“I will,” I lied.

His smile faded. “Well, do it today. Tomorrow will be too late.”

I stiffened. His tone, his eyes—they left no room for doubt. True or not, he believed every word he said. I shot to my feet. “Possessed of a particularly sound countenance,” I quoted, “the Kongo race—”

He made a face and moved to his desk.

I followed him. “The Kongo race is well suited to physical labor. We rarely get sick.”

He sat. “Look Cobane, believe what you want. I’m not sure who sent you to spy on me, but please—get out.”

My gut clenched and I turned to leave. I’d failed. Jones would be disappointed. And worse, for some reason, was the look in the Vine Keeper’s eyes when he’d told me to go—something akin to pity. My back straightened. Suddenly, I whipped around, catching him by surprise. In a flash, I lunged for the book I’d seen earlier, the one he didn’t want me to read.

He got to his feet.

I had it. I stumbled a few steps and flipped open the cover, bracing myself. He reached around my back, seized the edge and tugged, thinking I would let go.

I didn’t.

The spine wrenched as it tore in two. He came away with the bigger piece, but I had what I needed. While he stood, too appalled to move, I didn’t waste a second. I turned to the dedication page and found what I’d only glimpsed before—a brief scrawl followed by a signature that I recognized.

HK,

Go to House Cobane. And there, may you find the gift in death. Your father, Dana Kumar.

He was upon me, snatching the pages from my palms, slack with shock. Father? My mind raced. If he was kin to Director Dana Kumar, here on the Director’s behalf, why would Jones order me to spy on him? The answer came like a punch. Jones was not collecting information for Director Kumar; she was defying him—a violation punishable by death. And, with the black book in my pocket, I was helping her do it.

In a trance, I looked up at the new kid. His eyes were angry, more gray than brown. And, just like that, I remembered his name. It rose up, dividing the stream of my subconscious, to surface like coconut oil. Hosea Khan, the Vine Keeper. Just then, a sharp pain slammed into the base of my skull. Before I could cry out, everything went dark.

The Giant

THE GIANT

I woke to the Vine Keeper’s voice. “That was unnecessary.”

I opened my eyes to darkness. I blinked. The blow to my head had knocked me facedown. I struggled to roll over, but pain forestalled me.

“I had it under control,” he said.

I couldn’t see him but he sounded close.