by Amy Hoff
Leah looked up at him, smiling weakly.
“You look like you've done something stupid,” Leah said.
“I did what was right,” said Dorian. “He is my brother.”
“So what did you do?” asked Leah.
“I offered to take him back to Glasgow, to put him in the Deeps,” he said.
“Good so far,” said Leah.
“And the Seal-King agreed, but I have to find a suitable punishment for him that the council will agree on, or I will be given the same punishment as he has,” said Dorian, “Which was death by overdose.”
“Dorian,” said Leah.
“You told me I needed to help him!” said Dorian.
“Not to the point of suicide!” said Leah. She shook her head.
“Gregoire, please tell my partner he is an idiot,” said Leah. Gregoire hid a grin behind his teacup.
Dorian sighed.
“I need to return to Glasgow with Magnus,” he said. Leah made a motion to stand, but he put out a hand to stop her. “Alone. We can't risk moving you.”
“Dorian...” Leah began, but Dorian abruptly turned and walked away down the cave.
Gregoire brought her a cup of tea, smiling as he sat down beside her.
“Don't worry about him, Leah. He cares. He is a different man than I knew.”
Leah accepted the tea, and took a sip.
“What was he like, back then?” she asked, to get her mind off her anger.
Gregoire smiled again.
“You wouldn't recognise him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
LONDON, ENGLAND
1890
The apartments rented by Dorian and Magnus Grey are nothing short of opulent. Dorian has been torn apart again and again in the press for his scandalous behaviour, at which he laughs, cuts out the articles, and tapes them to a board in the kitchen where the maids can read all about him.
This afternoon, he is otherwise occupied.
Magnus walked through door without knocking. Dorian was underneath the blankets, giggling.
“Dorian, it’s time to leave.”
Dorian sat up in bed, his long, beautiful black hair dishevelled. Another young man sat up beside him. Dorian gave his brother a look of annoyance.
“What is it?” Dorian demanded. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“We are expected at the salon in an hour. If you could see fit to clothe yourself…”
Magnus covered his eyes out of politeness.
Dorian shook his head, and pulled the covers over himself and his companion. Magnus sighed and left the room.
The salon was crowded and stuffy. Magnus sat with Dorian, who was quite listless and clearly hungover. Magnus looked at him and shook his head.
“Ugh, why did you drag me out of bed for this?” Dorian asked. “These people are dull. They make me itch.”
“You're drunk, Dorian,” said Magnus. “You must be patient. Do you not wish to be present for such a historic day?”
“History can go hang,” Dorian said. “I feel that you are altogether too scholarly, brother.”
“There is nothing left for us now in the Highlands,” said Magnus. “It is empty. Our people starve, Dorian.”
“Again with our people,” said Dorian. “Our people are the selkies, Magnus. We are not human. We don't owe allegiance to any people.”
“If it weren't for the Highlanders, we would not have existed for the last several centuries,” said Magnus. “You really ought to be more responsible, Dorian.”
“Thank you. I will take that under advisement,” said Dorian.
He banged his stick against the ground.
“Waiter! Champagne! What's taking so long?” he shouted. He turned to Magnus.
“Why do we not go somewhere more entertaining?” he asked. “Rome, or Paris – or Venice? Carnivale must have started, or will start soon.”
“You really are an obnoxious boor,” said Magnus. “We can visit those places later.”
“Very well, if you say so,” said Dorian, “but the lack of beautiful men or women in this club is vaguely alarming. Let us rectify this situation.”
“No sooner said than done.”
***
The brothers were seated in a cabaret, much darker than the salon, and a place of ill repute. Opium was available, and the young men and women there were for sale.
Dorian planned to make the best of it.
“This is more like it,” said Dorian, “It is so good to be at the centre of the Empire, rather than the outskirts of it.”
“I don't know,” said Magnus. “I prefer Scotland. Everyone here is so pretentious.”
“Meaning you can't lord over them here as you do there?” laughed Dorian, already high. “Well, everyone either lives here, visits here, or wants to be here. London is the centre of the civilised world, Magnus. We’re the lucky ones.”
They became vaguely aware of someone standing over them. Magnus looked up.
“You could attempt to be less of a blight on society and try doing something with your endless lives,” said a voice.
Dorian finally made an effort, and looked up to see a man in his mid-50s; an imposing figure with bright blue eyes.
“Pardon me,” said Dorian, with the indignant air of an extremely drunk rich person, “but I don't think you know who we are.”
“A pair of layabouts, I expect,” said the man. “I'm Detective Inspector Benandonner, and I'd like the two of you to come with me.”
“What? Why?” said Magnus. “We've done nothing wrong.”
Benandonner took in their illicit surroundings and then looked at the brothers.
“I think I'll be the judge of that,” said D.I. Benandonner.
***
The brothers sat down with Benandonner. He cracked open a bottle of champagne, much to Dorian’s evident relief.
“We are infiltrating the military,” said Benandonner. “This war has gone on for centuries. We need to stop the disease at its source.”
Dorian was shocked, and then horrified.
“Are you offering us a job?” he said in disgust. “Work makes me break out in hives. I'll pass.”
“Interpol has been around longer than any of us,” said Benandonner. “If you care in any way for the humans or even the other monsters, we need you.”
“Why us? We're selkies,” said Magnus. “Why us? We’re not men of war.”
“Exactly,” said Benandonner. “And you're from Scotland.”
“So?” said Magnus.
“So,” said Benandonner. “No one will suspect you.”
“And why on earth should we agree to this?” asked Dorian. “We're rich. We have no reason to fight, or to work.”
“Because if you don't, this will spell the end of us all,” said Benandonner.
“Surely it can't be that serious?” asked Magnus. “Humans have been fighting, doing drugs, having wars, for centuries. They're still around.”
“Exactly the reason this is so important,” Benandonner said. “If this war goes on much longer, there won’t be any of them left. The fighting needs to end, at any cost.”
“Very well,” said Magnus, “I'll join. And I'll answer for my brother.”
“Good choice,” said Benandonner. “I'll see you back in Glasgow next week.”
Benandonner pushed away from the table and stood. Magnus turned to Dorian, who was spitting tacks in his indignant fury, so angry he was unable to speak.
“Oh don’t give me that look, Dorian,” said Magnus. “You need some structure in your life and I will not watch as you destroy everything and everyone around you with your continued debauchery. Who knows? You may even enjoy it.”
***
Dorian Grey didn't care about anything.
Or more precisely, he didn't care about anyone.
He certainly cared about champagne and whisky, sumptuous feasts, and rolling with pretty boys and girls on the finest linen from Edinburgh to Rome.
His sincere belief was that
his magic existed to cure hangovers, to impress his lovers, to charm his way onto steamships heading to exotic destinations. His life was filled with new intoxicating herbs and beautiful humans who would fall, by ones and twos, and even threes and fours, onto the silk sheets of his bed.
For Dorian Grey, immortal life was an endless carnival of bright colours, beautiful sighs, and vivid dreams.
For Dorian Grey, immortal life was all about him.
Magnus Grey, his older brother, was the fixed point that Dorian orbited like a ship at anchor. Magnus took care of the money, the chores, and the practical aspects of living. Dorian took care of the rest. He did not give his brother much thought, and only spoke with him when his funds were running low or he'd gotten himself into a sticky situation with a husband or wife that he needed Magnus's deft skill and soft voice to wheedle him out of.
There was not a pub, an opium den, or a brothel that Dorian did not know. His choices were highbrow, his taste impeccable; he only kissed the beautiful, he only ate or drank or smoked or injected what was expensive and came in tiny snuffboxes like treasure chests of gold.
One night, in the rich red-mirrored room of a London salon, in his drunken, drugged-out opium haze, Dorian fell in love.
He was walking the streets of London, laughing into the darkness, his cane clacking against the cobbles. He was alone, but he knew he wouldn't be for long. Men like Dorian never were – young, beautiful, well dressed, rich. A comtesse from the Continent? A handsome young protege, looking for that boost to help him in his political aspirations? There was no end to the possibility of the rich and varied London population, and it made Dorian's already endless hunger insatiable.
“Sir,” said a voice at his right, an Irish voice, just as he was about to turn up the staircase to the salon.
Dorian sighed and gritted his teeth, continued walking.
“Please, sir,” the voice said, “I'm very hungry.”
There was a note of music in the voice. Against his better judgement, Dorian turned.
A beautiful young man, covered in the dirt and grime of London's underbelly, stared up at him with huge brown eyes. Dorian's breath hitched. A human, so like the selk. A filthy, starving human endowed with the same beauty as his own kind. Some deep part of him, some part connected to his ancient people, sang with near homesickness at the sight of this creature of his kind of beauty buried in mud.
Dorian looked at the young man's hopeful face, his jacket and clothing in tatters, and that deep part of him pushed.
Dorian offered the young man his hand.
“Come with me,” he said, startling himself. “What's your name?”
The young man stared at him, as if he did dared not hope. He cautiously put his hand in Dorian's.
“Aidan.”
***
The soft smile on Dorian's face was an unfamiliar sight to all who knew him. He watched Aidan with fondness.
Aidan was in his early 20s, and a recent arrival in the city. He had spent most of his life on a farm in rural Ireland and had spent the last of his wages to gain passage to London. He was provincial and needed tutelage, instruction in the fashion of the day, and training in comportment if he were to succeed in the city.
The young man had been cleaned up and dressed in proper attire. He was breathtakingly handsome, his huge dark eyes striking a painful chord of nostalgia in Dorian, reminding him of the selk and the value they placed on hearth and home. It was a value that he himself had rejected.
Dorian had ignored the Call, when it had come for him. He felt its pull, even now. Staring at Aidan, the guilt washed over him because he could still sense it: a wave kept from the shore, always searching.
“Thank you, sir,” said Aidan. He sat in front of a feast in the red room with the mirrors, partridge and roast goose, all kinds of gravy, roast potatoes, wine and champagne. He had wolfed down what he could and Dorian had to stop him before Aidan made himself sick. He was currently seated in front of the largest piece of chocolate cake Dorian had ever seen, and his boyish grin warmed a part of the selkie's soul that he hadn't been aware of before.
“What have you come to London to do?” Dorian asked.
The young man swallowed his bite of cake before responding. Manners had been taught, Dorian noted; this was a good thing.
“I want to be a dancer, sir,” said Aidan. “I want to join the ballet.”
Dorian grinned at that; he loved talent, and appreciated the fine musculature of dancers, as well as the brutal regime that kept them in training.
“Please, don't call me sir,” he said. “My name is Dorian. I'll see what I can do for you, if you are talented enough.”
Aidan smiled, and Dorian knew his heart would never be the same.
***
In the weeks to come, and the months to follow, their relationship went from artist and sponsor to an entirely different one. Dorian had made the proper introductions, and had intended to leave Aidan alone to succeed or fail. He did not want a relationship with a young man who felt he owed the selkie anything, and in all other liaisons Dorian would have enjoyed a night with a beautiful body and said his farewells. This time was different; Dorian wanted him, heart and soul.
So Dorian walked away.
He woke, head pounding with the combination cocktail he'd administered himself the night before, to forget Aidan's huge eyes and the way he laughed. The bell was ringing, loudly against the door, jangling as someone pulled hard on it. Dorian groaned and wrapped himself in his dressing gown, pushing a bit of his magic through the headache so he could at least communicate with whoever was waiting outside.
He opened the door and there were those large eyes staring up at him, full of tears.
Aidan stood on the stoop, twisting his hat in his hands.
“Forgive me for coming here, Dorian,” said Aidan. “What have I done to displease you?”
Dorian blinked.
“Displease…?” he began. “You have done nothing to displease me, Aidan.”
“Then why did you stop speaking to me?!” Aidan said, “I waited, after the performance, and you were not in your box and I haven't seen you in a week.”
Dorian sighed, and rubbed his eyes.
“Aidan,” he said, and how difficult was a confession for this man who had never loved, “I...did not want to be inappropriate, as my affections for you were not what they should have been.”
A light in Aidan's eyes made Dorian hope, and hate himself for it.
“Affections?” Aidan asked.
Dorian nodded, and was startled by the press of Aidan's lips against his own.
“I have loved you,” said Aidan, murmuring between kisses, “since the night I saw you.”
***
Aidan slept against Dorian's shoulder. The selkie absently touched the curls at the top of his lover's head, and Aidan made a noise in his sleep, curling in and burying his face in Dorian's long, black hair.
Love
said the Call, speaking to him, deep and certain.
This is what waits for you. This is your purpose, your destiny.
You have left it too long, Dorian Grey.
Magic has its purpose.
Don't I have a choice? Dorian wondered, sending the question into the ether, I choose him. Always.
Before the Call, you had a choice, the seals murmured to him, you are beholden, betrothed to another.
Dorian sighed. He felt it, the Call, pulling him, calling to him, relentless as the waves upon the sea. He stared down at Aidan, loved and lover.
Dorian hoped he would remember him, afterwards.
CHAPTER NINE
CALEDONIA INTERPOL
Magnus was shoved into a cell in the Caledonia Interpol Deeps, and he turned as the lock slid home behind him. He saw Dorian standing there, silent.
“Dorian…” he began.
“Don't. Just don't,” said Dorian. “I had to come back to Glasgow because of you. If I lose Leah...”
“Still,” said Magnus. “Th
ank you, brother.”
But Dorian was already walking up the stairs.
Magnus sighed to himself. He lay down across the bench and was soon asleep.
After some time, he sensed a presence in the cell, and he stirred. He opened his eyes with a start.
A woman stood next to him, watching.
Magnus stared at her.
“Hazel?”
***
The commotion in the Deeps could be heard throughout Caledonia Interpol. Chief Ben, Dorian, and Yoo Min rushed down the stairs. As they rounded the corner, the words of the argument became clearer.
“You killed me, you bastard!”
“And I'm in prison! I'm paying for it!”
“I'm dead!”
The three newcomers stared at the scene in disbelief. Magnus sat placidly next to Hazel, who was fading in and out of existence. She was still beautiful, her hair piled in a perfect late ‘60s style beehive, sunglasses perched on her head, white gloves and a Mod dress with white gogo boots. In her life, Hazel had been a talented fashion designer, her clothes popular with the jet set and everybody who was anybody in Swinging London.
She stared at Magnus, her arms crossed. Yoo Min glared at them while Ben and Dorian stared.
“Who is this woman, sunbae?” Yoo Min snarled. “Your brother's liver is mine!”
“It's Hazel,” said Dorian, unable to believe his own eyes. “It's Hazel Bloodworth.”
“Who?” asked Yoo Min.
“Dorian!” said Magnus, catching sight of them. “Thank goodness you're here, she won't go away. Can't you get rid of her?”
Hazel crossed her arms.
“Don't you dare, Dorian Grey.”
“It's good to see you again, Hazel,” said Dorian.
“I can't say the same,” said Hazel crossly, and then relented, “Oh, Dorian, I'm glad to see you, of course, but...why am I here?”
“It's not the cell, if that's what you're asking,” said a voice. Milo rolled forward in his wheelchair.
“How do you mean?” asked Magnus.
“Well, you see, I have been studying it since the phenomena first appeared about a week ago,” Milo explained.