The Color of Light (7 page)

The water beat on his chest, made him feel warm for a while. He was always cold. One of the lesser-known curses of being a vampire. Unless, of course, he had just fed, or was, like now, under a hot shower.

Finished, he stepped out, toweled off, patted cologne on his face, ran a comb through his hair. He stood before his closet, chose a chalk-striped charcoal gray double-breasted suit with a bright crimson lining, the best materials and tailoring New York City had to offer. The buttonholes on the sleeves actually worked.

The girl. She was coming tonight.

Tonight was the annual welcome party for new students. They would wander through his brownstone fondling the statues and getting too close
to the paintings, exclaiming anew over each object they found that they had seen somewhere before in an art history textbook. They would gape at the Raphael drawing and crowd around the Botticelli, the Vermeer, the Rembrandt and the Klimt. They would sit on his antique furniture and Persian carpets and eat canapés and play the old Steinway that had belonged to the movie star from the Twenties who had lived in the townhouse on Gramercy Park before him.

In his capacity as Dean of Admissions, Levon would give a little how-we-doing-so-far talk. Giselle Warburg, the Dean of Student Affairs, would tell them about upcoming parties, guest lectures, and demonstrations by famous artists whose work she collected. Turner had some news he wanted to share with them as well, though he was keeping it very hush hush. And Rafe would say something about the history of the school.

Two work-study students were coming early to help out. One of the work-study volunteers would be pretty Graciela. He had seen to that.

So far, his meetings with the cannoli had brought no new information about the elusive studio partner. Apparently, they shared a space, nothing more. Surprisingly, she had proved to be a passionate and articulate advocate for her fellow art students. There were two other tidbits on the liaison committee; a boy Gracie’s age, and a young man with a spectacular Roman profile who went by the improbable name of Clayton El Greco. The boy sat there doodling, and the young man with the profile spun tall tales about his Southern boyhood in a deep Mississippi drawl, while Graciela argued for better ventilation and lighting in the classrooms.

Rafe smoothed the collar of his cream-colored shirt, clipped on his tie bar, straightened his gold silk tie, secured onyx cufflinks through the buttonholes in his cuffs, made sure no more than a quarter of an inch of cuff was showing. Buttoning his suit jacket, he glanced at the clock. Six-thirty. A flutter of nervous anticipation in the pit of his stomach.

The doorbell rang. He was ready.

6

T
essa swiped a wine glass off of the Stickley sideboard before it could leave a ring, then pulled a smoldering cigarette out of a very old looking green urn. “Harker!” she hissed. “Use an ashtray! Not antiquities.”

Graciela passed by with a tray of spinach puffs. Harker Miller, balancing a battered electric guitar on his lap, pushed his lanky hair back behind his ears, crossed his long legs, commenced rolling another cigarette. He stuck it between his lips, lit it.
“Bella, bella,”
he mumbled in Texas-flavored Italian.

“Tutta bella,”
said DJ, sprawled over an Arts and Crafts leather recliner, absently drawing Clayton’s dramatic profile.

“Bella luna.”
said Ben.

“Molto bella,”
added David. He‘d gotten a fresh haircut on his way over, which somehow made his eyes look very blue.

“Bela Lugosi,” drawled Clayton. “I
vant
to
suck
your
bloooooood.
Could you roll me one, my brother?”

“Shhh,” said Portia. Her long body was stretched out on an elaborately patterned signed Isfahan rug. “That’s not very gracious, Clayton,” she said softly. “I’ll bet he doesn’t find those rumors so funny.”

Clayton had wrestled in college, and now he shifted his formidable body on the couch, crossed his legs, tipped his head, acknowledged her sensitivity. “Sorry, Sister Portia. You know, I don’t know why people are so afraid of making enemies. It keeps life interesting. Hey, did y’all see the Botticelli nude?” he went on, reclining with one arm behind his head and making kissing noises.
“Grazie,
buddy,” he saluted Harker, who handed him a hand rolled cigarette. “Say, what’s up with the leather pants?”

Harker blew smoke rings into the air over his head. “Got a gig later. Everyone’s invited, naturally. Some hole on Houston. There’s no cover, but there is a two beer minimum.”

Clayton tried to float smoke rings through Harker’s. “All’s I’m saying is, if he really is a vampire, where’s he getting all the money from? This is a pretty nice place. And if that drawing downstairs is a bona fide Raphael, he’s got to have some righteous bucks. Where do you suppose he sleeps? Think there’s a coffin here somewhere filled with dirt from the motherland? My theory, if you want to know, is he cozies up to rich orphaned heiresses, makes them his demon brides, then takes over their bank accounts.” He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette, let it slowly drift out. “It’s a good plan.”

“Are you done with that?” Tessa indicated Clayton’s wine glass, sweating on an inlaid ebony and mother-of-pearl chess table.

“Yes, darlin’, I believe I am. Would you mind getting me a refill? There’s something extra in it for you.” He winked.

She took his glass, headed to the table that served as the bar. For the hundredth time, she wondered if Lucian had called her, if he was sitting alone in his loft trying desperately to reach her. It was so quiet and lonesome at night
. I should find a phone. At least I can check my answering machine.

Gracie was filling wineglasses, white on the right, red on the left, as fast as she could. There were also tumblers filled with Diet Coke, but they didn’t seem to be moving.

“Red. It’s for Clayton, and I think he’s had more than enough, so only halfway.”

Levon was leaning against the bar. He gave Tessa a big happy smile through his grizzled beard. “Look at that, my two favorite people in the whole wide world. Hey, Tessa, how you doing? Glad you could make it. You decide on an adviser yet?”

“Yes.” Reluctantly, she tore herself away from thoughts of Lucian. “I’m going to ask Josephine. I really like her style.”

Levon opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind. He looked at her speculatively. “I think that’s a great idea,” he said thoughtfully. “You can learn a lot from her.”

A dark figure in a tailored suit materialized at the other end of the room, slender and tall, with wide shoulders. His neatly clipped hair came to a peak over his forehead, and in the low light his eyes were hidden in shadow. With a sharp little thrill, Tessa recognized the man who’d been waiting in her studio.

He lingered at the edge of the scene, surveying the crowd. He seemed to be looking for someone. When his gaze fell upon her, she felt a sudden flush of heat, as if someone had breathed on her neck. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, as he came straight towards her, shouldering through the throng of people milling around the bar. And then he went right past her, greeted Levon like an old friend, took his arm and steered him away. The spell was broken. Tessa swung around and headed back with Clayton’s wine.

Ben, David, Harker and Clayton were hunched forward conspiratorially, their heads almost touching. “He’s not drinking. I told you so.” Clayton stated triumphantly.

“Who are we looking at?”

“The vampire! Look, he’s the only person in the room without a glass.”

Clayton was pointing at the man in the suit. Portia, still stretched out on the rug, was rolling her eyes.

“Him? He’s not a vampire. He’s just the founder of this whole school.”

They were too far away to eavesdrop on any conversation. The alleged vampire spoke earnestly to Levon. Listened thoughtfully as Levon responded and rested a hand on his shoulder. Vampire, very passionate about something. Levon, the voice of reason, even if they couldn’t hear him. Finally, they came to some kind of agreement and Levon moved off, carrying a single glass of white wine. The man in the suit turned to Gracie, smiled, said something. She nodded, stepped back. He reached around her, pulled out a green glass bottle that had been hidden under the table. He handed it to her. She uncorked it, poured out something red into a wine glass, which he drank down and set back on the bar.

“Blood.” Clayton whispered.

“Definitely.”

“Oh yeah, it’s gotta be blood.”

Gracie returned, shoehorned herself in between Clayton and David on the weathered leather couch. “Ooh.” she said, wiggling her luscious tush just a little. “Comfy.”

“So tell us, Graciela,” said Harker, brushing ash off of his black leather pants, “what was in that bottle.”

Cautiously, she peered around, then hissed, “Blood, just like you guys thought.”

“I knew it!” said Clayton, striking his fist on his knee.

“I’m kidding,” she said, settling back into the kilim pillows. “Some fancy wine. A nice Chianti, I think.”

“Hey, Portia,” said David. “Auden coming down for a visit any time soon?”

She propped herself up on her elbows. “Yeah. He’s going to be here for the Halloween Ball. It’s a Friday night, so we get a whole weekend together.” Auden was Portia’s boyfriend, finishing a graduate degree in art history in Philadelphia.

“I guess we won’t be seeing much of you that weekend,” said Clayton, giving her a wink.

“No, you won’t.” she said emphatically. “David, how about Sara? When are we going to meet her?”

“I plan to keep her away from you people for as long as I can,” he replied. “I can barely stand you myself.”

“Tessa,” said Harker, picking tobacco off of his lower lip, “I hear you work for Lucian Swain.”

“Yes, I do.” Her mind had been wandering back to the loft on Walker Street.

“I hear some girl rang his bell once, and when he answered the door, she ripped open her shirt to show him his initials, painted on her breasts.”

It had, in fact, happened twice. She smiled, remembering his face when he told her the story over darts at the Brewery. “The Eighties were rock star time for artists.”

Harker played the signature riff from
Smoke On the Water.
Since he was toting an electric guitar, it didn’t sound like much. “Does he get as much poontang as they say he does? I mean, he’s only one man. If he’s done as many ladies as they say, where did he find the time to paint?”

Before she could answer, David said, “I hear his assistants do most of his work.” He looked straight at Tessa. “My mom works for the Thoroughgood Gallery. She hears a lot of things.”

“Well…she heard wrong. I just pull the pictures together and sketch it out on the canvas and do the underpainting.”

There were raised eyebrows all around.

“Here’s to having an assistant like Tessa,” Clayton said solemnly. They clinked their glasses together and drank them down.

Rafe stood apart from the art students spilling through his Great Room, scanning the crowd for Levon.

It had come as something of a shock that Gracie brought Tessa to help her set up. Unnerved, he’d made himself busy in the room he used as an office until more people arrived.

Behind him, someone said, “I want to do both of them together.”

“Yeah, the contrast is fantastic. Look at her hair! I’m thinking Venetian red. Some golden ochre. Burnt sienna.”

“Who said anything about paint? I want to die with it wrapped around my naked body.”

He turned to see who was talking. First-year students under the influence of his wine, slavering like hungry dogs at Tessa and Graciela.
Levon, where was Levon?

He found him at the bar. To his dismay, the girl was standing right next to him. She had a coffee-colored glass bead strung on a brown leather thong tied around her neck, looking for all the world like a sucking candy. And though she was meeting Levon’s eyes and nodding in agreement, she was somewhere else, somewhere deep inside herself.

She must have felt his gaze upon her, because suddenly she was looking at him. A flash of heat sicced his body like the onset of fever. For a brief moment, he considered taking the coward’s way out, escaping to the loft until everyone was gone.

Just as he was about to cut into the crowd, a thin girl with long dark hair stepped into his path, blocking his way. Though it was a chilly evening in the middle of October, her shoulders were bare. She was attended by a pair of young men, each eyeing him warily, obviously hoping she would
go home with them tonight. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Hey, I love your house! Is that a real Raphael downstairs?” She had a wide helpless mouth and grasping, needy eyes. She put a bony hand out. “Allison.”

He gave it a polite, generic shake. “Yes, it is. Lovely, isn’t it?” He gazed fondly at the claret silk walls, hung with art he had collected over the past six decades, the rich wood paneling, the high coffered ceiling, the genteelly threadbare velvet curtain he had acquired from the old Ziegfeld Theater drawn over the soaring three-storey window. “I like my house, too. It took me a long time to get it just right.”

When he glanced back down at her, she was giving him a trembling smile, one that offered all the wrong solutions to her own problems. “Have you tried the smoked salmon? Help yourself to some more wine,” he said, and eased away from her.

Just a little further.
He moved through the last dozen people between himself and Levon. With a sidelong glance at the girl, Rafe steered Levon away from the bar.

“Hey, Rafe, you decided to show up.”

“I was in the middle of something. Personal business.”

“Hell of a place you have here.”

“Haven’t you been here before?”

“No, last year we did this in the Cast Hall. This is my first time.”

“Oh.” Rafe liked Levon. He was the only person on the Academy staff who didn’t treat him as if he were…well, as if he were a vampire. “I should have you and…” he knew Levon was married, but he didn’t know her name.

“Hallie.”