Summoner Rising

by Melanie Mcfarlane

  “Stop,” I say. “I need answers.”

  Tryan puts his hands up submissively. “At your service.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. He’s too content to be the brooding loner I took him for at first sight. I walk past him and lean against the piano. Suddenly, words fail me, and I awkwardly fiddle with my hands.

  “You need answers?” Tryan says, standing in front of me.

  “I want to know what happens when I turn seventeen,” I say, looking up at him and staring at his eyes.

  “You’ll be able to summon demons,” he says, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He likes this a little too much.

  “But I already can,” I say. “You saw that.”

  “Yes I did,” Tryan says, tapping a finger on his lips. “I thought about that all night.”

  “You did?” My heart skips a beat.

  “That and other things,” he says, his lips twitching into a smile once again. “Your mother must have told you the incorrect birthday.”

  “That’s it?” I roll my eyes. “That’s stupid. Why would she do that?”

  “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t think it made sense either.”

  “Then how can I?” I ask.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Tryan says. “You shouldn’t be able to summon until you’re seventeen. You should just see their shadows.”

  “You know more than I do about all this stuff. You’re my only hope. Show me more.”

  “I really can’t help,” Tryan says. “I can’t summon—I can just see the demons.”

  “Is that because—” I begin, ready to ask the real question I have for him, “you’re a tovaros?”

  Tryan smiles a little. “I thought you didn’t know about these things?”

  “Katya told me you help out summoners. It’s your duty.”

  “It’s more than that,” Tryan says, leaning against the piano next to me. He closes his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. One arm rubs against mine as he shifts to cross his arms over his chest. The hair on my arm tingles from the sensation.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tryan turns toward me and looks at my face, starting at my chin, and moving up to my eyes. I can barely breathe, as I wait in anticipation for the answer.

  “A tovaros is always looking,” Tryan explains. “It’s their job to seek out a summoner and be their companion.”

  There’s that word again: companion. He said he had a summoner before. Is he taken?

  “Why won’t you help me then?” I ask.

  “The relationship is complicated,” Tryan explains. “Once a tovaros commits to a summoner, they’re bonded together until death.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Like soul mates?”

  “If they’re the perfect match, then yes.” He nods, looking over at me again.

  He told Katya he’s met many summoners—were they all his soul-mates? I look back at his face, and it looks sad.

  “So,” I say quietly, “you can’t help me because you’re worried I might be your soul-mate?”

  Tryan bursts out laughing, and my face instantly goes red. Then I start laughing with him. It does sound ridiculous aloud.

  “That’s not it at all,” he says. “I’m more worried about what your great-aunt will do to me.”

  I lean my head back on the piano and put my hands over my face, speaking between my fingers. “I feel stupid.”

  “Don’t,” Tryan says. “If a summoner and a tovaros are a perfect match, they become stronger against demons. Your great-aunt just wants you to be careful; that’s all.”

  “What happens if they’re not a perfect match?” I ask.

  “Then usually one of them ends up dead,” Tryan says seriously. “That imp seemed cute to you, but if he needed to, he would have ripped out your throat in a second. Don’t let them fool you, Dacie. There’s a reason that demons need to be monitored and there’s a reason a summoner needs a tovaros.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. Is it fear or the fact that Tryan cares whether I get hurt or not? I look back at him, and he has that sad look again. Has he lost someone he loved?

  “I really do need your help,” I say. “Something has been calling out to me from Katya’s studio. It knows my name, and I need to make it stop. Either you can do it with me, or I’m going to do it alone.”

  “Fine,” Tryan says. “But we need to avoid your great-aunt.”

  We wait until lunch break to go back to my place. I know that Katya goes to the farmer’s market with Constantine on Fridays to sample the local treats. Tryan nervously plays with the strings on his hoodie while I repeatedly tap on the steering wheel, watching a shadow as it dances around the hood of my car. Finally, Katya and Constantine leave the driveway, and we slip out of the car and into the house.

  Inside the studio, Tryan maneuvers around the covered paintings, before reaching the window where he closes the curtains.

  “Where do we start?” I ask.

  “I need all your senses turned off so you can listen,” he says, coming back to the door and leaning past me to shut off the light.

  He moves so quickly, I don’t have time to react. As he reaches across me, I close my eyes and inhale his cologne.

  “That’s it,” Tryan whispers in my ear, tickling my skin. “Focus on the sounds.”

  I try to ignore his smell and listen, but it’s difficult. It reminds me of when we got too close in the forest, when we danced last night, and this morning when he brushed against me by the piano. I ball my hands into fists and get myself under control, forcing myself to concentrate on listening.

  At first, all I can hear is my breathing, which starts out fast. As I listen, it settles and eventually gets quiet. I start to think about the voice that called out to me last night. But right now there’s nothing except my heartbeat. Only, instead of it staying in a rhythmical pattern, it gets faster, then slower, and repeats. I realize that the sound I’m hearing is not just my heartbeat—there’s another.

  “Oh!”

  “Shhh,” Tryan says, putting his hand on my arm. The one heartbeat in the background speeds up slightly. “Follow the sound you hear.”

  I take a few steps forward, and the faster heartbeat gets louder. I turn instinctively toward the window I saw the shadowed figure the night before. The heartbeat reciprocates each step, getting faster and faster until I reach the window and it stops. I open my eyes, but nothing is there.

  “It’s gone,” I say, reaching out to the curtain.

  “Wait,” Tryan says. “What do you see?”

  I peer around the edges of the window and see a dark shadow playing at the base of the curtain. At first, it just sits there, then it shoots out, and the sound of the heartbeat enters my ears again. It slips up the wall, behind a draped painting hanging next to the window.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “That was a demon,” Tryan says, letting go of my arm and running back to turn on the light.

  I pull off the linen, and drop it to the floor, observing the painting behind it. Tall trees in the painting open into a clearing in the woods. In the center lies a stone table.

  “What do you see?” I ask Tryan.

  He stands beside me and looks up at the painting, staring at it for a moment, peering closer to its canvas. Then suddenly, he pushes me back and grabs the linen, throwing it back over the painting.

  “Is this the one that was calling to you?” Tryan asks, turning toward me and grabbing my arms.

  “No, not exactly,” I say.

  “This isn’t a game, Dacie,” Tryan says. “Some demons are worse than others.”

  “What was it?” I ask.

  Tryan walks away, shaking his head, making me feel like a child who just got in trouble for something she didn’t know she did.

  “What then?” I ask, getting mad. “You’re just going to quit.”

  “This was a stupid idea,” he says. “I’m not s
ure why I thought we should do this.”

  “You’re giving up on me?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he says, looking at me awkwardly. “It’s my job to watch out for you; part of that means waiting until you’re ready to summon.”

  “It’s not your job to do anything with me,” I say, leaning back against the wall and crossing my arms. “You’re not my tovaros.”

  A smile plays at the edge of Tryan’s lips. “What makes you think I’m not?”

  His words surprise me, and I’m suddenly speechless. Tryan walks over to me and leans on the wall next to me. “How would you know if I was?”

  “I expect there would be a sign of some kind.”

  Tryan laughs aloud and I can feel my face turn red.

  “What sort of a sign do you want?” he asks. “Lightning to strike the house?”

  I look away. Ridicule is not something I’m in the mood for right now.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but there’s no sign. Either we work well together, or we don’t. We won’t know until you’re old enough to summon.”

  He bumps playfully against my shoulder, but I’m too angry to respond. “I didn’t mean to—”

  The linen of the painting next to me shoots out into the room, then lies back down. Tryan grabs me by the arm and pulls me on the other side of him.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says, slowly circling the painting on its opposite side. He reaches out toward the linen, and the center of the cloth jumps out again. In one sweep, Tryan pulls it from the painting to the floor. The painting stands still against the wall, and I’m surprised to see it’s a mess of colors.

  “What’s in it?” I ask.

  Tryan peers into the painting. “Odd,” he says, “I can’t see anything.”

  I look down to the floor next to him and see something drawn on the inside of the linen. It’s a simple sketch of a mountain covered in snow. I peer closer and can almost feel a chill pass through the room. Tryan says something to me, but his voice is muffled. The mountain begins to tremble as an avalanche begins down one of its peaks.

  “Dacie! No!”

  It’s too late; before I realize what’s happening something begins to rise from the sheet.

  “How do I put it back?” I scream to Tryan.

  A thick arm reaches out of the bulge and knocks me against the wall. I land on the floor and gasp for air as I try to catch my breath. A large creature crawls out of the linen; its face is scrunched up and scarred, and it’s ten times bigger than the imp. Tryan jumps on its back as it stands and it pulls its other arm from the linen, revealing a large ax. A scream escapes my lips before I can get to my feet.

  The creature struggles against Tryan, who’s trying to choke him from behind. Its thick neck is impossible to get arms around, and instead, it reaches behind and grabs Tryan, throwing him against the wall across the room.

  I jump up and scramble toward Tryan’s limp body. The creature lets out a loud howl and steps toward me. I grab Tryan by the arm and try to pull him from the room.

  “Wake up,” I plead.

  Tryan’s eyes open.

  “My arm.” He winces in pain. I look down and see it twisted and crooked underneath him.

  The creature lets out another howl, then steps toward us, knocking the easels that stand in its path. Looming over us, it lifts up its ax high into the air.

  The door to the studio bursts open, and Constantine runs in, holding a sword in his hand. It’s the one I always see him polishing in the study. The ax crashes against the sword, but Constantine holds his ground against the enormous creature.

  “Get back,” Constantine shouts. At first, I think he’s talking to us, but then I realize it’s meant for the creature. “Get back where you came from, ogre.”

  The ogre lifts its ax, sweeping it horizontally at Constantine. He jumps up into the air, and the ax flies underneath him. Constantine strikes at the ogre, catching the creature on its arm, and a thin line of blood appears. The ogre lets out another howl.

  Katya appears in the doorway with paints in hand. Constantine corners the ogre back toward the linen where it came from. As Katya approaches the pair, she begins to throw paint on the ogre, and it splashes against the sheet. The ogre hollers again as it begins to merge with the painting. Constantine holds it back with his sword, as Katya continues to cover the ogre in paint, and soon it disappears into the drawing.

  Constantine turns toward me with his lips pursed, but it’s not him I’m worried about. I brace myself as Katya turns around with wild eyes.

  “What on earth have you two been up to?” she exclaims.

  Tryan goes limp in my arms, and I look down at his ashen face. “Please, help him,” I cry.

  At the hospital, Katya and I sit waiting as Tryan’s arm is set in a cast. I look over at my great-aunt, watching as she picks at the dried paint in her nail beds. Her gold rings glisten in the glaring white hospital lights and her many bracelets clang together as she exaggerates each movement. I wish Constantine hadn’t stayed behind to clean up the mess. I could sure use some interference here.

  “I’m sorry, all right?”

  Katya ignores me and keeps cleaning.

  “I said, I’m sorry.” I enunciate every word.

  “Sorry. For. What?” Katya slowly pronounces each word in her accent. “Sorry for wrecking my studio? Sorry for getting Tryan hurt? Or are you sorry for putting everyone in this town at risk with what you almost let free?”

  “All of it,” I grumble, sitting back into my seat. I cross my arms and look down the hallway.

  Katya keeps cleaning her nails.

  “You know this isn’t my fault,” I whisper. “I didn’t ask for this life.”

  “Now you sound like your mother.”

  “I can see why she ran away from all of you,” I say. “Imps and ogres—what’s next?”

  “Imps?” Katya says, sitting up and staring at me. “What about imps?”

  “That happened the other night,” I say. “Tryan helped me put it back.”

  “You’re out of control.” She shakes her head.

  “I have no idea what I’m doing!” I say, a little too loud. People in the waiting area look at us and whisper.

  “Come with me.” Katya grabs my hand and pulls me toward the vending machines. There I lean against the wall, away from the prying eyes of strangers.

  “I get you are mad at me because you have just learned of your ability,” she says. “But it is your mother who never told you about your lineage, not me. As for imps and ogres, no more secrets, got it? There are rules for summoners: You are fully responsible for anything you let out, and can be held responsible in court for their wrongdoings if you do not take swift action to get a demon under control, understand?”

  “I don’t think any court believes in demons.”

  “Not here.” Katya rolls her eyes. “Courts back home in Romania. You will be punished to the extent of the summoner laws.”

  “What do you mean, ‘summoner laws’?” I ask.

  “I knew I should have taken you back home.” Katya waves her hands in the air. “What can you learn of any importance here? But no, Constantine says, let the girl finish her education. Meh.”

  “What can happen if a demon gets out of control?”

  “If they kill, it’s as if you killed,” she says, her eyes bearing down on me. “Your only salvation is to capture them and send them back to the other side immediately. Then, and only then, might the courts take mercy on you.”

  “How are you supposed to keep tabs on all the demons?”

  “You pick and choose who you let out,” she says. “Then you monitor them. If they break your rules, you send them home.”

  “How could anyone monitor that ogre?”

  “Onri?” Katya says. “He’s not so bad. He’s a guardian for my studio. Keeps eyes on who should be in there and who shouldn’t be.”

>   A doctor flags us over and takes us to see Tryan. We walk down the hallway with the squeaky-clean floor, and I make sure to avoid staring at any of the paintings on the walls. What if the imp did something I’m not aware of? Tryan said it was more dangerous than I realized. Could I be punished when I didn’t even know I was able to summon?

  “Tryan,” Katya says as we enter his room, “are you all right?”

  “I’ll survive,” he says, lifting up his arm, now wrapped in gauze. I walk over to the other side of his bed and see his fingers peeking out from the end, all black and blue from the attack. I reach out and run my finger along his arm.

  “I forgot my bag,” Katya says, leaving the room.

  “Are you really okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Tryan says. “Are you okay? You look a little like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No,” I say, “just an ogre.”

  I look up at his face and see that a smile plays at the edge of his mouth. He laughs aloud and then winces.

  “Sorry,” he says, “broken rib. Some tovaros I am. Maybe we aren’t such a great match.”

  I bite back tears. Don’t cry, Dacie. But this is all overwhelming. The imp was weird enough, but now ogres and demons in paintings. If Tryan isn’t a match for me, who is? I wish I were back in California. I turn away, and my long brown hair falls across my face.

  “Hey,” he says, reaching across and grabbing my hand, “are you sure you’re okay? It’ll be fine, you know. You did okay; you’re just new to all of this.”

  “How am I supposed to get used to this?”

  “Eventually it’ll be like second nature,” Tryan says, squeezing my hand. I look back at him, and he’s smiling. I let go of his hand, knowing it must hurt him to reach across like that. I walk around the bed and sit in a chair on his good side.

  “So what now?” I ask.

  “We go back to school,” he says. “I heal, life goes on.”

  “Like nothing happened?”

  Tryan nods. “When I’m better we’ll start training together if you want.”

  “Really,” I say, perking up. Then my excitement falls. “But you’ll be out of commission for a couple of months.”