The Hollow tilted its head. Lucas took a step back. “What are you doing?”
Over the following months, she learned to control it. Whatever she drew with sufficient focus—not just ink, but any dark, flowing medium—could wake up . Her sketches could move, breathe, and even climb off the page if she pushed hard enough. The catch? The more lifelike the drawing, the more energy it drained from her. A simple wiggling line cost nothing. A fully animated, three-inch ink squirrel left her dizzy for an hour.
“Megan Inky.”
Megan’s blood turned to ice water. “I don’t know what you’re—”
Lucas frowned. “That’s not—”
The voice was low, amused. She turned to find Lucas Vane leaning against the doorframe. Lucas was the kind of handsome that made people use words like “chiseled” and “brooding.” He was also captain of the swim team, which meant he had no business in the art room.
Lucas paled. “You—”
She walked out into the rainy October night, leaving Lucas Vane standing alone in a room full of drying ink. And on the table, where the creature had been, a single drop of ink trembled—then shaped itself into a tiny, smiling raven. It spread its wings, flew to Megan’s shoulder, and dissolved into a happy smudge on her collar.