LESSER DEMONS: CHAPTER 16

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CHAPTER 16

Dylan’s already sitting in his usual chair when I come into his room for training that night. He’s got his phone expanded and he barely looks up from it when I walk through the door, but as I’m settling into my own chair he suddenly asks, “Farm Girl, huh?” in this voice that sounds like a smile.

My eyes flash up to his face, and the way he’s looking at me—all wry and warm and kind of teasey—it’s like both my lungs and heart’ve turned upside down for a second. I mean, he could give a person some sort of hernia with a smile like that.

“How’d you hear about it?” I ask, hoping it’s not real obvious that he’s just made strange things happen to my insides.

Leaning back in his chair, he brings his arms up behind his head in that way that he does, with his body all stretched out and his foot propped up against the coffee table. I don’t know why, but there’s something about him when he’s all relaxed like that that kind of kills me.

“Tua’s older brother Kaho works at the GIB,” he explains, with a hint of that smile still playing on his lips. “By tomorrow, most of Daxa should know you as Farm Girl. When a Moeaki gives you a nickname, it spreads.”

I let out this little groan and slump further down in my chair. This day has turned out to be kind of a disaster.

“Looks like I drew attention to myself already,” I say, poking at the arm of the chair sort of hard and glowering at it like maybe I hate the thing.

“In this case I’d say it’s a good thing. Fortuitous even.”

“Fortuitous?” I’m pretty sure it’s not.

“Well,” Dylan starts, and the apology in the way he drags the word out makes me glance up at him real quick. “Fortuitous because you were added to a GIB watch list today.”

“I what?”

I sit straight up in my chair now, staring at him real hard, as incredulous as I am dismayed.

“On a list of possible Way Readers.”

If Logan were here, he’d probably say that everyone’s on some sort of government watch list, as if that makes it all better, but I really don’t need any extra attention right now. I’ve already had way more than enough today.

I’m sure Dylan can tell I’m not at all excited about his news, so his reaction to that is kind of baffling to me. I mean, he does look real rueful and everything, but even as he’s trying to comfort me about the situation there’s this hint of a laugh to his voice.

“Don’t worry!” he says. “Agni and I anticipated this. It’s common sense procedure for the GIB to try to suss out who the Way Reader is before the takers do. Try to offer her some protection. The lucky thing is,” he sits forward and leans his elbows on his knees, looking at me with all this self-assured optimism, “they made me head of the task force.”

There’s something kind of hypnotic about his mood tonight. I mean, the whole time I’ve known him he’s been pretty tight with his emotions, but now, suddenly, he’s all brightness and energy. Charming in a way that I’m not even sure how to handle. Still, for some reason I just can’t get myself to match his enthusiasm.

“I thought one of our biggest rules was that no one except you and Agni are supposed to know who I really am.”

I try not to sound too grumpy about it, but it comes out that way anyway and Dylan sobers up a little. Looks me over like he’s just realizing that something might actually be wrong.

“We did start out with nearly thirty Way Reader candidates here in Daxa,” he says, his voice tinged with a subtle sort of reticence. “Narrowing down the list leaves us still with over a dozen names, and narrowing down that dozen is going to be much more painstaking. In the scheme of things, the GIB is so far away from pinpointing you. Even if you remain on the list as we whittle it down further, all it really means is that you’ll get some added protection. And it’s protection over which I’ll now have some control.”

It is comforting, to have him looking at me all serious and competent like that—like, here is a guy who will keep me safe when he says he will—but there’s still something that’s bugging me. Something I can’t quite figure out.

“Okay,” I say to him finally, because I can’t think of anything else to say. He can tell I’m not convinced, though, and it seems like it kind of gets to him. Like there’s a little part of him that needs to be able to fix whatever’s bothering me right now.

“I can’t take you off the list without causing suspicion,” he says like an apology. “But with me heading up the team I can help to point their attention away from you. There’s nothing you need to worry about.”

That’s when it comes to me. The thing that’s been feeling wrong.

“Has the GIB already started watching me?” I ask, and something about my voice makes Dylan sit up a little straighter, look at me a little closer.

“What makes you ask that?”

There’s a pretty clear picture in my mind now, of that man with the silver eyes. Just the memory of him gives me a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I was followed today. Before that lady grabbed me and I met Gwilim, there was a man following me. I’m pretty sure all the way from the school.”

Dylan sits silent for a minute, staring at me with that inscrutable expression everyone in his family seems to do so well.

“What did this man look like?” he asks finally. “You’d better tell me everything that happened.”

I describe the trip downtown and the silver-eyed man, and how he disappeared pretty much the second that woman Elspeth grabbed hold of me. The whole time, Dylan’s expression barely changes, but I’m pretty sure he’s not at all pleased.

He settles back down into his chair, but not in that casual, comfortable way like before. Pretty much every muscle in his body is tensed, like some dangerous animal thing ready to pounce. He’s staring at my face, but I’d be surprised if it’s me he’s seeing. He’s somewhere in his own head, weighing the things I’m saying, calculating.

When I’m describing the strange man’s cold metallic eyes, Dylan gets this weird, bitter little smile. His own eyes are hard and his hands are tight around the arm of his chair and, to be honest, he’s kind of freaking me out.

When I finish talking, he doesn’t say a word at first. Just shifts his gaze to the window behind me where the moon’s shining high and bright.

After a few minutes of a tense sort of silence, I finally ask him, “Who was that man that followed me?”

His eyes come back to my face for barely a split second before looking back out the window.

“A golem.” He half-shrugs, like this detail’s not all that important. “Modified Steel Face set to track you. Equipped with visual recording, I’d wager.”

He says this like it is not, in fact, a totally alarming idea, and for a minute I just want to reach across the coffee table and shake him. I mean, shouldn’t he be a little bothered by the possibility that right this second any number of taker creeps might be watching some video of me and my friends. Video of his sister?

Before I can say anything about it, he shifts his eyes back to me again and lets out this tired little sigh.

“Look, I am worried,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking. “The fact that the takers are interested in you is no great surprise, but at this point their list of possible Way Readers should be unmanageably long. If they’re using a humanized Steel Face—which is both illegal and possibly traceable, not to mention incredibly expensive—it means they’ve narrowed down their list enough to deem the risk worth it. They don’t have the resources to have narrowed it down that much themselves. In fact, there’s only one way I can imagine that the takers could do it.”

“You think someone from the GIB told them.”

He gives this stiff little nod, somehow managing to look both angry and kind of vulnerable.

“And for the golem to be trailing you by two o’clock already, the takers had to be getting the information from us almost as we decided on it. I knew—or at least I suspected—there were double agents in the GIB, but this means it’s someone I work with closely. Someone I think of as a friend, or perhaps even a mentor. Possibly one of my direct supervisors.”

“So, is that it then? Do the takers know who I am?”

There’s a weird sort of relief when I ask this, along with the dread. This draw of being able to just be myself again instead of constantly playacting. But Dylan shakes his head.

“No. I’ll wager every girl on the GIB list was being followed today, by one method or another. You have little to fear yet. The takers would be foolish to act before they knew the Way Reader’s identity with some certainty. You will need to be more careful, though, now that we know they’re watching you so closely.”

He brings his hand up and runs it kind of rough through his hair, which means, I’m guessing, that he’s not feeling quite so confident as he’s letting on.

Trying to give me one of his rueful smiles, he says, “Looks like you’ll really have to lean into the Farm Girl persona now.”

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

Dylan wasn’t joking about the Farm Girl name spreading. The next day half the school’s referring to me that way. Even people I don’t know wave at me and call out, “Hi Farm Girl!” as if getting me to say hi back to them is some sort of a thing now.   

When I see Tua after school I tell him thanks a lot for turning me into some sort of weirdo celebrity on campus, and he just laughs and slaps my shoulder.

“You’re welcome, Farm Girl.” He gives me a little wink. “Didn’t I tell you you’d do alright here? Just stick with me.”

Eilian and Leti are meeting up with some of their mutual friends today, so Tua’s supposed to give me a ride home. We’re just walking out through the front doors of the school when he suddenly bursts out laughing.

I look up at him in surprise, and he just nods toward the street, saying in his deep voice, “I’ve a feeling you’re not going home with me today after all.”

The sun’s almost blindingly bright against the snow-covered lawn and it takes me a second to make out what Tua’s seeing. It’s Gwilim Lucas standing there at the side of the road, leaning all confident and casual against an emvee that’s so black it’s like manmade night or something. He’s dressed all in black himself, which looks real good with his dark hair. Obviously, he’s got Dylan’s knack for perpetual coolness.

When he sees me and Tua, he doesn’t even wave or anything. Just sort of raises his eyebrows at us.

“Eilian’s not here,” I say as Tua and I walk up to the emvee.

“Oh?” Gwilim does that eyebrow thing again, sounding totally disinterested. Looking at Tua, he says, “I suppose you have your own way home.”

Tua bursts out laughing. “Not like I’d mention it if I didn’t. I know when I’m not wanted here.”

Then, before I can say anything about it, Tua claps me on the back and tells me goodbye.

“See you in the morning, Farm Girl. Don’t let him get you arrested or anything.”

He’s off in a second, waving and calling after someone else that he knows. I turn to look at Gwilim, half laughing and half exasperated.

“So, I guess you’re taking me home today?”

“Eventually. Right now, I’m hungry.”

He opens the passenger door and then steps around to the driver side without even looking at me, as if there’s no question about whether I’ll get in. I consider making a point of just walking away and figuring out how to make it home on the Magnix train by myself or something, but after the silver-eyed man and that Elspeth lady yesterday, I’m thinking taking off on my own isn’t such a great idea. Also, my curiosity about Gwilim gets the best of me.

He takes me to this restaurant right in the heart of downtown. A little sign on the door says it’s been voted best in Daxa for six years in a row. Inside, the place is real romantic. Not at all the sort of mood that Gwilim’s giving off himself. There’s real low lighting and trickling water falling in sheets around each table, forming fantastical, sparkling little walls.

Melodie’d probably die in a place like this. She’d start clapping her hands and probably squeal in that way that she does when she thinks something’s “just perfect.” In any other situation, I’d text her a picture. Of course, without hearing from me for so long now, she’s probably already decided she hates my guts. Or, more likely, she thinks I’m dead or something.

The waiter seats us at a table by a window and Gwilim orders food for both of us without asking me what I want. Then he looks at me as if he knows I’m about to complain about it, and he says, “Yes, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of ordering for yourself.”

I laugh, and I’m about to respond when he gets a text message on his handyphone. He views it on his palm, resting his arm on the table as he reads. From my angle I can see the blue glow of the light matter text even if I can’t actually read what it’s saying.

It shines a weird light up onto his cheeks that makes it kind of hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure he’s just gone kind of suddenly pale. His jaw’s definitely real tight, and I’m willing to bet whoever texted him wasn’t sending any good news.

Muttering a distracted apology to me, he expands his phone and holds his thumb over the mind reading sensor, composing what I’m guessing is a pretty aggravated response based on the look on his face. It’s hard not to lean forward and try to get a look at what he’s saying because he doesn’t seem like the sort of person to get upset like this over just anything.

When the waiter brings us our food ten minutes later, Gwilim’s still absorbed in his text conversation. He barely looks up to tell the waiter thank you. Then—like he needs a more tangible outlet for his frustration than the mind reader button’s allowing him—he suddenly grips his phone in both hands and starts typing furiously away on the touch screen.

He’s hardly said a word to me this whole time. When I tell him that it turns out my food—some kind of Asian-flavored beef or something—is real good, he just sort of nods and says, “Their signature dish.”

I stare at his face for a few seconds, not knowing whether I’m amused or annoyed. I mean, he’s the one that brought me here. Now I’m wondering what was the point.

“Eilian says you haven’t been home in ages.”

He glances up for a second, but only to give me this sort of half shrug.

“I think they’re pretty worried about you.”

I just get that shrug again from him. Then—apparently in reaction to another text message—he suddenly wipes his hand over his eyes and down his face and sits there in irritated silence for a second before starting to type again.

A couple kids I recognize from school walk by our table and, though they try to hide it, I can see them eyeing Gwilim and me real curious. Gwilim doesn’t notice a thing, of course.

Rolling my eyes, I look out the window next to us and resign myself to an afternoon of total silence. It’s a cold day and everyone out on the streets is all bundled up against the wind. It’s interesting to me that here in Daxa—where the whole city could be temperature-controlled if they wanted—they’ve chosen to leave all that up to mother nature for the most part.

I remember Dylan saying something about there being a vote on that a few decades back. On whether to heat the air in the whole city or just some of the parks here and there. If Dylan were here I could ask him about it. If Agni were here I probably wouldn’t even have to ask because he’d just tell me, probably in too much detail. I glance over at Gwilim, who is still typing real rapid on his phone, a look of sheer exasperation on his face now.

I’m kind of exasperated myself—sitting here in the nicest restaurant I’ve ever seen in my life while the person who brought me here just totally ignores me. I mean, probably any stranger that I can see out the window would be willing to pay more attention to me right now than Gwilim is. Although, odds are at least one of those people is some sort of taker, creeping around after me. A thought that makes me a little extra irritated.

Still, I can’t deny that this whole situation is, at least, a little bit funny. I catch sight of a kid walking on the sidewalk below us, pushing this little hovering stroller-like thing with a tiny white dog in it. The dog—sitting in there about as prim as a princess—is wearing a bright pink bonnet with so many lacy little ruffles at the front of it that you can barely see the dog’s face.

I can’t help laughing about it, glancing over at Gwilim and saying, “That kid’s got a dog in a stroller.”

Gwilim just raises a finger at me like he wants me to wait a minute, but I’ve been waiting a whole lot of minutes.

“The dog is wearing a pink bonnet,” I try again, staring at Gwilim to see if I can get any sort of reaction out of him. “I bet it’s not even his own dog. I bet he lost a bet with his sister. Probably this is some sort of punishment for him. He looks real embarrassed about it.”

I’m just making stuff up now. I can’t actually even see the stroller kid’s face. When Gwilim still doesn’t respond, I choose some other person walking along the sidewalk below and I make up a story about them. This one’s a former pickpocket who worked her way up to being a high-powered business woman, but sometimes she can’t help but pinch a trinket from some unsuspecting victim now and again.

Still no response from Gwilim, so I start again, but this time he does finally glance at me. Gives me this sarcastic look that’s only one smile away from the exasperated expression he was wearing seconds before.

“Your turn,” I say, grinning back at him, but he just keeps looking at me with that same expression. “You owe me.”

I tap the handyphone on my own finger and look all pointed at his.

“Fine,” he says finally, leaning toward the window and looking out of it with an exaggerated sort of consideration. “Hm. Let’s see. That woman there, standing at the corner like she’s got little idea where to go? I’ll tell you about her. She’s got no interests, no friends, and no talents. She does exactly nothing all day. The end.”

I burst out laughing, which it turns out is not what he was going for at all. In fact, he actually looks kind of disconcerted, but this only makes it funnier to me because it’s not an emotion I’m expecting to see on his face. After a minute one corner of his mouth starts to pull out into an off-kilter smile and he makes this sound that’s real close to a laugh.

“Okay, Farm Girl,” he says, in his usual, mocking tone of voice. “I know I’m being a terrible host. Shall I prove that I can be better?”

He places his elbows on the table and leans forward toward me, resting his chin on top of one hand and looking me right in the eyes. Making a real point of giving me his full attention.

“So, tell. What’s my little Cousin Sophie’s story? If you’re such a good friend of my family’s, why haven’t I ever heard of you before?”

His question catches me totally off guard. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have an answer prepared for this, but it’s the way he asked it. Like maybe he knows something’s fishy. The story Dylan told his family—that Gweneth and my mom simply lost touch for a while after Mary decided to go off the Painter grid—none of them even seem to have batted an eye at it. Gwilim on the other hand. Well, I can’t tell if he’s teasing or completely serious.

I open my mouth to answer him, but just then someone calls out his name.

“Gwilim Lucas, you sly devil. You said you were busy.”

This red-headed kid is striding toward our table. As he pulls a chair over and scoots in next to Gwilim, he looks me up and down, real obvious and bordering on gross.

“Looks like you are busy after all.”

“Yes,” Gwilim says. “So go away.”

“She can’t want to be alone with you. Is he boring you with his childish sarcasm?”

“The opposite actually.”

I wouldn’t say that I dislike the guy exactly. It’s just that, on first impressions, there’s not much about him that I like at all.

He nudges Gwilim and says, “Going to introduce me?”

“Not likely.”

“Do it for myself, then.”

The guy leans over the table, offers me his palm. “Tom Cloutier. Gwilim’s mentor and best friend in the world.”

The name sounds real familiar, but I can’t think of why.

“I’m Sophie Warren.”

His eyes narrow a little bit. “Gwilim’s cousin, eh?”

“We’re not actually cousins.”

He lets out this laugh that’s real annoying and says, “Yeah, well, you do want to make sure to get that clear. Don’t want people to get the wrong impression.”

For just a second there’s a look on Gwilim’s face that tells me he’s not too keen on Tom Cloutier either, but Tom’s still yapping on.

“You don’t look like a farm girl,” he says to me. “You seem like a lot more fun than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Gwilim says.

“Meeting Wotan Schmid, like I said in my text. He’s back in town. Staying with us tonight.”

I remember now where I heard Tom Cloutier’s name. This is the guy Gwilim’s been hanging with lately? No wonder Dylan hadn’t looked pleased by the news.

“You’re meeting Wotan here?” There’s a strange expression on Gwilim’s face. He turns his eyes on me, studies me with a look I can’t read. Then he stands up. “I’ll be sorry to miss him, but we’ve got to go.”

“You’re leaving already?”

“Catch my check and I’ll pay you back tonight. Tell Wotan I’ll see him then too.”

Gwilim’s coming around to my side of the table, and I grab my bag, wondering what’s going on.

“Where you guys going?” Cloutier asks like it’s some sort of dirty secret.

“Do you think I’m going to spend my whole date staring at your ugly face? Nothing more calculated to ruin the mood.”

Gwilim takes my hand and pulls me after him, giving Tom a brusque wave.

“Was this a date?” I tease as we’re getting into the emvee a few minutes later.

He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”


Previous: Chapter 15

Next: Chapter 17


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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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LESSER DEMONS: CHAPTER 11

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CHAPTER 11

I’m twisting around in my chair, scrambling at the seatbelt with no other thought than that I need to get away from this crazy monster thing. It takes me a couple seconds to realize that Eilian is practically cackling now and that Dylan, through his own fair share of laughter, is trying hard to calm me down.

“It’s just a golem, Sophie,” he’s saying, his hand all warm and steady on my arm, and it’s weird to hear him address me by that name. “They wash the windows while we’re stopped. It’s stupid and unnecessary, but people find it charming to mimic the Particle-Blind world in these little ways.”

I notice the metal bucket on one of the thing’s arms now, and the yellow rags in its other hands. Dylan waves the thing off, and it turns away and ambles back to the side of the road, its six arms hanging loose like some sort of homemade insect costume, its movements real creepily smooth.

My heart’s still beating twice as fast as it should be, but I can feel my breath starting to slow down a little. Eilian scoots forward and flops across the shoulder of my seat, and there’s still laughter in her voice when she says, “You’ve really never heard of steel faces?”

“If that’s what that thing is called, then no. I have definitely never heard of those.”

The light turns green and Dylan starts the emvee moving forward again, saying, “They’re basically service golems, performing whatever tasks they’ve been programmed for. They’re used all over Daxa, as well as most other cities in the Republic.”

“They give them the metal faces so they don’t make people uncomfortable,” Eilian offers as if this makes a whole lot of sense.

“That face is supposed to not make people uncomfortable?”

They both laugh.

“It’s supposed to make them less humanoid,” Dylan explains.

“Right. Well they definitely hit that nail on the head.”

As we keep moving I start to notice all sorts of those things around. Tall ones and small ones with any number of arms and legs, moving up and down the sidewalks right alongside the real people. They all have those shining steel faces, and it gives me the jeebies every time they so much as glance in our direction.

The shopping mall where Dylan takes us is shaped like a ten-storied crescent moon and inside it’s not so much that the shops have gardens in them as that the gardens have got shops. I mean, it’s just flowers and trees everywhere, and it’s all real pretty. The ceilings are vaulted with crown molding running along the edges, and the outer walls are made entirely of this rainbow-tinted glass.

Eilian dives into the stores as if shopping is some sort of an olympic sport or something, pulling items off shelves and hangers one after the other and tossing them at me to catch. She wants me to try on practically everything she gets her hands on and, if Dylan wasn’t there, she’d probably make sure I bought it all too.

Still, the number of clothes we do come away with—all paid for from some mysterious bank account Dylan keeps referring to as mine—would probably make my mom have a hernia or something. I can hear her voice in my head saying, “Who in the world would ever need so many things?”

There are pants and shoes and sweaters and little jackets and long coats and hats and gloves and earrings and tiaras and basically anything you could ever imagine a person putting on their body. Even, of all things, an honest-to-goodness ball gown that I’m supposed to wear to something called the Welcome Ball that Mawihl Academy hosts at the end of the first week.

At one point Eilian informs me, all nonchalant like it’s no big deal at all, that in addition to the Welcome Ball, Aunt Nia and Uncle Wyn are going to throw me an introduction party, which is apparently a thing people do to welcome friends to Daxa for the first time.

“At least a hundred people have already confirmed they’ll be coming,” Eilian says like this is somehow a good thing.

I glance over at Dylan, probably looking exactly as horrified as I feel, and from the expression on his face I’m guessing this introduction party is as much a surprise to him as it is to me.

“Mum already bought you a dress,” Eilian says as she leans over an assortment of slipper-like shoes and scrutinizes them with a professional eye. “And jewelry. Aunt Nia’s got it all hanging up in her room as inspiration for the party design.”

I give Dylan another look, which he returns with a heavy dose of apology. As we’re leaving the store he comes up beside me and under his breath he says, “I suppose it will help establish Sophie’s identity in Daxan society,” as if this is supposed to make everything okay.

I just groan a little and make a face. If Melodie were in my place she’d probably be dying of happiness right now—if she were here with me, maybe I would be happy about it all too—but mostly I just feel overwhelmed.

Our last stop is to get me something that Dylan and Eilian call a handyphone. It’s basically a cell phone that you wear as a ring on your finger, and it is mind-bendingly cool to me.

First of all, by some sort of Painter voodoo magic that Dylan still insists is science, even though the ring part of the phone stays snug on your finger during a call, you can hear the other person’s voice in your ear as clear as if they were actually in your head. Text messages show up in blue light on your palm when you’ve got your hand faced toward you, and if you press your thumb against the back of the ring a piece of it will detach and expand until you’re holding a full-sized, touch-screen phone.

There’s a “mind reading” sensor on the ring itself and on the front of the cell phone that responds to your brain synapses when you’ve got your thumb pressed over it, so you can control your phone by painting. Another button expands the cell phone into a tablet and, if you happen to set the cell phone or tablet down and walk away, as long as you’re within a few feet of it you can just press your thumb to the ring and the detached part will come flying back into your hand.

The whole time the shop attendant’s explaining this stuff to me, I feel pretty much like James Bond getting the rundown from Q. I mean, I just keep wondering when she’s going to show me some secret compartment in the ring that shoots out poisonous darts or something.

What it does have, it turns out, is the ability to produce something called “light matter,” which is this blue, holographic-looking ball of light that you can touch and manipulate by painting. Dylan says it’ll come in handy when I’m practicing for school, that eventually I’ll find all sorts of other uses for it.

The shop walls are covered in little floating handyphone displays. There are metal ones, jeweled ones, wooden ones—pretty much any style a person could want. Dylan’s is a simple band, made out of a dark black stone that seems to glow from somewhere inside when you look real close, and Eilian’s is a white gold ring shaped into a graceful sort of Celtic-looking tree on her finger.

I think it’s going to be hard to pick out the one I want, but I find it in about five seconds. A delicate little dragonfly, all sparkling blues and greens. Real uncannily like the dragonfly that formed out of my dad’s photograph back in Flemingsburg. I know it’s the one as soon as I see it, and there’s a hint of something in Dylan’s expression that tells me he can probably guess why.

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

That afternoon Dylan goes to work for a couple hours, saying he’s got a lot to catch up on. Then, in the evening when he’s back and we’re all lounging around together in the family study, he texts me on my new handyphone and says he needs to speak with me alone. He arranges this by having me announce that I’m tired and I want to go to bed. Before I leave, he offers to walk me to my room so that I don’t get lost in their huge and rambling house, but as soon as we’re out of earshot of the others he says we’re going to his room instead.

It’s on the fifth floor, and to get to it we’ve got to pass through this gym that has a real tall, domed ceiling and these weird pegs and ledges all over the walls. The gym is pretty big—at least as large as the one in Logan’s church building back in Flemingsburg—but after everything else I’ve seen in Daxa today I’m not all that surprised the Lucases have got a space like that in the middle of their home.

Dylan’s bedroom, other than the size of it, is about as different from mine as a room could be. It’s all modern and sleek and pretty spotlessly clean, and from the ceiling right down to the threading in the quilt on his bed, everything’s a bright, crisp white with just a few pops of color here and there.

The only thing about the place that seems at all cluttered or disorderly is the built-in bookcases lining one wall. There are so many books in there that it looks like some kind of literary explosion. Books are squeezed in at every angle, double- and triple-parked on the shelves, and they’re nearly all real well-worn like they’ve been lovingly and frequently handled.

Dylan leads me over to a tidily arranged set of chairs surrounding a white coffee table in the far corner of the room. I flop down into the seat he indicates and curl my legs up under me. Then, on second thought, I carefully unfold my legs again and place my feet nice and neat back on the floor because it occurs to me that maybe having people rub their shoes all over his pristine furniture isn’t exactly Dylan’s favorite thing.

He doesn’t seem to notice any of this, though. Just slides down into the chair across from me, leaning all relaxed against the back of it and folding his arms behind his head like he’s very much in his own territory.

“I got hold of your mum,” he says, real nonchalant like it’s not all that big a deal, but as soon as I hear those words I’m practically out of my chair.

“You talked to her?” I ask, and he’d have to try real hard not to hear the million-and-one follow-up questions that hang ready in my voice.

He smiles a little bit.

“First thing she asked was if she could talk to you,” he says, but when he sees the reaction on my face he’s quick to add, “which we can’t allow yet, though. There’s more I need to set in place before I’d advise any contact between the two of you.”

I sit back in my chair again and try not to act too disappointed.

“Is she safe, then?” I ask, and Dylan nods, reassuring.

“She said it’s nice to be with her brother again, and to get to know his family.”

I don’t say it, but for some reason this just makes me feel a little worse, picturing Mom out there all happy without me, reestablishing ties to some family I’ve never known.

“I’m still working on tightening up any loose ends with her situation,” Dylan says, sitting up and pulling out a thin drawer in the coffee table. “I’m setting her up in protective custody. She’ll have security watching her at all times, but if they do their jobs right she won’t be able to tell they’re there. And they won’t know who she is or why she’s in the program. I’ll be the only one who knows that. Most of those arrangements should be finished by tomorrow afternoon.”

He slides some file folders out of the open drawer and drops them on the table in front of me.

“Your identity, on the other hand, is already nearly complete.” He pulls a couple maps and some photographs out of the folders and pushes them across the table toward me. “This is Gilford, Wyoming. Sophie Warren’s home sweet home.”

It’s small. Smaller than Flemingsburg even. I’m guessing probably way less than a hundred people live there, including kids. There’s only one real road that goes through the town, and a couple little side streets that look so beat and broken that they might as well’ve never been paved. Dylan shows me pictures of the shops and the houses that skirt the main street, and they’re not exactly anything to get excited about. Mostly they’re dirty and kind of rundown. Still, there are some things about the place that feel comforting and familiar. One house in particular, with a real well-kept garden and an old wrap-around porch, reminds me of Sara’s house back home.

On one of the maps, Dylan shows me the Warren farm—my supposed home. It sits at the end of a narrow dirt road that stretches away from the town and winds partway up the nearest mountain. The farm itself is a bit smaller than mine and Mom’s farm, but it’s charming and clean, and I’m betting it wouldn’t be hard to fall in love with the place if I ever did have to live there.

Dylan’s got pictures of practically every Gilford resident and their dog (and there are a lot of dogs), and he explains to me who they are, what they do, how I supposedly know them.

“This is Roger Sheridan” he says. “He’s the town handy man. His son Boyd has been a friend of yours since you were children. This is Margaret Tulley. She owns the general store just like her family has done for generations. She calls you ‘Soph’ instead of Sophie and when you were about 6 years old she caught you and Boyd Sheridan trying to carve your initials into the wall of her shop. She still calls you a ‘little scamp’ to this day.”

It’s like he’s written a whole novel or something. Seems like every person in the town has some story that connects to me, and I’m wondering how in the world he’s arranged all this in a matter of just a few hours.

“Are these actual people in an actual place?” I ask, kind of impressed but also a little skeptical. “What are they going to do if some taker comes walking into town and says, ‘Hey, do you know Sophie Warren?’”

“They’ll say, ‘Why, yes we do. That’s the little scamp I found carving her initials into the wall of my general store.’”

I just stare at him for a second and he gets that little look on his face like he knows he’s being pretty impressive.

“Most of this is Mary Warren’s doing,” he concedes, indicating all the photos and maps with his hand. “She really is an old friend of my mother’s, and when Mum approached her a week or so ago with the vague idea that Mary might be willing to pose as your mum, Mary said she rather thought she could offer up most of the town, and that’s what she has done. Told them all she’s working with the US government. That her job is to provide a false backstory for a sweet young girl who’s real parents got themselves mixed up in something awful. Told them this girl is now hiding out with a new identity until she can testify in court, and that Mary needs all her friends to act as if she’s always had a daughter and as if that daughter’s gone away to university now.”

“All those people were willing to do that?” I ask, and Dylan nods.

“Mary says her only problem has been keeping everyone to the same narrative. They all want to make up their own stories about you, and those stories can get fairly elaborate.”

To be honest I guess I’m not all that surprised. Logan would probably lose his mind if he had the chance to be part of some complicated scheme like this. Sara and Melodie—any number of other people in Flemingsburg too. Especially if they thought they were helping out a neighbor, and a friend.

Dylan pushes another photo across the table to me.

“This is Mary Warren,” he says, tapping his finger next to the person’s face. “This is your new mum.”

It’s a picture of a tall, dark-haired woman standing at the edge of a dirt road. She’s leaning against a rough, handmade log fence and looking at the camera all unsmiling like someone straight out of some Great Depression movie.

I don’t mean to, but I can’t help feeling just a little bit disappointed. I mean, yeah, my real mom’s spent most her life working on our farm too, but there’s just always been something so soft about her still. Sophisticated. This woman is all sturdy and earthy and physical.

“To make it believable for anyone who might be paying attention, you’re going to have to call Mary sometimes,” Dylan says, watching me real steady, and I’m guessing he’s noticed the disappointment in my face. “Treat her as if she’s your real mum who’s waiting back at home for you and whom you miss. Do you think that’s something you can do with her?”

I look back down at her picture, trying to imagine talking to her like she means anything to me at all.

“She doesn’t know you’re the Way Reader,” Dylan says, still watching me real close. Waiting. “She believes she’s simply helping out one of Mum’s friends who’s found herself in a tight spot.”

The more I’m staring at this Mary Warren woman, the more I’m thinking she’s not so severe after all. If you look close enough you can see the hint of a smile there, mostly in the wrinkles around her eyes.

“I can treat her like she’s Sophie’s mom, I think,” I say finally, and this appreciative smile flashes across Dylan’s face.

“Good,” he says, standing up and stepping around the coffee table to grab my hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, kind of taken off guard by the sudden flare of essentual energy that sparks between our fingers and reverberates up my arm.

“Calling Mary,” he says, pushing his thumb down on the back of my dragonfly ring to expand it into handyphone mode.

He pauses for a second, this look on his face like he’s listening to something that I can’t hear. Then he lets go of me and steps back a little, expanding his own phone and bringing it up to his ear.

S’mae, Mum,” he says, almost cheerful. “You’re up early.”

Sort of smiling down at me, he holds his finger up to tell me it’s going to be a minute. Something about the way he does this—like he’s comfortable with me, like we’re just two friends hanging out—makes me feel kind of warm and snugly inside, and I relax back into my chair and settle in to wait for him.

“How’s nain and taid?” he’s asking. “Hm. Ie. Oes, she’s here with me now.”

Then he’s holding his phone out to me and saying, “Mum wants a word,” and any sense of snugness I was feeling is gone in a snap.

 I take the phone from him, but not because I want to. My insides feel suddenly like something’s in there that’s alive. I mean, what is he thinking springing a conversation with his mom on me like this? You’ve got to give a person a minute to prepare.

But turns out his mom’s got the same knack as Aunt Nia for making you feel all charming and interesting and worthwhile. Although, her accent is a bit more pronounced than Nia’s, dipping up and down in these real unexpected ways. And she doesn’t talk to me like she thinks of me as a kid. She tells me to call her Gweneth and treats me as if I’m just like any other friend.

“I’m sure Dylan will do his best to make you feel comfortable in our home,” she tells me. “Cadfan’s sister Nia, and Wyn as well. But if you find you’re in need of anything that they can’t provide, do feel free to contact me. I’ve asked Dylan to put my number into your phone, and hopefully someday soon I’ll have the privilege of meeting you in person.”

We don’t talk for very long. She says it’s morning in Wales and she’s got to get breakfast made for her parents.

“Maybe someday you can stop off at our little home here in Caergybi. From everything Dylan’s said, I think my mam and tad would really like to know you.”

When we say our goodbyes I hand Dylan’s phone back to him, and he goes grabbing for my other hand again, taking my own phone from me and saying that it’s time to call Mary.

“Best to jump right into these sort of things. Besides, she’s a few hours ahead of us so it’s growing late for her.”

He sits down on the armrest of my chair and props one foot on the coffee table, entering Mary’s number into my phone and hitting send. Then he hands it back to me and I see that the screen says it’s calling “Mom.”

The nervousness I feel as I take the phone now is entirely different than what I felt when Dylan’s mom called. With his mom I didn’t have to play act. Even though she talked to me as if I really was the daughter of her long lost friend, I was fully aware that she knew who I really was and all I had to do with her was be myself. With this Mary Warren person, I’ve got to pretend that I’ve known and loved her my whole life, and I’ve got to do it without letting her in on my real identity.

Staring up at Dylan as if he’s going to somehow save me from this, I bring the phone up all tentative to my ear and within seconds I’m hearing the voice of a stranger. It’s deep for a woman’s, and strong. With this gentle ripple to it like it’s being played over some old phonograph or something.

I barely have time to babble something about it being me, Sophie, before she jumps right in, asking me if I’m well, if the trip was pleasant, how I’m liking the Lucases and their home. Her questions come so quick that I just answer back on instinct, responding as honest as I can to every subject that she poses. Until, totally out of the blue, she asks point blank if I think Dylan’s kind of good looking, and at that point all I can manage is an awkward sort of stutter.

“His mother was stunning so I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says with this laugh that reminds me of well-worn quilts and cozy log fires. I glance kind of wary up at Dylan where he’s still perched on the arm of my chair, but if he can hear what Mary’s saying he doesn’t show any sign of it.

Then, just as unexpected as everything else about tonight, Mary’s already wrapping up our conversation, making me promise to enjoy myself in Daxa, to learn a lot.

“Good night. I love you,” she says as easy as if she’s said it to me every day of my life, and after an uncomfortable pause I repeat it back to her. Then just like that, the call is done.

Dylan’s kind of laughing as I’m shrinking the phone back into my ring. This pleasant, real quiet sort of laugh that I’d probably hardly notice if he weren’t sitting so close to me.

Looking down with a wry little smile he says, “You’ll have to learn to tell her you love her without rumpling up your face like that. It’s a dead give away.”

He slides off my chair and walks back around to the other side of the coffee table, starting to gather up all the photographs and maps of Gilford and putting them back into their folders.

“I’ve kept all of these files offline for now so that no one can hack into it,” he says, dropping the folders back into their drawer and then standing straight and looking down at me again.

“We need to start training you in painting and particle reading—as much as I can teach you before Agni comes back—so we should meet here every day, probably after dinner. You can go over all of the Gilford details as well, and once you’ve got them down I’ll get rid of all these files. You’ll need to seal it all into your mind as solidly as actual memories.”

   I’m pretty sure his standing there like that means tonight’s secret meeting has come to a close, so I stand up too, realizing suddenly how real tired I am. Dylan starts walking toward the door, and I trail after him.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” he says as he waits for me to step out into the gym. “Until you get more familiar with the house, we don’t want to send you out on your own to go and get lost in it.”

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

In the morning Dylan goes back to work again, and he asks Eilian to take me on a tour of the house while he’s gone. She’s happy enough to do it, but to call what she gives me a tour would be really stretching the meaning of the word. It’s more like a game of hide and seek, the way she’s already disappearing around corners or into another room every time I so much as pause to get a better look at something.

The hallways are like a maze, and most of the rooms aren’t too much better. Every space seems to be filled with family heirlooms and ancient Painter artifacts. Eilian says that each floor of the house was built by a different Lucas generation, carved out of the inside of the tree as it grew big enough to allow for it.

In addition to an army’s worth of bedrooms, the place has loads of spaces that no normal person would have in their house. Like, on the ground floor there are two entertainment rooms that Eilian calls the blue and red salons as if she’s stepped straight out of some old romance novel or something, and on the fourth floor there’s an honest to goodness ballroom just dripping with chandeliers and golden sconces. Not too far down the hall from that there’s a huge arboretum where Aunt Nia grows a whole jungle of plants and herbs and things.

One wing on the third floor seems a little mustier than the others, a little less commonly used, with all sorts of extra weird artifacts and things stashed away in the rooms there. Things like a huge old Asian-style gong or an antique Particle-Blind printing press. They’ve gathered some dust and cobwebs, and they send strange shadows crawling along the floors and walls.

Eilian has even less time to give to this part of the house, as if she thinks whatever might be here isn’t worth our attention, but to me this all seems like exactly the kind of place where some ominous, ghostly figure’d be roaming the halls. Makes my hair sort of stand on end in that way that’s kind of exciting because you know there’s really not anything to be scared about, but maybe I am already a little bit primed and ready for a haunting by the time we pass by the little nook at the end of one of the corridors.

It’s not an inherently creepy nook. There’s a comfortable-looking little cushioned bench seat and a shelf with a few books on it, a vase of kind of quaintly dried flowers. What makes it creepy is the snarling brass dog’s head that’s hanging on the wall right smack above the bench. There’s no light on in the nook and the dim light from the hallway falls across the dog’s features at just the right angle to make it look pretty downright terrifying.

“What is this?” I ask, kind of laughing and stopping in the nook’s arched entryway in fascinated disbelief. But, as usual, Eilian just shrugs and keeps walking, barely looking over her shoulder to say that it probably belonged to one of her long dead ancestors.

I can’t turn away from the thing, though. I mean, it’s so alarming that I’ve just got to keep staring. And despite the fact it’s made out of brass, it’s real mesmerizingly life-like. I wouldn’t be surprised if any second now it turned it’s metal eyes down on me and made a quick lunge for my jugular.

So that’s where I am—rooted in that dim hallway, staring up at the dog while I listen to the sounds of Eilian’s footsteps disappearing around the corner again—when I feel suddenly sure that there’s someone else in the hall behind me. Someone standing real still and real close.


Previous: Chapter 10

Next: Chapter 12


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