“Tell me about it.” I scrubbed at my face. The idea of returning home wasn’t a comfort, but I didn’t have another place I belonged. At least I could talk to Jason about the whole ordeal, fill him in. Maybe I’d stop by his business before going to the Durand estate.
Chances were, if my parents caught sight of me now, looking like the ocean had spat me out, they’d send me back out and let the elements finish the job.
“Thanks for checking in,” I offered, appreciating that this woman had stopped and asked.
“Of course,” she trilled and offered a small wave before strolling in the other direction with the two men in tow, who had to be guards.
I scanned the shoreline, realizing I was still at Breakneck Beach. Far up on the sand lay a pile of clothes that looked familiar. How they hadn’t been swept away in the wind and rainwas another small miracle. I peeled myself off the ground, my bones creaking, my muscles screaming. Fuck. I needed water, first and foremost. My mouth was so parched, like I’d decided to eat spoonfuls of cinnamon.
My legs were shaky as I staggered over to the pile of clothes that were soaked through. My wallet was sodden, the bills wrecked, but at least my cards were intact. Same with my keys. Relief shuddered through me, and I dropped to my knees again. I wrung out my shirt and slipped my arms through the soggy sleeves. They were damp and felt disgusting, but if I was going to visit Jason, I needed to put on something. I slipped my legs through the gross pants but didn’t bother with socks or shoes. Those could wait a little longer.
I took slow, steady steps toward the parking lot. Coming here felt a lifetime ago, after my brush with near death.
I could barely fathom how I’d survived that. However, I’d need a bit more time before I swam in the ocean again. I’d stick to the pools for a while.
I sank into the driver’s seat of my car and turned on the ignition. The hum of the engine settled me a little, and I pulled out of the parking lot, heading in a direction I’d traveled a thousand times.
Jason’s studio was my respite, somewhere I’d snuck away to for years now. My parents had never supported art lessons, or my pursuing the craft in any sense, and they’d cut off any of my teachers who didn’t step into line with their vision for me. But once I grew old enough, I’d sought them out on my own. Jason was a talented artist who lived in Oak Hollow, a suburb of Peregrine City, and I’d begged him to teach me.
At first, he’d turned me away.
The kraken was reclusive and not prone to visitors, even though his art was on display in some of the best art museumsin the world. However, I’d visited every day after, and he’d eventually let me in one day for tea.
I’d been learning from him ever since. Oil, watercolor, sketch, charcoal, any medium I could get my hands on. And he’d been the one steadfast friendship I’d maintained, difficult to do with the circles my parents thrust me into.
By the time I reached Jason’s small house in Oak Hollow, my frayed nerves had somewhat calmed down. However, I was thirstier than ever, my throat impossibly dry, and my whole body felt like I’d been tossed inside a washing machine and spat out.
As unobtrusive as Jason tried to be in his personal life, he couldn’t help the expressiveness that leaked out of him, and his house was a testament. It was all cerulean blues for the exterior, and black trim with a black roof and black accents, from the shutters to the door. The sight of it filled me with relief, and I pulled to a park in front of the house. I bypassed the main house, which he rarely spent time in anyway, and headed for the studio behind it, a smaller cottage that had been a safe space for me for years.
I tested the doorknob—it was open. Even if it hadn’t been, I had the key. Jason had granted me access to his studio years ago, since I had no place in the Durand estate where it’d be permissible to explore my art.
Angus and Mina Durand had made that clear years ago when they rampaged through the house destroying everything I’d created.
“Hello?” I asked, my voice raspy as I walked in.
“In the other room,” Jason called, his tenor rich and quiet. The studio had three rooms, one as you entered with couches and flat, wide tables, as well as a small, functional kitchen for tea and fixing light snacks, and the other two had more windows, better lighting, and moon and sun panes in the ceiling. Those were therooms he stored his art and supplies in as well, even though he had a whole warehouse of his own, which held countless priceless works.
Instead of walking straight in to greet him, I stopped to grab a cup of water, filling it up from the tap. I took a sip, and bliss coursed through me at the reprieve on my dried and salted tongue. As much as I wanted to chug back as much as possible, I restrained myself to slow sips, making sure I didn’t vomit it up again.
After a few minutes, I refilled the cup and walked with it into the other studio space where he was working.
Jason had a humanoid upper torso, his skin a deep greenish blue, and his tentacles that flooded out beneath him were the same. His longer forehead formed a point, and he had two elongations where the ears would be, reminiscent of a hammerhead. His eyes were on either side of his face, black and sharklike. One tentacle held a paintbrush poised in front of his canvas, another holding the palette aloft while he balanced on the others.
I leaned against the wall, not wanting to interrupt him while he was zoned in his own world. A lot of his seascapes offered a glimpse at what lay beneath, that normal humans might never get to see with their own eyes. At least not see and live to tell the tale. A shiver rolled through me at how close I’d come to my end today.
“Why do you reek of brine?” Jason asked, pausing to glance my way.
“Got caught in the storm,” I murmured. “I think someone must’ve saved me.”
He stilled for a moment, his paintbrush poised, and he brought his focus back to the canvas in front of him. “The storm at sea is beautiful but deadly.” The gentleness in his tone told me everything I needed to know. The old man didn’t show muchoutward emotion or speak it to life, but he was a master class in body language. That from Jason equated genuine concern. Which honestly, was far more than I’d get from my own parents. “You should make yourself a cup of tea. The warmth will do you good.”
I nodded, craving that. As much as the sun had helped, the wet clothes I wore, the remaining memories of the currents dragging me under, all of it chilled me to the bone. “Thanks,” I said, knowing he’d understand the deeper meaning.
Because Jason was the closest thing I had to a parent, even though I’d spent a lifetime trying to please my own.
I walked back into the entry room and fixed myself a cup of tea, watching as the vapors chugged from the electric kettle as the water boiled. Once I poured, the fragrant fumes settled me in a way little could, and instead of returning to the studio where Jason worked, I settled back on the couch with my cup, on solid ground.
In a solid place.
