Chapter One

I was only five years old when I saw a painting that could kill.

It was the first painting I had ever seen, and my parents were so excited to have brought me here to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, because I was finally old enough, and I could at least look at the art and maybe not make a fuss, and they could stand and ooh and ahh over the brush technique, at the use of light and shadow, the evocation of emotion. It would be many years before I would understand all that, but I still wanted to make them proud.

And it would be many years before I saw that painting for what it truly was.

An artist centuries before had done it, imbuing it with techniques heretofore unknown. And it was good: a beautiful abstract landscape, block of amber darkening as it rose, brush strokes in perfect, agonizing gray cutting through the texture of a plaintive forest background down below. Darkness gathered. Light fell. There were stars up above. And as I looked at that painting with my five-year-old eyes, I felt a sort of yearning, as if there was something missing. It was agony, deep down. It was profound, seething agony.

The room changed around me, growing darker, becoming night.

For a moment I could see the sky, and it was filled with stars.

But not just stars. These stars were paintings. They glittered in the night, almost overwhelming with emotion. They hung there overhead, unremarked upon by anyone, art displayed by the millions, just floating in the sky. No one noticed them, but I knew that they were special. I knew that there were secrets to be found amidst their depths.

And I knew that those secrets were the most important things that I could ever find.

Then I blinked, and the vision cleared, and I was back in the museum staring at the painting.

In haste, I looked away.

The painting could have killed me.

But I didn’t know that then.

I learned later what that burning was. What those brush strokes of acrylic were, crawling up my veins. As I’d looked at them I’d felt my soul draw taut, stretched thin, and for an instant I’d been sure I was about to break. But the burnt-brown wooden frame had upheld me, adhered to the beige museum wall. The power in the artist’s strokes had almost taken me, but no. I’d looked at the label of the painting, at the artist, a Mr. Devonshire circa 1699, and I’d let out the breath that I’d been holding, and was fine.

I was fine.

Art didn’t kill me on that day.

I learned later that what I’d seen was Truth.

A Truth few people had ever recognized.

At age ten I knew I had a gift. At fourteen I’d gotten it working. By sixteen I could paint windows into doors, bright stars into streetlights. I could envision anything when I was properly attuned, when the shrill paints spoke to me, when the bristle power sparked and shined.

When I was seventeen, my dad discovered what I was. Devil-born, he’d said. Maybe he was right. Maybe somewhere in that dog-eared leather book he clutched it said exactly that. Look upon ye brush strokes and despair, it said, for thou art evil. I painted that expression, the one he had as he held that ratty book pointed at me, as he stood there quivering in the doorway to my room, when he’d discovered the canvas in the kitchen, when he’d seen the blood creeping from her eyes. No amount of paint could mask the pain in his face, the tension in his fingers as he held a single brush, pointed upright, dripping red.

And so I found my own way. Now I’m in West Harlem in a tiny apartment with three roommates and a job I hate and two rooms that have no paintings, that have no magic, that have no stars, that are hung on no museum walls, that have no Truth.

It’s better this way.

It’s the only way I can survive.

I pick up my ballpoint pen, ignoring the incessant glare from my computer, and draw three lines on the four by six white notepad on my desk. Three lines to invoke shape: two legs, a torso. The head is implied. Great artists can do that, imply important things. Mine just looks like a giraffe with bad posture. Stupid. I tear the page off, crumpling it and dropping it into the small black trashcan by my feet just as a lanky man in a rumpled denim dress shirt and a pair of khaki pants steps into my cubicle. The smell of cabbage on his breath wafts in, spinning knots in my stomach. Manhattan’s finest middle manager, come to torment me.

“Riley,” he says, his voice high-pitched, grating. I don’t dare venture toward his eyes.

“Greg,” I return, turning toward my glowing screen. Photoshop shows a mockup of a Colgate interstitial, a mobile ad that will play after every turn on Words With Friends, or Candy Crush, or whatever stupid, vapid game the kids are playing now. Because that’s what I’ve been reduced to.

A goddamn graphic designer.

“I had high hopes for you,” Greg says.

So did I. “This isn’t due until tomorrow,” I say. It’s not quite there, yet. Something about the layout isn’t right.

“Yes,” he says, “but you have three assignments which were due yesterday. You shouldn’t even be working on this yet.”

There’s an instinct, buried deep inside me. Something I picked up from that painting when I was five. A deep, abiding feeling that just clicks when I look at Truth. When the design in front of me is working, when the pieces fall into place. It’s a know-it-when-you-see-it kind of thing—the work goes from garbage to perfection in the space of a two-pixel nudge. It’s when art changes from mundane into magic.

I can’t seem to find it with this piece. My head is pounding.

“Are you ignoring me?” Greg asks, annoyance dripping from his words. I imagine it as blood, creeping from the corners of his eyes, acrylic mixed with acetone. “I wouldn’t advise you to ignore me.” Now his tone is acid. “I can replace you in an instant. There was a line of interns like you a mile deep that want to work at DLX Interactive.”

So he always loves to remind me. I look at the metal wire basket on the edge of my desk, filled to overflowing with inbound jobs. Stupid, meaningless design jobs like “300x30 leaderboard” and “recompose for social media,” and I just want to give up forever, go home and do anything but this. Leave it to the other fucking interns. Never mind that we’re all going to SVA, or NYU, or RISD or a whole list of fancy art schools. Never mind that we’re all hoping for that big break, that gallery show, that moment when our signature grabs five figures, six, or seven.

Never mind that when I close my eyes, I still see her face dripping. The pounding in my head increases, the corners of my desk curling upwards like a parchment set ablaze. The pixels in front of me sear my eyes, burning holes in the air, and I hear a rushing sound, and my hands are alive with pain.

Paint what you see, my dad had always said when I was struggling, when I couldn’t find inspiration. Paint what you see. It’s good advice.

But right now I can’t see anything.

“Hello?” Greg’s saying, and the world snaps back and I realize I’m leaning over my keyboard, breath coming rapidly, heartbeat sounding in my ears. Blood is dripping from my hands where my fingernails have sliced them, fists clutched in agony. Damn, it hurts. “Shit. Are you okay? I knew I should have called in sick today. Riley? Do I need to get someone?”

I lean back in my chair, the desk careening lazily, Photoshop a blur. No. Not another one. I don’t have time for this.

The reveries are getting worse.

“Sorry,” I say, the words erupting from underwater, bubbles splashing to the surface. I try to blink the blur away. Fail. Try again. “I think I just need more water.”

The third blink does it, the pain fading, pixels snapping into place, and that’s when I realize what’s wrong with this stupid damn design.

The T in the title throws the centerpoint off. I nudge the whole line left, Photoshop’s alignment hint flashing at me with annoyance. I ignore it and make the drop shadow less opaque. A contrast curve to the background. A tiny push of saturation.

There. It’s done. It’s perfect.

It’s found its Truth, or as much as an interstitial Colgate ad can ever hope to be.

“Good,” Greg says, “now can you get that off your desk and move back to your queue in order? For Christ’s sake, this isn’t exactly rocket science.” He’s glancing nervously at my hands, feet twitching in his cheap shoes.

I look at him, a good long look. His hair is annoying, blonde-brown strands shooting up like errant brushstrokes from a far-receded hairline. He catches me looking, eyes growing all self-conscious. The moment grows. I let it.

“Greg,” I start, and his feet shift in a way that must have been subconscious. “I will finish those two jobs today. I actually did submit them, they just got hung up in approvals. Something you’d know if you’d actually checked the customer tickets.” He pulls his iPad up in his hands, tapping on it as if feigning competency. “Also, Colgate is paying three times as much as those other two for the same asset. Another thing you’d know if you’d seen the bid.”

His face is growing red, tapping growing frantic. I can see I’ve touched a nerve. I look around for a Kleenex, for a napkin to wipe my hands.

“Anything else?” I ask, keeping my tone bright.

When he looks at me, I swear he’s got a demon in his head. “That’s all,” he manages, sounding as if he’d just choked on a peach pit, spinning on his knockoff leather shoes and taking his cabbage-ass breath the hell out of my cubicle.

I take a shuddering breath when he’s gone, eyes watering from pain. I fumble for my desk drawer, for the bandages that are in there. I find a piece of gauze and wrap my palms, looking like a goddamn crucifixion painting. There’s Tylenol, there in the drawer. I almost take a handful but I hesitate. No. I need to feel this pain. I need to be reminded of it. I deserve so much more than this.

I angle my head up toward one of the TVs that are always running in the corners of the semi-open office floor. They’ve always got them showing the news, no matter what time of day it is. Usually it annoys me, seeing too-perky faces with too much makeup sit too straight in perky chairs, telling us shit we already read about on our phones. But now I find myself in need of a distraction, and I guess this’ll have to do.

I sigh, clutching my hands and watching the screen, giving myself two whole blissful minutes just reading closed captions and trying not to think.

“…snow will last through at least New Year’s,” the anchorwoman is saying. “So bundle up, or better yet—stay inside.” No shit, lady. Thanks for the advice. No wonder TV is a dying media.

The anchor turns to a different camera, the shot changing. “In other news, last night police were called to the scene in Chinatown, where they discovered yet another large-scale vandalism in progress. The entire front face of the Leon Hotel had been transformed into a grotesque painting, seemingly within minutes.”

The shot changes to show the Leon Hotel exterior, its white marble face and neat rows of windows painted over in garish neon colors, depicting what looks like a giant serpent with a noticeable phallus, winding its way along the wall, tongue sticking out as if taunting everyone. I smirk. Of course that’s what they’d do—Chinese symbology mixed with sixth grade bathroom humor. Bunch of boys.

“The Collective has already claimed responsibility,” the anchor continues, “though no members of the illicit shadow group were found present at the scene. The act of vandalism was later seen on security footage, though no suspects were identifiable. The entire thing only took eight minutes.”

Of course they weren’t found. The Collective has never been found. It’s eight minutes and out, and no one knows exactly what just happened. No one even knows who is in the group—at least not all of them. Some of them we know. Some of them are infamous.

And a lot of their paintings do involve dicks.

“While officials expected owners of the hotel to press charges,” the anchor is saying, “it seems that may not be the case.”

The shot changes to an interview of an older Chinese man in a smart black suit, speaking into a handheld microphone. “Are you kidding me?” he says. “A real Collective piece on my building? My rates will go through the roof!”

“I guess some people don’t mind vandalism,” the anchor says, the shot changing back to her. “And Mr. Wu is not wrong—properties throughout the city which have been vandalized by the Collective have generally gained in value, despite their…shortcomings.” She smirks, and I can only imagine the giant spray paint penises running through her head. “And now, sports.”

I lean back in my chair, imagining myself at the forefront of the Collective, black hoodie pulled up tight, belt of spray paints at the ready, doing art just for the hell of it, because I can. No museum walls. Nothing to hold me down. The team and I would create great things, new masterpieces writ large on the brownstone landscape of Manhattan, on the streets and stairways of the people. We would be masters of all, we would—

My phone buzzes, jolting me out of my reverie. I glance down at it, seeing a text from Samuel Ross, and my eyebrows climb just about right off the top of my head. Really? That’s some interesting timing.

Samuel: might have a happening tonight

My heart lurches in my chest. If I’m reading his message right, he means a takeover. By the Collective. There’s no way this is happening. There’s no way he’s finally letting me into his world.

This might finally be my chance.

Me: you going?

Samuel: of course

Me: where is it?

Samuel: Chelsea. Wanna come?

My heart’s thudding even louder now. This is it. This is my moment. I’ve been waiting for those words ever since I met him, ever since I suspected he was in the Collective. He’s always dodged my questions, refusing to say anything about it. I don’t even know if I’m right. This is the farthest I’ve ever gotten.

Me: yes!!

Samuel: you can bring a friend. dress up. you have a fake ID?

Me: of course

Samuel: meet me at 22nd and 10th. 9:00

That’s a long ride from West Harlem, but I need to change and do my makeup. It’s 5:30 now, so I might just have time if I hurry.

Me: see you then!

I’m so excited, my skin is almost vibrating. I spin in my chair, almost falling out of it in my haste, forgetting my bloody hands as I catch a worried glance from several coworkers. This is it—my first real chance. Maybe I’ll find a way to ditch this job.

Maybe I can finally prove Dad wrong.

Chapter Two

Everyone is home when I get there, judging by the three sets of keys already hanging on the wall next to the front door. I add mine to the mix, stepping further into the two bedroom, two bath brownstone we all share, throwing my bag and coat on the ratty green couch in the tiny living room and trying to catch my breath. I could really go for a bagel right now. My stomach is rumbling.

“Do we have bagels?” I ask the living room. Preston’s the only one in there now, sitting right in front of me on the couch. He looks up from the handheld game he’s playing, blue eyes dark in the dim light. “I could really use a bagel.”

“Is it true?” he asks, putting down the game, shock of curly blond hair bobbing in his eyes as he scrambles over the wooden coffee table toward me, almost knocking it over with his tanned bare feet. “We heard you texted Grace.”

I had texted her, but that isn’t for them to know. “Bagels,” I say. I’m seriously hungry.

“No. Sorry, Rile. I think Johnnie ate the last of them this morning.”

“Sorry!” I hear shouted from the kitchen. That’ll be Johnnie. A streetlight shines harshly through the window to my right, lending strange shadows to the room. I catch sight of one of my paintings on the wall, a simple pastel of the downtown skyline. Safe.

Something shifts inside it, and I flinch.

Not again.

“So?” Preston pushes. “Is it true? Are you really gonna see them?”

I’d messaged Grace on my way home, telling her of Samuel’s invitation. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I hadn’t expected everyone to already be home. The joys of having three roommates in New York City, I guess. Nothing’s private. Especially the bagels. The wind blows outside, rattling the window, and I flinch again.

I need to stop doing that.

“You’re going to see the Collective?” Johnnie asks, tromping out of the kitchen with a dish towel over one shoulder, long, dark hair draped over the other. He’s fetching, in an angular sort of front page kind of way. “I don’t believe you.” He flounces over to the couch, its wooden frame groaning as he falls onto it in a jumble of slender limbs.

“Can you at least let me collect my thoughts?” I ask, feeling my head begin to spin. Sometimes my roommates are a bit much. “I’m not even sure if it is the Collective.”

“There’s a good chance of it, sounds like,” Preston says. “I wonder what they’ll do this time.” He paces the floor next to me, all four feet of it, bare skin slapping oily slats of wood. “Samuel always was suspicious. I don’t know why he’s taken an interest in you.”

I glare at him, wondering what Preston knows, but he’s just looking at the floor. Not helpful. His feet keep slapping, but all I can think about is the hunger in my bones. Christ, I need to learn to eat more frequently.

“I looked it up,” Johnnie says, legs unfolding on the couch. “It’s a gallery show for someone new, an artist they won’t even name.”

“Sounds fishy,” Preston says. “Definitely Collective work.”

“Doubt it,” Johnnie says, one hand absently stroking his hair. “They don’t do shows of their own. Always takeovers. Their leader’s kinda dreamy.”

I can’t help the snort that escapes my lips. Then I clap a hand to my mouth, feeling my face burn. “Sorry.”

Johnnie just raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Yeeeeessss?” He drawls the word, letting it play out, eyes dark pools of amusement.

I struggle to recover. I usually don’t let them see me like this. What’s the word? Embarrassed. “Just that the Collective doesn’t have a leader,” I say.

Now it’s Johnnie’s turn to snort. “You think he’s hot. Mr. Lucas Black.”

“No.” My face is heating further.

“You’ve been thinking about him ever since you got this invitation. Hoping Samuel introduces you.”

“Not true.” It is true.

“Screw Lucas,” Preston says, stepping in front of me with his wide eyed white boy smile. “How well do you know this Samuel character?”

“Oh, come on,” Johnnie says. “Don’t change the subject already. I’m still fantasizing, here.”

Preston rolls his eyes. “Lucas isn’t that hot.”

Johnnie gives a great guffaw, eyes rolling to the ceiling and beyond. “Don’t be jealous, Preston. It isn’t a great look on you.”

“Oh, stop,” Preston says, turning back to Johnnie and fluttering a hand. “Everything’s a great look on me.”

The two of them cackle with laughter, Preston doubling over, feet squeaking on the floor. They always do this bit, the two of them. Some kind of flirting thing, I guess, but I’m not sure that either of them is quite aware of it.

“I’m going to go tonight,” I say, trying to change the subject. “It isn’t every day I get invited to a Collective event.”

Preston turns back, mouthing a kiss at me. “Then go, my little urchin!” He tries to slide away but his feet stick on the floor and he just kind of totters instead, almost falling. “We really need to mop this place,” he mutters. “Or wear socks.”

He’s right. Socks would help. Grace would have been wearing socks. And slippers, for that matter. That reminds me.

“Where is Grace, anyway?” I ask.

“Here,” she says, her voice melodic, and everyone stops moving, the room frozen as I turn to see her standing in our bedroom door. Long black hair slung over one wet shoulder that still glistens from the shower, white cotton towel draped around her slim, tan form. Her eyes are piercing, lips pursed. She’s on the edge of laughter, I can tell.

Now my face is really red.

Whistles erupt around the room, catcalls from the boys.

“What,” Johnnie says, “no clothes tonight? Are you in love with Lucas, too?”

Grace just holds her pose, faint laughter on her face, droplets of shower water spattering the oily floor. She looks at me and I freeze, caught between a breath and a sigh, the pain in my palms suddenly flaring to life. Then I blink and rouse myself, stepping forward, ignoring the others as I gather her in my arms and usher her into our room, closing the door behind us.

“Thanks, I think,” she says, her smile impudent but somehow sexy. “Saved by the lovely Riley Ray.”

“Not my name,” I say, trying not to look as she drops the towel, grabbing a bra from her drawer. I catch a flash of flesh and try to stop my face from heating further.

“Stop being such a prude, Riley Ray,” she says, pulling on some panties and searching through her half of the closet for a dress. “Preston’s got a girlfriend, and you know he’s loyal. He’s like a puppy. And Johnnie, well.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What, Riley?”

“Riley Ray. It’s not my name.” It’s her pet name for me, but I never figured out why.

“Riggs. Whatever. Ray sounds better.”

“You’re into Johnnie?”

She shrugs, nearly naked in front of me, not bothering to cover up. “At least he can still appreciate a pretty face.”

No thought spared for me, but I guess that’s normal. The joys of having three roommates—some of us get lost in the noise. I clear my throat, hoping it will clear my head. Doesn’t work. “So.”

She speaks before I can say anything else, turning to face me, dark eyes dazzling. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

She’s a vision in a skintight emerald dress, fabric clinging to her body as if nearly painted on. My breath catches in my chest as I look at her, trying to tamp down the feelings that percolate like fire through my blood. Christ, I wish I could look that good. I wish I could just…no.

I turn away. She’s a painting, nothing more.

She doesn’t look at me that way.

“Hey,” Grace says, unexpectedly close, and I feel the tender touch of a single finger drawing my chin close to hers. “Don’t worry. You’ve got this.” Her breath smells like chocolate mint. “We’ll conquer this together.”

She smiles, and I feel my heart leap, and I stand as quickly as I can, nearly knocking her over in my haste. She catches herself, green fabric rippling across her limbs, giving me a flash of annoyance as she does. “Jesus, Riley. Get a grip.”

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just been a day.”

“It’s always a day for you,” she says. Then she looks me up and down as if finally seeing me for the first time. “I thought you said this was an elegant affair.”

“It is,” I say. “Shit.”

“Not shit,” she says. “Dress. Now.” She sniffs at me. “But shower first.”

I roll my eyes, my mood finally breaking. This is why I love Grace. She’s so good at keeping me on my toes, socks and all.

I spare one tiny glance at her butt in that dress as she turns away from me, then I jump into the bathroom.

A painting, indeed.

I’m already sure this night is going to be one to remember.

* * * * *

Frozen skyscrapers tower over us as we arrive at 22nd and 10th in Chelsea, amber streetlights reflecting on the snow piling up in icy drifts. I pull the satin fabric of my little black dress back into place beneath my fake fur jacket, glancing down to make sure I’m not being too risque. Grace is handling enough of that for the both of us in her green and slinky low-cut number, dark eye shadow and red lip completing the look, a different kind of painting.

Christ, it’s cold.

My breath steams in the air as I step toward the streetcorner, trying not to get my heels too deep in slush. There’s already a line of people around the block, hundreds of them wearing their New York nightlife best, glittering dresses and snappy suits all overlaid with fur and hats and leather coats and diamonds in the cold. Christ, the money on display on this corner alone is probably more than most people see in their lifetime. I feel definitely out of place.

“You made it,” a male voice says, and a man steps out of the shadows. Well, “man” might be stretching it—he’s short and kind of spindly, with long-ish curly hair right at the midpoint between brown and boring, eyes the color of steel, and a bearing that, well. Let’s just say he probably got bullied a lot in school.

“Samuel,” I say, careful to keep my tone light. We’d known each other for a little over a year, having met at a portrait sitting. He’d struck up a conversation with me, and we’ve stayed in touch since then. He’s cute, in a companiable sort of way, with ruddy cheeks and a kind smile. He smells like cinnamon as he approaches, and I find myself remembering my mother. She used to make the most wonderful pancakes when I was little, the smells of butter and canola oil and Bisquick mixed with cinnamon filling the kitchen. I can still hear the hiss of batter on the griddle, and my eyes crinkle into slits. Samuel catches it, but pointedly ignores.

“Exciting, no?” he says. I squinch one tear out, then wipe my nose and meet his signature searching eyes. I’d thought him strange the first time we had met, but then I’d realized he was just unique. Always searching, never finding. That’s Samuel.

He’s hard to read, but I’m pretty sure he’s always had a crush on me. As for me, well. I’m pretty sure tonight is the first time I’ve even looked at him this hard.

“Lot of people turned up for this,” he says, oblivious to my stare.

“What is it?” I ask, eyeing the line, trying to settle myself. Were we supposed to join it? How long would we be forced to wait? Honestly, I’m not sure I wore a fancy enough dress. These people are rich with a capital R. And old. I don’t fit in.

I feel panic start to rise.

“Just a showing,” Samuel says, meeting my eyes maybe a bit too strongly. “You’re still painting, right?”

“Of course,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush. I haven’t painted in a year, except for that class Samuel and I were in. Where I’d met him, actually. I had wanted to test things, to see if my paintings were still powerful.

I’d chickened out before I’d figured it out.

“It’s just…” I say, trying to save the conversation, “I’ve never been to a showing here before.”

He shrugs, eyes flitting toward the line of people. “This gallery is just like any other. Nothing special.”

It does look pretty unoriginal—front wall made of cinderblock-gray bricks, four tall windows covered with plain white shades, a single, small black door with the words HAUSER & WIRTH mounted up above. There’s a curlicue of holly dressed in lights above the sign, the building’s only nod to Christmas two days past. It looks like every other gallery I’ve been to in New York. Not exactly the place you’d expect the Collective to strike.

Maybe I was wrong about all this.

“Come,” Samuel says, grabbing my elbow and steering me past the line. “I know the artist.” He glances at Grace as he leads me down the street, frozen water spattering beneath his feet. “And you are?” he asks her.

“Grace,” she says, head held high, almost strutting as she follows. The silk of her long green dress clings to her in ways I’m not comfortable describing, and I swallow hard, turning back to watch my footing.

“She’s my roommate,” I say. “One of them.”

“You’ll have to let me meet the others sometime,” he says, tone dripping with…humor? I’m not sure. He’s never been quite open about where he’s from, but he’s obviously got money, judging from his impeccable clothes, his precise intonation. He was raised with wealth. Maybe he finds the roommate situation hilarious.

God knows I do. Just not in the same way.

We arrive at the door and the doorman barely spares a glance for Samuel, waving us through without a word, not even checking our IDs. We push inside, entering a brightly-lit gallery, leaving our jackets with the coat check girl at the front. The walls inside are blinding white, hung with oil paintings all in gilded frames carved in ornate scrollwork, a bunch of ostentatious crap. The works themselves, on a quick scan, are mostly landscapes. Some real Kinkaid-level bullshit. I’m actually kind of mad I even came here.

This is what the gallery thinks art is?

“Listen,” Samuel says as we step into the room, dressed-up people bustling all around us, “this is one of those events where you should be a little…circumspect.”

“I got that from the clientele,” I say. “Anything special we should watch out for?”

“Him,” Samuel says, and a man steps out from around the corner, surveying the room. “Man” is definitely not stretching it this time.

I clench my mouth to keep the gasp from coming to my lips.

“Lucas Black,” I hiss, clutching Samuel’s arm to keep from falling off my three inch heels. Lucas is right there in the flesh, slick black hair and pointed nose and piercing eyes below arched eyebrows. The pinstripe suit he has on is nothing short of breathtaking, accentuating every well-muscled aspect of his eighteen year old frame. A tattoo climbs up the side of his neck, a sinuous dragon all in black. His thighs actually ripple as he walks.

Christ, he’s gorgeous.

“This is his show?” I manage.

“No,” Samuel says. “He’s just here.” He sounds a little annoyed.

As Lucas walks into the crowd, even his steps are magnificent. There’s an air about him of total confidence, like he owns the place.

Which, knowing him, he probably does.

“I can’t be here,” I say, turning to Grace. “We have to go.”

“Shush,” Grace says. “You just want a slice of meat.”

“Huh?”

“Jesus,” she rolls her eyes. “We get it, you’re in love. Will you grow a pair, for once? This is a killer event. I want some wine.”

She plows toward the bar on the left, heels clicking on the floor, not a glance spared for Lucas as he strides about the room in glistening black leather shoes.

Love seems far too strong a word.

I pause for an instant, wishing I’d worn more makeup, then follow Grace to the bar. I’m not much of a drinker, but she orders us two glasses of champagne and clinks hers against mine, giving me a sly smile. She takes a long, slow drink of the bubbling golden liquid, and I try not to be distracted by the curve of her neck. Her perfume smells of roses, intoxicating. But Lucas is just behind me somewhere, milling about the room. My thoughts stray toward him, to the dragon on his neck.

“Oh come on,” Grace says, interrupting my thoughts. “Don’t be such a sourpuss. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

I blink, returning to her and her brilliant, viridescent dress.

“Sourpuss?” I say. “What is this, the 1930s?”

She just smirks. “Can’t a girl watch film noir every now and then?”

I snort, venturing a drink. Grace has always been a bit peculiar—it’s what I love about her. We’d met junior year at East Side Community High School, back before Dad had kicked me to the curb. She was always perfect—the smart one, the gorgeous one, the one all the guys hung off of. Plus she’s an artist too, though more of a sketch artist than a painter. We’d become instant friends.

“You’re staring,” she says, blinking demurely, and I nearly choke on my champagne.

“Sorry,” I say, turning to catch Lucas in the corner of my eye, speaking with some lovely lady in a long red gown. He’s way too perfect. He probably doesn’t even work out.

“Hey,” Grace says, touching my chin with a manicured finger, drawing my attention back to her, red nail tip digging into my skin. “Don’t act desperate. He’ll come to you.”

I’m not sure if I want that. I’m not sure why I’m here. My head feels flustered, full of conflicting emotions, but the overriding one is trepidation. Something is bound to happen here. I just know it.

I need to snap out of it. Everything is fine.

“Let’s look at the work,” I say, taking Grace’s hand and leading her to the nearest wall. On the way I spot Greg, my boss from DLX, still in his outfit from earlier, all gangly legs and poorly chosen shoes. How did he get into this thing? He’s clearly excited, tongue practically hanging from his face. My mouth sours in revulsion. He doesn’t notice me.

“This is…interesting,” Grace says, and I turn to look with her at the painting in front of us, thoughts of Greg forgotten.

“Interesting” isn’t quite the word I’d use.

The painting depicts an erupting volcano with a castle on the side—kind of a weird combination, almost intentionally idiosyncratic. Hidden in the smoke spraying into the air above the mountain, I see a faint shadow depicting devil’s horns. It’s deeply weird, and very different from the other pictures in here. Everything else on display is kind of rote, pretty modern. No castles. No horns. They’re mostly single subject paintings, maybe a bit too artsy, high-contrast stuff that doesn’t really evoke a lot of emotion, at least to me. Whoever this artist is, they’re clearly vying for a spot at MoMa. Too bad none of this is nearly good enough for that.

But this painting is different.

It’s more complex, more surreal. For a moment, I can’t help but see the smoke moving, the lava flowing smoothly down the side, heat haze shimmering in my vision. For a moment the painting is powerful. Alive.

Then I blink, and the moment passes.

And I wonder if I’ve finally found another artist who’s like me.

“Riveting stuff, isn’t it?” a voice says next to me, and I jump, startled, but it’s just Samuel. He touches my elbow lightly, eyes flicking toward mine. “Maybe not my first choice. His use of lighting is good, but the composition is all off.”

“Who’s the artist?” I ask.

“Guy by the name of Montague. And before you say anything, yes, I’m sure that’s not his real name.”

As in House Montague from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Yeah, that’s definitely a fake name. “Kind of pretentious, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would,” Samuel agrees. “Young guy, too. Our age. Devil of a thing, that he gets a show before either of us.”

“Probably his connections.”

Grace is wielding her glass. “I think it’s cool,” she says, and I can already hear the champagne in her voice. “Shows the frailty of the ruling class, a juxtaposition between old world kingships and Mother Nature and religion. His use of lighting here and here”—she points to two beams of light, shining down on the meadowed land below the mountain—“illustrates an eternal power, a sort of illusive counterpoint to the destruction occuring mid-frame. A renewal, of a sort.”

She turns to us, face flushed, eyes lit with excitement, and I can feel her excitement catching. I knew Grace was an artist, but damn. That was actually kind of good, in an art history kind of way. At least as good as the art itself, which is, well. Let’s just say I wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed.

“You do know,” Samuel says, “that Montague isn’t really why we’re here.”

“I was hoping that was the case,” I say. “So? What should we do?”

“Act natural. Please.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Before I can say anything else, before I can ask my questions, he strides off into the room, feet clicking proudly on the floor. I lose sight of him in the crowd, and my eye is caught by a couple near the door. A man and woman, maybe early thirties, making out as if there was no tomorrow, lips locked, tongues just going at it. Not the place for it, really, and everyone is giving them a wide berth. When the woman pulls back, I can see it in her eyes. She’s in love. It’s crazy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a look that intense in my life.

And I want it, intensely. A feeling comes over me, powerful, precise. It’s as if a kind of magic has entered the room. Love. I wonder what it’s made of. I wonder if I’ll ever find it.

I wonder what they’re putting in these drinks.

“Come,” Grace says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s mingle.”

For an instant I’m captured by her gaze, by her black eyes, by the lipstick on her crystal glass. For a moment it’s all I can think about, just drinking in those eyes, using them to paint the majesty of the world around us.

Then I cough. Damn, this stuff is strong.

“Fine with me,” I reply, sipping at my drink, feeling the burn as the sweet bubbles go down. I can sense reality detaching as the alcohol takes effect.

We traipse across the room toward nothing in particular, not doing the best job at dodging people in various stages of critiquing, or harranguing, or otherwise enjoying the artwork on display. Champagne in crystal flutes is everywhere, canapes on matte black trays being handed out by the dozen. Had I eaten anything since getting home? Shit.

I grab a couple tiny cracker things and shove them in my mouth. Then I promptly choke, and then there’s champagne down my dress, and I’m spitting crumbs and bits of duck pate all over the gallery floor, and Grace is yelling at me to eat slower and not be so embarrassing, and fancy people are gathered in a circle around me, giving me looks that say that I’m not welcome here, that I’m not from money, that I’m nowhere near as good a painter as Montague, that this life isn’t meant for me, and I feel my heartbeat rising and the walls are closing in and—

That’s when Lucas Black decides to introduce himself.

“Hi,” he says to me, definitely to me, one hand moving gently toward my wrist, steadying my champagne. “You okay?”

“I—” I’m struggling to speak, and not just because of the stupid appetizer. It’s Lucas. Lucas Black. He’s touching me, and I look like a complete fool.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Those things get me too. Way too dry. I’m Lucas.”

He snaps his fingers, and a waiter appears with water. Lucas smiles as I take it and drink, washing down the crackers and my sense of shame. As he stares at me, I feel warmth rising to my face. I’ve never actually been this close to him before. Like every other fan of the Collective, I’ve only seen him from a distance—usually on TV.

But here he is. Breathing. In the flesh.

This is a whole new experience.

He’s disarming and confident all at once, warmth and coldness mixing in his eyes, as if he’s lost something in the past. There’s a dimple there on his left cheek, lending a bit of innocence to his bad boy vibe. His hair has less product in it than I’d thought, black locks flowing naturally behind his ears. His dark eyes are steady, glinting in the garish light, his cheekbones sharp enough to slice me if I get too close. A crowd has gathered around us. Grace pulls me tighter, almost possessive in her grasp. But all I can focus on is him.

“Hi,” I manage. “I’m…” I cast about, trying to figure out who I’m supposed to be. I have a name, don’t I? I’m real. “Riley.” Yes. That’s it. Nice save, Rile.

I feel a familiar urge rising up within me, the desire to put on a face, to become who Lucas wants me to be. To fit into his world, however briefly, however faint. I’m a painter in my own mind, choosing brushstrokes carefully.

“Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asks.

He withdraws his hand, and I feel the absence of it, a burning hole where my heart should be.

Christ, I need to toughen up.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” I say. But then I realize I’m wrong. “Wait. Did you get into P.S. Art this year?”

“The student art show at The Met? Of course.” He snaps his fingers. “Of course. You did the pointillism painting of the Statue of Liberty.”

His was on display too, although we never saw each other. He’d done something in abstract, hard to remember.

“It’s not my best work,” I say.

“Are you kidding? The way you censored her face, your use of negative space...I read it as a critique on modern media. Is that what you were going for?

“Yes!” I’m surprised he actually got all that.

“That painting must have taken you ages. It really was good.”

Now I’m really blushing. “Thanks, I think.” Lame. Get it together, Riley. “Are you always like this?”

His eyes narrow, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. But now I’m committed to this path.

“Am I like what?” he asks.

I wave my hand, spilling more champagne. Nice. “Magnanimous. Beguiling. Other…big words.”

His smile begins with just a quirk at the corner of his lips, quickly spreading to engulf his face. Then he’s laughing, but his eyes are kind, and he slaps me lightly on the shoulder and leans in. He smells expensive.

“You’re funny, Riley. And yes. I always try to be beguiling.” He steps back and fluorishes his suit jacket like a cape, doing a little tap dance before ending with a bow. “I hope you’re enjoying the show.”

That reminds me. “Is this really all there is? Montague?”

He peers at me for a minute, as if trying to decide if I can be trusted. Then his smile returns, and he steps closer once again. “No,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble. “There’s more.”

He snaps his fingers.

Everything goes immediately black.

There are no lights. None at all.

I hear screams, and I feel panic rising in my chest.

A low bass sound erupts from the floor, vibrations buzzing through my feet. A beat begins, muffled drums, synth pads, a lead. The music builds and builds, techno rhythm blasting loudly in the space, setting my teeth on edge. Then the bass drops, pitching downward, and lights return to the room—but different lights, this time. Thin beams of white scan like searchlights along the floor, neon strips of green and purple forming outlines on the walls where pictures had previously been. Lasers shoot out from the corners of the room, knife-straight lines in blue and red. Stage fog fills the room, and amber lights fade in.

Gone are the pure white walls. Gone are the landscapes, the gilded frames, the volcano with the devil’s horns.

Instead, the entire room is filled with video screens.

This is it. This is the Collective’s takeover.

Lucas Black is nowhere to be seen.