Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Twenty

Blake

There's something scratching the back of my hand.

When I open my eyes, I'm met with a flurry of hair in a thousand different shades of red. Lucy is sprawled across me, her face buried in my neck, her leg wrapped around both of mine. The woman does not shy away from cuddling, and I adore it. But there's still that persistent scratching.

I peer over the side of the bed at my dangling arm. An orange tabby is licking my fingers, his barbed tongue snagging on my skin. His yellow eyes bore into me, demanding. He's missing a right front leg. In its place is a stump with fur growing in strange directions.

"Did you know you only have three legs?" I ask the feline.

"If you find it, let me know," Lucy grumbles, shifting onto her side, facing the opposite wall. "Otherwise, I'm going back to sleep."

Feeling energized after our nap, I swing my legs to the floor, and grab my phone from my bag to check the time. It's three in the afternoon, meaning we slept for eight hours. I have dozens of work emails, as well as a few missed texts from my family and Gordon.

Gordon: Gym tonight?

Blake: Busy.

I'm distracted from my screen when the cat makes an odd noise—like a mewling. He circles my bare feet, rubbing himself against my shins.

"Lucy," I whisper. "The animal is being persnickety."

She sighs into her pillow. "He's just hungry."

"He may be missing an arm, but he can't eat mine."

"Treats," she murmurs, burrowing under the pillow. "Bedside drawer."

Tugging the loose handle on the nightstand, I reveal a drawer filled with scraps of paper. A glass jar of freeze-dried chicken strips is tucked into a corner. Untwisting the lid, I drop a few treats on the floor by the cat. He manages to fit all of them in his mouth, wedged between his sharp teeth, then scampers from the room.

"Impressive," I mutter.

I go to shut the drawer, but my gaze lands on the papers inside. Some of them are from a lined notebook. Others are receipts and napkins from a coffee shop. They're covered in drawings—all done in black pen. In some instances, the ink is so thick, the paper has begun to wrinkle.

"Ho-ly shit," I whisper, not even loud enough for sleepy Lucy to hear.

This is it. This is what I've been looking for. My heart races. Chills skate down my spine. The hairs on my arms stand on end. These characters, the scenery, this world...

There's a decaying crone bent over a cauldron, a cyclops with human hair hanging from its mouth, an ent scourging its twiggy fingers into a poor soul's chest cavity. There are rugged mountain ranges, barren valleys, and sludgy ponds.

A little girl makes an appearance in most of the drawings. She wears a ragged dress, and her feet are dirty. Her hair is like seaweed, her skin white as pearl. She's lost, trying to find her way through a demented world.

In absolute awe, I glance back at Lucy. She surprises me at every turn, but I had no idea she was hiding talent like this. Her art is so vivid. She evokes emotion—horror, loneliness, misery—in every drop of ink. I can see the lines coming to life—the haunted trees blowing in a frigid wind, the little girl shivering in the dark, the crone grinning wickedly. And all Lucy uses to create is a pen and whatever paper she has lying around.

"Lucy, darling," I prod, trailing my fingers down her spine.

She wiggles, pushing back into my hand. "Hmm?"