~ Jaxon ~

Snooping around Harbor City College proves harder than I'd hoped.

My 'boss' is a heavy-set older man who smells like tobacco and corn chips, and his job seems to be to sit in his stuffy little office all day and assign me whatever maintenance requests come in.

He'd given me a set of master keys, which open all the classrooms and supply closets and bathrooms and things, but none of the places that really interest me. The professors' private offices, the college archives, and certain special collections in the library have unique keys I have to request from 'Administration.' To do that, I need a valid excuse, and there are only so many excuses I can invent without arousing suspicion.

In the meantime, I'm stuck living out the role of campus handyman, doing everything from trimming back hazardous eye-level branches to unclogging unholy gunk from drains. As the 'new guy,' I have to do the job if I want to keep it, but by the end of the day I've almost forgotten that it's only a cover for the real reason I'm here.

As for that, I do my best to listen and observe, to learn everything I can, but so far 'everything' is a whole lot of 'not much.'

It makes me wonder what Aurelio was thinking, setting me up with this job. If he had a sense of humor, I'd think it was a joke.

At least Sylas fits in well and seems to enjoy playing student. I'd been angry at Aurelio for including him in this scheme at all, but now I'm grateful. Between attending classes and talking to a few professors, I doubt Sylas will discover anything useful, but at least he'll think he's helping, and in the meantime he'll be safe and out of harm's way.

As I contemplate this while painting over some graffiti on the side of a wall, my phone pings with yet another maintenance request.

A stuck window in the art building, this time. At least it's somewhere I haven't seen already.

Sighing, I give up on the graffiti.

It's the third time I've painted over it, but the design just keeps seeping through. It's obviously Spelled—some little Crafter shit thinking he's clever—and it'll take more than paint to make it come off. If he were here, Sylas could undo the spellwork easily, but 'Jason Smith,' handyman extraordinaire, doesn't know 'Sylas West,' innocent student of Craft history.

Unfortunately.

If I could just see him and talk to him throughout the day, I'd find all of this more bearable, but we have to maintain the pretense of our respective disguises. So, while he studies in the library, doing his earnest and level best to succeed in classes that he's not really taking, I have a sticky window to fix.

Packing up my useless paint, I climb aboard the ridiculous little golf cart laden with tools and supplies I'm forced to drive and make my way over to the northeast corner of campus.

The art building sits nestled against the base of the steep, forest-clad hills that flank the back of the grounds, blending with the shadows of coastal evergreens. A modern construct of metal and glass, it's a piece of art in itself.

I enter, locate the classroom listed on the maintenance ticket, and find it locked.

Getting out my keys with a grumble, I open it and step inside.

It's a big room, with tall windows all along one side to let in lots of natural light, and instead of desks, rows of large easels fill the space. It looks as if a class just ended; the students leaving their work on display, perhaps for the teacher to judge.

Unable to help myself, I walk among them, going row by row. It looks as if the students were doing an exercise, lifting the pencil as little as possible while capturing what they observed. Most are crap, but here and there I see real talent shining through.

At the end of the last row, at the back, I come upon something that makes me pause.

An unused sheet of paper, seductively blank, an open expanse of invitation, waiting for the artist's touch; and on the easel's bottom tray, sharpened and ready for use, a pencil.

As if my hand has a mind of its own, I pick up the pencil and hold it, feeling the balance of its slight weight where it rests between my fingers and thumb. Without even thinking, I set the tip to the paper and draw.

One line. Two.

Soon I'm lost in it, falling into the state of meditative concentration I find almost as restful as sleep; my mind single-pointed in focus.

What I'd told Sylas wasn't a lie: wherever he wants to go, whatever he wants to do, I'll be happy to go there and do that, too. But I do have a dream of my own. It's just that every time I say it out loud, it sounds stupid.

I want to leave the world of mercenaries and Crafters, of power-hungry families and dark mysteries, far and forever behind. I want to live a simple, sane, quiet life with Sylas at my side, and I want to see if I can make something of my art.

I want to be an artist, plainly put.

Lost in these thoughts, I don't realize I'm no longer alone until a smooth female voice speaks suddenly at my back.

"That's good. Quite good. You have talent, but I don't recall seeing you in my class."

Fortunately, I don't startle easily, and turn to find a woman watching me, arms crossed and a stern frown on her face. She's maybe a few years older than me—late thirties, or early forties at most—with long brown hair in loose curls, dark eyes, and caramel-toned skin. She's wearing a sleeveless silk blouse that clings to her curves, a tight black skirt, and red heels. She's beautiful and clearly knows it.

Quickly falling back into my handyman persona, I set the pencil down and step away from the easel, rubbing the back of my neck and offering the woman an apologetic smile.

"Gosh, I'm sorry. I thought it was a leftover."

She lifts a dark, finely shaped brow at me. "Oh? And do you regularly help yourself to... 'leftovers?'"

"Uh..." I clear my throat.

She steps closer, leaning around me for a better view of my work, and I don't have to pretend the awkward heat that rises to my face as her silk-clad breast brushes my arm. If she's wearing a bra, it's a very thin one.

"You have talent," she says. "A good eye, and excellent technique. Where did you learn?"

"Oh, uh... A friend taught me some. The rest I... taught myself."

As it's been trained to do, my mind has fragmented into compartments. One part is aware that this woman—the art professor, I'm guessing—is a Crafter and that I need to be careful. Another part is flattered by the attention she's giving to my art.

"You must be a good teacher, then," she says, head tilted a little to the side, still studying what I'd drawn. "But some things cannot be taught. You put your heart into your work. Who is she?"

I look at what I've drawn.

It's Sylas, from memory: his face undisguised, lost in dreams. With his fine features and longish hair, and the way I've drawn him, vulnerable in sleep, I can see why the professor might assume my subject is feminine.

"Oh, that's... no one," I say, not correcting her mistake, and suddenly eager for her to focus on something else. "Just my imagination. I'm, uh... I'm actually here to fix the window, ma'am. Professor. I'm with Facilities."

"So I see." She taps two red-nailed fingers against the badge on my shirt, beneath which is embroidered my fake name—J. Smith. "Jack of all trades, are you?"

"It's 'Jason,' Professor ma'am."

I smile disarmingly. Somehow, I get the feeling she likes her men big, dumb, and harmless, and there's no harm in having her inclined to like me, especially if she's Crafter faculty.

"And does art help you fix windows, Jason?" she asks, a smile teasing the corners of her lush mouth.

"Oh, uh... no. I'm real sorry about that. I'll pay for the paper," I offer, though I know the cost of a single sheet is minimal.

She waves a manicured hand, and I wonder how she keeps them clean. Maybe she doesn't work with the messier mediums. "Never mind that." She turns back to my drawing. "It's invigorating to see something so... fresh after so much mediocrity. Besides, it's my fault you ended up in here. The window's in my office. I was waiting for you there when I realized I'd put my classroom number down by mistake. Come," she beckons, "I'll show you."

I follow her, but at the door she pauses, and I almost run into her back. She turns to face me, standing so close we're almost touching, and I retreat a step as she extends her hand.

"Forgive me," she says. "I've forgotten my manners. I'm Professor Ava Blackwell. I teach the Crafter side of art, and the art of Crafting."

"Jason Smith," I reply, taking her outstretched hand in mine and, again, not having to pretend my awkwardness.

She smiles, clearly enjoying her command of the moment, and leads the way from the room and up to the next floor, where her office occupies a corner space with windows on two walls. Art covers the other two.

From oil on canvas, to charcoal sketches, to a mix of other mediums, the only consistency is the style, which is bold and confronting. The lines are strong and confident, the colors vibrant but dark, and the subject matter is decidedly macabre.

Blood, bones, and skulls—human and animal; sometimes separate, sometimes a chimerical mix. Gore and death; the inner workings of living parts revealed; and a theme of magic woven through all.

Magic of a variety not spoken of in polite society. Dark magic.

Seeing what has my attention, Professor Blackwell smiles, red lips parting to reveal white teeth.

"So, you're a Crafter, hm?" she asks. "Signless?"

It makes sense she would think so, I suppose. Why else would a Crafter be working as a glorified janitor?

"Oh, um... yes." I pretend embarrassment.

She turns to look at the wall of art.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she says. "Crafter society is rotten from the top down. A few privileged families hold all the power, and the rest of us toil away beneath, propping up our shared delusion that they're somehow better than the rest of us. And then there are those like you. Little more than slaves, kept in your place because without a Sign, what makes you different from a Mundane? Only your knowledge that this world exists."

She walks slowly back and forth beneath the wall, her fingers playing with the top button of her already low-cut blouse.

With very little interest in women, I'm not exactly entranced, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice; if this is how she dresses for class, I can't imagine how anyone who is so interested could manage not to.

She pauses beneath a massive canvas showing a pair of hands prying open a rib cage —both of which belong to the same body, it seems—exposing a black heart and corrupted lungs within.

"That's why I paint like this," she goes on. "Nobody wants to acknowledge the ugly side of things: what lies beneath the beautiful skin. But shutting your eyes doesn't make it go away. It's better to face it, I think. It takes courage to look directly at the things that make you uncomfortable; it takes none to look away."

She glances at me and tilts her head to one side.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" she asks.

"Oh, uh..."

I rub the back of my neck, gazing up at the wall of art. The subject might be gruesome, but it's clear Blackwell deserves her position. On the other hand, the symbolism I see throughout speaks to a deep knowledge of dark Craft, which does give me pause.

I don't want to reveal the extent of my own knowledge, but even 'Jason Smith' wouldn't be that clueless, and if she's deep into that side of things, it's possible she's heard of the Devil's Song.

"Seems kinda dark, if you know what I mean," I say at last.

She shrugs carelessly. "This side of magic exists. Pretending otherwise is to embrace ignorance. But enough of that. The window's over here."

I follow her and make a show of inspecting the window, though a glance is all it takes to identify the problem: the mechanism that opens it is badly rusted, and needs to be replaced.

"Looks like I'll have to get some parts and come back," I say. "You need it fixed right away?"

"As soon as possible," she confirms, her lips bowed in a little frown again. "I need the ventilation when I work with oils."

"Well... I can put a priority on it. Is tomorrow soon enough?"

She sighs and inspects her perfect nails. "I suppose it'll have to be."

I consider a moment. Blackwell and her art are the closest thing to a lead I've stumbled on so far, and I hate to let it go.

"I can see if I have the parts on hand. Stay overtime to fix it, if my boss says okay," I offer.

"Could you? I hate to ask, but..." She chews her bottom lip and lays a hand on my arm. "As an artist, you understand how it is when inspiration strikes."

I offer her a smile. "Yeah, I guess I do. I'll need to borrow your keys, though. I think the admin office is closed already."

"I'll be here late, myself," she says. "Just knock. I'll let you in."

"That's if I have the parts," I remind her.

She smirks. "I'm sure you do."

I clear my throat, wondering if this is a game I really want to play. Another glance at the wall of art convinces me it is—at least for now.

With a promise to return by seven, at the latest, I depart.

Outside, I text Sylas, letting him know I'll be late and suggesting he take the bus back home to Covey Bend if he doesn't want to wait.

A few minutes later, I get an ambivalent reply.

Ok. See you.

I stare at it for a full five minutes, wondering if I ought to call him—talk to him, hear his voice, explain what I'm up to.

Finally, I pocket my phone. No sense making him worry, or getting his hopes up over a lead that might go nowhere. I tell him later, I decide.

Later will be soon enough.