The Art Class

I

"Mmmh," Julian muttered. He swirled his paintbrush around and around in a cup of water, never taking his eyes off the half-painted canvas sitting in front of him.

Something about the painting just wasn't right! But for the life of him, Julian couldn't figure out what.

He squinted harder at his work as students babbled around him, ignorant to his trouble. Was it the delicate slope of her shoulders? The way he'd painted her long, elegant neck? The sweep of her golden—

"No. No!" he muttered again, swirling the paintbrush faster— harder. Water sprayed onto his fingers in big, dirty dollops. It started trickling down his fingers. And then onto the table.

It was heading towards his canvas.

Julian had had enough. He cursed, loudly, flicking the paintbrush away from him and shoving away from the table all in one frustrated motion.

Well ... he would have cursed if Mrs. Winters hadn't sent him a scowl from where she was planted at her desk to HUSH. NOW.

Julian froze at the glare. And then looked down, feeling, well, ... feeling slightly ashamed.

He and Emma were posing as art students at NYU. Nobody knew they were actually on the lookout for demons. The eating-college-students type of demon, that is.

But if Julian blew their cover before they even had a chance to look ... if he blew this for Emma ...

Julian sighed and dared a look up. He immediately slumped back down. Mrs. Winters was still glaring at him. What was he to do?

Julian frowned, conceding. "Okay, okay," he muttered. He'd been doing a lot of muttering today. It was time to stop.

Respectful art students, he mouthed to his lap.

Peaceful art students.

Quiet art students.

He straightened his shoulders, as if Mrs. Winters were the demon and he had to face her on the battlefield.

He and Emma were respectful AND peaceful AND quiet art students, he reminded himself once more.

Julian looked towards Mrs. Winters again with his new attitude and raised his hands a little, smiling tightly in surrender.

Respectful and quiet, he thought towards her. Just stop glaring at me, he thought.

His smile was beginning to ache when Mrs. Winters finally acknowledged him. She merely huffed and turned back to her easel, but Julian could have sworn her mouth turned up at the corner. Even if just slightly.

Julian exhaled in relief, letting the smile drop, and turned back to —

His sopping wet paintbrush. Sighing, he picked it up and set it against the cup's edge, watching as the water slowly, and painfully, dripped back into the cup.

So.

Julian steepled his paint-flecked fingers together.

What was wrong with his painting of Emma?

Julian smiled, this time for real, and leaned around his easel, sneaking a look at his subject.

Emma's unbound hair — golden and glorious — was swept across her left shoulder. The way it caught the light was beautiful.

Julian paused. Maybe that was it! The hair! Not the sweep of it but the way it caught the light, the color of it.

Julian had to be sure, though. He rolled his eyes. He didn't want to upset Mrs. Winters again if it turned out he was wrong.

He looked at Emma intently, tracking the arc of her neck, the way it seamlessly blended into her shoulder blades. And how those blades morphed into a strong arm that was currently bent over the table ... swiping a paintbrush back and forth as if it were a blade.

Julian almost choked. She was painting, that was for sure. Exactly what she was painting, though, Julian couldn't tell. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"It's a black ... web. puddle. ball of string," he sputtered. Each idea was worse than the last.

And that swiping. Julian shivered. It just hurt his heart.

No, he decided. It was definitely just a black blob of nothing.

Julian shook his head and focused in on her hair again. It was golden, yes, but ... he looked towards the top of her hair where the light hit directly. It was also white, yellow, tan — a million different, impossible shades.

Julian swallowed, hard. There seemed to be something caught in his throat. He quickly averted his eyes and looked down at his palette. If he were to capture all that color and light, he needed to blend. Thoroughly. And now.