Valentine was a teenage vampire, sipping the blood of her hapless victims along with her Chicken McNuggets after school. She didn’t turn truly dangerous, however, until she decided not to limit herself to the plasma of teenage boys and began looking for older prey.
Me.
The sun dipped low over the lake, and the air grew cool. By the time she reached the end, she was shivering. She set the book aside and curled into herself. Her story took up less than a chapter, but she felt as if every word had been written into her skin, like the ink tattoos the boys punched in their wrists with ballpoint pens when they got bored in class. Everything was there—her selfishness, her manipulations, her lie—all of it exposed for the world to see and judge. Shame burned inside her. Anger. He’d known from the beginning. While they were laughing, kissing, making love, he’d known what he’d written about her, what she would someday read, yet he hadn’t warned her.
She stayed at the lake until it grew dark, with the blanket pulled around her shoulders and knees drawn to her chest. When she returned, the carriage house felt empty and oppressive. Winnie had left a note on the table, but Sugar Beth walked past it. She hadn’t eaten all day, and now the thought of food nauseated her. She went upstairs and washed her face, lay down on the bed, but the ceiling Tallulah had gazed at for forty decades felt like a coffin lid. Her aunt’s life had been a dirge of regret and misery lived out in the name of love.
Sugar Beth couldn’t breathe. She rose and headed downstairs, but even here, Tallulah’s bitterness permeated everything. The shabby furniture, the faded wallpaper, the yellowed curtains—all of it stained with the anger of a woman who’d made lost love her life’s obsession. Her head began to pound. This wasn’t a home, it was a mausoleum, and the studio was its heart. She grabbed the key and made her way out into the night. She fumbled with the lock in the dark. When it gave, she pulled open the doors and flicked the switch on the bare, overhead lightbulb. As she gazed around at her aunt’s pathetic memorial to lost love, she imagined Colin’s explanations, his justifications. The book was written long before you came back. What good would it have served if I’d told you earlier?
What good, indeed?
She stepped into the chaotic heart of her aunt’s dark spirit and began ripping away the dirty plastic. She would not live her life like this. Never again. She wouldn’t be a prisoner to her own neediness. She’d strike a match to all of it, send this mad energy of paint and loss up in flames.
The colors swirled. Her heart raced. The frenetic dabs and splatters spun around her. And then she saw it.
The painting Lincoln Ash had left behind.
Miss Creed, going dejectedly up to bed, sat for a long time at the open window of her room, and gazed blindly out upon the moonlit scene. She had spent, she decided, quite the most miserable day of her life.
G
EORGETTE
H
EYER
,
The Corinthian
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The painting had been here all along, a ferocious web of crimson and black, cobalt and ocher, with angry trails of yellow and explosions of green. Not a drop cloth at all. It had never been a drop cloth. She gave a choked sob and went down on her knees next to the enormous canvas spread across the concrete floor, ran her hands over an encapsulated paint lid, a fossilized cigarette butt. These weren’t objects dropped by accident, but relics deliberately left in place to mark the moment of creation. A strangled hiccup caught in her throat. There was nothing random about these dribbles and splatters. This was an organized composition, an eruption of form, color, and emotion. Now that she saw it for what it was, she couldn’t believe she’d ever mistaken it for a drop cloth. She crawled around the perimeter, found the signature in the far corner, ran her fingers over the single word ASH.
She fell back on her heels. Even in the garish light of the single bulb dangling from the rafters, the painting’s tumult spoke to the chaos in her own heart. She swayed. Let its angry rhythm claim her. Moved her body. Gave herself up to misery. Gazed into the painting’s soul.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar Pie . . .”
A hoot. A whistle.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar Pie . . .”
Her head snapped up.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Come out and play . . .”
She shot to her feet. Cubby Bowmar and his boys were back.
They stood on the small crescent of lawn in front of the carriage house—six of them—beer cans in hand, faces turned to the moon, baying for her. “Come on, Sugar Beth . . . Come on, baby . . .”
Hoots and howls.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”
They chanted and chugged.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”
Wolf whistles, yowls, drunken, piggish snorts.
She stormed toward them. “Cubby Bowmar, I’m sick of this. You stop it right now!”
Cubby threw out his arms and fell into Tommy Lilburn. “Aw, Sugar Beth, all we want is some love.”
“All you’re gonna get is a big fat piece of my mind if you and your sorry-ass friends don’t haul yourselves off my property.”
Junior Battles lurched forward. “You don’t mean that, Sugar Beth. Com’ on. Have a beer with us.”
“Does your wife know you’re here?”
“Don’t be like that now. We’re just havin’ us a boys’ night out.”
“A morons’ night out is more like it.”
“You’re the mos’ beautiful woman in the world.” Cubby tucked his free hand under his armpit and flapped it like a one-winged rooster as he began the chant again. “Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”
Junior took it up. “Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”
Tommy threw back his head, spewing beer and woofing.
“Oh, for Lord’s sake be quiet.” She spun on Cubby, ready to light into him, when, out of nowhere, Colin appeared like a dark avenger and launched himself at them.
Cubby let out a grunt of pain as Colin’s shoulder caught him in the chest and brought him down. Colin went after Junior next, a sharp jab to the jaw that made Junior howl as he slammed into a tree. Carl Ray Norris tried to run away, but Colin threw himself at his back and brought him down, taking Jack McCall along for the ride. Eight feet away, Tommy dropped to the ground before Colin could touch him.
Gradually, Colin realized that nobody was fighting back. He cursed and rose to his feet. He stood with his fists on his hips, legs braced, waiting for Cubby or Junior, for Jack or Carl Ray. Moonlight glinted off his dark hair and gleaming white shirt. He looked like a pirate, the black sheep son of a noble family forced to earn his fortune plundering Spanish galleons and beating up rednecks.
He opened his palms, taunted them in a low, harsh voice. “Come on, boys. You want to play. You play with me.”
Sugar Beth’s eyes shot from Colin, to the men on the ground, to Tommy crawling on all fours trying to find his beer. The blood roared in her ears. “Isn’t one of you going to fight him?”
Cubby rubbed his knee. “Dang, Sugar Beth, we’re too drunk.”
“There are six of you!” she shouted.
“We might hurt him.”
“That’s the idea, you fool!”
Junior rubbed his jaw. “It’s Colin, Sugar Beth. He’s a writer. Everybody’d get pissed off if we fought him.”
“I’ll do it, then, you worthless sons of bitches.” And she hurled herself at him.
Colin staggered backward, taken by surprise. She swung at him, and he grunted as her fist caught the side of his head. She gave a hiss of pain—his head was harder than her hand—but didn’t let that stop her. Instead, she shot out her leg and caught him behind the knee.