That’s what I tell myself as I drive to Rose Callahan’s gallery opening. I am going to him for answers. I am going to him because Sophie loves her father and shouldn’t grow up without him, because Winona needs her coparent.
Not because I miss him. Not because I want to nuzzle my headinto his chest again and try to guess the notes in his cologne or play him a song that he already knows by heart.
The Ulrich Art Corridor is a little-known gallery in the western suburbs. For as high-profile an artist as probable-succubus Rose Callahan, the fourth friend in Julian’s painting, is, it’s a small, unassuming venue. But of course, if I’m right, Rose is elusive for a reason, and a bigger, more accessible space might have placed her identity at risk. The organizers seem to take her confidentiality seriously; I have to sign a waiver at the door promising that I will not take photographs or video of any kind.
The gallery hall is separated from the lobby by a wall of glass. Inside, a harpist in an emerald-green dress strums at her instrument as guests mill amongst strange sculptures and large, looming canvases. I push through the double doors, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter before I go inside. I down it in one gulp, readying myself. Any moment now, I will see Julian again. It may be across the room, or while examining a piece, but our eyes will meet. I’ll tell him thatwe need to talk, and he’ll say yes or deny me or delve into my brain. Or maybe I’m wrong about him loving me, and he’ll kill me here, he and his succubus sisters feeding from me like a pack of ravenous hyenas instead—
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone knock back champagne like a shot,” a man’s voice says behind me. “Nervous?”
I turn to find a white man in a brown tweed suit smiling down at me. He’s somewhere north of sixty and has a harmless, fatherly aura that lowers my hackles some.
“I’ve had a long day,” I answer and he falls into step beside me.
“I’m Harold,” he says cheerfully. “You?”
“Sean.”
Harold beams.
“What a lovely name. I’m partial to gender-neutral names myself. We named our eldest daughter Ryan,” he says. He doesn’t wait for me to respond before barreling ahead with another question. “You a fan of Callahan’s?”
“Not really,” I confess, distracted by a tall man who could have been Julian until he turns to reveal a flat-nosed profile.
“Well, you’re in for a treat,” Harold says. “She’s been one of my favorite creators for years. This tour is her first time showing her face—and she opens every one with a performance.”
This gives me pause.
“I didn’t hear anything about a performance,” I say.
“You wouldn’t. You signed the waiver, right? She has a pretty intense team. Her lawyers crack down hard on anyone who tries to spoil her show.” He grins conspiratorially. “I only know because I’ve been to a few of her openings myself. Each one is different, and they’ve all beenmagical. Benefits of retirement: you get to follow your favorite artist around the country like a rock star!”
I smile despite myself. Harold is sunshine in human form, one of those rare people who can lift even the lowest of spirits.
“It sounds like I have a lot to look forward to.”
“You do,” Harold assures me. The lights in the hall dim, the harpist stops, and he shimmies his shoulders in excitement.
“It’s starting!” he exclaims. He raises his full glass to my empty one. “I’m going to try and get a closer look. Enjoy the show, Sean!”
“Enjoy!” I say, bemused, as he rushes to the center of the room. Other guests follow suit, and I scan the crowd, my frustration mounting. The card had been so clear:Come to him. Julian has to be here. I expect Leila is too, taking a night off from haunting her current husband to search for her next one. But even as the room fills, they are nowhere to be found.
The harpist begins to play again, thrumming her chords so softly that I hear the collective intake of breath as the show begins. I wander closer to the center of the room, where everyone has gathered around a sculpture: a thin, oblong, egglike structure that has begun to crack.
“It’s hatching,” someone whispers.
They are right. My vantage point is not ideal, but even from where I stand, I can see thin arcs of porcelain-like material fall to the ground. The harpist times her strums to each of the strikes, punctuating the captive’s escape with a chord that turns the process from a violent emerging to a magical one. Excited murmurs run through the crowd, guesses on what will emerge from the shell, comparisons of this entrance to her last. A fist punches through and hangs in the air in victory, and the crowd cheers like their team has just scored.
The final crack sounds like the Earth is splitting, and the egg collapses, falling to the floor with the tinkling of fallen glass. Dust or smoke or steam emanates from the inside, and a wave of heat passes over the room, so quickly that I would’ve assumed I had imagined it if the men in front of me hadn’t nervously chuckled and fanned themselves.
The room goes quiet. The music cuts out.
A crouched figure emerges from the fog. It is naked, with sagging, liver-spotted skin that folds in on itself in strange, unnatural ways along its abdomen. Its long-clawed hand nearly drags against the floor, and its tubular breasts are peaked with thick, fingerlike nipples that sway over its folded stomach. Its face is broad and strange, mouth set too wide, nonexistent lips going straight to blocky, too-big teeth. Gray tufts of hair sprout in patches across its scalp and on its upper lip. Its bulbous eyes spin, searching the room.
Humanoid, but not human. We regard it in silent revulsion, andit regards us back. Uncertainty ripples through the room; we aren’t sure if the creature in front of us is real or part of the performance, if what we have witnessed is the birth of a monster. In front of me, someone claps their hands together and stage-whispers, “Wow, her special effects makeup is always so incredible!”
Then, suddenly, the music resumes. It is frenzied now, and the monster’s head swivels, as if searching for its source. It steps forward, and all of a sudden the heat that we felt upon its hatching intensifies, and the creature is engulfed in smoke. It screams, high, human, like a child, as the lights flicker red. Even obscured, I can tell that it ismelting.
Muck drips from its elevated stage, a blood-curdling, bubbly mixture of flesh tones and crimson. The guests who’d been standing the closest jump back as it oozes near their feet.