by Clayton Wood
“Correct,” Gideon confirmed. “This was the book you were lost in. And by lost,” he added, “…I mean that you were living in.”
“I was living in a…book,” she stated.
“Right.”
“But that’s impossible!”
“So is pulling a lantern from a painting,” Gideon pointed out. She glanced at his lantern, realizing he had a point. “You’re not living in a book anymore,” he explained. “In this world, the impossible is only the stroke of a brush…or a pen…away.”
“So…my apartment, my school,” she stated. “That wasn’t real? My friends weren’t real?” What few she’d had, anyway.
Gideon paused, glancing at the rolled-up painting in his hand. He muttered a word under his breath, and it unrolled itself immediately, displaying the same scene as before.
“Myko, go home,” he ordered.
The big wolf snorted, then dashed toward the painting, leaping right at it…
…and went into it.
Bella stared at the painting, her mouth falling open. For there, standing atop the hill below the full moon, was Myko. Motionless on the canvas. Where once his hair had been as real as hers, now it was composed of innumerable fine brush strokes. He emitted a soft silver light that matched that of the moon, casting a faint glow on the ground beneath him.
“He’s…”
“A painting,” Gideon confirmed. “I painted him myself, actually.”
“He’s not real?”
“You tell me,” Gideon replied. Supporting the back of the painting with his stump, he reached into the painted side with his left hand. Then he pulled…and Myko burst out of the painting, landing on the mud beside Bella.
The great wolf shook itself, then turned back to look at Gideon.
“Are you real, Myko?” Gideon inquired. Myko turned to Bella, stepping up to her and nudging her shoulder with his cool, wet nose…and pushing her back a step in the process. Gideon gave Bella a tight smile. “So there it is.”
Bella hesitated, then put a hand on Myko’s fur, feeling its softness under her fingertips. Its warmth.
“I painted Myko, but when I draw him out of the painting, he’s as real as you are. Just like the lantern, and everything else I paint,” Gideon explained. “My paintings are magical…and so was Belthazar Squib’s book.”
Bella took a deep breath in, letting it out slowly.
“So you’re saying that, my entire life, I’ve been living in a book.”
“In the world that the book’s magic created, yes,” he confirmed. “When Belthazar wrote his book, he made it so that anyone who read it – and became lost in its pages – would look up to find themselves living within its world.”
“So everyone I’ve ever known was just a character in this guy’s book?” Bella pressed. Gideon hesitated, then nodded. Bella felt fear grip her, and she swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “Even Grandpa?”
“No,” Gideon corrected. “You and your Grandfather weren’t part of the book.”
Bella let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She glanced at Myko, eyeing him critically. To think that the wolf had been created…and that her apartment, her school, even her friends and teachers had been mere characters in a book…was unbelievable.
No, it was impossible.
But if it was true, then her entire life – at least the life she could remember – had been a figment of someone else’s imagination.
“I can’t believe it,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re saying my whole life was just a book.”
“Not all of it,” Gideon countered. He gave her a warm smile. “Your grandfather wasn’t,” he added gently. “And believe me, what you two had in each other was as real as anything can be.”
Bella smiled back, picturing Grandpa lying next to her in bed at night, telling one of his wonderful bedtime stories. Of him saying goodnight, silhouetted in her doorway, the light catching his gold-rimmed glasses just so.
And then she heard three gunshots, and saw Grandpa’s eyes staring lifelessly through her as a police officer thumped on his chest.
Bella felt that horrible numbness return, the cold darkness that had surrounded her ever since the afternoon Grandpa died. That utter lack of feeling, so complete that she felt no sadness. Just…nothing. She should have cried right then – a normal person would have – but she didn’t.
Maybe there was a lot more wrong with her than even Mrs. Pittersworth had thought.
“I know this is a lot to process,” Gideon offered. “But we need to keep moving. The Collector’s men – and things far, far worse – will be coming after us.”
“The Collector?”
“The man who was hunting your grandfather,” Gideon answered. “And the one who wants you dead.”
He continued forward then, striding quickly over the marshy terrain, his dress shoes leaving wet footprints in the muck. Myko nudged her shoulder, then bolted ahead to lead the way through the fog. She sighed, following along as Myko, and the light from Gideon’s magical lantern, guided her through the darkness.
But as it did, Bella couldn’t stop thinking about how her life had been a mere fiction, words on a page. None of it mattered anymore. None of it had been real.
The most horrible thought of all was that, as much as she’d thought she’d loved Grandpa, her love too had been just a fiction. Just another part of the book she’d been lost in.
And that now that she was in the real world, her love – like everything else in her life – was gone.
Chapter 8
For Simon, the dream came as it always did. Every night the same.
Sunlight streamed down from the mid-afternoon sky, birds chirping from their perches on the tall, yellow stone buildings of downtown Twin Spires. A huge city whose maze-like streets he’d long since memorized, at least the ones going from his school to his home. He found himself walking with his best friend Vin, laughing and joking while they strolled across the street, a few blocks from his house. At fifteen, Vin was a year older than Simon, and a little taller, with golden tanned skin and gentle brown eyes. He had short brown hair that fell in messy curls atop his head, and an easy smile.
“So I put a few drops of the stuff in his drink,” Vin explained, grinning from ear-to-ear. “And made him crap his pants in class.”
“Oh man,” Simon exclaimed, laughing so hard he doubled over. He struggled to catch his breath. “You didn’t!”
“Oh yes I did,” Vin retorted proudly. “Shat all over his chair. It stunk. Cleared out the whole room.”
Simon shook his head. Vin was always pulling pranks like that…and more often than not, he got away with it. Probably because he was the best-looking kid in his class, and charming, and just…perfect. Simon found himself staring into Vin’s eyes for a little too long, and turned away abruptly, clearing his throat.
“Did he find out it was you?” he asked.
“Nah,” Vin answered.
“What if he does?”
“Who cares?” Vin replied. “I can take him in a fight.”
Which was true. Vin lived a little further downtown, in the rough part of the city. He wasn’t afraid of a fight. And even if he didn’t win – which he almost always did – he made damn sure the other kid never wanted to fight him again.
“You are pretty awesome,” Simon agreed, glancing at Vin. Sunlight shone through Vin’s hair, giving it a golden hue, and Simon found his gaze lingering again.
“What?” Vin asked.
“Huh?”
“Lost you there for a sec,” Vin explained. Simon blinked, then lowered his gaze.
“Just…thinking,” he mumbled. But he felt his cheeks grow warm, and turned away from Vin, gazing at the windows of the building to his left. He tried to come up with something to say, but he couldn’t.
“You’re weird sometimes, you know that?” Vin told him. Simon grimaced. He did know that.
Just stop it, he told himself, gritting his teeth. For tw
o years he’d kept his feelings hidden, knowing damn well what would happen if anyone found out the truth. If they discovered his terrible secret. He’d played along for the last couple years, chiming in every time his friends gushed about girls. Girls were supposed to have a sort of magic, he knew. But he didn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel it, no matter how hard he tried.
He took a deep breath in, forcing himself to turn back to Vin with what he hoped was a natural-looking smile.
“Says the guy who poisons kids and makes them crap their pants,” he replied. Vin nudged Simon playfully on the shoulder.
“You like it,” he retorted.
“I do,” Simon admitted. “I like you,” he added without thinking. A bolt of fear shot through him, and he immediately cursed himself. But Vin just threw an arm around Simon’s shoulders, pulling him close so their shoulders were touching as they walked.
“I like you too,” he replied.
Simon smiled, glancing sidelong at Vin as they made their way further down the street. Simon’s apartment was only two blocks away now. He stared at the building, feeling a sickly sensation in the pit of his stomach. The same feeling he got every time he got close to home.
Suddenly he wanted the walk to be much longer. Vin would have to go as soon as they reached Simon’s house, after all…and Simon didn’t want this moment to end. He enjoyed the feeling of Vin’s side against his…and was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that their hips were touching.
Vin stopped suddenly, gesturing ahead at Simon’s apartment building.
“Here we are,” he declared. “The House of Simon.” He turned to face Simon with another one of his easy smiles. “Until next time?”
Simon nodded, staring into Vin’s eyes…and found his gaze dropping to his lips. Their faces were only inches away…and he was struck by the sudden, mad urge to kiss Vin.
And before he could stop himself, that’s exactly what he did.
Their lips pressed together, soft and warm, and Simon felt a tingling sensation all over his body. The world seemed to drop away, and in that moment, there was nothing else.
A moment he’d dreamed about for two years now…but better than he’d ever imagined it could be.
Then Vin shoved him backward. Hard.
Simon lurched backward, falling onto his butt on the hard cobblestones.
“What the hell?” Vin blurted out, glaring at Simon. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve in disgust, backing away from Simon. “What’s wrong with you?”
Simon stared up at Vin, the blood draining from his face.
“I was just…it was a joke,” he stammered, picking himself up off the street. But Vin took another step back, holding out one hand to stop Simon.
“Keep the hell away from me,” Vin ordered. “Damn weirdo.”
And then he strode away quickly, spitting on the street as he left. Simon watched him go, his heart sinking.
Oh now you’ve done it, he wailed silently. Stupid idiot!
He stood there, watching Vin go, then lowered his gaze to his feet, his lower lip quivering. His vision blurred with moisture, and he wiped the tears away quickly, taking a deep, shuddering breath in.
Idiot idiot idiot!
This was it. Vin would never be his friend again…at best. At worst, he’d tell the whole school about Simon. About what Simon had done. His life was over.
Slowly, dejectedly, he made his way home.
When he reached the front door to the tall, narrow apartment building where he and his father lived, he went inside, climbing the stairs slowly to the second floor. He opened the door, walking into the living room…and found his father there in the small dining room adjacent to it, sitting at the table. He already had a beer in his hand…and two other empty bottles nearby.
“Hey,” Simon muttered, trudging across the living room toward his bedroom door. His father’s bleary eyes followed him.
“Stop,” he ordered. His voice cut through Simon’s misery like a knife. Simon froze, turning to face the man. He knew that tone…and knew what would happen if he disobeyed.
His father took a swig from his bottle, then slammed in on the tabletop, making Simon flinch. The man stood, swaying slightly, and glared at Simon. His cheeks were ruddy, but not with cheer.
“You’re late,” Dad accused.
“Streets were crowded,” Simon replied.
“Oh yeah?” Dad said. He grabbed the beer, taking another swig, then lowering the bottle to his side. “Funny. Didn’t look crowded to me.”
Simon glanced past his father, to the window in the dining room, facing the street. It was open, a slight breeze ruffling the rose-colored curtains. Curtains Mom had put there years ago, before he was born. She’d been a Painter, unlike his father. He’d never known her, although Dad talked about her all the time. She’d died giving birth to Simon.
“I had to talk with the teacher,” Simon lied.
“Shut up.”
Simon’s jaw snapped shut, a chill running down his spine. His father took a step toward him, pointing a finger at him.
“I saw what you did, Simon.”
Simon’s eyes widened, the blood draining from his face.
Dad stared at him silently, lowering his finger. He took another swig of his beer.
“Did you like it?” he asked.
Simon said nothing. Could say nothing.
“You did, didn’t you,” Dad muttered. Another swig. “Bet you really liked it.”
Simon just stood there, frozen.
“Bad enough your mother died having you,” Dad groused. “Leaving us in this shithole,” he added, gesturing around the room. “And now…this,” he continued, gesturing at Simon in disgust.
“Father…” Simon began, his voice cracking.
“Am I?” his father inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Because I know I didn’t sire a god-damn faggot.”
Simon swallowed past a lump in his throat, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Dad…”
His father drew the beer bottle back, then whipped it at Simon’s head. It clipped him in the temple, smashing into the wall behind Simon and shattering into a thousand pieces.
His skull exploded in pain, his head snapping backward. The world went black for a moment, and he felt himself falling. His back struck the floor.
And then agony shot through his spine.
Simon cried out, his vision returning. He found himself lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Blood was pouring from his right temple…and shards of glass were strewn across the floor around him. And under him. The razor-sharp pieces jabbed into his back.
He moaned, trying to sit up.
His father stepped in his field of vision, stopping beside Simon and swaying as he glared down at him.
“You know what my daddy woulda done to me if he found out I was a faggot?” he inquired.
Simon froze, lying flat on the floor. Warm wetness spread across his back and buttocks…and he knew it wasn’t beer. Or even urine. His whole body began to tremble uncontrollably.
“He would’ve beaten it outta me,” his father growled.
Simon lay there, a mewling whimper coming from his throat. His father sneered.
“But you know what?” he spat. “You ain’t worth it.”
He spat on Simon, warm spittle striking Simon’s cheek. He turned away then, walking back up to the kitchen table and eyeing the two empty beer bottles. Then he went into the kitchen, retrieving two more bottles and carrying them back to the table.
Still Simon waited, but his father just sat down, popping open a bottle and drinking the entire thing in one long gulp. He grunted, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up off the floor…and stifled a scream as a shard of glass sliced into his right forearm.
He froze, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Simon got up carefully, avoiding the rest of the glass, then got to his feet. Blood seeped from his right forearm. His head. And almost certainly from his back.
Then, without a wo
rd, he tiptoed to his room, closing the door behind him. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
And cried.
His shoulders heaved, awful choking sounds coming from his throat. He tried to hold them in, but he couldn’t. They spilled out from him in wave after wave, until there were no tears left. Until he was spent.
Then the door swung open, and Simon flinched, wiping his eyes hurriedly. Dad stood there in the doorway, glaring down at him, an empty bottle hanging loosely from his right hand. His grip tightened around its neck, his knuckles going white.
“On second thought,” he said, “I changed my mind.”
* * *
Simon eyes snapped open, and he gasped, bolting upright.
He found himself sitting on a hard, rectangular slab of gray stone. The only piece of furniture in a small prison cell. Three stone walls and a fourth made of vertical metal bars. A commode sat in one corner, its stink filling the cell. There was no mattress to lie on, no pillow. No blanket to ward off the chill. And the short sleeves and thin fabric of his bright red prison uniform was hardly up to the task either.
Simon wiped the sweat from his forehead, forcing his breathing to slow.
Just the dream.
He gazed past the bars of the cell, seeing a section of narrow hallway running perpendicular to it, facing another gray stone wall. Of course, it hadn’t been just a dream. It was the past. But though it’d been over a year ago, the past wasn’t behind him; it stayed with him. Every morning the same.
He lowered his gaze, staring at his hands…and at the dozens of crisscrossing scars on his forearms. Then he found himself staring at what lay in the palm of his right hand.
A small fragment of pale porcelain.
Do it, it seemed to whisper in his mind. The next time your guard comes.
Simon squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth at the edge of his cot, willing the voice to go away. He curled his fingers around the fragment of porcelain, as if doing so would silence it.
Do it, the voice urged. Or die here like the rest of them.
Simon shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. They dripped down his cheeks, then fell to the stone floor below.