Page 76 of Ashen Torment

The shore of the painting opens before our eyes, the darkness vibrates, jerked by silvery flashes that rend the livid sky. The black sea lunges violently at the sand in small, fierce waves, as if seeking to participate in the forbidden act depicted.

The triton, half-human and half-abyss, lies on the sand with his pelvis raised, head thrown back, mouth parted in an ecstasy that leaves no room for doubt. His hair, long and wet, spreads around him like black seaweed dragged by the current, and every fiber of his pale body appears taut.

Lord Dorian does not breathe.

He does not move.

It is as if the canvas had hooked a claw into his chest and pulled him closer.

The angel—a celestial figure with long fair hair and broken wings—sits atop him, draped in an aura that has nothing holy about it. One hand slides down the triton’s back to guide his movements; the other grips him, dominates him, claims him. The angel’s expression is of a lust so explicit that the air between us stiffens.

I hear him swallow. I do not need to look at him to know his gaze is fixed on the exact point where the bodies join. A flash of light from one of the men in the crow masks, wandering the room, illuminates the canvas and makes the water on the triton’s body glisten.

For an instant, he seems to actually move, his hips rising even higher to offer himself. The angel’s fingers slide over his hips, and the sand beneath them seems to vibrate.

I sense Lord Dorian’s breath becoming deeper, he licks his lower lip ever so slightly.

A gesture as sinful as the canvas.

“Do you dare say this is not profane art?” I whisper, without looking away.

“Art...” he repeats softly.

His voice rasps. “This artist has taken the liberty of... violating every dogma.”

His eyes shine with a hunger that has nothing to do with the cannibalism of the previous painting.

I wonder if he realizes it.

“Look at how the angel bows his head,” I continue, feigning disinterest while feeling my throat go dry. “He does not seem at all forced. It appears he finds as much pleasure as the one he is crushing.”

“It is...”

He stops.

He wets his lips again, faster this time.

“...an apotheosis of desire, Viscount. Far more than of sin.”

Another flash illuminates the canvas. For an instant, his face beneath the mask as well.

I turn fully toward him, the distance between us closes, and for a moment I seem to be looking at a figure stepped out of the painting, not a man of flesh and bone.

“It almost seems,” I hum, “that you wish to enter that painting.”

He turns slowly toward me.

Now we are face to face, too close to pretend we are not. His mask is motionless, his eyes are anything but.

“For what reason should I crave such a thing?”

I refuse to back away.

“I wouldn’t know. I am asking you.”

“And for what reason does it concern you?”

“Because you do not wish to say.”