Page 44

“Or a heartthrob.” He winked at me.

“For God's sake, stop winking.” I chuckled at his grimace. “It's sounds as if Curses are vain.”

“Vanity is a Curse.”

“Is it now? They must be insufferable.” I chuckled.

“You have no idea,” Tristan rolled his eyes, and then we laughed together. When his laughter died down, he added, “Seriously, though, Curses are vain. I've never met an ugly Curse, not even Horror.”

“There's a Curse of Horror?”

He nodded sagely. “With the popularity of the Dark Romance genre, he's doing well for himself. His social media is insane.”

“No.” I waited for him to tell me he was teasing me.

Instead, Tristan pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and pulled up the account @TheCurseofHorror. He tapped on a post. It was of a muscular, tattooed man in a skeletal mask, leaning forward, forearms on knees, moving his head like a snake.

“First of all.” I pointed at the handle. “No creativity at all. Second, why is he moving his head like that?”

“Evidently it's sexy. Would you like to see more?”

“Are there any that show his face?”

He grimaced at me.

“I'm just asking because you seem to avoid having your picture taken. You collect any paintings you find of yourself and the only photos I've found of you seem to be taken without your knowledge.”

Tristan inclined his head. “I'm glad you didn't just think I was vain.”

“Oh, I know you're vain, you just told me you were chosen for your good looks. I'm just wondering if all Curses avoid leaving traces of themselves.”

Tristan laughed again. “Maybe I'm a little vain. And yes, most of us avoid leaving images of ourselves lying about. Especially now, when one picture can spread like wildfire and last an eternity.”

Tristan's phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and nodded. “He's got something. Let's go.”

We took a cab back to the townhouse, too anxious to walk. Haversham motioned us in, locked the door behind us, and led us back into his parlor. He waved us to the couch again.

As he sat down, he said, “Your guy's name is Fabian Marangon. At least, it was back then. There is no record of where he went when he left the monastery.”

“So, that's it?” I asked.

“Patience, Ms. Takeda.” Haversham pulled a folder from a stack on the floor and opened it, turning it so we could both see. Inside were printouts of photographs—black and white, sepia-toned, one clearly older than the rest with the soft blur of an early exposure. Each showed a man with dark hair and a composed, almost formal expression, standing in front of a house, or in a garden, or seated on a chair.

“That's him.” Tristan leaned forward. “That's Fabian.”

Haversham handed me a couple and the rest to Tristan. “Notice anything about the pictures?”

It took me only a moment to catch it since we'd just been speaking about something similar. “He's the main figure in these. He posed for them.”

“Every single image,” Haversham confirmed. “They're all portraits.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked.

“I don't know his motivation. But I know his geography, and that's what should concern you.” Haversham pointed at photographs as he said, “Boston, 1911. This one is Vienna, 1934. San Francisco, 1958. Sound familiar, Tristan?”

“I lived in those cities during those times.” Tristan frowned at the photos. “He really has been watching me.”

“Well, that's not at all creepy,” I said with false gaiety.