couldn’t dismiss it—not yet. He hoped he would be able to, but his hopes weren’t too high.
He glanced at the sky through the windows. It had to be close to 7 p.m. The coroner’s office would be closed now.
He headed down the stairs.
Erika heard the porch door open and close, but she didn’t glance toward her door. She continued to knead the fresh clay in her hands, working all her emotions into the caked earth.
In the silence, she absently smoothed her hands over the existing curves of the lopsided bust, unaware if she was fixing the piece or not.
“I can’t believe I asked him to pose,” she suddenly announced to Boris, unable to continue her pretense that she was thinking of anything else. Boris opened one eye from where he lounged on a cushion at the end of the sofa.
What had she been thinking? She smeared more clay onto the torso of the sculpture. And didn’t she know what Vittorio’s answer was going to be anyway? Had she really expected a yes?
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling they should somehow be together. Even though Vittorio had hardly reacted with joy to seeing her. He wasn’t as cool as previous meetings, but he was hardly warm either. Why was she doing this to herself?
She slapped on more of the softened clay, then used water to smooth it.
But even without the attraction, she knew she’d want to sculpt him. Something so intrigued her about his face and his eyes. She wanted to capture that. His expression spoke to her in that unidentifiable way that Maksim’s didn’t.
She reached for her sculpting knife, and shaved away some of the excess clay she’d just added, trying to get the shape she wanted. Wet clay splatted onto the drop cloth beneath the pedestal her creation was perched on.
Her hand paused mid-swipe. But mostly you just want to be with him.
She had to face the truth. She wanted an acceptable excuse to look at him. To study the nuances of his features, the build of his body, the hints of emotions in his eyes.
“But instead, you just weirded him out. As usual. Good work.” She rasped the palette knife harder than necessary, gouging the side of her creation.
“Crap,” she muttered, then tossed the knife down on the table next to her. She reached for more clay, kneading it between her palms. She filled in the hollow.
She had to let go of this crazy idea about him being the one , her romantic interest. His behavior last night was simply what he’d have done for anyone. Nothing special. Certainly not a hint of potential interest.
There was a show to get ready for, so she didn’t have time to worry about him anyway. She was thankful he’d been there last night, but all other feelings had to go away. They had to stop. Before she made a pathetic fool of herself. If she hadn’t already.
She smoothed out the clay, filling in the deep nick she’d made. She wished she could erase her own feelings like she did flaws in the sculpture, manipulating her own thoughts until they disappeared, smoothed out with no signs of ever having been.
She reached for another clump of clay. She was going to do just that. No more of this nonsense. She shaped the clay to the chest of her sculpture, attempting to level out the female statue’s breasts. She would focus all her energy into her work—if it killed her. No more Vittorio.
Vittorio moved through the hallways of the coroner’s office. Fluorescent lights streaked the hallway in stark bluish light, and he appeared as nothing more than a shadow against the institutional grayish-white of the walls.
He stopped outside the door marked with a tarnished metal sign, the word Records etched into it. He passed through the solid wood door, not rematerializing until he was sure he was alone.
Then he appeared like fog, gathering and condensing until he returned to his solid form. He waited, expecting the dizzying disorientation he normally felt when shifting, but it didn’t come.
Because he’d fed from Erika, he realized, guilt
He glanced at the sky through the windows. It had to be close to 7 p.m. The coroner’s office would be closed now.
He headed down the stairs.
Erika heard the porch door open and close, but she didn’t glance toward her door. She continued to knead the fresh clay in her hands, working all her emotions into the caked earth.
In the silence, she absently smoothed her hands over the existing curves of the lopsided bust, unaware if she was fixing the piece or not.
“I can’t believe I asked him to pose,” she suddenly announced to Boris, unable to continue her pretense that she was thinking of anything else. Boris opened one eye from where he lounged on a cushion at the end of the sofa.
What had she been thinking? She smeared more clay onto the torso of the sculpture. And didn’t she know what Vittorio’s answer was going to be anyway? Had she really expected a yes?
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling they should somehow be together. Even though Vittorio had hardly reacted with joy to seeing her. He wasn’t as cool as previous meetings, but he was hardly warm either. Why was she doing this to herself?
She slapped on more of the softened clay, then used water to smooth it.
But even without the attraction, she knew she’d want to sculpt him. Something so intrigued her about his face and his eyes. She wanted to capture that. His expression spoke to her in that unidentifiable way that Maksim’s didn’t.
She reached for her sculpting knife, and shaved away some of the excess clay she’d just added, trying to get the shape she wanted. Wet clay splatted onto the drop cloth beneath the pedestal her creation was perched on.
Her hand paused mid-swipe. But mostly you just want to be with him.
She had to face the truth. She wanted an acceptable excuse to look at him. To study the nuances of his features, the build of his body, the hints of emotions in his eyes.
“But instead, you just weirded him out. As usual. Good work.” She rasped the palette knife harder than necessary, gouging the side of her creation.
“Crap,” she muttered, then tossed the knife down on the table next to her. She reached for more clay, kneading it between her palms. She filled in the hollow.
She had to let go of this crazy idea about him being the one , her romantic interest. His behavior last night was simply what he’d have done for anyone. Nothing special. Certainly not a hint of potential interest.
There was a show to get ready for, so she didn’t have time to worry about him anyway. She was thankful he’d been there last night, but all other feelings had to go away. They had to stop. Before she made a pathetic fool of herself. If she hadn’t already.
She smoothed out the clay, filling in the deep nick she’d made. She wished she could erase her own feelings like she did flaws in the sculpture, manipulating her own thoughts until they disappeared, smoothed out with no signs of ever having been.
She reached for another clump of clay. She was going to do just that. No more of this nonsense. She shaped the clay to the chest of her sculpture, attempting to level out the female statue’s breasts. She would focus all her energy into her work—if it killed her. No more Vittorio.
Vittorio moved through the hallways of the coroner’s office. Fluorescent lights streaked the hallway in stark bluish light, and he appeared as nothing more than a shadow against the institutional grayish-white of the walls.
He stopped outside the door marked with a tarnished metal sign, the word Records etched into it. He passed through the solid wood door, not rematerializing until he was sure he was alone.
Then he appeared like fog, gathering and condensing until he returned to his solid form. He waited, expecting the dizzying disorientation he normally felt when shifting, but it didn’t come.
Because he’d fed from Erika, he realized, guilt
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