Page 9 of Farkas: Gothika

And dammit, he kept thinking about Vincent himself. That handsome face, the eyes that seemed to take in everything and give little away. The eccentric yet somehow endearing mannerisms. The pale hands with the long fingers. It didn’t help that Vincent’s ancestor stared down at him from the portrait over the fireplace.

Lee, who was accustomed to working primarily alone and spending the rest of his time in solitude, was actually looking forward to Vincent’s arrival. Not just because Vincent was easy on the eyes, and not just because it was spooky to be by himself in this huge house. But also because he enjoyed conversing with Vincent, who asked him questions about things other than law and seemed genuinely interested in the answers.

Shortly after sunset, the door creaked open and Vincent strode in. He wore… a costume. It included a white shirt with a collar and puffy sleeves, a royal-blue vest with gold embroidery and a matching wide belt, a loose navy-blue tie that Lee suspected was actually a cravat, and a short cape of the same navy but lined with gold silk. His trousers were pale blue with white embroidery—and they were almost obscenely tight, more like a ballet dancer’s tights than a pair of pants. His black leather boots had pointed toes and rose almost to his knees.

Vincent laughed at what must have been a stunned expression on Lee’s face. “Traditional wear from my homeland. It is quite comfortable.”

“Are you…. Is there some kind of occasion?”

“Just an evening with my good friend.” Vincent executed an elegant bow.

Lee wasn’t sure whether he was being mocked and decided to change the subject. “I made some advancements on your matters today. But I really need to speak with—”

“My grandfather. Yes, I know. Unfortunately he is not available tonight, so I hope you will be consoled by my company instead. We can work on establishing my identity, yes?”

“Sure,” Lee said unhappily.

“Excellent. But dinner first.”

It was the same routine as the other nights: Vincent wheeled in the cart and set out food and wine for Lee, but not for himself. Maybe Vincent had dietary restrictions he didn’t want to disclose. Anyway, tonight’s meal was a thick, rich stew of beef and vegetables, served with a loaf of crusty bread and a green salad. Dessert was a chocolate-cherry tart. The wine was delicious.

Afterward Lee sat at the desk while Vincent stood beside him. Lee had to try very hard not to stare at the curves and bumps so evident under the thin trousers, but even when he resolutely focused on paperwork, Vincent leaned in close enough to brush against his shoulder and arm.

“Are these really your parents’ names?” Lee asked, pointing to the fake birth certificate.

“No.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Dust in their graves. I barely remember them.” Vincent said this lightly, as if it were of no importance.

“Did your grandfather raise you?”

Vincent chuckled. “In a manner of speaking. Now, do you suppose we could manufacture some educational records for me?”

“I guess so.”

Again they worked very late. Well, Lee did. Vincent sometimes sat by the fire with a book and other times hovered close, watching Lee write. He brought Lee cups of tea he’d brewed at the fireplace and glasses of wine and little bowls of pickled vegetables and sliced cured meats.

Every now and then Lee stood and paced the room to stretch out the kinks in his joints. When he did, Vincent chatted about beaches on the Adriatic and forests in the Alps. “You have never been to Europe?” he asked at one point.

“No.” Lee had served in the Pacific during the war.

“But it is your homeland.”

“I’m American.”

Vincent made a disdainful face. “Our blood is tied to the soil of our motherland. We cannot escape this and we should not wish to. We must— I am sorry. I did not mean to sermonize. Please forgive me.”

“It’s fine.” Lee didn’t share his true fear: That if he went to Europe he’d feel just as out of place as he did in the United States. That no matter where he went, he’d be a stranger—a man who belonged nowhere at all.

He returned to his work and didn’t stop until Vincent glided over and settled a hand on his shoulder. “It is nearly dawn. Get some rest, my friend. I will see you again at dinnertime.”

Long after Vincent had left the suite, Lee felt the impression of that hand, as if Vincent had given him an invisible brand. Later, when the fog-shrouded man reached for Lee in the dream, Lee eagerly reached back.

Chapter Six

He had left the last of his clothing outside the door before going to sleep. When he woke up—again past noon—there was no sign of his suits and shirts, either in the hallway or inside the suite. However, a new outfit was draped over a chair in his bedroom: red tights a little looser than Vincent’s had been, a dark gray tunic, tall brown boots with a folded cuff, and a matching belt. No underwear at all, but the tights were footed so socks weren’t needed.

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