I tell it all to Lucien. He’s stretched to the max on the furry white couch in his mother’s red apartment, looking like something you’d want to paint. Low-slung jeans and the black-on-black kimono, open and almost falling off, so I see the whole smooth front of him all the way down to his poutylooking outie and the blue tattoo of the Algiz rune. He’s drawing in his sketchbook—scratch, scratch, scratch
—but I know that he is listening as he murmurs “Nazi” under his breath in his French so-sexy accent, his nostrils flaring, wide and black.
“Dad’s not that...