Demon Moon

the drapes pulled back. She found a white silk robe folded on the bench at the foot of the bed, and she slipped it on, studying the layout of the suite.
    The windows faced east, out over the park. She’d fallen asleep in his arms, but he must have risen before dawn to avoid the sun. To paint? Evidence of it surrounded her, filled the walls. Portraits of men, women, and children in varying modes of fashion, though none of Colin. Landscapes. All photorealistic in their attention to detail, the execution. Absolutely incredible.
    She rolled up the sleeves of the robe as she walked toward the door and brushed away the dried blood over the symbols. Rock music thrummed through the room.
    If that came from his studio on the other end of the house, he hadn’t been lying. He was loud.
    She almost stumbled over Sir Pup, stretched out on his belly in front of her door, his paws over his ears. He looked up at her mournfully, then trailed behind her as she followed the pounding bass. The music room, with walls a soft tangerine, wooden floors, and thick rugs. More paintings. Another room, papered in lemon yellow—perhaps a parlor, as it seemed to have no use but to look beautiful, with spindly legged furniture upholstered with ivory damask. High, airy ceilings arched over delicate chandeliers. Though a side door, a glimpse of a billiards room.
    Her feet padded against the hardwood floors, across a rug, quicker now that she approached the tall doors. Not running, though the beat of her heart and the music seemed to hurry her along. One of the wide doors was open—only an inch or two, but she took it as an invitation.
    Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness. The windows in the music room and parlor had been uncovered; here, heavy drapes blocked the sunlight, left the studio in shadow. She hesitated, until movement and a red blinking light at the far end of the room caught her attention.
    Colin sat atop a five-foot stepladder. The volume of the music fell—he’d turned to lower it with a remote control. The snowy white of his shirt shone through the dark, but the rest of him was in silhouette.
    And the awkwardness she’d hoped to avoid descended over her, left her floundering for something to say. It would have been easier if she could see him, read his expression—easier if she wasn’t aware of how he could see hers. She wrapped her arms around her middle, tried not to fidget, and was relieved when the click of the remote being set down against the ladder gave her something to latch on to: his recent obsession with British punk, but particularly this group. It seemed another contradiction that she couldn’t parse into components that made sense.
    “I wouldn’t have thought you a fan of The Clash.”
    And the instant it came from her mouth she wanted to take it back. There was only one way he would interpret her comment.
    “Because I’m everything they abhorred? An aristocrat who owns a large international corporation, exploiting the poor and underprivileged?” He said it lightly, but without seeing his face she couldn’t tell if she’d offended him.
    She closed her eyes. It didn’t only sound insulting, but also hypocritical. Internally berating herself for her stupidity wouldn’t accomplish anything, though, and she strove to match his tone as she replied, “I suppose I am, too. Of the Boston Murrays, creator of a game that I licensed to a corporation larger than yours—a game that rots young American minds, even as outsourced and underpaid foreign employees toil away to manufacture it. I may be worse, actually; no one has died because of Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals.” She took a deep breath when he didn’t respond. “I just meant it’s something unexpected. And that I don’t have you figured out yet.”
    She waited for what seemed forever, but must have only been a few seconds before he said, “And you surprise me as well, my sweet Savitri. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be aware of their social agenda, as they disbanded when you were all of twelve years old.”
    “Well, I’ve been with a lot of guys.” Oh, god. Stop, Savi . That wasn’t exactly the best thing to say the afternoon-after. She rushed to explain. “I don’t know why, but men seem driven to educate women about ‘real’ music, and to push their tastes on to our poor little brains. The Clash has been pushed on to my brain since I first started dating, and depending on the guy, warring with The Sex Pistols for The Greatest Punk Group