His hand is warm against my cheek and he tilts my head up, peering into my eyes. He’s not wearing the glasses tonight, and a few days worth of stubble resides on his jaw, and he looks so different than the last time I saw him. No tie. No button down. Instead he wears a fitted tee, a black leather jacket, and dark jeans that hang off his body perfectly. Even so, I still get that same steady feel from him.
Though that could be because he has his other hand braced at my waist, keeping me upright. Either way, he makes me feel safer than I have any right to be after a run in with one of the Argus.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, pulling back from his hand at my cheek like I should have done the instant he touched me. I’m lightheaded though, and as soon as I’m free my knees quake, and I throw out a hand to steady myself.
“Easy there.” He loops an arm around my waist, and I can feel it burning through the fabric of my dress.
He leans close, peering at my eyes, and the smell of him surrounds me, warm and masculine with a hint of spice.
He asks, “How much have you had to drink?”
I tense. “None. I’m fine.”
He arches one perfect eyebrow and says, “Try again.”
“Really, I swear.”
His gaze dips down, and I think he’s looking at the rounded neck of my dress, and my heart flips over, sending off a ripple of anticipation in its wake. Then he says, “You’re barefoot,” and that anticipation turns to horror.
I step back, and sure enough, he’s right.
My feet are bare and dirty, and now that I concentrate, I can feel a few stinging cuts on the bottom.
“I—” I pause, completely at a loss for how to explain this without sounding like a complete lunatic. I lift up my hand, wondering if I’d left my house this way, or if perhaps I’d taken my shoes off at some point and had been carrying them. The last few days are kind of a muddled blur in my mind. I can remember some of how I felt and thought, but physical actions … not so much. I had been completely in my head, but now the energy that had consumed me is all gone.
Horror slicks my stomach. I’d poured it all out on that crowd. I can’t feel even an inkling of it now. A slideshow runs through my mind then of all my failures, all the artists I kept too long or let get too close. I see their faces, both as they once were, and then how I left them—broken, shells of their former selves. Van wasn’t the first of mine to do violence against himself or someone else. Some had done it in misguided attempts to win me back. Others let their loss turn to anger. Against me. Against the world. But mostly themselves.
That’s another reason why my body renews itself daily. Not just so I’ll stay young and pretty, but because there’s an unfortunate tendency for the affected to lash out, to try to destroy the beautiful thing that had once brought them success or motivation or joy.
I’m not saved from that kind of violence. No, the gods enjoy others’ pain too much to give me that kind of gift, but at least I don’t wear the marks of it forever on my skin.
For the most part, my entanglements are simple and short with just the right amount of give and take to leave the artist happy and on his or her way to a well-led life. But there are the exceptions. The ruined ones. The ones whose personalities pull too close to obsession; those who can’t deal with my absence. They’re rare. As are those who turn to violence. And I know it’s not healthy or fair, but I’ve come to accept that when the violence turns to me, it’s the world’s (perhaps the gods’) way of seeking balance.
Wilder’s sigh brings me back to the present and he asks, “Where’s your car?”
I swallow and look around, unwilling to tell him that I walked all the way from my place up by campus. Because that will make me look even crazier than I already do.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead.
I get that same almost smile he gave me as I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot, and it hits me just as hard this time. His half smile is more charming than most peoples’ full out grins.
“You’re bossier than I remember.” When I try to pull away, he appeases me by saying, “I was out with some friends, and I saw you leaving a club. You looked …”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I’m glad for it. I don’t want to know what I looked like.
“You followed me?”
“I tried to. I lost track of you in the crowds for a bit. I was crossing the street to keep searching down Sixth when I looked up by chance and saw you with that homeless guy.”
“Oh.”
Oh. That’s all I’ve got to say right now. Even if I weren’t completely addled by the events of the night, I don’t think I would know what to say to this guy. He isn’t one of my potential partners. I’m not luring him in to satisfy the necessities of my curse.
But I want to lure him in all the same, and that makes me feel guilty and sick and excited all at the same time.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why what?”
“Why did you follow me?”
He turns his head, looking down the street, and for a moment I don’t think he’ll answer me. Then he laughs. “I’m still trying to figure that one out. Give me a few minutes. I’ll think of a reason that’s not at all creepy. I promise.”
Carefully, he eases back until his arm is no longer around me, and just his hand is left bracing me at my waist. I’m sure he doesn’t mean for it to be suggestive, but I’m still coiled tight from the club, from the way it feels to use my ability. The simple touch of his hand sliding across the thin fabric of my dress is enough to set my nerves on fire, and I shiver.