by Kristie Cook
He’s not smiling. “You and me, we’re like glue tonight. Understand?”
I try not to roll my eyes.
Cora claps her hands, attempting to get everyone’s attention. She’s emceeing for Alex, which makes sense considering she’s got the loudest voice of anyone present.
While everyone is quieting down, I sneak a look over at Jonah, who’s still standing with Iolani. As always, he senses me right away, shifting his eyes over reluctantly to meet mine.
In all the times we’ve ever connected this way, I always remain so stunned that I either keep a straight face or one of astonishment. But here’s my chance, small as it is—how many more will I get before he completely washes his hands of me? So this time, I purposely, suggestively smile. He’s confused, cautious, before the corners of his mouth tug upwards.
When his dimple appears, my heart soars. And then Iolani leans over and says something to him, forcing his attention back toward her.
It’s something, though. Small as it was, it’s a victory.
“I know this is somewhat unorthodox,” Cora is saying, hands on her hips, “having you all come here like this. But Alex has some important things to share, making all of this worth your time. First though, Meg will share with you some background info.”
Meg pulls out a sheet of paper and lays it down on the projector. “I’ve divided the chart into the six planes, here,” she says, pointing to the different headings. “I’ll start with the Human plane. Over the last ten years, there have been eleven murders and forty attacks, including the most recent.” The room is eerily quiet. She points to the next column. “On the Faerie plane, there’ve been twenty-one murders and sixty-five attacks.”
The Faeries all murmur their outrage.
Meg clears her throat. She’s so atypically serious it’s like she’s been muted. “The Gnome plane has seen eighteen murders and fifty-seven attacks.”
The Gnomes at the top of the bleachers bellow in anger, forcing Cora to yell at them to quiet down.
Meg continues, “On the Elvin plane, there have been sixteen murders, eighty-one attacks.”
I look over at Oliver; he’s merely nodding, stone-faced.
Meg points to the last column. “And finally, the Goblin plane has seen a total of nine murders, with nineteen attacks.”
“Why so few?” Alex’s mother wonders loudly.
One of the Gnomes snorts. “Don’t you know any Goblins? They wouldn’t stand for such nonsense! None of us should!” He pumps a tiny fist in the air, riling the rest of the Gnomes up again.
Cora grabs a nearby bullhorn. “Calm down and listen.” The Gnomes mostly do so, allowing her to talk. “Clearly, based on these statistics, something major is going on. What you don’t see is that the majority of the deaths have been of Council members, or future Council members. Of course, we didn’t know any of this until Chloe was attacked.” She pointedly glares at our parents. “Since this was unacceptable, we decided to do something about it. And Alex has, unlike the so-called ‘experts’ in Annar.”
My dad doesn’t even blink.
Alex is up next. When he thanks everyone for coming, the room once more falls silent. “Searching for these things was like searching for a needle in a haystack at first,” he says, shifting nervously next to the projector. “But I had a few things going for me. For starters, I knew they were Magicals. Or, at the very least, were similar to our kind. This was due to their speed, ability to move between the planes, and tendency to act in corporeal ways even though they appear non-corporeal.
“I asked myself several questions: Why are these things targeting Magicals? What is their goal? Do they gain something from our deaths? Occam’s Razor tells us that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. Why do most murders occur? Revenge, of course. Think about it—revenge for being abused, revenge for drug deals gone wrong, revenge for being the wrong sort of person. The hate and heat associated with murder usually can be tied somehow back to revenge. So I began looking for those who might want revenge against our kind.
“I’m sure everybody in this room—from the Human plane, at least—is quite familiar with Greek legends: stories of our ancestors, who, because they were different, were worshipped as gods.
“I spent a lot of time rereading these stories. And then I came across one that fits in every single way.” He picks up a book and places it on the projector. An image appears on a screen behind him, much to my pleasure: a perfect replica of the book he’s looking at. He taps the picture below, of Zeus standing over a hole, lightning bolt in hand. “This is the chapter I found most interesting. It tells of how Zeus, being leader of a new pantheon of gods, decided to overthrow the Titans, the elder gods of Greece.”
A Faerie whose name I don’t know calls out, “In our stories, he is not called Zeus. His name was Thaniel, but the story is pretty much the same.”
“The same for the Gnomes,” someone else adds. “Ours was named Jurgen.”
Alex nods. “Yes, there are versions of this story on every plane, I imagine. Since we know that most of these stories are based on facts—as distorted as they’ve become over the millennia—I couldn’t help but wonder, exactly who or what had the Titans been?” He flips a few pages and points to another picture. “According to Human texts, the Titans were the first group of rulers. They were a small group—powerful, and less nuanced than the later gods and goddesses. Zeus was, in fact, the son of one of the Titans—Cronus—who was the son of the first god, Uranus. It was a familial battle that pitted Zeus and his brothers against his father, grandfather, and elder relatives. In the end, the younger gods and goddesses won, banishing the ancients. And if Zeus—or Thaniel, or Jurgen—was an early Magical, who were Cronus and Uranus? Who were the rest of the Titans? It’s my belief they were Magicals, too.” He stops to clear his throat. “My theory is that Zeus, or whoever he was, felt threatened by the early Magicals and had a Creator strip them of power and/or their corporal existences. Oliver, this is where I need you to come in. Will you share with us the story of the Titans?”
Oliver stands up and makes his way over to Alex. Once in front of the audience, he takes a deep breath before raising his hands. A ball of light grows, shimmering between his fingers. Then he turns and throws it at the projection screen. The ball splatters in a burst of rainbow-hued light, flickering before settling into a moving picture of the Titans.
“Alexander has given you a good start to the story of the so-called Titans,” Oliver says. “And I applaud his ingenuity. He in on the road to becoming a very fine Intellectual. But, of course, he has only read the legends left behind by the ancients and does not have the complete story. Only the Storytellers have the true tale.”
chapter 24
In the beginning, there was an early group of Magicals. They called themselves the Elders, for they were the alphas. The first of the Elders was a Creator, Enlilkian, and he conjured a mate out of the four elements: equal parts of fire, earth, wind, and water. She was an Elemental in the strongest form, for there were no divisions within a craft as there are today. This Elder, Cailleache, became disillusioned with having only two Magicals to do all the work. She insisted on children, and then grandchildren, until there were a total of forty-three Elders.
Together, they controlled the only plane of existence. All non-Magicals looked to the Elders for everything—for the sun shining over their heads to the food grown in their fields. Nothing was left to chance. Everything was dictated by the Elders.
And then one of Enlilkian’s sons, Rudshivar, tired of sharing a singular plane with the rest of the family. He was a Creator, too, and one night while the rest slept, he broke the plane into six pieces. When Enlilkian awoke, he was outraged by the audacity of his protÉgÉ.
Rudshivar was banished to the outermost plane, leaving him almost nothing to rule over. But Rudshivar was clever, so he quickly began creating his own people to rule over. Once the first group sprung into existence, he created another, and then another, until all six s
pecies—Elves, Humans, Goblins, Gnomes, Faeries, and Dwarves—were wrought.
Reflecting on his work, he pondered how he ought to make others like him, in order to split the workload of caring for so many sentient beings. While it took a large effort and much time, five of each species were molded into Magicals. They were different from the Elders, for they were now of Rudshivar’s making. They did not look like Elders, nor did they act like them.
For when he had created his species, he had built in varying characteristics to make them unique from one another. And these new Magicals took their unique abilities and began to rule their new world.
The sixth plane flourished more so than the other five, still dominated by the Elders. At first, Enlilkian tolerated Rudshivar’s machinations, viewing them as harmless. But once he truly saw what was occurring in that realm, he decided to sever the sixth plane and all that existed within it, for it would not be tolerated to have such sentient creatures. He declared war, wreaking havoc and mayhem in all six planes. In the end, the thirty Magicals, along with Rudshivar, finally outmatched the Elders. But Rudshivar could not kill his father and mother, nor his brothers and sisters. He did not have it within him. So he left their fates to the thirty Magicals. Now, none of the early Magicals delighted in the death of any creature, so they brought forth their Creator, a woman named Eva, to drain the Elders of their corporal existence.
Once they become husks of their former selves, a Quake opened the ground in the fifth plane. The Magicals collected the remains of the Elders and banished them to this abyss, to contemplate what could have been and what was to be for the rest of their existences.
Rudshivar dispersed the Magicals equally to each plane, along with their species. He then willed himself out of existence, leaving behind his children to rule the worlds as they saw fit.
This is where the true changes came about, of how Magicals began leaving the aftermath of events to the peoples they were guiding. Over time, once they had begun to populate and create new crafts and skills, they asked their Creator to forge one last land, that of Annar, so they would have a haven where they could discuss their worlds and the changes necessary to advance their societies.
chapter 25
A picture of the first Council flickers on the wall behind Oliver before fading away. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” he says in his mesmerizing voice, “is the story of the Elders, or as Alexander has called them, the Titans.”
No one says anything, but you can hear the wheels beginning to turn in every single head in the room.
Alex pulls out a map of all of the different planes, marked up with red dots. “The first murder occurred on the Elvin plane. Oliver, is this the plane that the Elders were banished on?”
The Storyteller is staring at the map, his brows scrunched. “Yes, in fact, it was.”
“They would be long dead by now,” my father suddenly calls out. “This happened millennia ago. No Magical is immortal. Pinning the blame on these Elders would be tantamount to blaming King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.”
A nervous titter moves through the crowd.
“How do you know they weren’t immortal?” Alex asks.
My father sniffs in his typical, haughty way.
“Oliver said that Rudshivar had to will himself out of existence,” Alex persists. “Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he simply wait his time until death could take him?”
“Perhaps he couldn’t live with what he had done,” my father argues.
“Perhaps,” Alex says stubbornly, “it’s because he couldn’t die.”
“Young man,” my father tries, but Alex smashes his fist down against the projector.
“These things—these black shape shifters are the Elders, Noel! Everything adds up. They have the perfect motive for revenge against our kind. Oliver himself said they were left as husks—and that’s what attacked Chloe. A husk of an ancient, immortal being with quasi-functioning powers that no other beings, save Magicals, have.” He forcefully taps on the picture of the hole Zeus had created to confine the Titans in. “They were imprisoned on the Elvin plane.” He grabs a nearby book, shoving it on to the projector. “There was an earthquake on the Elvin plane ten years ago. It preceded the first Magical murder by five days. Five days! You think it’s a coincidence?”
My father is royally pissed off. “Yes!”
“Is this because I’m seventeen?” Alex says hotly. “Or because I haven’t Ascended? Or is it because you and your department have failed for ten years to figure this out?”
His mother shrieks, “Alexander Himura, you stop this at once!”
But he holds his ground. “I will not! Chloe could’ve been killed, and even though you Council sorts claim you’re trying to protect her, she still was attacked!”
“Not your fault,” I whisper quickly to Karl, who appears as if he cannot decide to strangle Alex for the insult or defend his ability to keep me safe.
“Look,” Alex yells, tapping the map again. “The murders started here, on the Elvin plane, and then spread to the Faerie plane. It continued, seeping into all the planes one at a time until all but Annar had been touched. The facts don’t lie. The dates don’t lie!”
Nearly everyone begins murmuring.
“They’re moving as a group,” Alex says. “I think it’s because they’re not whole yet, that they’re more powerful this way. Haven’t any of you listened to any of the memories of the attacks? The screaming is of multiple beings, not one. And they’re intelligent—they know how to attack, to coordinate strikes. They’re only lacking corporeal forms.” He turns to Giuliana. “I was told they split up when they attacked you, like they had a plan of attack. Do you mind showing us?”
She smiles hesitantly. “Show you?”
He clarifies, “May I surge to see?”
Just as with Oliver Crocus’s stories, a movie appears on the projector screen behind Alex when he touches the screen. But not any memory—Giuliana’s memory of that day.
She, herself, is so stunned that her mouth is hanging open.
Everyone is back to talking at the same time until Cora grabs her bullhorn again. “Do you people want to see what these things do or not?” she hollers. “Because here’s your chance to help, rather than sit around and wring your hands!”
“Cora definitely needs some people skills,” Karl whispers, flinching as several Gnomes scream down at her.
But I can’t deal with any of that. Instead, I’m riveted on watching what happened to Jonah and Kellan that day.
Giuliana’s Jeep is traveling at a frightening speed, racing south of the city. She’s swung closer to the mountains than we had, leading them up a winding road. Jonah is next to her, silent as he grips the handle above him. Kellan’s in the back, watching out the rear window. “They’re there—to the left,” he says, pointing towards the woods next to them. She watches his hand move, flicking almost imperceptively; the black shapes streaking and weaving through the trees falter and shriek loudly.
Guiles snarls, “Basta! What will it take to get away from these things?”
“We can take them,” Jonah says, sounding extraordinarily calm. Kellan voices his agreement.
“Are you crazy?” she yells. “Absolutely not! I have my orders—you are to be removed to the safest place possible.”
Kellan leans toward the window again, watching. Her eyes flick toward him in the rearview mirror—he’s doing something to the shapes again, causing them once more to shriek. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think we can outrun those things, not in this Jeep.”
“We will!” she hisses.
A large black mass streaks out in front of them, causing Giuliana to weave first toward the woods and then toward the other side. She sees the swift drop off the side; there’s only a small guardrail protecting the road from below. The Jeep three-sixties as she tries to steady it.
“Listen to me,” Jonah insists as he angles one of his hands toward one of the black shapes, causing
it to retreat. “We can take them.”
“He’s right,” Kellan agrees. “There are three of us. We can do it.”
But Giuliana is unmoved. “No—I have my orders. You are not to engage them, do you understand, Jonah Whitecomb?”
She doesn’t look back at him when Kellan says, “Fine. Then let me be the one to do the engaging.”
“Giuliana, I appreciate the thought,” Jonah says wryly, “but you and I both know I’m going to do what I want anyway. Don’t force my hand—I’d hate to have to grab the wheel once you fall asleep.”
Before Giuliana can reply, a black mass darts in front of them again. She slams on the brakes as the mass rams into the Jeep, splitting apart into ten pieces which scratch across the sides and top.
The Jeep goes spinning, hitting the guardrail. Giuliana reaches out and forces a gust of wind to blow the vehicle back toward the road, but in her panic, she misjudges the pressure necessary. It skids back toward the group of ten shape shifters, which circle it, raising the Jeep up momentarily before crashing back down. Five of the shapes dart toward the side and reformed into one again, smashing against the passenger side. It all happens so fast that no one in the car has time to react.
The Jeep flips and skids down the hill until crashing into the guard rail. The rail snaps, a loud, ugly groaning sound, allowing the Jeep to fall through. Giuliana screams as they drop about forty feet before landing, driver’s side down, against a redwood.
Her vision hazes in and out, but she still can hear Jonah saying, “Kellan! Answer me!”
And even though I know he’s fine, that they’re both fine, here, I still tense.
Guiliana tries to unbuckle herself. Her voice is slow and sticky. “Jonah, don’t get out of this car …”
But Jonah has already climbed into the backseat. “Don’t you do this to me, Kel … Wake up, wake up …”
She drops against the window once her own buckle is released. The screaming surrounds them, shattering the front windshield. “Let me get out.”