The Forbidden Trilogy(10)

He dropped his black leather satchel by his desk and sat down with a dramatic thud. "Sorry I'm late. It's been... a day."

"No problem. I'm just glad this is my last class until tomorrow."

He grunted and turned to pull out a sheet. "I'd hoped we could talk more about your painting and the art contest, but Higgins called me into his office and said I had to turn in an evaluation of you—immediately. That's why I'm late, if you care."

My heart skipped a beat. "Evaluations aren't due for months. Is everything all right?"

The vein above his eye popped out, and his fist clenched the paper as if it were something evil to be destroyed. "Is anything ever okay when it comes to this place?"

"Mr. K, why do you hate it here so much? Isn't this your dream job?"

The noise that came out of his throat didn't sound human. "More like nightmare. But I can't really talk about this, Sam. I'd get us both in trouble. And don't go probing my mind for secrets; you won't find anything helpful, just a few new expletives that a young lady such as yourself shouldn't use."

His glare challenged me to defy him, but I knew better. The few times I'd slipped into his mind uninvited hadn't ended well for either of us. I'd been in messy minds, tidy minds, perverse minds, but none as chaotic and terrifying as Mr. K's. Undoubtedly serial killers had worse minds, but they couldn't have been that much worse. Mr. K didn't just play the part of a dark and brooding artist; he'd created the part. His mind contained hidden corners that were best left to his mental cobwebs. There's a fine line between genius and madness, and while Mr. K was harmless, he wasn't entirely sane.

When I made no move to speak, he nodded and continued. "Today, you're going to draw what's in my mind, and, based on how well you do, I'll grade you for this ridiculous evaluation. Okay? Don't worry, I'll keep my mind calm for the assignment."

"Um, sure." His mind didn't frighten me when I had permission and stayed within the boundaries provided. This actually seemed a bit easy, but whatever. I reached for my bag to grab my supplies.

He put a hand up to stop me. "I have something for you."

He handed me a brown leather-bound sketchbook that looked well-used and smelled of old places and history. A round emblem, made of gold, was pinned to the cover. Its intricate shape reminded me of one of those meditation circles, but with a more elaborate design. The pages inside spoke to me in their own language, teasing me with drawings yet to be sketched. It even had a special compartment in the front for my pencils, and the paper looked like it could be refilled. I loved it immediately.

I pulled out the pencil already held there and opened the book up to the second page, saving the short dedication he'd written on the first page for a later read.

The chair underneath him squeaked as he pulled it forward so that we were uncomfortably close to each other. "Sam, it's important that you keep this sketchbook, and this sketch, safe. Do you understand?"

I nodded, though I didn't really understand his urgency, and poised my pencil to begin sketching.

He closed his eyes and I dipped into his mind. Humans don't think in linear thoughts, not usually. Most of the time people's minds are crowded with a blend of words, images, emotions, sensations and subconscious whispers. I spent a lot of years learning how to fill in the blanks and make sense of things in a way that would serve my work, so it wasn't difficult to push past the clutter in Mr. K's head to find the brightest image to draw. I just had to stay away from the dark corners, the places where his thoughts hadn't been tethered to the sane.

My hand raced furiously over the page, as if on autopilot. Time drifted into nothing and I became one with the art. Thirty minutes later Mr. K opened his eyes to examine my work.

"Remarkable. Sam, you've outgrown me in talent and ability. I'm so proud of the artist you've become."

I looked at the sketch in my hand and had to admit it rocked.

A wooden box, carved with the same symbol as the pin on my new sketchbook, and detailed images of nature took up the whole page. The box seemed to come alive, as if begging me to open it.

Mr. K smiled and made a few notes on his evaluation form.

I must have passed.

***

The next morning I waited by the front gate with Old Charlie and my very own bodyguard, who introduced himself as Gar. What kind of name is Gar?

Gar didn't talk much, but his rippled, veiny muscles, and a jaw so square it looked cartoonish, made him look scary—perfect for a bodyguard.

I clutched my overnight bag to my chest and shivered in the cool morning breeze. A limo arrived promptly at six and whisked me to the secret airstrip we used to fly to all of our assignments. The drive only took twenty minutes, and I never saw a highway or city sign, just trees and valleys of nothing.