The tip of the civen blade hovered above my loathsome face for only a moment before shattering it. In the same moment, the pressure within me burst. Again and again, I stabbed my proxy monitor in a frenzy that opened a flower of blackness within the frame. My senses dimmed, and I pitched forward into that dark blossom.
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No one in New York paid attention. He liked that.
He also particularly relished this post-rain sunshine.
Taking a deep breath, Dorian started toward the waterfront. This was his ideal way to start the day. It had been for a century.
Immigrating to New York had been his best move.
The museum director faced the crowd. “Everyone, raise a glass for this evening’s brilliant artist. To Helen!”
“Helen!” Voices thundered in unison as afficionados lifted their wine goblets, then sipped the crimson nectar.
Helen drank in the praise, her gaze focused on the lone glass that remained lifted. The vessel lowered, revealing the frank blue eyes of its beholder.
I cleared pizza boxes and take-out bags from the sofa so I could sit, peeled off my socks, and tossed them on the floor, too. I hadn’t brushed my teeth, answered Mom’s texts, or checked the bank messages I’d been ignoring for days.
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At first, Dorian Gray found it intoxicating, being the eternally youthful, dashingly handsome hockey star. Fans mobbed him after games, eager for his autograph.
Competitors who slammed him into the boards, only to see him jump up unscathed, didn’t understand how he did it.
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