The Art of Truth (TRC #2)

Chapter 9 - Thoughts of Escape Become Real

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm really excited about posting this chapter. I really, really, really hope you enjoy it, because it is BIG. Please let me know what you think of it - I seriously, honestly want to know your thoughts and reactions. I've also linked to a song called Laura Palmer by my favourite band, Bastille. I listened to this song a lot while I wrote the end of this chapter, so it would be really cool to listen to it while you read (or after you read, doesn't really matter). The next upload will probably be on 19/04/14, but, if I get a lot written this week I'll move it closer. Read, enjoy, vote and PLEASE comment! Thanks!

~Hikari

Chapter 9 – Thoughts of Escape Become Real

A few nights later, when I was strong enough to walk on my own without falling over, I woke to a figure standing next to my bed in the dark. My scream was cut short by a hand over my mouth, and a torch clicked on.

“Be calm, Maya. It is time for your escape,” Art murmured.

I pushed his hand away from my mouth and sat up, holding the blanket over my body while I reached for the t-shirt I left on the floor. I pulled it on, fastened my hair and climbed out of the bed. Art wore jeans and had the hood of a black jacket drawn over his distinctive white hair.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “There isn’t much time.”

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and nodded. He gently took hold of my wrist, opened the door and led me into the dark corridor. Everything was silent except for our breathing and soft footsteps. My heart beat increased with each step, alertness returning to my mind. There was the clear possibility that this was a trap, but why would Art lead me to a trap when I was already the Conspiracy’s prisoner? With each glance at Art, I was more and more sure that I was dealing with the scared, young man who drew that picture in my book and not the immortal monster who would see me dead. The stress he felt was visible in his silhouette, outlined in moonlight. I’d come to realise that there really were two sides to Art. I wondered if I’d ever unravel the layers and find out which was real.

We hurried down a flight of stairs and into another hallway. At each door, Art swiped a card across a panel and it beeped us access. I immediately felt the difference beneath my feet; we were running across a thick carpet. The beam of his torch reflected against polished gold and silver, and threw moving shadows onto paintings that covered the walls. Ahead, a light flashed on. Someone coughed and a figure moved in our direction. It was the first sign of life we’d encountered so far.

“Stay quiet, Maya,” he murmured. “Be calm. Blackwell will go the other way.”

I stood as still as possible, my breath caught in my lungs by fear. He let go of my arm and clicked off the flashlight. The shadow jerked, alerted by the sound and disappearing glow. Switching off the torch was a mistake.

I looked back the way we came. The door was sealed again. I padded over to it and glanced at Art. He shook his head and pointed at the lock panel. It would beep if he opened it, and that would be an obvious clue to where we headed.

“Hide,” he murmured, barely louder than a whisper, and strode towards Blackwell. I spun around, searching for somewhere large enough to conceal me. The only option was the voluminous curtains. I ducked beneath one, feeling ridiculous but desperate, held in my breath and pressed my back against the cold glass as close as possible.

“What the f*ck are you doing here?” I heard Blackwell ask.

Art stayed silent, until Blackwell cleared his throat and corrected himself.