He doesn’t bother introducing his work. Instead, Luthor steps up to his sculpture and in one swift motion rips the cloth off.
I gasp—the only sound in the silent gallery.
The sculpture is no longer faceless—it’s headless. From the rough marks at the decimated remains of the neck, I can easily imagine him wrapping his fingers around the clay, carefully and precisely squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until the head simply popped right off.
From the neck down, the sculpture is beautiful—even more graceful and elegant than I’d remembered. There are cuticles etched in the fingernails, veins at the delicate wrists. Individual toes curl around the base, and the draping gown looks as if it is made of silk, not mud.
But from the neck up—nothing.
“ Well. ” Orion’s voice cuts through the ringing silence. “This is quite . . . illuminating, Luthor. ”
Luthor lets the sheet that had been covering his sculpture drop to the floor as he turns and storms out of the gallery.
Even Kayleigh and Harley, as wrapped up as they are in each other, have noticed the way Bartie and Victria never leave my side. Their worry is palpable.
“ Go to Doc,” Harley finally says. “Ripping the head off a sculpture of someone is loons.
Maybe he can up Luthor’s meds. ”
“I don’t think the meds we take have anything to do with being loons,” Kayleigh says.
“They just— ”
“This isn’t the time for that,” Victria snaps. I’m surprised; I’ve never seen her be short with Kayleigh before. “But Harley’s right. We should talk to Doc. Or maybe even Eldest?”
We let the weight of her words sink in before I say anything. “Not Eldest. It’s just a creepy sculpture. No reason to contact Eldest. ”
Although no one says anything, the tension in the room dissolves a bit now that I’ve said to leave Eldest out of it.
“ Still—Doc?” Bartie says.
I shake my head. “It’s just a sculpture. ”
I can’t sleep that night, which is why, when my door zips open, I’m awake to see Luthor standing in the doorway.
“You were supposed to be asleep,” he says.
“You’re supposed to be in your own room,” I snap back.
He shrugs and steps inside, letting the door zip closed behind him.
“I didn’t say you could come in! ”
He just stands there.
“ Get out! ” I say, my voice rising.
In two steps, he’s at my bed, his open hand covering my mouth. I try to shout, but the sound is muffled. He presses his weight against me, pushing me into my mattress. I thrash around, but can’t escape his grip.
“You were supposed to be mine,” he says. His breath is hot, his pupils dilated.
I shake my head the best I can under his grip.
“I don’t like to share. ”
His hand slips down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! ” I yell.
But his hand isn’t letting me go—it’s just moving further down. His other hand joins the first around my neck.