“It’s not here.”
“Don’t panic, Hazy. It’s got to be around here somewhere. He wouldn’t let that book fall into anyone else’s hands.” Quinn opened a kitchen cupboard and squinted inside. “Not in here, although I see Ayaz has been cooking. There’s a container of lokma. Have you had his lokma? They’re like tiny Turkish doughnuts except they’re chewy and amazing and coated in sugar syrup, which trust me is delectable when poured on naked flesh and then licked off. We should try that sometime. I bet Ayaz won’t notice if a few tiny pieces go missing…”
“Put those back.” I scrambled across the room, trying to ignore the way Quinn’s suggestive tone made the fire inside me leap and dance. I tore the room apart – hunting behind the furniture, pulling up the beanbags and peering behind the curtains. Quinn moved to the kitchen and riffled through the drawers, one hand stuffing sticky lokma balls into his mouth.
“You can tell Ayaz has moved in,” he wrinkled his nose between bites. “This whole place reeks of weird spices.”
I thought it smelled amazing. “At least Ayaz can cook, so he’s not as completely useless as you are. Shut up and keep looking. And don’t get your sticky fingers over everything. We’ve got to get out of here quick—” Something scratched at the ceiling. I looked up but realized it was the rats circling above my head.Scritch-scritch. Scritch-scritch.
Interesting. They’re not usually up here.
Except for that time they were.
It had been the night I learned about the god’s existence. I’d fallen asleep in Trey’s bed. Quinn came in and we started talking and I’d been so afraid, so unsure, and before I knew it we were kissing away our pain and his fingers brushed my nipple and I wanted him for the first time – wanted his body and his heart. But then the rats scritched in the walls and I’d snapped out of it.
Almost like they were trying to protect me from the Kings.
“They’re going mad.” Quinn stopped searching. He frowned at the ceiling.
“They always do this,” I said, but it wasn’t true. Not here. I remembered last semester I’d heard a few rats in the upper levels of the school a couple of times as well. Even in Trey’s room, it had just been the scritch of a couple of rodents. This washundredsof tiny feet and claws circling, scratching, and scrambling over each other as they completed their frantic circular dance right above my head.
I took a step toward the living room. The rats followed, their feet beating a circle around my body as they scurried faster, faster.
I walked toward the window, but the rats stayed where they were, slowing their steps. When I started back toward the living area, they picked up their pace. Almost as if…
No. It can’t be. That’s nuts. No way do the rats…
I did it again, and once more the rats churned up a storm when I turned back toward them. They were so excited I wondered if they might tear through the ceiling and drop down on us.
I fuckinghopedI never met these rats, especially after the way they seem to be drawn to me…
“Hmmm.”
“Hazy—” Quinn started, but I held out a hand. He shut his mouth, a rare and welcome occurrence. I stepped around the empty coffee table and moved toward the bedroom. The feet above my head scurried ahead of me.
Warmer.
I peered into the bedroom. Last time I’d been in here, it had belonged to Trey – his trophies and ribbons hung from every shelf, documenting how he’d distracted himself from the horror of his life by stacking up achievements like a game of Jenga. Now, Ayaz’s clothes were tossed in a hamper in the corner, his schoolbooks stacked beside the bed. His opium scent clung to every surface, torturing me with memories that belonged to another time. The shelf was empty apart from a scattering of books. I went over and picked one up, knowing from the way the rats stopped moving that I’d made a wrong turn.
My throat constricted as I recognized the title. They were Ayaz’s art books. My fingers caressed the pages as I flipped through plates of Impressionists, Cubists, and Renaissance masters. There was a book on Monet that stole my breath with the vibrant color and almost spiritual devotion within such simple scenes.
Beneath the art books was a sketchbook in a battered leather case. Unable to help myself, I picked it up and flicked through the pages.
My breath caught in my throat as I drank in the details. I’d only seen Ayaz’s drawings on our history project and the sketch map he’d made of the school. These were a window into his mind, his heart.
They were beautiful. They were terrifying.
Voluptuous, naked renaissance women reclined on couches while inky black tentacles crept up their legs. Gardens of luscious flowers bloomed with human skulls that had teeth for eyes. A flying scorpion with a humanoid head. A pastel rendering of Monet’s garden being devoured by rats.
I knew what Ayaz was doing – recording the dreams the god showed him with pen and ink. Everyone in Derleth had the dreams, and they were more vivid the closer one got to the god. Ayaz was closer and more sensitive than most.
I flipped another page and nearly dropped the book in shock.
My hands trembled as I beheld a page of figures, the lines so fine and perfect, I couldn’t believe they’d been drawn by the same hand.
They were drawings ofme.
In one, I bent over a textbook in class, my dreadlocks covering my face like a curtain. He must’ve drawn that when I’d first arrived at school, before Trey and Courtney put tar in my dreads so I had to cut them off.
