MY CRUEL PROTECTOR
"It’s in the impasto. The height of the paint... it’s Braille for the eyes. He used a palette knife to create a topographical code."
"Can you read it?" Nevan asked, his voice strained as the smell of burning metal began to seep through the cracks in the door. They were starting the torch.
"I need to touch it," I said. I closed my eyes, letting the 'Old Guest' move my hands. My fingertips danced over the dry, crusted oil. I felt the peaks and valleys—a coordinate, a frequency, a digital key. "I have it. 52.37... 6.24... and a string of hex code."