Page 45 of Lair

Mrs. Colding draws herself back from a faraway place. “It was the ending of his world. He tried to save her, but the thing turned and gave him a cold embrace. The worst thing this Volok could have done. To make Voper live forever in his grief.” She drops her eyes, and when she speaks again, her voice has thickened. “He never got over it. And in his mourning—his feeding—it’s as if he has...”

And it clicks in place, the final, horrific piece of the puzzle: “She was blonde.”

A slow nod. “Yes.”

“They’re all blondes.”

Mrs. Colding sighs, a reluctant schoolmistress. “Lust and bloodlust—they are two sides of the same coin for them. One brings on the other. And so, for Voper, it’s as if with every blonde beauty he gorges on, he is trying to recapture—”

“Stop,” I hiss, shutting my eyes. “Just stop.”

The thoughts rage through me, black and maddening and clotted with fear. Lucia. Emmie. Thea.

But not me.

I shake my head. It doesn’t make any sense. “But I’m not...” I begin. “Why...”

“Because you’re not like the rest,” Mrs. Colding whispers, leaning forward in her urgency. “He has been stuck this way for so long, trapped in his perfect little world, he has forgotten who he is. But you... You have cracked the ice, Arie. You have woken something in him, and he doesn’t know what to do anymore.”

Doesn’t know what to do.

Voper, pulling away when he first kissed me. Pulling away when we made love, so he would not give in to instinct and destroy me.

Destroying Thea instead.

I gasp in air, feeling my gorge rise. I blink away tears. “I think...”

“Arie.” Mrs. Colding’s face falls. “It’s not your fault...”

But I’m standing from my chair and backing away, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I think I need time. I need time to think.”

Mrs. Colding rises, an aching sadness in her face. “Of course. I’ll leave you alone.” She opens the door—it was unlocked all along—and leaves it open. She gestures, and I dimly recognize the adjoining space beyond: Voper’s master suite. “It’s yours, if you promise to be good. We can’t let you out into the yacht for now, as I’m sure you can understand. But I hope—I very much hope—that we’ll get there.” She straightens, dispassionate professionalism returned, and confers me a look of somber encouragement. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Strand.”

When she goes, I shut my eyes and sway back and forth in that room.

This is how. This is how you can be caught between two worlds and not know how you got there.

TWENTY-FOUR

I emerge on tenterhooks into the lair of the Lair.

It’s close to what I remember: a windowless womb with monolithic canvases of red paint on the walls, vases of red roses on the nightstands. The bed with its crimson coverlet, however, is neatly made. No mussed sheets, no writhing bodies. No things of the night preying on female flesh.

On the bed my bags of clothing, a tray steaming with dinner. How civilized.

They did not give me my cell phone, though.

My curiosity overcomes my fear—I have to inspect the full suite. But there is nothing to be gleaned about its owner. The dressing room is a maze of shiny wood screens, racks of bespoke suits, drawers of silk ties and brushed leather shoes and luxury watches floating like strange baubles in cubic watch winders—the usual accoutrements of a mystery man. The bathroom barren, sterile, no condiments to be seen. A shaving kit for an undead body? Not required.

The one conspicuous detail: a pair of heavy crimson drapes opposite the bed.

There can’t be, I know, a window behind those drapes, as it doesn’t face the sea. Perhaps that is why my hands are shaking when I reach out and yank them wide.

But no locker full of bodies greets my eyes. It’s merely a painting—a rather large painting. Perhaps four feet tall by three feet wide. Its frame is ornately carved, and very old, for it’s been scratched and chipped, here and there, with blonde wood showing through, like lighted bone. And dominating the canvas: a woman, very beautiful in an intense, classical way, in a high-collared dress.

It is because of the eyes, the dark blue eyes blazing back at me with passionate, haughty arrogance, that I only gradually register that her hair is blonde.

Blonde. A woman with blonde hair. A blonde-haired woman.

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