and air compressor, rows of chalk pastels, pads of newsprint, and more occupied the nearby shelves. Around the corner was a door that was just a crack open. He peered inside tentatively, finding a vast storage area within. There were a couple of unfinished paintings sitting against the sides of the walls. He couldn’t tell in the darkness, but there also looked to be a painting of a fully clothed figure, completed, in an ornate gold frame. “Who’s in that big framed portrait?” he asked, pointing.

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Coliaro raised his head, suddenly realizing Riley was looking in his storage area. He leapt across the room, grabbing Riley’s arm and yanking him away from the door. “Ow!” “What were you doing in there?” “I… I wanted to see your works in progress.” Coliaro let him go, sheepishly running a hand through his thinning hair. “I do apologize for startling you. I show only a select few of my unfinished works to visitors. I’m very self-conscious about some of them, and I don’t like for them to be seen.” “I was just curious about the framed one. It looked like it was finished. Who’s in it?” “It’s no one,” Coliaro said curtly. He stepped around Riley, closing the door to the storage room. Riley’s face flushed. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed to have overstepped Coliaro’s boundaries. Coliaro let out a deep breath, as if releasing a week’s worth of stress all at once. “It’s all right, my dear. I hope I didn’t hurt you.” Glancing down, Riley was surprised to see the beginnings of a deep bruise forming on his forearm. He hadn’t realized Coliaro had gripped him so hard. “Come here,” Coliaro said, pulling Riley forward gently. He circled around behind him and began rubbing his shoulders through his thin, silky robe. “What are you doing?” “The way you reacted to my painting of you, I can tell you don’t recognize your own worth. That’s why you’re always so anxious. I don’t want you to be anxious.” His hands slid down the sides of Riley’s arms, then back up, squeezing at the inner corners of his shoulders. Riley shuddered a bit at the feeling of the man’s hands at the sides of his neck, but he didn’t resist. It felt good, especially after three hours of lying still. “I don’t need to keep this painting. It’s the act of painting itself that gives me my joy and pleasure. I think I’ll donate it to the school.

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This way you’ll be able to see it anytime, and you’ll be reminded of how magnificent you really are.” His fingers slid down Riley’s back, still massaging, and Riley let out a shaky sigh. The man really was good with his hands. When he began to feel his blood heating up, he abruptly pulled away. “I should get going,” he gasped. “My boyfriend will be worried if I’m home late.” Coliaro lifted an eyebrow in response to Riley’s pointed reference to his boyfriend, but he let it pass without comment. “All right, understood. Do you need directions back to your place?” “No, I know the way.” “Good, good.” As Riley disappeared into the neighboring dressing room, Coliaro called after him, “By the way, I come to town fairly frequently. I’m flying out in a couple days, but maybe when I return, we can see each other. And maybe even do another painting together.” As he pulled on his shorts, Riley considered. Coliaro seemed decent enough, albeit a bit more forward than he would have preferred. The massage was unsettling, but as soon as Riley had broken away, the man had let him go without a fuss. And Riley had to admit the thought of another hefty paycheck was a compelling lure. After slipping his feet into his sandals, he emerged from the room. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that.” “Great. And how shall I contact you when I’m in town?” Riley jotted down his home and cell numbers on a spare scrap of paper and handed it to Coliaro. The man folded it up in a clean, precise square and slid it into his pocket. Riley reached out for a handshake before leaving, and Coliaro instead pulled him into an embrace. After they parted, he gave Riley a gentle smile. “I look forward to the next time we see each other.”

THE painting was hung in a display case in the air-conditioned corridor leading from the painting studio out to the dining hall and parking lot.

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First thing Monday morning, as Riley arrived for work, he saw a group of students already circling it in admiration. Near the front of the gathering was Porter; when he turned and spotted Riley, he waved animatedly. “Yo! Riley Man! This painting is awesome!” With a nervous chuckle, Riley said, “That’s not my doing. Coliaro is a genius.” “Yeah, but you can’t paint something good if your subject matter sucks.” He raised an eyebrow. “This painting is pretty provocative. Wouldn’t you say?” Blushing, Riley wished all the students hadn’t turned around to examine him. “I don’t know.” “Aww, don’t be embarrassed. That’s what makes the painting so cool. It’s classic Oscuro Bello. It’s like you revived the series.” Riley wasn’t sure why, but he felt his stomach churning.

“I WANT to see the painting,” Nick whispered into Riley’s ear as the two of them sat intertwined in bed, only half watching the cable movie on the television across the room. “I heard people saying that it’s quite the masterpiece.” Riley shifted, settling into Nick’s embrace and moaning softly. “Who in your circle is saying that?” “I still keep in touch with my artist friends,” Nick said. “I’m more than just your average attorney, you know.” “Baby, there’s nothing average about you.” He felt Nick kiss the top of his head, and he pondered the idea of Nick seeing the painting. Would he get jealous? He could easily picture Nick infuriated at the idea of another man examining him with lust in his eyes. But at the same time, Nick seemed to have respect for Coliaro. Maybe he’d appreciate the painting for its artistic merit. “I’ll bring you by the studio sometime,” Riley said at last. “Did you want to see it right away?” “There’s no hurry.” He gave Riley a squeeze. “I got the real thing right here.”

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Just as Riley felt himself melting into Nick’s arms, Nick suddenly shrugged out from under him. Kneeling beside him in bed, Nick gazed down upon him, an odd, intense look in his eyes. “Show me how you posed for him.” Riley paused. “Huh?” “I want to see the pose. Can you recreate it?” “I don’t know. I guess.” Riley blushed as Nick stared down at him expectantly. He shifted, sliding a couple of pillows beneath him to create the arch of his back. He bent his knees up a bit, extending his arms above his head and tilting his chin back. “It was something like this,” he said, his voice a bit strained. The intense look was still on Nick’s face. Riley was about to get up when the man jumped forward, climbing on top of him and kissing him ravenously. He held Riley’s arms in place above his head, sliding a hand into his shirt. After the initial shock, Riley’s body began to heat up with anticipation. Nick enveloped him with his body, laying kisses on his mouth and neck. Still holding his wrists with one hand, he reached down with the other, roughly yanking at Riley’s belt. He tore it open and flipped Riley onto his stomach. “Nick….” Riley squirmed as Nick lay down atop him. Nick snaked his hand underneath Riley’s hips, pressing it up against his crotch, and Riley moaned into the mattress. Parting his legs, he allowed Nick to slide down between them. “There you go,” Nick whispered, kneading him slowly and firmly. “You want more?” Riley couldn’t get out an articulate word. All he could do was thrust against Nick’s hand, letting out a plaintive whimper. That strong, warm hand…. It moved with such unwavering authority. Nick’s strokes were brutally confident; he had all the skill of an expert interrogator. He knew what he wanted from Riley, and he had no trouble pulling it out of him. Nick ground down against Riley, at the same time tightening his grip around his length. Riley humped shamelessly against Nick’s hand, begging for release. The pressure was unbearable. He was up against

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the edge of the precipice, and he just needed Nick to give him that little push to take him over. “More,” he groaned. “Nick, please… more….” The pressure built, and Riley thrashed, hips bucking hard. Nick gave him a few final pumps, and Riley hovered over the edge for a deliciously intense moment before releasing himself with a helpless cry. “You think I’m jealous,” Nick whispered in his ear as Riley struggled to catch his breath, “but I’m not. Coliaro can paint you all he wants. But he’ll never know you the way I do.”

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AFTER a month, the excitement over Coliaro’s visit to Prestwick had faded away, and it was back to business as usual. Students panicked over their midterm grades, scrambling to meet the newest set of deadlines even if it meant lingering in the painting studios into the wee hours of the night. The effects of the midterm deadlines were clearest to Riley in the morning classes, where half the students’ eyes were glazed over with exhaustion as they stared at him from behind their easels. It brought back memories that were both fond and unpleasant. He and his friends had spent many a late night in the painting studios and the computer labs back then, blasting music as they worked and sucking down energy drinks until they were too jittery to draw a straight line. After the Wednesday afternoon anatomy class with an instructor named Jorie Matheson, Riley turned left out of the painting studio and went down the outdoor stairs behind a large group of students also leaving class. It suddenly struck him as odd; for a while now he’d been avoiding the back corridor. Even though it was a shorter and more comfortable walk, he supposed he felt too self-conscious to walk past a nude rendering of himself every day. He hadn’t set eyes on the painting since the day it was hung, and he was fine with that. On Thursday, temperatures rose above ninety, and he was practically gasping from the heat as he headed left out of the studio at the end of Mr. Tobias’s sophomore painting class. He was caught in the midst of a large group of students, all chattering about midterms. Glancing behind him, Riley couldn’t help but notice that none of the students used the back corridor. Something felt different about that back way—something that had never been there before. Riley wondered if the other students felt the same energy he did. He wasn’t one to believe in ghosts and forces and

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energy, or even feng shui, but he couldn’t deny that every day after class, he automatically avoided the back corridor. And he wasn’t alone. On Friday, Nick took a long lunch in order to drop by the school and meet up with him. As Riley waited for his partner to arrive, he sat on a bench outside the administration building, watching as the unusually fearless campus squirrels approached with longing in their eyes. “I don’t have anything,” he told them, as if they were hanging onto his every word. “Unlike you guys, I have to go out and buy my lunch. I can’t expect people to just toss food at me.” He was hit in the back of the head with a hard caramel candy. “Ow!” he yelped, more in surprise than in pain. Turning around, he caught a glimpse of Nick, who was walking along the brick path past the palm trees and ferns and toward him. “What was that for?” “You said people don’t throw food at you.” With a chuckle, Riley rose to his feet. “Hey, baby,” he said as Nick pulled him into a brief embrace. “How was work?” “Boring.” He smiled down at Riley, the sun glinting off the silhouette of his blond hair like a halo. “But my day is greatly improved now that I’m with you.” “Have you thought about where to go for lunch?” “Whatever you want is fine.” “I hate it when you do that.” Riley folded his arms, contemplating. “Should we go to that sushi place again? It was pretty good last time.” “Sure. But first I want to see the painting.” It took Riley a moment to remember which painting Nick was talking about. Since the fuss over Coliaro had ended, Riley had barely thought about the painting. He’d been more concerned about how far he could stretch the paycheck he’d received. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he pointed toward the other end of the walkway. “It’s down in that building.” “Then let’s go.” Nick had only been to the Prestwick campus a few times, but it seemed the novelty had already worn off. There wasn’t all that much to see: beige stucco buildings with peach-pink roofs, same as the rest of

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Sarasota. The campus was laid out like a giant idea map, with all the studios and labs branching out from the central administration building in a circular pattern and the dorms on the outskirts. It seemed to have all the advance planning of an idea map too; some buildings were far apart, and some were crammed in tight next to each other as if they had been placed there in afterthought. Outside the administration building was a large courtyard that— aside from a fountain and seating area—usually showcased sculptures done by Prestwick alumni. Right now, the courtyard was occupied by an ominous-looking sheet-metal landscape. This was the first time the featured sculpture was done by a current student. According to the plaque, the artist was fine arts junior Anna Maria Davis. Riley knew her; she was a diminutive freckled redhead in his Monday-Thursday evening class, and in Riley’s opinion, the school’s only fine arts student whose talent rivaled Porter’s. With only about a thousand students, it wasn’t a very large campus. One could walk from one end to the other in about fifteen minutes. The walk from the administration building to the figure studio would take seven or eight. Riley told Nick about his morning class as they walked, describing some of the more horrendous paintings that had come out of the session. Nick rewarded him with an “uh-huh” and a “hmm” here and there, but Riley could tell he wasn’t really listening. Nick had the gift of selective hearing, and he was able to turn it on whenever Riley went into rambling mode. Riley recognized several students as they made their way across campus. Most were heading toward their dorms or the dining hall. When he spotted the back of Porter’s head from a distance, he braced himself. Porter stood talking to a pigtailed girl by the canopied stairwell leading up to the painting studio, and Riley hoped he wouldn’t turn around and wave. As much as he liked the kid, he didn’t have it in him to deal with Porter’s relentless energy at the moment. He also had a feeling Nick would probably recognize him from the day they were sitting together on the bus stop bench. Thankfully Porter and the girl headed off in the opposite direction before they drew near, never noticing Riley and his guest. They climbed the stairs, dodging students along the way. As they approached the studio entrance, Riley again picked up his pace. He knew Mr. Tobias typically stuck around in the studio for a good fifteen

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to twenty minutes after his classes, and the last thing he needed was for Nick to run into the infamous instructor who’d taken his innocence four years back. They reached the end of the outdoor walkway and turned in to the air-conditioned corridor. “It’s freezing up here,” Nick said. “Feels like a tomb.” Riley gave him an absent chuckle, but his mind was elsewhere. He was wondering what Nick’s reaction would be upon viewing the painting. Would he be jealous or impressed? Would he give Riley that dreaded stern, silent look and shut him out? He got his answer when Nick took the last turn ahead of him, spotting the painting locked away in its display case and jogging forward for a closer look. Before Riley could get close enough to see the details of the painting, he heard Nick yell, “What the fuck!” “Nick, please,” he called, rushing forward. “It didn’t mean anything. It was just a painting.” “Riley.” “I swear Coliaro was completely professional.” “Riley!” Nick grabbed his shoulders, squeezing tight, and Riley was shocked to see pure, unbridled fury in his eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked weakly. Nick was fuming. He pulled Riley forward, physically turning him around to face the painting. Riley let out a sharp gasp, stumbling back against Nick’s chest. He saw himself, eyes rolled back so only the whites were showing. His arms, still extended above his head, ended in dripping stumps that stained the violet cloth below. And at the center of his chest, his flesh was torn open, revealing a hollow red cavern. He broke into a cold sweat. He couldn’t find his voice. Nick gripped his shoulders so tightly his arms began to go numb. After nearly a minute of staring in shock, he finally managed to wheeze, “It wasn’t like that before.” “What?”

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“Coliaro didn’t paint it like that. It was just a normal picture of me lying down. I don’t know what happened!” “We’re going to tell the administration. They need to get better security up here if any fucking sicko can come up and vandalize a painting on display. They need to find out which disgusting bastard did this!” “I don’t know how they’d even begin to do that.” “I don’t care! This could be a personal attack against you. They mutilated your image. You think I’m going to shrug my shoulders and walk away while someone out there may be fantasizing about killing you?” Out of the corner of his eye, Riley spotted Mr. Tobias walking down the corridor, the lone figure taking the back way out of the building. At that point he no longer cared if the instructor and his boyfriend had a confrontation; he needed to say something to someone. “Mr. Tobias,” he called, his voice shaking. “Riley,” the instructor said, turning and heading toward them. “Good to see you. Who’s your guest?” Ignoring the question, Riley pointed to the painting that hung on the wall. “Look at this.” Eyebrows wrinkled, Mr. Tobias glanced past Nick and into the display case. It took a moment before his eyes went wide. “Jesus fuck!” he cried, raising a hand to his chest. “What in all hell…?” “Is there any way we can find out who did this?” Nick asked, struggling for a matter-of-fact tone despite his obvious anger. “Are there security cameras?” “I don’t know,” Mr. Tobias said. “I don’t think so. But the corridor is locked in the evenings, both entrance and exit. And obviously the display case is also locked. There’s no way a student could stand here with a paintbrush and change this image without anyone walking by and noticing. These are some pretty hefty changes, and they’re all very detailed. It’s not like someone just blotted them in quick and ran away.” “But this hallway’s been really empty lately,” Riley said. “Maybe there was time for someone to stand here and repaint it. People have mostly been using the front stairs these days.”

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“I think I came out this way yesterday,” Mr. Tobias said. “I could have sworn I took a look at the painting on my way out. And I know it wasn’t like this.” “Then it must have happened overnight,” Nick said. “They must not have locked the doors. Unless you think one of the security guards is behind it.” “A security guard?” Mr. Tobias asked incredulously. “Whoever did this has artistic talent. The changes are really well painted.” He glanced over his shoulder, then at his watch. “Listen, I’ll stop by the administration building and see if they can look into finding the culprit.” “We’ll go with you,” Nick said immediately. Although Mr. Tobias looked a bit uncomfortable, he made no argument as he headed back in the other direction with Riley and Nick in tow. Because of the value of the painting, even Mr. Tobias didn’t have the key to the display cabinet, so the painting would have to remain as it was until campus security could come and unlock it. Again, Riley spotted Porter on the way out of the building. The youth was now stepping out of the library on the ground floor of the twostory building. He brushed a pile of thick brown locks out of his eyes, meeting Riley’s gaze. He looked like he was about to greet him, but seeing the tense look on Riley’s face, he backed off. The receptionist in the administration building wasn’t particularly helpful. She forwarded the group to the security office at the north end of campus. After another long walk, they came upon the trailer in which the security office resided. Inside was the head of security himself, a hefty middle-aged man named Burt Bentley, slumped behind his desk with his feet up as he stared blankly out the window. Apparently, Prestwick was not the hotbed of crime Riley liked to imagine. After being treated to a brief summary of the situation, Burt gave an apathetic shrug. “Well, if the damage is already done, I don’t see what the security department can do for you. This sounds like a matter for the dean, to find out who’s responsible.” Mr. Tobias and Riley exchanged a look. Then the instructor turned back to the officer. “Then what exactly is your job?”

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Riley winced. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected a more diplomatic approach from Mr. Tobias, of all people. Luckily, Burt didn’t dignify the irate instructor with an answer; anything he could have said would likely have ignited some sort of brawl in the middle of the trailer. Obviously disappointed that he hadn’t been able to instigate an argument, Mr. Tobias said, “Suit yourself. This seems like a matter for the real police anyway. We’ll call them in, and they can address the issue with the dean. No need for the little guys like campus security to be involved.” Those words had the magical effect of getting Burt instantly to his feet. “I better take a look first. I don’t want you wasting anyone else’s time if it turns out to be some silly prank or misunderstanding.” He stepped around the side of his desk and led the trio out the door toward a black and white golf cart with the word “Security” emblazoned on the back. Riley had gotten used to the sight of overweight security guards rolling around in their golf carts across campus, but he never thought he’d have the honor of being a passenger. “Hop in,” Burt said as they approached. The golf cart rumbled to life, and Burt drove them back across campus to the building that housed the library and the painting studio. Riley couldn’t help but notice that he pulled up to the front of the building instead of circling around to the back corridor entrance. Together, the four of them climbed the stairs and made their way through the building, catching the eyes of a few passing students on their way. “It’s right around this corner,” Mr. Tobias said as they made the final turn into the corridor. As they approached, Riley noticed something shiny glinting off the ground. It was glass. The display case had been shattered, and the painting was nowhere in sight.

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Chapter 4

IT WAS Sunday night. Riley sat cross-legged on the bed as he watched Nick set a stack of folded dress shirts in his suitcase. Nick’s favorite ultra-conservative news station was blaring on the television in the background, and Riley liked to believe it was the news channel that was currently causing the stiffness across his partner’s rigid shoulders and not just the events of the previous week. Try as he might, Riley had never been able to muster up an interest in politics. He didn’t understand how Nick found it so fascinating. While his boyfriend wasn’t looking, he reached stealthily for the remote and turned the volume down a couple of notches. After another minute, he snuck in a few more notches. At least now it didn’t feel like the angry politicians were sitting directly on his shoulder anymore. He would have offered to help Nick pack, but he knew how Nick got when it came to traveling. Everything had to be perfect. Whenever he finished, his suitcase always looked as perfectly sweet and organized as a bento box. He was currently folding his pants into neat squares, obsessive-compulsive as always. The third pair finished, he met eyes with Riley. “You know, I can still cancel my trip.” “No, you don’t need to do that,” Riley insisted. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a painting that was vandalized; it’s not like they came after me. The police are involved now. They’ll figure it out. Besides, you haven’t seen your family in ages.” “My family will still be there next year.” “Nick, come on. Don’t worry about me.” With a heavy sigh, Nick moved on to the fourth pair of pants.

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He was taking a trip back to Illinois, to visit his family and to clear out the last of his belongings from his old house in Oak Brook. He was still waiting for the housing market to come up a bit more before actually selling the place, but as he explained to Riley, he didn’t want to have any unfinished tasks hanging over his head while he waited. Finishing up with his pants, he grabbed a stack of oversized vacuum-sealed storage bags, removing them from the package, refolding them, and placing them in the suitcase atop his clothing. “Couldn’t you have just tossed the whole package in there?” Riley asked. Nick raised an eyebrow at him as if his suggestion were utterly ridiculous. “Even better, you can probably buy those things at a shop in Illinois so you don’t have to carry them around with you.” “I like this brand, though,” Nick muttered. “What’s the difference? It’s all just going to sit in your storage unit anyway.” Nick didn’t bother answering. Instead, he moved on to his toiletries, and Riley cringed—as usual—while Nick packed a handmade travel-size roll of toilet paper into a mini storage bag and inserted it into a perfectly sized gap at the corner of his suitcase. “When do I get to meet your family, anyway?” Riley asked. God, why had he said that? He watched as Nick’s already tense shoulders went so rigid they could have shattered. He shouldn’t have even broached the subject. It was stressful enough for Nick to think about seeing his own relatives, let alone introducing Riley to them. While Nick got on fine with his sister and parents, he wasn’t particularly fond of his extended family, and they always insisted on seeing him the moment they got wind that he was in town. And, as evidenced by tonight, he tended to get neurotic when he was stressed. Moreover, it wasn’t like Riley had ever offered to introduce Nick to his family, either. He hadn’t even told Nick that he’d once had a brother named Andrew.

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Time for damage control. Riley scurried off the bed and climbed up behind Nick. He laced his fingers together, stretching them out before setting them on Nick’s shoulders. Softly, he began kneading. “What’s that for?” Nick asked, a slight smile showing in his voice. “I thought you could use it,” Riley whispered into his ear. As he rubbed and kneaded, he suddenly remembered the way it had felt to have Coliaro’s hands on him, and a shudder ran down his spine. The memory was uncomfortable, but he found himself unwittingly incorporating a few of Coliaro’s techniques into the massage—with more success than he’d expected. He could feel Nick’s muscles mellowing out beneath his palms. Nick let out a low sigh, at last closing his eyes and releasing some of his tension. After a few minutes, Riley slid his hands under the waist of Nick’s shirt, wrapping around to his chest. With the two of them, it seemed even the most innocent massage always ended up turning into foreplay, and it was usually Riley’s fault. Nick caught his hands before turning around and meeting his lips. He wrapped Riley in one of his possessive kisses, and Riley let his body go soft, submitting to Nick’s desires. Nick pulled him off the ground and onto the bed, laying him on his back and undoing the closure of his shorts. Riley helped him along, stripping off his clothes and then yanking a little too eagerly at Nick’s. After they both stripped, Riley straddled Nick and leaned in, licking lightly across the man’s collarbone. He shifted lower, giving Nick’s nipple a soft bite; below him Nick gasped and grabbed his head. Riley made his way down, following the trail of hair from Nick’s belly to his hardened manhood. He ran his hands over it, teasing Nick for a moment before taking it into his mouth. He tightened his lips around it, letting his tongue dance across its underside. With a groan of pleasure, Nick laced his fingers through Riley’s hair, riding the bobbing ups and downs of his head. Riley made eye contact with him; he knew how Nick loved it when he looked up at him. Taking in a breath, he pushed down deep, allowing Nick into his throat, reveling in the feeling of having his mouth stuffed with his lover’s girth.

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It was something he knew he was good at, and he used all the tricks he’d acquired over the years to make Nick thrash and buck. As he was closing in on the finish, Nick suddenly backed off, pushing Riley’s head away. Before Riley could ask any questions, Nick took him by the arms and pushed him onto his back. As he held Riley down, their eyes met again. Riley swallowed nervously. He should have known this was coming. It had been awhile since Nick had last tried. Nick slid down between Riley’s legs, using his knees to nudge Riley’s thighs apart. Calm down, Riley told himself. It’s not like you’ve never done this before. Nick reached over him toward the nightstand. He fished out a jar of lubricant, quickly smoothing it over himself. It seemed he was rushing, trying to get in before the doors closed. As he watched Nick approach, Riley’s heart pounded. His arms had begun to tingle, and he felt a bit light-headed. He tried to convince himself that it was due to a skipped meal and not because he was terrified. He turned his head, oddly unable to maintain eye contact with Nick. His gaze fell upon the painting that hung above the dresser along the adjacent wall—the Coliaro painting. The scene was overlooking a hill, and at the bottom was an empty dock hanging over a lake that shimmered in the moonlight. There were two men standing on the dock. One was behind the other, hands on his shoulders, as if coaxing him into the water. Nick pushed Riley’s legs back, pinning his thighs down against his chest. His hardened length brushed against Riley’s before he positioned himself for entry. Riley’s eyes locked on the men in the painting, and for a moment he imagined the one man pushing the other into the water. Would it be a playful shove, the mischievous beginning to some underwater roughhousing? Or would it be a heart-stopping dive into hard, icy waves? “Wait,” Riley groaned suddenly, trying to squirm free. For the slightest moment, Nick tightened his grip, but when Riley squirmed harder, Nick immediately let him go.

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Riley’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He closed his eyes, waiting for the blood to return to his head. When he finally looked up again, he saw Nick sitting back on his feet, hands resting on his thighs. He was staring down at Riley, his mouth a tight, thin line. It took several tries before Riley was able to wet his parched throat and find his voice. “Nick. I’m sorry.” He chewed on his lip. “I still can’t.” “I gathered as much.” “Sorry,” Riley said again. “I think… I think I’m still thinking about the vandalism. I’m just distracted.” Reaching out, Nick grabbed his hand. He rubbed it, covering it with his own. “I don’t blame you for being upset. But in all fairness, we’ve been having this problem ever since the beginning.” He paused, as if searching for the most diplomatic way to phrase his thoughts. “We’ve been together for four years. I kind of thought that by now, we’d have done this at least once.” “Mmh.” Riley felt his ears burning. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just….” He swallowed. “Every time it’s about to happen, I panic. It just doesn’t feel right.” “You know, I can make it feel right. I can make it feel very right.” “That’s not what I mean.” They stared at each other. “Well,” Nick said at last, turning away and climbing back off the bed. He slung his shirt back over his shoulders and reached for his pants. “I better finish packing if I don’t want to be up all night.” There it was: with a single sentence, Nick had effectively shut him out. “Right,” Riley said. He stood up and got dressed as well. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

RILEY dropped Nick off at the airport very early the next morning before heading to the college for work. Neither one of them had much to say during the drive. While Riley had no idea what was going

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through Nick’s mind, he knew that in his own mind all he felt was guilt. Nick wasn’t wrong; it had been four years, and Riley couldn’t help but feel like he’d been stringing his partner along the entire time. Even before their relationship had turned sexual, Riley had dropped various hints to Nick to let him know that he was receptive to just about anything Nick was likely to want in the bedroom. But when it came time to follow through, Riley suddenly had cold feet. It had never been a problem before. At least it hadn’t been a problem when all he was looking for was a fling. Heck, all it took was a couple of Jägermeisters to get him on his hands and knees for Mr. Tobias. But now, after committing himself to a man he knew he loved, it was a different story. No matter how many times he told Nick the old “it’s not you, it’s me,” he knew his words didn’t carry much weight. Last Valentine’s Day, after another failed attempt, Nick had sat down on the edge of the bed, chin in his hands, waiting silently a few minutes before asking Riley, “You don’t trust me, do you?” It was such a ridiculous question that Riley couldn’t find words to answer. His silence only seemed to confirm Nick’s comment, even though his intention was the exact opposite. Nick was the one person he’d ever dated whom he knew he could trust completely. He’d known since the day they’d first met. It had been the last weekend of winter break, and Riley had gone with several friends to a bar in Chicago to blow off some steam. Had he known ahead of time that it was a gay bar, he might have refused to go. At the time, he hadn’t been particularly comfortable with his own identity. While he didn’t remember much of that night, he knew that sometime during the span of four hours, his friends had all left him alone, and he’d had what he thought was a moderate amount to drink. At least he thought it was a moderate amount until he awoke the next morning in an unfamiliar bedroom. He was in Nick’s house. At first he panicked, unable to remember if he’d gone home with someone he didn’t even know, slept with someone he didn’t even know. But when he’d assessed his situation, he could tell immediately that he hadn’t been touched. His clothes were all still intact, and he felt fresh. He’d emerged from the bedroom to find

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Nick asleep on the couch. When the man awoke, he’d confessed that he didn’t know what else to do besides take Riley home with him. His friends had left him, and Nick had overheard a few men next to him talking about the things they’d be able to do to a college boy who’d passed out drunk at a bar. In his gut, however, Riley knew he hadn’t passed out drunk. He’d had only two drinks. Most likely, he’d passed out due to several days’ worth of missed meals and a couple of nights without sleep. It was, after all, only ten days away from January 16, and all he could think about was Andrew. But regardless, he had no idea how that night would have turned out if Nick hadn’t taken him home. Nick had looked out for him when the people he thought were his friends had abandoned him. And now Riley couldn’t even give Nick this simple gesture to prove how much he cared for him. He pulled alongside the curb at the airport, giving Nick a quick, almost impersonal kiss as they parted ways. Riley watched him disappear into the building and then lingered, deep in thought, until he suddenly caught sight of a 1980s Cadillac Fleetwood idling behind him, apparently waiting for his spot. With a pointless grunt of apology, he swerved out of his lane to allow the car entrance. But the Cadillac didn’t pull into his vacated spot. Instead it shifted into drive and pulled onto the open road behind him. Curiously, Riley glanced in his rearview mirror, but the glare of the sun prevented him from seeing the car’s driver. He returned his attention to the road and headed back north. The sense of gnawing guilt over Nick threatened to take him over. How ironic was it that he was the one who couldn’t give Nick his trust? Nick wasn’t the one who’d cheated. He remembered the morning after his dalliance with Mr. Tobias on the senior cruise. While his then roommate Matt had nursed his hangover, he’d goaded him for having cheated on a man who looked like the Greek god Apollo with a man who looked like a cashier at Best Buy. Riley could barely make sense of it himself. While he tried to blame as much of that night as possible on the booze, he couldn’t deny the schoolboy crush on Mr. Tobias that he’d harbored for the better part of his senior year. Riley was seduced not by his appearance—which

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was more or less average—but by his authority and unyielding confidence. Mr. Tobias was notoriously hard to please, and Riley couldn’t help feeling special whenever the instructor graced him with a compliment. Of course, he never mentioned any of that to Nick. All he said was, “We were both drunk and horny and stupid.” A feeble line, but Nick had given him the benefit of the doubt. He stopped at the gym on his way to the school, hoping enough laps around the track would eradicate his guilt. He had no such luck and instead only succeeded in running himself almost to the point of exhaustion. Back in college, he’d taken a Muay Thai kickboxing class that he’d greatly enjoyed. In the back of his mind he thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to pick that up again. Beating the shit out of someone was much better stress relief than jogging neurotically in circles. After winding down his workout and taking a shower, he headed to the school for work. Thoughts of his boyfriend faded from his mind when he stopped at a red light and spotted the reflection of a boxy brown and white Cadillac in his side mirror. The hairs rose on his arms. Was he being followed? He forced down his anxiety with a weak chuckle. Who in the world would be bored enough to want to follow him, of all people? He wasn’t exactly conducting top-secret government work or having a steamy affair. For a brief moment, he wondered if Nick had hired a private investigator to see if Riley would cheat while he was out of town. He tried to laugh at himself for being ridiculous, but laughter evaded him. Thankfully, when he reached the school and pulled into the parking lot outside the figure studio, the Cadillac continued straight on Route 301, disappearing gradually into the distance. Riley sighed with relief; the presence of the car over his shoulder during the drive had stressed him out more than he’d realized. Once inside the figure studio, all thoughts of Nick faded away and were replaced by the horrific memory of Coliaro’s vandalized painting. He’d hoped to forget about the incident, but almost as soon as

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he walked through the door, students began approaching him to express their condolences over what had happened. It was incredibly disconcerting, especially since most of them had never uttered a word to him before. Riley shrugged and thanked them for the sentiment; he didn’t know what else to say. Porter, however, had no trouble finding words to express his opinion. “That was complete bullshit,” he huffed. “They gotta find the person who did it.” Folding his arms, he added, “The 3D buildings have security cameras in them. But all the rest of the majors get the short end of the stick.” “That’s because the 3D department has all that fancy equipment,” a student said from across the room. “A Coliaro painting is worth much more than a fucking computer program,” Porter spat. He then turned back to Riley, blushing slightly. “Sorry—language. I didn’t mean to be crude.” Riley found it amusing that a college student would apologize to him for using the F-word. He smiled despite himself. Mr. Tobias, it seemed, was running uncharacteristically late. The students had all set up their easels and paints and were ready to begin before the instructor even set foot in the classroom. When he finally swept in through the door, he was out of breath. “Sorry I’m late,” he announced. “I’m sure you’re all aware of the act of vandalism we had the other day.” He glanced in Riley’s direction. “The Sarasota police are looking into the incident, and we hope to nail the bastard who did it as soon as possible. But meanwhile, I have more bad news. It looks like someone broke into the storage room last night and stole a handful of paintings from Jorie’s evening class. You’ll all need to check on your spaces before you leave and make sure none of your work is missing.” He raised an eyebrow. “But don’t think you can use this as an excuse to not turn in your midterm painting. Stolen or not, I expect to receive a painting from every one of you by the end of the week.” The students turned to each other, grumbling about the frustrating situation. A black-haired student at the far end of the room said, “How stupid is it to steal someone’s paintings? It’s not like you can pass someone else’s work off as your own. We all know each other.”

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“I don’t know, Kevin,” Mr. Tobias replied. “Maybe it was someone looking to sell them.” “Maybe it’s the tampon bandit,” Porter said. A couple of students looked at him in confusion, and he grinned. “You don’t know? Last year they expelled a kid who stole, like, three hundred tampons from the public bathrooms throughout the course of the year. And I’m not even exaggerating; it was literally around three hundred.” “Somehow I don’t think the tampon bandit is behind this one,” Mr. Tobias said. A couple of students chuckled, and Riley was thankful that Porter had diffused at least a little bit of the tension in the room. Posing for that class was the most difficult session Riley could remember. His mind alternated between thoughts of Nick, thoughts of Coliaro’s painting, and now thoughts of the student paintings that had been stolen. The issue with the Coliaro painting alone had been enough to make him miss several meals over the past few days. At the end of class, Mr. Tobias intercepted Riley before he could change back into his clothes. “Riley. There’s something I wanted to mention to you.” Riley waited silently for Mr. Tobias to continue. “The paintings that were stolen from the evening class—they were all paintings of you.” The words didn’t register. Riley continued to stare at the instructor, blinking slowly. “Riley? You hear me?” “Oh. Yeah.” “I don’t know what to tell you,” Mr. Tobias whispered discreetly as students passed by. “No one can say for sure if the thief was just after the paintings, or if they may even be stalking you. But better safe than sorry, right? Don’t spend too much time alone outside in the dark, and so on.” “Of course,” Riley said neutrally.

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“I’ll let you go and get changed,” Mr. Tobias said. “I just thought you should know, especially in light of what happened with the Coliaro painting.” “No, that’s fine. Thanks.” As he began to turn toward the changing area, a thought suddenly occurred to him. He remembered that Coliaro’s painting, like those in his gallery years ago, was vandalized despite being locked away and inaccessible. At least that was what Westwood had told him. He wondered what else Westwood might be able to tell him. “Mr. Tobias?” he asked. “Riley.” “Do you know of an instructor named Westwood?” Mr. Tobias paused. “An instructor at this school?” “Yes.” “Hmm.” The man turned away, fumbling as he organized a stack of agendas. “I can’t say I do. But I don’t know every teacher in the school, either—especially if he’s not a painting teacher or a senior teacher.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Check with the faculty office. I’m sure they’ll be more helpful than I am.”

“WESTWOOD? Doesn’t sound familiar.” The receptionist chomped noisily on her gum as she thumbed through a hefty fashion magazine. “Could you check?” Riley asked. “Please?” The receptionist let out a long-suffering sigh and raised her head. “Are you a student here?” “Um, alumni,” Riley said, figuring that it was easier than explaining his current relationship with the school. The receptionist set aside her magazine and scrolled through a screen on her computer. “Odell, Perez, Tobias, Warner, York…. No, no Westwood.” “Hmm.” Riley leaned forward across the counter, his forehead in his hand. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt so unwell. True, it had

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been a long walk across campus in ninety-plus-degree weather to get to the faculty office, but he’d been living in Sarasota for years. By now, he’d have expected himself to be acclimated. “You okay?” the receptionist asked, surprisingly perceptive for just that moment. “Yeah. Just hot.” Damn these non-air-conditioned trailers. Riley pushed himself up and away from the counter, wobbling slightly before turning toward the door. “Thanks anyway,” he called over his shoulder. So the man who’d approached him at the Nanday Café was either lying about being a Prestwick instructor, or he was lying about his name. Or both. Either way, it wasn’t surprising. But Riley had to wonder if he’d also been lying about Coliaro’s paintings. Although all the other pieces of Westwood’s puzzle didn’t fit, that part alone seemed to hold true. No one had access to the paintings, yet somehow they were still altered. The sun struck his forehead as he stepped out from under the yellow-pink awning, and he abruptly felt like vomiting. He raised a hand to his head, stumbling back and falling against the wall. “Damn…,” he groaned. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Or perhaps he did. The string of missed meals suddenly returned to his mind, along with his borderline masochistic workout that morning and the fact that he’d left his first class with his water bottle still completely full. All this added to the stress of the situation with Nick and with Coliaro’s paintings, and he was almost surprised he hadn’t thrown up earlier. He’d been out of college for several years now. There really wasn’t any excuse for him to not know how to take care of himself. Alanna would be so ashamed, he thought, picturing his nurturing younger sister with a look of disapproval on her face. Both she and their family doctor had chastised him repeatedly for skipping meals. He had a very high metabolism, and he tended to run into problems whenever he made a habit of not eating. He got halfway across the parking lot before he had to brace himself against a nearby car. If he could just get to an air-conditioned room…. The school store was around the corner, only a few yards

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away. He stumbled forward several feet, and the ground spun beneath him. Two pairs of hands caught him on the way down. “Whoa, whoa!” a voice gasped. “You all right there?” “Uhh….” Riley raised a feeble hand to his forehead. He was dripping with sweat. “I think I’m going to throw up.” “Damn,” another voice muttered. There was a pair of sandal-clad feet on the ground before his eyes; they quickly shuffled away as he doubled over. He threw up the little that was in his stomach. Something clear and liquid. “He needs to lie down,” the first voice said urgently. It was strangely familiar: medium pitch, youthful, and just a bit husky. “Come on, let’s take him to our dorm.” “I don’t want him puking on my bed.” “Just grab his arm, okay?” The next thing he was aware of was a cool breeze aimed directly at his face. He lay across an unmade twin bed, sheets rumpled beneath him. Someone stood by the nightstand, having just plugged in a fan and turned it on. Across the room, the black-haired kid named Kevin was thumbing through an art history textbook. “Here, drink this.” That youthful rumble again. It was Porter’s voice. Riley lifted his head, noticing a bottle of apple juice waving back and forth before his eyes. “It’ll get your blood sugar up. And your blood volume.” “Ugh….” Riley took the bottle from him, thankful that Porter somehow seemed to know exactly what he needed. As he slowly drank from the bottle, he glanced around the room. One half was decorated with various posters from animated movies, some well-sculpted action figures, and other geeky odds and ends. The other was surprisingly stark—no decorations, no family photos, just mountains of art books and art supplies. Riley was surprised to see Porter rummaging through the stacks on the stark side of the room while Kevin sat along the wall decorated with posters, as he would have thought Porter’s side would have been the livelier side, but he didn’t have the energy to give it much thought. Instead, he let his gaze continue to travel idly throughout

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the room. There was a minifridge in the corner, which explained how the apple juice was so wonderfully cold. Riley propped himself weakly against the headboard, trying to look stronger than he felt. “Did you finish that bust for your sculpture class?” Kevin asked as he tossed his book aside. “Still working on it,” Porter said. “But I should finish it by tomorrow night.” “Oh! That reminds me!” Kevin pulled open a cabinet beside his chair, retrieving a small card and handing it over to his roommate. “What is this?” Porter asked, turning it over and looking at the back. “Remember that club I was telling you about? With that ID, you’ll finally be able to come with us.” “You’re still on me about that?” Porter whined. “When is this big field trip to the club going to happen, anyway?” “Saturday night. Since you’ll be done with your sculpture before the weekend, that gives you plenty of time to join us.” As he continued to drink, Riley smirked. It was like this in class too. Students showed no discretion when it came to talking about personal or private matters in front of him. He wasn’t a threat to them. He was just the silent, invisible guy who only existed when he was standing naked in the middle of the room. Amused, Riley leaned back and continued eavesdropping. Porter set the card down on the nightstand with a sigh. “I don’t know, dude. I’ve never used a fake ID before. What if I get caught?” “You won’t get caught,” Kevin said. “Didn’t you look at the picture? It’s a dead ringer! You could pass for Jesse Martinez.” “I don’t think so.” “You could totally be Jesse Martinez!” “Jesse Martinez has a receding hairline and gold teeth.” Shaking his head, Porter took a seat at the edge of the bed. “Can’t you just wait another month and take me then? I’ll be twenty-one for real, and we won’t have to worry about getting in trouble.”

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“Geez, why are you being so uptight? It’s just one night, so you can get into the club. Once you’re in, I won’t bother you. Besides, it’s your fault for being younger than everyone else, Mr. Prodigy.” “I’m not younger,” Porter protested. “I mean, I’m average.” “I won’t make you drink or anything. It’s all harmless fun. Seriously, I had no idea you were such a law-abider.” “It’s not that. I just don’t want to get in trouble. Trust me, the last thing I need is my picture in the paper.” “They’re not going to put your picture in the paper for using a fake ID.” “You don’t know that.” When Kevin continued to stare insistently at him, Porter finally rolled his eyes and picked up the fake license again. “So where is this place, anyway?” “It’s the one on Ballard. We’ve driven by it a few times; don’t you remember? It’s right across the street from that weird Satanworship club Seana was talking about last week.” “Is she the creepy girl with all the piercings who looks like Swiss cheese?” “Yep, that’s her.” Porter paused, considering. He glanced subtly toward Riley, then back at Kevin. “I don’t know about that place. I hear they perform rituals to ‘channel the undead’, or something like that.” “That’s not where we’re going, man! We’re going across the street. It’s a totally different club!” With an aggravated sigh, Porter threw up his hands. “Fine, fine. I’ll think about it. But I’m so going to bash your head in if I get caught.” “That’s all I’m asking,” Kevin said. He stood up, heading for the door. “I gotta take a leak.” As Kevin walked past and disappeared around the corner, Porter yelled after him, “I bet Jesse Martinez has herpes!” He turned back to his drafting table, grumbling inarticulately under his breath.

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“I should get going,” Riley said, struggling to push himself up to his feet. “Whoa, wait. Are you sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “It was just the heat. But I have to get back to campus. I have another class.” “Dude, you’re not posing for another class today. You’re going to go home and get some rest in an air-conditioned bedroom.” He grabbed his cell phone, tossing it in Riley’s direction. “Here. Call your people and tell them you can’t make it to your next class. Then I’ll drive you back to your car so you can get home without walking around in the heat.”

BY

EVENING, Riley was feeling much better. He’d made himself

comfortable on the supple leather couch in the living room, setting the TV to The Food Network and staring blindly at the over-the-top depictions of immaculately prepared food. He had hoped that watching a cooking show would make him hungry enough to manage dinner, but he had no such luck. “You know what it means when you start skipping meals,” Alanna would have told him had she been there. Then she’d ask when the last time was that he’d “talked to someone.” And he would have argued back, telling her that, true, his bouts of depression always began with him skipping meals, but that skipping meals didn’t always lead to a bout of depression. This was nothing. He just happened not to be hungry. And he just happened not to feel like cooking. Without Nick in the house, he felt oddly uncomfortable. He felt like he didn’t belong. It was an amazing town house. Three levels with four bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, a spacious living room, and an entertainment room. All topped with a cozy den. He didn’t know many guys in their thirties who were able to afford such a place, but Nick treated it as if it were nothing special. If Nick were there, he would

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have insisted that Riley was being crazy, and that of course he belonged. “You belong with me,” he’d say simply. As awesome as the house was, sometimes Riley wondered if anyone really “belonged” in it. It felt like a model home. Nick made all his decorative decisions based on extensive research of current design trends. Everything down to the handles on the cabinets reflected today’s tastes—at the expense of Nick’s personal tastes. Nick’s tastes were surprisingly old-fashioned; he liked gas ranges and tiny armchairs upholstered with floral “granny patterns,” as Riley called them. Yet he had chosen a glass-top electric range, stainless steel appliances, and slick leather seating for the town house. Keeping the décor current, he’d explained, gave him the freedom to sell at any time without having to worry about remodeling. Riley’s mind wandered, and he thought about the conversation he’d listened in on at Porter’s place. A club on Ballard where people worshipped the undead. It sounded a little bit far-fetched. But then again, maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t have to believe in the undead in order to believe there were people out there who were delusional enough to worship them. And perhaps one of them would be able to provide a simple and plausible explanation as to how a painting might manage to change itself while it was locked away and inaccessible to human hands. What had Westwood told him? He’d said that people performed rituals for the undead in order to gain some of their power. Maybe the alteration of the paintings was one of these rituals. And if there was a rumor out there that Coliaro himself was undead, maybe there would be people at the club who worshipped him. After all, he was a local. That had to count for something. Riley stared down at his baggy shorts, wondering how he’d ever blend in at a club full of worshippers of the undead. Maybe it’d be best to take a day to scope out the place before diving in headfirst. At the very least, he needed to get an idea of the dress code, so to speak. For a moment he pictured himself in skintight vinyl pants and a mesh tank top, with heavy eyeliner and a metal bar through his nasal septum. He cringed. But as much as he dreaded the thought of mingling with the weirdos, he knew that if he wanted to find out anything about the

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scandal surrounding Coliaro, he’d have the best luck striking now while Nick was out of town. He wouldn’t have to make excuses or lie about his whereabouts or listen to Nick go on about how dangerous it was to get mixed up in Coliaro’s business. Riley sighed. It was too damn quiet without Nick in the house. Quiet and lonely. When he thought about heading out for the evening, it suddenly struck him that he really didn’t have any friends in the area. Most of his friends were actually Nick’s friends. His own friends had moved out of state after graduation. His friends, apparently, were all smarter than he was.

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Chapter 5

FRIDAY evening rolled around, and Riley searched his closet for every black garment he owned. He managed to scrounge up a few pairs of socks and a belt. Black wasn’t exactly a trend down in Sarasota, plus it wasn’t a great complement to his tan. An idea sparking, he headed up to the den, where Nick had packed away their old clothing from Chicago. He tracked down his own boxes, rifling through them, and he hit pay dirt: a pair of black jeans, black boots, a long-sleeved black shirt. Long sleeves, the Floridian torture device. But he had no other choice. Three coats of deodorant later, and he was ready to head out the door. He was about to leave a note on the fridge when he caught himself. Nick wouldn’t be back for a few more days. Until then, there would be no one at home waiting for him to return. He wondered what Nick would do if he came home from Illinois to find a brand new puppy digging up his carpet. Or a cockatoo. With an inward chuckle, Riley shook his head. If he couldn’t get through one week alone, he was in worse shape than he thought.

IT WAS no trouble at all locating the club where Porter and Kevin were going. Practically the entire side of the street glowed with neon lights, and the thumping of music could be felt all the way down the block. The undead-worshipping club, on the other hand, was more discreet. Riley walked up and down the sidewalk three times before he finally spotted a wrought iron fence, behind which was a short flight of stairs recessed a half level into the ground. The stairs led down to a dark metal door with rivets all along the edges. Carefully, he stepped past

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the fence, headed down the stairs, and tried the door handle. It was locked. “Can’t find your mommy?” a voice asked behind him. He jumped like a spooked cat, whirling around and meeting eyes with a woman in her midthirties. She could have been any random pedestrian; she wore a standard cocktail dress, blond curls framing her oval face, with more wavy blond locks cascading down her back. The only thing unusual about her, Riley noted, was the look in her eyes. They were oddly set, incredibly intense. Something about those eyes made his heart pound in his chest. “I… I heard there was a club?” “You’re looking for that one across the street,” she said, pointing. “Honestly, I don’t know how you could have missed it.” “No,” Riley protested. “No, not that one. I heard about a different club.” The woman raised an eyebrow. “Who told you about it?” He paused. What was that girl’s name? Shana? Shauna? Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Westwood.” Brows still raised, the woman said, “He barely ever shows up himself, but he’s sending us newbies. Great.” With a disgruntled sigh, she reached out, shoving a key into the lock and pulling the door open for him. He headed in before her and was immediately accosted by an overwhelming cloud of smoke. Coughing and sputtering, he managed to gasp, “What is that?” She rolled her eyes. “Um, burnt sage? What exactly did Westwood tell you about us?” Assuming it was a rhetorical question, Riley didn’t answer. He squinted into the fog, trying to find his way through the narrow corridor. There were rows of closed doors on either side of him, disappearing into the distance. It looked more like an apartment complex than a club. An old apartment complex. The floor was hardwood. The walls were finished in wood. The doors were wood. Glancing at the woman behind him, he reached out impulsively for one of the doorknobs. “Uh, no,” the woman said, nudging him along. She led him all the way down to the last doorway at the end of the hall, which was open.

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Inside was a bar where several shadowy figures sat on stools, engaging in quiet conversation. At the other end of the room were couches and armchairs and a lit fireplace. He could barely make out his surroundings. The lighting was terribly dim, and the walls were painted dark. In the back of his mind, he contemplated how easy it would be to sneak a fly into someone’s drink. A circle of women sat on the floor between him and the faraway couch and fireplace. They were seated on cushions, and a woman in the center of the circle was carrying a bowl with smoke rising from it— burnt sage, he assumed—and holding it in front of each woman in the circle. The women kept their eyes closed, pulling the smoke toward them and breathing it in deep. They were dressed in casual tank tops and sarongs and yoga pants. And the men at the bar were wearing khaki shorts and sandals. All of them eyed him suspiciously, as if wondering why this raging black-clad emo kid had invaded their hideout. So much for scoping the place out before diving in. It seemed he had only two choices: either join the women’s circle or sit at the bar with the men. Although part of him was oddly mesmerized by the eccentricity of the burnt sage and sarongs, he nevertheless found himself sidling up to the more conventional—and more approachable— bar. “Whad’ya have?” the bartender asked, wiping his hands on his grimy white wife beater. “Ah… screwdriver?” “‘Screwdriver’?” the man repeated, raising his voice an octave to mimic Riley’s uncertain tone. He turned away to prepare the drink as Riley gave a disgruntled scowl. The man on the next stool looked Riley up and down, making an unknown assessment before turning back to his drink. The man was tall and gangly, with greasy, straggly brown hair hanging limply past his shoulders. He sported an overgrown goatee, and a couple of his teeth were black around the edges. He was chewing gum, and the smell of it made Riley nauseous. Nicotine gum, he realized. An icy orange beverage materialized under his nose. He took a cautious sip. He wasn’t planning on finishing the drink. He figured he’d nurse it until he could no longer hold up his ruse.

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Like a mother who’d finished dropping her child off at day care, the blond woman turned back out of the room, disappearing from sight. As Riley watched her go, the man with the nicotine gum turned back to him. “Who’s your liege?” he asked. “I… uh….” Riley swallowed. “I’m sorry?” “Your liege,” the man repeated. “Who’s your liege?” “Oh.” Another swallow. Damn, swallows took such a short time. He’d have to come up with a better stalling tactic. The name Westwood had gotten him into the building, but Westwood didn’t seem very liegelike. And he could only assume that the word “liege” referred to whomever he was supposedly worshipping. Riley braced himself and said, “Coliaro.” The man rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. Popping the gum in his mouth, he said, “I didn’t know there were any of you still left. Coliaro’s old news, kid.” “He’s making a comeback.” “Is that so?” “You didn’t hear about the painting at Prestwick?” he replied on a whim. He was pleasantly surprised with himself; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought so fast. The man examined him. “Coliaro’s already been milked for all he’s got. I’d recommend moving on to someone else.” He turned his gaze up toward the ceiling. “Go for someone young and fresh. Like Neil Minor or Thackary Jones.” What the hell kind of name is Thackary? Riley thought. Out loud, he said, “I guess I’m too traditional for my own good.” “Seriously, kid. Coliaro’s been around for centuries. He’s been drained. But Thackary’s only been turned for fifty years. Better hop on the bandwagon before he dries up too.” One of the women at the other end of the room, who had previously been reciting some sort of poem or incantation in a low voice, suddenly let out a long, bloodcurdling scream as she slammed her hands down repeatedly on the ground. Riley stared at her in horror, but the rest of the men at the bar showed no reaction.

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After a good thirty seconds, the woman stopped screaming and glanced back down at the sheet in front of her, continuing her recitation as if she’d done nothing out of the ordinary. She was reading a poem about wandering through a field, following a gust of wind that carried rose petals through the sky toward a babbling brook. Suddenly, Riley noticed how stiflingly hot the room was. He raised a hand up to his temple. The last thing he needed was another touch of heatstroke in the middle of this deranged club. For a moment he thought he saw a hulking, shadowy figure outside the door. He lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. When he looked up again, the shadow had disappeared. Great. Now I’m starting to see demons. After taking another anemic sip of his screwdriver, Riley asked, “Is there anyone else around here who’s with Coliaro?” “Other than Westwood? Nah, I don’t think so.” So Westwood answers to Coliaro. “How about you?” Riley asked. “Me? Quinn Harcourt all the way. No question about it. A little older than Neil and Thackary, but very, very strong.” “What kind of ritual do you have to do for Quinn?” Riley ventured. The man rolled his eyes. “Come on, you know the way it works. The answers only come after you’ve pledged.” The smoke was starting to get to him. At the other end of the room, the women had begun lighting scented candles. He sniffled, cursing the allergies his mother had passed down to him. “You need some fresh blood,” the man continued. “If Coliaro were serving you well, you wouldn’t look so feeble.” He took a chug of his beer. “Tomorrow night, we’re having an initiation for Quinn’s servants. Come by at nine; tell them Mikhail sent you. I gotta warn you, though. Quinn’s ritual is much tougher than the others. I’m not so sure you’ll make it.” “We’ll see,” Riley said. He wondered if this Quinn guy led a normal human life the way Coliaro did. He wondered if Quinn knew he was being worshipped by a horde of lunatics in Sarasota.

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Sensing that the conversation had ended, he tossed a few bills onto the counter and stood, eager to get away from all the smoke and perfumes. The quicker he could get out, the better. As he left the room, he saw a back door at the near end of the hall. Freedom. Hurriedly, he grabbed the handle and headed out, relieved to find that he didn’t trigger any security alarms by taking the back exit. He had second thoughts once he stepped out into a deserted, unlit parking lot. The eerie silence wasn’t quite as reassuring as the thumping action of the club on the opposite side of the building. Wryly, he thought about Mr. Tobias’s warning of not wandering around alone in the dark. But he was a grown man, he reminded himself. There was no reason to be afraid to walk through a parking lot. It wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. He’d barely made it a few feet along the wall when he heard a quick rustling behind him. Before he could turn around, he was slammed face-first against the side of the building. One of his wrists was pinned against the rough brick. He felt the other being twisted behind his back. A hard body pressed against him from behind. Long fabric flapped against his legs, perhaps from a trench coat. “What are you doing here?” a male voice whispered in his ear. When Riley didn’t answer, the man gave his arm a wrench. He yelped in pain. “Answer the question!” “I….” He let out urgent, shallow breaths, trying to outwit the pain. He could feel his heart pounding all the way up in his throat. “I’m just visiting.” “Just visiting?” the man asked, a mocking tone in his voice. “You’re just visiting?” “You got a hearing problem?” Riley spat. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realized how stupid he was. Another jerk on his arm drove the point home. The man’s hot breath against his ear was distracting. He was standing awfully close. Riley could practically feel the six-pack pressing against his back. Riley thrashed suddenly, trying to twist free, and the man crushed him against the wall.

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“You’re asking too many questions. Questions you have no business asking.” Another yank on his arm, and Riley flinched. “Stay away from here, Burke. And stay away from Coliaro. If I hear that you’ve gone anywhere near either, you’ll be sorry.” Realization hit him. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. “Westwood?” Something hard struck the side of his head, and he fell to the ground. As he lay blinded by pain, he heard the sound of footsteps quickly fading into the distance.

DESPITE his curiosity about Quinn’s ritual, the swollen knot beside his right eyebrow made Riley a little less excited over the prospect of returning to the mysterious club behind the riveted metal door. He gazed at himself in the mirror; the knot was bigger than he’d realized. This thing needs a name of its own, he thought. He decided on Luis Miguel Rodriguez. Saturday came and went. He made a visit to the gym, then returned to the house and undid his workout by compulsively baking and eating a batch of cookies. Whatever; he needed it. He’d had to start wearing his belts a notch tighter, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded every time he rose to his feet. He checked his e-mail, finding that one of his regulars had a freelance job for him. He was slightly disappointed when he found that the job only took him a couple of hours to complete and send off. So it was back to the couch and The Food Network. He fell asleep in front of the TV, dreaming about a shrieking woman wandering through a field of rose petals toward an artichoke soufflé.

BY SUNDAY, Luis Miguel had taken on a repulsive green hue. Frowning, Riley poked at it. “Go away,” he muttered under his breath. He dreaded the thought of seeing eighteen student paintings of him with an exaggerated green welt on his forehead the next morning. Sap green—that was the color they’d use.

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He thought about Coliaro’s painting. Who had taken it? Was it the same person who’d vandalized it? And was it the same person who’d taken the students’ paintings of him from the storage closet? As much as he hated to admit it, he himself seemed to be the only common thread among all those incidents. No, maybe that wasn’t true. In the past, it had always been a stranger whose murder was linked to Coliaro’s vandalized paintings, never the model himself. He didn’t understand. Westwood was the one who’d told him Coliaro was purported to be undead, but now that very same man was warning him not to ask any more questions. It seemed Westwood had used their first encounter to try to scare him off without letting him in on too many secrets. When that hadn’t worked, he’d decided to take a more heavy-handed approach. But if Westwood was one of Coliaro’s followers, wouldn’t he have wanted there to be more paintings and more murders? Wasn’t that their ritual? There seemed to be only one person who could answer his many questions. He’d have to go directly to the source. Where had he put Coliaro’s business card? He headed up to his bedroom, fishing through his drawers of clothing. He knew himself well; the card was still stashed in the pocket of the shorts he’d been wearing that day, a little soft around the edges after having been thoroughly laundered. But thankfully the numbers were still clear. He took it back downstairs to the living room, settling in on the couch and digging his cell phone out from between the cushions. A bit of anxiety surfaced as he dialed the number. After the third ring, he heard a click. A familiar voice announced, “Coliaro,” on the other line. “Coliaro, hi,” Riley squeaked. He cleared his throat. “This is Riley. Riley Burke.” “Oh!” the artist said, his tone suggesting delight. “How are you doing, my dear?” “All right,” Riley said. “I was wondering…. Did you hear about what happened to the painting you did of me?”

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“Yes, I heard about the vandalism. It’s a shame. A great shame. One of my best works, with certainly my best model, and this is what happens to it.” “Everyone was really upset.” He paused. “Did you also know that the painting went missing?” There was silence on the other line, after which Coliaro said, “No. That I didn’t know.” “Almost right after we discovered that it had been altered, someone broke into the display case and took it.” “Hmm.” All the previous delight had left Coliaro’s voice. He asked, a little coldly, “Is this why you called?” “Not exactly.” He took a deep breath, bracing himself. “I wanted to ask you some questions. About what happened with your paintings five years ago.” “Oh.” Another pause. “Well, my dear, I hate to say I’m quite busy right now. But I’ll be in town next weekend. We can meet at my house. We’ll sit down, have dinner, and have a chat. How does that sound?” “That sounds perfect.” Riley fought down his impatience, telling himself that he’d be able to wait until next week in order to get the answers to his questions. After making plans for the following Sunday, Riley thanked Coliaro profusely and said goodbye. A genuine smile spread across his face for the first time all week. He knew Coliaro was fond of him. Hopefully that would help to wheedle some of the tougher answers out of him. His modeling timer dinged, and he jumped in surprise. He then remembered that he’d resorted to using the timer to remind himself when it was time to eat. He really couldn’t afford to lose any more weight or he’d start looking like the rest of the geriatric male models the school employed. He prepared a simple sandwich, turkey and spinach with hummus. He was tempted to open a bottle of wine, but he thought better of it. Just one more day, he thought. One more day, and Nick would be home. One more day, and he could stop entertaining the notion of bringing home a cuddly orange tabby from the shelter to keep his lap warm.

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It suddenly struck him that he hadn’t heard from his boyfriend in a couple of days. They’d exchanged a few quick phone calls earlier in the week, but Nick always seemed to get pulled abruptly away from the phone. It wasn’t surprising—Riley knew how overbearing his family could be, not to mention they weren’t huge fans of Riley. Having only heard about him in passing, they believed him to be a gold digger and were apparently all too happy to find opportunities to prevent Nick and Riley from speaking to each other. When his cell suddenly rang at his side, he jumped. Excitement coursed through him. He didn’t even bother swallowing. With spinach still stuck in the back of his throat, he flipped his phone open and said, “Nick?” Silence on the other line. Then a heavy huff of breath. Confused, Riley looked down at his phone’s screen to check the incoming number. It was blocked. “Hello?” A man’s voice grumbled, “I warned you.” Riley’s heart skipped. His voice nearly failed him. “Westwood.” “I warned you. What will it take to make you listen?” The line went dead.

SUNDAY night’s sleep was terribly restless. Riley tossed and turned in bed, alternating between excitement over Nick’s arrival the next evening and anxiety over the phone call he’d received from Westwood. How had the man discovered so quickly that Riley had contacted Coliaro? And what was he trying to hide? He felt like a zombie the next morning, but thankfully the welt on his forehead had receded a bit. It was about half an hour earlier than he needed to be awake. He’d tried his best to stay asleep, lingering under the sheets with his pillow over his head, but he knew it was pointless. After another fifteen minutes of staring listlessly across the room, he finally gave up and got out of bed. The sky was still gray when he left the house, reminding him that it was October and the half-assed Florida winter was slowly approaching. It was a good thing, he told himself. At least the heat had

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died down, and he didn’t have to worry about another embarrassing puking incident in the parking lot. There was a frog on his windshield. He didn’t notice it until after he drove down the block and saw something flapping by his wipers. The creature was staring bug-eyed at him through the window, looking like it was hanging on for dear life. Pulling over, he got out of his car and chased the thing away, waiting until it hopped into the bushes before getting back to his commute. A few early birds were already setting up in the classroom by the time Riley arrived. They gave him a cordial hello and went back to their business. Kevin, the black-haired kid, nodded to him in greeting. With a small duffel bag draped over his shoulder, Riley headed for the changing area and pulled back the curtain. He jumped in surprise. In a split second, the scene became clear to him, but it felt like it was happening in slow motion. One of the prop chairs had been placed inside the changing area, and a young man was sitting in it. The figure was slumped, head lolled back, arms hanging over the sides of the chair. He was wearing a deep violet shirt. The center of it was torn open, slick and shiny and wet. It was blood. He looked down and saw that the boy’s arms ended in bloody stumps. Back to the top, he saw hair. Longish, shaggy, wavy brown hair. A cry died in his throat. He stumbled back, catching on the curtain and falling. The hooks snapped, and the curtain was yanked down underneath him as he crashed to the ground. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t make a sound. Across the room, a girl screamed.

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CLASS was canceled. Campus security took a step back, allowing the real police to take over the investigation. The studio was cordoned off, and Riley stood shivering in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest as an Officer O’Neil asked him questions. He barely heard them. It was like he was underwater and the man was trying to talk to him from above the surface. Riley was down below, drowning, lungs constricted, eyes hazy with moisture. They wheeled Porter out on a gurney, zipped inside a black bag. A soft whimper escaped Riley’s lips as he watched. That kid—that vibrant, gregarious kid—would no longer sit at the edge of the modeling platform, biting the end of his paintbrush as he contemplated his composition. When was the last time they’d spoken to one another? Right, it had been the day Riley had nearly passed out. Porter had been kind enough to nurse him back to health without even making the slightest joke about a grown man swooning in a parking lot on a hot day. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the police eventually ushered him away, recommending that he go home and spend the day with his loved ones. He only made it as far as the bottom of the stairs before he lost the will to move any further. He stood outside the entrance to the campus library at the bottom of the steps, arms still crossed, staring blankly into space. The sun had risen to full height and was casting dramatic shadows across the ground when Mr. Tobias approached him from behind, laying his hands on his shoulders. “He was too good for this,” the man whispered. “He was one of a kind.”

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Riley grunted. His lower lids itched; wetness spilled over. He barely noticed as Mr. Tobias wrapped his arms around him, drawing him into an embrace. As much as Mr. Tobias squeezed him and rubbed his arms, Riley’s body would not go soft. It was like Mr. Tobias was trying to nestle against a wood plank, and the hollow gaps where their bodies didn’t match up were like barriers between them. They stood for several minutes before Mr. Tobias broke the silence. “Did you remind them about Coliaro’s painting?” He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much of anything he’d said to the cops. It hadn’t even occurred to him to mention Westwood’s threat to them. He’d been so stunned at the time that he hadn’t even made the connection. “I don’t know. I think they already knew.” The instructor let out a frustrated groan. “I feel responsible. I didn’t even think twice before bringing Coliaro in here to paint. And now it’s happening all over again, just like five years ago.” “No,” Riley said. “It’s not.” Mr. Tobias waited silently for him to continue. “The others—only the hearts and hands were found. This was the opposite.” “But it has to be linked. Right?” Riley was suddenly overwhelmed with irritation at the feeling of Mr. Tobias’s arms around him. He didn’t want to be touched. Pulling free, he ran his hands over his head and yanked back on his long bangs. “I can’t talk about this. Not now.” Mr. Tobias nodded. “Right. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.” Riley didn’t respond.

THE sun was setting when Riley pulled in at the Sarasota airport, shifting into park as he waited for Nick. His partner had called him the moment his plane touched down, and over the phone Riley did his best to pretend that all was well. But he knew he couldn’t fool Nick. While Nick didn’t ask any questions, Riley knew that the questions would come once they saw each other in person.

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Carting his luggage behind him, Nick stepped into the hazy sunlight. Riley stared numbly out the window, barely acknowledging his partner. Only a vague sense of obligation made him finally unlatch his seatbelt. He cringed as he stepped out of the car; he didn’t want the sun to touch him. He greeted Nick with a quick kiss before popping the trunk. Nick stowed his suitcase, subtly eyeing Riley as if waiting for him to break some sort of bad news. As they drove, Riley felt Nick staring at his white-knuckled hands, which gripped the steering wheel more tightly than necessary. But he respected Riley’s silence, waiting patiently until they arrived back at the town house. It wasn’t until after they stepped inside and closed the door that Nick finally asked, “Baby, what’s wrong?” Nick’s gentle tone struck something within him, and before he could control himself, the tears began to spill. He started trembling. Nick laid a hand on his shoulder and he turned around, burying his face in his partner’s chest as his shoulders heaved with each labored breath. Patiently, Nick continued to hold him. Riley waited until he thought he’d be able to speak in a steady voice, yet he found he could still barely get the words out. “A student… was killed today.” “What?” “One of the kids in my morning class…. He was behind the curtain where I change. They cut off his hands… took out his heart….” “That’s impossible!” Nick gasped, the shock clear in his voice. “At Prestwick? No, I can’t believe it!” “He was a really good kid too. I talked to him a few times. He was really sweet. And talented.” He swallowed, feeling the sting in his eyes as more tears surfaced. “I don’t understand,” Nick said. “I don’t understand how this could have happened.” Riley still couldn’t get himself to mention Westwood, not even to Nick. He didn’t know how Nick would react. And, he suddenly realized, mentioning Westwood would mean admitting that it was his own fault Porter was killed. After all, Westwood had warned him to mind his own business, and he’d ignored

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the warning. If he hadn’t contacted Coliaro, Porter might have never been killed. Nick rested his chin on top of Riley’s head, holding him tight as if he could quell his tremors. Even though he said nothing, Riley knew what he was thinking. He was worried for Riley’s well-being, and it pissed Riley off. At the moment, he couldn’t have cared less about himself. Porter was the one who was dead before his time. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about his own insignificant safety. But as angry as he was, he couldn’t keep from clutching at Nick’s shirt, burying his face in Nick’s chest. Nick held him tighter, leaning close and whispering into his ear. “You’re safe, baby. As long as you’re with me, you’re safe.”

NICK accompanied Riley to the candlelight vigil for Porter at the school. It was clear the mourners weren’t just there out of courtesy. Porter had genuine friends all throughout Prestwick, in every major and every year. Speaking to the other students, Riley realized how little he knew about the talented young painter. Apparently he’d scored a 34 on his ACT, was at Prestwick on a full scholarship, and had once chased an alligator off campus in order to protect Buttons, the stray cat who frequented the school. Kevin sat at the outskirts of the courtyard. Of everyone who was touched by Porter’s death, he appeared to be having the worst time of it. He didn’t shed a tear. Instead he was withdrawn, sullen, emotionless. Riley excused himself, asking Nick to wait as he went across the courtyard to talk to him. Silently, he sat down at Kevin’s side, and he was surprised when Kevin immediately began speaking. “They tried to contact Porter’s family. No one’s bothering to make it out to Sarasota for the funeral. How is it that someone like Porter could have a family that doesn’t even care enough to grieve for him?” Memories of Porter’s dorm room came back to his mind, of the walls and surfaces bereft of personal effects. “It happens,” he replied, a bitter tone in his voice. “It happens even to the best kids.”

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“Yeah? Like who?” Riley swallowed. Instead of answering, he said, “Fuck Porter’s family. These people—these are his family.” “You’re full of it,” Kevin spat. “What good does it do him to have all these random people crying for him? He’s still dead. His painting is still sitting half-done in the studio. His dishes are still in my sink. His….” A spot of wetness appeared on Kevin’s knee, and he hastily wiped his eyes.

RILEY had to wonder about Porter. It was a question that had been on his mind ever since the first day he and Porter had been in a class together. He had to wonder if Porter was gay. In all the months that he’d been posing, he’d never been able to tell for sure. Porter had taken an elective painting class over the summer—the first job Riley had modeled for—and he’d made a passing comment about Riley’s height that had struck him as rude. But the more he heard Porter talk, the more he understood him and realized Porter was far from rude. He simply saw things through an artist’s eyes. To him, there was no value judgment in calling out a man’s less than average height. He saw it as a wonderfully unique quality that forced him to reexamine the proportions of his painting for accuracy. Riley had first wondered about Porter’s sexual orientation when he saw a painting he’d done in one of his sessions with a female model. Unlike the obviously straight boys in the class, his painting was softly focused, capturing the whole figure, equally detailed throughout. The straight boys tended to focus in on the bust, always rendering the breasts and nipples in excruciating detail. He remembered Mr. Tobias mocking one student, saying that they looked like “huge gaping eyeballs.” But then again, Porter was equally objective with his paintings of the male nude. And when he spoke, he had an odd sort of innocence about him, as if he hadn’t quite reached the point where he was interested in sex. But he was almost twenty-one; that was a little late to still be prepubescent.

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Regardless, Riley couldn’t shake the thought that maybe Porter was gay. To his mind, this was the most plausible explanation for why his family wouldn’t bother to come and say goodbye. He’d seen it happen before. Grabbing the telephone, he dialed in a familiar number. He lost track of the number of rings. He expected the voice mail to pick up at any moment, but instead his sister’s voice suddenly crackled over the line. “Hello?” “Alanna,” Riley said weakly. “Riley, what’s up? It’s almost midnight.” “I was thinking….” He swallowed. “Next year. January. It’s going to be the tenth anniversary.” Alanna hesitated. At last, she said, “Yes. That’s right.” “Do you know if we’re going to do anything?” Silence. He couldn’t believe it had been almost a decade since his brother Andrew’s suicide. Andrew had been sixteen, one year older than Riley, and they had been best friends. Although he and Riley looked different—Andrew was blond and fair like their sisters—they could have been twins with the way they read each other’s minds and answered questions in unison. Thus it was no surprise to Riley that they both turned out to be gay. Andrew, however, was the first to come out. It was not an intentional outing. Their dad had come home unexpectedly to find Andrew on the couch, kissing another boy. What followed was a year of emotional abuse that played no small part in his brother’s suicide. Andrew had fallen into a deep depression. He was moody, nihilistic. He stopped going to school. And then one day Riley came home to find his brother hanging from the apple tree in the backyard. The funeral was as understated as it could have possibly been. Really, it was just a formality. He had to believe his parents were suffering, but if they were, they had done a good job of hiding it. Not only was Andrew gay, he was a coward for taking his own life. That was what his dad had left unsaid as they were lowering his son into the ground. And that was the last time either one of his parents acknowledged his death.

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When Riley had come out to his parents a year later, they had dismissed him, claiming that he was just grieving over his brother and would eventually come around. Even to this day, they didn’t know Riley was living with his boyfriend. They assumed he’d found a cheap apartment by himself. His sisters knew, but they were smart enough not to spread the news to his parents. “Alanna?” Riley asked. “Sorry. I haven’t really thought about it. It’s still early.” “But if anyone’s going to need a plane ticket, we need to plan in advance.” “Gosh, I don’t know if anyone can do that.” The family had scattered across the country as each of them graduated or retired. Angela was in New York, his mom and dad were in Colorado, and of course Riley had ended up in Sarasota. Only Alanna remained in the Chicago suburbs. “I figured it would make sense to meet up in Chicago, but I don’t know if Angela can take time off work.” “You don’t think we could do it in Florida?” “Not if we’re going to visit the cemetery. Why?” “Well, I….” He swallowed. “I don’t know if I can afford to fly out.” “Can’t Nick help you?” The answer was yes, but Riley didn’t want to ask him. Asking Nick meant telling Nick the whole story about Andrew and his death. Nick didn’t know Riley had discovered the body of his dead brother. He didn’t know how Riley would sneak out to the park at night and sob till he couldn’t breathe every time January rolled around. Changing the subject, he said, “You know how Mom and Dad always say they want to visit Siesta Key.” “I don’t think they would. Not for this, anyway.” The truth hurt. Noting the pain in his silence, Alanna said, “Listen. I’ll tell Angela that we’re thinking about getting together in Florida. If she can’t make it, maybe the two of us can still meet up. You’d still want to do it, right? Even if it’s just us two?”

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“Yes. I’d do it.” Although his voice was forced, he was entirely sincere. “Let me take care of the arrangements. I don’t want you thinking about this more than you have to.” As Riley said goodbye to his sister and hung up the phone, a sense of guilt set in. It didn’t feel right that his little sister had to take care of things for him. She’d insisted that it wasn’t a big deal, that Riley was closest to Andrew and thus it made sense for him to have more trouble with Andrew’s death. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the weakest of everyone in his family. He’d already cried on Nick’s shoulder over Porter’s death. And he wondered what Nick thought of him, now that he knew Riley was a boy and not a man.

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DESPITE Westwood’s warning, Porter’s death only made Riley more determined to talk to Coliaro. He wouldn’t surrender to Westwood, and he wouldn’t allow Porter to die in vain. He told Nick he had to work on Sunday night, posing for FSC—Figure Studies Continued—an extracurricular session that the illustration students at Prestwick had organized in order to get more life-drawing practice. He felt guilty about lying to Nick, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. After the incident with the painting, and now especially with Porter’s murder, there was no way that Nick would ever support his plan to meet up with the painter who was behind all the scandal. But in Riley’s opinion, the benefits outweighed the risks. Coliaro could even potentially give him a lead on Porter’s murder. Riley didn’t know if the police had even thought to question Coliaro, considering that he was out of town at the time of the murder. Riley wore his best-fitting jeans and one of his tightest shirts— enough to show off his lean, well-muscled body, but not enough for his intentions to be too blatant. The shirt was black with flecks of green, bringing out the emerald tone of his irises that Coliaro had loved so much. Coliaro’s house, like his painting studio, was in St. Petersburg. It was an hour’s drive away, but Riley wasn’t daunted. After saying goodbye to Nick, he popped some classic rock into his car stereo and shifted into drive, watching the colors of the setting sun wash over his dashboard as he began his journey. It was dark by the time he reached the Skyway Bridge, which to him was perfectly fine. He wasn’t particularly fond of heights, and gazing over the edge of the bridge at the tempestuous waters far below was not his idea of a calming

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commute. But even without the ability to see the water, he still felt the subtle swaying of the bridge in the air. When Coliaro gave him the address to his house, Riley was expecting to find just that: a house. What he found instead could only be described as a mansion. After turning in to the driveway, it was a half mile before he reached the front door. There was a four-car garage with a room above, separated from the rest of the house by an arch. It was three stories, expansive, with a pool in the back. It put Nick’s town house to shame. For some reason, Riley expected to be greeted by a butler or a concierge when he rang the doorbell. But instead it was Coliaro himself, reaching out to give Riley a greeting hug before ushering him inside. It was palatial. Marble everywhere, European imported crystal chandeliers, and a sweeping grand staircase leading up to the second story. Coliaro led him through an ornate foyer and into the adjacent parlor. The idea of a house even having a parlor struck Riley as fantastical. He never thought he’d actually be inside one. He started to wonder if jeans and a T-shirt were appropriate attire. “Sweetheart, you look gorgeous as always,” Coliaro said, running a hand a little too comfortably down his arm. “Though I must say you look a little thinner than the last time I saw you. I hope you’ve been taking care of yourself.” Riley stifled his irritability. “I’m fine. Again, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me.” “No need to thank me. No need at all.” He motioned for Riley to have a seat, then sat down directly next to him, close enough for their thighs to brush. “So tell me. What have you been up to in the past few weeks?” “Well….” He couldn’t lie, but he wasn’t looking forward to telling the truth, either. “A student was murdered at the school.” “Are you serious?” Riley nodded. “His body was in my changing room. Someone had cut off his hands and removed his heart.” Coliaro opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Well, I don’t know what to say, Riley. That’s horrible.”

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“So you see, this is kind of why I need to talk to you. It happened to your painting, and now it’s happened in real life. I need to figure out what’s going on.” “I assume the authorities are taking care of that.” “Yeah, but I feel like it involves me somehow. And if I’m in any danger, I don’t know if I can trust anyone else but myself to prevent something from happening.” “Have you thought,” Coliaro began, “that you might be the one who’s putting yourself in danger?” “What do you mean?” “It sounds like you’ve been doing some investigating. Whoever was behind the vandalism and the murder may not like you sticking your nose in their business.” “What other choice do I have? Am I supposed to just wait around for the police?” “That’s generally what civilians do in this situation.” The conversation was not going in the direction Riley had intended. Quickly, he tried to steer it back. “The murders that took place back when you were working on your Oscuro Bello series—who were the victims? Did you know them?” Coliaro examined him for a moment before answering. Settling back in his seat, he said, “No, I didn’t. They seemed to be selected at random. In fact, the only common thread was that they were all reasonably attractive young men.” He clarified. “You see, the bodies were never found, but they were able to identify some of them through DNA.” “And they were all local, in Chicago. Right?” “Actually, no. Roughly half of them were here in Florida. They matched up with the paintings I did in my St. Petersburg studio.” “Did anything happen to your models? Did you talk to any of them after the paintings were vandalized?” “I’m sure they found out about it through the news, but no, I didn’t speak to them. And as far as I’m aware, none of them were harmed.”

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“There’s something that confuses me,” Riley said. “It sounds like all the murders in the past were the same. They found the hearts and the hands, and nothing else. But this murder at Prestwick was the opposite.” “That’s true.” “Coliaro.” He swallowed. “You know, last week I went to this club up north. I don’t know what it was called, but there were all these people there. From what they said, it sounded like they were worshippers of the undead.” He laughed uneasily. “If that makes any sense.” Coliaro didn’t respond. “The people at the club—they also said that you were undead.” A slight smile pricked at the corner of Coliaro’s mouth. “And what did you tell them?” “Nothing, really. I didn’t know what to say. I figured they were delusional.” He twisted his fingers together. Cracked his knuckles. He wished he had something in his hands that he could fold or twist or break. “I wanted to find out if you knew anything about these people. If you knew why they might think that about you. Why they would worship you.” “Well, naturally, I’d assume it has to do with my artistic abilities.” “I can understand them worshipping you for your artistic abilities, but I don’t see how that would make them think you’re undead. Honestly, I don’t even know what ‘undead’ is supposed to mean.” “I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” Coliaro glanced at his watch. “Listen, I promised you dinner. I’d love to continue this conversation, but what do you say we take a little break and have something to eat first?” Riley didn’t want to eat. In fact, he felt a bit nauseous. But he remembered Coliaro’s comment about him losing weight, and he didn’t want to call any more attention to the fact that he hadn’t been eating properly. With a nod, he followed Coliaro to the dining room, where the food had already been set out. It was steaming hot, as if it had just jumped out from the kitchen all on its own: Tuscan soup, stuffed tomatoes, and a lean-beef filet with balsamic vinegar sauce, topped

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with fresh basil and oregano. Coliaro pulled a chair out, and Riley stood absently, waiting for him to sit. It wasn’t until the man raised an expectant eyebrow at him that Riley blushed and took a seat. In all his years, he’d never had another man pull out a chair for him, and he didn’t care for it. After seating Riley at the table, Coliaro disappeared into the kitchen, emerging with two glasses of wine. “I picked up a very good Cabernet for this evening.” “Oh, thank you,” Riley said uneasily, taking the glass from him and setting it down. He hadn’t planned on drinking. When Coliaro stared at him expectantly, he lifted the glass and faked a sip. “It’s good. Thank you.” Their dinner conversation remained light. Coliaro asked about Riley’s freelance career, and Riley told him about it. He’d done a wide variety of jobs, but the majority seemed to be T-shirt and tattoo designs. While Coliaro appeared to be politely interested, Riley got the sense that he didn’t have a great deal of respect for illustrators. “Illustrators make money,” the man said as he took a sip of his wine. “Fine artists make history.” “You sound like my boyfriend,” Riley said. “How so? “He’s more interested in the fine arts. Sometimes I get the feeling he thinks my work is trivial.” “Is it?” Coliaro asked, raising a judgmental eyebrow. Riley was surprised at how much those two words stung. In an attempt to shift the focus off himself, he asked what Coliaro had been doing for the past five years. Coliaro replied—a little insulted—that he was still painting, just as he had been before. Mostly landscapes, though he was beginning to explore a more surreal approach to his work. He offered to show Riley some of his works in progress the next time Riley came to his studio to pose. Remembering the way Coliaro had yanked him out of his storage room the last time, Riley wondered if the man was trying to save face. After they finished dinner, Coliaro led Riley toward the grand staircase, taking his elbow as if he were an old-fashioned southern belle. “Let’s go upstairs to continue our conversation, shall we?”

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Somewhere in the back of his mind, Riley wondered why they’d need to go upstairs to finish talking, but at the same time he was curious to see more of the house. It wasn’t a terribly long flight of stairs, but Riley felt surprisingly light-headed by the time they reached the top. As he wondered what was wrong with him, he stopped paying attention to his surroundings. It wasn’t until he found himself at the door to Coliaro’s bedroom that his awareness came into focus. It was a richly decorated Victorian-style bedroom, complete with canopy bed and mirrored vanity. “Come and sit,” Coliaro said, leading Riley further into the room. He realized with unease that Coliaro was seating him on the edge of the mattress, but his mind wasn’t clear enough for him to protest. The bedspread was deep burgundy with swirls of thorny roses. Coliaro took a seat next to him, again close enough for Riley to feel the heat emanating from his body. “So you had more questions for me.” Riley nodded. Swallowed. He did have questions, but his brain felt fuzzy. Coliaro put his hand on Riley’s thigh. “I… uh….” Man, he was farther gone than he’d thought—and he hadn’t taken a sip of his wine. It must have been the closeness of Coliaro’s body, the discomfort of his touch. “Um… I was asking… about the guys at the club. The ones… who said you were undead.” The hand squeezed his thigh. He looked down at it, then into Coliaro’s eyes. “Coliaro… I… I just came to ask questions. I’m sorry if I… if I….” He lost his train of thought. “Oh dear,” he heard Coliaro say, as if from far away. “You don’t look well at all.” Lowering his forehead into his hands, Riley mumbled, “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Probably just food coma.” “Food coma?” “Sometimes when I haven’t eaten all day, and then I finally have a meal, I get really tired after.”

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“Of course.” The hand moved up his leg. He felt it sliding in between his thighs. “Ugh….” Food coma didn’t explain why his vision was blurring, or why he couldn’t complete his thoughts. He rocked a bit, falling against Coliaro’s side before catching himself. “No, you’re not well,” Coliaro said. “I think you need to lie down.” He took Riley by the shoulders, pressing down until he was lying on his back across the mattress. He brushed the hair out of Riley’s eyes, giving him a peculiar smile. Riley felt a little less dizzy after a moment of lying down, but his head ached like he couldn’t believe, and his extremities had begun to tingle. He didn’t think to protest when he felt Coliaro pulling off his shirt and setting it aside. When Coliaro went for the belt buckle, however, Riley caught his hand. “What are you doing?” “Just loosening your belt.” Coliaro’s knuckles brushed against his crotch as he worked the buckle. When he undid the button and zipper of his jeans, Riley pulled away. “No,” he groaned. His eyes fluttered; they seemed determined to shut regardless of his attempts at keeping them open. He felt Coliaro’s hand on him. It ran firmly and deliberately up his abdomen before resting over his heart. The hand disappeared, and he felt a sharp pain across his chest. He yelped, and through the crack in his eyelids, he saw Coliaro set a knife down on the nightstand. The man bent over him. His tongue traced over Riley’s chest— slowly, languidly. Riley grabbed his silver hair, pushing his head away, and Coliaro chuckled. “Oh, sweetheart. Relax.” Riley struggled, but Coliaro had him pinned. He felt Coliaro’s warm mouth sucking and licking at his wound. His awareness shifted in and out. Time skipped. Suddenly, Coliaro’s mouth locked over his own. He cried out and tried to twist free, but the man wrapped a hand around to the back of his neck, his fingers digging in like a hawk’s talons. Fear surged in his chest. Was Coliaro going to force him to…? No, this wasn’t a kiss. This was something else. Coliaro wrapped his arms around Riley’s ribcage, squeezing with blinding force. At the same time, he ground his mouth down on Riley’s and sucked hard. It

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felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Coliaro was sucking the air out of him. He thrashed, trying desperately to land a kick. Coliaro laughed into his mouth, and he gulped in the tiny gust of breath before it was drawn mercilessly back out of him. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, Coliaro easily containing Riley’s jerking and twisting limbs. There was a knock at the door. Coliaro reluctantly withdrew, releasing Riley and sitting up. “Come in.” Amid Riley’s heaving and coughing, the door creaked open. A familiar figure crossed the threshold: densely packed muscle, black eyes, spiked brown hair. “Ahh, good,” Coliaro said upon seeing him. “Am I late?” Westwood asked. “Not at all; we were just getting started.” Riley felt Westwood’s gaze on him, and he turned his head, meeting his eyes. They were unreadable—black, inhuman. There was something about his fixed gaze that made him look hungry. Riley was horrified to hear a whimper emerge from his own mouth. Damn, how had he gotten into this mess? Coliaro reached down, lightly grabbing Riley’s chin and turning his face so they were looking at each other. “You see, my dear, you’re just too sublime for me to keep to myself. So I’m going to share you— with my most valued servant. I’d like to watch the two of you together. I find it provides inspiration for my paintings.” Words failing him, Riley could only manage to shake his head in protest. “You look frightened.” Coliaro laughed. “No need for that. Relax, and you might even enjoy yourself… at least until the drug kicks in.” He raised an eyebrow at Westwood. “At that point, perhaps you’d be better off unconscious.” When Westwood made no move, Coliaro patted the mattress. “What are you waiting for, son? Come over here.” Westwood approached. He was staring at Riley’s heaving chest. His gaze traveled down to the revealing split of Riley’s unbuttoned fly. “Here,” Coliaro said, handing the knife to Westwood. He slid his hand over Riley’s chest. “Have a taste.”

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Westwood took the knife. He knelt on the bed, on the opposite side as Coliaro, and ran his thumb over Riley’s lower lip. He trailed his fingers down Riley’s throat and over his collarbone. He laid his hand down on Riley’s chest, sliding it around a bit as if searching for the area where his heartbeat was most palpable. When Riley saw him raising the knife, he let out a muffled cry. Westwood lunged so fast that Riley barely saw him move. He flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, but he felt no pain. Dreading the thought that his wound might be severe enough to put him in shock, he cracked his eyelids open. Westwood held the knife tight, its blade jammed deep into Coliaro’s throat. Coliaro’s eyes widened, and he clutched Westwood’s wrist. They struggled, and Coliaro managed to yank the knife out of his throat. Only the finest trail of blood trickled from the wound. “Westwood…!” Coliaro rasped. “What are you doing?” Westwood lunged again, but Coliaro caught his arm, twisting the knife out of his grasp. He aimed an elbow at the side of Westwood’s chin, knocking him back against one of the bedposts. With another strike, Westwood fell onto the bed across Riley. Riley tried to scramble free, but Coliaro dove on top of Westwood, pinning both him and Riley. Riley saw the glint of the knife and gave a warning cry, but Westwood couldn’t move fast enough. As the knife plunged into his chest, Westwood’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. Coliaro stepped back with a self-satisfied smile. “I don’t know what possessed you to betray me,” he said, “but honestly, Westwood, you should have known better. By now you’re well aware of my abilities.” “I am,” Westwood groaned. He raised a hand up to his chest, yanking the knife free and tossing it to the ground. He then stumbled off the bed and back to his feet, shrugging off his wound like a dog shaking away water after a bath. “But you’re not aware of mine.” Riley gaped. The front of Westwood’s T-shirt had a neat slit down the center, but only the very edges of the cut fabric were tinted with red. “You too,” Coliaro said, looking down at Westwood’s dry wound. Although he was clearly trying for an air of composure, even

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Riley could tell he was shaken. “You’ve been playing human all this time, haven’t you? I should have known.” Westwood didn’t reply. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish,” Coliaro continued, “but I have followers backing me. And I know that you have no one. So if you think there’s any way your strength could match mine, you’re mistaken.” “You’re too old for this, Coliaro,” Westwood said. “It’s about time you let go.” They dashed at each other, wrestling for the knife. Coliaro grabbed Westwood’s chin, twisting his head back. Westwood crushed Coliaro’s wrist in his hand, trying to loosen his grip on the knife. They sparred, and then Coliaro smashed Westwood down against the vanity, shattering the mirror and sending glass and wood splinters flying. Westwood groaned, momentarily stunned. While he was down, Coliaro jumped him, raining a barrage of strikes down on his face. Westwood pulled back, planted a foot on his chest and kicked him back. As soon as he managed to stumble back to his feet, Coliaro rushed him again, slamming him against the wall. Westwood headbutted him, and he backed off. Both stood staring at each other, winded. “I don’t know your weakness,” Coliaro panted. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t incapacitate you at least for a little while. That doesn’t mean I can’t leave you here in excruciating pain.” Westwood glanced in Riley’s direction, then back at Coliaro. “That’s not going to happen. You’ll be the one left in pieces.” Coliaro lunged again, knocking Westwood to the ground. They rolled and wrestled, and Coliaro grabbed a broken shard from the vanity mirror. His hand shot down in a flash, but Westwood caught it, the point of the shard mere millimeters from his forehead. He gritted his teeth, using all his force to try to push Coliaro’s hand away. “How long do you think it’ll take to recover from a lacerated brain?” Coliaro mocked. “Why don’t you tell me?” Westwood grunted, pushing back on his hand so the opposite end of the shard was pointed at his opponent.

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Riley knelt at the edge of the mattress, struggling to hold himself up as he watched the surreal fight taking place across the room. He could see Westwood’s arm shaking, nearly out of strength, and somehow he knew he needed for Westwood to win this fight. Or at the very least, he couldn’t afford to have Coliaro win. But he could do nothing but watch through his blurry eyes from the foot of the bed. Westwood’s grip was fading. Riley squeezed the bed sheets in his fists, heart pounding, dreading the sight of the mirror shard piercing Westwood’s forehead. A shattering crash echoed across the room, and tiny glass fragments rained down onto the wood floor. A lean young man in a Tshirt and baggy cargo pants rolled in through the window. He leapt to his feet, grabbing the broken wooden leg from the vanity and raising it up high in the air. Before Coliaro or Westwood could move, he plunged the jagged edge of the wooden spear into Coliaro’s back, the force sending it clear through his body. Coliaro let out a weak wheeze, crumpling down to the ground. He sputtered and gasped for an excruciatingly long moment before his eyes finally rolled back in his head. As his body fell still, a deluge of blood gushed from the wound, as if it had been stored up for that final lethal blow. Riley stared in shock as the casually dressed intruder stood up tall, brushing off his hands on his pants and then running them through his mop of shaggy brown hair. “Porter,” Westwood said from the ground, displeasure in his eyes. “Back so soon?” The young artist chuckled, leaning back against the wall as he watched Westwood struggle to his feet. “That was a tough one, man. I gotta say, it’s been a long time since I’ve had to break out of a morgue.” That was the last thing Riley heard before he passed out.

WHEN Riley awoke, he was bouncing in midair. It took him a moment to realize he was being carried. He was on the way up a rickety wooden staircase toward a dimly lit, cobweb-adorned attic. With a groan, he

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tried to raise a hand to his head, only to find it trapped between his body and the body of the man who was carrying him. As a memory of Coliaro crossed his mind, he gasped, trying to break free from the arms that held him. “Whoa!” a low voice barked. “You want to fall down the stairs and break your neck?” “Put me down,” Riley said, his voice as hard as he could make it in his weakened condition. “Kid, I don’t think you can walk on your own yet.” It was Westwood, looking ahead of him as he climbed the stairs. “And for future reference, it’s just as easy to drug soup as it is wine.” Behind him, he heard another familiar voice. “Dude, can you hurry it up? I’m starving out of my goddamn mind.” Westwood ignored him, continuing forward at the same pace as before. When they reached the landing, he let Porter pass him to unlock the door before them. “What the hell is this place?” Westwood asked. “You couldn’t find something a little cleaner?” “Well, thanks to someone, I can’t stay in the Prestwick dorms anymore. Now I have to leave yet another school because everyone thinks I’m dead.” He sighed as Westwood passed him. “And I really liked this one too.” The attic was small and dim, the only light coming from a swinging overhead bulb with a pull cord. A mattress lay on the floor in the far corner, without sheets or pillow. Other than that, the room was bare. Westwood set Riley down on the mattress, and Riley immediately sat up. He regretted it as the blood drained from his head, and he grabbed Westwood’s arm to steady himself. Even in his current state, he couldn’t help but notice the mass of impossibly hard muscle beneath Westwood’s soft skin. “Okay, what’s going on?” He turned to Porter. “Who are you?” The artist looked back at him, head tilted quizzically. “I’m Porter. Come on, man, we’ve known each other for months! Westwood, are you sure the drugs are worn off?” “But I saw you!” Riley cried. “I saw you in the studio. Are you telling me you weren’t dead?”

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“Oh, he was dead all right,” Westwood said proudly. “I made sure of that.” Porter grumbled, dropping to a seated position. “Fuck it. I can’t believe I let you kill me twice.” “To be fair, you didn’t ‘let’ me. You put up a pretty good fight this time around.” “I don’t understand,” Riley said. “I had to kill him,” Westwood said. “It was the only way to scare you off, to get you to stop digging around where you shouldn’t be digging.” “Except it didn’t work,” Porter pointed out. “Shut up.” “See, what you’re telling me now?” Riley said. “It’s not really helping me.” With a sigh, Porter scooted over closer to the mattress. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m undead. Westwood’s undead. Coliaro’s undead. The three of us can kill each other all we want, and we’ll just spring back. You, on the other hand, are mortal. Someone kills you, and you’re dead dead.” “Which is why I couldn’t let you get any closer to Coliaro,” Westwood said. “What does that mean?” Riley asked. “‘Undead’?” Porter smiled at him. “We’re like zombies, only cuter.” “We’re not like zombies,” Westwood spat. “We’re like people. But much, much stronger.” “Except you’re dead,” Riley said. “That’s right.” “So you’re dead, but if someone wants to, they can kill you again?” “That’s right.” Riley wished he’d taken Coliaro up on his offer of Cabernet. “It takes time for the body to heal,” Westwood explained. “After being killed, an undead is left incapacitated.”

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“But you got Coliaro in the neck, and he got you in the chest, and you were both fine.” Westwood raised a dismissive hand in the air. “Those were just flesh wounds. To hurt an undead, you need to make it messy. Get the internal organs mixed up, take off a few limbs. A simple slash to a vein or artery won’t do a damn thing. Usually, if you get ’em good enough, it’ll earn you a few days. Maybe a couple weeks.” He gestured toward Porter. “This one’s still young, so he springs back pretty quick.” He frowned. “Unfortunately.” “So all this time, you two knew each other?” Porter and Westwood glanced at each other. “We go way back,” Westwood said. “He’s a bastard,” Porter said. Riley rubbed his head. “Okay. This is one of two things. Either you guys are part of some sort of weird circus troupe that performs magic tricks, or I’m hallucinating from that drug.” Porter turned to Westwood. “I think he needs a nap.” “I don’t need a fucking nap! What I need is for you guys to cut the bullshit and tell me what’s really going on!” “That’s exactly what we just did,” Westwood said. “Daaaaammiiiiit,” Riley growled. After clutching at his hair in frustration for a good minute, he finally turned back to Porter and Westwood. “All right. Which of you is alive enough to drive me back home?” “You’re not going back home,” Westwood said, a serious glint in his eyes. “Excuse me?” “You’re going to stay here, at least until we have a talk. I can’t trust you to not go meddling in my business. Coliaro and his followers are my concern, not yours, and all you’ve been doing is setting me back. Do you realize your posing for Coliaro’s painting pretty much guarantees we’ll have another murder? And then you go over to his house for dinner! He’s had a thing for you ever since you posed for him, and you’ve been playing along just to get information out of him. How did you not see that backfiring?”

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“I wasn’t playing along with anything! I made my intentions clear to him from the start. I told him I just wanted to talk.” “Over dinner.” He gestured. “Wearing that.” Self-consciously, Riley looked down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with this?” Westwood took a step forward, and despite himself, Riley drew back. The man’s presence was so overpowering, so potent and unpredictable. Westwood lowered his voice, a slight smirk on his face. “It seems to me, Burke, that you’ve got a thing for dangerous men.” Riley opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn’t deny the rush that ran through his body as he saw Westwood approach him. Finally, he folded his arms. “I didn’t have a thing for Coliaro. All I wanted was information. And I’ve never been involved with any other dangerous men.” “I don’t know, your boyfriend seems to be on the jealous side.” “He’s not jealous; he’s just—” His eyes widened. “Wait. How do you know about Nick?” Westwood gave him that same cocky smirk. A vague memory surfaced in Riley’s mind of a brown and white Fleetwood reflected in his car’s mirrors. “You followed me to the airport. You were watching us.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you go anywhere near Nick….” “If I choose to go after him, there’s really nothing you can do to stop me. But don’t worry; he’s human. I have no reason to hurt him— unless he starts getting in the way. No, Riley, I’m much more concerned about you. You’re the one who seems determined to worm your way into the world of the undead.” “What do you care if I do?” Riley asked. “What are you trying to hide?” “I’m not trying to hide anything. But I have a job to do, and I don’t need humans interfering.” “A job?” Porter was leaning back against the wall, picking at his cuticles. Without looking up, he said, “Westwood claims he’s an ‘undercover’ undead. He says he hunts down the undead who hurt humans.”

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“Oh? Then what do you do?” Riley asked. “Me? Not much. I paint. I chill. I’ve been trying to get through art school for about two decades now. All I want is a frickin’ BFA. Is that really too much to ask?” “Porter’s just a waste of space,” Westwood said. “At least I’m not a murderer.” “You deserved it. Both times.” “And the others?” Westwood took a step toward Porter, who immediately fell silent. Riley looked back and forth between the two of them, the tension so heavy it was crushing. Satisfied that he’d put Porter in his place, Westwood turned back to Riley. “I’ve been undercover as one of Coliaro’s followers for a year, trying to figure out his weakness. Those idiots at the club told you Coliaro’s too old to be a threat, but they don’t know him. That man is a predator. He sees humans as playthings, and through this play, he’s been behind more than a few ‘accidental’ deaths. “You see, we undead have no reason to fear death. And when you take away a person’s fear of death, they’re left with an existence that’s surprisingly empty. Numb. Pointless, even. Some undead—like Coliaro—are further removed from humanity than others. They don’t get that rush of adrenaline that you humans love so much. They don’t feel excitement the same way you do. They can only feel these things vicariously through you.” He folded his arms. “Coliaro likes to take people to the edge and feed off the pounding of their hearts and the rushing of their blood as they hover between life and death. He claims it makes him more creative.” Riley remembered the way Coliaro had sucked the breath out of him, and a shudder ran down his spine. “To Coliaro, holding down a squirming human is as easy as it would be for you to hold a squirming kitten. And he gets off on the sight of their fear and desperation. He gets off on their blood and their pain and their fragile, breakable bodies. But Coliaro doesn’t always care enough to withdraw. I could tell he was feeding on your life’s breath right before I came into the bedroom. Do you think he would have stopped if I hadn’t knocked?”

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“He wouldn’t have killed me,” Riley said shakily. “What, because he ‘likes’ you? Because you’re ‘his best model’? Don’t be naïve. There have been hundreds more before you.” Riley stared silently at him, struggling to hold back his irritation. Westwood turned to Porter, fixing him with an authoritative eye. “I’d like a moment alone with the boy,” he said. Porter seemed about to argue, but he was clearly intimidated by Westwood’s presence. He glanced at Riley, raising his eyebrows as if to subtly ask if Riley wanted him to stay. It wasn’t until Westwood inched forward threateningly that Porter shot to his feet, stumbling toward the door without further resistance. Westwood caught him by the arm as he passed and said, “Give me your key.” “Why?” Riley saw the slightest twitch in the sinews of Westwood’s hand, and Porter groaned with pain. Holding up a hand in surrender, he dug out the key with the other. Westwood grabbed the key from him and shoved him toward the door, locking it behind him. “That seemed unnecessary,” Riley said. “Did you really think Porter would come back in after you told him not to?” Westwood chuckled softly. Stepping back toward Riley, he said, “I didn’t lock the door to keep him in place.” Riley swallowed, finally understanding. “Oh.” He remembered Westwood’s thumb on his lip, Westwood’s hand grazing his chest. He didn’t know if it had been just a front to keep Coliaro in the dark, or if he’d been taking advantage of Riley’s condition. He met Westwood’s eyes and saw that same predatory glint. Stumbling to his feet, he stepped back on the mattress. It was too soft. He lost his balance and fell against the wall. Westwood stepped forward. He took his time approaching, stretching out each agonizing moment. “Let me clarify something for you. I go after the undead who hurt humans. What I do not do is protect humans from the undead. I have no interest in being a bodyguard or a babysitter. Do you understand that?” He took another step. Riley jumped off the mattress and darted to the side of the room.

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“There are certain things I’ve had to do purely for Coliaro’s benefit,” Westwood continued. “Some cutting, some blood-drinking, some branding. Some things I probably shouldn’t tell you if I don’t want you to pass out again. But I have never before raised a hand to Coliaro in defense of a human.” “That was your choice. I didn’t ask you to help me.” “You would have preferred I went along with Coliaro’s plans? Maybe if you knew exactly what he wanted me to do to you, you’d feel differently.” Westwood continued forward. His gaze slid up and down Riley’s body, and it was eminently clear that the man wanted to do more than just talk about the workings of the undead. When Riley again tried to dash past, the man caught him easily from behind, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. “What are you doing?” Riley gasped. “I want you to listen to me,” Westwood whispered. “Let go.” Westwood’s lips pressed against his ear. “Listen to me.” Riley wriggled weakly, but the man’s grasp didn’t loosen. He felt Westwood’s rock-hard chest sliding against him, and he took in a sharp breath. It felt horrifyingly good to be trapped within Westwood’s arms, and although he attempted to play it cool, his body was in no mood to cooperate. It wasn’t until he finally gave in and fell still that Westwood loosened his grip a bit. Still holding Riley, he continued speaking in a serious tone. “Coliaro is not someone a human should be messing with. I will take care of him myself. You will stay out of my way.” “But what about the murder you said was going to happen? Is Coliaro the one doing it, or is it someone else? Because if it’s someone else—” “I don’t know who’s doing it,” Westwood said. “I know it’s his followers, but Coliaro is very secretive about who his followers are. We don’t know each other; we only know him. But in the end it doesn’t matter. Coliaro is the source. Kill him permanently, and his followers have no reason to perform rituals in his name. I’ve been trying to figure out Coliaro’s weakness for ten years now—nine years assisting in the

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investigation from afar, and one year undercover as a human. If I knew his weakness, I’d be able to kill him permanently. Unearthing that information, unfortunately, is easier said than done. So until I figure it out, I need you to stay out of my way.” “But that murder could happen tomorrow, for all you know! If you don’t know how to prevent it, then I’ll track down his followers and stop them myself.” “You won’t,” Westwood said. “Not if you don’t want me to hurt you.” As if to prove his point, he tightened his grip again, squeezing until Riley gasped. “Who cares if someone gets murdered? It’s just one person. Not a huge loss, in the scheme of things.” “I’m just one person too. Why did you decide to help me?” Westwood didn’t reply right away. After a pause, he ran a hand down Riley’s chest. “You’re indebted to me,” he said. His hand slid under Riley’s shirt. “I want you to remember that.” Riley gasped for breath. He could feel Westwood’s pelvis pressing against him from behind, the man’s telltale hardness poking and prodding insistently. He was terrified—but why did he feel his blood rushing with excitement? And why wasn’t he fighting back? He knew that if he struggled, Westwood would probably grab him tighter, force him to be still. But somehow that didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. Westwood leaned in. His lips brushed Riley’s ear again. “What would your boyfriend say if he saw us together like this?” “I wouldn’t betray Nick,” Riley whispered. “Not for you.” Westwood nipped his ear. “You don’t sound like you mean it.” When Riley remained silent, Westwood turned him around so they were facing each other. Riley’s breath caught when he saw Westwood staring down at him with ravenous, unbridled hunger. Westwood yanked him forward by the collar, almost violently. “If I held you against that wall and fucked you right now, do you think Porter would hear us?” Riley opened his mouth, hoping a smart remark would magically emerge, but instead all that came out was an embarrassingly revealing moan. There was no hiding his desire from Westwood, no matter how hard he tried to focus his thoughts on Nick. He stared wide-eyed at the

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man before him, knowing full well who was in control but having no idea of Westwood’s next move. He imagined how it might feel to be pinned beneath Westwood’s massive body, at his mercy. He wondered how rough Westwood would be with him, and a rush of anticipation coursed through his chest. Westwood leaned in close enough for his breath to brush Riley’s lips. Riley closed his eyes and reflexively parted his lips, but Westwood suddenly pulled back. He released Riley, raising both his hands in the air and stepping back. “In time, I’ll collect on our debt. But right now, your dear Nick is probably waiting for you, worried out of his mind.” He headed across the room, giving Riley a sideways glance as he slid the key into the lock and opened the door for him. “You’re free to go.” Without a word, Riley left. He felt an odd ache in his chest and wondered why. It wasn’t until he reached the bottom of the stairs that he realized it was disappointment.

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PORTER had driven Riley’s car to his hideout in Tampa, which meant that, thankfully, Riley didn’t have to return to Coliaro’s mansion in St. Petersburg to retrieve it. Riley was still unsteady on his feet, so Porter insisted on driving him back to Siesta Key himself. He pulled into the driveway outside the town house and fell still, his hand clutching Riley’s steering wheel and his foot resting on the brake. Barely visible at the end of the block was Westwood’s Cadillac; he was Porter’s ride back to Tampa. Apparently, Porter wasn’t thrilled about the arrangement. “You going to be okay?” he asked Riley, clearly stalling for time. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to be okay?” Reluctantly, Porter shifted into park. Then he pulled a pen from his pocket, grabbing Riley’s hand impulsively and scribbling something on his palm. “That’s my number. Do me a favor. Call me tomorrow. Just… check and make sure I’m still alive.” “And if you’re not?” “I don’t know. Wait a week; then send a bouquet to my house. It’s always nice getting flowers when you die.” With a hokey salute, Porter jumped out of the car, heading down the street on foot. Riley watched, waiting until he got into Westwood’s car before retreating into the house. Nick was in bed. When he felt Riley crawling in after him, he groaned, rolling over and running a hand down Riley’s arm. “Where were you? It’s late.” “I had a quick drink with a few students after the session.” Riley was pleasantly surprised at how smoothly the lie came out.

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“Hm. You should have called.” Nick’s head rolled back. He’d fallen asleep once again. Riley succumbed to sleep without a problem. He was exhausted, and surely the drug Coliaro had given him was still working its way out of his system. But falling asleep quickly was not the same as falling asleep soundly, as he soon discovered. Memories of Coliaro with a knife stuck in his throat invaded his dreams. Memories of Porter, hands and heart removed. And Westwood. Westwood’s chiseled body pressed against his back. Westwood, whispering in his ear. He awoke before six in the morning, his arousal so strong it was painful. He wished Nick were awake to take care of him, but the prospect of imagining Westwood while gazing into Nick’s eyes didn’t feel right. He retreated to the bathroom to relieve the tension. Careful not to wake Nick, he headed downstairs. He couldn’t remember where he’d left his cell phone. He found it in the dish rack. He must have been more out of it than he realized the night before. Flipping it open, he found a new message from his sister. “Riley, hey,” Alanna’s voice began. It sounded like she was about to break some sort of bad news, and he braced himself. “I talked to Angela about flying down to Florida in January. She can’t make it. And I just asked my boss; he said we have clients coming in that day, and we have to take them out to dinner. If I’m not there, I’ll be on his chopping block for sure. Maybe we can do it the weekend before. Or the weekend after. Let me know what you think.” Riley slapped the phone shut without waiting for her to say goodbye. Why was he the only person who cared about the day Andrew died? To everyone else, it was unimportant enough that they could move it around to any day they chose. But Andrew had died on January 16. That was the day. That was the day Riley came home and saw him swaying in the wind. Fighting back the hollow ache in his throat, he headed across the kitchen and into the living room. At the back of the room was a picture window offering a view of the backyard. The yard was lined with palm trees and red cedars and various tropical bushes he couldn’t name. It was a relatively bare, nondescript yard, unlike the garden his mother

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used to keep back at their old Chicago house. They had wildflowers there, black-eyed Susans, chrysanthemums, rosebushes, lilies. And the apple tree that fed the squirrels and rabbits that came to their yard to find shelter. The apple tree.

SEVERAL days passed, with no word from Porter or Westwood. Riley didn’t call to check on Porter as promised. He didn’t have the energy to worry about Coliaro or monsters or the undead. A sort of darkness had settled over his mind. He missed a few days of work. There was no reason. He just didn’t want to go. Instead he sat at home, staring blankly at his computer screen, refreshing his e-mail every five minutes even though he wasn’t expecting any correspondence. He finally made it back to work on Thursday, but he didn’t have it in him to come up with interesting and dynamic poses. He felt like a mannequin as he stood on the platform in front of the class. At first he refused to admit to himself why he was so depressed, but in the back of his mind he knew he was thinking about Andrew— about how Andrew had been doing worse than ever for almost a month before he finally committed suicide. About how he’d asked Andrew if he was okay and believed him when he’d said yes. He hadn’t returned Alanna’s call, either. It just didn’t feel like she gave a damn either way. He was sitting at the picture window, staring out into the yard, when Nick came home from work. He was carrying a bag of takeout from the nearby Chinese restaurant, aptly named “Chinese Restaurant.” Didn’t he know by now that Riley couldn’t stand Chinese food? “Ready to eat?” Nick called from the front hall. They sat together at the dining table. Nick told a story about one of the partners in his firm, a woman named Morgan Ryne, who was constantly asked for coffee by clients who thought she was a secretary. Riley was only half listening as he picked at the salty noodles on his plate. No MSG, my ass, he thought.

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“So what about you?” Nick asked as he speared a piece of General Tso’s chicken. Riley stared down at the chicken on his own plate. He tried to cut a piece in half, but it clung together by rubbery tendons. He frowned. “You’re not eating again.” As he continued to pick at his food, he said out of the blue, “I kind of want to plant an apple tree in the backyard.” Nick furrowed his eyebrows. “Come again?” “An apple tree. I thought we could put one in the backyard.” “Baby, I don’t think you can grow apple trees in Florida.” “You can. I read up on it. There are some kinds that you can grow, but they have a chill period, so you need to plant them before it gets too hot.” He bit his lip. “I wanted to plant one in January. MidJanuary. The sixteenth.” “You know I have landscapers to take care of the yard. You don’t need to go planting things yourself.” “But I’d rather do it myself.” “Even so….” Nick took a moment, trying to phrase his thoughts. “I don’t know if I want any extra stuff out there. Everything I put in is native to Florida, and it cost a fortune to get it all perfect. I don’t want something that’ll bring down the property value, especially if the apple tree turns out to be a dud.” Riley’s breath quickened. He stared intensely down at his plate. “Baby?” “Is that a no? Are you just… saying no?” “I don’t know what you mean.” “You tell me not to worry about money, that I don’t have to chip in on the mortgage, but I do it anyway. And somehow I still end up feeling like I’m a guest in this house.” “Riley, where is this coming from?” Nick reached across the table, trying to grab his hand, but Riley pulled away.

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“All I want is a fucking apple tree!” he cried, startled at the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t meant to yell. The words echoed off the walls for what felt like an hour. “But why?” Nick asked at last. “Why do you need that? I don’t think it’d fit with the house, but if you have a good reason—” “Why do I need a reason?” Riley demanded. “Why do I need a reason if I’m really a part of this household? If I’m really half of this partnership, and not just an acquaintance?” Nick’s nostrils flared. Despite his obvious attempt at keeping himself under control, he couldn’t hold back the bite in his tone. “I’ve never treated you like you were just an acquaintance. But when we’re in bed together, I don’t know if I can say the same thing of you.” Riley narrowed his eyes, and the words spilled out of his mouth. “Are you saying I can’t have an apple tree because I won’t let you fuck me?” “Goddammit, Riley! That’s not what I said at all. Don’t twist my words!” “Oh, don’t give me that. You’re saying no to me, and you don’t even have the balls to be honest about why!” “You want to talk about honest?” Nick’s eyes were dangerous. “There was a message on the answering machine yesterday. It seems the famous artist Coliaro wanted to apologize to you over something that happened at his house last Sunday night. The Sunday when you were supposedly working for that FSC club.” Riley felt his ears going hot. His hands began to sweat. Dread filled his chest. Nick’s face was hard. It seemed he was trying his best to remain civil, but the hurt and betrayal showed through his words. “You lied to me. You know I respect Coliaro, so I have to wonder why you wouldn’t have been upfront and told me you were going to see him.” “You think I’m cheating on you with Coliaro?” Riley asked incredulously. “If you can’t give me any other explanation, then what am I supposed to think?”

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“After what happened with the painting, I knew you’d say that spending time with Coliaro was unsafe.” Nick frowned, considering Riley’s words. “You’re right. I probably would have. But being your boyfriend, I’d think my opinion should count for something.” “It’s not up to you to tell me who I can and can’t spend time with.” “I’m not telling you; I’m asking you! Damn it, I’m worried about you! You don’t seem to realize that you can be in danger, that you can get seriously hurt, if not killed.” Riley wadded up his napkin. He clenched his jaw so tight it ached. After a long pause, he looked up coldly at Nick. “So that’s a no on the apple tree?” “Riley….” Riley threw his napkin onto the table, then shot out of his chair and charged out the door.

“HEY, buddy!” Porter said upon opening the front door. Riley stood waiting on the threshold. He was shocked that he’d even managed to find his way back to Porter’s hideout at the abandoned house, but somehow he’d arrived without having made a single wrong turn. As he drove toward Tampa, he’d considered taking a detour to Mr. Tobias’s house. That would have been a very pointed way of getting back at Nick. But he’d thought better of it, knowing that the last thing he needed was more awkwardness at work. Struck again by the fact that he didn’t have any local friends, the only person he could think to go to was Porter. He didn’t want to stay home that night. He needed a change of scenery, even if just for a little while. And despite his newly revealed identity as undead, Porter somehow felt like the safest option. “Can I come in?”

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“Um, sure.” Porter glanced over his shoulder. “The attic is really the only habitable place right now. It’s still kind of a mess up there, but if you don’t mind….” “I don’t mind.” Porter stepped aside, allowing Riley to enter. As they walked, Porter said, “Once I get some decent lighting, do you think maybe sometime you could pose for me? I really miss taking that painting class.” Riley grimaced. “I think I’m done with private sessions for a while.” “Aw, come on. You know me! I won’t try to drink your blood or anything!” With an unintentional chuckle, Riley said, “Fine, maybe.” The attic was indeed still filthy, but Porter had gotten sheets for his mattress, and there were even a few cheap plywood tables and a couple of metal folding chairs for seating. In the corner was a sparkling new minifridge. “It’s not the best,” Porter said apologetically. “Through some weird glitch I get electricity, but there’s no running water. I had to get a gym membership just so I’d be able to take a shower every day.” Porter took a seat on his mattress, propping himself up against his new pillows. Riley sank down into one of the folding chairs, his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and staring at the floor. After Porter eyed him with concern for a couple of minutes, Riley finally cleared his throat. “This is going to sound stupid, but… I had a fight with my boyfriend today.” “About Coliaro?” “Kind of. That was a small part of it. The thing is, I want to put an apple tree in the backyard, and Nick doesn’t want one.” Porter waited for him to continue. When he said nothing else, Porter tilted his head in confusion. “That was your big fight?” “When I was a teenager, my brother hanged himself from our apple tree. I know it’s weird, and I know it’s kind of morbid, but the tenth anniversary of his death is in January, and I want to plant an apple tree for him.”

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“So you explained this to Nick, and he wouldn’t let you do it?” “Well….” “You didn’t explain it to Nick?” Riley shrugged. Porter rolled his eyes, leaning back against the pillows. “Way to sabotage your relationship, dude.” “I didn’t sabotage anything.” “Well, tell me this,” Porter said. “What’s your biggest complaint about your boyfriend?” Riley sputtered, then shrugged again. “I don’t really have any ‘complaints’. I guess he can get a little jealous sometimes. And I wish he’d be a little more adventurous—you know, with the sex stuff. One time I tried to give him head, and he got all bent out of shape because we were in the kitchen. It’s been four years, and we’ve only ever done it in the bedroom.” “That bastard,” Porter gasped with mock horror. “Oh, whatever! What makes you such an expert, anyway?” With a dismissive shake of the head, Porter said, “Hey, I get it. You’re trying to tank your relationship because you want out. Some people just aren’t built for anything serious. I guess I could always tell you were one of those people.” “How am I one of those people?” “Well, no offense, Riley—I know you act all innocent, but you’re kind of a whore.” Riley blinked, not sure if he’d heard Porter correctly. It seemed he had heard correctly, but Porter didn’t think his words were that big a deal. His smile was playful, as if he were half-joking. “What are you talking about?” Riley asked. “Well, let’s see. You’ve been with your boyfriend for four years, but don’t even try to pretend that you never had a thing going with Mr. Tobias. Then the last time I saw you, you were half-naked in Coliaro’s bed. And now, this thing with Westwood.”

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“Whoa, wait a second,” Riley cut in. “There’s no ‘thing’ with Westwood.” Imitating a low, sultry voice, Porter said, “‘I’d like a moment alone with the boy’.” “That was nothing!” Riley said. “All he did was threaten me and tell me to stay out of his business.” “If you say so,” Porter said doubtfully. “Listen, I know the guy. I know him very well. And I don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth. You should remember that.” “Why do you hate him so much?” “You’ve met him. Do you really need to ask?” When Riley still didn’t look convinced, Porter said, “It’s hard to like a guy after he’s cut your heart out of your chest.” “Good point,” Riley said. “He’s brutal, man. If he goes after you, he doesn’t just kill you. He butchers you. No mercy, no remorse.” “He said he only goes after the undead.” “And I don’t trust a word that comes out of his mouth.” Riley frowned, unconvinced. “Listen,” Porter said reluctantly. “Some people, like me, for example, automatically adjust to being undead. I lead a normal life. I coexist with humans. But then there are people like Coliaro who lose a part of themselves when they come back. They forget stuff like respect and love and kindness and all that other junk. All they want to do is chase that elusive rush of adrenaline they used to have, and if attacking a human will give them that rush, that’s what they do. They basically have to learn how to be human all over again—that is, if humanity is even something that interests them anymore.” He lowered his gaze abruptly, turning away from Riley. “Westwood falls into that second category.” Porter stopped talking, and Riley wondered if he’d reached the end of his story. But then he sucked in a shaky breath and continued. “Being around Westwood is like keeping a pet tiger. He’s perfectly tame until he gets angry or hungry. To be fair, I think he’s improved.

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He’s definitely not as bad as he used to be.” He swallowed. “But he’s nowhere near safe yet.” “How bad was he before?” “Does it matter?” Riley pulled back, startled by Porter’s intensity. It was something he’d never seen in the young man before. Riley had been under the impression that Porter and Westwood at least tolerated each other, but what he felt from Porter now was nothing short of abhorrence. Clearly, a change of subject was in order. “Do you know anything about the other people who worship Coliaro?” Riley asked. “Huh?” “I know Westwood says he wants to kill Coliaro, but I think we need to be going after his followers, the people who are actually committing the murders.” “Dude, there’s no ‘we’. If Westwood told you to stay out of it, I strongly recommend that you listen to him.” “Has he told you to stay out of it?” “Yes.” “And are you staying out of it?” “I was. I had every intention of minding my own business until you dragged me back in.” He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. “I need a break from this, man. I think I might take a trip up north. Check out the Chicago College of Art and Design. You know, Coliaro taught there about thirty years ago. I’ve already died at Pratt and RISD. I’m running out of good schools to choose from.” “Damn, how many times have you died?” “Just those three. And the one at RISD was an actual death. My first time.” “How sweet,” Riley said. “Porter, listen. I really want to find out more about the undead, and you’re the only one who’ll talk to me. Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?”

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Porter seemed to consider his options before finally taking pity on Riley. “I only know the basics. For instance, I know people worship the undead because the undead are stronger than they are. If they perform some sort of ritual for the undead, that ritual will make the undead stronger, and the undead will return the favor by giving some of that strength to his followers. It’s a pretty nifty arrangement.” “So you have people worshipping you?” “Ha, I wish!” Porter met Riley’s eyes, suddenly serious. “Unfortunately, most humans don’t have any interest in the ‘peaceful’ undead.” “Do you know anything about Coliaro’s ritual?” “Only what Westwood’s told me,” Porter said. “Every time Coliaro paints a picture, it drains him. This is why his followers have to make offerings for him. Otherwise Coliaro would be too weak for them to reap any rewards from him. Whoever is channeling Coliaro has to create a painting with their blood. They have to take it from their chest and their wrists. That’s what makes the image on Coliaro’s painting change from being a regular nude to a guy with his heart and hands taken out. Then they make their offering: the heart and hands of a human. They say Coliaro puts his heart into every painting, and that’s why they offer the heart. The hands are given in order to honor his artistic ability.” “But what do they gain by doing this?” “There’s one thing that you’ll get regardless of who you’re worshipping, and that’s strength. You must have noticed by now how strong Westwood is. He grabs you, and there’s no getting away. Aside from that, you’ll regenerate much quicker. Wounds heal faster; bodies age slower. As for Coliaro in particular, you’ll also gain some of his artistic ability and some of the wisdom he’s developed over the years. And I hear he makes you a demon in bed. Honestly, I think that’s why most of his worshippers stick around.” “Westwood says he wants to kill Coliaro ‘for good’. If he does that, then what happens to his followers?” “Nothing horrible. They’d become like the rest of you. Most of them would probably just go and find someone else to worship.”

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“See, that’s why I think the followers are the ones we should be hunting down! Westwood says that the murders will stop if Coliaro is killed, but if these people are just going to worship someone else, then it doesn’t stop anything. They might even move on to someone worse.” “Calm down, man. You’re turning red.” “And how do you even kill an undead ‘for good’?” “Again, it depends on the undead. Everyone is different. And the undead will do whatever it takes to keep their personal weakness a secret.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had a suspicion about Westwood’s weakness for a little while now. I’ve been itching to try it out on him.” Riley didn’t ask, but Porter was too excited about his theory to keep silent. “One time when we were fighting, things got out of hand and he bit me. He got really sick after. I think there’s something about my blood that doesn’t agree with him.” Suddenly he got up, pulling open a rackety chest of drawers and fishing around inside. He retrieved a tiny bottle that read “refined linseed oil,” though whatever was inside it was red. Porter tossed it to Riley, who caught it and lifted it up to look inside. “That’s my blood,” Porter said nonchalantly. Riley nearly threw the bottle back at him. “I think you should hang onto it. You know, just in case. I don’t think that’s enough to kill him, but if something happens, it should put him out of commission long enough for you to get yourself to safety.” “I don’t think I need this,” Riley said. “So you’re saying you trust Westwood?” Riley swallowed. He knew the answer to Porter’s question. But he couldn’t bring himself to hold onto the bottle. Resolutely, he set it back down on the table. “I don’t need it.”

PORTER and Riley shared the mattress that night. To Riley’s relief, Porter’s behavior was perfectly platonic. He did, however, sleep much more restlessly than Riley expected, and he managed to land a few well-placed kicks to Riley’s shins several times during the night. They shared a single musty sheet that felt about the size of a beach towel, and

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Porter seemed determined to yank it out of Riley’s grasp at every opportunity. At two in the morning, Porter rolled onto his back, falling still for the first time all night. But he wasn’t asleep. After a pause, he said toward the ceiling, “Riley?” “Mmm…. What?” “Why did your brother kill himself?” Riley opened his eyes. He turned his head, staring at Porter’s black silhouette, studying the edge of his straight Roman nose as he tried to make sense of the question. “Why are you asking?” “I just want to know.” Riley watched Porter’s Adam’s apple rise and fall with a hard swallow. “When I was human, I wanted to stay alive so bad I would have done anything. I begged for my life that day. I begged like you wouldn’t believe.” Another pause. “I just can’t imagine why someone would actually choose to die.” Riley frowned. He didn’t want to answer Porter’s question. It was a question he’d put off answering for ten years. “I don’t know why he killed himself. There were probably lots of reasons. He was depressed. He didn’t get along with our parents.” Porter didn’t reply at first. It seemed he wasn’t convinced and expected Riley to say more. At last giving up, he rolled onto his side, facing the wall. “He must have been messed up in the head.” “Yeah. You’re probably right.” Riley listened as Porter’s breaths evened out. They gradually grew slower and softer and more rhythmic. Riley watched his bony back expand and contract with each breath. It wasn’t until he was pretty sure Porter was asleep that he suddenly whispered, “I never told him I was gay.” He waited for a response, but Porter didn’t move. His breaths didn’t change. “After he came out, he had no one. I knew I was the same as him, but I let him think he was alone.” He held back a shudder, and when he pulled the threadbare blanket tight around his shoulders, Porter didn’t tug back. “If he knew, he might’ve…. Things might’ve been different.”

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Porter’s back rose and fell with another breath.

AT

ABOUT four in the morning, Riley was vaguely aware of Porter

sitting up, rubbing his head before climbing over him and off the mattress. He disappeared, not returning until after seven. “Where were you?” Riley asked when Porter stumbled back in through the door. “I had a bad feeling last night,” Porter told him. “Had a really weird dream. So I took a drive down to the beach. And I was about to sit on a bench, but then I saw something.” Somehow, Riley knew that Porter’s next words would be anything but comforting. “There was a heart. And two hands.” Riley stared at him, short of breath. He couldn’t find his voice. “At first I thought they were mine—you know, from before. But no, the hands were much bigger than mine.” “Did… did you call the police?” Porter shook his head. “I didn’t think it would be the best idea for the dead Prestwick student to call in a crime. Unfortunately, some random pedestrian will have to discover them again.” “So do you think…?” He didn’t know why he couldn’t finish a sentence without taking a moment to gasp for breath. “Do you think this is the ritual murder that’s linked to the painting Coliaro did of me?” “It has to be,” Porter said. “It was marked with the number thirteen. Coliaro went up to twelve in his Oscuro Bello series, and there were eleven previous murders—one for each painting except number six.” Something suddenly occurred to Riley. “When I went to that club on Ballard, I talked to a guy named Mikhail. He said there wasn’t anyone besides Westwood who worshipped Coliaro.” “I know there are more people,” Porter said. “I’m guessing there’s one or two people who handle the murders, and the rest just sit

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back and reap the rewards. But either way, it seems none of them happen to frequent that particular club.” “But someone at the club has to know who else is out there worshipping him.” “Oooh, no,” Porter said with dread. “I can see the little light bulb going on in your head. Turn it off, man! You’re not going back to that club.” “Someone just died!” “And the police will investigate.” “Did the police solve any of the previous murders that were linked to Coliaro’s paintings?” Porter didn’t reply.

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Chapter 9

RILEY snuck back into the house for a quick shower and shave before heading to the school for work. Nick had already left, sparing Riley an awkward confrontation. He was glad. Part of him was still pissed off, but part of him was embarrassed after his conversation with Porter. He wasn’t sure which part would have won if he’d had to face Nick that morning. He was startled by his reflection in the mirror. It hadn’t been such a long time since he’d begun skipping meals. He didn’t expect his face to appear thinner already. Cursing his pronounced cheekbones, he finished his morning routine and headed into his room to put on his clothes. As he was dressing, a buzz from the nightstand drew his attention. He reached for his cell phone and glanced at the number on the screen. He didn’t recognize it off the top of his head, but knowing it could be a potential client, he didn’t hesitate to answer it. “Riley Burke,” he said into the speaker. “Riley, my dear. It’s so good to hear your voice.” Riley felt his ears burn and his heart quicken. “Coliaro,” he said. “You sound surprised,” Coliaro replied. “Did you not get my previous message? I’ve been alive for a few days now, but only today do I feel strong again. It would appear one of my servants has made me an offering.” He paused. “Do you know what I’m talking about? Did Westwood explain it to you?” “Why are you calling me?” Riley demanded. “I thought you might want to come over. We were so rudely interrupted the last time you were here.” “You’re joking, right?”

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“Why would I be joking? It’s no secret that I’m fond of you. And I was under the impression you enjoyed my company as well.” “I don’t enjoy being drugged or cut or suffocated,” Riley said. “Hmm. You see, I don’t remember it happening that way. I remember you coming to my house and threatening to tell the police that I assaulted you if I didn’t pay you off. At least those are the events as your school’s administration will hear it.” Riley felt his chest deflating like a balloon. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I’m a lot more influential at your school than you might think. I could schedule a meeting with the dean and tell her all about your little scheme. They might have second thoughts about using your services.” “So you’re blackmailing me?” Riley asked, dumbfounded. “Why? What did I do to you?” “Nothing, my dear. You’ve been a delight. I just want to make sure you stay that way.” There was a brief pause, in which Riley imagined Coliaro taking a sinister sip from a wine glass. “It’s not easy for the undead to stay out of trouble. Living for centuries on end without drawing attention to one’s eternal youth is a challenging craft to master. I don’t want you or anyone else to jeopardize my condition.” “You’re asking me to ignore twelve murders. I know something about those murders that the police don’t. I know your followers are behind them. How do you expect me to live with myself if I keep my mouth shut? Someone out there is killing people!” “You humans take your mortality so seriously.” Riley had no reply other than his fuming breaths. “In any case, I’m just asking you to play nicely. You do that for me, and I’ll do the same for you. Cross me, and things will become very unpleasant for you. I know you don’t make enough money from your illustration work to make ends meet. You told me as much over dinner.” “I can survive without that job. I live with my boyfriend. He makes more than enough for the two of us.” “That’s assuming I leave him untouched as well.”

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The blood drained from Riley’s face. “Now if you will excuse me,” Coliaro continued, “I’d like to see if I can track down our friend Westwood. It seems he and I need to have a little chat as well.” Coliaro seemed about to hang up, but then he abruptly said, “Oh, and on a side note, I’d still like to paint you again.” The line went dead. Frowning, Riley flipped his phone shut and shoved it into his pocket. It wasn’t until he’d finished dressing that he realized how his insides were burning with fury. He hadn’t necessarily planned to do anything about the heart and hands that were found at the beach, but now he suddenly itched to fight back. He wouldn’t let Coliaro dictate what he could and could not do. And with his rudimentary knowledge of the undead, he knew he could potentially track down a lead that the police would not have on their radar. After work, he’d do some investigating.

THE painting studio was still blocked off, so the classes that normally took place there were relocated to the sculpture studio. This room was a good deal colder than the painting studio, and there was plaster dust all over the floor. In the studio was an incredibly lifelike sculpted bust, which Riley immediately recognized as Porter’s self-portrait. There was a plaque at the bottom with Porter’s name, date of birth, and date of death. It seemed the students had kept his final sculpture in his remembrance. As he stood examining the room, Mr. Tobias approached him. He leaned in close, and Riley fell back against the table. At first he thought the teacher’s body language had gone a bit beyond academic, but Mr. Tobias was only reaching for a roll of masking tape on the table behind him. After withdrawing, he laid a hand on Riley’s shoulder and whispered, “Did you hear about the incident at the beach?” Although he obviously had, Riley shook his head. He wanted to hear what Mr. Tobias knew.

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“They found a heart and hands on one of the benches.” He paused. “I kind of wonder if they might turn out to be Porter’s.” Unwittingly, Riley sucked in a shaky breath, pulling away from the instructor. “I don’t know.” “You really didn’t hear anything?” Mr. Tobias asked. “I thought maybe someone would have already told you.” Before Riley could think of a reply, the piercing-adorned girl named Seana approached to ask her instructor a question. Riley nearly jumped. He’d never seen her so close up before; she looked like she’d been attacked by a psychopath with a nail gun. While Mr. Tobias was distracted, Riley used the opportunity to retreat into his changing room. As Riley posed for the class, Mr. Tobias took a position behind one of the easels and painted along with the rest of the students. He always alternated between making rounds to check on the students’ progress and working on his own painting. For the past few years, he hadn’t been doing his own works in class as much, but he was more likely to whip out his canvas when Riley was the model. Halfway through the pose, they took a break for a critique of the works in progress. Riley sat on the edge of the platform—modestly arranging his robe so he wouldn’t accidentally flash any of the students—and admired their works from afar. He recognized the paltry painting done by the kid named Brandon and cringed as he saw Mr. Tobias walking toward it. However, the instructor passed it by, immediately zeroing in on one of the paintings near the center of the room. It was a pleasant rendering, done in an almost monochromatic blue tone, but with just enough color variation to give it warmth and life. “I don’t recognize the hand behind this work,” Mr. Tobias said. “Whose is this?” Hesitantly, Kevin spoke up. “It’s mine.” “Well. Kevin, I must say you’ve improved quite a bit! I’m impressed.” Kevin smiled, a bit of sorrow in his eyes. He gestured toward the bust at the opposite end of the room. “I think I’m more motivated now. He’s motivated me to be a better artist.” “Understood,” Mr. Tobias commented. “Well done, Kevin.”

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On his way back to the other end of the critique wall, he stopped at Brandon’s painting. Turning to the kid in the front row, he said, “Brandon, you’re graduating in one more semester. You want my advice?” “Yes, Mr. Tobias?” “Get married.”

RILEY went straight from his evening class to the club on Ballard. This time, when asked who had sent him, he gave Mikhail’s name. He found the lank-haired man at the bar again, practically suckling on his nicotine gum as if hoping it would release some smoke into his mouth. When Riley took a seat next to him, he raised an eyebrow. “You again. I didn’t think you’d come back after you missed the last initiation.” “I had second thoughts,” Riley told him. “I was still clinging to Coliaro. But I think now I’m ready to look into Quinn.” “Well, you have good timing. We’re going to have another initiation tonight. Nine o’clock. If you can wait a couple hours, I’ll get you in. It’s Room 406.” “That sounds great!” Riley replied. He spent the two hours waiting awkwardly at the bar, the subject of a constant evil eye from the bartender, who was miffed that he wasn’t ordering any drinks. After about an hour, the blond woman who’d let him in the previous time came in, taking the seat that Mikhail had vacated. “So the little schoolboy has returned,” she mused, a crooked smile on her face. “We’re going to have to open up a junior department if our members keep bringing in their children.” “What’s your problem with me, anyway?” Riley asked. “I just don’t think you’re serious. I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.” “I know what I’m getting myself into,” Riley said heatedly. “You hear about the heart and hands down by the beach?” “What, Coliaro’s minions?” She laughed. “If you were the one who did that, you’d look a hell of a lot stronger than you do.”

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Riley frowned, glancing down at his muscles. What was it with these people who kept telling him he was weak and feeble? Folding his arms, he said, “Everyone tells me Coliaro’s drained. Maybe he just doesn’t have anything left to give.” “See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She nodded to the bartender, who slid a fruity martini down the bar toward her. Riley had never seen anyone shoot a martini down a bar before, and he was impressed that it didn’t spill. “Everyone’s abandoned Coliaro because he’s so old. But that means whatever strength he has left is divided among a much smaller, more dedicated group of people. So they each get a lot more of his power than they would if there were a hundred people who only occasionally worshipped him but continued to absorb his powers.” “But Mikhail told me….” “Mikhail has no idea what’s going on outside his own circle.” “He invited me to Quinn’s initiation.” The woman smiled. Riley couldn’t read her smile. “Is that so?” After she’d lingered at the bar for several minutes, drinking her martini, Riley finally gained the nerve to speak again. He cleared his throat. “I meant to ask—who’s your liege?” The woman downed the remains of her martini in one gulp and set the glass back on the bar. She shook the hair off her shoulders. Then, getting up from her seat, she said, “I am the liege.” She turned away, disappearing into the smoke and out the door of the bar.

IT WAS fifteen minutes before the start of the initiation when another man slid onto the barstool beside Riley. “A screwdriver for the kid,” he said. Startled, Riley turned. He nearly fell out of his seat. “Westwood!” Westwood smiled down at him, propping his elbows on the bar. “I’m starting to wonder if you’re hard of hearing,” he said in a tone so friendly it gave Riley chills. “Otherwise, why else would you have come back here after I specifically told you to stay away?” “H-how did you know I was here?”

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“You’re a very simple creature. I assumed that after you got word of the heart and hands at the beach, you’d come back here looking for more answers. You’re predictable.” “Well,” Riley said, “it just so happens I’m not here about Coliaro. I’m here to be initiated into Quinn’s circle.” Westwood sputtered, then cackled so loud that the bartender raised an eyebrow. “Kid, you’re not cut out for Quinn’s group.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re not going into that room. You’re going to get out of here and go home to your precious Nick.” “And if I don’t?” Westwood gave him a smirk. “Then I may just have to take you out of here myself.” A shiver ran down Riley’s spine as he caught a glimpse of Westwood’s hand. Knuckles like small rocks. Pronounced veins. Noticing his gaze, Westwood caught his eye. “You just can’t seem to keep yourself out of trouble. It’s like you want to get caught.” “I’m doing what I think is right.” “Is that so? Because I think maybe you have a death wish.” He leaned in closer. “Are you going to leave willingly, or will I have to persuade you?” “I need to know who left that heart and hands at the beach,” Riley told him. “You said it yourself, they got killed because I posed for Coliaro.” “So you’re doing this out of guilt.” “I’m doing this because, unlike you, I care when a person dies.” Westwood’s gaze went hot with fury. He gritted his teeth, pausing for a moment before turning back to Riley. He nodded toward Riley’s drink. “Finish that. Then we’re leaving.” Riley didn’t want the drink, but he took it anyway. It was the only way he could think of to stall for time. He took deliberate, excruciatingly slow sips, smirking inwardly as he saw Westwood’s jaw clench in frustration. The clock ticked. One minute to Quinn’s initiation.

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As Riley downed the last sip of the screwdriver, he glanced quickly around the room. There had to be a way to get past Westwood. No, there really wasn’t. But he wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t at least try. The second he set down his glass, he darted out of his stool and tried for a mad dash toward the door. He barely made it two steps before Westwood caught him with an arm around his waist. “Nice try,” he laughed, pulling Riley close. He lowered his face into his hair, inhaling deeply. “Hmm. Coconut?” Riley gave a disgruntled thrash, and surprisingly, Westwood let him go. But after Westwood climbed out of his own seat, he stood beside Riley, laying a threatening hand on the small of his back. “Walk with me,” he commanded. He led Riley into the back parking lot, toward a lone car at the far end. The Fleetwood. It was as shiny and rust-free as if it were new, and with an inward chuckle, Riley wondered if the car was undead just like its owner. Westwood walked Riley all the way up to the passenger side door. “Get in. I’ll drive you back to your car.” Porter’s warning surfaced in his mind. Westwood was tame as long as he wasn’t angry or hungry, so to speak. He tried to judge the man’s mood, but he couldn’t tell if that moment of smoldering anger he’d sensed at the bar still lingered. Knowing he had no choice, Riley slid into the seat. Westwood closed the door behind him, circling around to the driver’s side. He glanced at Riley out of the corner of his eye. In a split second Westwood lunged, leaning over him, arms at either side of his head. Riley cried out, falling back into the corner between his seat and the door. His chest heaved as he stared up at the undead man. Westwood towered over him. He was backlit, a black shadowy figure looming above him. Westwood reached out, grabbing the door handle and opening the door a crack before closing it again. “Your seatbelt was stuck,” he said, a teasing smile on his face. Withdrawing, he settled back into his own seat and shifted the car into drive.

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WHEN Riley returned home, Nick was still at work. Exhausted, he settled in on the couch and let himself drift into sleep. By the time he awoke, it was the next morning, and there was a gentle hand running over his head. Slowly, his eyes stinging from lack of sleep, he managed to crack them open and look up. “Baby,” Nick whispered. “I missed you.” Seeing the gentle, forgiving look on Nick’s face, Riley blushed. He suddenly felt extremely embarrassed for his behavior during their last dinner together. Resting his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment before building up the courage to meet Nick’s gaze. “I’m sorry for storming out,” he whispered at last. “I’ve been thinking about that apple tree,” Nick said. “Let me do a little research, okay? And then we can talk about it. Maybe figure out a good place to put it.” “Really?” Riley asked, his voice catching. “Of course. This is our house. Together.” Riley felt even sillier when he realized tears were welling in his eyes. He reached up, pulling Nick down on top of him and hugging him tight. “I know you must think I’m crazy,” he began, his voice muffled in Nick’s blond locks, “but this really means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.” After they parted, Nick straightened Riley’s bangs across his forehead. “I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re anything less than my partner. And if there’s anything you’re uncomfortable doing, I want you to know I’ll wait as long as it takes—as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” His gaze lowered for a moment as he reached into his pocket. “When you didn’t come home the other night, I was worried you’d left for good. And it got me thinking.” He pulled something out of his pocket, and when Riley saw that it was a ring box, he did not react the way all the TV commercials told him he would. His ears went hot with dread, and he clutched the sofa cushion to steady himself.

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“Now, I don’t want to scare you. I’m not proposing. But I thought it would be good for us to have something tangible for our relationship.” He opened the box. Inside were two gold bands, each inscribed with both sets of their initials. They sat overlapping each other like tiny handcuffs. Riley sputtered, ogling the rings and then looking back up at Nick. “You want me to wear a leash,” he blurted. Nick stared back at him, dumbfounded. “I—what?” Riley had to wonder for a moment if Porter was right. Was he trying to tank his relationship? Westwood’s face came to mind, and he shook his head. He knew the best thing he could do was shut up, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Nick, I don’t want a ring.” “Why not?” “I’m an artist. I work with my hands. A ring would get in the way.” “Don’t lie to me,” Nick said. “Or at least don’t insult me with such a weak lie. You already said it—you think this is a ‘leash’. Is that really the way you see me? The way you see us?” “You’re giving me that ring because you got scared when I left,” Riley said. “Maybe I didn’t phrase it right,” Nick said. “I’m giving you the ring because I want everyone to know I love you.” “So they’d back off?” “Riley.” Nick clutched at his blond locks, as if he were at the end of his rope. “Why are you doing this?” “Doing what?” “You’re trying to pick a fight. I don’t know why, but you’ve been acting strangely for a while now. You’ve been moody ever since that kid at the school died. Has something else happened? Or are you still upset?” “I’m not upset. I just don’t want to wear a ring.” He saw the hurt on Nick’s face, and he struggled to dredge up a bit of empathy. “I love you too. I just don’t think I need a ring to prove it.”

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Nick chewed on his lip. Then he snapped the ring box shut. “Okay,” he said. Riley waited, but Nick didn’t say anything else. He shoved the box in his pocket and turned for the stairs.

“PORTER,” Riley said into the phone. “Remember how you said you’d kill to see the inside of Coliaro’s studio?” It was Monday afternoon, and he was sitting on the bench outside the school’s administration building, watching a lizard do territorial push-ups on the side of a garbage can. He’d just finished his last class of the day, and the sun was beginning to set. There was a tense silence on the other end of the line. Then Porter’s voice said weakly, “What?” “My trip to the club didn’t go as I’d planned. I can’t depend on another chance to go back there. It’s the first thing Westwood would suspect. Plus it seems like you were right; I think no one there worships Coliaro, anyway. But then something occurred to me. If I can’t find more information about Coliaro’s followers, I should go after what I can access. And that’s Coliaro himself. When I was in his studio that day for the private session, I caught a glimpse of the storage area for his paintings. As soon as he realized I was looking in there, he practically jumped me. He told me he’s been painting landscapes for the past five years, but I didn’t see a single landscape in there. All I saw were figures. Why would he lie about that unless he’s hiding something?” “Riley,” Porter said uneasily. “Do you remember what happened the last time you tried to get information out of Coliaro?” “Of course I remember! But I’m not talking about going to Coliaro. I’m talking about going to his studio while he’s not there. Maybe you can help. Maybe you can draw him away from the studio, or at least keep him occupied at his house so he can’t walk in on me while I look around.” “No,” Porter said. “No. No. No, no, no. Westwood would kill me. And Coliaro would kill you.”

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“Not if you help me!” Riley said. “Come on, Porter! The reason why I keep getting caught and turned away is because I’m doing this all by myself. If I had help from someone, maybe it’d be safer.” “You know what would be safer? Not going at all.” “You undead people have no conscience! You don’t care how many people get killed!” “I care if you get killed,” Porter said. “You’re my buddy. Why can’t you get it through your head that people are worried about you? This is like an obsession for you. No matter what anyone says, you just keep running back and getting yourself into trouble. What’s up with you?” Nick’s words from their argument at dinner came back to Riley’s mind, and his indignation grew. “Nothing is up with me. I’m fine. But what other choice do I have? How could I live with myself if someone else dies, if I knew all along that it was going to happen? If there was something I could have done?” There was a long pause on the other line. Then finally— surprisingly—Porter said, “You know… no matter what you do about Coliaro, your brother is already dead. Nothing you do now is going to change that.” Riley felt his chest constricting, his throat aching. “Fuck you, Porter,” he said. Then he pulled the phone away from his ear and tossed it onto the bench.

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Chapter 10

IT WAS Riley’s second time wearing his all-black outfit in only a few months. But thankfully now it was November, and the air had cooled enough that he probably would have chosen long sleeves regardless of the task at hand. He was doing something he never thought he’d resort to doing: kneeling in the bushes. Coliaro’s studio had large windows on every side, but they looked like they were blocked off. He couldn’t tell if the lights were on inside or if the building was occupied. All he knew was there was no car in the driveway. He himself had left his car several blocks away, in the midst of a group of other vehicles parallel-parked outside a nearby movie theater. The studio was within walking distance of Coliaro’s house. Riley couldn’t imagine him taking his car for a visit to his studio. There really was no way to tell if Coliaro was inside. Moreover, assuming the door was locked, he had no idea how he’d manage to get inside. He really hadn’t thought this through very well. On the day that he’d posed for Coliaro, while he was lying on his back in the studio, he remembered seeing a skylight up above. Coliaro surely wouldn’t have any sort of board or curtain blocking off a skylight. All Riley would have to do was get up on the roof and peer inside, and see if there was any hint of light glowing from within. Wow, he thought as he realized how ridiculous he was being. But all the same, it had been a long time since he’d last climbed a tree, and he was kind of in the mood to do it again. There was a large palm butted up against the side of the studio. Crouching low, he dashed out from around the side of the bushes, moving swiftly but quietly toward the tree. Pressing his back against

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the wall of the studio, he looked in both directions. There was no hint of life around him. When he glanced toward the next window, something caught his eye. He hadn’t been able to tell from a distance, but now that he was close, he saw that it was open. The smell of paint thinner wafted out. He wondered if Coliaro was airing out the studio. This lone window was not blocked from the inside, and indeed, the interior was dark. He was kind of disappointed that he wouldn’t have to climb the palm tree after all. He stood still for a moment, waiting to see if there was any hint of movement inside the building. When he was sure there was nothing, he hoisted himself up, vaulting through the window and landing on the other side. His heart pounded; his adrenaline rushed. He knew Coliaro could come to the studio at any moment. Could he risk turning on a light? There was a heavy drape hanging above the one uncovered window. He pulled it down, and it blocked the window completely. Now, if he turned on a light, no one on the outside would be able to tell the difference. He searched the wall until he managed to find a switch. Light flooded the studio, and he heaved a sigh of relief when he saw no sign of Coliaro lurking in any of the corners. A toned canvas sat on the nearby easel, waiting to be painted. It was aimed toward a table, upon which were several pieces of fruit, a vase of flowers, and other standard stock for a still life. Other than that, the studio didn’t look much different from the last time he’d seen it. Knowing better than to push his luck, he visually mapped the path to the storage area before turning the light off once again. He pulled the drape back up, leaving the room exactly as he’d found it. Carefully, he made his way past the canvas and toward the storage room in the back. The door was closed, but thankfully not locked. When he slid inside, he found that the only light was a clip light attached to one of the shelves. He closed the door behind him, turned on the light, and looked around. There had to be hundreds of paintings slid into the vertical shelves. He pulled one out of its slot. Face flushing, he saw it was a

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Chicago cityscape. So much for his assumption that Coliaro was lying about painting landscapes. But as he got further into the studio, he found more figural images. He wondered if they were arranged in chronological order. He could see the evolution of the artist’s style throughout the years. Interestingly, the earliest paintings seemed to have a Northern Renaissance feel to them. Skipping over a chunk, he pulled out a canvas peeking out near the wall. “Huh,” he said out loud. It was a portrait of John Tobias. He remembered Mr. Tobias stating that he and Coliaro were acquaintances, but he hadn’t realized they were close enough for Coliaro to want to paint his portrait. Mr. Tobias looked fairly average— unkempt brown hair receding just a bit, rectangular face, strong brow. The portrayal was so lifelike Riley almost thought he was going to open his mouth and start critiquing all the surrounding paintings. Hastily, he shoved it back into the slot. He was looking for that full-body portrait he’d seen when he posed at the studio before. It wasn’t lying out in plain view anymore, but by pure chance, his eyes happened to fall upon the edge of a frame tucked around the side of the shelves. He pulled it out carefully. The man in the painting looked to be in his twenties. He was fit and healthy, with honey-brown hair, deep-set eyes, and an engaging smile. The painting was old and weathered, and the clothing of the figure suggested something from the mid-1400s. Riley wondered if Coliaro had really been around that long. The face of the young man in the painting was oddly familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It felt like someone he’d seen on campus, but he couldn’t be sure. And there was no reason for a Prestwick student’s face to be on a fifteenth-century man’s body. Pushing the portrait back in its place, Riley continued to explore. As he got near the other end of the storage space, he saw the edge of something small that wasn’t a canvas. He pulled it out. It was a very old handbound sketchbook. He opened it, careful not to tear the delicate pages. He could tell right away that the artwork in this book was not Coliaro’s. It also struck Riley as familiar, as if he’d seen something similar a long time ago. There were various paragraphs of writing,

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interspersed with rough sketches. The sketches were disturbing. Creatures eating people. People thrashing around in hell. The writing was not in English. He couldn’t tell what it was. German, Dutch, Swedish—one of those languages from one of those countries over there. He flipped through it, looking at every single one of the fifty-plus pages. Mostly writing. Some drawing. And then, on one of the last pages, there was a drawing of a body—heart removed, hands cut off— surrounded by hellfire. This was something. This was a lead. He knew it. If only he could read the writing. As he turned the last page, he saw a tiny name scrawled in the lower corner. It was smudged. He could barely make it out. Johann von Ahan? A sliver of light suddenly popped in from under the door. His heart lurched. Impulsively, he shoved the book back in place and turned off the clip lamp, backing up and sliding around the side of one of the shelving units. Daaaammiiiit. He heard heavy footsteps. He couldn’t tell where they were going. Some drawers opened and closed. There was a slight scraping noise across the ground. There were a couple of electronic beeps, followed by soft music. He recognized it. It was the music that had been playing while he posed for Coliaro’s private session. He’s going to start working on a painting. Would he be stuck in this storage area for hours, waiting for Coliaro to finish? He didn’t dare move as long as that music was on, as long as the light still shone from under the door. He stood dead still, back pressed against the wall, timing his breaths so they wouldn’t come out too heavy. Did the undead have a heightened sense of hearing? Time ticked by. He was breathing so shallowly that a few times he wondered if he’d pass out. He started breathing more deeply, and it worked to calm him down. He had no idea what time it was. He hadn’t thought to bring a watch.

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He counted the seconds. Lost track and started counting again. His body started to relax. The music stopped. He stiffened against the wall again, knowing that soon Coliaro would be moving around the studio. Footsteps echoed, and he could tell they were coming closer. He held his breath. The door to the storage room opened, and there was a shuffling noise. If he tilted his head, he could see through a gap in the shelves and find out what Coliaro was doing, but he didn’t dare move a muscle. Did the undead have a heightened sense of sight? Maybe they’d be able to detect even the slightest hint of movement, like those dinosaurs in that one movie. There was a sliding noise, and Riley figured Coliaro was stowing his new painting in one of the vertical shelves. After the door closed again and he didn’t hear the scraping of a lock closing, he let out a sigh of relief. The footsteps moved away and finally disappeared. The light went out from underneath the door, and he heard the distant sound of another door opening and closing. Coliaro had left the studio. Thank God. But Riley couldn’t get cocky. He had to wait until he knew it was safe. He’d give it another fifteen minutes. Well, approximately fifteen minutes, since he didn’t have a watch to keep the time. Now that he wasn’t terrified out of his mind, he was kind of bored. When he finally felt that he’d waited long enough, he relaxed his muscles, squeezing back out of the spot where he’d been hiding. His heart rose back into his throat. Knowing his luck, Coliaro would return to the studio at exactly the wrong time. As quietly as possible, he made his way toward the door. He pressed his ear against it, heard nothing. Eased it open. Moonlight drifted in through the far window. He could just barely see the silhouette of the easel and the modeling platform and the various desks and tables around the room. Careful not to trip on any electrical wires, he headed for the window. Damn it, he’d forgotten to grab the sketchbook. Without that, the whole trip would have been pointless. Bracing himself, he turned and

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headed back into the storage area. This time he was a little quicker and a little more careless. He cracked the door open, reached in, and grabbed the book. He closed the door again and turned back toward his destination. He tripped on a knee-high wooden riser. He was surprised—and proud—that he didn’t let out an expletive. More carefully, he continued across the room. The climb out of the window was easier than the climb in. There were no bushes in the way on this side. However, as he discovered momentarily, this meant when he tumbled through the opening, the bushes were waiting outside to catch his fall with their hundreds of thorny arms. He lost his hold on the book; it fell somewhere behind the bushes. He fell down to the ground and rolled to his hands and knees, taking a moment to regain a sense of his surroundings. Smoothing his shirtsleeves back down, he rose to his feet. Something flashed before his eyes, and suddenly a thick, heavy object like a pole pressed down against his throat. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. When he fell back against someone’s body, he realized it was an arm wrapped around his neck. He thrashed and twisted as hard as he could. The grip on him didn’t yield. He kicked, stomped, gouged his fingers into the arm that crushed his throat. He reached behind him, aiming for the eyes, and his attacker grabbed his arm and pushed it easily away. His attacker leaned forward, and Riley could feel his breath across his cheek. There was a soft chuckle, and a voice said, “I thought I smelled coconut shampoo in my storage room.” Colors sparked behind Riley’s eyes. His lungs were on fire. He let out a weak hiss. His vision darkened, then went black.

IT WAS hot. There were lights shining down on him from above. More lights pointed at him from one side. His mouth was horribly dry. Unbearably dry. His arms hurt, his shoulders hurt. His ankles hurt.

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Somehow, he was kneeling. Odd, since he knew he’d just been unconscious. And damn, that smell—that distinct smell of oil paint and turpentine. He tried to ask, “Where am I?” But the words didn’t come out. All he could manage was a muffled groan. Across the room, he heard a familiar voice. “Careful now, my dear. You’re still weak.” His eyes widened. He was in Coliaro’s studio. The artist sat behind his easel, using acrylic paint to tone a new canvas. He glanced at Riley. There was a reminiscent smile on his face. “Back when I was at the height of my career, it wasn’t uncommon for people to try to break into my studio. In fact, my Chicago studio has surveillance cameras and an alarm system for that very reason. But it’s been many years since the last attempt. Most people who break in are looking for paintings they can sell. I wonder what you were after, hmm?” Riley was suddenly hit by the gravity of his situation. He was on Coliaro’s modeling platform, kneeling atop a few layers of white cloth. Naked. A white cloth backdrop hung around the platform. His back was against a thick, heavy Corinthian style prop column. His wrists were tied behind the column, and he felt additional ropes pulling back around his elbows, keeping him pressed tight to the column’s shaft. More ropes bound his ankles to either side of the column, and when he pulled on his wrists, he realized the rope connected from his wrists to his ankles. He couldn’t stand up. He could barely even move. There was some sort of cloth or sponge in his mouth, which was sealed shut with duct tape. He was having trouble breathing. His head throbbed, and he groaned with discomfort. Across the room, Coliaro said, “Riley, did you know that I have a heightened sense of smell?” He set down his wide brush, taking a look at his toned canvas. Then, glancing back at Riley, he said, “You’re too curious for your own good, sweetheart.” Riley glared at him. He yanked against his bonds, surprised at how heavy the column behind him was. Yanking with all his strength, he managed to rock it just the tiniest bit. “Stop that. I’ve posed you exactly how I want you. I expect you not to move. You are a professional model, after all.” Riley grunted and tried to swear at him. It didn’t work.

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Coliaro stood up, approaching the modeling platform. “Now I’m going to have to get you back into position.” When he stepped up onto the platform, Riley yanked hard against his bonds, twisting and fighting. Coliaro knelt beside him, setting a hand loosely around his neck. The sinister pressure against his throat was enough to render him still long enough for Coliaro to speak. “I recommend that you cooperate and do as I tell you. You don’t want to see me angry.” Riley stared up at him, wishing he had the ability to kill with just a look. Coliaro reached out, turning Riley’s head in the direction of the easel and then tilting it up so the back of his head was touching the column. “There you go,” he said appraisingly. “Perfect.” Riley wanted to fight and thrash, but he didn’t take Coliaro’s threat lightly. Coliaro returned to his easel and sat down. “There’s something I couldn’t help noticing,” he said as he squeezed fresh oil paint onto his palette. “Westwood went out of his way to protect you. He even gave up his fake human identity. I’ve never known him to bat an eye at the death of a human. This would suggest he sees you in a very different light.” He grabbed his palette knife, quickly mixing a few colors at the center of the palette. “I have nothing against you, Riley. I really do think you’re quite lovely. But Westwood? He’s someone I’d like to tear limb from limb.” He saturated the tip of a round hog brush with ruddy brown. “I think I’ll hold onto you until I drive Westwood out of hiding. Once he comes for you, I can dispose of him as I’d planned. Then perhaps you and I can resume where we left off after dinner a few weeks ago.” He gave Riley a wink. “And the best part of all—I get to do another painting of my favorite model.” Riley huffed and gasped. It really was difficult to breathe around whatever had been stuffed in his mouth. He hoped to God the panic didn’t show in his eyes as he glared back in Coliaro’s direction. “You’re truly the best model I’ve ever worked with,” Coliaro said. “You’ve inspired me, Riley. You’ve inspired me to revive my Oscuro Bello series. And this first piece in the new series is going to be a gift—a gift to our good friend Westwood. I have no doubt he’ll love it at first sight.”

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“ALL right, my dear. We’re all finished.” Riley relaxed his neck, letting his head droop as he sucked in deep breaths through his nose. His hands had gone numb long ago, and he had a cramp in one of his knees. He watched anxiously as Coliaro gingerly lifted the canvas off the easel and approached him. “Tell me what you think,” he said, turning the canvas for Riley to see. He couldn’t look at it. He didn’t want to see himself like that. He managed only the briefest glance just to satisfy Coliaro before glaring back up at him with malice. “Right. I suppose you can’t tell me.” He set the painting down and headed toward one of his tables. His cell phone lay atop it; he lifted it, dialing in a number and then pressing a button. It was on speaker, and Riley could hear it ringing. A click, and then Westwood said roughly, “Coliaro. What do you want?” Meeting Riley’s eyes, Coliaro raised a finger to his lips in warning. He turned his attention back to the phone. “I thought I’d let you know I’m sending one of my servants to drop off a package for you. Since I don’t know where you’re living now, I decided I’d have it dropped off at the school, outside the painting studio. It should be there in about two hours. Think of it as my gift to you.” “What’s this about?” Westwood demanded. “Calm down, Westwood. It’s something you’ll enjoy, I’m sure. I suggest you go and retrieve it tonight. Perhaps look at it with the artist kid, Porter. I do wonder if he’ll enjoy it as well.”

WESTWOOD didn’t find it difficult to dodge the two or three Prestwick campus security guards cruising around in their golf carts in the middle of the night. It wasn’t even all that hard to dodge the groping raccoon with the glowing eyes as it wandered from trashcan to trashcan. Westwood had gotten used to moving silently and stealthily, timing his steps with the rush of the wind and the calls of the owls, imperceptible to the ears of humans. It was more difficult, however, to elude a fellow undead.

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When he stumbled head-on into Porter, he barely contained a surprised curse. Quickly collecting himself, he grabbed Porter by the arm. “What the hell are you doing here?” “What are you doing here?” Porter asked. “I got a call from Coliaro.” He tightened his grip. “Your turn.” Unflinching, Porter replied, “Back when I was, uh, ‘alive’, Kevin lent me fifty dollars. I wanted to return it. Thank God he wasn’t in his room, or I probably would have made him wet himself. I slipped it into his wallet and got back out of there.” “You’re kidding, right?” Westwood asked. “You’d risk your identity just to return fifty dollars to some random school kid?” “He’s not random. He was my best friend.” Porter pulled free from Westwood’s grasp. “Anyway, what’s this about Coliaro calling you?” “He said he was leaving a package for me outside the painting studio.” “All right. Let’s go see.” “What makes you think you’re coming with me?” When Porter stood unaffected before him, Westwood decided it wasn’t worth the fight. Turning away, he headed toward the studio with Porter following after him. It was pitch black, but Westwood was able to make out the silhouette of a large rectangular package leaning against the studio door. It was about three feet tall and two feet wide. He could tell without unwrapping it that it was a painting. He gave the doorknob a powerful wrench that snapped the lock. Glancing at Porter, he shoved the door open, ducking under the crime scene tape and pulling the package in after him. Porter followed behind, closing the door and flipping the nearest light switch. The studio looked just as it always had, except for the yellow tape surrounding the model changing area. Westwood set the painting on the modeling platform and then tore away the brown paper wrapping. He felt his body going hot, his blood rushing with anger. His ears burned, his hands sweated.

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It was a painting of Riley. He was naked, on his knees, arms tied behind him and around a column. His golden tan stood out starkly against the white column and backdrop. His mouth was taped. Westwood could see beads of sweat on his forehead, and in his eyes was a look of intense hatred—and fear. “What the hell is this?” he gasped. “Shit,” Porter said, running a finger carefully over the edge of the painting. “I should have seen this coming.” “Seen what coming?” “Riley called me around six today. He said he was going to break into Coliaro’s studio and do some snooping.” Westwood turned on him, rage in his eyes. “And you didn’t stop him?” “What was I supposed to do? Club him over the head and lock him in a closet?” Westwood grabbed him by the arms, dragging him across the room and slamming him hard against the wall. “You fucked up big this time.” Porter groaned as Westwood tightened his grip. If he’d been human, his bones probably would have snapped from the pressure. “Let go,” he breathed, a telltale tremor in his voice. “I told you to keep him out of my way, to keep him away from Coliaro. But you didn’t do a goddamn thing!” He pulled Porter forward and slammed him back again. Porter’s head whipped back, smacking hard against the wall. “How long have you been trying to figure out Coliaro’s weakness?” Porter asked. “Obviously, you can’t do it on your own. It’s no wonder Riley decided to try and investigate.” “I told Riley I was taking care of Coliaro. He had no business interfering.” He looked down at the painting. “He could be dead by now. That painting is dry. Who knows how long ago Coliaro finished it?” “I told you, I talked to Riley earlier this evening. Coliaro uses a quick-drying medium, plus the paint is still a little tacky. He had to have just finished it before sending it out.”

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“You better hope you’re not wrong, because I can end you right here and now.” “Don’t threaten me,” Porter said. “I warned Riley about you. I warned him not to trust you. How do we know you’re not still helping Coliaro? How do we know you’re not the one killing those humans? It wouldn’t be the first time.” Westwood struck him hard across the face. Porter fell to the ground, and Westwood followed after him, pinning him down on his back. “You better watch what you say to Riley,” he hissed. Leaning in, he wrapped a hand around Porter’s throat. “Do you want a repeat of our first meeting?” Porter went pale. He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. In a trembling voice, he whispered, “I knew you hadn’t changed. You can claim you’re protecting humans, but I know you better than that. And I won’t let Riley be your next victim.” Anger flashed in Westwood’s eyes. “I own you. I will always own you. If you were smart, you’d keep your mouth shut, or I’ll make your next death twice as painful as the last.” The look in Porter’s eyes shifted. Anger and defiance melted away, and fear surfaced. “Westwood…,” he groaned. “I’m sorry… just—please….” Porter’s eyes shimmered. An uncomfortable, sick feeling rose in Westwood’s chest, and he immediately loosened his grip on the young man’s throat. Porter sucked in a shuddering gasp. A sudden buzz at his hip made him jump. As he reached for his cell phone, Porter squirmed out from under him and crawled toward the nearest wall. His skin was sheet white, and he curled over his knees, heaving. Westwood gritted his teeth, turning his attention away from Porter as he raised the phone to his ear. “What?” “So you got my gift?” Coliaro said. Westwood’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do to him?” “Nothing. Yet.”

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He tried to think of a reply, but all he could hear was the sound of Porter’s incessant heaving. “Goddammit,” he growled, turning to the artist. “Shut up!” Porter curled lower over his knees, clutching at his hair in what looked to be a panic attack. Westwood swore and turned away. He couldn’t deal with Porter right now. “Coliaro. What do you want?” “You, Westwood. You. I want you to come here and face me like a man. Come to my studio, and I’ll let the boy go.” “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to make me do?” “I’m sure you know very well. Do you also know how long it would take me to drain all of Riley’s blood? Or do you know how many of his bones I could break in the time it takes you to drive here from Sarasota?” “Coliaro.” “I’d snap his fingers one by one. Human bones are so brittle, like pretzels. I’d move up to his wrists next. Then his radius….” “Coliaro!” “Do you think Riley would beg for his life? Or do you think he’d try to play it strong?” Coliaro chuckled. “You’ve heard your fair share of dying wishes. Tell me, how would Riley take it?” Porter was still heaving. Westwood wanted to throw something at him. Anything to make him shut the hell up. “I can record it for you,” Coliaro said. “Or should I call you so you can listen in as it happens?” He couldn’t think straight. All he could hear was Porter, gasping and crying. “Who do you think Riley would call for as he’s on the verge of death?” “Damn it, don’t touch him!” Westwood yelled. There was silence on the other line. Then Coliaro laughed. “What’s so special about this one that you’d risk your neck for him?” “Don’t fuck with me. I’m heading over there now. Just swear to me you won’t touch him before I get there.” “Hmm, I don’t know.”

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“I said don’t fuck with me. I know you’re weak right now. You just finished this painting a couple hours ago, so you’re probably calling me from bed. Swear to me you won’t touch him!” “All right. You have my word.” Westwood ended the call. He stared fixedly across the room, heart pounding as he tried to gain a handle on his predicament. “You’re going to Coliaro’s?” Porter asked weakly from across the room. Westwood turned to him, furious. Porter was pale, but calm. “Maybe I could have come up with a better plan if you’d have kept your fucking mouth shut while I was on the phone!” “What? I didn’t say anything!” Fists clenched, Westwood turned to look at the painting again. He knew Coliaro well, and he knew the man did not make empty threats. “Get up.” “Huh?” Westwood grabbed the painting and headed for the door. Glancing over his shoulder at Porter, he said, “You’re coming with me.”

COLIARO had turned out the lights in the studio when he headed back to the house to rest. Riley had been able to tell from his eyes and his movements that he really was drained after completing his painting. He’d stayed only long enough to hand the painting to an indiscernible youth at the other side of the studio door, instructing him to take it to the Prestwick fine arts painting studio. Then he packed up his paints, cleaned his work area, and locked the door to the storage area before saying to Riley, “I don’t expect Westwood to show up for at least three hours, considering the commute. I’m going to lie down for a bit, and then I’ll come back to check on you. I trust you’ll behave while I’m gone.” Riley had let his head hang, feigning weakness, but as soon as the studio door closed, his eyes went alert. He twisted against his bonds, exploring them with his fingertips to locate the knots. He’d taken his

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fair share of yoga classes, and he had faith that he could bend in any way necessary to free himself. It was a skill Nick had always appreciated. It took work, and he had to bite his lip in order to distract himself from the pain of the ropes gouging into his skin. But he managed to twist enough for his hands to reach the knots at his ankles. Once his ankles were free, he raised himself up, pushing down with his feet and toppling the heavy column backward. It came down with a crash, dragging Riley with it, but thankfully the thick capital and base held the shaft up a few inches from the ground and kept his arms from being crushed. From that position, he slid his wrists out from under the bottom of the column. His elbows were still caught, but he rubbed the remaining rope against the column’s base, rejoicing at each fiber he severed. When he’d freed himself at last, he tore the tape off his face and yanked out the artist’s sponge that had been stuffed in his mouth. He gulped in deep, gluttonous breaths, stretching his arms and legs to relieve the fatigue of sitting still for almost five hours. In the dark, he searched for his clothing. He remembered seeing it piled in a chair at the corner of the room. He didn’t dare turn on any lights. It definitely hadn’t been three hours since Coliaro’s departure, but he had no idea if the man had an eye on the studio as he rested. Dressing himself as quickly as possible, he made his way back to the window. It was now closed, but opening it from the inside was no problem. Again, he hoisted himself through, and again he tumbled into the bushes on the other side. The sketchbook, he suddenly remembered. If Coliaro hadn’t realized he’d taken it, it’d still be jammed somewhere behind the bushes. Urgently, he reached in, ignoring the branches scratching his arms as he felt around in the dark. His fingers grazed stucco, more stucco, then something that felt like board wrapped in canvas. It took all his willpower not to yank the book through the bushes. He didn’t want to damage it and knew it’d take a gentler touch. Easing it upward against the wall, he pushed it into view and grasped it from the top with his other hand. He’d parked his car in the opposite direction from Coliaro’s house. With any luck, he’d be able to make a mad dash off the property

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and onto the neighboring side streets. Taking a deep breath, he broke into a sprint. Running had always been one of his favorite forms of exercise, but it had been a long time since he’d last sprinted with all his effort. By the time he reached his car, he was wheezing, his throat aching for water. He unlocked his car door. There was a months-old plastic water bottle still stowed in the cup holder. Desperate, he took a swig. At this point, water was water. His cell phone lay on the passenger seat; he hadn’t brought it with him in fear of it buzzing or blinking or otherwise giving away his location. As he shifted into drive, he grabbed the phone and flipped it open. Four missed calls from Nick. He couldn’t deal with that right now. He searched through his contacts, finding one midway through the list and clicking on it. A couple of rings, and then Porter answered. He sounded out of breath when he gasped, “Riley?” “Porter, it’s me. Do you know Westwood’s number?” Porter hesitated. “Um, no. But he’s here with me. Man, are you okay? We got this—” “Put Westwood on the phone,” Riley cut in. There was a pause before Westwood said, “Where are you?” “I’m in St. Petersburg, in my car. Westwood, don’t go to Coliaro’s studio. He’s waiting for you.” “I know. He sent me a lovely painting of you.” Riley felt his cheeks burning. “Whatever Coliaro did to you is nothing compared to what I’m going to do when you get back to Sarasota. What the hell is your problem, boy? Do I need to kill someone else just to get the point across that you are not to interfere with my business?” “You’re not doing anything!” Riley retorted. “You haven’t made any progress at all, but I found something while I was in that studio! I got a book; I’ll show you and Porter when I get back. It’s really old, and it—”

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“Save it, kid. I don’t care. Did you not even stop to think that thanks to your little scheme, there’s going to be another murder to compensate for the new male nude Coliaro just painted?” Riley paused. He hadn’t thought about that. He’d been too busy trying to save his own skin. Westwood continued. “I mean it this time. You get in my way again, and I’ll take off one of your hands. I’m not joking.” Riley clenched his fists. Westwood did indeed sound dead serious. Knowing there was no point in any further conversation, he closed his phone and tossed it back onto the seat beside him.

UPON reaching the town house, Riley turned off his headlights, easing into the driveway and parking outside the garage. He was hoping Nick had gone to bed, and he didn’t want to awaken him by opening the rusty garage door. He slid out of the car and gently pushed the driver’s side door shut before turning toward the house. Westwood stood at the hood of the Corolla, his face hidden in shadow. Riley cried out and stumbled back against the side of the car. “Shit, Westwood!” The man didn’t speak. Riley waited, his heartbeat returning to a normal pace, but Westwood continued to stand without offering any explanation. “What are you doing here?” Riley asked at last. “My boyfriend is inside.” Westwood hesitated. Then, softly, he whispered, “I had to make sure.” “What are you talking about?” “Coliaro told me he was going to… do things to you. Did he?” “He didn’t do anything.” Riley crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you even care? And why are you asking now all of a sudden? After our phone conversation, I was under the impression you were pissed at me.” “I am. You were an idiot, going after Coliaro like that. But that doesn’t mean I want you maimed or tortured. I’ve known Coliaro for a long time, and he doesn’t make empty threats.”

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Riley looked past Westwood toward the house. The curtains were drawn over all the windows, and he couldn’t tell if Nick had waited up for him. “Listen, I just want to go to sleep.” Westwood reached out without warning, tilting Riley’s chin back. His eyes appeared oddly reflective in the dark as he examined Riley’s neck. His gaze traveled down, pausing on Riley’s wrists. Riley pulled back, bracing himself against his car. “It’s only a couple rope burns on my wrists, and a few scratches from falling into the bushes. No big deal.” Riley had a feeling he would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked on the last few words. Westwood narrowed his eyes, and Riley felt himself begin to tremble. He hadn’t realized how shaken he still was by his encounter with Coliaro. Now, in front of Westwood, was not the time he’d wanted to make that discovery. Swiftly, he turned away, cursing under his breath as his tremors intensified. He could feel Westwood’s gaze on him, scrutinizing him. “I’m tired,” Riley told him, his voice choked. “That’s all.” A warm hand on his back snapped him into awareness. His muscles went rigid and he turned, meeting eyes with Westwood. The man ran his hand slowly up and down Riley’s spine, easing his tremors. Riley shuddered, alarmed at the potency of Westwood’s touch, and alarmed at himself for how badly he wanted more. He reveled in the warmth of Westwood’s soft caress, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. This was exactly what he needed—a calm, reassuring hand. After a moment, he opened his mouth to speak, and Westwood immediately withdrew as if assuming Riley would protest. He took a couple of steps back, giving Riley space, and Riley almost groaned in frustration. More than anything, he wanted that hand on him again. He wanted that surprisingly gentle touch. Westwood lingered a moment. If Riley didn’t know better, he would have thought the man didn’t want to leave him alone. When Westwood finally spoke, it seemed to take him a considerable amount of effort. “I only came to make sure you made it home alive,” he said gruffly. “Go inside and go to sleep.”

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Riley considered calling back to him, asking him to stay awhile. But by the time he managed to find his voice, Westwood had already disappeared into the shadows.

TO HIS dismay, Riley found that Nick had waited up for him to come home. The lights were all on in the town house, and he sat at the kitchen table, within view of the front door. He stood up as soon as Riley stumbled in, looking a bit sunken around the eyes but otherwise fully alert. “Nick,” Riley began. “Where were you?” Nick asked. “Why didn’t you call? I left you messages. You didn’t answer your phone.” “I….” During the drive from St. Petersburg, he’d been so excited about the discovery of the sketchbook he hadn’t even thought to fabricate a story to tell Nick when he returned home. The sketchbook was hidden in his workbag along with his robe and timer and the drop cloth he sat on during class. He set the bag down and rubbed his arms. “I went for a walk.” Damn, that was weak. “You took a nine-hour walk?” “I got dinner first,” Riley managed. “I stopped at a bar.” He raised a hand to his head, brushing the hair out of his face. “Nick, I’m exhausted. Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Nick suddenly reached forward, grabbing Riley’s arm. He shoved his sleeve up, revealing flaming red rope burns across his wrist. He stared at the rope burns for a good thirty seconds before raising his gaze to look into Riley’s eyes. “It was nothing,” Riley said. “I swear. I’m fine.” Nick lifted his arm up, shaking it in the air. “This is not nothing! You’re scratched all over. You look like shit. You got these rope burns on you. Tell me what the fuck happened!” He couldn’t manage to come up with a lie from scratch. Better to tell at least a little bit of the truth. “I was trying to do research into Coliaro’s paintings. Some thug grabbed me and told me to stop sticking

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my nose where it didn’t belong. He left me tied to a pole in a warehouse. I got free and came straight back home.” Nick stared at him, clearly at a loss for words. His breath came out quick and shallow. After a few minutes, he pulled Riley close, rubbing his injured wrist. “This is all because you posed for Coliaro. Everything’s been falling apart since then.” “It’s not a big deal,” Riley protested. When Nick spoke again, his voice wavered, and Riley wondered if he was near tears. “I saw on the news, they discovered a heart and a pair of hands at the beach. And then when I tried to call you, you didn’t answer all day. Do you have any idea what was going through my mind? I called the police. They said they couldn’t do anything to find you until you were missing for God knows how long.” He pulled Riley into a tight hug, squeezing so hard Riley couldn’t breathe. “What if that was you? That could have been you.” “It couldn’t have been me,” Riley replied, his voice muffled in Nick’s shoulder. “They found the heart and hands yesterday.” Nick held him back at arms’ length. “You heard about it yesterday?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Was I supposed to?” “You know this is linked to that painting. You should have told me.” He pulled Riley close again. “You’re putting yourself in danger. I don’t know why, but someone’s out for you. We can’t ignore this.” “It’s not that big a deal, Nick.” Staring down at Riley, Nick asked, “What happened that night, when you went to Coliaro’s house?” “N-nothing!” Riley said immediately. “We had dinner and talked about art.” “Then why did he call to apologize?” “He made some rude comments about illustrators compared to fine artists, and I got upset. It was no big deal. He didn’t need to apologize over it, but he’s a gracious sort of guy.” Riley fell silent, examining the look in Nick’s eyes. He was shocked at himself. The words spilled out of his mouth before his brain could even process them. He’d never thought of himself as dishonest

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before, but when he thought back to all the times he’d lied to Nick in just the past few months, his cheeks reddened with shame. He couldn’t tell if Nick believed him or not, but it seemed he didn’t have the energy to test Riley’s lies. It was past three in the morning. Finally, Nick held him tight once again, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his lips into Riley’s hair. After holding him for a minute, he whispered, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m scared for you. Please, please don’t put yourself in any more danger.” “I won’t.” “You say you won’t, but I don’t believe you.” He set his chin on top of Riley’s head. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to stay out of trouble.” “Nick….” “Promise me.” Riley swallowed. Squeezing Nick’s shirt in his fists, he reluctantly whispered, “I promise.”

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RILEY really did try to keep the promises he made, but he was willing to break them if he believed it was for the greater good. In the morning, Nick had held Riley for nearly half an hour as they lay in bed, stroking his hair, asking him what he planned to do about the previous night’s attack and if he wanted to speak to the police. Riley gave various responses to placate Nick, but he wasn’t even paying attention to his own words. By the time he had gotten up to get ready for Mr. Tobias’s figure class, he’d already begun thinking about visiting Porter’s house and looking over the sketchbook with him. He stopped at the local pharmacy on the way to work and, shamefaced, handed over a bottle of foundation to the cashier. In his changing room, he applied the makeup to his wrists and ankles, as well as the more noticeable scratches on his body. When he posed, he accidentally left a few beige streaks on the silky cloths over which he stood. He got a call letting him know the afternoon painting class had been canceled due to the instructor’s illness, so he took the opportunity to visit Porter’s house at a time when he knew Nick would still be at work. When Porter arrived at the door to let him in, Riley couldn’t help but be amused. The artist’s thick hair stuck out in all directions like a tumbleweed from hell, and he wore rumpled pajama bottoms and a backward undershirt. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Don’t you ever sleep?” “It’s past noon,” Riley said. “Can I come in?” Grumbling under his breath, Porter allowed Riley to pass, closing the door after him and following him up the stairs. When they reached

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the attic, Riley was surprised to find it much more homey than it had been on his last visit. In addition to the metal folding chairs, there was now a loveseat and an armchair, as well as several new lamps and ceiling light fixtures. There was even a real twin bed in the corner. The furniture was clearly secondhand, but it did lend a certain charm to the dilapidated little room. It had all the elegance of a college boy’s dorm room. “I love what you’ve done with the place.” “Hey, you’re a guest in my house,” Porter warned him. “Don’t mock it if you want to stay in it.” Riley held up his hands in surrender. Heading for the loveseat, he settled in and reached into his duffel bag. “I wanted to show you something,” he said. He pulled the sketchbook out of his bag, waiting for Porter to sit beside him before handing it over. “I found it in Coliaro’s storage room. It doesn’t look like his artwork. Right?” Porter carefully opened the sketchbook and turned a page. “Yeah, definitely not his. But very familiar.” “Do you recognize it?” “I swear it’s buried somewhere in my mind. I know this artist.” “Well, here.” Riley flipped to the back page, where he’d seen the artist’s name scrawled in the lower corner. “Can you make that out? Johann von Something?” Porter tilted his head. Tilted it back in the other direction. Turned the book upside down. Then he lifted it up and whacked Riley on the back of the head with it. “Hey! What was that for?” “Come on, man!” Porter cried. “The artist’s name is written right here in the book, and you come to me asking if I know who it is?” He opened the book to the back page once again, poking hard at the name. “Jeroen van Aken!” Riley stared blankly at him. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” “Hieronymus Bosch! That was his given name! Damn, you really don’t know your art history!” “Bosch, Bosch…. He’s the one who did that creepy triptych back in the 1500s. The heaven and hell thing?”

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“Uh, you mean The Garden of Earthly Delights?” Porter asked with eyebrows raised. “Okay! Stop being such an art snob and just tell me what I need to know!” Porter flipped the book back to the beginning and began paging through it. “This is definitely Bosch. Look at these sketches. I can’t believe Coliaro would even have something like this in his possession. Historians could barely find anything about Bosch’s history.” He looked up at Riley with excitement in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how cool this is?” “Yes, it’s cool,” Riley said. “But I didn’t bring it here for you to drool over it.” He yanked the book back out of Porter’s reluctant hands, turning to the second to last page. “Look at this.” Porter took in the sight of the gruesome imagery, complete with severed hands and excised heart. “Well, that looks a little too familiar.” “Coliaro had this in his studio. There has to be some sort of connection! If only we could read what it said. Do you know anyone who speaks German?” Porter stared at him as if he’d just flashed the pope. “German? German? You’re kidding me, right?” He shook his head in disappointment. “I’ll let that one slide. But meanwhile, there’s a simple solution to this. Just retype all this stuff into one of those Internet translators.” “Ooh, good idea! Do you have a computer?” Porter chortled. “A computer? I don’t think so! Back when I was alive, only the rich geeks had those. They’d run around talking about how awesome DOS was. Gave me a headache.” “Then we’ll go to the library,” Riley said. “Come on, put on your clothes. We’re going now!”

“IS

THAT really the fastest you can type?” Riley asked, waiting

impatiently as Porter two-fingered the computer keyboard at the Tampa library.

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“I’m typing in Dutch, okay? And Bosch was famous for his art, not his penmanship.” “Whatever. I’m going to go browse. Let me know when you’re done.” As Riley turned and headed away, Porter opened his mouth to protest. But Riley ignored him. He made his way to the fine arts section, skimming through the titles in search of anything referencing Hieronymus Bosch. He came across a book entitled A Dissertation on The Garden of Earthly Delights, but deciding that anything with the word “dissertation” in the title was not going to be a pleasant read, he kept searching. Finding a suitable book populated mostly by large images, Riley took a seat on the floor, casually thumbing through. He skipped through the detail shots of the left and middle panels of the triptych, straight to the right panel that depicted hell. The imagery made him cringe. Some sort of demon with a bird’s head, eating people and then defecating them back out. A huge white demon with trees for arms and an eggshell for a body. A guy with a flute stuck up his ass. Hellfire, and a pair of disembodied ears. With a frown, he slammed the book shut and stuffed it back onto the shelf. “Here you are!” Porter whispered loudly from the end of the aisle. Riley climbed to his feet and took a step toward him. “You all done?” “Yeah. Let’s go sit.” They found a nearby table, sitting beside each other so they could both view the page Porter had printed from the computer. Slowly, Riley read aloud from the typewritten passage. My father when was near the end of his life he spoke of the artists he grew up with me. The name of the artist, Gervaas Colla, he was more capable than anyone would have ever seen him. He once swore at the members of the Illustrious Brotherhood of Our Blessed Lady and causing them a problem. But he will do

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ANA BOSCH anything to improve his skills, but he is so consumed by his art that were happy. Rumor has it a deal with the devil Colla, and he ends his arms are used to draw, that was the hand of the devil, and you use him, he’s the devil in his chest, the creation of life on the cloth had begun to spread, it had a heart. He created a beautiful portrait of the self was the target of admiration for everyone in our city. When my father was in the ’50s, he and Colla met again after a long separation. They fought a trivial matter, and he was pushing down on the Colla. The old artist head on a stone, he died. Terrified, my father walked away. A week later he bought the bread, looked at the market Colla. He has this demon I’ve ever, the Colla told us that there is a need to remove his heart and when I saw his hands. I am a great artists of today, said that one of the few able to do this important task. “Well, damn,” Riley muttered sarcastically. “That was helpful.” “Maybe I typed it wrong,” Porter said.

“I’d bet on it.” Riley got up from his seat, stretching his back as he contemplated the sketchbook. “We need someone who can translate this for real.” “I have a lot of spare time on my hands these days,” Porter said. “They probably have a Dutch dictionary in the reference section. I’ll go through it word by word and see if I can make sense of it.” Riley shrugged apathetically. Handing Porter the sketchbook, he said, “If you’ve got that kind of time, then be my guest.”

THREE days passed before Riley heard from Porter again. The kid left him an animated voice message saying to meet him at the library as

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soon as possible. After his last class of the day, Riley slung on his coat and hopped into his car, making the drive up to Tampa in record time. When he arrived at the library, Porter was seated at the same table where they’d reviewed the translation of the sketchbook. He raised a hand and waved as if he were trying to flag Riley down from a block away. Riley looked around subtly, hoping Porter hadn’t caught the eye of any of the other library patrons with his ridiculous display. He hurried across the room and took a seat at the table. “So were you able to figure it out?” Riley asked. “Nope,” Porter said. “At least not by myself. I’ve never been good with foreign languages. So I’ve been sitting here every day trying to figure this thing out, and the entire time the librarian is circling around and stopping to stare at me. Finally this morning I figured what the hell, and I asked her if she could help. She asked if she could borrow it, so I gave it to her. And about ten minutes ago she brought it back.” He held up a piece of printer paper. “With this.” He handed the paper across the table to Riley. It was a typed translation of the passage from the sketchbook. His heart surging, Riley began reading. When my father was near the end of his life, he told me the story of an artist he grew up with. The artist’s name was Gervaas Colla, and he was more talented than anyone he’d ever seen before. He was a faithful sworn member of the Illustrious Brotherhood of Our Blessed Lady, but he soon began to cause problems for the Brotherhood. He got so consumed by his artwork that he was willing to do anything in order to improve his skills. A rumor began to spread that Colla had made a deal with the devil, and that he had the devil’s hands at the ends of his arms, which he used to paint, and that he had the devil’s heart in his chest, which he used to create life in his paintings. He created a magnificent self-portrait that was the subject of admiration for everyone in our town. When my father was in his fifties, he and Colla met again after a long separation. They fought over a trivial

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“It makes a little more sense now,” Riley said. “But why would this guy put it upon his son to kill Colla? Why did he think Bosch was the person to do that?” “Don’t ask me. If the guy was on his deathbed, he was probably senile.” “This Gervaas Colla—that has to be Coliaro, right?” “Hmm.” Porter propped his chin in his palm, thinking. “If Coliaro is Dutch, he sure hides it well.” “But when I saw all the paintings he had, some of the really oldlooking ones seemed to have a Northern Renaissance influence. If he’s been around since then, wouldn’t it make sense that he used to paint like that?” Porter dug around in his bag, pulling out the sketchbook. He turned back to the page with the sketch of the man whose heart and hands were removed. Tilting his head, he said, “I can kind of see Coliaro in that. He kind of has his eyes, you know, how they’re really deep-set?” He paused, considering. “Hey, do me a favor. Don’t tell Westwood about this. If you do, he’ll probably be pissed that you’re still involving yourself. Let me do it. The worst he can do is kill me again.” “That’s fine by me. But tell him soon. Don’t forget, we’re expecting another murder to happen any day now.” As they got up to leave, Porter let out a sound of dismay. “What?” Riley asked.

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“I wanted to thank the librarian again on the way out, but there she goes out the door right now.” He shrugged. “Oh well, karma will give her something good.” Craning his head, Riley tried to see the woman. As she disappeared through the door, he managed to catch a glimpse of long, wavy blond hair.

IT

WAS nearing the end of November, several days after Riley and Porter had made their trip to the library with Bosch’s sketchbook. When Riley realized his life had returned to normal over the past few days, he was overcome with dread. “Normal” for this long had to be a bad sign. Thanksgiving was coming up, and he had every intention of spending it in Florida with Nick. His mom had called to see if he’d be able to make it up to Colorado, but aside from the small matter of not having the money for a plane ticket, he didn’t see the point in going out of his way to visit his family for Thanksgiving when they couldn’t be bothered to get together in January for Andrew’s memorial. Maybe he was being spiteful, but he didn’t care. Besides, it had been awhile since he and Nick had really spent time together. As much as he wanted to punish his family by spending Thanksgiving with Nick, he wasn’t doing himself any favors, either. Nick was still acting weird around him after their disagreement over the rings and the incident at Coliaro’s studio, and Riley had no plans of apologizing. It wasn’t exactly pride that kept him from approaching Nick. In fact, it was more like shame. In the end, it was easier to hold a grudge than it was to admit to Nick that he’d been unreasonable. When he finished posing for his last class of the week, he glanced at his watch. It was barely past three in the afternoon. He was hoping for a big freelance project to come in over the long Thanksgiving weekend. His luck hadn’t been great over the past month. Once he got home, he’d grab a glass of wine to prep himself for disappointment and then he’d check his e-mail. He fished in his pocket for his keys as he headed past the low wooden fence into the enclosed parking lot. When he looked up, he saw

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that his car had been blocked into its spot—blocked by a 1980s Cadillac that somehow looked even newer than it had the last time he’d seen it. “This is bullshit!” he cried out loud, stalking toward the car. He headed up to the driver’s side window, where he could see Westwood sitting inside. The man lowered the window, and Riley yelled, “What do you want? Why did you block me in?” “Get in.” “Why? I didn’t do anything wrong!” “Just get in.” Wondering if there was some news regarding Coliaro, Riley circled the car and got in on the passenger side. Westwood slammed down the gas, and Riley hurriedly fastened his seatbelt. With the way Westwood drove, he wondered if the man had forgotten what it meant to have a mortal passenger in the car. Westwood took him back into Tampa, and Riley wondered if they were going to Porter’s house. But after a few turns in the opposite direction, they pulled into the driveway of a two-story brown house with an overgrown, neglected yard. If it hadn’t been concealed by a row of tall trees, it would have stuck out like a sore thumb amidst all the beige and pink houses surrounding it. “Is this your house?” Riley asked. Westwood gave a slight nod. It was surprising. Westwood seemed like a very private person. He’d never shown any desire to give Riley his address or cell phone number, yet here he was leading Riley up the driveway toward his front door. A part of him was surprised that someone like Westwood would even live in a house, though he wasn’t sure what the alternative would have been. Riley’s first thought upon seeing the inside of the house was that it was similar to Porter’s, if Porter’s hadn’t been uninhabited for ten years. It had the same predominance of wood, the same rusty appliances and dim lighting. But there was a large upholstered couch and glass coffee table in the living room, and a small wooden table with four sturdy-looking chairs in the kitchen. “I heard about your little find at Coliaro’s studio,” Westwood said, breaking the silence.

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“Oh? So Porter finally told you?” Westwood looked taken aback. “Porter knows?” “Well, yeah. He’s the one who figured it out.” Narrowing his eyes for a moment, he asked, “Wait. Are we talking about the same thing?” “Hieronymus Bosch’s sketchbook, and the note that says to remove Coliaro’s heart and hands?” “Yeah, that’s what I was talking about too. But if Porter didn’t tell you, who did?” Westwood laughed. “I have my own sources, kid. Sources that are much more reliable than Porter.” He headed into the kitchen and leaned back against the countertop, staring at the flimsy chandelier that hung above the kitchen table. “The heart and hands—it makes sense, but the fact is it’s going to be very difficult to get an opportunity to actually remove Coliaro’s heart and hands. He’s still a hell of a lot stronger than I am.” “Do you think that’s really Coliaro’s weakness?” Riley asked. “Removing his heart and hands? Because it seems a little simple to me.” “It’s the best lead we’ve got so far.” Riley stood at the entrance to the kitchen, not sure if he should walk closer to Westwood or if he should take a seat at the table. Finally, he opted to remain in his current awkward position. He waited a moment for Westwood to continue speaking. When the silence continued, Riley asked hesitantly, “Is that why you brought me here? To ask about the sketchbook?” Westwood smirked. There was something in his eyes… something unscrupulous. Riley remembered Porter’s repeated assertion that he didn’t trust a word Westwood said, and suddenly he wondered if it had been the best idea to get into the man’s car. His pulse quickened as Westwood stared silently back at him. “Nick is going to be home at four today,” Riley said uneasily. “I really should be there waiting for him when he gets in. Things have been rough between us for a little while now, thanks to the business with Coliaro.”

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That wasn’t true. Nick had already told him he had to work late and wouldn’t be back until after nine. Whenever they fought, Nick always suddenly had to work late. Westwood seemed to pick up on the slight shift in his line of sight. “You naughty thing; you just can’t keep the lies from spilling out of your mouth.” He pushed away from the counter, heading across the room. When Riley saw that he was closing the blinds, a rush of anxiety coursed through him. “What are you doing?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Westwood didn’t reply at first. As the seconds ticked by, Riley’s breath grew quicker and shallower. It really had not been a smart move, coming to Westwood’s house. He remembered the moment he’d shared with Westwood outside the town house after escaping from Coliaro’s studio. The man who’d gazed into his eyes and gently soothed his tremors that night was long gone. He didn’t know Westwood’s motives. Perhaps the man was somehow still on Coliaro’s side. Or perhaps he planned to kill Riley now that he knew about Coliaro’s weakness. Either way, he was now locked in a secluded house with a highly unpredictable man. As Westwood lowered the second set of blinds, he said, “I’m going after Coliaro tomorrow. And like I said, he’s stronger than I am. There’s a good chance he’ll kill me. Does he know my weakness? Maybe. Maybe he knows how to kill me for good.” With the blinds closed, the room was now cast in shadow. Westwood turned back to Riley, his eyes concealed by darkness. The smile on his face widened just a bit. “Before that happens, I want to make sure I collect on our debt.” Riley’s throat was too dry. He swallowed, and his throat seemed to clamp shut. He knew exactly what Westwood was talking about, yet he still croaked, “What do you mean?” Westwood took a step forward, and Riley fell back. “I told you, Burke. You’re indebted to me. And I expect you to pay up.” “I don’t know what you want me to do.” With another step forward, the light reached below Westwood’s brow ridge, and Riley saw a hint of his devilish black eyes. Westwood

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slowly looked him up and down. “You don’t need to do anything. Just close your eyes, and I’ll take care of the rest.” He was coming too close. He kept approaching with those lazy, cocky steps, knowing that his target had no chance of getting away. Riley took a quick glance around. There was no visible escape route. His reflexes took over. With the next step Westwood took, Riley took a swing at him, followed by a high roundhouse kick to the side of his head—a move he’d somehow retained from his old kickboxing classes. Stunned, Westwood fell back a step. Then irritation flashed across his face. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that again.” Riley cringed. He hadn’t actually meant to kick Westwood, but he’d panicked. He wanted Westwood to touch him. His body craved the contact and intimacy like he couldn’t believe. But he knew he couldn’t do it. He’d opened his mouth, about to explain when the man suddenly lunged at him. He moved like a bolt of lightning, pinning Riley against the wall and pressing in close to him. Riley gasped, feeling Westwood’s erection prodding his belly through their clothes. When he pushed against Westwood’s chest, the man laughed at him. Riley didn’t see the humor in the situation. “Westwood, wait,” he said. “I can’t do this to Nick.” Westwood slid Riley’s jacket off his shoulders, letting it drop to the ground. “Nick doesn’t have to know. After all, it wouldn’t be the first secret you kept from him.” Riley shoved Westwood, and the man seemed to lose all his patience at once. He grabbed Riley by the arms, dragging him into the next room and shoving him down across the sofa cushions. Before he could move, Westwood climbed on after him, getting between his legs. After another brief scuffle, Westwood pinned Riley down firmly on his back. They stared at each other. Riley’s chest was heaving. Even if Westwood hadn’t been holding him, he’d have felt pinned by the weight of the man’s predatory gaze. There wasn’t a hint of his usual knowing smirk. Instead his face was dead serious, rife with intensity. Staring up at him, Riley wondered whether the man planned on chewing him up or swallowing him whole.

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ANA BOSCH “Get the hell off me.” Westwood’s face was still serious. “You don’t want me to get

off.” “Listen, jackass, I don’t want anything to do with you!” In a flash, Westwood reached down into Riley’s pants, grabbing his hardened length. “Another lie.” The feel of that powerful hand pressed against his crotch made Riley groan aloud. When he squirmed, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to break free or press down harder into Westwood’s hand. Reading the desire in his eyes, Westwood gave him a firm, decisive pump. Despite himself, Riley felt his hips flexing, meeting Westwood’s stroke. He let out a wanton moan, begging Westwood not to stop, but the man gave him a fiendish smile, withdrawing his hand and flipping him onto his stomach. He hooked his feet between Riley’s ankles, pushing out and spreading his legs. There was a loud crash from the back door, and the entire house reverberated from the impact. Riley jumped, his blood cooling instantly, and Westwood went dead still. “What was that?” Riley asked, rolling onto his back. “Shh!” Westwood planted a hand on Riley’s chest, keeping him still. He listened intently. When Riley tried to raise his head, Westwood pressed down harder in warning. He heard the sound of wood shattering, followed by the sound of a heavy foot landing on the hardwood floor. Urgently, Westwood said, “It’s Coliaro.” “He knows where you live?” “Apparently.” Teeth gritted, Westwood climbed off the couch, turning toward the back of the house. “Go upstairs,” he said. “No matter what you hear, do not come back down.” When Riley didn’t obey immediately, Westwood gave him a hard shove. “Do it,” he growled, eyes fierce. Knowing that now wasn’t the time to get into a pissing match with Westwood, Riley backed off and headed up the stairs as told. He took the first hallway, following it all the way down to the end and finding the master bedroom. He saw no better option, but he knew the

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bedroom was not a safe enough place to stay. If Coliaro did manage to kill Westwood, all he had to do was stick his head into the room and look around, or, apparently, take a sniff. There were no suitable hiding places. After a moment, he glanced at the long drapes concealing a large window. He ran toward it, trying the lock. It was jammed. He didn’t dare break the window. The sound alone would be enough to alert Coliaro that Westwood wasn’t alone in the house. There was a closet, but hiding in a closet was a bit cliché, not to mention cowardly. But on second thought, Riley wasn’t completely averse to being cowardly at the moment. After all, it wasn’t exactly fair to expect him to hold his own against a couple of undead muscle men. The best thing he could do to help Westwood in this situation was to stay out of the way and not get caught. The closet was stuffed with boxes, but in the very back corner, discernible only to his astute eye, was the hint of a latch in the wall. He moved the boxes, revealing a tiny door. It had to lead to an attic or crawl space of some sort. Shifting the latch, he pushed the door open. He was right; it was a crawl space. Telling himself one more time that he was being reasonable and not paranoid, he climbed in, rearranging the boxes and closing the door behind him. The crawl space was dim and cramped but surprisingly clean. The ceiling sloped down at an angle, brushing the top of Riley’s head as he scooted along. His gaze fell upon a large stack of canvases beside a small storage cabinet. Curious, he crawled across the room to take a closer look. At the top of the stack was the latest painting Coliaro had done of him, tied up in his studio. Riley wasn’t surprised. He knew Coliaro had sent the painting to Westwood. However, in the painting there was now blood streaming down his chest and dripping from his butchered arms. He’d hated the painting to begin with. The alterations just made him sicker. With a scowl, he tossed the canvas aside. The second in the stack was the first painting Coliaro had done of him. Again he saw himself on his back, arms outstretched above him and ending in bloody stumps. Apparently, Westwood was the one who’d stolen this painting from the display case. It made sense; after all, he was investigating Coliaro. With a rush of excitement, Riley wondered if the rest of the paintings in the stack were the previous

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pieces from the Oscuro Bello series. He’d never seen them. Even knowing that they were already altered from the rituals, he was at least curious to find out what they looked like. When he set the next canvas aside, his breath caught in his throat. Underneath it was not a painting from the Oscuro Bello series. It was another painting of him. He recognized it. It was by that redhead— Anna Maria. It was one of the stolen paintings from Prestwick. His excitement turned to dread. With shaking fingers, he lifted the canvas and looked beneath it. Another painting of him, this one by Porter. Then one of Kevin’s older works. There were at least ten paintings of him. As he shook his head in disbelief, his gaze fell upon another stack of canvases in the corner. His heart pounded as he crawled toward it. More paintings of him. At least fifteen more. He didn’t understand. These paintings had nothing to do with Coliaro. The only common thread was that they were all nudes of him by talented artists. He fell back, kneeling on the ground, propping himself up on his arms as he tried to slow his racing thoughts. He glanced at the cheap wooden cabinet that sat beside the canvases. He told himself he didn’t need to know what was inside. Who was he kidding? Even as he told himself it was none of his business, he was working the latch on the cabinet doors. Prying them open, he peered inside. There were piles of newspaper clippings scattered haphazardly across the inner shelf. He removed them and spread them out before him. “COD Student’s Body Found in Lake Michigan” “UIC Campus Killer Strikes Again” “College Student Beaten, Murdered in Lincoln Park” “String of Brutal Murders in Rhode Island Puzzle Cops” “RISD Student Alex Raimes Murdered; Body Found in Park”

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The last article caught Riley’s eye. It was from the 1990s. There was a photograph of the murder victim that looked alarmingly familiar. Thin face, wry smile, friendly eyes. He had wavy hair cut a little shorter than Riley was used to, but there was still no mistaking that face. It was Porter. According to the article, the murdered college student was found naked and bruised, wrists tied behind him, in a park near campus. The boy had been beaten and—presumably—sexually assaulted before being strangled to death. He was the only child of Marianne and Gordon. That very day, his parents had driven in from New York to visit him at school. When his roommate told them he hadn’t returned from his morning run, they knew something was wrong. Continued on page eight. It was just a clipping. There were no pages to flip through. Urgently, Riley spread out the remaining articles, searching for something that looked like the second page of the story. Near the bottom of the pile, he found it, and his heart sank even further. On this page was a police sketch of the suspect: chiseled face, strong jaw, and black eyes so intense they seemed to stare into his soul right from the yellowed newsprint. Porter’s words came back to him. “I can’t believe I let you kill me twice.” He’d also said that his death at RISD had been his first time. And that he’d begged for his life. And to think Riley had believed Westwood’s assertion that he didn’t kill humans. Unable to look at the paintings or the articles any longer, he stowed them all back where he’d found them. Then he pulled his knees up to his chest and lowered his face into them, trying his best to pretend he’d imagined the whole thing.

HE SAT in the crawl space for at least an hour, haunted by visions of Porter’s death, of the deaths of all those young men in their twenties. He thought about the way Westwood had climbed on top of him and held him down. If he’d continued to struggle, Westwood would have probably forced him into submission. Might have even killed him if he

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fought hard enough. With his relationship with Nick on the rocks, Riley had been ready to let Westwood do whatever he wanted—but really, would consent have been any safer? Thank God for Coliaro, he thought. He really couldn’t blame Porter for not trusting Westwood. How painful must it have been for him, to have to see the man at every turn, to hear his voice? Suddenly realizing that the worst thing for his safety was for Westwood to find him in the crawl space, he made his way back out as quickly as possible, pushing the boxes out of the way, closing and latching the door, and returning the boxes to their original positions. He stumbled out of the closet and headed for the bed, collapsing onto it as if he’d just finished working for eighteen hours straight. He heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. Heart pounding, he tried to listen for the pace and weight of the steps. He recognized that slow, cocky strut. It had to be Westwood. But at this point, he didn’t know which of the two undead men would have been the better choice to be coming up to the bedroom. The doorknob turned, and the door swung open with a whiny creak. In stepped Westwood, looking ten years older than he had just earlier that day. He heaved, out of breath. Exhausted. Blood was spattered across his shirt, and Riley couldn’t tell if it was his or Coliaro’s. His arms were slashed. His throat was slashed. He held his hands at either side of his body, fingers outstretched. They were coated completely in blood. The blood extended halfway up to his elbows. It dripped on the off-white carpet. With a heavy swallow, Westwood finally found enough breath to speak. “It’s finished,” he said.

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Chapter 12

WESTWOOD gave Riley no warning as he led him down the stairs. There was blood sprayed across the wall, and there were dents in the plaster that weren’t there before. The coffee table was broken, and glass shards lay everywhere. And Coliaro’s body was draped across the sofa. Heart removed, hands removed. His back was unnaturally arched. It must have been broken. He was cut up much worse than Westwood, and Riley had a sinking feeling that Westwood had done much of the cutting after Coliaro was already dead. He couldn’t stand to look at the horrifically mutilated corpse. But when he turned away, he couldn’t avoid the smears of blood on the walls. Signs of brutality surrounded him at every turn. At his side, Westwood panted like an injured dog. He limped as they made their way down the stairs. Riley glanced in the man’s direction and was shocked by the barbarity in his eyes. He looked like he was clinging to the last shred of his humanity, like he might snap at the slightest shift in the air and return to his previous state of frenzy. “You want to… wash your hands?” Riley asked weakly. He was unnerved by the man’s dripping gloves of liquid red. Maybe cleansing him of the physical remnants of the battle would somehow bring him back to a more civil state. When Westwood didn’t reply, Riley clumsily grabbed him by the elbow, leading him into the kitchen and toward the sink. He pulled the man’s arms down under the faucet, letting the warm water dilute the red and send it down the drain in ghosted swirls. Westwood showed no response, staring blankly as Riley scrubbed at his forearms. In a way, Riley felt equally numb. He thought about those boys in the newspaper articles. Any doubt he’d previously held about whether or not Westwood was truly capable of such brutality was now gone. As intense as he usually was, Riley could now see hints of

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something even more frightening under the surface. Porter had said that Westwood had to learn how to be human all over again. Apparently he wasn’t as far along in his studies as Riley had hoped. “You should go back home,” Westwood said. Riley realized Westwood was no longer in good enough condition to follow through on the previous plan of extortion, and he was utterly shocked at the bit of disappointment that rose within him. Don’t be a jackass, he told himself. Be thankful you didn’t just get in bed with a murderer. Westwood headed for the front door. As Riley followed him, he suddenly remembered he’d left his jacket somewhere. Eyes widening, he spotted it strewn across the kitchen table amidst a scattering of broken china. Westwood paused, following his line of sight. “So he knew I was here,” Riley said. Westwood didn’t reply. It occurred to him that most of the damage and most of the blood were on the wall by the stairs. There would have been no reason for Westwood and Coliaro to fight on the stairs—unless Westwood had been trying to hold Coliaro off. Westwood stared at him, but Riley couldn’t meet his eyes. He grabbed his jacket and followed Westwood outside. “You want to drive?” Westwood asked as they stepped outside and approached the car. “I just need half an hour or so to recover. I’ll go with you and drive the car back to my place after.” “I can take a cab,” Riley said. “I don’t want a cab coming here. Just get in the car.” When they arrived back at the school parking lot and Riley pulled in next to his own car, he was tempted to ask what Westwood’s plans were regarding their “debt.” But he didn’t want to bring up the subject. Part of him hoped that the man had forgotten. He had no such luck. As he climbed out of the car, Westwood called after him, “In time, I’ll come back for you. We have unfinished business.”

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RILEY jumped Nick from behind the second he walked through the door at a quarter past nine. He tore Nick’s pants open, plunging his hand inside and grabbing him. “Riley!” Nick cried, startled. “What are you doing?” “I want you. Now!” “Whoa, slow down. I just walked in the—” Riley reached around him, tearing his shirt open. He bit down on the nape of Nick’s neck, drawing out a shocked gasp. “Upstairs,” Riley said. “I want you to fuck me.” Nick’s breath caught. He seemed torn between hanging up the jacket he had slung over his arm and putting down his briefcase, or letting Riley drag him up to the bedroom. After what appeared to be an epic struggle within his mind, he made his decision, tossing his jacket and briefcase carelessly aside and following Riley up the stairs. As they turned the corner into the bedroom, Riley tore at Nick’s belt. His urgent passion rubbed off on Nick, who turned back to him and grabbed the waist of his shirt, yanking it up over his head. Frantically, they undressed each other, and Riley’s heart rushed in excitement when he saw how aroused Nick had become. Nick wrapped him in his arms, kissing him hungrily, plunging in with his tongue. He pushed Riley backward, heading for the bed, and Riley gasped as the backs of his knees collided with the edge of the mattress. He fell hard on his back, and Nick wrapped a hand around his neck, holding Riley still as he sucked at his mouth. Riley shivered at the weight of Nick’s hand at his throat. He felt unexpectedly vulnerable. If it had been Westwood’s hand, he likely would have panicked. But this was Nick, he reminded himself. He grabbed Nick’s other hand, pulling it down past his waist and pressing it between his legs. Immediately, Nick tightened his grip. A slow pump, a rub with his thumb, all things he knew would work wonders on his lover. Riley moaned, melting into Nick’s touch. Nick withdrew his hand from Riley’s neck and reached blindly across the bed for something Riley couldn’t see. When his hand returned, it glistened with lubricant. Riley braced himself, grabbing Nick’s shoulders. His eyes fell upon the Coliaro painting on the far wall, and when Nick’s fingers grazed him, he recoiled.

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“Damn it,” he said under his breath. Nick reached awkwardly beneath him, and Riley accidentally knocked the side of his head with his knee. “Sorry!” he gasped. They shifted, but Riley again felt himself retreating from Nick’s hand. Finally, with a growl of frustration, he pulled away and climbed off the bed. “Riley?” Nick called after him, puzzled. Riley yanked the painting off the wall, stalking down the hall and setting it facedown on the floor around the corner. When he returned to the bedroom, Nick was staring at him with a look of concern and confusion. “Come on,” Riley said, sliding back into bed and pulling Nick down atop him. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Nick asked hesitantly. “Stop asking me that! Just do it!” Nick’s hand slid back down between his thighs, squeezing beneath him. Riley raised his hips. With a rough lunge, Nick buried his fingers in Riley’s body. “Ow!” Riley cried. “Sorry. You okay?” Riley couldn’t find his voice. He gave only a weak nod before his head fell back against the mattress. Nick slid his fingers in and out, curved them, and rubbed him from the inside. Riley frowned with discomfort. “Come on,” he pleaded. He grabbed Nick’s cock. “Just put it inside me.” Nick grabbed the lubricant again, slicking it over himself. Riley closed his eyes, bracing himself as he waited. He felt Nick’s hands slipping under his knees, shoving them back until they were pressed tight to his chest. His muscles tensed. RISD Student Alex Raimes Murdered; Body Found in Park No, Riley thought. Stop thinking. Just focus on Nick. Nick slid his length up and down between Riley’s legs, rubbing against the entrance. Riley remembered the feel of Westwood’s hardened cock pressing against him, Westwood’s hands on him. College Student Beaten, Murdered in Lincoln Park

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“No,” Riley groaned out loud. Nick hesitated, pulling back. “Riley?” Riley opened his eyes. He met Nick’s concerned gaze. “Nothing, don’t stop,” he said. “Keep going. Fuck me.” Nick’s eyebrows furrowed, but he continued, as Riley had asked. He pressed forward against Riley. Riley pulled back out of reflex. “Baby, do you really want to do this?” Westwood’s black eyes, bearing down on him. “Yes,” Riley groaned. “Yes. Please!” Again, Nick pressed forward. Riley winced, teeth bared, eyes squeezed shut. It took all his willpower not to recoil. Nick pulled back again. Frowning, Riley raised his head, seeing that Nick’s arousal had begun to dwindle. “Wh… what happened?” he asked dumbly. “I can’t do this,” Nick said. “I look at your face, and you look like you’re scared to death. Like you’re being attacked.” “I want it,” Riley insisted. “You’re too tense. If I do it now, it’ll hurt like hell.” “I don’t care!” He grabbed Nick’s arms, pulling him down on top of him. “Do it. Just do it!” “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because I can’t now,” Nick said coldly. He rolled off Riley and onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I tried,” Riley said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Nick was clearly embarrassed by his own momentary failure, but nonetheless he shifted, wrapping Riley into a tight embrace, apparently ready to put his own issues aside and comfort his partner. “Calm down, baby. Easy.” He nuzzled against Riley’s neck. “There’s plenty of time for this. We’ll get there. I just don’t want to hurt you.” “I don’t care if you hurt me,” Riley said, his voice muffled in Nick’s hair. His chest ached. All he wanted was for Nick to take him, to be rough with him, to pound into him until he wasn’t able to think anymore. “Riley,” Nick whispered in his ear. “You know I’d never want to do that.”

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Riley didn’t reply, didn’t move. In several minutes, his muscles finally began to soften. He let his neck relax, falling back against the mattress. He forced all the thoughts out of his head, concentrating only on the feeling of Nick’s body resting against his own.

THANKSGIVING came and went without a fuss. Nick and Riley spent a pleasant afternoon in the kitchen together, passing vegetables back and forth, juggling between the stove and oven as if they were part of a dance performance. As if by mutual agreement, neither one of them spoke of their disastrous attempt in the bedroom, but the tension clearly still existed. They went for days without any form of sexual contact. Something wasn’t quite right, and Riley knew that his lingering thoughts about Westwood weren’t helping the situation. Riley finally got the freelance job he had been hoping for over Thanksgiving break—a complex T-shirt design for an indie shop in New York. He worked peacefully during the day and slept peacefully at night, with Nick spooning him, wrapping him in his protective arms. He loved the man’s steady, rhythmic breaths on the back of his neck. He loved feeling his heartbeat. But even as he lay within Nick’s arms, he wondered how Westwood was doing. There were only a couple of weeks’ worth of classes in December, and before Riley knew it, he was in the homestretch leading up to winter break. With Coliaro gone at last, Riley was finally able to relax. He no longer felt vulnerable standing naked in front of the class at Prestwick, as if Coliaro were still watching him. Seeing the improvement in Riley’s poses, Mr. Tobias had returned to painting him in class rather than making rounds the entire time. That wasn’t the only thing Riley found gratifying. He was also incredibly impressed by the rapid improvement in Kevin’s art. Throughout the early weeks of December, he’d heard nothing from Westwood. There was nothing in the news regarding Coliaro’s death. Westwood had done a great job of concealing it. Only one person stood between Riley and his hope for a peaceful state of mind, and that was Porter. Riley had spoken to Porter on the phone a few times, and it was clear even from their superficial conversations that Porter was still anxious. Over the line, he sounded

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like he was constantly out of breath. He asked a lot of questions about Westwood. He asked for details about Westwood’s final moments with Coliaro, of which Riley knew little, having avoided the action by snooping around in Westwood’s crawl space. Every time Porter asked about Westwood, Riley felt his own discomfort flaring. He didn’t have the heart to tell Porter he knew about his murder at RISD. During one phone call, Riley carefully broached the subject, asking Porter to tell him how he’d first died. Porter had gone silent on the other end of the line. Then he’d said something about ramen noodles getting soggy and abruptly hung up.

IT

WAS Wednesday, Riley’s last pose before winter break: seated,

torso turned toward the back of the stool, arms grasping the seat. The session was quieter than usual. Being the last day before the break, a handful of students had decided not to show up. Mr. Tobias sat among the class, a smile on his face as he attacked the canvas with quick, confident brushstrokes. When the class came to a close, the instructor extended a hand to him, helping him off the modeling platform. “You’re posing better than ever,” he said. “Can I see your painting?” Mr. Tobias led Riley to his easel, and Riley stared down at his work with admiration. “You’re so great at this,” he said. “I don’t know why you don’t sell your work at galleries.” “I guess I’m fine with just being a teacher,” the man said with a shrug. “I leave the galleries to the real professionals, like Coliaro.” Riley bit his lip, his face flushing with guilt. Pulling away from Mr. Tobias, he headed behind the curtain and began to dress himself. “Oh, speaking of which,” Mr. Tobias began, “I got a call from Coliaro just the other day. He invited me out for dinner at the seafood place on Fruitville Road, and he said he’d be honored if you could come and join us.” Half-dressed, pants still unzipped, Riley stumbled back out from behind the curtain. “What? What did you just say?” “I said that Coliaro invited us out for dinner. This Saturday.”

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“Y… you talked to him?” “Yes. Of course.” “When?” “What was it? Two days ago. Monday.” Riley gaped at him. When Mr. Tobias saw the expression on his face, he laughed out loud. “Come on, Riley, there’s no need to be so surprised. You had to have known Coliaro is crazy about you. And this is a great opportunity to get to know him better. Networking—you know how important that is.” He’d gone pale. A cold sweat washed over his body. “I don’t think I can make it,” he wheezed. “I planned to spend the evening with my boyfriend.” A lie, of course. “He’s welcome to come along,” Mr. Tobias said, and Riley could think of nothing more awkward. “This is a big deal. I’m not going to let you say no!” He pulled Riley forward, tousling his hair. “You got a world-renowned artist on your side, kiddo! Don’t let this opportunity slip away.”

WHEN Riley called Porter during the walk back to his car to tell him the news, Porter didn’t seem shocked in the least. Riley found it annoying. “What’s your problem?” he demanded. “What do you know that the rest of us don’t?” “I don’t know anything,” Porter replied. “I guess I’m just a little bit more cynical about Westwood and his methods than you are. That whole hands and heart thing—it was too simple.” “Too simple? You didn’t see Westwood after that fight. He got the shit beaten out of him.” “That doesn’t mean anything. He’s undead; he’s not afraid of getting a few cuts and scrapes.” Fuming, Riley asked, “If you’re so much smarter than Westwood, how do you think we can kill Coliaro for good?” There was a pause. Then at last, Porter said, “I’m still working on it.”

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Riley was about to follow up with a biting comment when he noticed an odd grouping of students straight ahead in the parking lot. There were ten or fifteen of them, huddled in a circle in front of his car. Furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, he said, “I’ll call you back,” and stowed his phone in his pocket before jogging the remainder of the way to the Corolla. Anna Maria stood at the edge of the pack. When she saw Riley, she ran up to his side. “Hey,” she began; apparently she didn’t remember his name. “Campus security is on the way. S-something happened.” “What happened?” Riley asked. Somehow he managed to sound calm and collected. Anna Maria turned to a slender Asian girl. “Julie, you called security, right?” “Yeah, I talked to the smoker lady. Someone should be here by now.” “What happened?” Riley asked again. He pushed forward, but the crowd of students seemed to have doubled within the last fifteen seconds. Kids were holding out cell phones, snapping pictures of his car. Anna Maria reached into her pocket. “This is ridiculous. I’m calling the real police.” Riley wrestled through the crowd, pushing stray elbows and book bags and portfolios out of the way. As he finally made it to the front of the pack, he tripped over a kid’s foot and fell headlong across the hood of his car. He heard gasps and cries all around him, and he felt something wet beneath his forearm. After managing to right himself, he looked down at his car and had to grab a neighboring student to avoid losing his footing again. There were two severed hands propped against his windshield, cradling a heart. Blood dribbled over the hood, ending in a wide smear where his forearm had landed. On the back of one of the hands was the number fourteen. He had no idea whose arm he was grabbing, but he dug his fingers in tight, reeling from shock. He thought he might be sick. Somewhere behind him, a male voice said in a confidential tone, “Hey,

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isn’t that the same model who found Porter’s body?” Another voice gave an affirmative reply, and their conversation faded into whispers. “Hey.” Someone was tugging at his sleeve. He turned and met Anna Maria’s eyes. “You know, four of the paintings I did of you were stolen. I just thought I’d tell you. I was worried. I thought maybe someone was stalking you.” Riley didn’t reply right away. He knew now that Westwood had planted Porter’s body and stolen the paintings. However, this wasn’t Westwood’s work. Someone was trying to send him a message. He wondered if Coliaro had told one of his followers to leave the heart and hands on his car. “Thanks,” he said hollowly. “For telling me.” He heard the sound of approaching sirens, and the crowd of students rapidly thinned. Julie and Anna Maria stayed put. From their behavior, Riley gathered that they’d been the first to discover the scene. He gave them a grateful smile. He didn’t know what to expect from the police, and he didn’t want to face their questions alone. He suddenly realized that Julie was waving a tissue in front of him. Taking it, he mopped the blood off his arm and sleeve. Some of it had already dried and stained his arm, and he’d need to get to a sink to wash it off all the way. The shirt was a lost cause. He only hoped his mind wouldn’t be the second casualty.

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Chapter 13

ALTHOUGH Riley was upset about the heart and hands on his car, neither was he thrilled over the fact that he had to turn his vehicle over to the police. To make matters worse, there was no way of concealing the circumstances from Nick. His boyfriend did not handle the news well. As Riley told him what had happened, he paced manically around the living room without saying a word. Riley knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to tell Riley to stay out of harm’s way, as usual. With that in mind, Riley wasn’t about to tell Nick he’d been invited out to dinner with Coliaro that weekend. Mr. Tobias dismissed the connection between Coliaro and the severed hands and heart. He firmly believed Coliaro had nothing to do with the murders and insisted on keeping their dinner plans. Every day until Saturday, he called and left a message on Riley’s cell phone, reminding him of the inevitable. Resigned to his fate, Riley tried to look at the bright side of the situation. There was no way Coliaro would dare to do anything to him in the middle of a crowded restaurant. And maybe, if he asked the right questions, he might be able to find a clue about Coliaro’s weakness. Luck was on his side. On Saturday evening, a work emergency kept Nick glued to his cell phone. When Riley told him he planned to go out to dinner with a Prestwick instructor, Nick simply shooed him away and told him to have a good time before returning his attention to his phone call. The seafood place Coliaro had in mind was formal. Riley dug up his one and only suit for the occasion, holding it in front of him as he contemplated its subtle sheen. It was slick and modern, and Nick had always told him that he looked sexy in it. Knowing Coliaro’s history, he wondered if sexy was the way to go.

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But it was the only “nice” clothing he owned. After dressing, he made his way down the stairs and sat in the living room, waiting nervously for Mr. Tobias like a virgin on prom night. As punctual as always, the instructor appeared at exactly six o’clock. Unable to find enough words to form any suitable conversation, Riley simply headed out the door and toward his car. Mr. Tobias looked concerned, but he didn’t ask any questions. Instead, as he shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, he said, “You know, Coliaro couldn’t stop talking about you when I was on the phone with him. He had so many good things to say, not that I could blame him. Don’t worry about tonight. You have nothing to prove. He’s already just about obsessed with you.” Despite Mr. Tobias’s best intentions, that was not Riley’s idea of calming news. He sucked in a breath, then exhaled deeply, trying to steady his nerves. Hesitantly, he asked, “This is just dinner, right? He doesn’t have anything planned for after?” “Nothing that I’m aware of. But if there’s something you had in mind, I’m sure we could convince him.” “No!” Riley cleared his throat. More calmly, he added, “I mean, that’s not necessary. And I have an early morning tomorrow, so I probably shouldn’t stay out too late anyway.” “Got it.” As Mr. Tobias continued to drive, Riley began to relax. He forced himself to look at this as an opportunity. Coliaro, he told himself, was the one who should be scared. After all, Riley was more determined than ever to find his weakness. And not only did Riley have two undead on his side, he was also fueled by the fury of losing his trusty old Corolla. The restaurant had valet parking. Not good, Riley thought. If they needed to make a quick getaway, their car wouldn’t be readily accessible. Riley tried to scare Mr. Tobias out of turning over his keys, citing stolen change and altered radio settings as evidence. Mr. Tobias chuckled, tousling his hair and getting out of the car. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He stumbled after the instructor, warning him that valets liked to take cars out for joyrides. Mr. Tobias simply looked at his six-year-old minivan, then back at Riley with a raised eyebrow.

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Coliaro waited for them outside the restaurant, dressed in his own elegant European suit. His tie was blood red, and Riley remembered the last time he’d seen him: keeled over with a gaping, bloody hole in the middle of his chest. Coliaro reached out, giving Mr. Tobias a brotherly around-the-shoulder hug. Then he turned to Riley. “My dear,” he said. He pulled Riley into a much tighter hug, and Riley felt a hand running lasciviously down his back. When they pulled apart, he was sure he didn’t imagine the sinister glint in the man’s eyes. After Coliaro had a friendly conversation with the maître d’, they were seated at a prime location. It was a high-backed booth, tucked around a corner and nearly isolated from the view of the other restaurant patrons. Riley, first to reach the table, had no choice but to slide into one of the empty booth benches. He was dismayed—but not surprised—when Coliaro took the seat beside him and blocked him in. Coliaro ordered a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine for the table. After that exorbitant a purchase, Riley knew Mr. Tobias would never let him get away with refusing a glass. “You look flustered,” Coliaro said to Riley, a sly smirk on his face. He lowered a hand onto Riley’s thigh, and Riley tensed. “Is something the matter?” He searched for words; now was not the time for his gift of lying to suddenly disappear. “I just need to wash my hands.” He gestured with his head. “If you’d excuse me….” “Excellent timing,” Coliaro said. “I have to wash mine too. John, would you watch the table for us?” Teeth gritted, Riley waited for Coliaro to stand. Then he slid out of the booth and made his way toward the restroom. He could sense Coliaro’s eyes on him as he walked, and it gave him a chill. The restroom was spacious and meticulously clean, with marble counters and individual cloth drying towels rolled perfectly and stacked within a well-designed metal basket. When Riley caught his reflection in the mirror, he flinched. He’d had no idea how obvious the anxiety was on his face, and upon seeing it reflected back at him, he realized Coliaro was probably getting a good laugh at his expense. Coliaro finished washing his hands first, and then he took one of the towels and dried off. After tossing it into the nearby bin, he stepped

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up behind Riley, laying his hands on his shoulders. “Tense, as always,” he said. “Don’t touch me.” Coliaro didn’t withdraw. Instead he tightened his grip and began rubbing, giving Riley one of his famous unsolicited massages. “Have you seen our friend Westwood recently?” he asked. “N-no,” Riley stammered. “Why would I have seen him?” “I know you were in his house that day.” He found a knot in Riley’s muscles and kneaded it firmly. “Hiding.” Riley squirmed, stifling a pained gasp. What had begun as a massage was transforming into something far less innocent. When he tried to pull away, Coliaro bit in hard with his fingertips. “As always, you don’t seem to know what you’ve gotten yourself into. You may think Westwood was protecting you from me, but I know him better than that. I know he’d never help you if he didn’t expect to get something in return.” “This isn’t about Westwood,” Riley said, his lip curling into a scowl as Coliaro dug even harder into his muscle. “Westwood isn’t the one who has people killing on his behalf.” Ignoring the comment, Coliaro let his grasp loosen and slide outward. He wrapped his long fingers around Riley’s upper arms. “You’ve mentioned your boyfriend a few times.” He snickered. “Are you this fidgety with him?” Something about Coliaro’s sudden reference to Nick made his stomach churn. Even though he couldn’t be sure what angle Coliaro was playing, Riley at once knew that he had to get out of that bathroom and back to a place with witnesses. As he yanked against the man’s grip, he almost expected Coliaro to pull him back. Thankfully Coliaro released him, allowing him to head for the exit. When they arrived back at the table, the waiter had just appeared with their bottle of wine and an elaborate freestanding decanter. Coliaro motioned for Riley to get back into the booth and then slid in after him. “You’ll love this wine,” he said to his two companions. Weakly, Riley reassured himself that the three of them were all drinking out of the same bottle, and surely Coliaro wouldn’t think to

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drug both of his guests and himself. And at the very least, he told himself, the wine would do wonders at calming his nerves. Three glasses later, he felt completely relaxed. Coliaro told them about his newly purchased yacht, promising both of them a ride. The conversation then shifted to art, and Riley fed into a sadistic impulse tugging at the corner of his mind. “Mr. Tobias always gets on my case for being an art history dunce,” he confessed. “In fact, Coliaro, when he first told me that you wanted me to pose for you, I didn’t actually know who you were.” Coliaro chuckled. “That’s all right, my dear. If given the choice, I’d always take obscurity over infamy.” “But you haven’t had that choice for the past five years, have you?” Riley asked. Nervous, Mr. Tobias gave him a nudge under the table with the tip of his boot. “I suppose you’re right. It was an unfortunate situation that was beyond my control.” “I’m sorry,” Riley said insincerely. “I didn’t mean to get on an uncomfortable subject. What I meant to get at was that I’m very glad to have finally discovered your artwork.” He raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing I love more than the discovery of a new artist I hadn’t known before. Just recently, one of my friends got me interested in Hieronymus Bosch.” Coliaro appeared to choke on his wine. “Bosch?” Mr. Tobias asked obliviously. “That’s an odd choice, especially for you.” “Not really. I know the subject matter behind The Garden of Earthly Delights is pretty straightforward and biblical, but I can’t help but think that, with the third panel of the triptych, Bosch was exploring the idea of justice.” “Justice?” interpretation.”

Mr.

Tobias

asked.

“That’s

an

interesting

“Not if you know where he’s coming from. See, Bosch’s father was an artistic advisor to the Illustrious Brotherhood of Our Blessed

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Lady. And there was a particular sworn member who caused some problems for him. Oh, what was that man’s name?” Again, he sent a sideways glance in Coliaro’s direction. “Anyway, the point is his dad wasn’t able to bring this man to justice. I wonder if maybe Bosch stuck that guy’s likeness somewhere in the right panel of his triptych as payback. I bet you he did.” A chuckle. “There’s something vaguely familiar about that one dude with the flute stuck up his ass.” Coliaro’s face went hard. Apparently Riley had struck a nerve. “Anthonius van Aken was an inferior talent not suited to be an artistic advisor to anyone,” he said heatedly. Before Riley or Mr. Tobias could reply, the waiter arrived with their entrees. Apparently searching for a change of subject, Mr. Tobias glanced at the three dishes and said to Riley, “Atlantic Whitefish— excellent choice.” Riley grinned mischievously. “That’s the secret to my diet: lean protein. Not to mention I just can’t get enough of it. We all have something like that. My boyfriend Nick’s weakness is rare steak.” He turned, cocking his head. “Tell me, Coliaro, what’s your weakness?” Coliaro stared back at him, the pent-up rage clear in his eyes. Doing his best to stay calm and collected, he said, “Well… I’d have to say a good glass of Cabernet.” “With a side of Tuscan soup?” Coliaro gave a brief smirk. Riley turned back to Mr. Tobias. “Did I tell you? Coliaro invited me to dinner at his house back in October.” “Really?” Mr. Tobias asked, both fascinated and surprised. “Why didn’t you ever mention it?” “It was quite an event,” Riley said, still eyeing the artist across the table. “We got to know each other very well. He’s got a gorgeous Victorian canopy bed.” Mr. Tobias faltered. He looked back at Coliaro, swallowed, and then returned his gaze to Riley. “O-oh. That’s… nice.” Back to Coliaro, he said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen your house. But I hear it’s quite the sight.” “I’ll show you sometime,” Coliaro said.

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“You know what’s even better?” Riley asked. “His studio. Speaking of which—Coliaro, you promised to show me around the storage room where you keep all your paintings. When I glanced in there the first time, I saw a portrait of Mr. Tobias.” The instructor let out a reminiscent laugh. “Shit, man! I can’t believe you kept that!” He turned to Riley, eager to tell the story. “This was just after he’d come back to Florida after traveling through Europe. The only work of his that I was really familiar with was his Oscuro Bello series. When he asked to paint me, I thought he planned to do a nude, and I said hell, no! And what did you say after that, Coliaro?” “I don’t remember.” “How could you forget?” He turned back to Riley. “He said, ‘I only paint images that people would actually want on their walls’.” He cackled; clearly he’d had a good deal of the wine as well. “There’s another painting I saw,” Riley said. “Mr. Tobias, maybe you know this one too? It was a full-body draped figure, done in a sort of Northern Renaissance style. A guy in his twenties with light-brown hair.” Across the table, Coliaro went rigid. “Hmm,” Mr. Tobias mused. “I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of his paintings. It’s hard to keep them straight.” “What else was there about the painting?” Riley asked. “There were a couple of columns behind the figure, with a view of the landscape behind it. It looked a lot like Jan Van Eyck’s The Virgin of Chancellor Rolin.” “Oh! I know what you’re talking about.” Mr. Tobias smiled at Coliaro. “That’s the painting that you’re always so protective of, the one you refuse to show anyone. I remember when I was at your studio in Chicago, and I found it behind a cabinet—you threw a fit! And you said it absolutely could not leave the studio.” Back to Riley. “He never did tell me who it was in the painting, but I bet you anything it was a self-portrait. I’d recognize those deep-set eyes anywhere.” Riley turned back to Coliaro, a wicked smile on his face. “A selfportrait? Is that so?” Coliaro’s jaw tightened. “It’s not a self-portrait.”

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“Oh, don’t be embarrassed!” Mr. Tobias said. “I’m sure we all have a piece of artwork we’re ashamed to show people. And more often than not, self-portraits are the culprit.” Seeing the malice growing in Coliaro’s eyes, Riley knew it was time to make a quick—albeit tactless—exit. He jumped a bit in his seat, as if startled. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “That’s my cell phone. My boyfriend said he’d call me if he had an emergency, and I promised I’d return his call. I hate to be rude. Let me step out for a moment.” He physically crawled over Coliaro to get out of the booth, leaving both him and Mr. Tobias stunned. Once he got through the double doors at the other end of the restaurant, he fished out his cell phone and called a cab.

“PORTER,” Riley gasped. He sat in the back of the cab, nearly bouncing in his seat as he held his phone to his ear. “Porter, I have to tell you something I found out about Coliaro!” “Riley,” Porter said. “He invited me and Mr. Tobias out to dinner, and I got a chance to grill him, and Mr. Tobias told me something Coliaro didn’t want me to know.” “Riley, wait.” “What?” “I heard on the news—there’s been another murder. Number fourteen.” Riley leaned back in his seat. “I know. The bastard left the heart and hands on my windshield.” He glanced at the cab driver, wondering if he was listening in. “What are they saying on the news? Do they know who it is?” “There’s no way to tell yet. They’re running the fingerprints.” There was desperation in Porter’s voice. “I was so worried. For some reason I got it in my mind that it was Kevin. I mean, it was on school campus and everything. I tried to call him, just to see if he’d pick up, and nothing.”

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“Kevin was in class on Monday. He seemed all right then.” “That was two days before the murder! Who knows what could have happened since then?” “True.” He frowned. “Don’t get too worked up over it. Kevin might just be away from his phone. Or if he has your number stored as one of his contacts, he might be freaked out to be getting an incoming call from his old dead roommate.” A pause. “Hmm. I should probably change my number.” Remembering why he’d called, Riley said, “Porter, listen. I called you because I have something urgent that we need to do. When I was in Coliaro’s studio, I saw this huge full-body portrait. Well, it turns out it’s a self-portrait of Coliaro, back when he was young—and human. Back in the Northern Renaissance, before he stopped aging. Anyway, I was thinking—remember in Bosch’s sketchbook, the last sentence?” “Yeah, that’s where Bosch’s father tells him that he’s the only one who can kill Coliaro.” “It was, ‘He said that I, now a great artist, was one of the few who could accomplish this important task’.” “Yeah? And?” “Bosch’s father said to remove Coliaro’s heart and hands. But he said only a great artist could accomplish this task. I think he meant the heart and hands have to be removed in the painting! The same way they were removed in all the paintings in the Oscuro Bello series.” “You mean we have to get Coliaro’s self-portrait and paint out his hands and heart?” “Yes!” “You don’t think maybe we have to do some sort of ritual and paint something with our own blood to make the painting change?” “No. If all it took was a ritual, then there would be no reason for Coliaro to be so protective of the original portrait. Besides, the sketchbook says Coliaro painted a self-portrait that was admired by the entire town. Then it says to remove the heart and hands, and that only an artist can accomplish this task. Isn’t it at least worth a try?”

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There was a pause on the other end. Then, after a sigh, Porter said, “That sounds insane. But I almost think you might be onto something.” “I am onto something! Coliaro is hiding something about that painting. Mr. Tobias says he saw it once, and Coliaro freaked out on him too! I bet that’s why he keeps it in the studio, so it’s never out of his sight. But Porter, he knows I’m thinking about that self-portrait. And I kind of… accidentally dropped some hints that I might know what it said in Bosch’s sketchbook. The second Coliaro gets a chance, he’s going to go and move it from his studio. We have to go to St. Petersburg right now! We have to get that painting before he can come back!” “Aw, man.” Porter said something incoherent. “Riley, I’m out of town. I’m on a road trip to Chicago.” “What? Why?” “Don’t you remember, I told you I was going to go visit the college? I figured I’d drive up here early, do some sightseeing. Maybe check out the Christmas window displays. And then head over to the college to take a look. I have an appointment for mid-January.” “Why the hell do you need to spend an entire month in Chicago? You know it’ll be all cold and slushy and disgusting this time of year.” “I’ve been stuck in Sarasota for, like, a decade. I need to stretch my wings. And I thought it might be a good idea to check out the school where Coliaro taught. I thought maybe it’d give us some leads. This was before your big revelation about the self-portrait.” “And you didn’t think to tell me that you were going to be leaving for a month?” “Chill, dude. It’s not like we’re boyfriends.” “Can you at least turn around and come back?” “I’m already in Kentucky. I don’t think I’m going to be much help this time.” “Then can you call Westwood? Do you have his number?” “Westwood doesn’t give people his number. If he needs you, he finds you. Not the other way around.”

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“Fine. Never mind. I have to go.” Bitterly, he muttered, “Have fun in Chicago.” After flipping his phone shut and stowing it in his pocket, he leaned forward and slid the clear window open to speak to the driver. “Excuse me. I’m going to have to change our destination. I don’t remember the exact address, but I can give you directions.” “Whatever you need, kid,” the driver said.

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WHEN Westwood opened his front door and found Riley at the threshold, he stood unmoving in response. His mouth was a tight line, brows drawn together, eyes narrowed. After stretching the silence as long as it would go, he finally growled, “Did I ask you to come to my house?” “No.” Riley folded his arms, not about to be intimidated. “But I needed to talk to you, and you never gave me your phone number, so I didn’t see any other choice.” “If I wanted to see you, I would have come to you.” “I don’t care what you want,” Riley said. “Are you going to let me in or not?” A slight smile pricked at the corner of Westwood’s mouth. “Are you sure you want to do that?” He let his eyes travel unsubtly down Riley’s body. “Who knows what could happen to you while you’re in here alone with me?” Clenching his jaw, Riley stared back at him. He didn’t answer. After finally coming to the conclusion that Riley wasn’t going to back down, Westwood stepped aside. Once he was in, Riley asked, “Did you know Porter’s on a road trip to Chicago?” “Am I supposed to care?” Riley shrugged. “I just thought I’d let you know. If you need help in a fight, he’s not going to be around.” “And what makes you think I need his help?” “The first time you fought Coliaro, Porter saved your ass.” Plowing ahead before he could incur Westwood’s wrath, he added, “I’m just saying I wouldn’t have come to you if I could have gone to

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Porter. But this is urgent.” He started wringing his fingers nervously. “I’m guessing you know by now that Coliaro is still alive?” “I didn’t know. But I’m not surprised.” “I knew the whole ‘heart and hands’ thing was too simple.” “That’s easy to say after the fact.” “I seem to recall saying something to you before you went ahead and did it.” Westwood turned away, heading into the kitchen. He pulled a bag of coffee beans from an overhead cabinet and poured them into a grinder. “So anyway,” Riley continued, “Coliaro invited Mr. Tobias and me out to dinner. That’s where I was before I came here. You see, when I was—” Westwood turned on the grinder, drowning out Riley’s voice. Riley frowned, folding his arms and waiting for him to finish. When silence returned at last, he resumed speaking. “When I was in Coliaro’s studio, I saw this really old painting of a guy in his twenties. The painting looked like it was straight from the early Northern Renaissance.” “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?” “It’s what was going on in northern Europe during the time of the Renaissance in Italy.” Westwood didn’t reply. Disinterested, he emptied the coffee grounds into a coffeemaker on the counter. “Anyway, that’s the same time Hieronymus Bosch was alive. When I was at dinner, I asked Mr. Tobias about the painting, and he knew which one I was talking about. He said he thought it was Coliaro’s self-portrait, and I think he’s right. It really does look like he probably did when he was young.” “So Coliaro has a self-portrait. Don’t most artists have one?” “I’m not finished!” Riley said. “Do you remember what it said in Bosch’s sketchbook?” “Yes. Why else do you think I ripped out Coliaro’s heart and cut off his hands?”

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“You didn’t read it closely enough. First of all, Bosch specifically mentions that Coliaro painted a self-portrait that was admired by the entire town. At the end of the passage, yes, he says his father told him to remove Coliaro’s heart and hands. But after that, he said he was one of the few who could accomplish this task—because he was now a great artist.” Sounds of percolating coffee filled the room as Westwood stared back at Riley. Finally, he leaned back against the counter and asked, “Where are you going with this?” “The self-portrait that Bosch mentioned in his sketchbook—I think we’re supposed to remove Coliaro’s heart and hands in that selfportrait.” Still, Westwood was unaffected. He stood silently, watching as the coffee dripped slowly and rhythmically into the pot below. He remained silent until all the water had traveled through the coffeemaker. Then he lifted the pot, pouring two cups. He held one out in front of Riley and took a sip from the other. Shaking his head, Riley said, “I don’t have time to drink coffee. I told you, this is urgent.” Westwood shot him a dangerous glare, and Riley reluctantly took the cup from him. He looked down into it. “Do you have cream and sugar?” Westwood choked on his coffee. Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Seriously?” “Some of us human folk still have taste buds.” Westwood glanced toward his refrigerator and shook his head. “I don’t keep that kind of stuff.” Riley shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter, but tolerable. He took a few more sips, watching out of the corner of his eye as Westwood leaned back against the sink, drinking from his own cup. After the silence grew too long to ignore, Riley finally asked, “So? What do you think?” Westwood appeared to be searching for words. To Riley, it seemed he was trying to think of a way to refute the theory, but couldn’t come up with anything. Trying to speed along the process,

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Riley said, “You’ve known Coliaro for a lot longer than I have. Do you know anything about that self-portrait?” “I never cared to look at Coliaro’s paintings.” “But do you think I’m right?” “What difference does it make to you?” “Because Coliaro knows I have my eye on that painting. At this very moment, he’s probably getting into his car and heading back to his studio to move it. I need to go back there and get that painting before he can. But I need backup. If he gets there at the same time as me, I’ll be screwed.” Westwood studied him for a moment. He sipped slowly from his coffee, clearly unmoved by Riley’s repeated assertions that this was an urgent matter. Finally, surprisingly, he set down his cup and said, “I’ll go and get the painting. You should wait here.” “I can’t wait here; I’m going too!” Westwood took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. “Do you think I’m playing?” “I need to go with you!” Riley insisted. “There are hundreds of paintings in that storage space. You wouldn’t know what to look for!” Westwood opened his mouth to argue, but no words came. After a reluctant pause, he muttered, “Fine. But if you slow me down, I’m tossing you out of there.” “If anything, you’ll slow me down.” Westwood gave Riley a little shove toward the door. “Just go.” As he followed him outside and down the driveway, he added, “By the way, I like the suit.”

COLIARO’S property was unlit, and the studio was deserted. As they turned in to the driveway, Westwood revved the engine of his Cadillac, the noise booming down the street. Wincing, Riley thought about how careful and quiet he’d been during his last visit to Coliaro’s studio. This time they seemed to be taking a much different approach.

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Westwood threw the door open and climbed out, with Riley quickly following. As they hurried toward the door, Riley asked, “Do you know how to pick locks? I don’t think that back window would still be open.” Ignoring his question, Westwood pulled back his foot and then delivered a hard kick that broke the lock, splintering the door and sending it swinging open. “That’ll work too,” Riley muttered. Westwood gave him another shove, hurrying him through the door. “Go and find your painting,” he said, sounding like a disgruntled father setting his child loose in a toy store. Riley flipped on the light and dashed quickly across the room toward the storage area. The door was closed and locked. He glanced back at Westwood, who came in further and delivered another door-shattering kick. The painting wasn’t in the same place Riley had last seen it. Urgently, he shuffled through the canvases. He could feel Westwood’s irritated gaze on his back. Out of habit, he was handling each canvas delicately in order to avoid damaging the art, and clearly Westwood didn’t see the point. A hint of a golden frame caught Riley’s eyes. With a triumphant whoop, he pulled it into view, only to find the frame was empty. He turned to Westwood, dread rising in his chest. “This was the frame that the picture was in,” he said. “Coliaro must have gotten here before us.” Westwood frowned. He took a step back, surveying the area. “I don’t think he’s been here recently. All the lights are off on his property, and besides, I know I drive a hell of a lot faster than he does.” “Then he must have moved it earlier. He must have figured I’d seen it while I was hiding in his storage room, and moved it.” “But if the painting is that important to him, he wouldn’t take it out of his studio. His studio is his sanctuary. He’s in here more often than he is anywhere else.” “I know, but what other….” Riley trailed off; something had caught his eye. Way up above, on top of the top shelf, he saw what looked like a hint of the corner of a piece of board. Eyes lighting up, he turned to Westwood. “There’s something up there!”

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Without warning, Westwood grabbed Riley around the waist, hoisting him up into the air. After an initial startled gasp, Riley steadied himself and grabbed the panel off the top of the rack. Once Westwood set him back down on the ground, he held out the panel and took a look. An eerily familiar squarish face with deep-set eyes stared back at him. There were a few wet spots on the surface. Apparently Coliaro had taken the painting out of its frame to do some touch-ups. His heart pounding, Riley turned back to Westwood. “This is it!” “You sure?” “Definitely!” “Then let’s get out of here. Now.”

“WHERE to next?” Westwood asked as they drove over the Skyway. Riley had sunken down low in the passenger seat, arms wrapped over his stomach, trying his best not to look over the edge of the window. When he was driving on the bridge, he was at least in control of his own destiny. But with Westwood’s lurching and fishtailing and near collisions, he couldn’t avoid picturing the car taking a nosedive over the edge of the bridge and into the water below. “Hey,” Westwood said, glancing at Riley out of the corner of his eye. “What’s the matter with you?” “You drive like a maniac.” The man chuckled. “Scared, huh?” “Not scared. Concerned.” “As long as you don’t get so concerned you wet yourself.” “Fuck you.” After a long silence, Westwood asked again, “So where are we going now?” “I don’t know. We have a few options. We could hold onto the painting until Porter gets back. He’d obviously be the best person to make the changes. Or we could drive out to Chicago and try to catch him there.”

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“You really want to go to all that trouble just to have Porter paint this picture?” “Do you have any other ideas?” Westwood turned to him. “I thought you were an artist too.” “I mostly do digital painting and vector art. I’m not so good with oils. I mean, I got a good enough grade in my painting class, but that was….” “Because you slept with the teacher?” Riley glared at him. “Anything that happened with Mr. Tobias was long after my grade was finalized.” Westwood let out a shocked laugh. “Shit, you really slept with your teacher? Because I was just joking.” Riley’s glare intensified. “You’re no good at joking,” he said at last. Turning back to the road, he sank down lower in his seat. “I don’t know. I guess I’m an okay painter. But I haven’t used oils in years. I don’t even own oils anymore.” “So we’ll go to Porter’s place. I’m sure he has some stashed away in there.” “I don’t know,” Riley sighed. “I think it might be better to just hold onto the painting until Porter comes back.” “I hear Prestwick is an expensive school. But here you are, a college graduate, posing naked for money and not even capable enough to paint a few bloody stumps over someone else’s portrait. I’m sure your parents are thrilled to have dropped all that cash for your career.” “For your information, I paid for college with scholarships and student loans. And besides, it’s not like I didn’t get my money’s worth. I do have a career in freelance illustration. It just takes a few years to build up enough clients to make it a full-time job.” Westwood smirked. Clearly he hadn’t meant much by his previous comment and found it amusing that Riley had gotten so defensive in response. “So if you’re still such a good artist, why don’t you fix the painting yourself?” “I don’t know how good you have to be. I don’t want to mess it up. I think it’d be a better idea to wait for Porter.” “And what do we do with the painting until then?”

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“Can’t you keep it in your place? You’re probably the only one who’d be able to protect it against Coliaro.” Westwood shrugged. For the rest of the drive, they remained quiet, only breaking the silence to make an idle comment here and there. The streetlights flew by in dizzying streaks, melting together into long, swooping lines. Riley felt his eyelids drooping. He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but as he lay slumped in the corner between the passenger door and his seat, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He groaned and shook it off. Just a few more minutes. The hand shook him again. He grabbed it, pulling it close to his chest and squeezing it tight. The hand went rigid for a moment and then relaxed. He raised it to his face, brushing his lips against the ridged knuckles. “Riley.” He awoke with a start, pulling back and looking around. Westwood sat in the driver’s seat beside him, staring at him. He vaguely remembered caressing a thick, veined hand to his lips, and felt his cheeks burning. “Westwood…. What…?” “We’re here,” Westwood said. “Where?” “My house.” “Why?” Westwood raised an eyebrow. “I’m here so I can go upstairs and get some damn sleep. You’re here so you can pick up your car and go away.” “I took a cab.” “Then you can call a cab back from here. I’m not going to make another two-hour round trip to take you home.” “I didn’t ask you to.” Riley sat up, stretching back with his arms over his head. He felt Westwood staring at him and wondered what was going through his mind.

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A buzz at his hip made him jump in surprise. As he stepped out of the car, he flipped his phone open. Incoming call from home. “It’s Nick,” he told Westwood over his shoulder, as if the man cared who was calling him. Raising the phone to his ear, he said, “Hey, baby. I know I’m late. I’m on my way home.” Silence. “Nick? You there?” “Hello, Riley.” Riley’s heart skipped. The voice on the other end of the line was not Nick’s. “Coliaro,” he gasped. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” “You sound worried,” came the response. “Don’t fret. Here.” There was a shuffling noise, then a short bout of static. Then Nick’s voice said, “Riley….” “Nick! Are you okay? What’s happening?” Nick’s voice sounded strained. “I’m okay. I just… need to tell you something.” Riley swallowed. He could tell that Nick was not okay. But he waited silently for him to continue. “I need you… to bring the painting… back to the house.” A pause. “Bring the painting here, or else….” There was another shuffling noise, and Coliaro’s voice picked up where Nick’s trailed off. “It’s quite simple, Riley. I know you probably have my self-portrait in your possession by now. There was no way I’d have been able to ditch John and get myself to St. Petersburg before you. So I did the next best thing. Your boyfriend here didn’t think twice about letting an admired artist into his home.” “Don’t touch him,” Riley said, trying to mask his unsteady voice with anger. “I won’t touch him,” Coliaro replied, “if you bring me back my painting.” A pause. “Right now, where are you?” He wanted to lie, but he didn’t know what type of lie would be the most beneficial. “I’m at Westwood’s house.” He felt Westwood’s eyes burning a hole in his back.

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“That’s an hour drive from here.” Coliaro paused again. “An hour. That’s how long you have to bring that painting back to me. If you’re late….” There was a horrifying heavy crunch, and Nick let out a tortured scream. “Nick!” Riley yelled. He felt his skin going hot, felt sweat beginning to drip. “Coliaro, if you touch him, I’ll kill you.” “An hour,” Coliaro said. The line went dead. Riley stood still, the phone clutched in his hand. When he finally managed to find his voice, he turned to Westwood. “Coliaro is at my house—with Nick. If I don’t give him back the painting in an hour, he’s going to….” Westwood stood neutrally before him. After taking a moment to consider, he nodded toward his car. “Get in.” Riley slid back into the passenger seat, and Westwood tossed the painting into the back before getting behind the wheel once again. He backed out of the driveway and turned left. Immediately, Riley cried, “You’re going the wrong way! Turn around!” Westwood didn’t respond. He continued heading north. Next to him, Riley looked back and forth in a panic. He grabbed Westwood’s arm. “Turn around!” he yelled. His fingertips dug into Westwood’s arm, and he yanked hard, then reached over and grabbed him by the collar. “Turn around!” “Shut the fuck up!” Westwood twisted his arm free and shoved Riley hard. Riley gasped as he crashed back against the door. Westwood turned down another side street, and Riley’s eyes widened as he saw Porter’s house coming into view. “What are you doing?” he demanded as they pulled into the driveway. “Why are we here?” “I’m not letting you return that painting to Coliaro. We give it back to him, and we’ll never see it again.” Riley jumped at him again. “We’re giving it back!” he yelled. “Turn around! Take me back to my house, you fucking bastard!”

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Westwood grabbed Riley by the arm. He squeezed tight, and Riley groaned. “Shut up,” he warned. Pushing his door open, he dragged Riley across the driver’s seat and out of the car. Still holding Riley, he reached into the backseat and retrieved the painting. Riley fought against his grip, but Westwood didn’t yield. Pushing Riley ahead of him, he ordered, “Go. Inside.” Riley tried to plant his feet, but Westwood kept moving, getting ahead of him and then dragging him forward. Riley stubbed his toe and crashed to his knees, but Westwood continued to drag him. Riley struggled to rise, stumbling back to his feet. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.” Westwood dragged him up to the bedroom. Shoving him through the door ahead of him, he said, “Find Porter’s paints. You’re going to fix this painting.” “No! We’re going back to my place! We’re giving the painting back to Coliaro!” “You only have forty minutes left. That’s not enough time to get back to your house anyway. If you want your boyfriend to live, you better find those paints and get to work.” Riley glared at him, pure rage in his eyes. But at the same time he knew that Westwood was right, and that they’d now lost the opportunity to go back to his house. He could either continue arguing, or he could work on saving Nick’s life. There was a walk-in closet attached to Porter’s bedroom. As Riley pushed the door open, his breath caught. He couldn’t believe his luck; Porter had turned the closet into his own mini studio. It was filled with lights, and an easel stood at the far end of the room. There was a small storage table on wheels, a few storage bins, a canister of imitation turpentine, and a bucket of paints. Knowing that there was no time to celebrate, he slipped off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he grabbed the painting from Westwood’s hands, carting it across the room and setting it down on the easel. He located Porter’s palette, which was already loaded with ten blobs of different colors of oil paint. Riley grabbed a palette knife from the table, using it to break through the dry outer skin of each paint blob, revealing the still wet oils within. He poured some paint thinner into a small cup. He

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selected a few brushes from Porter’s impressive collection and grabbed a paint-stained rag that was draped over the side of the paint bucket. He opened a drawer in one of the storage cabinets and saw a bottle labeled “refined linseed oil,” with a red liquid inside. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he grabbed the bottle and stowed it in his pocket. Then he turned and examined the painting. As he evaluated the style of the portrait, his heart began to pound. He’d completed a master painting of Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Wedding for an independent study back in college, and he remembered how long it had taken, and how many glazes it took, to replicate the artist’s style. This painting was done in much the same manner. He could see the underlying layers of color, and he couldn’t even begin to fathom just how many there were. “Time’s ticking,” Westwood said from behind him. “I can’t do this,” Riley replied. “This painting is glazed. The artist put down thin layers of paint and built them up slowly to get more depth of color. If I want to make the changes to the painting, I’ll have to glaze it in order to match the style. That technique takes hours, if not days.” “Then do it some other way. Use some other technique.” “But—” “You want to save your boyfriend or not?” Westwood asked. “All of Coliaro’s followers—do you think they’re all genius painters? I doubt it, but they still managed to perform their rituals. No one’s asking you to be as good a painter as Coliaro.” “But I do have to be as good as Bosch. And believe it or not, I don’t have a ton of experience painting blood and gore.” Westwood raised his hands to his head, pulling at his hair. “You’re driving me crazy, kid. Either do it or get out.” Riley didn’t answer; Westwood was right. Better to try alla prima and get it done fast than to give up because he didn’t have enough time to glaze. Setting the palette on his knee, he began mixing colors. The oils were smooth and creamy, sliding through the bristles of the hog hair brush, yielding like softened butter. Surprisingly, he felt some tiny, buried part of himself coming alive. He’d forgotten how

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much fun it was to work with real media, to make a mess, to feel the paint sliding beneath his brush. He set aside the brush he’d used for mixing, grabbing a clean, dry brush and picking up some of the black-violet paint he’d mixed. Taking a deep breath, he let his brush meet the canvas. He began by scumbling, obliterating the hands in the painting and recreating the background that would have been behind them. Then he raised the brush to the model’s chest, roughing in a deep black mass. He could feel Westwood’s eyes on his back. Normally, he couldn’t stand having someone lurking over his shoulder as he did his artwork, but somehow Westwood’s presence didn’t bother him. It felt oddly protective, which struck Riley as unusual. He mixed a flesh tone to create the stumps at the ends of Coliaro’s wrists, taking several passes at trying to match the existing tone on the panel. He then mixed a vibrant blood red, then a dark fleshy red for the insides of the wounds. All the while, Westwood watched him from the other end of the room. As he began laying down the basic shapes and colors, memories from college came back to him. It had been such a great experience, being surrounded by other creative people who were all motivated to improve. It was a time of his life that he often wished he could have back. After graduation, he’d become depressed. He was badly in debt from student loans, his friends had all moved away, and he couldn’t find a job. But just one year prior, he hadn’t yet known that kind of hardship. “What time is it?” he asked. “You have time. Just keep working.” “Tell me.” “Two o’clock.” Damn, Riley thought. Good thing he’d had that coffee at Westwood’s house. Quickly, he traced back the time in his mind. He had twenty minutes left. The underpainting was complete. Now it was time to attack the canvas with detail. Unlike his previous layers of paint, which he applied cautiously and tentatively, he now felt like he’d finished warming up and was ready to charge at full strength. He grabbed large

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gobs of paint with his brush, slapping them down on the canvas with confidence he’d never known he possessed. In his mind, he pictured the painting Coliaro had done of him, and how it had looked after the hands and heart had been removed. Remembering the way that dark cavern looked in his chest, he applied the same effect to this painting. A bit of shine on the blood to make it look wet. An outline of cut flesh inside the wound. A hint of bone. “What time is it?” “Quarter after.” His heart started racing again. Five minutes left. He took a step back from the painting, squinting his eyes at it. He felt like he was almost done, but something was missing. Unlike many fine artists he knew in college who could tweak a painting to death and never consider it done, as an illustrator Riley was used to working under deadlines, completing a job, dismissing minor flaws, and sending it off. But this job wasn’t done yet. There was something he still needed to do. Closing his eyes, he imagined one of those gruesome cable television shows that broadcast actual surgeries in full, gory detail. Everything in the painting seemed to line up with his memory. What was missing? Coliaro’s arms were hanging down. Given how much blood would be spilling from a wound such as a severed hand, there needed to be more dripping. That was it—blood drips. He grabbed a small filbert brush and scooped up some of the blood red he’d mixed. The red blended with the dark underpainting, disappearing, and he swore. He needed more paint, but that was the last of the color he’d mixed. Fighting down his panic, he began mixing more of the color. Start with cadmium; then add a bit of aquamarine to cool it down. A bit too saturated. Add some green. Too much green. Add back some cadmium red and aquamarine. The light source in the painting was yellow, so the blood needed just a hint of purple, its complementary color, in the shadows. “What time is it?” “Just work.”

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He scooped up a more generous amount of paint this time, giving the edges of the bloody stumps a more organic shape, more drippy and loose. A couple of longer drips here and there. Almost done…. A slap of cadmium yellow mixed with white for a final highlight. There was a gasp behind him. Footsteps approached, and Riley suddenly felt hands lower onto his shoulders and squeeze. “Look,” Westwood whispered. Riley raised his head, taking in the full effect of the painting. When his gaze traveled up to Coliaro’s face, his breath caught in his throat. In the portrait, the man’s eyes had rolled back, lids almost closed. His skin had taken on a pallid, cloudy blue tint. He looked like a corpse. Westwood squeezed his shoulders hard, giving him an excited shake. “I think you did it,” he gasped. He wrapped his arms around Riley from behind, squeezing him tight. “I think you did it!”

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Chapter 15

IT

BARELY registered in Riley’s mind that Westwood was holding

him. He shook him off, running across the room to where he’d left his cell phone. He flipped it open, dialing home and raising the phone to his ear. Three rings. Four. Five. Not even the answering machine picked up. “Come on,” Riley said. “Come on.” Six rings. There was a click, and the line went live. Riley could hear heavy, panting breaths. Then, softly, he heard a voice groan, “Riley?” “Nick! Are you okay? Tell me what’s happening over there.” “I….” There was a pause. Nick sounded even more distraught than he had during their previous conversation. “I think he’s dead. Just now, he grabbed his chest and fell down. I was about to call an ambulance, but he’s already dead. There’s no pulse.” “Nick, slow down. Don’t worry about Coliaro. All I care about is you. Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” Nick replied at last. “I’m fine.” A smile spread across Riley’s face. He turned and looked at Westwood. Westwood didn’t smile back. “Okay, baby. Call the police. Let them take care of this. I’ll be home in about an hour. Maybe two.” “That long?” Nick asked. “Riley, what’s going on? What did Coliaro want from you?” “We’ll talk tomorrow. All right?” There was a soft grunt on the other end, and the line went dead. Riley frowned as he stowed the phone back in his pocket. He turned

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and was about to head across the room to pick up his suit jacket when he walked head-on into Westwood’s chest. Startled, he pulled back. Westwood reached out, straightening Riley’s tie. “I didn’t know you were so talented,” he said softly. Riley swallowed; the sensation of Westwood’s rough fingers grazing his throat was disconcerting. “What are you doing?” Westwood didn’t answer. That same intense look had taken over his vision, and for the first time since they arrived, Riley fully realized he was alone with Westwood. Westwood’s hand slid up around the back of his neck. He saw the man’s face approaching as if in slow motion, but his mind was frozen, and he couldn’t think of what to do. Westwood’s lips pressed against his own—hungry, insistent. Riley let out a muffled cry, twisting his face away and pushing against Westwood’s chest. Westwood drew back, allowing Riley to break free, but when Riley met his gaze again, he saw something that looked like anger. Fighting back his fear, he again demanded, “What are you doing?” “If you can’t tell what I’m doing, then I can’t help you.” He reached out again, and again Riley pushed him back. “Now that Coliaro’s dead, I have no reason to ever deal with you again. I don’t want you anywhere near me. You got it?” Westwood stared back at him dispassionately. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden? You were happy enough a minute ago.” “I was happy to be talking to Nick. I was happy that Nick was alive. My happiness had nothing to do with you.” He glared at the man, knowing he shouldn’t stoke the fire but unable to keep his mouth shut. “You had no business taking me here and making me paint that portrait.” “What the hell difference does it make? We got it right. Coliaro’s dead, and your precious boyfriend is unharmed. I don’t see the point in you being angry.” “The point is you may not care if one more human dies, but I do. And I especially care if it’s someone close to me. Nick is my boyfriend. It wasn’t your place to gamble with his life.”

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“I told you from the start that my goal was to go after Coliaro, and you’d do best to stay out of my way. It’s your own fault you got yourself mixed up in this. If you’d minded your own business, Nick never would have been in danger to begin with.” “And you also never would have figured out how to kill Coliaro. You would have kept trying out random theories, and you wouldn’t have cared how many human lives were lost in the process!” Westwood’s gaze went dangerously cold, and Riley flinched. They stood staring for a moment, and Riley knew Westwood was struggling to maintain his self-control. In another moment he saw the shift in Westwood’s eyes, watched him lose the battle. By the time it registered in his mind to react, it was too late, and Westwood had him pinned to the wall. He grabbed Riley’s collar and yanked hard. His shirt tore open down the middle, buttons flying, and Riley sucked in a shocked gasp. “You say you want nothing to do with me now that Coliaro’s dead?” Westwood asked, sliding a hand roughly between the folds of his shirt. “Then maybe now would be a good time to remind you we have a debt to settle.” Riley’s heart pounded. He thrashed, and Westwood quickly quelled his attempt at escape. “And I’m not looking for just a quick romp. I’m going to fuck you until you can’t even move.” “I haven’t even done that with my boyfriend, whom I actually care about. What makes you think I’d do it with you?” “Because I’m the one you want fucking you.” Riley gaped at him. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came to mind. Westwood dug his fingers into Riley’s arms. “I can hear the way your breath dies in your throat when I touch you. I can feel your pulse racing and your body heating up. I can see it in your eyes.” “That’s bullshit.” Riley winced, horrified at the telltale quiver in his voice. “You don’t even believe yourself,” Westwood said with a laugh. It was a real laugh, a laugh that made Riley’s blood boil with indignation.

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Westwood suddenly pulled him forward by the arms, lunging and sucking deep at the side of his neck. Riley let out a startled cry, trying to break free, and Westwood raised a hand to the back of his head. He held Riley still and went in for his throat. “Nh… Westwood….” Riley shuddered as Westwood’s tongue danced over his Adam’s apple. “I’ve been waiting months to do this,” Westwood whispered into his neck. He lowered his hands, running them over Riley’s chest. He brushed his pelvis against Riley’s, and to Riley’s dismay, he felt his own body responding. Reaching down, Westwood pulled one of Riley’s legs up by the knee, pressing into his crotch. Riley shuddered as he felt Westwood’s length rubbing against his own. “How’s that?” Westwood asked, giving Riley a nudge with his hips. When Riley didn’t respond, Westwood grabbed Riley’s other knee and lifted it off the ground as well. With a startled gasp, Riley reflexively wrapped his legs around Westwood’s hips. Westwood let out a lustful breath, pinning him against the wall and grinding hard against him. The sensation hit Riley like electricity. He squeezed Westwood between his legs, holding him tight. In the back of his mind, Riley remembered Nick was at home with a dead body, talking to police, wondering when his boyfriend would return. Yet he couldn’t stop his hips from bucking back against Westwood’s. He couldn’t stop his fingers from digging into the bunched, flexing muscles of Westwood’s shoulders and back. Uselessly, he tried to focus on Nick. But Westwood wouldn’t let him think. Westwood was doing things to his body that he didn’t know were even possible. The man was unbelievably strong. He had no trouble holding Riley up off the ground, supporting his weight, rocking him up and down. This was something that Riley knew Nick would never be able to do. Westwood seemed to read his mind. He grabbed the back of Riley’s neck, pulling his head forward and whispering into his ear. “I don’t care how quiet you are with Nick. I’m going to make you scream.”

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He handled Riley like he was a toy, carrying him across the room and tossing him down on the bed. Riley landed on his hands and knees, and immediately Westwood pinned him, tearing at his clothes. He worked off Riley’s shirt, then his pants. Then he cast off his own shirt. Riley rolled over, grabbing at Westwood’s belt buckle, but Westwood caught his wrists, pinning them down at either side of his head. When Riley gave a disgruntled thrash, Westwood laughed again. He straddled Riley’s chest, the bulge of his pants brushing Riley’s chin. Fueled by a hunger he couldn’t believe he possessed, Riley yanked forward as far as Westwood would allow, grabbing the center of the belt with his teeth. He tore at the leather, working it free of the buckle before Westwood took it the rest of the way. The man slid out of his pants, tossing them over the edge of the bed and then flipping Riley onto his stomach. Riley wasn’t going to let him have it that easy. He crawled forward, but Westwood caught him by the hips. “Going somewhere?” he asked. When Riley tried to roll over, Westwood pushed him back. After a brief scuffle, Westwood won out, pinning Riley with his chest down against the mattress. A tremor coursed through Riley. He’d never felt so exposed before, doubled over with his hips up in the air. Suddenly, it struck him that he was completely at Westwood’s mercy. Westwood used his knees to shove Riley’s legs apart, at the same time reaching around front and grabbing his cock. Riley swallowed a gasp, stubbornly keeping quiet. If Westwood wanted his scream, he’d have to earn it. Westwood gave him a tight pump, then another. Riley bit his lip. He would not make a sound. But damn, it was difficult. Westwood gave him another taste of sweet friction, and Riley shook with desire. “You like that?” the man whispered, his lips brushing against Riley’s earlobe. “Nnh….” “What?” Westwood kneaded harder while rubbing against him from behind. His cock slid up between Riley’s cheeks, poking at him threateningly. “I didn’t catch that. Was that a yes?” Riley gritted his teeth. Quiet, he told himself.

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Westwood pressed his length against Riley. Riley jerked away, but Westwood wouldn’t let him break free. He wasn’t playing anymore; he let Riley bear the full brunt of his strength, as if to prove to him that there was no hope of escape. “Let go,” Riley gasped, his face half-pressed into the pillow. “Make me.” He squirmed. No luck; he could do nothing against Westwood’s strength. The man had him helplessly pinned. But somehow, the realization of his vulnerability sent his blood rushing down between his legs, pulsing so hard it almost hurt. Westwood was a man who took what he wanted, and this quality that usually infuriated him suddenly made him horny as hell. He tested his strength against the arms that restrained him, trying one more time to twist free just so Westwood would have to hold him tighter. There was a shuffling noise, and a moment later Westwood’s hand pressed up against him from behind. A lubricated finger slid into him. When Westwood gave it a deft twist, Riley had to bite back a cry. “Damn…,” he groaned. Westwood gave him another stroke from the inside, sending a shiver all the way down to his toes. Westwood played with him until it seemed he could no longer ignore the demands of his own body. He yanked Riley’s hips up high, pressing against him, and Riley’s breath caught when he thought about how impossibly big Westwood was. Too big. Westwood was going to tear him apart. A hard thrust, and Westwood plunged past the first line of resistance. Riley flinched, crying out from the sudden flash of pain. He collapsed to his forearms and gritted his teeth to hold back a whimper. It was too intense. He couldn’t move. “Feel it,” Westwood whispered in his ear. “Feel it.” Riley groaned. It hurt. But in another moment, his body began to adjust to the rude invasion. Westwood gave him a nudge, and Riley’s hips moved with his. They were fused together, fused with heat and pressure. Riley pushed back on Westwood, trying to feed his body’s sudden overpowering hunger.

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Westwood grabbed Riley’s hair and yanked his head back. He pulled their bodies together, letting Riley feel his urgent thrusts. Riley groaned. It was too much. “Westwood, wait….” With a wicked laugh, Westwood wrestled Riley down flat on the mattress, shoving in harder. Riley gasped, stunned by the sensation of being filled so completely. He raised his hips up, whorishly offering himself to Westwood, inviting the man to take him even deeper. Westwood was brutal, animalistic. He went into him mercilessly, like a predator tearing into its prey. Riley was shocked at how thrilling it was to be conquered and ravaged. When Riley’s arms gave way, Westwood settled in on top of him, enveloping him with his jerking body. Riley submitted to the onslaught, begging Westwood to take him harder and faster and rougher. Westwood obliged, holding Riley prisoner within his arms as he pummeled and pounded with his hips. He tore the moans from Riley’s mouth, and they grew louder and wilder with each thrust. Westwood reached around to his face, pressing a hand down over his mouth. He pushed two fingers inside, at the same time driving in deep from behind. Riley felt a fierce, potent pulse between his legs. He started coming, hard. A burst of unbearable pleasure shot through his loins, and he screamed into Westwood’s hand with no restraint, reveling in his climax. He was left weak, limbs shaking, but Westwood wasn’t done with him. He quickened his pace, slapping quickly and forcefully against him from behind. With a final bestial growl, he buried himself to the hilt, grappling Riley close as he came. They both collapsed, Westwood lying on top of Riley. Riley let his eyelids droop, enjoying the feeling of being pinned underneath Westwood’s weight. Westwood wrapped an arm around him, nuzzling into his neck as they succumbed to exhaustion.

RILEY awoke with a start. His heart was pounding. But something told him to keep his eyes closed.

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At first he wasn’t sure what had awakened him, but after lying still for a moment, he realized with horror that there was a hand wrapped around his neck. Westwood’s hand. It tightened, loosened, stroked his skin. It squeezed curiously, as if testing the strength of bone and cartilage. A memory of Porter’s face flashed through his mind, halftone dots on yellowed newsprint. Porter, beaten and strangled to death. What would Westwood do if he knew he was awake? Surely he could have felt the quickening of Riley’s pulse. What would he do if Riley opened his eyes? The hand withdrew, and relief washed over him. He rolled over, giving a fake groan and then opening his eyes as if he were just waking up. “What’s going on?” Westwood sat at the edge of the bed, bare-chested, wearing his pants from the previous night. Riley blinked. It was the first time he’d really gotten a good glimpse of Westwood’s body. During their previous tryst, Riley had been on his hands and knees nearly the entire time. Now, seeing Westwood’s fiercely muscled chest and arms, he felt his unruly blood quickening all over again. “You’re awake,” Westwood commented. Riley stumbled out of bed, grabbing his stray articles of clothing from the ground. After pulling on his pants, he patted down the pockets. There was a small bulge where the bottle of refined linseed oil sat, but no cell phone. Where was his phone? Glancing up, he saw it in Westwood’s hands. His stomach dropped. “What are you doing?” Westwood stared back at him. At first he didn’t reply. He flipped the phone open and scrolled down a few screens. “Give me that!” Riley cried, lunging. Westwood planted a hand against his chest, holding him back with infuriating ease as he continued examining the phone. “Looks like your boyfriend’s wondering why you’re late,” Westwood commented before Riley managed to snatch the phone out of his hand. “You still going to go back to him?” Riley stared at him, dumbfounded. “Am I still…? What?”

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Westwood placidly returned his gaze. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be going back to him?” No reply from Westwood. “Nick is at home going through hell, thinking a guy just died in our house. He needs me.” “It’s just Coliaro. After five hundred years, it’s about time he died for good.” “But Nick doesn’t know that. Nick thinks that he’s just a regular guy. Whether the guy attacked him or not, Nick has enough empathy to be affected by his death. Nick, unlike some people, understands what it means for a human to die.” Westwood’s jaw clenched just a bit. “I understand the impact of human death.” “Oh? And did that happen before or after the string of rapes and murders?” Westwood fell silent, and Riley knew he’d made a big mistake. The look in the man’s eyes went from neutral to lethal in a split second. When Westwood finally broke the silence, his voice was deathly calm. “Why don’t you tell me more about these rapes and murders?” Riley swallowed, trying his best to put force behind his words. “I found newspaper clippings in your crawl space, the day that you fought Coliaro. They were articles about you. I know they were. You killed those college kids.” Again, he swallowed. “You killed Porter.” Westwood didn’t respond. “You’re not denying it?” Riley asked. “Why would I deny it? It’s the truth, plus or minus a few details.” That was not the answer Riley had been hoping to hear. In the back of his mind, he’d somehow believed that it was all a misunderstanding, that Westwood had those newspaper clippings as part of the investigation of Coliaro. He’d clung to that belief as long as he could, but now all he could do was curse himself for getting into a car with a rapist and murderer—for sleeping with a rapist and murderer. He supposed Porter had a point when he’d accused him of being reckless.

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But even so, he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “How can you expect me to have any respect for you? You claim to care about human life, but then you go and kill people for no reason. Innocent people. Were you also the one who killed the thirteen boys linked to Coliaro’s paintings?” “Riley, you don’t understand what it’s like to come back from the dead. You’ll never know, or at least you better hope you’ll never know. I wasn’t human anymore when I did those things. Hell, I don’t even remember any of it.” Riley stared at him. Westwood was maintaining his composure, but Riley could see that he was having trouble. And he didn’t fail to notice that Westwood hadn’t answered his question. “For a long time, I didn’t know how to handle being undead. I did things I wouldn’t have done as a human.” He ran a hand through his hair, pausing to collect himself before turning back to Riley. “Porter’s death was different. I changed after I killed him.” “Oh, so then it doesn’t count?” Riley cringed even as the words came out of his mouth. Goddammit, shut up, Riley! Westwood’s jaw muscle twitched. His fists clenched, unclenched. His eyes narrowed. Finally, in a chillingly low voice, he said, “I’m not asking for your approval. I really don’t care what you think.” “Then why do you have all those paintings of me?” Riley countered. His voice shook, not with fear but with anger. “You went so far as to steal student paintings of me from Prestwick. Why? Did you collect pictures of all the other kids you killed? Is that how you planned for things to end between us?” Again, a long silence. Westwood chewed on his lip as if contemplating whether or not to say what was on his mind. Knowing he was pushing his luck, Riley repeated, “Why did you take those paintings?” Finally, Westwood looked back at him. “I wanted you,” he said. “But those paintings were the best I could have.” Riley’s voice failed him. He felt the intensity of Westwood’s desire, and it was terrifying. Westwood didn’t say anything to temper

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his fear. He only stood in silence, letting his words sink deeper into Riley’s mind. Riley wanted to leave. He would have walked straight out, but Westwood stood between him and the opened door to the hallway. And he was afraid to make any sudden movements. “I have a boyfriend,” he said. Westwood’s jaw tightened. “I need to go home.” Silence. Carefully, Riley took a step toward the door. Then another. With the third step he tried to pass Westwood, and the man caught his arm hard. He winced. “What are you doing?” Westwood opened his mouth as if to speak, but after a moment of tense silence, he closed it again. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and again Riley watched him battle his willpower. For a moment he saw that same look of animal rage that had surfaced weeks ago, the day he had battled Coliaro. He saw the eyes of a monster. Westwood reached behind him, pushing the bedroom door shut. “Westwood,” Riley said uneasily. “Sit down,” Westwood said. “Westwood, I have to—” “Sit down!” Westwood shoved him back hard. His calves crashed against the bed, and he fell backward across it. Heart racing, he pushed himself up off his back and stared at Westwood. The man glared at him, almost shaking with pent-up tension. Riley felt the hairs rising on his arms. “I’m going,” he said. “Nick is waiting for me.” Westwood hovered over him. Sinews jutted out of his taut neck. His fists were clenched so tight Riley wouldn’t have been surprised to see blood in his palms. Again he rose to his feet and headed across the room. This time Westwood let him pass, but Riley could feel the weight of the man’s

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gaze on his back as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. He ducked around the corner, pressing his back against the wall as he sucked in a steadying breath. He realized he was trembling. He could hear Westwood moving on the other side of the wall. He imagined him stalking back and forth, making plans. There was no way Westwood would let him leave. That look in his eyes said he wasn’t going to back down. No, he would probably follow Riley home— maybe intercept him on the way. Riley set his jaw. Reached into his pocket and dialed for a cab. Told them the address. He stowed the phone away and reached into his other pocket, retrieving the bottle of Porter’s blood. He uncapped it and poured it into his mouth. Then he turned back, returning to Porter’s bedroom. Westwood was pacing, as Riley had imagined. When he saw Riley he stopped, eyeing him with a mixture of confusion and— perhaps—happiness. Steeling himself, Riley approached him, wrapping his arms around the back of his neck and leaning close. He let his lips meet Westwood’s. As he expected, Westwood wasted no time in deepening the kiss. He opened his mouth, pressing his tongue in between Riley’s lips. Riley spat the blood into Westwood’s mouth. Westwood flinched as if he were scalded. He raised a hand over his mouth. Retching, he spat out some of the blood, but clearly most of it had gotten into his system. Just before he collapsed, he managed to shoot Riley one last vicious glance. “I’m sorry,” Riley said. “I don’t trust you.”

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Chapter 16

THE investigation into Coliaro’s death was minimal. An autopsy showed that he had died from heart failure. It was a mystery as to why someone so healthy would have a heart attack out of the blue, but further digging showed he had abnormal and unidentifiable growths on his heart. The final verdict: Coliaro’s heart was a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode. As to the discussion with Nick regarding his final disagreement with Coliaro, Riley again resorted to an impulsive and colorful lie. Coliaro had painted a scandalous portrait of him, he claimed. It was a portrait he’d done from his imagination, but it looked like Riley had willingly posed for it. Worried that Coliaro planned to sell it or display it, he’d taken it from the artist’s studio. To Riley’s relief, Nick seemed to buy the story. As Christmas approached, Riley put his persuasive skills to the test. After several arduous discussions, he finally managed to convince Nick they shouldn’t exchange gifts. He’d cited various excuses such as the idea that their love went beyond commercialism and so forth, but the real reason was he just couldn’t afford to buy anything. He knew Nick wouldn’t have held it against him, but he couldn’t face the shame of receiving a gift when he had nothing to offer in return. On the sixth of January, Prestwick’s spring semester began, and Riley was relieved to be bringing in a semiregular paycheck once again. He was also relieved to see Kevin in class; apparently the boy had not been the victim of Coliaro’s followers, as Porter had feared. He hadn’t actually heard from Porter since their conversation before Coliaro’s death. He assumed Porter was having fun in Chicago, sightseeing and stuffing his face at all the amazing restaurants. He

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pictured Porter at the Art Institute of Chicago, staring in awe at the temporary Caravaggio exhibit he knew was going on at the moment. He hadn’t heard anything from Westwood, either, not that he was surprised. He had no idea how long it would take for him to recover from ingesting Porter’s blood. Porter had said he hadn’t given Riley enough blood to kill Westwood, but if the blood truly was Westwood’s weakness, it had to be more difficult for him to overcome than a regular old lethal wound. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Westwood would try for revenge once he recovered. And part of him wondered if he didn’t deserve whatever Westwood decided to dish out.

THE anniversary of Andrew’s death was approaching fast, and again Riley found himself succumbing to his sorrow. He dwelled obsessively on thoughts of Andrew while he posed during class. As the students hung their paintings, he cringed at the eighteen grief-stricken faces staring back at him from the canvases. Even Mr. Tobias pulled him aside to ask if everything was all right. He wondered what it would have been like if Andrew were still around. They probably would have spent Christmas together. Andrew would have come up with some insane handmade gift and presented it to Riley with a half smirk, knowing his brother would be humorously offended by whatever was inside the wrapped box. Riley would have probably painted a portrait of him accented with a Fu Manchu mustache and a few missing teeth. Andrew would have helped Alanna in the kitchen, with Riley standing off to the side skillfully arranging the fruit and vegetable trays with the touch of a professional designer. Angela, of course, would only appear after the preparations were done; she’d have been working late. But she would have brought her specialty: roasted chicken with garlic, lemon, and rosemary. The four of them would have sat at the dining table, talking and teasing and laughing as if they all still lived under the same roof. This was what Riley thought of on the sixteenth of January, as he sat by the window seat in the living room of Nick’s house and stared

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out into the empty garden. He’d visited several nurseries, and only one of them had any apple trees available. The one he had his eye on was a young Anna apple tree, but it was a hefty one hundred and twenty dollars, and he just didn’t have the money. He didn’t bring up the subject with Nick again. There was no point in convincing his boyfriend to let him plant an apple tree if he couldn’t afford one in the first place. And really, what business did he have twisting Nick’s arm into letting him destroy his perfectly tended yard? He thought back to the glut of lies he’d told his boyfriend during the latter part of the previous year. Nick had indulged all of them, never questioning him, even though Riley knew he’d had his doubts. And now, after what he’d done with Westwood, he really had no right to ask Nick for anything at all. He’d woken up at six in the morning that day, even though he had no classes scheduled and thus had nowhere he needed to be. But he couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was Andrew. Oddly, Nick was already gone. He was supposed to have the day off, but Riley assumed he had some errands to run and didn’t want to wake Riley to tell him. A few minutes after eight, as Riley stared misty-eyed out the window, he heard the front door swinging open, and then something being set on the floor with a large thunk. Curiously, he stumbled to his feet and headed back across the room toward the foyer. Nick stood in the doorway, brushing debris off his clothing. Next to him was an Anna apple tree. Eight feet tall, exactly the one he wanted. Riley approached, wide-eyed and dumbfounded. After he managed to find his voice, he gasped, “Nick, what did you…?” “I know you said you didn’t want anything for Christmas,” Nick said with a smile, “but I could tell you were lying.” “Nick,” Riley said again. He walked toward his boyfriend, pulling him into a tight embrace and kissing him firmly on the lips. “I can’t believe you did this.” “I know I can be a little bit overbearing when it comes to the house. But I want it to be very clear that this is our house. Yours and mine.”

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Riley met his lips again, burying his fingers in his hair. Nick kissed him back gently, lovingly. He wrapped his arms around Riley’s back and pulled him in close, chest against chest. When they finally parted, Nick pulled off his jacket, slinging it over his arm as he led Riley back into the living room. “Let’s look out the window. I have some ideas for where the tree might look best.” They reached the window, and as Riley stared out into the yard, Nick pointed toward a corner in the left, where there was a gap in the shadows that revealed a patch of sun. “What do you think about that space?” “Hmm.” Riley considered it. “Do you think there’s enough sun over there?” He pointed toward the opposite end, near the edge of a row of ferns sitting atop a sea of decorative rocks. “I’ve been thinking about that spot over there. It gets much more sun during the day, and it’s less crowded.” Nick didn’t reply at first. Riley could tell exactly what was on his mind: he didn’t like the spot Riley had chosen, but after his speech about it being their house together, he didn’t know how he could veto Riley’s decision. Finally, weakly, he said, “I don’t know if it’d look good right next to the ferns. Plus when it drops its apples in the spring, they’ll all be falling on the bushes, and the roots will all be running into each other.” “It doesn’t have to be right next to the bushes. I’ll go far enough away that the roots won’t touch each other.” He knew he was pushing his luck, but he asked, “Do you really need that last bush anyway? I always thought that string of bushes looked a little too long.” Nick was about to reply when a buzzing sound issued from his hip. He cursed under his breath, taking a step away and pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Morgan, what do you want?” he snapped. Riley watched him over his shoulder for a moment, but Nick disappeared around the corner, arguing over the phone in a hushed tone. It was a short but terse conversation. After a couple of minutes, Nick came back into the room, a tight scowl on his face. “I have to go in to work,” he said. “It’s an emergency. One of my clients has gotten himself into some deep shit.”

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“Oh,” Riley replied, waiting to see what Nick would say next. “I don’t know how long this will take. It might be a full day’s work. But I’ll try to get back before it gets dark so we can plant the tree together.” He scratched the back of his head. “If not, maybe we can do it tomorrow.” Riley gritted his teeth. Tomorrow wasn’t the anniversary of Andrew’s death. “Listen,” Nick continued, pulling on his jacket and heading toward the door, “I’ll be back as soon as humanly possible. All right?” After a pause, Riley nodded. “You’re upset.” “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Just go to work.” For another moment, Nick examined him. Finally deciding that Riley wasn’t about to say anything else, he sighed and turned back toward the door. “Wait for me to come back, all right? I want us to do this together. I want to pick the spot together. I promise I’ll try to get back before it’s dark out.” A pause. “All right?” “All right.” “You’ll wait for me?” “Fine.” He waited for Nick to leave. Then he slumped back down in the window seat, propping his chin in his hand as he stared forlornly out at the backyard.

“I’M SO glad you could come visit the school,” the receptionist said to Porter as he sat in the admissions office. He hadn’t worn a heavy enough coat, and he was shivering, his sneaker-clad feet in a puddle of melted snow. “We’ve called one of our local alumni down to show you around our campus. Her name is Jen Burns. She should be here any minute. And after you two are done with your tour, we’ll take you back to meet the dean of admissions.” “Sounds good,” Porter said through his chattering teeth. “Oh, before I forget….” The receptionist flipped through her books. “I need to see your ID.” “Really? You need to see ID for this?”

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“Some of our newest equipment is proprietary, and we also have students working on pieces for various competitions, so we just use this as an extra precaution.” Frowning, Porter dug out his wallet and handed over a card. The receptionist tilted her head and then turned the card on its side. “Well. With all due respect, Mr. Martinez, you do not photograph well.” “I was having a bad day,” Porter said with a nervous chuckle. He reached out, snatching the ID back from her hand. As he shoved it into its sleeve, a young brunette with a pixie cut stepped into the building. “Jen,” the receptionist greeted her. “This is Jesse Martinez. He’s looking to attend CCAD in the fall.” “Nice to meet you,” the girl said, removing one of her gloves and holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you too.” When he shook her hand, she flipped it over and laughed. “I can tell you’re a painter.” Embarrassed, Porter caught a glimpse of the multicolored paint that had dried underneath a couple of his fingernails. “Damn, I thought I got it all.” “No big deal, we all look like that around here,” Jen said. “I think you’d fit in well. We have the third biggest fine arts department in the entire country.” “So I’ve read.” “I can also tell you’re not from in-state. Let me guess. California? Florida?” “Florida.” “I knew it. You southern kids always come here wearing the tiniest little jackets. It cracks me up.” After seeing that Porter was blushing, she gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Hey, you’ll survive. The walk between our buildings isn’t too bad.” “Thank God.” “Well, then.” Jen pulled her glove back on, turning toward the door. “Ready to head back out into the blizzard?” With a quick thanks to the receptionist, Porter turned and followed Jen out of the building.

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IT WAS nearly four in the afternoon, and Riley was beginning to get angry. Nick knew that it was January, and the sun would set early. Riley had sat by the window all day, watching the movement of the shadows on the lawn as the sun rose to full height and then began to descend again. Nothing from Nick—no phone call, no texts. Riley had called earlier in the day and left a message, but Nick never returned it. Now, glancing at the time on his cell phone, he tried again. It went straight to voice mail. With a frustrated growl, he tossed the phone across the room. It landed on the couch. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. Rising to his feet, he headed quickly upstairs to change into an old T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans. Then he hurried out through the back door, leaving it unlocked so he could get back in. The tool shed was at the opposite end of the yard. Riley hadn’t had much need for it in the past, but he knew his way around it. Besides, all he needed was a shovel. He wanted to see where the ferns ended so he could judge how far away he’d need to plant the tree. As he approached the shrubs, the sun hung low in the sky, blinding him with red and orange. Having not spent much time in the backyard, he never before realized how secluded it felt. The thick evergreens encircling the yard blocked out any view of the neighbors. To some extent, they even deadened the sound. In the distance he heard the garrulous cry of a blue jay, and then the yard returned to eerie silence. Paranoid, he glanced behind him. Westwood crossed his mind. There was a fence with a gate separating the front yard from the back. If anyone wanted to come through to the back, they’d have to pass through the creaky fence. There was no way they’d be able to sneak up on him. Then again, with Westwood’s strength, he really didn’t need to rely on the element of surprise in order to launch a successful attack. Scolding himself for being paranoid, he turned his attention back to the ground before him. He kicked lightly at the pebbles surrounding the base of the ferns. To his relief, the ground underneath the rocks was loose. Expecting that the roots would be a good deal wider than the

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bush itself, he plunged the shovel into the dirt about a foot away from the end bush. It was clear digging. He uprooted some more earth, relieved at how easy it came up. Digging more to the right, he located the twiggy ends of the fern’s roots. Riley took a step back. Visually, he traced the distance from the bushes to the spot where he wanted to put the tree. The rocks extended quite a bit further than the end of the bushes. He hoped the ground would still be as soft out there as it was near the ferns’ roots. He covered the hole he’d dug, patting the soil back down, and headed out toward his chosen spot. After clearing the rocks with the tip of the shovel, he stuck it deep into the ground to see how far it would go. One foot, and the ground was soft. Two feet, still safe. Two and a half, and he met resistance. He poked down with the end of the shovel, feeling around to try to determine the qualities of the soil below. It crinkled. “Hmm.” That was odd. Curiously, he tossed some dirt out of the hole, trying to clear enough out that he could see what was underneath. He found something tight and clear and plastic, with a round, flattened hole on the surface. A vacuum-sealed storage bag—Nick’s favorite brand. He wondered if he was invading Nick’s privacy, but he couldn’t stop himself from kicking up more dirt to reveal what was buried underneath. Something beige. Some wrinkled clothing. Red juices. He gasped as a face was revealed beneath the dirt, smashed under the tight seal of the vacuum bag. He fell back, stumbling to the ground as he tried to catch his breath. It was impossible. He had to have jumped to the wrong conclusion. Maybe it was an old doll or a Halloween mask, though he knew there was no reason for someone to bury either one of those. Hands shaking, he lifted the shovel again. He needed to see if the body was what he thought it was. Pulling up more dirt, he enlarged the clearing and squinted down into the shadows. In the vacuum bag, the body’s arms were crossed over its chest. The hands were cut off.

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Chapter 17

“THIS has to be one of the most amazing libraries I’ve ever seen,” Porter said with amazement as Jen led him through the security sensors and into the building. They were surrounded by books of all colors and sizes—reference books, art books, fiction, textbooks, periodicals. There was a vast area populated with desks where students could read quietly. There were computer rooms and multimedia rooms and even a well-lit hallway lined with photos of notable artists and alumni who’d graduated from the school. “Whenever I wasn’t in the studio,” Jen said, “I was in here. It really is a great library. Anything you want to find on any artist, chances are we have it.” She turned, meeting the eyes of a stern, bespectacled librarian behind the information desk, her lips pursed and her arms folded. She could have come straight out of a cartoon. Clearly, she did not approve of the volume at which the two of them were speaking. With an apologetic nod, Jen lowered her voice. “Let me show you the multimedia room.” She led him through a couple of glass doors, behind which was a room with a large table in the center. In the ceiling was a projector, and there was a control panel toward one end of the table. “See,” Jen said, “all you do is pop your video into this panel, whatever format it is. VHS, DVD, even film and slides.” “Wow,” Porter said. He was mostly faking it. Multimedia rooms were never his thing. He wanted to get out and peruse the art books. He knew he wouldn’t get a chance to do that until after the tour and meeting with the dean of admissions, and it was taking all his effort to follow Jen around pretending to be interested in slide projectors.

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Jen seemed to sense his sudden lack of focus. “This way,” she said, leading him back out the double doors. “I’ll show you the hall of portraits.” Around the corner was a long corridor lined with rows of photographs on either side. Porter remembered catching a glimpse of it from the entrance and realized that they’d circled the entire library and come back near the front. Curiously, he examined the photos. The first image was an old sepia-toned bust of a man with a comb-over, pince-nez, and a generous mustache. “This is Earl Watkins, our first ever dean of students,” Jen told him. She led him down the line. “Martin James. Elizabeth Steinholm. As you see, we have some pretty big names as faculty and alumni.” She did a little skip as she approached the next photo. “This is my favorite. It’s from back when the artist Coliaro was teaching our advanced painting class.” Porter leaned in, showing more interest in this photo than he had in any other part of his lengthy tour. It was definitely Coliaro; other than the darkness of his hair, which Porter assumed he had bleached in recent years, he looked no different than he had the day Porter had plunged the wooden leg from his vanity into his back. In the photo, he was standing over the shoulder of a young male student, pointing toward a canvas. The photo was taken from an angle that didn’t show the artwork, but rather focused on the faces of Coliaro and his student. In the background was a blond man in his thirties, mixing paints. His gaze locked on the blond man. He’d seen that face before. He couldn’t quite remember where, but he never forgot a face. And this face in particular would have been difficult to forget. The man was handsome, with steel-gray eyes and a powerful jaw. “Who is this?” he asked, pointing. “I don’t know,” Jen said. “I think he was just another one of Coliaro’s students. I don’t know what he ended up doing after leaving CCAD.” Porter continued to stare at the photo. Where had he seen that face before? Suddenly, it came to him. It was the day Coliaro’s painting of Riley had transformed. He’d caught a glimpse of Riley and Mr. Tobias stalking off toward the security building, along with another man in his late thirties. The man was tall and well dressed, with blond hair and a

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handsome face. Riley’s boyfriend. A memory came back to him of a conversation he’d had with Riley. Riley had mentioned that his boyfriend had taken a class at CCAD. “Wait.” Porter pointed toward the plaque underneath the first photo. “This one doesn’t have a year listed. Do you know when it was taken?” Jen shrugged, clearly underestimating the importance of this bit of information. “I can’t say for sure, but it had to be at least thirty years ago. It was definitely taken when Coliaro was teaching here.” Porter’s mouth went dry; he was still staring at the blond man. He had indeed seen that face. That exact face. The face in this photo from thirty years ago was an exact replica of the face he’d seen on Riley’s boyfriend just a few months ago—not a second older. “Are you all right?” Jen asked. “You look pale all of a sudden.” “I just….” He swallowed. “I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but I really, really need to make a phone call.” “Oh, that’s all right. Just let me know when you’re done, and we can finish up the tour after.” Porter ducked away, heading across the building and stepping back outside into the frigid Chicago air. He quickly dialed in Riley’s number. Then he raised the phone to his ear as he waited anxiously for an answer. Four rings. “Hi, you’ve reached Riley Burke’s cell. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back when I get a chance. Thanks!” “Damn it,” Porter muttered. He waited for the beep. “Riley, it’s Porter. I’m in Chicago. This is going to sound crazy, but I think your boyfriend is Coliaro’s follower! There’s a picture of him here in the library at CCAD with Coliaro. The picture’s from thirty years ago, but he looks exactly the same as he did when I saw him a couple months ago. If he’s worshipping Coliaro, he probably hasn’t been aging. And you did mention that he studied at CCAD before, and that he seemed to respect Coliaro. Dude, call me back. Seriously, get out of your house and away from your boyfriend and call me the second you get this message! I’m worried out of my frickin’ mind!”

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He ended the call. There was nothing else he could do, other than wait and try again later. He wasn’t about to leave a message on the home phone, where Nick could hear it as well. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Riley might have stopped by his house in Tampa. He knew Westwood had the key. If the two of them ever needed to meet, it was more likely that Westwood would have taken Riley to Porter’s house than to his own private haven. On a whim, he dialed in his own number. Good thing Jesse Martinez had decided to invest in a landline. His own voice greeted him, and after the beep, he repeated his earlier message, with even more urgency fueling his words. After finishing his call, he shoved his phone back in his pocket, feebly telling himself he’d done all he could do.

IT WAS dark outside. Riley had barely managed to pack the dirt back down over the hole in the ground when he saw the flash of headlights turning in to the driveway. His breath caught, and he grabbed the shovel, darting back to the tool shed and stowing it as quickly as possible. He raced back across the yard and let himself in through the back door, pulling off his muddy shoes and tossing them into the closet. He was covered in dirt. Outside, he heard Nick’s car door slam shut, and he knew he had to get out of his muddy clothes and into the clothes he’d been wearing earlier that day as fast as possible. He took the stairs two at a time, tearing off his shirt as he ran. Once inside the bedroom, he wadded up his clothes and tossed them in the hamper, pulling on the shirt and pants he’d been wearing when Nick had last seen him. He took a quick look at himself in the mirror. Good, no mud on his face—just an expression of horror. But that was something he couldn’t scrub away, no matter how hard he tried. One body in the yard would have been bad enough, but before he started covering it up, he spotted the edges of another vacuum bag alongside the first. He shuddered to think how many bodies were buried in the clearing next to the ferns. Forcing himself to stop thinking, he headed into the bathroom to wash his hands. He was still soaping up when the front door swung open and a heavy pair of footsteps fell on the floor. Nick would be standing on the

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welcome mat, next to the apple tree he’d dragged in earlier that day. Thank God Riley hadn’t taken the tree out to the back yet. “Riley?” Nick called from downstairs. “Baby, come down here.” “I’ll be down in a minute!” he called, praying Nick didn’t hear the catch in his voice. He needed to call someone. The only person he could think of was Porter. Even though Porter was out of town, he had connections to other undead people, not to mention Westwood, and he was the only person who’d even know what Riley was talking about if he said Nick was one of Coliaro’s worshippers. Then again, those were actual dead bodies in the yard. If he called the police, they’d be there in minutes. They’d be just as helpful as Porter, if not more. Or would they? As soon as the police arrived, chances were Nick would reveal whatever power he’d gained through Coliaro, whatever power he’d kept hidden from Riley for all those years. Porter. He’d call Porter. Taking a seat at the edge of the bed, he lifted the phone receiver and raised it to his ear. It took him a moment to remember Porter’s number. He had it saved in his contacts on his cell phone and never needed to put in the actual digits. After the second ring, he felt a hand lowering onto his shoulder. He shouted an expletive, jumping and dropping the phone. “Whoa, Riley,” Nick said. “It’s just me. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Riley turned to him, eyes wide. “Uh, no, it’s okay.” “Were you on the phone?” Nick grabbed the receiver off the floor, raising it to his ear. Quickly, Riley snatched it from him and hung it up. “It was nothing. I was just going to call home.” “Well, there’s plenty of time for that later,” Nick said. He lunged forward, and Riley fell down to his back across the bed, shrinking away. Nick leaned over him, closing in for a kiss. He searched with his tongue, pressing it against Riley’s lips, but Riley couldn’t get himself to open up. All he could think of was that

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body in the bag, arms crossed over its chest, face smashed and distorted under the tight plastic cover. Pulling back, Nick asked, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” “You’re all tense and jumpy. Something’s wrong.” He ran a hand over Riley’s cheek, and Riley couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. “Baby, tell me what’s going on. Tell me what’s going on in your head right now.” “It’s nothing,” Riley said. Even he could hear how weak his voice was. “Here.” Nick pushed Riley down onto his back. He slid Riley’s shirt up, baring his chest, then leaned in and took one of Riley’s nipples into his mouth. He laid a hand possessively on Riley’s stomach as he licked and sucked. Riley gritted his teeth. He couldn’t do it. Not with the image of that body in his head. “Stop,” he groaned, sliding out from under Nick. “You see? Something is wrong.” “Nothing’s wrong!” Riley snapped. “I just…. I’m not in the mood for this right now.” Nick’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded in understanding. “It’s about the tree, isn’t it? I know we were going to plant it today, and I’m so sorry I got caught up at work. We can plant it first thing in the morning.” “That’s fine.” “And we can still pick a spot tonight.” He pulled open the drapes concealing the bedroom window, which overlooked the backyard. “Come over here; let’s take a look together.” “I thought about it,” Riley said urgently. He walked quickly to Nick’s side, trying to pull him back away from the window. “Wherever you want is fine. That place you picked this morning—we can put it there.” “Whoa, wait a second.” Nick pulled Riley in front of him, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Slowly, he walked Riley forward to the window. “I told you this morning, this is our house. I

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want us both to agree on the spot. Take a look and let me know if you’re really happy with the spot I chose.” Riley swallowed. He looked hesitantly out into the yard. Nick had turned on the outside lights on his way in, and the yard was fully illuminated. Without the patch of sunlight marking the ground, he couldn’t remember exactly where Nick had pointed that morning. When his gaze shifted back to the spot that he himself had wanted, his breath caught. He’d packed down the dirt and stowed the shovel. But he hadn’t smoothed out the rocks. They were cleared off to the side, leaving a large bare circle of dirt. He had to get Nick away from the window before he noticed. He had to…. Nick’s grip suddenly tightened around him. He didn’t say anything, but Riley knew he’d noticed the rocks. They stood together in silence, Nick holding Riley, Riley pinned within Nick’s arms. It was Nick who finally broke the silence. “So?” he asked. “What do you think of the spot?” He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. He tried to swallow again, but his throat didn’t cooperate. In a weak, squeaky voice, he said, “The place you chose is fine.” Nick released him, and he pulled away. Dread filled him as he turned to look at his boyfriend. The lights were off in the bedroom, and Nick was backlit from the ceiling fixture out in the hallway. His eyes were in shadow. Riley couldn’t read them. “Let’s go downstairs,” Nick said. “I brought dinner.” Riley was silent. Nick stepped forward, reaching for his arm. Riley let out a startled cry, crashing back against the wall. As he stared with terror at Nick, his heart sank. Riley’s split-second reaction of fear had said it all, and Nick knew that he knew.

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THE sun had set, and whatever light had previously been streaming through the bedroom windows had now disappeared. Nick was just a shadow before him—no face, no eyes. Riley had lost track of how long they’d stood staring silently at each other. He eyed the phone subtly. It was only a few feet away, but he knew he’d never be able to place a call without Nick stopping him. Where had he left his cell phone? When Nick finally broke the silence, Riley jumped in shock. “I asked you to stay out of it,” Nick said. “I begged you. And you promised you would.” Riley swallowed, unable to find his voice. “I should have known you were lying to me. It’s what you always do.” “It’s what I always do?” Riley asked, surprised at the heat behind his words. “It’s what I always do? You’ve been lying to me ever since the moment we met!” “Riley, calm down. Lower your voice.” “You’re a murderer!” Again, Nick fell silent. Riley really wished he’d turned on a light. “Don’t make this difficult,” Nick said at last, his voice almost gentle. “I need you to be calm. I need you to not jump to conclusions. Riley, you know me. Will you at least let me talk to you?” Riley almost balked, but then he realized that instead of airing his indignation or disgust, it was far more important to ensure his survival. He tried his best for a steady voice even though he knew it was impossible. “I do know you,” he whispered, and he was thankful that the slight tremor in his voice actually made him sound more credible.

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“We’ve been together for four years. If anything, I owe you a chance to explain.” Nick took a step toward him, and it took all Riley’s willpower to stand his ground. But when the man reached forward and wrapped an arm around him, he failed to hold back his shudder. Nick ran a hand over his hair, then kissed his head. “It’s all right, baby. You can be scared. I understand. All I need to know is that you’ll hear me out.” He pulled Riley close, talking into his hair. “Now more than ever, I need you to stay by my side.” “All right,” Riley said weakly. “Why don’t I make us some coffee, and we can talk?” “All right.” As they headed toward the bedroom door, Nick kept one arm around Riley’s waist. Riley wanted more than anything to pull away from his touch, but he had a feeling the man wasn’t going to let him get more than two inches away. His suspicion held true as Nick led him into the kitchen, keeping him at his side as he poured coffee grounds into a filter. They stood in tense silence as the water began to heat up and then dribble into the pot. When the coffee was done, Nick poured his own cup, then Riley’s. Riley felt a pang in his chest as he watched Nick measure out the milk and sugar exactly the way he knew Riley liked it. Nick gestured toward the kitchen table. “Sit down. Ask me anything you want to know.” For a split second, a memory flashed through Riley’s mind. He’d been sitting by the picture window, cell phone to his ear, waiting for Nick to pick up. When he hadn’t received an answer, he’d thrown his phone in frustration. It had landed on the couch. “Can we…?” His voice was a weak rasp, not even a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Can we sit in the living room? It’s cold over here.” “Whatever you want, baby,” Nick said gently. Too gently, Riley realized. Either Nick didn’t believe Riley when he said he’d give him a chance, or he was still trying to assess Riley’s honesty. Either way, Nick was clearly keeping a scrutinizing eye on him.

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As they headed into the living room, Riley immediately went for the couch. His heart sank when he didn’t see his cell phone. But then he spotted it in a slight gap between two of the seat cushions. Even better, he thought. This way Nick wouldn’t be able to see the phone, either. He sat on the couch, his fingers brushing the exposed edge of his cell phone. Nick took the adjacent armchair. He set both cups of coffee down, one in front of Riley and one in front of himself. If Riley hadn’t actually seen Nick making the coffee in front of his eyes, he wouldn’t have dared to take a sip. But he was determined to keep up his ruse. More to placate Nick than anything else, he lifted the mug and put it to his lips. “I know you must have a lot of questions,” Nick said. “Whenever you’re ready, go ahead and ask me.” Riley swallowed the coffee, racking his brain for a suitable question. Nick was right; he had thousands of them. “How old are you?” he asked at last. “I’m sorry?” “How old are you? You know why I’m asking.” Nick hesitated. “Sixty-eight.” Riley felt sick to his stomach. “And you were the one who killed all of them. All thirteen of them. In Chicago, and here.” “That’s right.” “So when I bought you those special vacuum storage bags to take to your house in Oak Brook, you were taking them there so you could bury bodies in your backyard?” Nick chuckled. “Believe it or not, I used some of them to store old clothing.” When Riley didn’t return his smile, he added, “But yes, most of them were used for bodies. I didn’t always have the opportunity to bury them immediately after removing the heart and hands, so I’d have to store them in the house for a while. The vacuum bags prevented them from decaying and smelling, at least long enough for me to get out there with a shovel. For example, I kept number thirteen in the attic for three or four days before I got a chance to put him in the ground.”

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Riley grimaced. Forcing himself to focus, he slid his hand stealthily down between the sofa cushions. As he fished around for his phone, he asked, “Why did you do it?” “You’ve been doing your research on the undead. I’d think it’d be obvious.” “It’s not obvious,” Riley said bitterly. “Tell me.” “All right.” Nick took another sip of his coffee, and as the mug slipped above his eyes, Riley urgently shifted his hand, trying to make enough space between the cushions to flip his phone open. “Not everything I told you was a lie. I did learn about Coliaro when I went to CCAD. But it wasn’t as recent as I said. It was thirty years ago, and he was my instructor. We bonded right away. When he told me what he was, and what he had to share with me, there was no way I could turn him down. I’d been working for a tiny, worthless little law firm for over ten years, but I’d always loved the arts. Not only would Coliaro mentor me as a painter, he’d give me a chance to be younger and stronger and smarter. When I started serving him, it was like my eyes were open for the first time in my life. I saw paths before me, paths that could lead me to success. I became a better lawyer. In only a year, I was able to build up the means to open my own practice, and it took off like I couldn’t believe. Riley, you have no idea how great it feels to serve the undead.” Fervently, Riley shifted his grip on the phone, finally managing to pry it open. At this point, the police were his only option. Porter was all the way in Chicago, and Riley needed help now. Nick lowered his gaze as a slight blush appeared across his face. “And that’s not even mentioning the impact he had on my sex life. I never could have gotten someone like you if I hadn’t been serving Coliaro. I wouldn’t even still be virile. And I wouldn’t be able to make you squirm the way you know I always can.” Riley’s lip curled with sickening realization. “The last time we tried, right before Thanksgiving—you said you didn’t want to fuck me because it would hurt me. But the truth was you couldn’t get it up after I took that goddamn Coliaro painting out of the room. Because you’re almost seventy!” Nick’s jaw clenched. “Don’t go there, Riley.”

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Riley felt the danger in Nick’s voice, and clumsily, he searched his brain for a different question. He needed to keep Nick calm. One wrong word, and the man could snap. “How were you able to tell when Coliaro did a new painting?” he asked at last. “I never told you about the second one he did of me.” “I can feel it. Whenever Coliaro does a painting, he puts all his energy into it. It drains him, and as a result I get weaker. That’s why I have to make a sacrifice after. It’s the only thing that’ll give Coliaro back his energy.” “But Coliaro’s done thousands of paintings. You haven’t killed that many people.” He frowned. “Have you?” “The sacrifices required to compensate for a landscape or still life are much smaller. Sometimes all he needs is a tree or a plant. It’s only the nudes that require a human sacrifice. They’re his most beloved paintings, and the ones that he puts the most effort into.” Riley searched his phone with his fingers. Thank God he’d gotten the model with the actual keypad instead of the touch screen. Nine. He needed to ask another question. Fast. Feeling ridiculous, he asked, “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Nick smirked. He took another sip of coffee. “I’m not stupid, Riley. I knew you wouldn’t understand.” One. “I would have given you a chance to explain,” Riley said, lying through his teeth. “You know that all I’ve ever wanted was to be closer to you. I would have wanted to be a part of what you were doing.” One. “You were happy as you were. I saw no reason to drag you into the world of the undead.” All Riley needed to do was find the “send” button. Easier said than done. “So that night when Coliaro was here at the house and he called me and threatened your life?” “That was my idea,” Nick confessed. “It was our last desperate attempt to keep you from destroying him.”

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“My goal wasn’t to destroy him. It was to prevent any more murders.” “See? You just don’t understand. Things are different in your world. You regular people are….” Riley saw, too late, as Nick’s eyes traveled from his face down to his arm. Before he could move, the man leapt out of his seat, jumping at Riley and pushing him down on his back. He straddled him, wrenching his wrist out from between the seat cushions and looking at the cell phone screen. A scowl crossed his face as he saw the numbers on it, and he applied brutal pressure to Riley’s wrist. When the phone suddenly rang in his hand, they both jumped, and Riley used the opportunity to slide his thumb down, pressing any button he could reach before Nick tightened his grip again and forced him to drop the phone. Once the phone fell, Nick released his wrist. Running on adrenaline, Riley reached out toward the coffee table. He grabbed his mug by the handle, splashing the hot coffee across Nick’s face and then bringing the mug down on the back of his head. He was hoping for a satisfying shatter, but the cheap thing only gave a dull thunk before breaking off at the handle. The fury was clear in Nick’s eyes. His previous façade of gentleness disappeared completely. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. Then he drew back a fist, punching Riley hard across the face. Riley yelped, falling back into the couch cushions. He felt the skin tearing across his cheek. He lay stunned. He couldn’t believe that Nick, his lover of four years, had just hit him. Before he could move, Nick grabbed his wrists, holding them tight in his crushing grip. “You can’t stop lying to save your fucking life,” he hissed. “Can you?” Riley gritted his teeth, trying his best to keep from crying out. Nick’s grip was so terribly painful. If this was the power of the undead, then all those times Westwood had grabbed him, he must have been half-assing it. Nick tightened his grip, and Riley could no longer stifle his groan. “Nick,” he said desperately. “Please….” “You don’t even realize what you’ve done. You don’t realize how badly you’ve hurt me. You killed my liege, and now you’ve betrayed

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me as well. I may only have a few more days before the last of Coliaro’s strength leaves me and I have to find someone else.” He dragged Riley up off the couch, twisting his arms painfully behind his back and pinning them in place. He pushed Riley ahead of him, making him stumble. “Go.” Riley planted his feet. “Where?” he whispered. “Wh… why?” “Go!” Nick pushed Riley hard, forcing him forward. Riley put all his strength into fighting back, but Nick had suddenly become twenty times stronger than Riley had ever known him to be. Nick was taking him to the basement. In all his years of living in Nick’s house, Riley had only been down to the basement a handful of times. It was unfinished, dark and musty, with an exposed ceiling and a drain in the floor. No telephones or windows. As far as Riley knew, Nick only used it as a place to store his old belongings. But then again, he’d also thought that Nick only used his backyard for palm trees and ferns.

WESTWOOD raised a hand to his forehead, groaning in pain. He felt like he’d woken up to the worst hangover in his life. He was lying on his back on the floor of Porter’s bedroom. “What the hell…?” He raised his head. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, but apparently it had been long enough for a light coating of dust to settle on his bare chest. He was alone in the room, and the door to Porter’s closet was open, revealing his makeshift studio inside. Memories drifted back to him. Amazing memories. Memories of Riley’s lithe body sliding against his own, Riley’s lustful moans in his ear. He remembered how it had felt to have Riley within his arms, roughhousing with him, twisting and writhing against him. Then he remembered shoving Riley hard, knocking him onto the bed. He remembered seeing fear in Riley’s eyes. How could he have lost his self-control so easily? Dread settling in his chest, he fought to remember how their meeting had ended. If he’d hurt Riley….

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No, that wasn’t what had happened. He’d let the boy go. Riley had left the room, but then he came back, and Westwood had felt a surge within him as Riley reached out, grabbing him and kissing him passionately. Then Riley had spat something into his mouth. The sharp, metallic taste sprang back to his mind, and he almost retched all over again. He’d have recognized that taste anywhere. It was Porter’s blood. Porter must have given Riley some of his blood to keep, Westwood realized. With a malicious chuckle, he shook his head. “Oh, that little bastard is going to be so sorry.” Even that weak laugh hurt his head, and he gritted his teeth, rubbing furiously at his temples. Something had awakened him. Some sort of noise. What was it? It had been sharp, high-pitched. Annoying. And then a voice. The telephone, he realized. And the answering machine. Westwood stumbled to his feet, heading toward the phone. He really didn’t care to listen to Porter’s messages, but the machine would have been able to tell him when that last call was missed, which would give him an idea of just how long he’d been out. He pushed the “play” button. A robotic female voice announced, “January 16, 8:02 p.m.” With a wince, he did the math. It had been almost a month. Turning away, he sank back down to the ground. Oh, he would definitely make Porter pay. As he began formulating a plan of attack, the machine behind him continued to play. Speak of the devil; it was Porter, leaving a message on his own machine. Self-centered little shit. The kid sounded like he was in hysterics. He was blabbering on about some sort of crisis at the art school he was visiting. Rolling his eyes, Westwood lay back on the floor, waiting for his head to stop throbbing. Porter’s incessant chattering didn’t help. As he closed his eyes, Porter’s words suddenly began to come together. Nick. He thought Nick was Coliaro’s follower. Was that even possible? Granted, he’d never actually met the man. But he had to believe that if Riley had been investigating Coliaro, Nick would have gotten wind of it and stopped him long ago.

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But if he really believed that, why was his adrenaline spiking? He knew why; he was worried about Riley. Not that there was any point. After all, Riley was the one who’d spat the blood into Westwood’s mouth, knowing full well the damage it could do. As far as he was concerned, Riley and Nick deserved each other. But even as these thoughts passed through his mind, he found himself approaching Porter’s telephone. He dialed in Riley’s number and waited for an answer. The line picked up after barely one ring. But no one said hello. Instead he heard a loud clatter, followed by muted rustling noises. Then a smack and a cry. Riley’s voice. The rustling died down. He thought the call had been dropped, but then he heard a vaguely familiar voice. “You can’t stop lying to save your fucking life, can you?” The sound cut in and out. He heard Riley respond. He couldn’t understand the words, but he recognized the note of fear and desperation. There was a very brief discussion, which Westwood could barely hear. One sentence jumped out from behind the static: “You killed my liege, and now you’ve betrayed me as well.” The rest of the conversation disappeared into the distance. Westwood stood still, clutching the phone in his hand. He was an hour away from Riley’s house.

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Chapter 19

RILEY cried out as he stumbled over one of the steps to the basement. He felt that horrible dropping sensation in his chest as the ground slipped out from beneath him. Before he could fall, Nick tightened his grip on Riley’s wrists, which he was still holding behind his back. He yanked Riley back up and continued forcing him down the rest of the stairs. At the bottom, Nick pulled a nearby beaded cord that dangled from the ceiling, lighting a single bare bulb. It only illuminated an area roughly ten feet in diameter, but it was enough for Riley to see the bare rafters in the ceiling, adorned with cobwebs and sawdust. There were boxes lined up along the walls, and in the far corner was a metal shelf with various power tools and accessories. Nick dragged him toward the shelf for a moment, but Riley was facing the opposite direction and couldn’t see what he was doing. There was a shuffling sound behind him, and then Nick pushed him back toward the light. “Get on your knees,” he ordered. “No.” A heavy blow to the back of his head effectively told him Nick was not playing games. He collapsed to his hands and knees with a weak groan. Nick yanked his arms out from under him, once again pinning them behind his back. He felt a thin, scratchy rope—probably twine or jute—wrapping tightly around his wrists. “Nick… what are you doing? Talk to me. Please.” Nick finished tying his wrists, then rose back to his feet. “For four years, we were happy. Why did you have to ruin it?”

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Riley wanted to argue back, to say that Nick was the one who’d ruined it, but the growing knot on the back of his head convinced him to stay silent. “You were damaged when you came to me,” Nick continued. “I could tell. Depression runs in your family, doesn’t it?” “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Riley asked, this time unable to keep his mouth shut. “You don’t remember, do you?” He ran a hand over Riley’s hair, then down the back of his neck, almost tenderly. “That night at the bar, when we first met, you were so tired and drunk and unhappy. We sat together, and you told me about your brother. The one who hanged himself on January 16.” Riley’s jaw tightened. “From that day, I took care of you. I made you happy. If you could have just accepted it, just left it at that, I wouldn’t have to hurt you now.” He sighed. “I suppose it was inevitable. I spared you the first time, but I can’t spare you any longer.” When Riley didn’t respond, Nick seemed to realize that he was confused. “You never did suspect anything, did you?” He wrapped his arms around Riley from behind, lips brushing the side of his neck. “You never realized you were supposed to be number six.” “What…?” “You were so exhausted at the bar that night. You weren’t paying attention. I slipped the Rohypnol into your drink while you were sitting right there, and you still didn’t notice. I always wondered if maybe you did notice and just didn’t care—if you were the self-destructive type. But in all honesty, I probably could have gotten you out of that bar even if I hadn’t drugged you. That’s how badly you were doing. “Your friends were all shooting pool when I carried you out. None of them were paying attention, either. I took you home, set you down on the bed in my room. I had plastic laid down and everything. I was ready for you. But when I held the knife to your chest, I couldn’t follow through. I was stricken by how beautiful you were. So beautiful I wanted to tear you apart, but so beautiful I couldn’t will myself to do it. So I cleared out the plastic and left you alone. I decided that if you

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woke up the next morning and it turned out you were an asshole, I’d go ahead with my plan. But instead you turned out to be sweet and lovable and sexy as hell.” He sighed. “I thought I’d never have to tell you.” Riley said nothing. Not a single word came to his mind. He was flat-out stunned. He already knew that the police had found the hearts and hands of thirteen out of fourteen murder victims—one through five, then seven through fourteen. But he’d never even bothered to think about what had happened to number six. It felt like five minutes had passed before Riley suddenly became aware of Nick still holding him from behind. “Let go,” he said. “Don’t touch me.” Nick withdrew as if stung by his words. Then he regained his composure. He stood up, heading across the room toward the metal shelves. He shuffled through various boxes, then pulled one out and reached inside. When he stepped back into the light holding a coil of heavy nylon rope, Riley bit his lip. “What’s that for?” “I thought it would be fitting,” Nick said, “that you’d hang yourself on the anniversary of your brother’s death.” At last Riley met Nick’s eyes, and when he saw how cold they were, he felt something dying inside him. He might have shed a tear, if he hadn’t been so crippled with shock. “The police will never believe it,” he managed to gasp. “You bruised me all over. They’ll know it wasn’t suicide.” “Baby. They’re not ever going to find you.” Riley’s blood chilled. When he watched Nick expertly turning the end of the rope into a noose, his mind sprang back into action. If he fought, he might die. But if he did nothing, he’d definitely die. Just as Nick was tightening the knot, Riley shot up to his feet, darting forward and ramming into him with his head and shoulder. Unprepared, Nick toppled back against the shelves. Riley struck next with his knee, aiming for the gut but instead getting him in the groin. Knowing there was no time to lose, he pulled back and ran for the stairs. He heard heavy footsteps behind him, and dread filled him when he realized how close they were. A hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him off-balance, and there was another heavy blow to the back

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of his head. This time his vision went black, and he fell limply to the ground.

HE AWOKE to the sight of a noose dangling from the ceiling above him, looped around one of the rafters. Nick sat at his side, staring intently at him, examining him from head to toe as he lay on the ground. With a groan, Riley asked spitefully, “What are you looking at?” “I’m trying to memorize everything about you,” Nick said. “This will be the last time I get to enjoy all of it.” Riley struggled to sit up, then groaned as a bout of vertigo struck him. He felt like throwing up. “Easy, easy,” Nick whispered, setting a hand on his shoulder. Riley immediately yanked himself free. “I’m sorry,” Nick said. “But you didn’t give me any other option.” He reached out again, grabbing Riley by the arm. “This may sound a bit sappy, but I’d like to give you a goodbye kiss.” Silently, Riley glared back at him. Nick pulled him forward, wrapping an arm around him and leaning in. Riley flinched as their lips met. Nick held him as if he thought he’d try to escape. He could feel Nick’s fingertips digging into his arms. He tried to turn his face away, but Nick’s head moved with his, refusing to cut the kiss short. When Nick finally released him, he pulled away so hard he toppled to the ground, landing hard on his side. He gasped, out of breath. He almost wanted Nick to try kissing him again. He wanted a chance to lash out—to bite, to gouge. But Nick turned away from him, standing up and heading back to the corner of the room. He pulled a stepladder out from beside the metal shelves. He set it up underneath the noose and turned back to Riley. “Come on. Get up.” Riley didn’t move a muscle. “Don’t make this difficult. If you don’t come over here, I’m just going to drag you myself.” When Riley still didn’t move, Nick made good on his threat. He grabbed Riley by the arm, pulling him up to his feet and forcing him

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toward the ladder. Riley fought with all his effort, but even if Nick hadn’t been inhumanly powerful, Riley was still too nauseated from the blow to the head to defend himself. Nick climbed up the ladder with him, holding him still. Riley felt the rough noose being slipped over his head, catching underneath his chin. Nick tightened the noose, then climbed back down to the ground. The crash of splintering wood echoed across the room. Riley’s eyes widened when he saw the familiar silhouette of spiked hair on the figure at the top of the stairs. “Westwood!” he managed to yell. Impulsively, Nick kicked the ladder out from under him, and his cry was cut short. The rope snapped in around his neck, the shock so overpowering that his awareness blinked out for a moment. He was hanging free, swinging, unable to take in even the tiniest bit of air. There was commotion around him, but he couldn’t make sense of any of it. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of Westwood. Then he felt arms around his legs, lifting him up and relieving the tension of the rope around his neck. He sucked in a hungry breath, but the noose was still tight, and he had to struggle to pull in more air. Nick rushed at Westwood. Riley couldn’t see what was happening, but the support disappeared from underneath him, and then he was hanging again. This time, the fall was harder, and when the rope snapped taut at his neck, his vision blackened completely. His consciousness returned when he felt himself falling. He struck the ground hard. Then someone knelt at his side, tearing the noose away from his neck. “Riley, come on,” a voice whispered. “Come on, open your eyes.” Struggling, he managed to crack his lids apart. Westwood was holding him, but there was an urgent air to his expression. As soon as he saw that Riley was conscious, he flipped him over, yanking at the rope that bound his wrists. He’d just barely managed to tear the rope away when Nick tackled him. Riley felt a spray of warm liquid across his face and neck. Turning with horror, he saw that Nick had plunged a broken metal pole from the corner shelf all the way through Westwood’s chest and out the back. Westwood groaned, falling to his knees. Riley heard himself yelling the man’s name, distantly, as if he were behind a glass wall.

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Nick turned back to him, tossing the pole to the ground. He was out of breath, painted with cuts and bruises. “Now, where were we?” Riley struggled to his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Westwood crumpled against the wall, a small stream of blood dribbling onto the ground in front of him. He lowered his stance, trying to remember any of the moves he’d learned back when he had taken that kickboxing class in college. Nick approached him, and he darted forward, landing a roundhouse kick to the side of the man’s head. He felt the power of the strike. It echoed through his bones, and he knew that it would have taken down any normal man. But Nick barely flinched. His eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms. “Don’t fight me, Riley. You have no idea how easy it would be for me to grab you right now and snap your neck.” Riley took a step back, knowing that Nick wasn’t lying. He dared himself to try another kick. He knew where to aim, and perhaps a wellplaced kick would be enough to at least knock Nick off-balance. As he lowered his stance in preparation for the attack, a shadow passed over him, and he felt himself being pushed back. Westwood had stepped in between Nick and himself. The pole that had been lodged in his chest was now in his hand, still dripping blood. He wobbled on his feet, and Riley reached out to steady him. He grabbed the pole from Westwood’s hand and tried to push him out of the way. “Westwood, don’t do this.” “I’m undead,” Westwood reminded him. He turned to Nick. “Killing your boyfriend and making it look like a suicide. Real classy.” “This has nothing to do with you,” Nick spat. “If you don’t get out of the way, I’ll gouge through that hole in your chest with my entire arm.” Westwood didn’t budge. Eyes narrowed, Nick lunged at him, swinging with his fist. Westwood blocked the blow, but he couldn’t evade Nick’s second jab. He was weak from his injury, unsteady on his feet, his strength waning with every second. Riley stood behind him, feeling like a coward as he watched the man get pummeled by his former partner. Nick wrestled with him, pinning him. They were chest to chest.

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Riley clutched the pole in his hand. Westwood’s words repeated in his mind. I’m undead. “I’m sorry, Westwood!” he shouted, bracing himself. He gritted his teeth, pulled back, and shot forward with all his strength. He rammed the pole into Westwood’s body, piercing from his back out through his heart, all the way through into Nick’s chest. His hand went slack around the pole as Nick and Westwood crumpled to the floor.

WESTWOOD was down for an hour. By the time he let out a soft groan and rolled over onto his back, Riley had just begun to wrap his head around the situation. Nick was still breathing. Breathing, but clearly on the verge of death. It seemed the strength he’d gained from Coliaro was preserving him. Riley sat staring at him, wondering how long it’d take for him to die, wondering whether he preferred that Nick live or die. He thought about calling for an ambulance, but his entire body felt numb, and he couldn’t will himself to move. “You all right?” Riley jumped, raising his head. Westwood had risen to his knees and was now at Riley’s side. He ran a hand up and down Riley’s back, and Riley was startled at how comforted he felt. “I don’t know what to do,” Riley confessed. “There are bodies. Buried in the backyard. Without hands or hearts.” “Of course there are,” Westwood said. “Here’s what you do. Call the cops. You’ll tell them about how you discovered the bodies, and how Nick tried to kill you in order to keep his secret. I’ll clean up my blood and get out of here before the police arrive. Any traces I leave behind are no big deal. Undead blood doesn’t react to luminol or testing, so any DNA or blood type they find in this room will only match you or Nick. It’ll be pretty cut and dried from there.” “Hmm.”

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Westwood ran his hand back up Riley’s back, squeezing his shoulder. “Hey.” Riley didn’t reply, and Westwood shook him gently. “Riley. Can you do this?” At last, Riley nodded. He closed his eyes, bracing himself. For a moment, he leaned forward, resting his forehead on his knees as he sucked in a series of calming breaths. Yes. He could do it. He could handle it. When he raised his head, Westwood was gone.

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Chapter 20

“CHEESE?” Riley turned, raising an eyebrow as Mr. Tobias offered him a piece of generic orange cheese speared on a toothpick. When the instructor began waving it in front of his face, he let out a wry chuckle. “I would have expected fancier hors d’oeuvres for an event like this.” “The fancier stuff is back in the corner,” Mr. Tobias told him, “but I dug this up because I know you have simple tastes.” “I do not have simple tastes.” With Mr. Tobias at his side, Riley turned, walking around a white pillar and across yet another wall stocked with artwork. Coliaro’s death had done wonders for his popularity. The Sarasota Center of Fine Art was holding a retrospective on his career, and the galleries were packed with people who had come to the opening to see the artist’s work. When Mr. Tobias had asked him to come, Riley couldn’t think of a good excuse to decline. The painting instructor had no idea of the history between Coliaro and Riley, and he was nowhere near ready to explain. But as he walked through the various galleries housing Coliaro’s extensive collection of oil paintings, he realized he was glad he came. Aside from the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see the largest show of Coliaro’s career, he was thankful that Mr. Tobias had pried him out of seclusion. The events between him and Nick had been blown up in the headlines, and Riley hadn’t been handling it well. As much as he tried to deny it, he knew he was depressed. He’d gone on hiatus from work, spending nearly a month without any contact with the outside world, aside from his lawyer and the police.

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It was now the end of February. Nick was safely in prison, held without bail due to the gravity of the crimes he’d committed. With the chaos of uncovering seven out of thirteen bodies in the backyard of Nick’s property, Riley had gone to stay with Mr. Tobias, the only person he could think to turn to. Mr. Tobias had taken him in, and Riley was relieved to find that the instructor treated him in a courteous and platonic manner. But as much as he appreciated Mr. Tobias’s hospitality, Riley spent most of his days holed up in the guest bedroom, barely eating, barely talking to his new roommate. It had taken the instructor eight days of wheedling to convince Riley to come out to the show. Riley had come more out of curiosity than anything else. He’d heard a rumor that Coliaro had fixed the paintings from his Oscuro Bello series, returning them to their original state before the “vandalism” occurred, and that they’d be displayed as part of the show. He was pretty sure the paintings had changed themselves after Coliaro’s death, but he wasn’t about to share his hypothesis with anyone else. As they walked down one of the walls of paintings, Riley noticed a few familiar works he’d seen in Coliaro’s storage room. A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the day he’d broken into Coliaro’s studio, and the way the night had ended. “You cold?” Mr. Tobias asked. Riley shook his head. In fact, he was quite warm. Appropriately, he was dressed in the same suit he’d worn on the night he’d killed Coliaro. A young man approached them, raising a hand up in greeting, and Riley recognized him as Kevin. “Mr. Tobias,” he said. He turned to Riley and nodded, saying a simple, “Hello.” Riley assumed the student still didn’t know his name. “Hello, Kevin,” Mr. Tobias said. “What do you think of the exhibit?” “It’s amazing. I was never a huge fan of Coliaro, but I had no idea he’d done this many paintings. How the hell did he find the time to do them all?” He gestured with his head. “There’s one down there that I thought you’d like.”

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Mr. Tobias turned to Riley, who shook his head. “Go ahead.” “You’re going to sneak out of here if I leave you alone.” “Maybe,” Riley admitted. “But you don’t need to babysit me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, looking around and trying to decide how long to stay at the gallery. Finally, he said to Mr. Tobias, “Go on and enjoy the show. I’ll find my way home.” “You’ll be okay?” Mr. Tobias asked. “Don’t worry about me. Just go.” Reluctantly, Mr. Tobias turned away. Riley watched as the student and the teacher made their way across the room. Then he turned back to look at the Chicago cityscape on the wall in front of him. He’d been staring for several minutes when a woman’s voice said behind him, “It’s not one of his better works. I recommend moving on instead of lingering in front of this one.” Riley looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening at the sight of a tall woman with wavy blond hair. “Wh… what are you doing here?” he stammered. “Just admiring the work of a colleague,” she said. “I admit I’m surprised to see you here.” “You know Westwood, don’t you?” Riley asked, the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop himself. “I remember you from the bar on Ballard. And you were at the Tampa library with Porter and me. You’re the one who translated Bosch’s sketchbook and then told Westwood about it.” “That’s one of many things I told him. But it all seemed to work out well for you, wouldn’t you say?” “You’re joking, right?” Riley felt his face going red with anger, and he prayed that his self-control would kick in before he began screaming in the middle of the formal event. “My boyfriend of four years tried to kill me, and now he’s in prison. There are dead bodies on his property.” “You’re alive,” the woman said. “You were up against a centuries-old undead man and his most powerful follower, and you’re alive. I’d say you’re pretty lucky.” She shook her head. “Westwood and

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I had been trying to figure out Coliaro’s weakness for almost ten years. As much as it pains me to admit it, you must be pretty smart to have figured it out. Though I have to say, you sure hide it well.” “Who are you?” Riley asked. The woman held out a hand. “Quinn Harcourt. Nice to meet you.” Riley’s eyes widened. “You’re Quinn? The one Mikhail was trying to get me to worship at the bar?” “What were you expecting?” The woman tossed her hair over her shoulder. “So do you still plan on attending one of my initiations?” “No way. I’m through with the undead.” “If you say so,” the woman replied. As she turned away, she said over her shoulder, “Just don’t tell that to Westwood. I daresay he’d be disappointed.” The woman began to walk away, but Riley caught her sleeve. “Wait.” He swallowed, searching for his voice. “How do you know Westwood?” “You really want me to tell you?” Riley nodded. “I’m the first person to ever hold the undead accountable for their crimes against humans. Not too long ago, Westwood was on my hit list. Lucky for him, he decided to change his ways and help me in my mission instead.” She took a step closer to the Coliaro painting on the wall, disrespectfully scratching at it with her fingernail. “I had to teach that man how to be human all over again. He’s come a long way since his last murder of that college kid twenty years ago.” “So he’s better now?” Quinn laughed. “‘Better’? Sure, he’s better than before, but he’s not ‘cured’. An undead like him is always going to be a little bit wild.” She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is that a problem?” When Riley didn’t answer, she glanced at her watch. “Well. That was more time than I had planned to spend on a stain like Coliaro. I’m leaving.” As she turned to go, she winked at him. “Stay out of trouble, now.”

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Riley waited for her to disappear through the door, and then he headed in the opposite direction and turned another corner, finding a wall lined with clothed-male figure paintings. They were quite beautiful, but something about them didn’t seem quite as engaging as Coliaro’s nudes. Nick was probably right that Coliaro put the most of himself into the nudes. Nevertheless, throughout his years of painting, Coliaro clearly had no difficulty finding beautiful subjects to paint. “Buddy!” a voice called from behind him. Riley felt a surge in his chest, and it took him a moment to recognize the feeling as happiness. Turning, his eyes fell upon Porter. He didn’t recognize him at first— Porter had hacked off his signature shaggy hair, bleaching it up to dirty blond, and he was now sporting a short, sleek cut that was surprisingly attractive on him. He wore sunglasses and a scarf, and a leather jacket that appeared to be well out of his price range. Looks like someone enjoyed Michigan Avenue, Riley thought wryly. But as much as he missed the paint-stained clothes and the old tumbleweed of hair on Porter’s head, Riley had to admit that he cleaned up good. The makeover—and the fact that Porter was trying to conceal his face—made sense; the last thing Porter needed was for Kevin and Mr. Tobias, among the other Prestwick students at the exhibit, to recognize him. Porter jogged up to him, drawing him into an enthusiastic hug. “Dude, how are you? Did you know how worried I was about you?” “I’m fine,” Riley lied. “Did you just get back in town?” “Yesterday.” He grinned like a fool. “I couldn’t pry myself out of Chicago. It’s insane up there! I don’t know if I’m going to go to CCAD, but you can bet I’ll be spending more time up north.” “Chicago’s a nice place.” “Oh, come on,” Porter said, giving Riley a shake. “Cheer up, man! I can tell you’re miserable, but you gotta get past that. I’ve had my share of downers in my life, but you’re never going to be happy if you don’t put that shit behind you.” If anyone else had said that to him, Riley would have probably been insulted at their ignorance. But he knew the scope of Porter’s “downers,” and he wouldn’t have dared to confront Porter and claim he

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hadn’t suffered the way Riley had. Instead, he shifted gears. “Have you seen him?” “Seen who?” “You know who.” Porter frowned. “We talked. He tracked me down to find out if I’d heard anything from you. I told him I hadn’t.” “He was asking about me?” Porter’s frown deepened. “Don’t do that, man. I’ve warned you before, Westwood is dangerous.” “I just asked a simple question. It’s not that I really care where he is.” “Lies, lies, lies.” Porter gestured with his head toward the back corridor. “Then I guess you have no reason to check out the Oscuro Bello collection.” He shot Riley a sly smile. “Anyway, you have my number. And my address. I can clean out one of the other bedrooms if you need a place to crash.” “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’d miss having indoor plumbing.” “I’m getting it fixed,” Porter said. “Just think about it, okay? I could use the company. It’s not like I’m able to hang out with any of my old friends anymore.” Riley shrugged. He supposed he probably would think about it. “Well, then,” Porter said, again gesturing toward the neighboring room. “I’ll leave you to it.” Riley watched him as he walked away. Then Riley turned back to the next doorway, noticing a vaguely familiar painting of a male nude. It was a piece from the Oscuro Bello series. He crossed the corridor, stepping through a doorway and entering the crowded room that was clearly the main attraction. It was difficult to find a suitable place to stand in order to see each painting, but thankfully the other museum patrons were considerate, moving out of the way after they’d had their chance to look at each piece. Riley approached the first one, noting immediately that the exhibit had been arranged chronologically. He was only vaguely familiar with the

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paintings in the Oscuro Bello series, but he knew what the first one looked like and had a general idea of the rest of them. The first painting was of a young redhead, standing, his back pressed against a wall. He was freckled, appearing both innocent and provocative at the same time. The next figure was of a more mature man, perhaps in his early thirties, with dark, close-cropped hair and a stubbled chin. A man who might look powerful in person, he was shown here sitting up against a window, looking forlorn and almost fragile. An effeminate blond teenager. A sultry brunet. The list continued. Each painting stirred up something within Riley as he stared at it. Unlike the reviews of the series that claimed Coliaro’s flagship collection celebrated the beauty of the male figure, Riley saw it as something completely different: an honest portrayal of the human male’s underlying vulnerability. Coliaro saw humans as an outsider. He painted the human condition with brutal honesty. Even knowing who Coliaro was, Riley couldn’t help but feel the enormous loss of such a great talent. Only thirteen of Coliaro’s fourteen male nudes were up in the gallery, thankfully. As Riley approached the last in the row, he was relieved to see that the final painting of himself in Coliaro’s studio was not present. What he saw was the painting Coliaro had done on the day they’d first met, of him lying atop the violet cloth, arms stretched above his head. Even though he’d seen the painting before, he couldn’t help but blush again at the sight of himself in such a position. The crowd shifted, allowing him to get closer to the painting. One man stood at the front of the pack; as the other patrons made their way toward the next room, he remained unmoving. Crisp trench coat stretched across his broad shoulders, spiked chestnut hair. Riley approached him slowly from the side. Without turning, the man said, “There’s no question. Hundreds and hundreds of paintings throughout his life, but this was his greatest masterpiece.” “What are you doing here?” “Same thing you’re doing here.” At last Westwood turned, setting his deep black eyes on Riley. “Hoping we’d run into each other.”

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“What makes you think I wanted to see you?” Riley asked. “I know where you live, but I didn’t come looking for you.” “I knew you’d come eventually.” He turned back to the painting. “If there’s anything I admire about Coliaro, it’s his self-control. If I’d been the one in the studio with you posing like that, I’d have mauled you right then and there.” Riley didn’t reply. He probably could have stood next to Westwood for a year without being able to think of a response to that. Finally, he said, “You had all these paintings in your house, didn’t you? You were studying them.” Westwood nodded. “And the fourteenth painting?” A wry laugh. “I decided to keep that one. It’s grown on me.” “You’re disgusting.” The smile lingered on Westwood’s face. Riley lost track of how long they stood side by side, staring at the painting. The crowd around them thinned, waning down to a lone straggler here and there. With Westwood’s presence beside him, Riley’s mind began to drift. When they were at last alone in the room, Riley asked, “Why did you come for me that night?” “What are you talking about?” “I used Porter’s blood on you. But when I was in the basement with Nick, you still helped me.” Westwood said nothing. Riley looked up, taking in the man’s profile. There was something in those black eyes that he’d never before noticed. Something purely human. Sensing Riley’s eyes on him, Westwood turned. As they came to face each other, Riley suddenly pushed forward, reaching out and pulling Westwood close. He leaned in for an urgent, demanding kiss. Westwood hesitated at first, perhaps expecting another gush of Porter’s blood, but then he abandoned his reservations and took Riley into his arms. His tongue pressed against Riley’s, and Riley pushed back as if they were battling each other to the death. Riley bit

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Westwood’s lip, and Westwood raised a hand to the back of Riley’s head, holding him still as he dove in deeper. When they finally parted, Riley sucked in several hungry breaths. Westwood, too, was winded. The man stared down at him, as if struggling to keep from going in for another kiss. “What was that for?” Riley gave a carefree shrug. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I just have a thing for dangerous men.” A smile spread across Westwood’s face. He glanced toward the door. “You want to get out of here?” Riley nodded. “Please.”

About the Author

ANA BOSCH is a freelance illustrator in Illinois who can’t go more than five minutes without working on something creative. Despite pursuing a career in visual art, she never could kick the habit of writing fiction, an interest that dates back to the third grade. Ana is an avid animal lover and can’t imagine life without her feathered and furry housemates. In her spare time, she runs a weekly webcomic and drinks lots of tea. Visit Ana’s web site: http://ana-bosch.blogspot.com, Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ana-Bosch/134060073368339, or follow her on Twitter: http://twitter.com/anaboschwriting.

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