A mental fog shrouded any remembrance of their previous meeting. Selena figured she drank too much champagne. Excess alcohol had left her with a terrific hangover, and the next morning she’d felt weak and drained. Only one glass tonight, she promised herself. To celebrate making it through the evening.

She went to the wardrobe, pushing aside the dress she’d worn before. Slinky red was out. She wanted to intrigue her potential buyers with something virginal and white, in contrast to the sheen of blood. Something that would hide the marks that only now were healing. Something lacy with a nice high neckline. Oh yes, she felt it very important to cover her throat. And she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember why.

She arrived at the gallery just after sundown. The night air felt crisp, inviting. A soft breeze touched her face with its chill, moist hands. Voices called to her encouraging her to wander in the darkness.

“Come to us,” they pleaded. “We hunger.”

Resisting their pleas, she stepped into the gallery’s warmth. The voices were, after all, only an artist’s vivid imagination.

They waited for her.

People milled about the room in uneasy compliment to images of wolves and gore. Her pulse quickened. In his setup, Arany had captured the essence of her art. And transcended it. Soft music drifted through the air, floating, filling the room with discordant melody. Pools of light drenched her works, making them stand out in disquieting relief. Showing them to their best potential -- animating them with menacing life. Her art. Her love.

A shudder skittered up her spine. Why did she feel so anxious? True, her career was at stake, or her reputation at the very least, but hadn’t Arany insured her future by the very purchase of canvas and stained glass? What did she really fear?

“You’re late.” He seemed to step from nowhere. Clearly, the man loved a dramatic entrance.

She smiled. “I came at dusk, just as you instructed. You’ve done a wonderful job here, especially with the music. Perfect accompaniment. Moody and dark – maybe I should ask you about demons who go bump in the night.”

“I am the demon. Do you play at being the angel? Is that the reason for all this ridiculous white lace?”

Selena fidgeted under his scrutiny. “No one expects the white.”

He traced his fingertip down the column of her throat. “I prefer the other frock. So very red. This is a futile defense.”

She stepped away from him. “You said you write music. Did you write this?”

“Yes. I have many talents.”