I’m so engrossed in the new works that I run into the piece I’m looking for by chance.
The Recurring Nightmarehas been framed—no longer a naked canvas on the wall but bordered by thick, ornate gold carving that gives it the impression of antiquity. In real life, the artistry is even more impressive: the crouching man’s skin is luminous, like he’s made of moonlight, and the brushstrokes give him a dimension that makes me feel like I’m the direct subject of his gaze. I stare back, at first because it snares my attention as it did when I first saw it at Margaret’s exhibition, but soon because, well, he looks familiar. It’s something about his features: the long, jet-black hair, delicate features, his one visible eye dark irised and monolidded—
Forgive me.
Julian had come to me young, with cherubic curls and lanky limbs and pleading puppy-dog eyes. I’d only recognized him because I’d seen him that way before, in the painting in his apartment. The one entitledTogether. There was another man in that painting, just as pretty, but in a different, haunting way. The friend that Julian lost.
I suck in a breath.
It’s Alphonse. There’s no doubt in my mind.
There are logical reasons behind this, of course. Julian and Margaret are old friends too; maybe she knew Alphonse as well. His features are striking; it wouldn’t surprise me if he modeled. But why would Margaret choose to depict him like this? As anincubusof all things?
Maybe, a voice in the back of my mind says,because that’s what he was.
A chill descends on my body despite the warmth, and I hold mycoat to my chest as I circle the room. Suddenly I can see Alphonse everywhere: he is Dionysus on a throne, surrounded by curling grapevines and reveling worshippers. He is lupine and elegant in samurai armor as he slices through an enemy, their blood marked by an arc of red ink. He is a pirate and a priest and a surgeon, appearing over and over again: a muse for an unknown artist—or artists—whose brushstrokes survived centuries.
I try to consider alternate explanations than the one that is pounding at the inside of my skull. Perhaps this dark-haired man is a mythological icon I simply have never heard of, like a golden-haired Achilles or white Jesus. Perhaps Alphonse just happens to resemble him—
In my panic, I’ve paced around the whole hall. When I look up, I find that I’m back at the first painting: the one of Sisyphus. Its label dates back to the 1700s, and it’s painted in the style of the old masters of the Renaissance, with obsessive dedication to the human form and a composition that shows both the agony and futility of his task. I look more closely now at Sisyphus himself. His straining muscles, his twisted expression, the mop of dark curls that stick to the back of his neck.
I know that face. I’ve examined it from every angle, closed my eyes to find it smiling at me across a blank canvas room.
“Jules,” I whisper.
I move through the room anew, like I’ve just gained sight. There, and there, and there—the man I almost loved stands, sits, lounges, dances, fights in pieces that cross centuries—the 1700s, the 1800s, the 2000s. Sometimes his hair is shorn as I know it to be now, other times long enough to be tied back. His age varies too: here he springs for a ball with youthful delight, there he pores over documents with a quill pen and a full, gray mustache. It’s not a pattern anyone who hasn’t spent the hours, days, months I have spent poring over his facemight notice, but I would recognize him anywhere, and I recognize him now.
But what my eyes are showing me can’t be possible. Can’t be real. Because if it is, then I have to accept that Julian Conrad has been alive for a very long time.
Too long to be human.
I power walk through the exhibit, taking photos of the evidence I gather so that I can’t convince myself that I’ve imagined this later, talk myself out of this improbable truth that’s hit me like a gut punch. It’s not just him I find, but Leila, and another woman who must be Rose. The world feels like it’s tilting, transforming before my eyes from a place where every phenomenon can be explained to one in which immortality can exist—
“You shouldn’t be here, Dr. Sullivan,” a voice calls out.
I spin on my heel, lowering my phone. My adrenaline ratchets up so quickly that I’m almost nauseous with it, but it’s only a woman. She’s prim and well-dressed in a black jumpsuit with a stylish, tousled French bob, and even from the entrance of the hall, I can tell that her expression is sympathetic.
It’s Julian’s assistant, Ritika. I’ve only met her once, at Margaret’s exhibition, but I’ve communicated with her a few times to coordinate schedules, and our interactions have always been pleasant.
“Oh. Hey, Ritika,” I say, breathless. My muscles still flex with tension as she approaches, the clacking of her heels echoing through the gallery.
“This exhibit is closed to the public,” she says. “Sorry. Matt is a bit green. He shouldn’t have let you in.”
Shoot. I hope I haven’t gotten Matt into too much trouble.
“That was my fault,” I tell her. “He was great. I bullied him into letting me up…”
Ritika’s lip quirks. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she looks impressed.
“I don’t mean to this exhibit,” she tells me. “You’re not allowed in the gallery at all, I’m afraid.”
It takes me a second to understand what she’s saying, and when I do, my stomach drops into my pelvis.
“Julian put me on a no-access list?” I say, astounded. “What? Why? I’m not a stalker.”
Ritika doesn’t offer me any reassurance on that point, just inclines her head.
“Unfortunately, I do need you to leave,” she says. “Or I’ll have to call security.”