That doesn’t last long, however. All thoughts of caution flee from his mind as bile begins to rise in his throat. He races to the bathroom, where he begins to vomit profusely. His retching noises can be heard throughout the house. The stench of vomit fills the air and only serves to add to his already growing nausea. He remains beside the toilet for quite some time. As a result, he does not hear the lights click on in the bedroom a few doors down.
“Stefan, he’s getting out of hand. He’s going too far! You know that!”
“Now, dear ....”
“Think about what will happen when he turns eighteen!”
“Castalia, now is not the time to get hysterical! We will speak with him when he has had a chance to reflect.” The light clicks off, and the room is plunged into darkness once more.
When the vomit finally stops flowing, Ámpelos half crawls to his room, trailing the stench of regret and tequila. He groans softly as he pulls himself up onto his bed. He doesn’t even bother to close the curtains as he reaches for his covers. Everything has been drained out. Only weariness remains. It does not take long for the dark shades of sleep to cover his eyes.
A groggy Ámpelos awakens several hours later. As he tries to stand up, he feels faint. Dark specks dance around his eyes, threatening to cut off his vision. He holds onto a chair for support, but the dizziness is overwhelming. He slumps into the chair and tries to breathe.
Slowly, like icing dripping out of a pastry tube, the swirling lights leave his vision, and he can stand again. But a burning thirst lingers, drying up his mouth and throat until there is a salted slug in place of his tongue. He makes his way down the stairs in the search of some water.
The water pitcher is to the left of the sink as it always is. Ámpelos reaches for a glass in the cupboard when he sees something at the corner of his eye—his father, sitting at the kitchen table and perusing the newspaper over a fruity Jamaican blend. Act casual. You have nothing to be guilty about.
He clutches the glass tightly, his knuckles whitening. Then there is the gentle patter of delicate slippers as his mother enters the room. Not good, not good. He pours some water, trying his best not to spill everywhere. He attempts to whistle in a nonchalant manner, but his dry mouth will not permit it. He chugs the water as fast as he can and then pours another glass. Hangovers are when one appreciates the life-giving properties of water. He sighs gratefully after setting down his fourth glass.
“So, why were you out so late last night?” his father inquires.
Ámpelos nearly drops the glass as he puts it in the dishwasher. Cool, natural. A simple lie. Nothing major. “Didn’t I tell you? It was movie night down at the community center. Didn’t you get the flier?” They hadn’t been to a movie night since Ámpelos was eight. How could I have been so stupid? He looks up at his parents’ faces. They clearly aren’t buying it. Mission abort, mission abort!
“At this point, I'm not sure if you're still hung over, or you're just a terrible liar,” his mother says icily. There is a brief worry in her eyes, but it is quickly replaced by anger.
He's not going to be able to get out of this one. Ámpelos cautiously approaches them. Any sudden movements, any perceived slight, and he'd be in a world of trouble. “Who said that I was hung over?” he asks, suddenly taking a keen interest in studying the fruit bowl at the center of the table.
“If you would just come clean, this would be so much easier for everyone!” his father snaps. “I should think that half the neighborhood could hear your spewing with the noise you made. And the smell! I should truly recommend that anyone who goes anywhere near that bathroom should wear a gas mask!”
Ámpelos hunches his shoulders. Feign innocence. Look weak. Look vulnerable.
“You know what difficult times we’re going through. Do you know how much I struggle at work each day? And that’s not including catering to your wild midnight extravagances!”
Ámpelos tenses, like a rabbit preparing for flight. He closes his eyes in a grimace. Jumping through a flaming hoop couldn't compare to dodging this bullet. He bows his head in meek surrender, comforted only by the thought that feigned innocence would only hurt him more in this case. “I am truly sorry for staying out so late. The traffic was quite bad, and I was unable to make it back before curfew. I also had some food that didn't agree with me. That is why I was vomiting.” If they believe that, I will believe it to be a God-sent miracle.
“Do you expect us to believe those lies?” And Atheism now has a new convert. “We know you’re hung over. We know you were out late partying, and we also know that you spent 65 euros on shots of tequila!”
Somehow, drunk Ámpelos had thought that it was a good idea to use his credit card to buy drinks. It wasn't like his parents monitored his purchases or anything.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Ámpelos stands silently, his lips pursed into a fine line. “Well?”
Ámpelos just stares down at his shoes. He barely hears his mother warning him against being an alcoholic or his father telling him about the responsibilities of life. All the words wash away in a stream of blood, rushing to his face. And so the walk of shame begins. The short flight of stairs seems to stretch miles into the clouds.
Ámpelos shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his face hardening into a sneer. His parents don't understand. At these parties, he feels so alive. He gets energy from the chaos. The chaos that pushes others away, he thrives on.
Redemption is on the way. His sixteenth birthday bash is coming up soon, and it's about time that planning started. His parents are thinking of nothing of the sort, but Ámpelos grins.
His features light up as he digs through his school bag to find his laptop. Party planning was always his strong suit. And using his father's government position would help to pull a few strings. He eagerly begins to find caterers and DJs and all sorts of entertainers. He is so engrossed in his search that he does not hear his door click shut.
“Do you think that locking him in his room will help?”
“Castalia, he needs to have some sort of confinement if he is to reconsider his actions! Doesn’t he?”
“I guess you’re right. When will you let him out?”
“When I’m ready.”
Castalia gazes sadly at her son’s door, worried about his future, but Stefan has already gone downstairs to make a fresh pot of coffee.
8
accidentally attracting evil, one of the unfortunate results of family conflict
Luna’s tea is cold. It's cold, and it has sugar in it. The taste sours in her mouth as she dumps the tea into the kitchen sink. It gurgles as it trickles down the drain, in a way echoing her mood. After the “Soylent Green” fiasco, Arden hadn't remained in the same room with her for more than a minute, and their mother had suddenly become engrossed in a hot new lead for her latest story. The fact that Luna had never told them that the slimy substance was just spit may not have helped. When Luna isn't sulking in her room, she goes out for midnight walks. The frigid night air and the endless drizzle are warmer companions than the ones she has at home.
Luna fills up the kettle and begins to boil more water. She waits by the stove as the water heats up, gazing into the gas flames with a listless stare. A floorboard creaks and jerks her out of her stupor. Arden stands in the kitchen doorway, shivering despite his thick green jumper.
“When that water's done, could I have a cup?" Luna nods distractedly. The “family reunion” seems to have affected him more than she first imagined. On good days, he is nervous and quiet, especially when Luna is around. On bad days, he is sullen and high-strung, ready to blow up over every little thing. But one thing stays the same every day. His eyes are red from crying.
The kettle begins to whistle, and Luna lifts it off the stovetop. The metal base scratches the countertop, but Luna ignores that and moves to turn off the burner. The little black nubs have long stopped functioning as proper stove switches, and it takes some elbow grease before the uneven Egyptian
blue flames finally die out. She turns to look at Arden and stifles a snort.
“No silly! You have to pour the water into a teapot first! And what about the tea leaves?” Luna grabs the kettle out of his hand and sets it on the countertop. She sets about finding one of the many chipped teapots out of a cupboard and its matching tea cozy.
She is barely aware of her surroundings as she puts in the tealeaves and grabs the strainer, but as she pours the hot water, something catches her eye. Is that …. She almost burns herself as she puts the kettle down. As the tea is steeping, she turns to face her brother. And he’s smiling.
They had only been nursing their tea for a few moments when they hear the sound of squealing tires. Looks like someone has finally decided to come home. Arden grabs his cup and stands up, nearly knocking his chair over. He mouths “going upstairs” and quickly shuffles out of the room. Luna can hear him hissing as the hot tea sloshes over the edge of the cup, streaking burns down his fingers.
The problem with this family is that no one wants to talk to each other. Luna has a pitying look on her face as she turns to look at the kitchen doorway once again. Neither of us wanted this, especially not him. She hears the front door swing open and bash against the coat stand like it always does, and her features change. The pity is gone, replaced by a cool mask. The stillness before battle is unbearable.
When Ms. Hughes walks into the kitchen, Luna has set aside her tea. Her knees are curled up against her chest, and she rocks back and forth slowly as if trying to calm her fraying nerves. Ms. Hughes lugs a massive tote bag full of files across the kitchen floor and dumps it unceremoniously on the chair next to Luna's.
“Good afternoon, dear!” Ms. Hughes says, gently patting Luna on the head.
“Where were you all day? It’s a Saturday. You don’t have work, do you?” Luna’s face is withdrawn and expressionless. Her pupils seem to be engulfed in a wash of brown as she stares at the table, not looking up to talk to her mother.
“Luna, you know I’ve been following a lead for my new story!” Ms. Hughes is not a very good liar. Her voice always goes up two octaves at the end of each false sentence. Luna doesn’t even bother to jump on her for it. She won’t tell the truth either way.
There is an icy cliff on the way up a mountain, a mountain so tall that the peak soars through the cloudbank. Luna faces a choice. Continue to suffer and climb the mountain. Or take the icy plunge. “Why, Mom?”
“Why what dear?”
“Why didn’t you tell me, tell us after all these years?”
“Luna, sweetheart, you have to understand—”
“Don’t you sweetheart me! Arden and I didn’t want this! Only you!”
“Luna! Where is all this coming from?”
“Don’t play the innocent!”
Their yelling goes on for some time. Arden can hear them from upstairs. He’s grateful because Luna has the guts to say what he cannot. But he is also forlorn, about his family, about his life, and who he has become—someone who is not Arden Lewis.
“Well?” Luna says shrilly. “What’s your answer?” Ms. Hughes looks off into the distance blankly. Luna could have been a hundred miles away. “Oh, forget it!” Luna tramps up the stairs in a huff, kicking the bag of files as she goes. Her tea, long forgotten, sloshes from its cup and drips off the table. The cup jiggles slightly as she brushes past.
Ms. Hughes sighs wearily and sinks to the floor, gathering a handful of tea-stained papers. One of them is a yellowed photograph of two babies, one swathed in pink, the other in blue. Beside them are the happy parents. Another paper says Royal London Hospital, in big curvy letters at the top.
Luna Lewis Wt. 3.4kg.
There is an emerald slash through “Lewis” and a hastily scrawled “Hughes” next to it.
When Luna comes back downstairs, it is dark, and the whole house is quiet. Arden has been asleep for ages, and Ms. Hughes has just dozed off over an engrossing paperback.
Luna pulls on a rain slicker and some galoshes. Usually, when she goes out, she closes the door slowly, so only the faintest click is made when it locks. Tonight she slams the door shut behind her. The window cutout in the door shatters, but Luna doesn't look back; she keeps walking.
Ms. Hughes bolts upright, startled. She moves to her bedside window, frightened by the thought of a break-in. She sees a lone figure in a yellow slicker retreating into the shadows. Then the figure pauses and turns around to look back at the house, and a flash of recognition passes over Ms. Hughes's face.
Luna realizes that she has lingered too long and begins to run. She runs until the shadows engulf her and the harsh streetlights no longer glare against her yellow slicker. Ms. Hughes puts her palm against the window, gasping as if struggling for air. “Luna” forms on her lips, but her throat feels sticky with the taste of lemon drops and shame.
She presses her face against the window as raindrops begin to slap the glass. It’s like the day Arden first came here. Ms. Hughes’s body begins to shake with racking sobs. She does not notice Arden peering through the door crack, nor does she see him sprinting back to his room.
Luna is wishing she was wearing a warmer jacket as cold droplets stroke her face and hands. She tries to wipe her hands on her jeans, but they are damp too. The trees that line the streets do little for warmth and shelter, but Luna still takes the time to pause at each one for some imagined wisp of warmth. She thinks of the fire at home. The hearth must be black and ashy now. Luna pushes away the thought and trudges on. Mother would ask my destination, she thinks. Going is all I need, where is not important.
Arden is gazing into the pages of an embossed cream-colored photo album. There is a picture of him and his dad sitting by a beach bonfire. Arden’s dad is playfully ruffling his hair while Arden stares in glee at a flaming marshmallow. That was only three years ago.
He flips the page. It’s a picture of a glorious beach sunset. The sky is filled with hues of deep plums and ambers. The water is crimson around the sunken half circle. If only teleportation were real. Even a sunset is brighter than this bleak prison. If only there were more light. Arden continues to flip through the album absentmindedly. His bronzed fingers are shaking as he turns the pages. The bronze is slowly turning to a glowing gold.
At this point, Luna would have been happy to walk home and wrap herself in blankets, Mum or no Mum, but her resolve has hardened like cooling steel. Pressing forward is the only path. As she steps into a patch of moonlight, she feels the most peculiar sensation. Is it … warm?
Luna holds her hand out to test it. Glowing pearly tendrils snake down her arm. They wrap around her torso, faster and faster until her whole body exudes an eerie glow. Luna ties to rip the strands away but fails miserably. She claws furiously, but she is only further enveloped. Her limbs slowly absorb the coiled shining threads. Luna is grateful for the warmth but terrified of the “living moonlight.”
“She’s ready Demetri! Look!”
“I can see you know.”
“Oh, don't rain on my parade!” Two people drop down from the trees. A pale woman with steely gray eyes and a man with coppery tints in his hair land softly on the ground in front of Luna. Luna delicately takes a few steps back. They’re not the sort of people you see wandering around London any time of the day, and certainly not at one in the morning, no sir!
“Luna, I’m sorry for us to show up like this—” the woman begins.
“Sorem, we don’t have much time as it is; enough with the chatter!” Sorem sticks her tongue out at him. “Luna, you have to trust us. You are very powerful for one so young. Your magic will send out a ripple of power. That ripple will have the Maghta running here in moments.” Luna is tempted to ask if Maghta is a type of throat cancer based on the way the word sticks in Sorem’s throat, but instead just raises an eyebrow. Sorem throws her hands up in frustration. “The Maghta? The dark deities that threaten to destroy you and everyone you love? You must come with us so that we can train you. And we must get your brother too.”
Luna wonders if Sorem is talking about more literal demons, such as being crazy or unbelievably drunk, when her thought is interrupted by a sudden, deep, chestnut glow. A flare of light goes up near the center of the city, stretching hundreds of meters up into the sky. It casts a russet effulgence over London. Little branches fork off the flare and expand. A sparkling sepia dome covers the city as the trio looks on in amazement.
“Demetri, that must be Arden!” Sorem exclaims, pointing upwards.
“Then there’s no time,” he says grimly. “We must run.”
“Arden? What does he have to do with this?”
“Luna, if you want your mother and brother to live, you will come with us.” Luna sprints alongside them. A part of her really hopes that Demetri is joking. But his voice says that he isn’t.
9
boarding school and other ways to kill optimism
The peach bedspread is the first thing that Arden notices, as he walks into the room. The musty perfumed smell of a coifed old lady permeates the room. And what is that? lace? He runs his hand over the fraying curtain. He shudders, and yanks the curtain back. The metal rings screech against the curtain rod. He expects to be washed in a wave of light. But there is only gray—the gray of dirty laundry and resignation that fades into blackness. He remembers Luna’s words. “I’m sure you’ll get used to it.” What, get used to this life? If you think that, you don’t know me at all.
Arden tries his hardest to fall asleep, but the raindrops will not let him. They are the pesky birds, chirping through the night, luring sleep away. The scratchy apricot blanket is suffocating, and he throws it off. His mouth tastes like pasty chocolate cream and humiliation. Bleh.
He swings his legs off the bed, his feet quivering as he clomps across the oaken floor. Is that the bathroom? The door swings open with a slight creak. The grimy fluorescent lights come on as he flips the switch, casting a sea-glass pallor over the ceramic tiling. Arden grabs for the small tube of spearmint toothpaste. He opens the medicine cabinet and fumbles around for a bit. His hand emerges and he is triumphant, clutching a yellow plastic toothbrush wrapped in brittle cellophane.
The Rise of the Fourteen Page 6