The Awakening of Ren Crown

by Anne Zoelle

  He looked smug as he quickly tucked his tablet into an inner pocket. “Suck it.”

  I wanted to feel smugness too. I wanted to feel fear. I wanted to mourn the loss of my brother again. I pushed at the feel of the glittering hooks embedded in my skin.

  A few tugged, gripping in a last effort before releasing. A light layer on my skin lifted free, leaving me clean and raw where exposed. I shivered.

  The particles streamed into the air, hanging there, as if seeking a new target.

  Will looked up suddenly, his eyes going wide at the particles. “Dear magic.” He fumbled in his jacket and pulled out the tablet, the pocket liner coming with it, sticking out in a cloth triangle.

  He pushed a button, and the lint moved in a sudden burst of air straight into his tablet. He pushed another button, and his jaw dropped at whatever he saw there. “Docile Dust? This day has been the best.”

  Along with anger and sorrow, a sense of relief seeped through me. The last remnants of the dust released from my skin and swooped into Will's tablet.

  I rubbed my left arm and my fingers brushed rough edges. I slowly looked down to Christian's band, which was brittle at the edges and burned clear through in spots. I carefully touched the damaged leather. I felt suddenly numb. Numb in a far different way than I had under the Dust.

  Will pushed something on his tablet. “Two minutes remaining.”

  I scrubbed my free hand over my arm, but didn't take my eyes away from the space where Mr. Verisetti had been. My delayed fear response had firmly tagged Mr. Verisetti as the most dangerous element in my current situation and put nerdy, unknown Will on the waitlist.

  “Docile Dust?” I asked, a little too loudly.

  “Who is she talking to?” a student whispered.

  Will looked at me and blinked. “You can see me?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you an expat?” He blinked at me some more, then suddenly looked cagey, eyes darting around. “Are you from the Department?” He edged away from me, then swore and looked down at his tablet. “It shows I still have a minute and a half.”

  He hit the edge of the device with his palm as if it was on the fritz, then turned and started walking swiftly toward the door.

  “What? Ex-patriate from what?” I called, my feet moving after him. He had used the word magic and he clearly knew more than I did. “Do you have a Department of Death?”

  “She did kill him! I knew it!”

  “Crazy.”

  “Absolutely nuts.”

  The whispers were everywhere now.

  My whole body tightened, the environment around me fully registering. Before, they might have simply ignored me when I wasn't near Christian, but I had been fair game for weeks now...and had just put myself in active persecution territory. I kept a grip on the scissors and grabbed my bag, quickly stuffing everything from the easel inside. My eyes kept track of Will as he maneuvered around students without touching them and pressed buttons on his odd-colored tablet.

  “Wait!” I ran after him. Everyone hurried out of my way, but no one looked at the stranger in their midst as he quickly ducked through the classroom door and started running. I picked up my pace too, pulling the sleeves of my sweater down as we headed for the front doors of the school.

  “Wait!”

  The bell rang to signal the end of school, and kids came streaming out of rooms chattering about an earthquake.

  “Please wait!”

  Will suddenly stopped and turned toward me, eyes sharp, one hand clenched in his pocket. “You aren’t a Fed?”

  I breathed heavily and tightened my grip on my bag. Relief and apprehension mixed. “Not last I checked, no.”

  His shoulders eased, and he removed his hand from his pocket, letting it hang loosely at his side. “Of course you aren't. And you aren't a terrorist.” He looked at his tablet. “Come on then, we only have a minute to get clear of here.”

  Will put on the black beret as we exited the building. I clutched my scissors. If I found out I was being hunted by some crazy Black Ops artists' colony or a technologically advanced prostitution ring that needed art students with mental problems, I was going to go down fighting.

  Will looked down at his tablet as we reached the now heavily populated sidewalk. “The rumors are so right. This Layer is rich with illegal goods.”

  “Layer?”

  He gave me an odd glance. “Yeah. You know, five layers of the world?” He scrolled his tablet. “It says Docile Dust is only supposed to subdue and inhibit, not cause memory loss.”

  “You are magical.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, as if I was the slow one.

  “How do you bring people back from the dead?”

  He blinked. “You do an organ enchantment.”

  Painful relief slipped through me. “You know how.”

  He shrugged. “The basics. Resurrection experts are a dime a dozen, though, so I’ve never studied it.” His eyebrows creased. “Wait, how old are you?”

  “Seventeen. Take me to one. I'll pay you.” I'd do anything. Whatever had just happened in the art classroom would be completely worth it, if I got Christian back.

  “You're feral,” he said as if just realizing a secret of vast import.

  I yanked the scissors into a threatening position. That word had been tossed around the night Christian had died too.

  Will held up his free hand. “Whoa. My family supports feral rights.” His eyes went wide, and I followed his gaze to the students giving me a wide berth. They were staring at me and pulling out cell phones. No one was looking at Will.

  “Put those down,” Will hissed. “You aren't even close to being cloaked.”

  I shoved the scissors into my bag mechanically and swallowed as I took in the expressions on the horrified and disgusted faces around me. So this, then, was what rock bottom felt like.

  I turned abruptly and started walking. Maybe I could outrun the pain.

  “What is he doing here?” Behind me, Will's voice was so full of astonishment, that I turned to see what had caused it.

  A man dressed in pinstripes and glasses was running toward the doors of the school. He carried a clear aura of authority, even while sprinting, but no one looked at him as he passed. He reminded me of Mr. Verisetti in an indefinable way.

  I balanced on the balls of my feet, ready to run. “Is that your Dad?”

  Will held secrets that I wanted, but he was also a part of Mr. Verisetti's world—the world that had killed Christian.

  Will looked down at his suit. “No. Pinstripes are all the rage right now,” he muttered, blushing.

  On the street, a black SUV shot past us, did a quick U-turn and screeched to the curb. Will immediately pushed me out of the center of the gawking crowd and into a crush of kids waiting for a bus. Everyone was looking at me, and no one was noticing the very obvious black ops vehicle or the boy with the beret at my side. Three men rapidly exited the SUV.

  Another man exited more slowly, menace trailing him. All of the men wore black, with black sunglasses and soulless expressions on their faces.

  Frozen. I was frozen. Frozen physically and emotionally.

  “We have to go.” Will pushed me into the crowd. “Now.”

  “Hey, watch it!” a boy said, as I tripped over him, my body completely unresponsive.

  The thin man who had exited last yelled to the others, who were striding up the walk toward the school. “Find Verisetti. Put traces on everything.”

  Will pulled me behind a low wall of bushes that dotted the edges of the school grounds. I tripped over him, already off-balance, and my bag dumped to the ground.

  I mechanically started scooping things back inside. “Who are they?” I asked woodenly. They weren't quite the same as the men who had killed Christian. Those men had seemed far more wild and far less organized, but the feeling of personal danger was the same.

  Will tucked my art notebook into my bag, then grabbed the sketch while craning his head around. “Department sp
ooks. Bad news. Just stay here until we can make a break for it.” He held out the sketch to me.

  The tips of my paint-stained fingerpads curled around the paper, touching the girl's dress within. The paint seeped from my fingers into the sketch, absorbing there. The girl began swaying. She smiled, set the sapling down, and began pulling the shaded white drape on the right slowly to the side, exposing darkness in the middle of the sketch.

  “What is she doing?” Will scooted closer, pulling the paper back out of my grip in order to examine it. “I didn't realize you were an art mage.”

  Anxiety seeped through my wooden state as I watched him. Alarm gripped me. “Let go of that.”

  “Ok.” His fingers loosened, but a charcoaled hand reached out from the sketch and gripped his forearm. Will's eyes widened, and he finally released the paper fully, but it was far too late. The hand yanked back into the paper, taking Will’s arm with it. His whole body followed, just sucking, absorbing, him in. Schwoop. Right down to his strange black shoes.

  Gone, like everyone in my life.

  The freed sheet caught a breeze and gently drifted to the sidewalk. I stared blankly as it finally came to rest a few feet away. A student stepped on it, issued a quick apology, picked it up, and handed it to me.

  I blindly took it. People were passing by, pointing and giving me wary glances. Me. Not my hands which held the paper that had just sucked someone inside.

  I gripped the paper without looking down. Perhaps it would suck me inside too. Make me disappear completely as well.

  I finally looked down. There was a different figure in the sketch now. The girl in the white dress with the sapling was gone, but a male figure, drawn in broad, harsh strokes, looked pretty freaked out as he dashed around, banging into the sides of the sketch.

  I lunged forward and grabbed a sophomore passing on the walk, then held the sheet in front of his face. “Excuse me. Could you tell me what you see?”

  The sophomore looked scared. “A guy and some curtains.”

  “Is the guy doing anything?”

  “Doing anything?”

  “Do you see him moving?”

  The kid backed up, then bolted.

  I looked back down at the lone figure in the sketch—complete with a little beret—his hands splayed out against the paper, facing me, banging his palms as if against a two-way looking glass. His features were slowly turning from harsh strokes to the more refined ones of Will.

  I tentatively reached out a finger to touch his hand.

  “Ren!”

  My head snapped up, and I saw Dad's car at the curb. He was leaning into the passenger seat and waving to me through the open window, just like he had done for weeks now—leaving work early so that the three of us could awkwardly sit together—broken—for early dinners during “happy time” when the October sun was only just starting to set. As if the dark wasn't more comforting now.

  I looked back down at the sketch. Will looked completely freaked out. I looked back to the black SUV where the thin man stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed on the school entrance. I hurried to Dad's car.

  “You didn't text back,” he said as I scooted inside. “I didn't know if you had decided to start walking. Good thing you didn't,” he said in a too-hardy, joking manner. “Weather events are getting crazy again.”

  I hunched down, casting a quick glance behind my seat and through the rear window. “Sorry. Lost track of time.”

  “What have you got there?” he asked.

  He reached for the sketch, and I couldn't contain my yell. “Don't touch it!”

  He pulled his hand back, shocked.

  I swallowed again, pulling it completely out of his reach. “It's done in charcoal. It will dirty up your nice shirt.”

  “You trying to say your old Dad is afraid of a little dirt?” His smile did nothing to lighten the dark circles under his eyes.

  “No, course not.” They were going to pressure me again to take those drugs, I could see the intent forming in his expression. “Let's go home.” I took a deep breath and dredged up a smile.

  But he stayed in park and examined the drawing I had plastered against the door—as far as I could get it away from him without turning it face out and risking it swallowing the car with us inside—and nodded sagely while tapping a finger to his lips. “The transcendental aspect of the curvature of your lines is a sterling representation of the Circle Movement. Startling. Brilliant.”

  “Dad. Let's go.”

  “What? Are you going to tell me there has never been a Circle Movement? Should I have commented on the symbolism of your hat choice instead?”

  “I really want to go home. Now. Please.”

  “Ok, ok.” The lines around his mouth tightened, but he checked his mirrors and shifted into gear.

  I watched through the side mirror as we pulled away. The thin man was scanning the grounds. Fifty yards away, his eyes seemed to lock onto mine through the mirrored glass.

  We turned the corner.

  The tightness in my chest was overly constricting as I watched Will look over his shoulder to the dark sliver exposed by the slightly ajar drape. “Do you see anything wrong or weird about this picture?”

  “Aside from the beret? No?”

  The word came out more as a question, and as if it wasn't the picture that he was trying to decide was wrong and weird.

  I looked to the side mirror. No strange cars seemed to be following behind.

  Will's mouth pinched tight as he shifted sideways to keep both of us and the sliver between the drapes in view. He was watching the slivered opening in an increasingly wary manner. Had I conjured up some freaky nightmarish daydream about Mr. Verisetti? Had everything from the time I had entered the art classroom until the time my sketch fell to the ground been a vivid, complicated imagining? Were the lingering traces of such a dream still on me?

  Check her wrist.

  The memory of the words made me look down. Christian's band was half destroyed on one wrist. And on the other, strange henna brown pointillist dots now formed what looked suspiciously like the sapling that had disappeared in the sketch.

  I thought about balling up the paper. About taking the therapy drugs. Letting them make me forget everything.

  I pressed my knuckles to my forehead trying to push against the ache growing there. I was breathing too hard; my Dad was going to stop the car any second.

  “What do you say we stop for some fries on the way?” Dad said as he changed lanes. “Your Mom is making something healthy again.”

  We were away from the school. No one seemed to be following us. I nodded, focusing my gaze on the sketch again. There was something moving behind the drapes. And there was a boy trapped in front of them.

  Even if this was all the crazy in my head finally manifesting, maybe my brain was telling me how to release my fear of another person dying. Or was allowing me to save someone and feel redeemed. I closed my eyes. If I saved Will, maybe I'd gain some unpronounceable psychotherapy resolution.

  Dad pulled into the drive-thru, trying to make jokes about Mom's reaction as he ordered three large fries.

  I desperately wished for my brother. He would understand. Be able to help. My parents thought me unhinged with my tales of Christian's death.

  I had no one. I was on my own.

  We finally reached home, and I exited, gripping the sketch, watching as Will repeatedly checked his pockets with his finely drawn charcoal hands, pulling things out and stuffing them back in.

  “Roger, that had better not be french fries I smell!” But Mom's joke came out all wrong. High and stringy. I'd bet the Picasso original I would someday own that someone from school had already called her about either my behavior in art or on the sidewalk.

  “Too bad!” Dad's lighthearted reply was equally tight, as he shrugged out of his suit jacket. I clutched the sketch to my chest and stared up the darkened staircase toward my bedroom.

  “Sweetie.” Mom appeared in my peripheral view and her ha
nd went to my forehead. “You look feverish. Are you well? Should I call the doctor?”

  Or the therapist.

  Dad appeared next to her, dark circles deepening. “I thought you were just in your zone thinking about your artwork.”

  Hoping. He had been hoping I was just in my zone. And not dwelling on our missing fourth.

  “Are you unwell? What is wrong, Ren?”

  I loved my parents. Our family had been an awesome foursome. But now we were a very awkward threesome. They vacillated between holding on to me too tightly and trying to give me space. Holding on too tightly and pushing me away. Holding on too tightly and looking at me with ill-concealed censure.

  “Nothing.” I had to clear my throat to get the whole word out. “I'm fine. Just tired. Everything will be fine.”

  Will had confirmed that there was a way to bring someone back from the dead. Hope swelled painfully in my chest that my words were true. I repeated them as a promise.

  “Everything will be fine.”

  Chapter Three: Finding the Rabbit Hole

  I stepped into my room and closed the door, stomach grumbling over the abusive way in which I had just shoved my dinner into it. I stood in the darkness for a moment, before flicking on the lights. My carefully wrought walls greeted me, overwhelming and crowding me, instead of providing the haven I desperately needed. I concentrated on the section directly across from the door and took a deep breath. The figures, creatures, and odd shapes remained stationary.

  Half of the north wall had been completed during my Picasso cubist period, the other half during my obsession with pointillism and Signac. The transition between those two was...interesting. Demanding that the eye blend color versus elements. Christian had deemed me mad.

  I wondered if his statement hadn't been a little true.

  The other three walls and portions of the ceiling were a testament to other periods, some short, some longer. Impressionism, Renaissance, Baroque, Surrealism, Art Deco, Pop, Minimalism, Modernism. I looked to my latest period which covered the door to my closet. It was different from the others. It looked more like the designs on the draperies in the sketch. Black-and-white patterned circle portals and paths, shaded to create a three dimensional edge. As if I could enter to find Christian down one of those tunnels. The entrances to Heaven and Hell inside of my room and life.