“No,” Remy said. “Why?”
“I’ve been living there recently.”
“Ah.”
“It’s a little ironic, I guess. I mean, thanks to Anne Rice, lots of people would assume you’d be pretty comfortable in the Big Easy.”
Remy grinned. “Thanks to Stephenie Meyer, lots of other people would expect to find me here in the Pacific Northwest.” His familiar, slightly French vowels and intonations made Miles’s skin feel too tight.
Silence stretched between them like spiderwebs, connecting them. Finally Remy levered himself off the wall and sauntered closer. He moved beautifully, like a big cat stalking prey, all coiled power and easy grace. But fear wasn’t the emotion he engendered inside Miles.
After looming over Miles’s seated form for a moment, Remy lowered himself gracefully to the floor. He leaned sideways against Miles’s legs and gazed up at him. This was a familiar position for the two of them, one that predated them becoming lovers. Remy had explained once, laughing, that it allowed him to steal some of Miles’s warmth and feel it sink into his own cold body. To Miles, the contact had soothed him like a cool compress on a fevered brow.
“I’ve thought about you every day since you left,” Remy said. “Worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
No use arguing. Miles leaned back in his chair.
“Do you have a lover?” Remy asked.
“He left me.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“Is he? He’s not the first man to decide I’m not worth sticking with.” A note of bitterness tinged his words, and he wished he had a stiff drink.
“I never said you weren’t worth sticking with.” Remy’s voice was low, with a hint of a growl.
“You might as well have.”
“No. I never thought that, and it isn’t true.”
“You didn’t want me.” Miles had no desire to engage in this conversation, especially not with Remy solid against him. But he couldn’t stop himself.
“I always wanted you.”
“You turned me away. For four years I spent every minute at college waiting to come home to you, and when I graduated, you turned me away.” Time hadn’t dulled that hurt any more effectively than the drugs and alcohol he’d consumed over the past years. The pain sat inside him as sharp and raw as ever.
Remy stared up at him with eyes darker than the night. His face might be youthful, but those eyes betrayed his age. When he opened his mouth, a glint of fang showed, making Miles shiver. Then Remy rose gracefully to his feet. “I’ll leave tomorrow night.”
“Why would you do that?”
“This is your home. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable here.”
A renewed jolt of pain made Miles jump out of the chair and raise his voice. “This is your home!”
“I’m a guest. Your family has graciously allowed me to remain here, but I’m not a—”
“Bullshit! You’re as much a part of this household as anyone. Hell, you’ve spent more years in this house than I have. I’m not chasing you away from your home.” Miles tried a few calming breaths, which didn’t help. He pictured Remy out in the callous world, away from the tolerant little kingdom of the Thorsens. Alone. And dammit, the image tore at his heart.
“I’m only here a few more days,” Miles managed.
Remy nodded. “I’ll make myself scarce.”
“I just….” Miles made a strangled noise that stood in for all the words he couldn’t find. Maybe the right words didn’t exist.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Miles. I didn’t want to. I want… want to help you understand.”
“I understand enough.”
“But if you let me explain—”
“Make yourself scarce.” Miles had intended to make his tone as frosty as an iceberg, but it came out hot instead, like sparks from a volcanic eruption.
Remy shook his head but didn’t reply. His footfalls were soft on the worn boards as he crossed to the stairs and descended out of sight, taking all of the air with him.
Miles collapsed back into the chair and spent a long time hiding his face in his hands. When he finally looked up, he noticed a large board propped near a corner. When he was ten or eleven, he’d discovered a whole stack of boards like this in the basement, some barely bigger than his hand and some as tall as he was. The wood could have come from anywhere, of course, but he’d been dead certain it originated in the Thorsen-owned forest, although how long ago someone had stowed it in the Castle and for what purpose he had no idea. In any case, nobody else had seemed to need it, so he’d lugged several pieces to his room, slathered them with white primer, and used them for his first paintings. The supply of boards had lasted him all the way through college; this must be one of the final remnants.
After moving out of the Castle, he’d relied on more conventional art surfaces: paper and stretched canvas. Now, however, he stared at the wooden rectangle already primed and waiting, and his fingers itched for a brush. He stood, stretched, and hurried downstairs to fetch his supplies.
8
He slept only a few hours that night, fitful dozes in the tower armchair, awash with strange dreams about twining vines and silver-blue frosts. Well before dawn he gave up on rest entirely and returned to the inchoate forest scene that was only half-sketched on the board. Without even bothering to venture out for coffee, and the dim light of the space notwithstanding, Miles took up a pencil and turned his attention to a clearing in his imagined woods. In it he drew eight oversize stags, their bodies taut as they scuffed a front hoof on the ground and stretched out their necks. He drew two men facing each other—both naked except for a long cloak on one and an antlered headpiece on the other. They were tense, their raised swords not quite touching.
Aside from the obvious—the acres of forest just outside his tower—he had no idea where the inspiration for this piece came from. But that wasn’t unusual. Anytime he approached a fresh canvas, he gave up control of his hand to his fickle, demanding muse. Miles had tried to fight or control the muse now and then, to create works that would sell better. But the muse would simply retreat into the dark depths of Miles’s psyche, refusing to emerge until he paid sufficient penance.
As Miles sketched the fighters in more detail, it occurred to him that this painted board hadn’t been in the tower when he first returned home. He would have noticed it. And in fact, he’d been pretty certain that he’d exhausted the supply in the basement long ago, during winter break of his final year in college. But it was altogether possible there was more to the stash. The basement was as full of mysterious nooks and crannies as the rest of the Castle.
And Remy’s room was in the basement, wasn’t it?
Miles had put down the pencil and was about to fetch his paints when he realized that the sun had risen some time ago into a clear blue sky. He thundered down the tower stairs to check the time. Eight thirty. No time to shower or shave, but he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and sighed at his hair. After dressing in jeans, a sweatshirt, and boots, he hurried down to the kitchen.