Page 11 of There Are No Saints

I don’t have time to change clothes. Remembering that Joanna keeps a couple things stashed in the coat closet, I dig out a 90s-style crushed velvet dress, wrinkled and smelling of turpentine.

Then I hop a streetcar to the gallery. The floor-to-ceiling windows illuminate the street like the whole building is one vast, glowing lamp. Music bursts out the doors when anyone enters or exits.

I slip inside, immediately enveloped by the hubbub of laughter and conversation. You never feel out of place at an art event because everybody is dressed so eccentrically. I’m surrounded by every type of attire, from brocade suits to raggedy jeans.

I don’t have to ask Erin where to find Blackwell’s piece—it glows on its plinth like a collection of celestial bodies rotating in space.

I stand in awe of this beautiful thing, hitting me like an arrow shaft to the chest, filling me with a helpless sense of longing.

I wonder if I’ll ever create anything this good.

After I’ve goggled at it for a good twenty minutes, my snarling stomach finally pulls me away.

Sadly, the buffet table bears only a few scattered grape stems and a couple of cheese rinds.

“The hyenas picked it over,” a gruff male voice says.

I turn around, beholding the ox-like frame of Alastor Shaw, his broad face devoid of its usual smile.

I might like him better this way. I’ve never been a fan of people who smile too much. It feels like they’re trying to force you to smile back at them, which makes my face tired.

“That’s what I get for being late.” I shrug.

“What’s your name?” he asks. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

We’ve crossed paths several times, but I wouldn’t expect him to remember.

“Mara Eldritch,” I say.

“Alastor Shaw,” he replies, holding out his hand.

I take it, feeling his thick, calloused fingers close around mine.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I know.”

He grins back at me, sheepish, friendly crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Well, it never seems to get me a table anywhere good,” he says.

“It might get you a free mimosa at Sweet Maple,” I say. “My boss is a big fan of yours.”

“Yeah? Let me guess, he’s forty and balding?” Alastor says wryly.

“Sixty and bald,” I confirm.

“I’m never the favorite of the ones I’d like to impress,” Alastor says, leaning against the buffet table so his muscular forearm makes brief contact with my hip. He hasn’t broken eye contact.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” I say.

“Oh no?” Now he’s leaning in all the more. “What would I have to do to—”

At that moment, Erin inserts herself neatly between us, pretending not to notice Alastor, saying brightly, “There you are! I thought you weren’t going to make it?”

She gives me a hidden prod with her elbow.

“This is my roommate, Erin,” I tell Alastor.

“Right—we met at the showcase,” Alastor says. He’s still smiling, but I think I see a flicker of irritation on his face.

Erin doesn’t notice, probably because she’s not used to men eluding her advances. Her sleepy smile and luscious body have a near-perfect record of attracting her quarry.

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