When she gets on the train, she stands dejectedly, smushed against a window as the ever-growing hordes swamp in, pushing the train's capacity to bursting point. Typical weekday morning. Luckily, it's only two stops till her school and Anima gets off the train. After being packed in a can with hundreds of other sardines, it's nice to breathe the fresh air again, even if it is the thick polluted air of the train station platform. As she inhales deeply, she feels a tap on her shoulder.
“Excuse me miss, I think you dropped this,” says a female voice.
The woman has silvery hair that flows like snowmelt, with eyes of gray mist. In her outstretched hand is a bracelet. Not just any bracelet. It is silver with intricate scrollwork all around the band. Pink and red swirls decorate it and a golden heart completes the design.
Anima shakes her head and begins to turn away, but something stops her. She looks again and sees a man standing beside the woman.
He leans down and begins whispering to the mysterious woman in a foreign language. The man is tall with short coppery hair and flickering eyes, like a cat’s. “It’s not the right time. You know who must come first,” he says, now speaking in English.
I’ve never seen people like that before, Anima thinks. She looks at the couple warily, considering her options. She meets the blazing eyes that seem to weave in and out of reality and blinks hard. Stranger danger it is then. As Anima walks away, she thinks there is something familiar about the strangers and turns around.
“Hey wait!”
But they’re gone.
Anima turns and runs out of the station. The last thing she needs this morning is to have to suck up to Mrs. Divala to get out of detention for being late.
How brilliant. She makes it to English class on time only to have the doorway blocked by Adam Holston. “Get lost!” she snarls, and tries to shove her way past.
He grabs her arm. “Don't you want a piece of this, Anima? You've got to at least say the magic words.” She tries to wriggle free again, but he holds on tight, a smirk plastered onto his face.
Stamping her foot angrily, she gives him an icy glare. If all the hate and malice in the world had been combined in one instant, it would not have held a candle to the look she gave Adam Holston.
Instantly, his voice changes, he cowers, and holds his hands above his head like a misbehaving toddler, knowing that he has done something wrong. “I’m—I’m sorry.” The words are choked out, his eyes downcast. Anima gives him a wicked smile and then sits down in the front left corner, her usual seat. Everyone else in the class gives her a wide berth. The desk next to her is never filled.
Two lectures and one algebra test later, it’s finally time for lunch. Anima has no intention of eating the canteen “food” and plans on sleeping on one of the benches in the hallway. That was her plan anyway until the Bryson twins show up.
“We hear you beat up our homie, Holston. We’re here for redemption.”
Anima snorts derisively. “I might take you seriously if you weren't wearing sunglasses indoors and saggy pants.” She walks off, not waiting for a response, but isn't surprised when she gets one.
She hears the kick before it comes whistling towards her face and moves to duck. Bryson One, however, already lies on the floor. His face and hands are splotchy red as if he had just slammed into an invisible glass wall.
She stares at him in confusion. He simply stares back, too sore to move while his brother hangs back, not wanting to get hurt. As Anima tries to comprehend the situation, she hears the distinct, venomous clicking of high heels on the linoleum floor of the hallway. Oh no. Not her.
“Anima dear, we need to have a talk.” Mrs. Divala giggles as she says it, but her eyes tell a different story, one of punishment and humiliation. “This,” she says, gesturing to the two incapacitated boys “is unacceptable.”
Anima always thought that Mrs. Divala had eyes that were the color of day-old road ice, or maybe a dirty, wet dishcloth, but today they are shards of sea glass, unassuming and smooth, but still sharp. When Anima doesn’t move, Mrs. Divala forcibly takes Anima's arm and leads the freshman girl into the English office.
“Sit down, dear, I’m not going to bite.”
Like I believe that, Anima thinks, but she just silently clenches and unclenches her fists behind her back.
“Anima, what did you do to that boy? Dear sweet little Christoph, what did he ever do to you, child?”
Oh, so that’s what his name was. “I didn't touch him. He tried to kick me, and I ducked. I didn't see what happened.” Short, guarded sentences betray nothing and can’t incriminate you. She doesn’t mention the invisible glass door or the red splotches on dear sweet little Christoph.
“Now, come, come. You and I both know that that’s not true.” Mrs. Divala titters as she looks at Anima. “Now tell me, when did you first discover your gift.” Her voice has hardened, and her eyes are glittering.
Anima glances around. “Have I been left a present?” She cocks her head to one side. Feigning ignorance is the best option at all costs. Except this time, Anima isn’t faking. Confusion fizzes inside her, but she keeps quiet.
“Don’t toy with me you little insignificant—if you’re not even a mahi, you have no chance of holding your own against me,” she says with a disdainful rage. Her very being—even her double chins—tremble with fury.
Anima shrinks into her seat, her bewilderment growing. Mahi? Isn’t that some kind of tuna? But before Anima can open her mouth there’s a flash of light and the window shatters, pieces raining in a perfect arc over Mrs. Divala. The shards are glowing like translucent embers, and there are cuts on Mrs. Divala’s hands and face. The cuts do not bleed but are dark thin slashes that form swirling designs. Her teacher stands silent for a moment, casually examining her torn skin. Her calm makes Anima's stomach roil.
“It was you, wasn’t it, Anima?” says Mrs. Divala eventually, turning to face the window. “You made that window shatter, didn’t you?” Anima freezes in her tracks. She was in the process of slowly inching her way to the door, and she was rather hoping that Mrs. Divala wouldn’t notice. “Do you really want to see what you’re dealing with?”
“No, actually I don't, but thanks for asking.” And with that, Anima slams the door shut behind her and sprints down the hall. Christoph is standing next to some nearby lockers, eavesdropping. As Anima runs, he sticks out a foot and trips her. Her head smashes into the ground. No! I have to get away!
She gets up and begins to run again, albeit a lot more slowly as a sneering Christoph looks on. The office door is still uncomfortably close, she thinks, turning a corner and continuing her now-sluggish escape. Christoph hears a scream from within the English office. And it doesn’t sound human.
“Mrs. Divala, are you alright? He pushes open the office door and shrieks, horrified by what he sees. His screams are quickly silenced. When he exits the office later that day, he has no recollection of his encounter and thanks Mrs. Divala for the lovely tea. Mrs. Divala thanks him back and then discreetly wipes a smear of blood off her door as she closes it.
Anima's head is pounding by the time she reaches the front office. After explaining a terrible dodge ball incident in gym class, the secretary agrees to call her parents. The already inaudible phone conversation begins to fade away as Anima slumps over onto the desk. A stapler and several pencils roll to the floor as the receptionist urges Anima's parents to come as quickly as possible.
The cab smells musty, like old cabbage. Anima lies across the back seat with her head in her mother's lap. Her dad is squashed in the front with the taxi driver, who is smoking a cigarette. A beer rests precariously on the brim of the open glove compartment door, and varied cussing is heard throughout the ride. Images of exploding windows and demonic faces swirl through Anima’s head, as the cab chugs through the steady New York City traffic. When the cab jerks to a stop, Anima sits bolt upright.
“You alright dear?” her mother asks. “The secretary said that you took a bit of a turn. We had
to carry you to the car.”
“Mom, where are we going?” Anima asks, rubbing her temples.
“The airport of course! You didn’t think we were going to cancel, did you?”
Anima shakes her head. Images careen about her skull, threatening to burst forth into reality once more. Am I crazy? Next, I’ll be seeing fairies and dragons. She considers saying something to her parents but dismisses the thought. They’re crazy themselves, after all. She absentmindedly gazes at the roof of the cab, tracing the location of each gray dot and patch. No one cares about possibly mental Anima—no! It’s always about the stupid trip!
She turns to face away from her mother and silently curses her for the rest of the drive.
2
when communicating with the dead ruins your social life
Well, this place does look depressing, doesn’t it? Nuntios sighs as he begins to climb the foreboding stone stairs. Gnarled gargoyles look down on him from the roof, as if judging him. This school screams “reform.” No matter how much his parents try to sugarcoat it, that is even more evident as he passes through the front door, a huge hunk of cedar reinforced with iron strips.
The question is, is it supposed to be keeping students in? or freedom out? Both is the more likely answer. Students shuffle between classrooms in the dimly lit hallway. Their uniforms are rather hideous. Chartreuse? Really? How could anyone fancy that color? It is very evident, even now, that this school is no place for a trickster like Nuntios.
Some students clump against the walls talking among themselves. It’s time to listen. Hearing people talk about each other is excellent entertainment. Judging by the looks of this place, it may be the only entertainment. There are scattered whispers, but no one turns to look at him, not directly, anyway.
“Ugh, he looks just like Lukas. That’s all we need. Two of them.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“Maria, you’re blushing.”
Very interesting. Nuntios smiles to himself as he sees the two girls chatting, one a very obvious shade of pink. This will make excellent fodder. He looks down at his manila folder. He’s supposed to be looking for an Eric Berger. He does sound like a snotty type. How to circumvent that will be the challenge, but no matter.
Nuntios has plenty of practice, weaseling his way out of trouble. Down the hall, there's a gentleman in a suit looking dreadfully important; maybe he can help. Nuntios strides towards the man. Judging by the ashen faces of the other students, this is his highness, Eric Berger himself. Nuntios suddenly feels naked, his jeans and jacket strange outliers in the sea of cropped skirts and blazers.
“Well, don't you all have classes to go to?” the man snarls. “And you, Lukas, you should be more careful in avoiding further infractions.”
Ah, so that’s Lukas, Nuntios muses. A nice chat with him later will be splendid.
“And you!” the man shouts, pointing directly at Nuntios. “Why are you out of uniform?” Now everyone turns to look at the leather-clad new arrival.
You see, this is fun—as long as it’s not happening to you. But it’s happening to me. “I’m sorry to bother you sir, but—”
“If you were really sorry you wouldn't have bothered me in the first place. Now, what's your name, boy?"
“Nuntios, Nuntios Ehrlichmann. You see I'm a new student here, and I was wondering—”
“You’re late. Three hours late. The school day is nearly over! You should have been here at half past twelve. Tardiness is not tolerated at this school. I hope you make yourself aware of that during your stay here, Mr. Ehrlichmann. However brief that may be.”
“I’m sorry, but my flight was delayed and then—”
“Don’t bother me with your piddling excuses. The fact is you are late, and that is a sign of inexcusable sloppiness.”
Nuntios clenches his jaw in exasperation. Eric will be a tough nut to crack.
“Also, you will address me as ‘sir’ at all times. I thoroughly despise it when strangers presume such familiarity with me. In the highly unlikely event that you last at this school more than three months you may call me Sir Eric.”
“Might I know where my dorm is? Sir?” Nuntios’s face is blank and coy. Playing along in the moment is good. Sir Eric will live to rue the day, just not this one.
Sir Eric takes a crisp manila folder out of his jacket. “Here are your housing papers. Your room is 1392. Take the second corridor from the right of the fountain in the courtyard, and it’s the tenth door on your left. Unpack quickly, I expect you to be fully settled in so that you may start class tomorrow.”
Nuntios half expects him to stalk off with his nose high in the air, like a snotty British aristocrat, but Sir Eric sits there, watching, as if waiting for his trained beagle to do a miraculous trick for some esteemed guests. Taking the hint, Nuntios hurries off. Unpacking is all well and good for now, but that isn’t the only thing on his mind. After finding his room, Nuntios has a very different mission in mind—to splash around some “gossip.” If his luck holds, class should be very interesting tomorrow.
After unpacking and some unsuccessful snooping, Nuntios can’t wait to get his hands on the dinner spread. He enters the dining hall in a rush, and immediately saunters over to the large mahogany buffet table, laden with hot food.
Looking around at the other students, he is glad that he had the foresight to put on his uniform, but it’s so stiff. How does anyone go around wearing this stuff all day? And again, the color? Terrible. At least the food is decent.
Nuntios piles his plate high with lamb and mashed potatoes. After seeing the “No Food in Dorms” sign, Nuntios was stocking up like a bear hibernating for the winter. Going hungry in a miserable place like this? It simply won’t do.
Now, to the boys’ table. He sees a group of boys his age, leaning back cockily in their chairs. He recognizes Lukas from earlier and Nuntios allows his lip to curl up in a small smile. You’re so easily underestimated when you’re the new kid. After a simple, harmless conversation, he would get Lukas and maybe some of the other guys on their own. A few seeds of doubt and a pinch of lies would make for an excellent drama stew.
“Might I join you?” Nuntios asks shyly.
“Sure! You’re the new kid, right? I’m Fredrick, although most people call me Rick. And this is Malone, Lukas, and Elias.” He says, pointing around the table. The three other faces swivel up in interest, turning to gaze upon the newcomer.
“Yeah, that's me.” Not this drivel again. It’s always the same. So, you’re the newbie? It’s like they’re trying to pretend they’re not judging.
“Sorry no one got a chance to warn you about our dear headmaster.” This comment is met with sniggers from all around the table. “He always goes after new students like that.”
He doesn't do that to students all the time? Maybe the sniffs of derision that Nuntios heard were just imagined then. Really, why do people who hate children always end up working in schools? At least the schools I end up going to.
“So, what do you guys do for fun around here?” Nuntios asks. He tries to play it off as a casual question but, beneath his mask of cool, he’s worried. What kind of freedom does this prison offer? The last school he went to had been only a few steps beneath a maximum-security institution.
“There’s a ton of wilderness all around the school,” Elias says through a mouthful of sausage. “It’s great for exploring during free periods.”
“Unless you get lost like Lukas did.”
“Thanks for bringing that up, Malone.”
“No problem.”
The next hour passes by in a blur. There is more cheery small talk about school life, but nothing interesting to Nuntios. He acts animated as they talk about rules and classes. No one guesses at his inner boredom. He gradually tunes out, only speaking when spoken to. No one seems to notice.
Then he hears something, something almost at the edge of his hearing, but slowly growing louder. As if it was rising through the floor.
“Listenin
g now, boy?” A cutting voice, as stinging as an icicle pierces Nuntios’s ears. He puts his hands up to the sides of his head protectively, trying to block out the knives that prick his eardrums.
“Where are your tricks now?”
“You are alone.”
“No one cares about you.”
“Listen boy!
“Lackluster mind.”
“How pitiful.”
A cacophony of voices erupts from around the room, each more biting than the next, each comment more degrading than the next. Nuntios usually brushes off insults like dust on his jacket; he was never one for petty squabbling. But these are more than just words. He can feel their chill sinking into him, consuming him with their venom, drowning out the world with poison. There are human voices talking too, but they float in and out, like singing voices underwater.
“Nuntios, are you okay?”
“What’s happening to him?”
“Is he having a fit?”
The demonic voices seem distant for a moment, but reappear again, whispering right in his ear.
“He needs to learn.”
“Then let him suffer.”
“Struggling already?”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“What talent do you have?”
“You have nothing.”
“Don’t fool yourself.”
“Stop, please, make them stop….” Nuntios trails off, bashing his head against the table as he grimaces in pain, icy tendrils stabbing at his head. Students look on in horrified confusion as Lukas comes running through the crowd, dragging a frightened nurse to the scene.
“Scream all you like.”
“You’ll need us.”
“We will never leave.”
Then the chorus goes silent. Only the faintest buzz of whispered chatter remains, like static. Nuntios is curled up on the floor, still shivering violently as the chill begins to leave his body. His breathing is uneven and shallow. He has gone quite pale, and his blond hair seems white under the fluorescent lighting of the lamps. He whimpers as he is loaded onto a stretcher, but makes no other sound. He does not feel the blankets being pulled over his body nor does he hear the worried voices of the teachers, rushing to call his parents. It's over at least, he thinks, taking a deep breath.
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 2