LESSER DEMONS: CHAPTER 14

Posting for feedback. (Frame of reference for people who read the previous draft: this used to be Chapter 9.) Thanks for reading!


CHAPTER 14

In the morning I’m the first one at the breakfast table, after Aunt Nia and Uncle Wyn. That’s because I’ve basically been awake ever since the sun came up. And that’s because I didn’t exactly sleep much last night anyway, on account of my mysterious invisible guest.

I tried to talk to the thing. At least, I asked it who it was and what it wanted, but it didn’t respond. What it did do was to disappear. As in, both the feeling of its presence and the weight of it on the bed just faded away. Which means it’s not just invisible. It can apparently teleport too.

You can bet I didn’t wait around too long to see if it was coming back. I booked it out into the hallway to the central elevator, and I found Dylan’s room after only a couple wrong turns and several moments of panic. Just as I was about to knock on his door, though, I heard Teresa in there laughing her bell-like little laugh and talking to him in this voice that was all soft and charming.

It turns out that between her and a ghost, I’m less afraid of a haunting. I spent the rest of the night locked in my own bathroom, trying to sleep in a nest of blankets and pillows I’d piled up on the floor. Of course, I was well aware that the shut bathroom door was no real defense against that ghost thing, which is why sleep wasn’t exactly forthcoming.

So I’m real antsy this morning, waiting all impatient for Dylan to come down to breakfast and hoping that I can get a moment to talk to him alone before Eilian and I head off for school. When Dylan does come into the room and there’s no sign of Teresa with him it makes me feel kind of guilty, how much of a relief that is. I guess I’d been picturing her as an unavoidable constant in my life.

Dylan’s in a good mood this morning, greeting everyone real cheery and sort of humming all quiet to himself as he fills his plate with food. It’s like he’s allowed himself a level of happiness that he’d forgotten how to feel for a while or something. Aunt Nia and Uncle Wyn notice it, and they exchange their own smiling little glances when they think neither Dylan nor I is watching.

When Eilian comes slamming into the dining room, though, everyone’s mood changes real quick for the worse.

Her expanded tablet’s gripped all tight in her hand and she’s got a terrible look on her face. The kind that tells you good news is definitely not coming. We all watch her as she stalks over to us and tosses her tablet onto the table, as if she can’t let go of that thing quick enough.

It’s playing some sort of video, and I glance down at the screen just in time to see this horribly high-quality footage of someone slicing a knife across the throat of a bound and terrified looking man.

I snap my eyes away real fast, let out this involuntary gasp that comes from way down inside of me. Without a word, Aunt Nia reaches out and quietly turns the tablet over, her face about as pale as I feel.

“They’ve done it again,” Eilian says, her eyes traveling to each of us in turn, boring into us with a sort of furious trepidation. “Another public execution.”

***********************************************************************

Mawihl Academy is like a micro-cosm of Daxa itself, with its eclectic hodgepodge of buildings in every Painter style. They’re all connected by ivy-covered glass passageways, which Eilian navigates as if she’s walked down them a million times herself.

The place is filled with people. Kids around my age or younger mostly. We have to squeeze past each other to get through the halls, and it should feel kind of chaotic but instead it’s about as subdued as a funeral service. Here and there you can see people gathering in little circles, talking in whispers as if we really are in some sort of a church. A couple times I hear people laughing, but even that sound gets overwhelmed by the quiet fear that seems to hang in the air.

Eilian and I haven’t spoken much since breakfast, though that conversation is still playing pretty vivid in my mind. The video was posted by the Sons of Morning apparently, a recording of their entire ritual as they harvested the energy from the man they’d just killed. We didn’t watch any more of it, but Eilian described it in pretty gory detail.

Any thoughts about my personal haunting have pretty much faded away. There was no chance to talk to Dylan about it, and whatever was in my room last night seems a whole lot less alarming compared to this execution. I mean, it’s kind of hard to think of anything else after hearing that the takers did the killing as a message to the Way Reader. So in other words, a message to me. With part of that message being that more people are going to die as long as I stay in hiding.

Following Eilian through the hallways now, staring down the fear in everyone’s eyes, you can bet I feel the weight of that on my shoulders.

Our class today, which Eilian and I have together, is Introduction to Particular Sciences with a teacher named Eugenius Braun. It’s in a building shaped like an enormous submarine, a made-to-scale WWII replica. The hallway is tiny, but the classroom looks like pretty much any classroom I’ve ever seen. It’s white, and mostly bare, with tables set up in three long rows across the width of it, three chairs to a table.

There are already a few kids in there when we walk in. Two of them are Eilian’s friends. A tall girl named Leti Kjar, who’s blond hair falls down her back so long and shimmery that she looks like some Scandinavian princess or something. And Tua Moeaki, whom I remember Aunt Nia mentioning the other day. The other kid, who introduces himself as Gabriel Lobato, is apparently brand new here, from Brazil. Practically right off the plane, he says, and I wonder what sort of planes fly into a Painter city like Daxa.

He’s almost shockingly good looking, all tan-skinned and dark-curly hair with eyes like Hershey’s syrup. When we touch our hands in pono he flashes me this shy kind of smile, and the fact that a kid with that face also has that smile seems pretty categorically unfair.

Eilian’s friends already know all about me. Or, about as much as Eilian knows. They greet me with hugs and refer to me as her cousin, which Eilian says is a thing Painters do with close family friends.

Tua Moeaki’s real tall and broad shouldered, with a voice so deep you can almost feel it in your bones. He’s wearing a lava-lava printed in some sort of Polynesian-looking modern art pattern, and he’s got an Asian-style lady’s comb perched kind of whimsical in his close-cut afro.

There’s this real grim look on his face as he says his hellos. A look that doesn’t seem to fit right, as if his cheek muscles aren’t all that sure how to express that a sort of emotion.

“Did you see the video?” he asks us, and in response Eilian just gives this short little nod.

We’re standing near the front of the room, between the right-most rows of tables, and Eilian sinks down against the edge of one of them as if she doesn’t even have the energy to stand.

“First thing that came up in my feed this morning,” she says.

All of a sudden, I just want to pretend that the video doesn’t even exist for a while. Like, until I have a moment alone to maybe panic a little, I would like to categorize the video in my mind on the same level as one of Logan’s conspiracies. Something far removed from myself and, probably, not even real. I definitely don’t want to talk about it.

It’s very real for these kids that I’m with, though. You can see in their eyes that its reality is a weight that each of them feels.

“People shouldn’t be sharing it,” Gabriel says. “It’s exactly what the takers want them to do.”

The sound of the classroom door opening makes us all turn toward the back of the room as two kids walk in. There’s a Hispanic looking boy wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a brightly colored plaid vest, and behind him there’s a Black girl who’s so small you could mistake her for a child if it weren’t for her kind of elegant facial features and a totally alpha afro that probably doubles the size of her own head.

“Nando!” Tua exclaims, his face lighting up for second.

He steps forward and grabs the Hispanic kid in this complicated series of handshakes that look like something they’ve been doing for years.

“What’s up, my brother? I didn’t think you were going to be able to make it this term.”

Nando glances kind of uncomfortable at the rest of us and gives this stiff little shrug of his shoulders.

“Academy Admin Center gave me a job last minute. Means half tuition, and money to pay the rest.”

He nods his head toward the Black girl, who’s sort of hovering a few feet away from us all as if she honestly thinks that one of us might bite.

“This is Hina Amura,” Nando says. “Works with me at the Admin Center.”

After Leti and Eilian introduce Gabriel and me, we all exchange pono, and I notice that although Hina does look up as she greets each of us, she never actually focuses on anyone’s face. It’s as if she’d really rather just fade completely from our view, which, for some reason, just manages to make me more curious about her.

When the Nando kid and I exchange pono I’m mostly still watching Hina, and the feeling of a sighting coming on is a total surprise. I have just enough warning to throw my mind kind of desperate into one of the meditation methods that Dylan taught me, and even though it takes pretty much all my will power, I do actually manage to channel the energy of the sighting in some sort of controlled way.

As in, I don’t fall over or anything, but I do react. I go all still and silent, just trying to hold myself together while the thing goes through me. I see Nando in a dark room by himself somewhere, weeping all wild and fierce, grabbing in this sort of unhinged desperation at the skin of his own face.

When I come out of the sighting, I realize I’m just staring at him all blank-faced and startled, our palms still together and his eyebrows raised in a kind of curious concern.

“Still getting used to pono,” I’m quick to say, smiling kind of rueful, as if my behavior just now was simply a reaction to the tiny spark of energy that our hands exchanged.

I think for sure he’s not going to buy it, but he does after all. Gives me his own sympathetic smile and turns his attention back to the rest of the group. Meanwhile, I’m feeling like I just intruded into one of his private moments, like some sort of psychic peeping Tom or something. Like if he knew what it is I’d seen just now he wouldn’t be at all happy about it.

Still, I can’t stop sneaking glances at him. Studying his face and comparing it to my sighting, wondering what event could possibly make him feel that much anguish, and why it is that with everything else going on today that’s the only sighting I’ve been shown.

Some other kids start trickling into the classroom, sitting down in the chairs at the long tables or huddling in their own little conversational groups. Pretty much everyone seems to know Eilian and her friends, but nobody else joins us in our circle, though some of them do seem to be listening in.

Tua brings the conversation back to the video again, as if he just can’t stop himself from thinking about it. He asks, in a general kind of way, if anyone knows anything about the victim, but I notice as he asks the question that his eyes focus mostly on Nando.

“Uncle Wyn says it was one of the partners at the Mountain Vista Realty firm,” Eilian offers, and Tua lets out this little snort.

“Biggy Argyle? Partner at Mountain Vista he may be, but what he’s really known for is an enormous list of shady dealings down in Stranger’s Hollow. Didn’t you read the takers’ written statement underneath the video?”

“I didn’t really want to give them that much of my time,” Eilian says, kind of defensive.

“Why do the takers even care about that place?” Nando cuts in with a bite to his voice that I notice makes Hina glance up at him real quick.

“I doubt they do care about Stranger’s Hollow.” Eilian looks to Tua again. “What are they trying to do this time? Set themselves up as the good guys or something? Some sort of ‘watching out for the downtrodden’ rubbish?”

Leti’s the one that responds to her, speaking in this real measured voice, almost like she’s reciting the words or something.

“They say that Biggy Argyle represents the corruption of ‘the establishment,’ and that the Way Reader will inevitably be part of that establishment too. By killing Argyle, they’re challenging the Way Reader to come out of hiding and prove them wrong.”

Her words make me feel cold all over. Heavy, like maybe I’m slowly turning to stone.

“What’s Stranger’s Hollow?” I ask, trying not to sound like I have any more interest in this conversation than the rest of them. The way they all look at me, though, you’d think I’d just announced the world was flat or something.

“You don’t know?” Tua asks. “Gabriel’s never left Brazil until now and even he knows about Stranger’s Hollow.”

“Give her a break, you guys,” Eilian injects with a lighter tone, half in my defense and half kind of teasing. “She grew up on a minuscule farm in the mountains of Wyoming. Only Painter she’s ever known is her own mum. Of course she’s never heard of Stranger’s Hollow.”

The rest of them kind of laugh at this and I manage to join in, but our laughter’s cut short by the sound of someone real pointedly clearing his throat from the front of the room. The teacher—who apparently came in unnoticed—waits until he’s got our full attention and then looks at the tables around us as if to say that the time for us to sit down was at least three minutes ago.

We all move pretty much on instinct, kind of tumbling into whatever chairs are immediately beside us, which puts me at a table with Nando and Hina, and Eilian and Tua and Leti at the table next to ours. Gabriel takes a second longer to choose an open seat at the next table up. A table at the very front of the room, under the critical eye of our teacher. From where I’m sitting I can see Gabriel give the man a sheepish little smile, but Mr. Braun doesn’t even acknowledge it.

He’s a tall man with a real straight-backed sort of posture and a head so bare that you’d think the few wispy hairs still hanging out around the edges must’ve been left there with a specific purpose. His rectangular glasses are perched half-mast on his nose, adding a good dose of severity to the way he’s glaring out at all of us in the class. I don’t know what I was expecting from a teacher at a Painter school, but this wasn’t really it.

When he starts talking, it’s with a German accent and in a voice so direct you almost feel like you should come to attention.

“The administration would like me to perform some sort of morale-building fluff and getting-to-know-you time wasters. I’m not going to. If you want to get to know each other, do it before or after class. This isn’t some Particle-Blind high school where our main concern is making sure you feel warm fuzzies about yourselves. Your purpose here is to learn, so feel warm fuzzies about that.”

I notice now that there’s a little glint in his eyes as he’s talking, as if deep down he’s having one huge laugh about all this and he’s just waiting for the rest of us to figure it out and join in.

“Let me explain to you how the term is going to work,” he continues. “The first couple hours of class will be devoted to a lecture, given by me. If you’re thinking this is a good time to get your nap in, think again. If you don’t want to learn, go somewhere else not to do it. If I see you sleeping, I will wake you up in a very unpleasant manner. Imagine ice cold water splashing over your face. When you feel you’re growing drowsy, try entertaining yourself by reading these—”

He pulls a tiny glass jar out of his jacket pocket and moves as if he’s flinging its contents up into the air. A bunch of posters materialize on the ceiling, written in real precise script and saying things like, I hope when I die it’s during one of Mr. Braun’s boring lectures because the transition from life to death would be almost imperceptible.

Eilian looks over at me and rolls her eyes, sort of half-smiling.

“The second half of class is practicum, during which time you will demonstrate to me that you have grasped at least some inkling of the principles taught each day. Don’t smile,” he directs his scowl at an Asian girl sitting next to Gabriel. “It isn’t going to be fun. We don’t have fun in this class.”

At this point I’m pretty sure no one in the room is really buying his crotchety act, except for maybe Hina who’s barely taken her eyes off the table in front of us since the moment she sat down.

“Twice during the term you will be required to conduct team projects. That chair you’re sitting in right now? That’s where you’ll be sitting for the rest of the term. Those people you’re sitting by? They’ll be your team. If the person next to you smells badly, just remember that it was you who chose to sit there.”

This all seems so weirdly normal all of a sudden. Everything that’s happened so far this morning—the video, the fear, the sighting—you could believe for a moment that none of it ever happened. We’re just a bunch of normal teenagers with nothing more to worry about than how to navigate life at our new school. Normal except for the whole Painter aspect of it of course, which is only not normal to me.

Mr. Braun launches into a lecture on the “foundational principles of particular sciences.” At the front of the room, he brings up a light-matter model of a plant cell that’s as big as a beach ball. He’s got it floating high above the ground a few feet away from the front tables and he’s walking around it as he describes its various parts. Then, with a quick little twitch of his wrist, a smaller version of the cell model appears without any warning right smack in the air directly in front of each of us.

I’m not the only one that jumps, but I am the only one that’s so startled I make a sound like a squeaky toy being strangled to death.

Mr. Braun directs a glowering look in my direction and says, “No sound effects from the peanut gallery, thank you.”

I can hear a few people snicker, and Tua and Eilian both throw me these appreciative little looks that make me feel just slightly less like I want to sink down under my table.

Most of Mr. Braun’s lecture is pretty basic. Scientific principles that I’ve already learned either from school back in Flemingsburg or from the training with Dylan. But as Mr. Braun has us reach inside our light-matter models and feel the different parts of the cell, I can’t help wondering what Melodie and Sara and Logan would think of all this. I mean, it was a pretty big deal when our high school finally installed whiteboards in the classrooms a few years ago. The technology here in Daxa is way beyond anything anyone in Flemingsburg has probably ever seen.

We explore the insides of cells, of molecules, of atoms. The light matter itself is almost as interesting to me as the models we’re examining. Its particle pattern seems both flexible and kind of tenuous. I don’t know much about this sort of thing yet, but seems to me that if there was a texture that felt like ghost, this would pretty much be it. Which makes me wonder if that thing that visited me last night is made up of particles, and if so, what is its particle pattern like.

After a couple hours of lecturing, Mr. Braun says it’s practicum time. With a snap of his fingers, these silver bowls materialize on top of the tables in front of us, taking shape as if someone were pouring metallic sand into an invisible silicon mold or something. Once the bowls are complete, water slowly fills them up about halfway, and even though I’m watching Mr. Braun real close, I can’t figure out how he’s making it all happen.

“We’ll begin with the basics,” he says, starting to move around the room. “Heating and cooling. First, let’s try bringing the water in your bowls to a soft boil.”

Yesterday, during my first training—which feels now like it must’ve been five years ago—Dylan told me that it was important when I was around other people not to let on how easy everything is for me.

“You won’t be the only girl in Daxa this year who comes from a rural town in the Western United States,” he said. “But if there’s any clue as to how good you are at painting, it won’t be long before the takers realize you’re the only one they need to worry about. Assume they’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”

Now, for the first time, I’m having to put that advice into practice, and I’m realizing that I don’t really know how. Looking around at everyone else in the room, with their hands on the sides of their bowls getting ready to heat up their water—I mean, I don’t know how hard this stuff is for other Painters. How do I avoid making it look too easy when I don’t actually know what easy is?

I focus on my own bowl and take my mind down into the water particles, trying, at least, just to be extra gentle about it. “Don’t push too hard,” I tell myself over and over again, until several minutes later it slowly dawns on me that Mr. Braun is standing there by my side. Has probably been standing there for a while.

Looking up into his face, I see he’s got one eyebrow raised as if he’s just asked something and he’s waiting for me to answer. For the life of me I can’t find anywhere in my brain where I might’ve registered what he said.

“What I wondered, Miss Warren,” he repeats, sort of gently sarcastic, “is if you’ve not had much time for practice down there on your farm?”

A quick glance around the room shows me thirty or so bowls full of cheerfully boiling water. Nando’s water apparently even boiled so powerfully that half of it spilled out onto our table. My water, on the other hand, is almost as still as ice.

What I’m realizing now—what I should’ve realized immediately—is that all these kids probably became weeks, or even months ago. Probably they’ve had all the time in the world to be practicing these foundational things. Probably none of them were doing this for the first time today, and I didn’t need to try and hide anything.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Braun says, his expression very nearly sympathetic, “Your friend Nando could give you some helpful tips on heating.”

No one tries to stifle their laughter now. Even Hina laughs a little, and it’s clear from everyone’s expressions that Nando and I are meant to be in on the joke. Nando grins over at me and even though I smile too I can feel myself kind of blushing. Eilian gives me one of her affectionate eye-rolls and Gabriel flashes me his drop-dead smile.

We’re barely halfway through the first day and I’ve managed to make myself stand out already, even if it is in the exact opposite way that Dylan feared. I don’t know if I should be worried about it, but looking around the classroom at the way everyone’s smiling at me I get this feeling like everything’s going to be alright. I don’t know exactly what just happened—what it is that they’re all thinking about me now—but weirdly, in this moment, I finally kind of feel like I belong.

***********************************************************************

After another half hour or so of practicum Mr. Braun lets us leave early, grumbling something about it being the first day of term and having better places to be himself. Leti suggests we all go downtown for some hot chocolate, and everyone but Hina agrees. In this quiet little voice she says she has to work soon, and then she slips out of the room as quick as if she were making an escape.

We take something called the Magnix downtown—a sort of subway train that, like the emvees, moves mainly by electromagnetic forces. I’ve never been on any kind of commuter train before and the sheer number of people around us is kind of overwhelming, but I try to act cool about it because even Gabriel seems totally at home right now.

Still, when Eilian takes the window seat, I’m grateful to get the aisle. It’s just nice to know I have the option to bolt toward the doors if I need to. Although, there’s a guy standing in a trench coat over there that kind of weirds me out a little with the way he keeps his fedora pulled low over his face.

Once the train starts moving, almost as silent and smooth as Dylan’s emvee, Nando leans across the aisle to me and brings up Stranger’s Hollow again.

“No one ever answered your question about it,” he explains, and there’s something real sober in the way he says it.

“Eilian mentioned something about the downtrodden?”

“It’s Daxa’s district of vice.”

That look on his face is making me kind of wary, like everything he says is riddled with extra meaning.

“It’s a slum,” his voice comes out with that added bite to it again. “Dark and dirty and dangerous. Full of thieves and murderers and people who have given up on believing that the world can be kind.”

I have no idea how to respond to that. Those words coming from any of the other kids, I might think they were joking or something, but Nando’s eyes are dead serious. That image of him weeping and wild comes into my mind again, and I have to look away for a second for fear that he might actually be able to see that in my face.

Calon tân, Nando,” Eilian says from my other side, half laughing and reaching across me to slap at his arm. “Don’t freak her out. She practically had a hernia the first time she saw a Steel Face. After what you just said, she’ll probably never sleep again.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes at Eilian. Nando kind of laughs, but I can still see a hint of that dark expression in his eyes. As if he’s got some huge emotional burden that he can’t ever seem to shrug off entirely.

The shop where we go to get our hot chocolates is only a few blocks away from the train station. On the sign it says it’s called “a chocolatier,” which I didn’t even know was a thing. The place looks like something straight out of a child’s dream. Or like, if Willy Wonka married an ice queen, this is how they’d design their home. The walls and ceiling are made out of shimmering, wintery-looking glass that’s filled with rivuleting liquid chocolate in pretty much every color under the sun.

When Leti notices the way I’m staring around the place she kind of raises an eyebrow at me and, trying to be funny, I tell her that I’ve never been to a chocolatier before, as if that’s the aspect of this place that’s blowing my mind.

She only semi-smiles, though, and it’s this real matter-of-fact sort of thing.

“Oh, this is a special occasion for the rest of us too,” she informs me. “Normally when we go out for drinks, we head to a regular café or a neighborhood tea shop or something.”

“Tea shop?” It brings up images of little old British ladies in floral dresses and enormous hats, but here in Daxa I’m guessing the reality of a tea shop is a whole lot crazier. “Never been to one of those either.”

Tua’s been paying attention to our conversation apparently. He gives me this real exaggerated, incredulous sort of look.

“Where do you go out with your friends?”

It seems like an easy enough question, but the truth is my friends and I don’t really go out anywhere. Not in that sense of the word.

“Some of the older kids drive into the city sometimes to hit up the bars,” I offer, and I’m surprised when this makes even Eilian look at me in near shock.

“You don’t drink that stuff, do you?” Nando asks, and suddenly I feel like I’ve stepped onto dangerous ground or something.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It messes with your brain, farm girl,” Tua says, adding emphasis by using both hands to point at his head. “Messes up your painting. Your mom never told you this?”

“It’s not the worst of the drugs,” Eilian breaks in like she’s coming to my rescue a little bit, “but here in Daxa, Stranger’s Hollow is the only place you can get that sort of thing.”

My mind’s working quick on this one, trying to figure out some right way to respond.

“Oh, well, I didn’t say that I go to the bars. Besides,” I sort of shrug my shoulders and try to look real nonchalant like what I’m about to tell them is definitely not being fabricated on the spot, “Mom’s always been kind of weird about Painter stuff. Tells me things on a need-to-know basis, and, well, obviously it’s not as if I was doing a whole lot of painting back at home. So, you know, not a whole lot of need to know.”

To my relief, referencing my screw-up in class earlier makes everyone start to laugh. Tua claps me on the back, saying, “Stick with us, Farm Girl,” in a way that makes me think the name’s probably going to stick. “We’ll teach you all the necessaries.”

After finishing our hot chocolate, we wander around the city for a while, and it’s kind of crazy to me that no one else seems to have the urge to just stop in their tracks and stare up, and up. I mean, walking at the feet of these skyscrapers is a whole different experience than driving by them in the emvee.

The buildings looked big before, but now they seem impossible. They rise up so high that I can’t even pick out the tops of them, and you’d think it’d make me feel as small as an ant or something but instead it’s almost transcendent. It’s this feeling like, if I just reached my hands up high enough, I could actually borrow some of the buildings’ height somehow and stretch myself out as far as the sky.

There are little parks and market places scattered every few blocks or so, most of them heated enough to keep out the winter snow. When we come into one little square where there are a bunch of acrobats performing, this time I’m not the only one who wants to stop and watch.

Nando—who somehow knows a lot about what the acrobats are doing—explains that the reason they’re able to stand in mid-air and fling each other unbelievable heights and distances is because they’re playing with the density in the air particles around them.

Knowing something about how they do it doesn’t stop me from being totally enthralled with every flip or tumble that the acrobats pull off. Apparently I’m a little too enthralled, though, because when the others decide to leave, I don’t even notice until it suddenly dawns on me that I am now very much on my own.

I catch sight of them at the far edge of the park already, fully immersed in their conversations and obviously unaware that they left me behind. I shout out their names, but what with the acrobats’ accompaniment music and the noise of the watching crowd, my friends can’t hear me.

As I start after them, I notice that man with the trench coat again, the fedora still covering most of his face. He’s several feet away from me, hidden partly from view by a group of women who are watching the acrobats. When I start moving so does he, very much as if he’s following me. A glance behind me a few seconds later tells me he’s still on my trail, and that’s when I start to get scared.

I try to remind myself that no one knows I’m the Way Reader and that it would be crazy for the takers to try to grab me in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of this crowd anyway, but the more aware I am that every face around me is the face of a stranger’s the more vulnerable I feel. I hurry faster toward the place where my friends just disappeared, but when the man picks up his own pace to keep up with me, I can feel the beginnings of a panic coming on.

I’m almost to the street corner when I glance back again. This time the man’s head is raised up a little bit and our eyes meet. What I see makes my heart leap up into my throat. He’s got no real eyes at all. Just these oval sockets of cold, slick silver.

The shock of it makes my steps falter, makes me twist around toward him in a mesmerized sort of fear. I’m on the verge of letting out a scream, when someone else grabs me from behind.


Previous: Chapter 13

Next: Chapter 15


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Please let me know what you think, either by commenting below or emailing me here. Tell me if anything stood out to you in a good way. If anything stood out to you as bad. Is there anything in particular that you like about the characters themselves? Anything that bugs you about them? Were there any parts of this chapter that made you happy, scared, excited, sad, etc.?

  

  

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LESSER DEMONS: CHAPTER 13

Posting for feedback. (Frame of reference for people who read the previous draft: this used to be Chapter 8.) Thanks for reading!


CHAPTER 13

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m in love with Dylan or anything. I mean, I guess I wouldn’t know what that feels like, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t it. What I do think this is maybe, is that Dylan is the only one around right now who knows who I really am. He’s the only one I’m allowed to be myself with, and I guess I felt like I had some sort of claim on him. Like he was, in some small way, kind of my territory or something.

Seeing him with this girl now, though—seeing the way he looks at her as they pull away from their kiss, the way his hands linger on her body as if they’ve always just belonged there—I’d be pretty dumb not to realize that the only person’s territory he’s probably ever been is hers.

“Teresa!”

The sound of Eilian’s voice makes me spin around. I can see her across the room, where she’s standing outside the dining room door as if she’s just stepped through it. All of her usual poise is totally missing. Her eyes are fixed so dumbfounded and happy on the girl standing by Dylan’s side that, with her curls falling around her face like they do, Eilian looks about as bright as the sun itself.

She lets out this squeal so unlike anything I’d expect to come out of her face that I almost doubt it was really her. Then she sets off across the great hall like her feet are on fire or something, doing more of a speeding skip than a run. She ploughs into the new girl’s arms and they exchange ramu, laughing and talking at the same time as each other.   

Eilian’s as giddy as a school girl, and for some reason that also kind of hurts.

Aunt Nia appears at the dining room door then, Uncle Wyn right behind her, and their pleasure at seeing this Teresa person is only slightly more contained than Eilian’s. They hurry across the room to offer their own hugs, their own ramu. Aunt Nia, in that way that she does, is talking about a mile a minute.

“I didn’t know if you’d ever be back,” she repeats just about every other sentence, giving Dylan these little side hugs as if a huge part of her excitement is really on his behalf.

“I just got in this afternoon,” Teresa says, this hint of an accent in her voice. “I came here right away.”

I’m standing barely ten feet away from them, but no one seems to notice me. To be fair, I probably blend in a little with the huge pillar that I’m standing beside, but also, I think everybody just doesn’t have the attention to spare at the moment. I’m not real sure what to do with myself. Seems kind of awkward to step forward and butt in on everything now, but it’d be pretty weird to just sit here and watch them all too.

I’m thinking maybe I could sneak into the dining room and wait for everyone there, but then Uncle Wyn mentions that dinner’s on the table, and he asks Teresa if she’d like to stay.

She does this thing where she touches him all affectionate on his arm and smiles at him with her beautiful, knock-out eyes, and says, “I’ve been dying for some of your home cooking,” as if she really has just been wasting away somewhere without it.

Then they’re all turning back toward the dining room, and I’ve lost my opportunity to sneak in before them. I hug in a little closer to my marble pillar and do my best not be seen, but Aunt Nia catches sight of me anyway. She blurts out my name like she’s only now remembered my existence, and I sort of freeze, trying real hard not to look like someone who’s been standing here lurking this whole time.

As everyone else turns around to look at me too, Aunt Nia’s already bustling across the floor with her arms outstretched so that I feel like I’ve got to move to meet her halfway. She takes me by the shoulders and spins me around in front of her, holding me out toward Teresa like I’m some sort of life-sized doll.

“This is the newest addition to our little family,” Aunt Nia proclaims over my shoulder, while I pretend to myself that I’m not entirely uncomfortable with this situation. “Sophie’s the daughter of one of Gweneth’s dearest friends, and she’s staying with us while she attends Mawihl Academy.”

Teresa graces me with a real pretty little smile, but it’s all mechanical and polite as if she’s trying to figure out what sort of person I am before she decides how to treat me. Faced full-on with that magazine-worthy face of hers, it’s hard not to kind of hope she’s at least a little impressed by my alpha-blue hair.

“I’m also a Mawihl student,” she says finally, and even though the way she says it is real friendly, I still end up feeling like she’s doing me a huge favor just by acknowledging me at all. “I’m starting my last year there this term. It’s so nice to meet you.”

She steps forward to do pono, but somehow the greeting doesn’t feel so much like an exchange. Her energy’s all focused on Dylan, and as soon as politeness would allow for it, she’s already turning away from me and slipping her hand back into his.

All through dinner it’s kind of like that. She laughs with Eilian and Aunt Nia, flirts all charming with Uncle Wyn, asks me exactly the sort of questions you’re supposed to ask a new acquaintance. But I’d be surprised if she’s really paying attention to anyone but Dylan. Like, I’m willing to bet she’s real keenly aware of just about every breath he takes.

And he’s aware of her. He’s all quiet and subdued, watching her like she’s some unaccountable blessing that’s just come blowing back into his life and might go blowing back out of it again at any second.

I understand his feelings. I mean, everything about her pretty much demands that she’d be adored. And it’s not just her sort of ambiguously ethnic prettiness either. There’s an energy to her that’s hypnotizing. A vibrancy that, the more I watch her, makes me think I’d be hard pressed not to fall in love with her myself.

After dinner we go upstairs to the family den to eat cookies and sit all cozy together by the glowing fire. With our chairs pulled in close and warm blankets tucked around our legs, Aunt Nia starts probing Teresa about what she’s been doing for however many months it is that she’s been gone.

Her reason for leaving in the first place, apparently, had something to do with Dylan’s dad, Cadfan. Or really, the fact that after Cadfan was convicted of treason, Teresa’s dad didn’t want that same shame to leak over onto his own family. So he carted her off to her mother’s parents’ house in some remote village in Russia or something, and he wouldn’t let her come back until Mawihl Academy threatened to rescind her position at the school. Almost wouldn’t let her come back even then, which I guess is why her being here is such a surprise to everyone.

“When he finally agreed to let me come, I didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind,” she explains, her eyes flicking over toward Dylan as if she just can’t help herself. “So I left for Daxa without letting anyone here know I was on my way, as soon as I could get my things together. I thought it would be a fun surprise.”

It’s practically a modern-day Romeo and Juliet scenario, with her and Dylan as the main characters.

I think back to that moment in the woods when that happy family passed by and Dylan looked like someone had punched him right in the gut. I wonder if Teresa was any part of what he was thinking about then, and, if she’s something that could eat him up so much inside, it kind of gets to me that in all the time we’ve spent together he’s never mentioned her even once.

I’m trying not to be mopey about all of this, about the way Teresa’s being here has put some sort of light in everyone’s eye. Probably her arrival hasn’t actually changed anything. Probably it’s just highlighting a truth that was already there, that no matter how much they all may like me, that doesn’t mean I belong yet. Simply being here doesn’t make me one of the family like Teresa clearly is, no matter how many times Aunt Nia says otherwise.

Things feel a little better when Eilian mentions that school starts in the morning. It’s a fact that’d fallen clean off my radar until now and, although in some ways the thought of the first day at a new school is kind of unnerving to me, it’s also a topic I can get involved in a little bit. Even if they do talk a lot about people I don’t know. Like the teachers at Mawihl Academy. Or the other kids who’ve had their becomings recently and which schools they’ll be attending this term.

When they start talking about the symptoms of becoming, I’m kind of surprised that even Uncle Wyn shares a little about what it was like for him. I mean, it’s like they all enjoy talking about it. Like they’re all nostalgic or something, going over every detail as if they’re reliving the good old days. While I just sit and listen and think—with no small amount of disbelief—that all their becoming experiences sound like a series of minor annoyances compared to my nightmare days.

It’s only Eilian that’s having none of the sentimentality.

“I don’t know how you all can be so cavalier about it. I thought it was rubbish. All my life I heard about it as if it were some quaint little spell of feebleness while everyone cosseted and cooed over you, but there was nothing quaint about it at all.”

Aunt Nia and Teresa kind of laugh, but Eilian’s not finished.

“No, really. Didn’t you think it was miserable?” She turns to me for support, and I’m surprised at how gratified that makes me. How glad I am that I can absolutely agree.

“Um, yes,” I say, real emphatic, and my eye catches Dylan’s for a second, long enough for me to notice the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Like, the nausea went right through to your bones,” Eilian continues.

“Right.” I could barely describe it better.

“And that tickle to your skin that you just can’t get rid of. Drove me half mad.”

I nod some more.

“Then there were the raving hormones. It was like…it was like…” She pauses as if she can’t quite conjure up the right words, and I don’t even think about it before diving right in to help her out.

“Like you wanted to just jump on pretty much any guy that came within fifteen feet?”

When Dylan bursts out laughing—this full-bodied thing without any of his usual reserve—I realize too late that obviously he’d guess he’s the only person I could really be talking about.

My cheeks go hot and my eyes flash over toward him, but just then Aunt Nia—almost as if she can’t help herself—blurts out, “Oh, it’s so nice to hear that sound again,” and Dylan’s laughter just dies in his throat.

He looks like he was caught stealing or something. As in, there is actual shame showing on his face. Aunt Nia too—she clamps her jaw shut tight, raises her hand halfway up to her mouth as if she’s kind of horrified with the words that just came out of there. The whole atmosphere of the room has gone real awkward and, from everyone else’s expressions, I’m willing to bet I’m the only one who doesn’t understand why.

It’s Teresa that saves the day. Real quiet and unobtrusive, she takes Dylan’s hand in hers and leans around him to look at Aunt Nia.

“You almost didn’t make the becoming deadline for your first term at Mawihl, isn’t that right?” she asks as if nothing at all weird just happened, and Aunt Nia couldn’t look more grateful for the escape.

“Yes. Exactly right,” she nods all cheerful, shooting a quick glance over at Dylan, who’s already trying his best to act normal again too. “And if I’d started even one term later I might never have met Uncle Wyn.”

***********************************************************************

Back in my room half an hour or so later, I can’t help feeling just a little sorry for myself. I mean, after Teresa’s quick recovery everyone in the family was eager enough to put some cheer back into the room, but they couldn’t fix it totally. That unspoken uneasiness was still there in the air, and it was hard not to feel kind of weirdly left out by it. As if it was just another thing that ties them all together as family and keeps me on the outside.

Standing with my back against my door now and looking around my bedroom that still feels so big it could swallow me, what I want to do most of all is talk to my mom. Or Melodie or Sara or Logan. Even Agni. But I can’t talk to any of them right now. There’s only one person I can think of that I could talk to under the circumstances—only one person who in some way counts as mine—but it seems kind of weird to go calling her up out of the blue.

You barely even know the woman, I tell myself, pushing away from the door and heading into the bathroom. The whole time I’m getting ready for bed, though, her name keeps popping back into my head.

She’s probably sleeping already, I try instead as I head back into the bedroom and take a peek at the clock, but it’s not actually that late yet and in Wyoming it’s probably only about an hour ahead.

You’re supposed to call her.

I’m already slumping down into my bed when this thought occurs to me, and I must be feeling pretty desperate because it’s apparently the only convincing I actually need. Before I can second guess myself, I’m pressing my finger to my handyphone ring and telling it to call “Mom.”

When Mary answers with a “Hello, dear,” there’s the slightest hint of a question in her tone, and I chicken out immediately.

“Oh, sorry!” I say, trying as quick as I can to get off the phone. “You’re probably sleeping. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

“Oh, I can talk now, honey,” she stops me. “I could talk even if I had been sleeping. What’s on your mind?”

Of course, now that I’m on the phone with her I can’t think of a single thing to say. I mean, she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t have any reason to care about me, so I’m not real sure now why I thought this was even a good idea.

“Feeling homesick?” she asks into my silence, and for a second I’m wondering if maybe she can read my mind. “It’s okay to feel lonely.  It’s natural. And eventually, if you don’t manage to get over it, you will at least learn to live with it.”

There’s a touch of humor in her voice and I remember now why I thought about calling her in the first place. There’s something about her that makes me feel like I could talk to her like a friend.

“I’m not real sure it was the right choice to come up here,” I confess to her, and my voice sounds kind of childish and small.

She takes a second to answer. When she does, there’s something about the words she chooses that, just for a moment, reminds me a little bit of my real mom.

“Well, you’ve got to figure that out for yourself, Sophie. Just remember that you’re strong. You’re strong enough to tackle tomorrow. And you’ll be strong enough to tackle the day after that. You do, you’ll remember, come from the Warren family, and there’s nothing a Warren can’t do as long as she takes it a day at a time.”

I kind of laugh at that, at Mary’s claiming me as her own when we both know it isn’t true, but even if I’m not actually a Warren, I do somehow feel a little bit more brave.

“Thank you,” I tell her, staring up at the folds of my bed’s golden canopy and thinking how funny it is that I turned to this stranger for comfort, and that it totally worked. “I think that’s exactly what I needed to hear tonight.”

“We’re both in this together,” she assures me, as if we really are. “You call me any time you want.”

After we say our goodbyes, I doze off for a little bit, with my legs hanging part off the bed and my head sandwiched between two of the huge pillows. I’m drifting through some half-familiar images, things I recognize from the delirium I had while Dylan hauled me through the snow-covered forests on our way here, things from the storm of images that rushed through my head when I first touched his skin.

It’s like my mind’s trying to make sense of it all. Trying to organize everything in a way that might mean something, but when I start to come back to consciousness again I can’t hold onto any of it. The images just go falling away all haphazard until I can’t even remember what most of them were.

What’s there instead is an eerie, familiar feeling. The sense—growing slowly stronger along the back of my neck—that I’m not the only one in the room.

I sit bolt upright, tucking my legs up under me and pushing myself flat against the thick wooden headboard of my bed. Just like this afternoon, I don’t see anyone there and I can’t locate any sort of essence, but at the foot of the bed—right where it just feels like someone is—there’s a deep impression in the quilt, as if it’s being pressed down by the weight of something unseen.


Previous: Chapter 12

Next: Chapter 14


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Please let me know what you think, either by commenting below or emailing me here. Tell me if anything stood out to you in a good way. If anything stood out to you as bad. Is there anything in particular that you like about the characters themselves? Anything that bugs you about them? Were there any parts of this chapter that made you happy, scared, excited, sad, etc.?

LESSER DEMONS: CHAPTER 12

Posting for feedback. (Frame of reference for people who read the previous draft: this used to be Chapter 7.) Thanks for reading!


CHAPTER 12

There’s this awful sort of anticipation all heavy in my gut as I turn around, moving real slow as if whoever’s there can’t really exist until I’m actually seeing them. No one is there, though. It’s just the empty hallway and the soft swishing sound of Eilian’s departing footsteps.

It makes it worse that I can still feel the energy of a person there, even though I can’t see anyone. And the fact that the sensation is so strong, as though if I reached my hand out in front of me, there’s no doubt I’d make contact with some physical being. It’s sending prickles up and down my spine like a dozen creepy crawlers.

Just a few seconds ago, all the spookiness was kind of fun. The harmless thrill of scary stories at a slumber party. It’s become something totally different now, though. Now, I’m thinking about the fact that there are real people in this world who want to harm me. People who’s powers I know very little about and who, for all I know, really could be standing there right in front of me, invisible to my eye, trying to decide how best to make me hurt.

The unseen person—or thing, or whatever—isn’t moving, and I can’t make myself move either. Part of me wants to reach out and try and touch it, to make sure that there really is something in that pocket of energy hanging in the air. The rest of me just wants to run away like a scared little kid toward the fading sound of Eilian’s footsteps.

Then her footsteps stop, and for a heavy three seconds I hear nothing from her at all. There’s just this terrible quiet that makes me suddenly sure this ominous, invisible force has gotten hold of her too somehow. Then her voice sounds out, traveling loud and clear down the hallway.

“Are you coming already?” she calls, and the fake impatience in her voice just totally breaks the spell.

Of course no one else is there with me. It’s so suddenly obvious that no one ever was. If they had been, I’d have sensed their essence. I just let the setting get to me—let my imagination run a little too wild—and now, standing here in a glaringly empty hallway, I’m feeling pretty foolish about it all. Swearing kind of sheepish to myself that this is a story no one else will ever hear, I hurry off after Eilian, shooting just one quick glance back behind me as I go. You know, just in case.

On the sixth floor there’s this little nursery that’s full of toys that Eilian swears date back even further than the 1700s. This is the only room where she apparently doesn’t mind lingering for a while. She rummages around through all of the toys and pulls out the ones she thinks might be most interesting, telling me more about their histories than she bothered doing with anything else in the house.

There are a bunch of little wooden ships and animals and things, a nearly full-sized rocking pony, some pretty intense model castles and houses. An ant farm made of hundreds of little robotic ants. Elian’s favorite toys are the real weird ones. Like these rabbit dolls that you can open up, and inside there are some way too real little rabbit organs.

The thing she gets the most excited about, though, are these dead-eyed porcelain dolls with weird little speakers set into their backs.

When she notices them on a shelf in one of the far corners, she says, “Oh, these are terrible,” as if by terrible she means amazing.

She grabs a couple of them and shoves one into my hands, bringing the other doll up to her mouth and speaking into the speaker in this real high-pitched voice.

“I’m Sophie,” she mocks me, and her voice comes out all hollow and eerie from the doll’s staring face. “And when I see steel faces I just go ‘Aaaaaaaaa!’”

Rolling my eyes, I bring my own doll up to my mouth. “I’m Eilian,” I copy her tone. “And I take pleasure in other people’s pain.”

I draw the words out real long, trying to turn it into a sort of ghosty sound, and that’s when Dylan walks into the room. Of course. Right when I’m acting like a total weirdo. He stops on the threshold and eyes the two of us for a second, the smallest hint of a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Lunch is ready. Time to put your dollies away.”

***********************************************************************

After lunch, Dylan takes over the house tour, saying that there’s really only one place left that I need to see. We use the main elevator, which runs through the center of the tree and opens up on the first floor, in the wall underneath the marble staircase. The inside of the elevator is covered in golden gilding and hundreds of little odd-shaped mirrors, so that no matter where you look in the thing your own reflection’s staring back at you many times over.

The controls are on a panel that appears over a mirror by the door when Dylan waves his hand in front of it. They’re made of that light matter stuff, all blue and holographic with these elaborate, glowing designs wrapping around the numbers and coming together in a Celtic knot at the top.

I think the knot is just for decoration, but when Dylan taps it, the elevator starts into motion.

“This takes us to the aerie,” he says. “It was my parents’ pet project until—” He pauses just long enough for me to notice it. “Until they had to stop working on it. The thing about the aerie that I like most, though, has been there most of my life.”

We ride the elevator up for what must be at least a dozen stories, and when the doors open finally I’m not real sure what I should expect. There’s a hallway, a bit narrower than on the other floors. It’s still made of that golden-colored wood that’s all over the house, but up here there aren’t any of the bird designs in it. The hall leads to a little reading room that’s lined in cushioned benches, with a few other loungey chairs and strategically placed side tables scattered around.

The far wall is made entirely of windows, and Dylan walks straight over to them, opening a couple french doors and waiting for me to step through. It’s a balcony out there, so high up on the tree it feels like we’re practically flying. The house’s huge green willow branches drape down in front of us, framing the Daxan cityscape in a way that makes me stop dead in my tracks.

All those jumbo tree houses and craggy hill mansions rising up next to monumental desert buttes—that was all pretty amazing to see from the ground, but from up here it’s like some sort of dream world. Off to the left, crystalline downtown Daxa flickers in the sun as if everything there is made of quivering candles, and as a backdrop to all of this, the towering, snow-covered mountains sit there like kings against the dusk-tinged slate blue of the afternoon sky.

I can’t come up with a single word to say. I’m just standing there, staring at it all and thinking that this must be what it’s like to stare into the divine or something. I mean, I couldn’t imagine up a better version of heaven.

Dylan steps over to the balcony’s edge, leans against the carved wooden railing and looks back at me with a gratified smile, as if my appreciation for all of this is somehow a sort of compliment to him.

“Daxa shows its best from up here, doesn’t it?”

As an answer I just walk over to the railing next to him to stare over the side for a better view. It’s like some chess game set up by the gods down there or something, and we’re so high up right now that I can actually smell the cold. As if, with so little else to distract my senses, the scent of it just sings out loud in the air.

Dylan takes a little step closer to me, places his hand on the railing next to mine, and I can sense him heating the air around us. It’s cozy and kind of intimate, standing alone with him up here. After a second he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small gray envelope.

“Here’s your Wyoming drivers license,” he says. “And a Sophie Warren passport, to add further credence to your identity.”

It’s weird to look at those ID cards and see my own face, all framed with my shining blue super-hero hair. Dylan took the pictures this morning before he left for work, but he’s altered them a little. Made my hair a bit shorter all around, my face a little younger. To give the impression that time’s passed since the IDs were issued, he tells me.

Looking down at those things, holding them in my hands—for the first time in days the idea of living this secret identity actually feels kind of cool. I smile up at Dylan.

“This makes me an official spy now, right?” I ask, and he lets out this soft little laugh.

“You still need more training. Which,” he glances around the balcony, “we might as well do now.”

He pulls a couple of the smallest chairs out of the reading room inside and sets them up so they’re facing over the balcony railing.

Looking at me over the top of the chairs he says, “I can’t teach you much about how to be a reader, but I can teach you how to control your sightings so they don’t keep sending you stumbling to the ground. Won’t take long for people to suss you out if they realize you’re already getting sightings at this point in your Painter development.”

He has me sit down while he sets up another bubble of heat around us so that it’s almost as warm as if we were inside the house. For some reason I’m suddenly feeling kind of nervous as he sits in the chair next to me, like maybe I’m not going to be able to do all this painting and reading stuff after all. Like, maybe I’m actually just some sort of a dud.

“Today’s focus will be meditations,” he says. “They’ll help you learn how to channel your essentual energy and receive sightings without giving away any visible signs.”

Digging into his pocket he pulls out a little book and hands it to me. It’s about the size of a notecard and not even a quarter-inch thick. The pages are curled at the edges and most of the cover’s torn off as if this book’s been carried around in his pocket and opened and read every single day.   

“It details a variety of effective meditations,” Dylan explains. “I’ll teach you a few today and you can look over the rest later, but before you can understand what’s in the book you’ll need to know some of the basic principles behind particle painting.”

Propping his feet up against the wooden rungs of the balcony railing in front of us, he slumps back in his chair all casual and unconcerned in a way that reminds me a whole lot of Eilian.

“You’re pretty well used to seeing the particle world now, it seems. Tomorrow, we’ll teach you how to interact with it, but for now, all you really need to know is that intent equals force. You simply will your mind to reach out and make matter do as you wish it.”

He expands his phone and pulls a set of notes up on his screen. As he scrolls through with one hand he taps sort of absent at his temple with the other, running his fingers up through his hair every once in a while in a way that I find just a little distracting. He looks anything but official right now. It’s like he’s younger, more accessible.

“So, for instance,” he looks up from his notes, “the easiest interaction is to make something hotter or colder, which is why one of the most common Painter weapons is the fireball. It takes little of your own energy. Just a bit of heat and some molecular kindling.”

He pauses to reference something else in his notes and then continues.

“You’ve likely noticed that particles are usually in motion. If they’re moving slowly that typically translates to a lower overall temperature for the material they compose. More movement means more heat.”

I turn my attention to the little book in my hand, look down into the particles there to see what Dylan’s describing. Most of the book’s particles are moving pretty slow except around where I’m holding it with my fingers, where my body heat must be speeding the particles up.

“So the idea is that if you wanted to make fire and you had something flammable available to you, you’d simply will the particles to move faster and—”

Before he can get any further, this burst of flame ignites in my hand, shooting skyward and pretty nearly singeing my eyebrows off. I drop the burning book on the balcony floor and kind of jump backwards in my chair, at the same time that Dylan’s springing to his feet, his phone clenched tight in his fist and his eyes fixed on me.

He’s positioned as if ready for an attack, but his mouth is gaping open in so much comical surprise that I can’t help it if I start kind of giggling. It takes him a few seconds to recover, but then he nearly smiles too and drops down to the ground where the book is still burning. With a quick movement of his hand the flames are gone, and he’s looking up at me with this sort of bewildered expression on his face.

“Was that you?” he asks, like he almost can’t believe it.

“I think so.” I nod, still kind of doubtful myself. I glance at the book on the ground in front of him. It’s barely more than a burnt binding now. “Me and your beloved book of meditations, I guess. Sorry about that.”

“I can always get another,” Dylan says, sitting back on his haunches and studying me for a minute, this strange little smile growing across his face. “Well, that was unexpected. Looks like I’ll have to reevaluate the pace I’d planned for your trainings.”

I’ve never had anyone look at me that way before—like I’m a surprise to them and like that’s a good thing—and I really don’t know what to do with it. Dylan gets up and sits back down in his chair, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his eyes still turned toward me, considering.

“I wasn’t planning on doing this today, but why not keep working on painting, then?” he says. “We can do the meditations after.”

He paints out this little lump of something that feels kind of like clay. He calls it a practice ball, and he shows me how to influence the speed of the particles there in a more controlled way, trying to get the temperature of the thing just about exactly where I want it.

Every once in a while he reaches over and wraps his fingers around my wrist, to get a better sense of what it is I’m doing on the particle level, he says. And every time he does it I can feel my essensus start to light up at the back of my neck and my pulse beat just a little quicker.

He keeps commenting on how fast I’m picking up painting, but I’d probably pick it up a whole lot faster if he’d keep his pretty hands to himself.

When he thinks I’ve got the hang of heating and cooling, he has me practice a few meditations that he says should help me the most with channelling my sightings, and with Painting in general. Then he takes my phone and downloads an electronic copy of the little meditation book, telling me that before I go to bed tonight I should try the other methods it describes.

The sun’s hanging low in the sky when Dylan finally says we’d better head back downstairs for dinner. I feel like we’ve been training for days, and I’m starving, but as we’re stepping off the elevator onto the first floor the doorbell rings. This chiming arpeggio that sounds out all loud and cheerful from somewhere up near the great hall ceiling.

Dylan turns on his heel and heads to the front door, across from the foot of the stone staircase. Without really thinking about it I just sort of trail after him, lingering by the nearest marble pillar. So, with the way the room is situated, when he opens the door I’ve got a pretty clear view of the person waiting on the other side.

She’s tall and slender and exotic-looking. All thick, dark hair and thick, dark eyelashes outlining eyes as green as a cat’s. Dylan’s stunned to see her there. He’s standing at an angle to me, but I can still see it in the slackness of his jaw, in the sudden stillness of his arms as they hang at his sides.

The girl hesitates on the doorstep for just a second, and then she steps into the house, smiling at Dylan like he’s a bright light after a long, dark night. Each move she makes is like a little piece of poetry. Like she’s in precise control of every muscle in her body.

She reaches up toward him and slips her hand around the back of his neck for ramu. When she kisses him on the mouth like she’s done it a hundred times before, his whole body pulls in to meet hers, and my heart just sort of sinks.


Previous: Chapter 11

Next: Chapter 13


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