Four hours later a tired, thoroughly exasperated Quentin was trudging at Tate's side through ankle-deep snow. The snow was still falling, and an icy wind drove it into the men's faces, seeming to change direction whenever they did.
Delays in getting taxis, traffic jams, and a long line in the bank had consumed three hours. Quentin had been forced to argue for fifteen minutes to get the ten thousand in cash. And after all that, Tate had insisted on leaving their taxi far from his studio, and leading him on foot through a maze of dark streets and even darker alleys.
The cloak-and-dagger routine seemed childish and pointless. He couldn't imagine himself wanting to find the secretive artist's studio again.
"Here we are." Tate gripped his elbow, steered him around a final corner, and indicated the barely visible side door of a dingy warehouse.
"Charming," Quentin muttered, wondering if he dared hope the place would be heated. Surely Tate couldn't allow his canvases to warp? Or perhaps, with his powers, he had no need to concern himself with such mundane problems.
Tate gave a series of staccato raps on the door. Moments later it was opened by a servant--a raven-haired, keen-eyed young man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Count Petofi's long-ago henchman, Aristede.
"Come in, Quentin." Tate motioned him inside, followed and closed the door. He cast off his snow-covered coat, trusting--correctly--that the servant would catch it before it hit the floor. "Thank you, Jared. Would you like him to hang your coat up while you're here, Quentin?"
Quentin looked around. He observed, thankfully, that the fawning Jared already had fires blazing, in two separate fireplaces. But an instant later he realized that not even that was enough to provide adequate heat in the barn-like, high ceilinged structure. "No, thanks. I'll keep it on."
"As you wish."
His eyes darted about, seeking his portrait. The studio was at least well-lighted, though with no source of the natural light he would have expected an artist to prefer during the day.
A dozen paintings stood propped against the walls, but they were undistinguished landscapes. The work in progress, prominently displayed on an easel, was more representative of Tate's real stock-in-trade: a portrait of an expensively dressed young man, with an arrogant curl to his lip.
In the further recesses of the room were several more easels. All bearing canvases of the appropriate size. All turned away from the door.
He swallowed hard. He had been trying for the last hour to prepare himself for the appearance of his portrait, after all these years. Imagination failed him. And yet, Tate had said it would be recognizable...
He turned to Tate--warming his hands at the fire--and said pointedly, "I'd like to get this over with. It's almost midnight." He rustled the wad of bills in his pocket.
"Of course, Quentin." An understanding smile. "Will you please get Mr. Collins' portrait, Jared?"
"Right away, sir." The man's leer told Quentin he was privy to his employer's secrets. He walked to the far end of the room, returned with one of the canvases, and handed it to Tate. Still turned away from Quentin.
Tate looked at it fondly. "I have a special affection for this portrait. After all, this was the one that led me to discover my powers! I'm very proud of it.
"I'm sure you will be too, Quentin."
He turned the portrait to face its subject.
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Quentin staggered backward. His legs buckled and he fell against the door, gagging.
He could feel Tate's and Jared's eyes on him, sense their amusement...
Slowly, he straightened.
Forced himself to take a long, hard look.
The man in the portrait was a bent, emaciated ruin. Of his once luxuriant hair, there remained only a few dirty gray wisps. One eye was filmed over, presumably sightless. A half-dozen angry sores marked the grotesquely distorted face--which appeared to have been pulled out of shape, initially, by a badly healed scar on the left cheek. Half the flesh of the nose had been eaten away.
He took a deep breath. Tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. "All right. I--see what you meant. It is--recognizable."
"The scar."
"Yes, the scar." Petofi had slashed his face with a broken glass, to demonstrate that the injury would be deflected onto the portrait. Now, gruesome as it was, the scar removed his last shred of doubt. If Tate had faked up a portrait--simply painted an aged Quentin, for the purpose of cheating him out of ten thousand dollars--he undoubtedly would have forgotten that scar.
He himself had forgotten. Until now.
Tate cleared his throat. "Ah...our agreement, Quentin?"
"Oh, yes, of course." He handed over the money, then gratefully accepted a seat while Tate counted it. The man had been looking over his shoulder when he counted it in the bank--but after seeing the portrait, he was too shaken to resent his counting it again.
"It's all here. Lock it in the safe, Jared."
"Yes, sir." They watched as Jared dialed a combination to open the wall safe, laid the cash inside, and carefully closed it again. The lock clicked into place.
Tate smiled expansively. "Here you are, Quentin!" He formally handed him the portrait. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
"Thank you." Quentin tried to return the smile. "I...I know I'll have to walk some distance to get a taxi. Could you give me something to cover this?"
His host looked pained. "Why, Quentin, aren't you eager to show it off? I assure you, my portraits are highly prized!"
Quentin flushed. "It's snowing. I don't want to get it wet." True, but hardly the whole truth.
"Hmm...I see." Tate pondered the problem. "Yes, I'm sure we can help you. Jared, get some burlap to wrap the portrait for Mr. Collins."
"Very well, sir." The smirking Jared disappeared briefly, returned with a length of burlap, and wrapped the parcel under Quentin's watchful eye.
Tate hovered solicitously. "Satisfied?"
"Yes." Though he felt none of the elation he had expected, only a sick disgust. With himself, mostly, for being so repelled by the sight of the ravages of old age.
"Then, once again, it's been a pleasure." Tate extended a hand, and he reluctantly shook it.
He picked up the portrait, turned to leave. Jared had drifted away, and he heard Tate's footsteps already receding toward the back of the room.
He put a hand on the doorknob.
Tate's voice came from behind him.
"Oh, Quentin. Before you leave...there's one more thing."
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The voice had changed completely. Flint-hard, it sent a chill through his veins.
He turned slowly, clutching the portrait. Every nerve-ending in his body screamed DANGER!
The two men were standing near the center of the studio...Jared, for some reason, holding another canvas. Quentin's attention, however, was riveted on Tate. A faint smile still played over the artist's features, but he had dropped all pretense of sincerity. His eyes glowed with hatred.
"You've bought and paid for the portrait, Quentin," he said softly. "So of course, it's yours to do with as you like.
"But I'd like you to throw it into that fireplace near you. Right now. I truly hope you'll do that."
Quentin's blood ran cold. He's insane. I should run. But...why does he even imagine he can make me do such a thing?
"I'm sure you're wondering why you should destroy your portrait," the silky voice continued. "Have you heard of an actress called Olivia Corey?"
Quentin's breath caught in his throat. He had foolishly assumed, from Tate's not having mentioned Olivia until now, that he had not heard of her.
"I see you have. Good. That will save us some time. You were in a hurry, as I recall..." Tate gestured to the obscenely grinning Jared, who handed him the canvas.
The portrait.
"Would you like to see what the fair Olivia really looks like?"
No, no...
Tate studied the portrait, then shook his head in mock regret. "I'm afraid the years have been no kinder to her than to you, Quentin." Turning it slowly. "Your beloved."
A gnarled, withered crone, with a few strands of yellowing hair. Her right eyelid drooped, and the entire right side of her face was distorted, as though paralyzed by a stroke. Her right arm curled unnaturally against a sagging breast, the hand a useless claw.
"No!" Tears were streaming down Quentin's cheeks.
"I think you're beginning to understand why I brought you here!" A vicious smile. "It's very simple, really. You throw your portrait into the fireplace nearest you...or I'll throw Amanda's into the one nearest me."
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Quentin fought down panic. Think. Think rationally. "You're bluffing," he said firmly. "You couldn't do anything to hurt Amanda. You love her yourself--"
"Don't be a fool!" Tate gave a harsh laugh. "Do you really believe I've been pining for this--artificial woman for sixty-odd years?
"I assure you I haven't. As I recall, Amanda had lost her charm for me by the end of 1897. I've had hundreds of women since then. Nature's creations, and my own. Whenever my taste changes--which is frequently--I can make myself a new 'ideal woman'!"
Quentin shuddered.
"But you, Quentin...you are still obsessed with Amanda. If you weren't, I couldn't have lured you here."
"I admit I still love her," Quentin said readily. "But I refuse to believe you don't! Why else would you still hate me so?"
"Because you're the only man who has ever succeeded in taking a woman away from me," Tate hissed. "That's why I hate you. The woman herself is inconsequential."
He moved closer to the fire. His eyes glittered in its reflected light. "I can almost see the wheels turning in your head, Quentin. You're thinking of rushing me, or throwing some burning object at me.
"It wouldn't work. You can't injure me, and you can't do anything quickly enough to prevent my throwing this portrait into the fire. You'd get here before it was destroyed, but then Jared and I would restrain you. You can't hope to overpower both of us."
Quentin licked suddenly dry lips. "I...I'll torch your studio! And I'm the only one near the door." That might have some effect on Jared, if not on Tate.
Both men smiled serenely.
"Go ahead and torch it," Tate said evenly. "There's nothing here of any real value to me. Except the money...and that's in a fireproof safe.
"That door isn't the only exit. But even if it were, it would make no difference. As I said, you can't injure me. Jared is, of course, similarly protected. And our portraits are in a safe place."
Quentin winced. Clutched his portrait to his chest. "What...what will happen to me if I destroy this?" he asked shakily.
"I don't know." Tate reverted to an almost conversational tone. "This will be a test case. I'm eager to learn the answer.
"One possibility is that you'll simply begin to age normally--and, of course, fall victim to the werewolf curse again. But it's also possible the years will catch up with you all at once.
"And in your case, I'd say there's a third possibility. After cheating the curse all these years, you might become a werewolf immediately. Perhaps even permanently."
"Tate!" Quentin was ready to grasp at any straw. "If I turn into a werewolf, I'll attack you.
"It's easy to say I can't injure you. If your portrait's like mine, it protects against serious or disfiguring injury, but not short-term pain. A werewolf attack could cause you a great deal of pain.
"And I'll undoubtedly bite you. You'll survive, and become a werewolf. Your curse will be absorbed by your portrait--but what about your descendants?"
Tate snorted disdainfully. "Do you realize how pathetic you sound? You don't know a hereditary curse can be transmitted that way. And you don't know whether I have descendants, or care about them if I do.
"It's no use, Quentin. Have you forgotten that a werewolf transformation is preceded by several minutes of intense, incapacitating pain? If Jared and I see that happening to you--pain, but no sign of rapid aging--we'll have plenty of time to get away. Especially since we have a car nearby.
"And beyond all that"-- he drew his lips back in a malicious smile--"we've taken the precaution of wearing these." Balancing the portrait on the floor, he reached inside his collar and pulled out a medallion.
A silver pentagram.
Quentin felt his last hope slip away.
He clung to the portrait. He's bluffing. He has to be bluffing.
If I run for it, I know I can get away. Even if they come after me. The snow will blind them, cover my footprints quickly...and I won't have to go far. There must be dozens of hiding places in a neighborhood like this. Half the buildings looked abandoned.
If they take time to grab their coats or get to their car, they'll lose me. And if they don't, and don't catch me almost immediately, they'll have to give up.
I'm sure he's bluffing.
And...even if he isn't...
If he isn't...if he burns Amanda's portrait, there's a fifty-fifty chance she'll just start to age normally. She might even welcome that. I would, if I didn't have a werewolf curse hanging over me.
Only a slight chance he'll burn her portrait. A very slight chance. And if he does, a fifty-fifty chance it will do her no real harm...
He closed his eyes.
And still saw Amanda's portrait. The ancient, wizened face, the horribly crippled arm.
If he ran away, he'd probably never learn what had happened. And that image would haunt him all his days. Sleeping or waking, he'd see Amanda, his Amanda, turning into that...
He opened his eyes. Took a long, shuddering breath.
Then, before his courage could fail him, he hurled his portrait into the fire.
