door. Anticlimactic after the rest of the exhibit. But the longer she looked, the more it grew. The door and its wall were stone, or ivory, or bone. Rough-hewn in places, in others polished and carved in elaborate reliefs: vines dripping fruit, cavorting figures; faces transfigured in passion or horror. The more she studied it the more she found, some of it changing when she tilted her head, details emerging from and vanishing into brushstrokes with every glance. Which were real and which pareidolia she couldn’t say.
But more unsettling than the changing stone was the space beyond. The door stood ajar—swinging open, not closed; of that she was certain. The view through the handspan gap was dim, out of focus, blurred by clouds or distance. Liz saw a suggestion of towers through the haze, ivory spires against a plum-black sky. Inky waves broke on the shore beneath them. Winged shapes circled in the clouds.
Liz’s vision greyed and the room dipped and swayed around her. Static filled her ears as a sour metal taste washed over her tongue. She took a step back and regretted it as her narrow heels wobbled. Her right hand was numb to the wrist.
She was about to faint—the idea left her strangely calm, even as her knees buckled. She waited for the impact of the floor.
It never came. When the fog rolled away she found herself pressed against Rainer, his arm tight around her waist, her hands knotted in his jacket. Her face had gone cold with shock; embarrassment seared it now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, cutting off his worried questions. She unclenched her hands, putting a few vital inches between them, but he didn’t let her go.
“What happened?” he asked. Their faces were unnervingly close, thanks to her heels.
She swallowed, scrambling for an excuse. Dizziness. Too much champagne. But when she opened her mouth, what came out was, “What is that place?” She felt curious stares as other people drifted into the room, but couldn’t pull away.
His electric eyes narrowed, calculating. “Carcosa.”
She stiffened. Rainer’s arm slipped off her waist, but his gaze held her all the same. The cold had spread from her hand through the rest of her limbs. “Blake is there.” She’d meant it as a question, but certainty filled her when she said his name.
His hand closed on her elbow, hot as a brand in the chill of the painting’s shadow. “How do you know?”
“I dream of him. Every night since your accident.” She caught whispers from across the room; they were making a scene. For once she didn’t care. Her skin tingled, but not just with nerves— she felt her masks peeling away.
Rainer’s face sharpened. His grip on her arm tightened, and she braced herself. Then he released her and took a hasty step back, straightening his jacket convulsively. The sudden raw need in his face eased into polite curiosity.
They both paused for breath; the air between them tasted of ozone. Rainer’s throat worked.
Before either of them could speak, they heard the first scream.
8
Terrible Angels
AS ALEX FOLLOWED Antja through the gallery, he wished more of the work would catch his interest. He wasn’t curmudgeon enough to deny the talent on display, but his knowledge of art dropped sharply after the Gothic, and he didn’t think anyone here wanted to talk iconography or Marian devotion. Even worse, they’d wandered into a room dominated by heavy sexual symbolism. If he wanted genitalia in art, he’d crack open an anthropology textbook. He sighed under his breath as they passed a statue of a woman and serpent entwined.
“How much longer do you have?” Antja asked dryly.
Alex looked up from the reflection of the track lighting on his wingtips. “Excuse me?”
“Until you die of boredom. It looks like a terminal case.”
He snorted. “Am I that transparent? So much for my dreams of the stage.” He was being rude, and it wasn’t her fault—under other circumstances he would likely have found her charming company. But his lungs were still unhappy, and talking only made it worse.
Her dark eyes slitted in amusement. Amethysts glittered in wire cages as she cocked her head. “Let me guess. Coming here tonight wasn’t your idea?”
“I couldn’t make Liz come alone.” Though he hadn’t seen her in nearly an hour. He looked down at his empty champagne flute. Was this his third, or fourth? He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the combination of alcohol and Antja’s perfume left him lightheaded. A headache tightened slowly around his temples.
Antja’s smile faded. “No. I’m not really in