“Do you mean to tell me that Henry Wotton of all people invited an American peasant to one of his parties?” Dorian Gray wrinkled his flawless nose.
Gazing with admiration at the dark-haired woman in navy-blue silk chatting with Lord Henry, Basil Hallward shook his head. “Caroline Brooks is scarcely a peasant, Dorian.
Beyond the laughter of the party and the company of her odious fiancé, Kytt crept through silent halls until she came to a door. There were many doors, but this one bore a Stormer & Sons detector lock. Her source was correct: Sir Dorian Gray was hiding something.
She pressed one ear to the polished wood. Nothing.
“As you can tell, the Wild West was a very fascinatin’ place,” the teenaged tour guide said with a fake cowgirl accent and a tone that sounded like she would rather be anywhere else. “And over here, you can see an original journal entry that shows just how superstitious these folks really were.”
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Dorian staggered as he dropped unceremoniously from the portal. With one hand, he clutched at the strap of the leather portrait tube slung on his back, ensuring that its precious cargo survived the trip. With his other, he gripped the scroll containing the spell that brought him to this place.
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“Julia, breaking up with you was a terrible mistake. Please forgive me.”
That text was endearing the first time I saw it.
Not so much now that I’ve learned it’s because Brad’s new girlfriend got clingy.
I swipe left and tap “Delete and Block.”
Since Brad still has my spare key, I’m sacrificing my
Dr. Miranda sucked in a breath of crisp autumn air and eyed the park across the street from her office. She’d had a long morning, and the sight of elm trees, limbs clothed in golden leaves, eased the tension in her shoulders.
I’ll take a walk, clear my mind, and—
“Doctor Miranda!”
Doctor Miranda’s shoulders instantly tensed again. Tilli.
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.
Come see the winning illustrations from our first-ever Havok art contest, featuring the characters of Season 12: Multiversal!
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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.
Richard Mohr stood outside his sister’s room for a full minute, eyes shut tight, not wanting to enter. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged in.
“You’re late, you little stink.”
Kimberly-Anne’s eyes were somehow sharper than her words: a scowling blue, like chips cleaved off a glacier.
“Five minutes.”
It was midnight when I reached my flat. I’d left Henry Wotton’s party early, fatigued by tedious debate over whether a heavier-than-air flying machine was possible, sparked by recent reports from the United States. As I stepped through the door, an intruder flung me against the wall, pinning me there with a powerful forearm.
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