He stood transfixed.
The only movement in the studio was the devil-dance of the flames, the only sound their crackling laughter. They pounced on the portrait, licked lustfully at the blackening burlap.
He fought a wild impulse to plunge into the fire and retrieve it. Amanda. Think of Amanda.
Another thought intruded. Tate. Rhymes with "hate." Tate and Jared were gazing spellbound into the flames. I can jump him now, catch him off guard and grab Amanda's portrait. Get out the door and away before anything happens to me, deny him the pleasure of seeing it.
He half turned toward Tate, rose on the balls of his feet.
And searing, slashing pain tore across his left cheek.
He screamed, less from the severity of the wound than from its shocking suddenness. Forgetting Tate, he sank to his knees, clutching his face. Something was happening to his cheek. He felt not only pain, but a pulling sensation that was drawing his lower eyelid down, the corner of his mouth out and up... He moaned in horror.
Stabbing pain in his right eye, water streaming from it... Every joint in his body seemed suddenly aflame, and he gasped as a knife-sharp pain in his back bent him double. The werewolf transformation? No, it was never like this.
He gagged on loose objects that had somehow gotten into his mouth. Spat them out, and realized they were teeth.
His hands pained him, and what blurry vision he still had--in the left eye--told him arthritis had twisted them into claws. Claws spotted with age... He stifled a whimper.
His coat was unbearably heavy, weighing down his frail, pain-wracked body. He wanted desperately to struggle out of it, but knew he could not. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart threatened to burst from his chest...
A booted foot crashed into his ribs.
The kick sent him sprawling. An explosion of pain took his breath away, and for a few seconds everything went black.
Then he found himself lying on his face, in a paroxysm of coughing. Coughing up blood, he could taste it. Spitting out more teeth.
"Perfect! Can you hear me, Quentin?" Hands gripped him roughly, yanked him up to his knees again. "Look at me when I speak to you!" He felt bones crack, and a spreading wetness in his crotch told him he had lost control of his bladder.
Tate laughed.
"Yes, from the look on your face, you know what's happening." His tormentor shook him--hard--and then let him slip down to a sitting position, dropping to his knees beside him. "This is what I was hoping for. You still understand what's going on, as a wolf wouldn't. But you're in no condition to give me any trouble."
Quentin struggled to speak. "So you're...happy it...works this way," he wheezed. "You may not be...as happy...when someone...destroys...your portrait." An empty threat, and they both knew it.
Tate leered at him. "I'll take my chances. I don't know why you're so cranky, Quentin! It looks like you won't have to worry about the werewolf curse." He chuckled. "The moon won't be full for a week, and you don't look healthy enough to last that long.
"But for now, I'm glad you're conscious and lucid. Can you see well enough to follow what I'm doing?" His fist shot out, stopping inches from Quentin's face--as Quentin blinked, gasped, and tried feebly to pull away. Then the fist made rapid feints to left and right. "Yes, I think you can. At least one eye is tracking--sort of."
Tate leapt lightly to his feet. "I've been planning this evening for some time. Glad you'll be able to appreciate the rest of the entertainment!" He sauntered away.
There's more? Quentin clung to consciousness, blinked frantically in an effort to clear his vision. He wanted to sit up, watch his enemy...but the weight of his coat and the pain in chest, side and back proved too much to bear. He felt himself crumpling.
"Can't have you lying down on us, Mr. Collins!" Jared. The manservant grabbed his coat collar, dragged him to the nearby door, and propped him against it with a thump. "There. Aren't you going to say 'thank you'?"
Quentin was past speech. But he managed to spit at Jared--and was rewarded with a hard blow to his ravaged left cheek. Darkness closed in...
Then the room swam back into view. His face throbbed, and he felt swelling already threatening to shut his "good" eye. But Jared was holding a bottle of smelling salts to his nose. "No nodding off, sir!"
Hang on. It will all be over soon. I've had a long life, and I'm ending it well. Whatever Tate does to me, I'll be able to die in peace, knowing I did the right thing. I didn't let you down, Amanda! You'll never know about this. But for once in my life--at the end, when it mattered most--I did the right thing.
Tate walked into his field of vision. Carrying Amanda's portrait.
Oh, God.
The artist smiled pleasantly. "We've destroyed one extremely ugly portrait tonight--sorry, Quentin! No offense intended." He smirked. "Now it's time to rid ourselves of another eyesore. Would you like to do the honors again?"
Quentin gurgled. Fought for breath, tried again. "No!" he croaked. "Tate--you wouldn't! No!" He tried desperately to get to his feet--floundering like a fish on land, aware Jared was laughing at him. Tears stung his eyes, rolled unchecked down his cheeks.
"No?" Tate sighed theatrically. "Then it seems to be my turn."
He came closer. Loomed over Quentin, still writhing on the floor in a vain attempt to get his legs under him. Allowed his victim a clear look at the portrait, and his own maliciously smiling face.
Quentin tried to clutch at his ankle, found his hands crippled to the point of uselessness.
Tate turned away.
And flung the portrait into the fire.
.
.
.
.
.
"Noooo! Nooooooo!" Then Quentin was merely shrieking, over and over, language forgotten. He braced himself against the door, somehow pulled himself up. Get to the fireplace. Save it, save it! He lurched forward. But quivering matchstick legs refused to support him, and he fell in a sobbing heap at Tate's feet.
"You idiot." Tate grabbed him by what remained of his hair, and pulled him up to a sitting position. This time, at a gesture from Tate, Jared held him that way--with a leg at his back, a hand clutching the hair to keep his head up.
"Listen to me. I want you to understand what a fool you've been." Tate bent over him, a demonic gleam in his eyes. Spoke slowly and clearly. "I wouldn't have hesitated to destroy a real portrait of Amanda Harris. But the canvas I just burned couldn't protect--or harm--anyone. I only painted it within the last few days! If you had insisted on examining it, you would have discovered the paint was still wet."
For an instant, Quentin felt only relief.
Then it hit him. There had been no need to destroy his portrait. There was nothing, nothing Tate could have done to hurt Amanda!
His fury erupted in a savage howl. He lashed out at Tate, flailing wildly with his puny arms.
But none of his blows connected. His strength failed him in less than a minute, and his arms fell limp at his sides. His sobs trailed off, ending in a broken moan.
Tate waited until Quentin was still, his panting breath the only sound in the room. Then he continued. "I never gave Amanda any magical protection. She aged in the normal way. In fact, she's been dead for twenty years.
"I was sure she had died. But even so, I went to great lengths in investigating Olivia Corey. As you could have, if you hadn't been so eager to believe. I checked her background, even tapped her phone. Olivia is just what she claims to be--a twenty-two-year-old from the Midwest, fresh out of college. Her resemblance to Amanda is pure coincidence.
"Do you understand, Quentin? You've thrown your life away for nothing. Nothing!" He drew himself up to his full height, stood proudly over his fallen foe.
Quentin found his voice. "You could have...destroyed...my portrait. Any time."
"Yes, of course," Tate acknowledged. "But it was important you be here. I was telling the truth about this being a test case.
"And given that"--his lip curled--"I couldn't resist tricking you into destroying it yourself. You even paid ten thousand dollars for the privilege!
"You have no one but yourself to blame. I gave you a sporting chance. I deliberately left the paint on the fake portrait wet--gambling that after the scar convinced you of the authenticity of your portrait, you wouldn't question Amanda's. Jared thought I was staking too much on your gullibility, but you didn't disappoint me.
"You could easily have seen through my ruse. Failing that--if you had simply had the brains to put yourself first, you could have gotten away! Even if Jared and I pursued you--and I'm not saying we would have--you could have escaped with your own portrait."
"I know." A barely audible whisper.
Tate shook his head. "You're a romantic fool. But I'm glad you are. Your stupidity has given me the revenge I've dreamed of for sixty years!"
Quentin let his eyes close, didn't try to answer. You don't understand, do you, Tate? You have no sense of honor.
You haven't defeated me. You're killing me, but you haven't defeated me. I can die knowing that, given the knowledge I had, I did the only right thing. If I had run away, I never would have been able to live with myself again. And then, only then, would you have won.
Drifting toward unconsciousness, he was brought back with a jolt when Jared released his hold and let him fall heavily to the floor. "What do you plan to do with him, sir?"
"We'll leave him in an alley somewhere." He heard the shrug in Tate's voice. "Far from here--that's all that matters."
"You don't intend to--ah--make sure he's dead before we leave him?"
A moment's reflection. "No. Don't worry. He's too far gone to last the night. Even if he should, no one would believe his story. And he'd never be able to find this place again.
"But...I want him to live as long as possible. Suffer as long as possible."
.
.
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.
.
And suffer he did. He was still conscious when they dragged him out into the street, along a stretch of uneven, icy pavement, and heaved him into the back seat of a car. More bones fractured.
He focused on keeping silent, not allowing them the satisfaction of hearing him moan.
He was not completely successful.
Lying helpless on the seat, he rolled off onto the floor the first time Jared braked for a red light. Mercifully, he passed out. But when he came to the car was still jouncing along, and he was still on the floor, limbs bent at impossible angles. He stank of feces, felt the warm bulk inside his trousers.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. Go back to sleep.
But "sleep" refused to come, and the bumping and bouncing went on for what seemed an eternity.
At last he heard Tate say, "This will do. We won't find any place darker."
Jared slammed on the brake, and he felt the car skid on ice. He wished it would crash into a building and kill them all... But no, Tate and Jared couldn't be killed.
Instead, it came to a shuddering stop. He heard doors flung open, felt a rush of air even colder than the still-frigid interior. Gasped as someone grabbed him by the feet and forcibly straightened his legs.
"Huh. He is still alive back here." Jared sounded surprised.
"I thought he would be. Tough old bird." Was that grudging admiration? "Haul him out."
More nightmarish jolting and jarring, more bumping along icy pavement. Then he was dropped half into a snowbank.
"Quentin?" Tate's voice. And Tate's foot, undoubtedly, prodding him in the ribs. "Once again, I've enjoyed doing business with you. Hope you consider your ten thousand well spent!"
Tears froze on his face as the men's mocking laughter died away.
