by Clara Kensie
With one eye closed, he tilted his head, then tilted the canvas the opposite way. “I’ve been teaching for twenty-seven years, and every year, I present that same bowl of fruit and tell my students to paint it. Do you know what I get? I get paintings of the same bowl of fruit, from every student, every year. Some are truly awful, most are decent, and a few are excellent. Yours is one of the excellent. You took it in a new direction.”
“I thought you were going to fail me for not following instructions,” I said. This was incredible. I had to raise the fog a little to make sure I was hearing him correctly.
“I didn’t give any instructions to follow,” Mr. Vargas said. “You’ve only been here a few weeks, and you’re unpracticed. Undeveloped. However, you have a raw talent, Tessa. You are a very gifted artist.”
Gifted.
Jillian was a gifted dancer. Logan was a gifted musician. All the talent in the family had gone to them, I’d always assumed.
I’d painted before, sure. As a hobby. I was decent. Maybe good. Never excellent. Never gifted. But I was psionic now, when I’d never been psionic before. Maybe my retrocognition wasn’t the only thing the fog had suppressed all those years.
I could envision my painting, super-sized, on the wall. The curve of the yellow-green pear, stretching from the floor halfway up the wall. The shiny crimson apple. The plump purple blueberry. Greedily, I eyed the white cinder blocks. The strawberry would go right there, in the upper corner. The wall’s bumpy texture would be perfect for the orange.
I was stuck in Lilybrook because of Deirdre’s dream. But when Tristan brought my brother and sister to me, I would bring them to this school and lead them to the cafeteria. Then I would stand them in front of the mural, spread my arms, and announce I painted this. They would be so proud.
Breathless, I appraised the blank white wall, a wall that wouldn’t be blank or white much longer. “When can I start?”
I started on my mural the very next day.
With a pencil in my left hand, I lightly sketched the arc for the meaty part of the pear. To steady myself, I pressed against the wall with my right hand and a few visions appeared through the fog. A girl wearing her hair in two braids with a headband made from daisies. A boy with hair short in the front and long in the back.
I stepped away from the wall and adjusted the fog, bringing it closer until the visions disappeared. It left me a bit dazed, but still aware. The perfect state for painting. I put my pencil to the wall and completed the curve of the pear, then sketched until it was time to go home.
Although Tristan continued to contact psychics and search for matches of Brinda’s drawings, and Aaron worked nonstop on his webcam search, there had been no new leads in their investigations over the next week. So every day after school, I would meet Mr. Vargas in the art room and gather my supplies. He’d help me carry everything down to the cafeteria, bring me a ladder if I was painting up high, then leave me to my work. I’d have to spend a few minutes getting the fog adjusted to just the right level, then I’d dip the brush into the paint, and get started.
The students in the clubs that met in the cafeteria left me alone, but I could feel them watching. On occasion I felt Nathan Gallagher’s eyes on me as well, watching my every move, as if he peeked into the cafeteria to see what I was doing. A few times I’d turn around, but he would disappear before I saw him. Once I felt John Kellan watching me, but that was impossible. I was keeping the fog thick and close to keep the visions away; I must have been lost in memories of the night he had forcibly taken me from Twelve Lakes.
The Nightmare Eyes were always there. They always watched.
When it was time to go home, Mr. Vargas would come to help me clean up, but I would never notice him. He would have to clear his throat or tap me on the shoulder to bring me out of my daze. My muscles would be sore from crouching and bending and reaching and climbing the ladder. My left hand would be stiff from holding the brushes. And though I never remembered crying, my cheeks would always be damp with tears.
One sunny morning a couple weeks later, as I was hanging up my coat in my locker at school, Tristan texted me. Just got an email from another psychic. She had a vision of J & L with an animal that looked like a horse. It had one eye.
I had a drawing of that one-eyed horse in my book bag this very moment. Heart leaping to my throat, I texted back: Brinda’s drawing!
Yep. Told you my method would work. Now we just have to find that horse.
Finding a one-eyed horse would be difficult, and of course, that vision could be symbolic, like Deirdre’s dream. But this was the first development we’d had since Tennessee. We were getting closer. We’d find Jillian and Logan any day now. I was sure of it.
The second I sat down in chemistry, the intercom buzzed. “Sorry for the interruption,” the secretary said in a bored voice. “Please send Tessa Carson to the office.”
I jumped up, and without even checking with the teacher, bolted from the classroom. This had to be about Jillian and Logan. Finally. Finally! Was it Tristan waiting for me in the office, or Aaron? Tristan had gotten that lead about the one eyed-horse, but it had to be Aaron waiting for me—Tristan would have come straight to the classroom to get me.
In the front office, I skidded to a stop. Aaron wasn’t there, and neither was Tristan. But Cole Gallagher was there, wearing a regulation black jacket from the APR, his tawny eyes dour, his lips in a straight line. “Dennis needs you at the Lab, Tessa.”
“Why? What happened?” I asked. “You look like it’s bad.”
Cole slid a glance to the secretary, who was watching with sharp green eyes, clearly curious about why the new girl was needed at the top secret science lab down the road. “You know I can’t discuss that here.”
“Did Aaron find my brother and sister?” I asked.
“Tessa. Please.” He took my arm. “Dennis says it’s urgent.”
Insides prickling with anxiety, I left with Cole. In his Jeep, I asked him again. “Just tell me if they’re okay.” I slid my hands into my sleeves.
“I feel how anxious and scared you are,” he said, “but I don’t know anything about your brother and sister. I’m sure they’re okay. They probably went deeper into hiding after what happened at that motel in Tennessee.”
It took less than five minutes to get to the APR. I shivered as we hustled down the pebbled path into the building—cold because I’d left without grabbing my coat, and also, yes, because I was scared about why I’d been pulled out of school and brought to the Lab. Cole put a timid arm around me, to offer warmth or comfort or both.
Dennis waited for me in the lobby, somber and pensive. “Dennis, what’s going on?” I asked. “Did Aaron find Jillian and Logan? Did something happen to them?”
Dennis thanked Cole for fetching me, then guided me through security. But instead of heading down the main hallway, he turned to the right, into the elevator that led to the Underground.
That’s when it hit me: “You’re taking me to see my parents, aren’t you?”
He pressed the Down button, and the doors closed. “I am.”
“But I told you I’m not ready.” I covered my belly with my hands. I would never be ready. They were liars. Thieves. Murderers. They made me Killers’ Spawn.
“You don’t have to see your mother,” Dennis said as the elevator brought us down. “But your father needs you. As you know, he’s been unconscious the whole time he’s been here. But lately he’s been stirring and mumbling. More and more every day.”
“He’s finally waking up. That’s good.” I didn’t want anything to do with my father, but I was relieved he was waking up.
“He’s still incoherent. He keeps reliving the night Kellan abducted you,” Dennis said. “Today, he became frantic. They can’t calm him down. I was here to check on Aaron, but when I heard what was happening with your father, I suggested that you come see him. He’s not aware of his surroundings, but maybe he’ll sense that you’re safe, and calm down on his own. Are you w
illing to see him?”
“Of course. Yes.” My father must be in agony, reliving what was probably the worst night of his life. I didn’t want him to suffer like that.
A gum-chomping, muscle-bound man met Dennis and me at the elevator—Mr. Milbourne, the head warden. Winter’s father. Nathan and the rest of the Lab Brats would know all about my Underground visit by the end of the day. I could just picture the gleeful, vengeful gleam in Nathan’s eyes. He would probably be happy my father was in such a tormented state.
Mr. Milbourne grunted a greeting and led us through the prison. Dim and dank, smelling of mildew and hopelessness. He led us past the cell where I’d stayed for three weeks, the cell Kellan had thrown me in after he kidnapped me. The cell I’d refused to leave until I could free my innocent parents.
The cell where Tristan had proven that he truly loved me.
An armed guard unlocked the gate of the high security wing, the hall silent except for our footsteps. As a condition of their incarceration, all inmates had been neutralized. But as I passed each cell, I couldn’t help but wonder who was inside, what their powers had been, and what crimes they had committed. I was grateful they were all locked behind windowless, steel doors.
We rounded a corner, and an echoed howl came from behind the door at the far end.
My father’s cell.
As Mr. Milbourne swiped his badge through the security pad, I held my breath, gaining the courage to see my father for the first time since I’d left the Underground.
❀
If he’d been lying peacefully in his hospital-type bed, it may not have been so bad. It was his hysteria that set me trembling, that made my legs refuse to move and a small whimper escape my throat.
My father was even thinner than when I’d last seen him. Pale. Cheeks sunken, hair gray. Unshaven and bedraggled. His eyes, however, were open, and alive with panic. They darted, wild, back and forth. He howled, struggling with ferocious effort against the padded cuffs connected to the bed rails.
“We don’t know where he’s finding the strength,” Dennis said. “They had to restrain him so he wouldn’t hurt himself.”
Mr. Milbourne stood in the doorway, stiff-legged, massive arms crossed over his massive chest. Coming up behind him was the woman I’d seen talking to Kellan outside of the boardroom a few weeks ago.
“Tessa, this is Beverly Jacobs, the agency’s executive director,” Dennis said over my dad’s howls. “She’s Aaron’s mother.”
Her gold badge shone brightly, and her face was smooth and hard as ice as she acknowledged me with a quick nod, then turned to Dennis before I could greet her. “I hope this works, Dennis,” she said.
“Me too,” he replied grimly, and nudged me further inside my father’s cell.
Various pieces of medical equipment lined the perimeter of the antiseptic-smelling cell, some of them attached to my father by tubes. The screen to his heart monitor shone brilliantly, casting an eerie white glow over the tiny room, and beeped frenetically, though the sound was barely audible over Dad’s frantic wails.
“Mr. Carson,” Dennis announced. “Look who came to see you. Your daughter, Tessa.”
My father whipped his head in our direction. “Oh thank God thank God thank God, you have to do something!” he crowed. “You have to help her! Help her! Help her!”
I whimpered, bringing my hand to my mouth in shock. He was talking about Kellan, the night he kidnapped me and held me as bait, to force my parents to surrender.
“He’s going to kill her. He’s going to make her pay for what we did. Make her pay. Make her pay. Make her pay!” He threw his head back and wailed.
I rushed to his side. “Dad, that man, he didn’t kill me. See? I’m right here. I’m safe.”
“Tessa Tessa Tessa!” he croaked.
“That’s right. It’s me, Tessa.”
His eyes, feverish and wild, opened wide. He sat up as much as the restraints would allow, the tendons in his neck straining with the effort. “He’s going to kill her!”
He didn’t know it was me. His terror was almost tangible. It came off him, forcing its way through the fog, rolling like waves, one after another. “He took my baby girl, my Tessa Blessa. He’s going to kill her.”
“Daddy, no.” I put my hand on his arm, hoping my touch would comfort him. “That night happened a long time ago. It’s over. I’m safe now.”
But he continued to writhe. “He took her and he’s going to kill her,” he howled, bucking against the restraints. “Someone has to save her. Please save her. Please save my Tessa Blessa!”
“It’s not working,” I cried to Dennis over my dad’s howls.
“No. It’s not,” Dennis sighed. “I thought you’d be able to get through to him, but he’s looking right at you, and he doesn’t recognize you.”
“Wait,” I said. “I know what to do.” Slowly, I pulled up Tristan’s hoodie and revealed the five jagged scars on my stomach: the only thing my dad ever truly saw when he looked at me. “Dad. Look.”
His gaze shifted down, coming to a rest on the scars. “T—Tessa?”
“Yes.” I exhaled with relief. He knew me now. I let the hoodie drop back down.
“Tessa,” he whimpered. “He’s going to kill you, Tessa, Tessa, Tessa.”
I took his hand and gave it a light squeeze. “No, he’s not. John Kellan just needed you to think he was going to kill me so you’d surrender. But it’s over. I survived. I’m safe.”
Dad stared at me—at my stomach—and began crying.
“Oh, Daddy. Please don’t. Please don’t cry.” I didn’t know which was worse—seeing my father in the throes of abject terror, or seeing him so weak and broken. “I can stay for a while. Would you like that?”
He nodded with a whimper. Then a cry. Then he howled, wailed, screamed, his eyes growing wide again with terror. “He’s going to kill her!”
“Dad, no, it’s me,” I cried. “I’m safe. Look at me. Look!”
As I let go of his hand to lift my hoodie again, he grabbed my wrist. “Someone has to help her! Save her! Save her! Save my Tessa!” His body stiffened, back arching off the bed, and he squeezed my wrist with unyielding strength.
It hurt. It hurt but I couldn’t pull away. “Dad,” I cried. “Let go. You’re hurting me.” His grip became tighter still. He was going to crush my bones if he didn’t let go.
Dennis tried to uncurl his fingers, but he couldn’t budge them. Mr. Milbourne stepped over and tried to help, but the two men together could not loosen my father’s fingers.
Dad howled, and the heart-wrenching terror in his eyes cut off and changed into something different. It took me a moment to identify it. I saw it every day in other people’s eyes, in John Kellan’s and Nathan Gallagher’s and Winter Milbourne’s. But I never expected to see it in my own father’s eyes.
Rage. Fury. Hatred.
And they were black. Dark as a starless night and black as a cavern of coal.
My father blamed me for putting him here. Blamed me for destroying our family. Blamed me for betraying our family by telling Tristan our secrets. My blood burned through my veins.
A smile slithered across his lips, and slowly, purposely, he squeezed my wrist tighter. And tighter. And tighter.
I heard the snap before I felt the pain. I clamped my mouth shut against a scream—never ever ever scream—and it came out as a strangled shriek.
Still, he kept his grip on me, squeezing my wrist tighter, tighter, impossibly tight, grinding the bones together. He was crushing them to dust.
The fog rushed in, numbing me, making me dizzy, making everything far away.
“Shoot him,” Mrs. Jacobs said from behind me.
“No,” I tried to shout it, but it came out as a moan. “Please don’t shoot my dad.”
“It’s just a tranquilizer,” Dennis said. “It’s the only way we can weaken him.”
Mr. Milbourne pulled a gun from his holster. Pressed the barrel to my father’s neck.
“Do
n’t,” I whimpered, my head light and swimming. “Please. He may never wake up from it.”
I didn’t hear the whistle as the tranquilizer shot from the gun into my father. But I did hear his violent gurgle as his body slowly sank back onto the bed. “Tessa Tessa Tessa,” he whimpered as the sedative took him away. “He’s going to kill her. He’s going to make her pay for what we did. Someone save her. Save her. Save my Tessa. Save my Tesssss… ahhhhh….”
Silence. Screaming silence.
My father’s grip on my wrist loosened, and Dennis gently, so gently, uncurled his fingers. “How the hell was he able to do this?” he spat at the warden. “How did he get so strong?”
Mr. Milbourne shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Adrenaline,” Mrs. Jacobs said. She hadn’t moved from the doorway the entire time. She’d just watched. “Adrenaline, fueled by hysteria.”
I flinched when Dennis touched my wrist. Groaning, I cradled it against me. I couldn’t move my hand.
More painful than my wrist, though, was the rage in my father’s eyes. It still coursed through me, burning through my bloodstream, my tainted, tarnished blood.
“Let’s go to the clinic,” Dennis said. “We need a healer to look at your wrist.”
“It’s broken,” I said, my voice sounding far away.
“I don’t see how that’s possible, honey. He was strong, but he couldn’t have been that strong. It’s just a bad bruise.”
I didn’t have the strength to correct him. I’d heard the snap. I felt the pain.
Keeping my swollen and twisted wrist tucked into my body, I looked at my father one more time before leaving. He seemed peaceful now, sleeping so deeply like that.
“He didn’t mean to hurt you, Tessa,” Dennis said as we made our way through the Underground’s hallway. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”
Dennis was right. He had to be. Despite the focused glee in my father’s eyes, he couldn’t have known what he was doing. He couldn’t hate me. He couldn’t.