The Awakening of Ren Crown Page 9

  I could hear footsteps running down the hall.

  Root-like protrusions behind the drapes were pushing the drapes forward. Trying to push the swirling portals against the “glass” of the sketch.

  Christian's voice continued shouting, crystal clear with my gold-enhanced senses. “Get back, Ren! Stop!”

  “Ren, open this door!” My mom yelled hysterically, jangling the knob.

  Will removed five roots from action in one swipe, but the slash left him open and a bright flash zinged from a swirling circle and struck him in the chest. His chest armor exploded, and the shock wave knocked him off his feet. Something large was moving behind the drapes, coming toward us. Something with far more presence and magic than the roots.

  I thought of Mr. Verisetti with a second feeling of betrayal, and a vivid memory of him twisting his hand, a smile upon his lips, bloomed from the darkness. I flicked my wrist in imitation, and three of the roots severed. I didn't waste moments playing with this new ability—I simply battled my way through.

  Christian screamed for me to stop. I would not let Will die too, though. I'd die first.

  “Ren! Open this door! Roger, I can't open it!”

  The house started to shake. The patterned circles on my closet door opened into mouths of malevolent intent, black tunneled holes stretched behind them, and the vision of my parents bursting through the door and into danger forced cold certainty to my thoughts.

  No. No.

  This time I would make it work. Gold lit everywhere.

  “Ren, please! Please, open the door!”

  “Move, Catherine!”

  “Ren!”

  I latched onto Will's arm—firm and warm beneath my stained hand—and used every muscle and desire I possessed and pulled. Will came diving out, knocking me to the ground, and flattening me in a tangle of limbs, a chair, a sword, bits of armor, paint and charcoal flakes, and a lot of swearing. Golden light flashed everywhere again. My closet door roared, then it and the house stilled.

  “Why didn't you save me, Ren? That was my magic.”

  Christian's leather band burst into flames, burning my wrist as it disintegrated into ash. The picture of him lined in blue paint erupted into unnatural flame next, bright blue with gold-tinged smoke, gone within seconds. Small bursts of flame, like match strikes, sparked around us—every drop of blue paint exploding, extinguishing, then leaving a feeling of emptiness behind. Only my old, dead, normal acrylic paint was left seeping on the walls in mixed brown agony.

  Christian's voice was silent. Gone. I could feel a tear spill over. I had lost the bracelet I had retrieved from the man who had killed him. The container. Oh, God, no, of course that was what it had been. And even the canvas containing the remnants of paint was gone.

  A loud sound impacted against the door as I tried to breathe. I struggled to see through the teary blue and gold film over my gaze and Will's shoulder pressing my nose into the floor.

  My parents burst into the room, then stood there, in the doorway, stunned, as if what they were experiencing was so out of their realm of understanding that they didn't know how to react.

  I had no idea what or who they could see. Therefore, I was the only one distantly relieved when Mom whacked Will with the hallway broom.

  Chapter Seven: Conversations of the Extraordinary

  Will and I waited in the kitchen while a thirty-something year old man named Phillip Marsgrove, a dean at Will's magic school—and, unnervingly, the pinstripe-clothed man who had entered my school a half-minute ahead of the Department men—spoke with my parents in the living room. Or rather argued, as my parents were in complete disbelief about the existence of magic. Three voices battled in mumbled discord as I pressed my ear to the closed door.

  “There is a suppression field in place that makes anything with the whiff of real magic hard for an ordinary person to remember. Visions or experiences float away like daydreams. Daydreams where you are lost to the real world for small periods of time are indicative of episodic exposure to magic.”

  I had been exposed to a lot of magic then.

  “Why suppress us? Or separate us? It sounds like we could benefit from magic too.”

  Mom was angry, her voice tight and deadly.

  “There was a reason for the Split.”

  Will was leaning against the island's white granite counter top, punching in all sorts of things to his tablet. Occasionally, he would pause and touch a spot beneath his ear. “Recording the adventure in my field journal,” he had said, when I'd looked at him in question.

  I wandered over to the other side of the island, touching the burned skin of my wrist, then picking at the bandage encasing my hand. I had felt Christian there under the paint, but his image hadn't animated like the butterfly had. Was there different magic in play between the sketches? The butterfly sketch and Christian's portrait should have been the same. Why had I been able to pull out a butterfly—and Will—but not Christian? Especially with remnants of his magic encircling my wrist. How did I recreate the circumstances of the first two?

  Had I lost Christian completely with the loss of his band?

  I didn't want to think that. I reached over and tucked in the loose edge of the bandage around Will's hand.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling and pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his straight nose.

  It was strange, but I felt responsible for Will. I had never felt responsible for anyone other than Christian.

  I had been an awkwardly balanced child, and a late talker—little things would catch my attention, and I was apt to run into walls and slip down stairs while daydreaming. Colors and shapes and objects had been so vast and incredible that I'd tripped over my own tongue trying to describe the wonderful things I was seeing. The sentences and constructs in my head never seemed to make it into coherent phrases.

  Christian had always stood between me and the people who had tried to poke fun. He'd knocked down and scrapped would-be bullies, then told me to keep drawing. Had encouraged me to take all the time I needed to explain the thoughts running through my mind.

  I shook my head. It had not been hard to concentrate my energy on my brother in return and to make sure he succeeded in whatever he wanted to do. Running thousands of drills and devising play strategy with him had been the least price. And he'd lock me into my room, if I went too long without drawing, and tell me to do something “artsy.” There wasn't a normal lock I couldn't pick, and he knew it, but the protective gesture had allowed me to relax. Drawing made the world make more sense.

  But the world was making no sense now. I looked at the inside of my left wrist, just above the burn. The picture there had changed again and now showed a bloody ax. Still drawn in brown, but the dripping splatters on the edge of the blade were straining toward red. An executioner's blade.

  I touched my own bandage and swallowed hard, trying to shut down my emotions.

  “We can get healed in the Second Layer,” Will said. “If you think your parents will let you go?”

  I needed more magical charcoal. I needed more paint. I wasn't going to get either here. “If they don't, I'll go anyway.”

  Will nodded slowly.

  “Tell me about necromancy.”

  Will looked nervously at the closed door to the living room. “Black magic is illegal. It demands a price. Don't let people hear you talking about it. If you have even a whiff of dark magic aptitude, the Department puts you on the Watch list.”

  “But you said resurrection experts are a dime a dozen.” I forced lightness into my voice, then turned and filled the teapot. I didn't look at him as I said, “I was just curious.”

  “Were you?” Will's voice was soft.

  I turned back to face him, crossing my arms tightly without answering.

  “There is a statute of limitations. We did a whole unit in primary school on mental counting and time tracking in order to anticipate the time frame. We are also trained early to abandon resurrection efforts, if the ten minute period has p
assed. They say bad things start to happen once fifteen minutes have occurred. And there are all sorts of thresholds in black magic. One month, two months, four months.”

  I watched Will's face carefully. “What happens when you die?”

  Will rubbed a hand through the back of his hair. “I haven't died yet. But it seems to depend on the person.”

  Will shifted categories suddenly in my mind. He moved from Code Red Ally into a category labeled something closer to Normal Friend. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the latter, so I pushed it aside for the moment.

  “Ninety-five percent of students die on campus, though, so you might find out. And we have the best libraries. None of the other universities come close.”

  The tea bag dropped from my fingers onto the granite as I stared at him. “Ninety-five percent?” So much for the thought that I might attend Will's school. There was no way I was going to survive that statistic. Not alongside kids who had been using magic since birth.

  On the other hand, death would allow me a different kind of search.

  “They get resurrected.” Will's expression was earnest. “Ten minutes is a long time. Though, there are people who die for good. They go eleven minutes or their injuries are so severe that they can't be resurrected. It happens every once in a while at school.”

  Will's reassuring tone warmed me. The Normal Friend category was a nice one.

  I needed to seek out other sources of information, though. I nodded as if I accepted the topic as closed, and picked up the teabag and dropped it into a cup. The counters were spotless—Mom made them so each day. And the reason why she did so only firmed my resolve. Mom's voice rose in the other room, as did Phillip Marsgrove's. Marsgrove had shown up within two minutes of Mom hitting Will with the broom. I wondered how he had gotten here so fast if porting wasn't something that could be done normally in the non-magic world.

  “Where is the magic world?”

  “Oh! Right on top of this one. Layers, you know. In the Split, four magical layers identical in geography to the first were created directly on top of this one, using most of the world's available magic. Leaving this—the First Layer—a normal, non-magical safe haven for people without magic abilities. Course, that was three thousand years ago, so most places look different between the layers now—due to weathering and construction from different species and kingdoms.”

  “Like giving the same assignment and paints to five different artists.”

  Will smiled. “Sure. The Second Layer is pretty in tune with this one, lots of mages travel or live in both—sharing, taking, or modifying technology—but the Fourth Layer, for instance, is for magical creatures and beings and looks completely alien. The Fifth is pretty unstable. And the Third Layer,”—he shook his head, expression hard—“much of it is barren wasteland now. But Layer History 101 is required at school. That class is all you'll need for understanding the layer system unless you want to specialize in layer physics and dimensions.”

  Will seemed to be of the opinion that I would be attending school with him. But I was stuck on the non-magic aspect. “But magic works here.”

  Will shook his head. “There is magic in the earth, of course, that seeps through all of the layers. But magic use here is suppressed and fiercely restricted. You can perform magic with a bottled container and a use permit. If you don't have a permit, they send hunters after you. Once you are in the system, all magic use shows up on the Department's grid.” He cocked his head, eyes agleam. “ You aren't in the system yet. Crap. We should have run from your parents and gone on a road trip. There are a thousand things I can't collect here without using magic. Stinking museums and alarms. Why the devil did I call Dean Marsgrove?”

  He thumped his forehead against the granite.

  Did that mean I had only been able to do magic here because of Christian's bracelet?

  Will's cheek kind of rolled on the counter so that he was looking up at me forlornly. “We could have kicked ass. There are small time users living here, people who read fortunes and things, but they have to get a license and the Department regulates that stuff, and small timers can't get me in the really good places without ordinary people noticing. Devices that work on ordinary people are fiercely restricted.”

  I thought of the students frozen in class. “But—”

  He sat up, elbows on the counter, chin sunk into the palm of one hand in an I-just-watched-my-true-love-ride-away fashion. “The dean will never let us get away with it now. He must have taken care of the Department, though, since they aren't here arresting us.”

  “Weren't you doing magic here?”

  He shook his head. “My tablet has a two month permit for passive research and collection use in the First Layer, but no active magic is allowed. If I used magic on an ordinary person or used it in an aggressive way, the tablet would immediately immobilize me.”

  “How did you get that permit?”

  He cleared his throat. “Hey, do you want to see the battle competition from last week? I have it queued up.”

  “Ren.”

  I managed not to jerk my head around as Christian's voice sounded in my mind. I touched my burn in relief and anguish. His tone sounded different, half-cunning, half-protective, but it was him.

  I tentatively sent out a thought. Christian? Please, please answer...

  A full-color, incredibly detailed, rotating hologram burst out of Will's tablet. The hologram view swept a field, and I caught a momentary glimpse of thousands of feet—directly below the edge of the field. I immediately leaned closer, examining the landscape in more detail. This was the exact backdrop in some of Mr. Verisetti's paintings. No wonder the backgrounds had always looked strange, like the earth was rising. The school was on the side of a mountain. “This is campus?”

  “Yup. The seventeenth circle's hippodrome to be exact. I like the twentieth circle's amphitheater best myself. They do a student-teacher war there once a year. Marsgrove frequently wins. No one knows why he won't teach combat classes.”

  My brain rapidly worked on what “circle” meant in the context. Circling around the mountain?

  Students wearing black duster-type cloaks adorned with silver buckles fought fiercely using staffs, rods, swords, marble-sized bombs, and other indistinguishable objects. One boy stood untouchable in the middle of the field without a weapon, familiar Last Judgment blue eyes barely sparing a cold glance at the next challenger in front of him—nor the one sneaking up at his back—as lights shot from his palms and fingertips, his arms performing a deadly dance.

  Michelangelo would have dearly loved him.

  Will was saying something about avoiding mages who wore three rings, but I couldn't hear over the pumping of my heart in my ears. I stared at the hue of the boy's eyes and watched as he annihilated everyone around him. The hologram avidly focused on him.

  I had no memory of his face, but I knew those eyes. I knew him.

  My fingers were reaching out without my consent, and I snatched my hand back before Will could notice. Combatants were spread like rag-dolls on the ground around him—though none were within a ten foot radius. Apparently, none had gotten that close.

  I looked at one of the fallen challengers. Could magic sew an arm back on? I hoped so.

  “Who is that?” My voice sounded far away, seeking confirmation of something my senses didn't need confirmation on.

  “Huh? Oh, that's Alexander Dare, combat mage. Best on campus, and that's saying something since the Academy encompasses ages sixteen to twenty-two. Considered a prodigy. Even beat Marsgrove last year when Dare was a second year. The combat mages all call him Axer for good reason. I'd, uh, stay away from him.”

  I looked at Will. “He's not nice?” His banter with his uncle had been cocky, and here in this vision he was clearly dominant and seemingly ruthless, but he had healed an unknown girl. He had given me one last moment with my brother. I didn't care if he turned into a man-eating troll every Sunday, I would never forget that.

  “Old Magic.�
� Will rubbed the back of his head in a gesture Christian had used frequently when imparting bad news. “Which as I was saying—”

  Voices rose in the other room.

  “Send her to Miss Angelie's School for Girls, then!”

  “You misunderstood. That is where we send the new thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds who qualify for mage training. Your daughter is seventeen.”

  Will shook his head at me. “Boarding school,” he whispered.

  I lurched forward and pushed through the door. “No way. I'm going to Will's school.”

  And Alexander's school. And the place straight out of Mr. Verisetti's painted images of resurrection.

  Everyone stopped talking.

  Mom's shoulders were stiff. “We will decide where you are going, Ren.”

  I looked at the prim and proper Georgian manor rotating in their hologram field.

  “No.”

  I remembered being thirteen. It had sucked. I had permanently and safely embedded myself in Christian's shadow.

  Screw safe. I needed access to those libraries. And the resurrection experts Will kept teasing me with. I wasn't staying here—in the skeleton of my previous life—but I also wasn't going to some boarding school where I'd be tucked in at nine each night.

  “No, you won't decide,” I said more forcefully. “I am going to Will's school. You can support me or you can oppose me. I will still go. You didn't believe me when I told you what happened to Christian. You are going to believe me now.”

  The side table started shaking. Framed pictures started clattering against the walls. A piece of crinkled paper on the coffee table lit gold and a black stain grew from the middle. My mother's favorite wooden statue of a girl laughing, her head flung back without care, flew over and was sucked inside the paper. I despised that statue. Drawn on the paper, a little platform stood above the statue as it splintered on the sketch floor.