Stefan hurried toward the stairs but stopped with his foot on the bottom rung. He’d never avoid the real Luke. At the very least, he’d greet him, probably embrace him. Kiss him.
He remembered the last kiss he’d shared with the doppelganger and shuddered. No help for it, not if I don’t want to give the game away. He forced himself into a leisurely pace and approached DiBartolo and the knot of women who were his current audience, hoping the onlookers would temper the guy’s behavior. After all, if he was trying to make time with these women, he wouldn’t want to ruin the image by flying the big gay flag, right?
“Hey.” Stefan stopped a foot away. “Didn’t think you’d make it back today.” He pasted what felt like a phony smile on his face. Luke would call me on the fakery in a hot minute. But this guy wasn’t Luke. He’d have no idea what Stefan’s normal expression would be. For some reason, that made it easier, made the smile feel more natural, allowed him to breathe normally.
“Plans change.” DiBartolo’s wolfish smile didn’t fade, but he didn’t make a move toward Stefan either. Thank God. Stefan’s assessment had been correct— DiBartolo was trying to hit on these women and judging from their body language, he was making progress.
Stefan caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and glanced at the balcony. Antoinette was huddled in her apartment doorway, her arms wrapped across her middle.
DiBartolo followed the line of Stefan’s gaze. He obviously saw Antoinette too, registered the misery on her face, but he turned back to his admirers without acknowledging her.
Dickhead.
“Right.” Stefan rubbed his hands together with another round of false cheer. “I’ve got a model arriving soon. See you later?”
DiBartolo’s teeth glinted, a barracuda grin out of place on that familiar face. “You may count on it.”
Stefan ducked his head and forced himself not to bolt up the stairs. He paused halfway up and glanced over his shoulder. DiBartolo was ushering the giggling trio out of the gallery, offering his arms to two of them once they were on the sidewalk.
Stefan mounted the rest of the stairs, walking past his studio door until he was able to block Antoinette’s view of the scene with his shoulder.
“You look like you could use a cup of tea. Can I make one for you?”
She gazed up at him, face pale and eyes haunted. “Perhaps something stronger than tea.” Stefan reached for the doorknob behind her, but she put an unexpectedly strong hand on his forearm. “Not here. I’m sorry, but Jacques is— He is resting, and I don’t want to disturb him.”
And despite everything Stefan knew about what she’d done—which wasn’t as much as he needed to know, yet far more than he liked—he still couldn’t make himself believe she was evil. Not the way DiBartolo was evil.
“Okay. My place then. I’ve got a bottle of Cuervo Gold begging to be opened.”
He escorted her into his studio and seated her at the rickety drop-leaf table he used for meals. How could he get her to tell him about the mask, about her next ploy? Hell, he couldn’t admit he knew about any of it if he wanted to preserve their surprise advantage.
He opened the tequila—he’d been saving it to celebrate with Luke if the show was a success—and poured them both a double. He handed her the shot, and before he could clink his glass with hers, she’d downed it.
“Antoinette, is something wrong?” Stefan willed her to tell him the truth, to prove his confidence hadn’t been misplaced, that he hadn’t been duped by yet another person he’d considered a friend and mentor.
“Nothing, Stefan. Why should you think so?” She shook back her hair, unusually lank and dull, as if she couldn’t be bothered to take care of herself. “Another, if you don’t mind?”
“Sure.” He poured. She drank. Okay then.
“I am thinking . . .” She swallowed and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps it is time for me to make other arrangements for Jacques. It is becoming too difficult for me to take proper care of him, even with Rudy’s help.”
Stefan’s stomach rolled, his fingers clenching around his glass. I can’t let that happen. Reputable facilities didn’t let unauthorized guests visit their residents, and with what he now knew about Antoinette’s complicity, she’d never let him near Luke again. And the creature in Luke’s body would make double-damn sure of it.
“Don’t rush into anything. I can help, you know. Put a monitor in my studio since I’m here all the time anyway. L— Signor DiBartolo has one of those medical alert buttons, right? In an emergency, I could be on the spot in less than a minute.”
Her brows drew together. “You have never been close with Jacques, Stefan. Why would you wish to concern yourself with our troubles?”
He leaned in and covered her hand with his. Whatever she’d done, she had been kind to him. And if DiBartolo, regardless of what body he wore, threatened and intimidated her the way he’d tried to Stefan, was she really responsible for her actions?
“I’m your friend. That hasn’t changed. If you need help, any kind of help, you can count on me to do my best.”
She searched his face, looking for God knows what, her compressed lips unable to hide their trembling. “You . . .” She drew in a shuddering breath. “You are a good man. You do not deserve . . .” She shook her head and drew away.
“What, Antoinette? What don’t I deserve?” Tell me, damn it. Tell me what’s going on, so I can fix it and get Luke back.
She pushed her chair back and stood, head bowed. Come on, Antoinette. You know you want to tell me. She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back, then raised her chin to face him. The false smile painting her lips like a poorly executed mask told him the answer before her words.
“You do not deserve to have my worries laid at your feet. I shall manage. I always have.”
Rudy hummed under his breath as he laid out the supplies for Luke’s sponge bath. “Now, Mr. D, you’re gonna love this new stuff I’ve got. Bath gel that doesn’t have to be rinsed off. Genius! And just smell.” Rudy waved the open bottle of green goo, redolent of mint and rosemary, under Luke’s nose. “Doesn’t that smell good enough to eat? Now—”
The door to the bedroom burst open, and DiBartolo stalked in, stopping short when he saw Rudy. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.”
Rudy propped both hands on his hips. “And you’re not supposed to be here at all.”
“I . . . ah . . . Toni—Antoinette asked me to look in on him.”
“I don’t think so, girlfriend.” Rudy snapped his fingers, exaggerating his swish, as if being in the presence of another gay man gave him license to flame. “She didn’t say anything to me.”
DiBartolo scowled. “An oversight. She needs a man to help, and Stefan agitates the patient too much.”
Agitation. Shit. That’s my cue. Luke had been so busy glaring at DiBartolo that he’d nearly missed it. He thrashed his head side to side, moaning in a rising crescendo, his right arm flailing and knocking over Rudy’s mint goo.
Rudy gestured with an open palm. “There. You see? He’s no better with you. You need to leave now, so I can get him settled.”
DiBartolo’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Rudy, despite Rudy’s good six inches of extra height, not to mention the shoulders and muscles toned in the gym and by flinging patients around all day as if they weighed nothing. “You are nothing but a servant here. You should keep your place.”
Rudy stood his ground, crossing his arms over his massive chest. God, when Stefan sprung him from this flesh-and-bone prison, Luke was so giving Rudy a big sloppy kiss. “My place, thank you very much, is right here. Yours, in case you forgot, is with Steffie, not running around town, playing in all the gay clubs— Oh, yes, I saw you. Steffie might not be quite so keen on you now that you’ve turned bar slut.”
“You—” DiBartolo raised his fist, and Rudy grabbed it. With a slick move Luke was so going to learn, he twisted DiBartolo’s arm up behind his back and frog-marched him out the b
edroom door, their double-barreled footsteps thumping down the hall. Luke heard the locks clicking and the dead bolt sliding home.
Rudy returned, dusting off his hands. “Mr. D, I don’t know what our sweet Steffie sees in that man, I really don’t. Sure he’s got the whole smoldering eyes thing going, and that gorgeous jaw and ass . . . hmmm . . . well, maybe I do know what Steffie sees in him. But lord. That boy is mean as a snake. He needs to be taught a lesson, he purely does.”
For the first time since this nightmare began, Luke laughed.
The night before the gallery show, Stefan barely slept, plagued by dreams of fire and—of all things—mud. He finally gave it up as a bad job at dawn and stumbled downstairs to take a shower. Christ, he was going to be a wreck at the reception. In the last few days, he hadn’t been able to sneak in to see Luke even once. When Rudy hadn’t been there, Antoinette had been at work in her studio. The only saving grace was that Rudy had told him that DiBartolo had been banished from Luke’s bedroom too, at least while Rudy was on duty. DiBartolo had been scarce ever since.
Probably pouting, but whatever keeps him away from Luke.
As he was toweling his hair dry, he heard a noise from outside. Ah, shit. His bathroom window opened onto the courtyard where the kilns were located. They’d had trouble with burglars a few months ago. Someone had broken into the kiln room, damaging a number of student projects that had been waiting to be fired, although, luckily, they hadn’t damaged any of the kilns themselves. If they were back . . .
He squeezed into the space between the toilet and the wall and peered down into the courtyard.
Antoinette was just closing the car kiln. What is she doing? We don’t have a firing scheduled today, not in that kiln. She glanced furtively over her shoulder, and Stefan ducked back. Lately, she’d let him manage all the firings. If she was hiding this one from him . . .
It’s got to have something to do with Luke and DiBartolo.
He dared another peek. She wasn’t in sight, but he heard her voice, low and pleading, although he couldn’t make out the words. He could guess who she was talking to. DiBartolo. Their argument went on for several minutes.
When their voices ceased abruptly, Stefan crept to his door and cracked it open. The back door slammed, and Antoinette’s footsteps clattered across the gallery, accompanied by muffled sobs. He closed the door quietly until he heard her pass by on the landing.
Then he snuck downstairs and into the courtyard, plastering himself against the wall to keep out of sight, the rough stucco snagging his T-shirt. He checked the kiln controls. Antoinette hadn’t turned it on or programmed it for a delayed start, so she must be planning to return later. Stefan eased it open and stared down into the car.
At Luke’s face.
Stefan doubled over as the familiar writhing hit his belly. This is bad. This is very bad. In the old days, before Marius’s death, before Arcoletti’s ghost had made a playground of both Stefan’s and Luke’s brains, Stefan would have ignored the presentiment, chalking it up to his own neuroses.
But not anymore. Especially not when he’d had that same feeling when Luke had been MIA after the trip to Italy—when he’d been body-napped by DiBartolo.
Stefan knew with bone-deep certainty that he couldn’t let this mask be fired, not enough for the clay to mature, to vitrify. I should take it away. But if Antoinette checked the car before she started the kiln and the mask was missing, she’d know they were onto her and they’d lose their one advantage—surprise. Besides, even if he removed it, what would stop her from making another?
He stared down at the mask, dread creeping up his spine like a dozen spiders. He wanted to smash the thing to dust, scatter it to the winds. But if I destroy it now, she’ll know. If he sabotaged it, though, so it didn’t survive firing? Then he’d at least delay Antoinette from sculpting a replacement and gain more time for Peg to discover the real answer.
He ducked into the kiln room, scanning the shelves for something, anything that he could use. There. One of Ms. Gallipolis’s ubiquitous ashtrays—although why the woman insisted on making them, class after class, when she didn’t smoke, Stefan had never figured out. He lifted it off the shelf. It was still cool to the touch, so it wasn’t bone dry yet—not safe to fire.
Perfect. None of Ms. Gallipolis’s creations had ever survived bisque firing, and this was small enough to fit under the mask. It was a risk—if for some reason it didn’t explode, if the mask wasn’t damaged enough to circumvent whatever Antoinette had planned, then they were screwed, especially Luke.
I’ll alter the kiln settings too, bring the heat up too fast, too far. Open it before it’s cooled. He’d do whatever it took to make sure the mask was destroyed before it left the kiln.
But tonight was the show. He’d be under scrutiny the whole evening. Fuck it. He slid the ashtray under the mask and slid the car back into the kiln. I’ll figure out something. Peg would help.
Peg. She’d probably know exactly what this was about.
He hurried back inside as quietly and stealthily as he could manage, and locked his studio door behind him. He grabbed his phone off the worktable and called Marguerite Windflower’s emergency number.
“Do you know what time it is?” Her voice was scratchy with sleep and cigarettes.
“What the hell is an emergency number for if I can’t use it in an emergency?”
“Fuck.” She immediately sounded more awake. “They’ve made a move, haven’t they?”
“Yeah. At least I think so. Antoinette’s ready to bisque fire a mask of Luke.”
“Bisque fire? What the fuck is that?”
“It’s the first firing, to mature the clay, harden it to ceramic, before the glaze firing.”
“Sorry I asked. But if it means what I think it means, your boyfriend’s time is just about up.”
“Christ.” Stefan scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I knew it. Listen, can you come over? Antoinette’s going to be out of the building at nine. She’s got a salon appointment. The show’s tonight, you know.”
“I didn’t, but I do now. We’ll be over by eight thirty.”
“The gallery won’t be open yet. Come around the back and I’ll let you in.”
He paced the studio, picking up random paintbrushes and setting them down again, wiping his worktable although it was already spotless. At eight twenty, he couldn’t take it anymore and snuck downstairs, through the dim, silent gallery, and out the back door to stand in the alley.
Although it was already warm, the humidity ticking upward practically by the minute, his skin pebbled with chills. He rubbed his arms, shifting from foot to foot, until Peg in full Marguerite regalia sailed around the corner and down the alley.
He hurried to meet her. “Thanks for coming. I’ve got this feeling—”
“Hold up.” She grabbed his elbow. “What kind of feeling?”
He swallowed and pressed a hand to his belly as Hootie’s static breeze ruffled his hair. “Something bad is going to happen.”
She glanced to her left. “Holy fuck. You’re not a borderline precog. You’re a doomseer.”
“A what?”
“It’s pretty fucking obvious. You can see doom. Death.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and he curled in on himself. “I don’t— If there’s nothing—”
“Hey.” She grabbed his shoulders, shaking him until he looked up at her. “Remember what I said about potential? This is the same thing. Or it could be.”
“You’re not making me feel any better.”
“Some doomseers predict absolutes. Some only sense a possible outcome.”
“Does that mean we can do something to prevent it?”
“Well . . .” She squeezed his shoulders once and let go. “We don’t know what kind you are, but my opinion has always been that the idiots who trade in absolutes only do it because they’re too lazy to try to avert the disaster.”
“Okay.” He propped his hands on his knees until he was
in no further danger of hyperventilating, then stood up. “Let’s go. If we run into Antoinette or Katrina, the woman who runs the gallery for us, you’re a client.”
“Like before, with DiBartolo.”
“Right.” Stefan shuddered. “And if we run into him again, you’re definitely a client who’s here for an extended consultation.”
She chuckled. “Not eager to be alone with him?”
“Would you be?”
“Fair point.” She gestured for him to open the door. “I’ll warn you. I’m a very demanding client and expect my every whim to be catered to.”
He managed a tremulous smile. “What’s your first whim?”
“Open the damn door and let me in.”
They made it to his studio without encountering anybody, and at five minutes to nine, Antoinette’s footsteps tap-tapped past the door.
Stefan waited until she’d had time to get downstairs, then eased the door open, holding his breath until the back door clanged shut. He exhaled in a whoosh and turned to Peg. “Got your hairpin ready?” She pulled it from her hair with a flourish. “Good. Let’s do this.”
It took Peg even less time today to pop the lock on Antoinette’s door. Ordinarily, Stefan would have stood aside and let her enter first, but he was so desperate to see Luke, to make sure he was still okay, that he slipped past her and hurried down the hall to the bedroom.
Luke’s gaze was fixed on the door and his grip on the blankets eased, his eyes closing, throat working. Christ, what must it be like, never to know who was about to come through that door and what they might do to him?
“Hey.” Stefan sat on the edge of the bed and took Luke’s hand. He pressed a kiss to the palm and closed Luke’s fingers over it. “You okay?”
Luke’s eyebrow twitched, as obvious a what-the-hell-do-you-think response as if he’d shouted it out loud.
Stefan soothed that eyebrow with his thumb, then stroked Luke’s hair. “Listen. I found something this morning. A mask. Of you.”
Luke pointed to the armoire, head tilted in inquiry.
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