Shadow Summoner: Choronzon Chronicles Book One

by Tess Adair

  She didn’t even bother to duck, just walked quietly behind him. She reached the other side without incident.

  Following the smell, she went to the end of the other hall. Briefly she pressed her ear up to the door, confirmed there was no one inside, and opened it. The room was dark, but her eyes adjusted. On the left wall stood the walk-in freezer, held shut with a simple bike lock. Just as she was about to walk over and break it open, she noticed the key rack just above it.

  I love it when it’s easy.

  She opened the lock and replaced the key, then pulled the door open. There she was—Violet Buchanan. Under a sheet, of course. Logan wheeled her table out, locked the wheels in place, and pulled back the sheet.

  The first thing she saw was her face. It was almost exactly the same as the face she’d seen during her episode, only paler and more still, the eyes now shut.

  The second thing she saw was her chest. It had been ripped open. She leaned over to peer inside. She was no medical expert, but it looked to her like something was missing: her heart. Logan pulled the sheet all the way back to give the rest of her body a once-over, but nothing else stood out to her. Nothing else needed to.

  She pulled out her phone. Knatt didn’t always take to technology well, but with some coaxing from her, he’d finally gotten the hang of texting. She sent him a short message.

  Heart torn out. Case confirmed.

  Then she covered Violet up again and rolled her back into the freezer. Just as she shut the lock once more, she heard voices in the hallway, coming closer. With a quick glance around, she located a high window and crossed over to it.

  She could hear the deputies entering the room as she dropped to the ground, letting the window swing shut. Knowing there was no way they’d missed the sound, she hurtled herself into the trees at top speed and flattened herself behind a ridge of rocks and bush.

  “Hey! Hey you kids, get out of here! Idiots.”

  The window slammed shut again. They hadn’t seen her, and from the sound of it, their suspicions lay with youthful indiscretion.

  Jumping to standing again, she brushed herself off and started her trek back to her hotel. For a moment, she considered going into town—there was bound to be a bar, bound to be one or two available people in it. But she decided against it. She was tired, and she’d had her fill of the small town social scene for a while yet.

  Besides, there was no telling what Knatt would want her to do in the morning.

  I worship the wolf.

  The sound of knocking came to her through the haze of sleep. Once again, the vision from the Key had infused her dreams. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was something from the vision that she was missing, possibly something that could explain the only clear words she’d heard. But she had no more ideas now than when she’d first experienced it.

  The knocking came again, but it sounded strange somehow. She rolled onto her feet without even opening her eyes and headed toward the door, but as she reached for the handle, she realized the sound originated somewhere behind her. Was she only imagining it? She turned around, back to the center of the room.

  There, near the foot of her bed, unattached to any wall, stood a door.

  Oh, lord. Of course.

  She walked over and opened it, and found herself face-to-face with Hugh Knatt. Well, who else would it be? He wore an impeccably clean and crisp tan-colored suit, which complimented his dark skin nicely. His graying hair was clipped neatly close, and his expression, as usual, was one of mild distaste. With his hands held behind his back, he stepped carefully through the door and around her and began to inspect the room.

  Logan couldn’t help but feel like a kid again, waiting for Knatt’s judgment, waiting to see if, for once, her room might pass muster.

  “Up to your usual standards, I see,” he said, letting his gaze rise up to the ceiling before rounding on her. “Have you made friends with all the cockroaches?”

  I should really give up hoping that someday he’ll see the value of my thrift.

  “Oh, only the loud-mouthed ones. The shy ones won’t talk to me.” She felt her eyebrow arch of its own accord, perhaps more out of defensiveness than curiosity. “Why are you here?”

  “Ah. Yes, we should be efficient. Follow me.”

  He walked back through the unmoored door. Bracing herself with a grimace, she followed him.

  On the other side of the door stood a chamber far larger than her dingy motel room. She recognized it immediately—it was the travelling room on the ground floor of the estate. Once upon a time, her father had tried to get them to refer to it as the wanderers’ room, but both she and Knatt refused to call it that. It looked as cold and uninviting as ever.

  She stepped through the doorway onto echoing marble floors. Far above her stood a domed ceiling, covered in intricate patterns. A layperson might have assumed the patterns were paint, but Logan knew better. The last time Knatt had refreshed the spells on the room, she’d made the mixture herself. It was made of blood, ash, and ground up wolfsbane. The columns all around the room were painted with it, too. If she hadn’t grown up around that kind of stuff, she imagined the truth might have creeped her out.

  Knatt stood near the center of the room, right next to a rolling clothes rack. Glancing behind her, she could see the doorway she’d just come through, unmoored on this side as well. Her rented room was still perfectly visible on the other side, waiting for her to return.

  “You’ll be needing these,” said Knatt.

  She turned back to him, and he pushed the clothes rack a little closer to her. She stared at it in disbelief and confusion.

  “Why would I ever need any of that?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’ll have to look presentable before the impressionable young minds, of course.”

  Her eyebrow arched ever higher. She doubted it would come down again.

  “What impressionable minds?”

  “Well, we know you need to be able to investigate the young woman’s untimely death, don’t we? And if you’re going to investigate, you’ll need to be able to interview her friends, her peers. People her age.”

  Realization dawned unpleasantly on her.

  “You got me a job at the fucking high school, didn’t you?”

  “Language, Miss Logan. Remember the impressionable young minds.”

  If she thought he was capable of lighthearted fun, she would have sworn he was enjoying this. She eyed the wardrobe he’d picked out with suspicion, though she had to admit he did have a sense for her style. Sure, everything was nicely pressed button-downs and dress pants, but he’d kept to dark and neutral colors, and she didn’t see any skirts—skirts didn’t function well with motorcycles. With a sigh, she admitted to herself—though not to him—that she could make this work. After all, she couldn’t see that she had much choice. What better way to investigate high school students than to infiltrate the high school?

  “So what am I supposed to teach them? Alternative History? Demon Physiology?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to be installed as a temporary grief counselor, to help the students process their recent trauma.”

  She felt her mouth drop open as she stared.

  “Right. Teacher is ridiculous, but therapist—that makes sense. Look, I know I can fool a few clients into finding me charming, but I’m not sure you can really call me a people-person. You know?”

  Knatt stared right back at her. If he were the type to shrug, she imagined that’s what he’d be doing right now.

  “You need to be able to ask questions without arousing suspicion. Can you think of a better idea than this?”

  With a huff of frustration, she brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose, hoping to head off her growing migraine at the pass. Of course, he was right. As a counselor, she’d be able to ask probing, personal questions, and nobody would bat an eye. Goddamnit.

  “Fine,” she said, nodding finally. “So. How’d you manage it?”

  Immediate
ly Knatt’s face broke into a smile of radiant self-satisfaction.

  “A few suggestions to the right people, of course. That’s all it ever takes. You’ll need to be at the high school today at 4:00pm, to speak to a Mrs. Wendell, the administrator who will process your paperwork, and a Mr. Johnston, the school principal.” He pointed to a bag swinging off the end of the clothes rack. “You’ll find your paperwork in there. I’ve also included a guidebook that ought to give you a few ideas on how to communicate with the children.” He gave her a pointed look. “With sensitivity, that is.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Now,” he turned to her, “we have one more thing to cover. I cannot in good conscience allow you to conduct another mission armed with nothing but that little butter knife. Let’s get you some weapons, shall we?”

  Finally. Something she would actually enjoy.

  After she and Knatt had rolled the clothes rack and her new mini arsenal into the rented room, and the door to the travelling room had disappeared, she still had several hours to herself with nothing set for her to do. So she took up her usual workout routine, or at least the one she had on the road: a short three mile run over whatever rough terrain she could find, fifty one-armed pushups on each side, a few sets of ab ladders and boxer abs, rotating rock-climbers, one hundred squats carrying her heavy mace, twenty fingertip pull-ups over the bathroom doorway, and a final one mile run. She killed almost three hours with that, then moved on to sword practice.

  She remembered the first time she’d ever really pushed herself, physically. As a kid, she’d never particularly stood out in her gym classes—she was usually right at the middle of the pack. Now, when she thought about it, she couldn’t say exactly why that was. Maybe her strength hadn’t kicked in yet. Maybe she’d felt an unconscious need to hide. Maybe she just never thought to try a little harder. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

  But after the incident with Damien, she’d started to wonder.

  He must have been the son of one of their clients; to this day, she couldn’t remember for sure. After he’d dropped his sword, he’d run inside to tell their parents what had happened. But as soon as he’d turned his back, the ridges had slipped back inside of their own accord, and the briefly torn flesh had healed. When the adults came back outside, they saw no evidence of her transformation and dismissed it as childish fantasy. She’d wanted to come to Damien’s defense, but one look from her father had silenced her.

  She’d thought that he would explain it all to her later, convinced herself he knew and he would tell her. He didn’t. He told her she had made it up, and that she ought to feel ashamed for dragging the boy into her fantasy. If she ever brought it up again, he said, she’d be grounded and she’d never get to go on another visit to Other Side. She couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing her aunt again, so despite her fury, she’d kept her mouth shut.

  After they got home, her father left within a day to go on another contract job. She couldn’t have been more pleased. Knatt stayed home with her that time, but for the most part, he left her to her own devices. So she was free to experiment.

  She went almost to the edge of their property line, until she was mostly hidden by the trees. A path wove deep into the woods, circled around a small pond, and came back around; its total length was four miles. So she clocked the exact time and started running.

  Everything felt normal at first—she ran at a brisk pace, but it didn’t seem like anything she hadn’t done in class before. But after a minute, she realized she wasn’t out of breath and her heart rate seemed normal—in fact, she hardly felt any different than if she’d been walking at a leisurely pace. Had it always been this way? She pushed harder against the ground, propelling herself a little further with each step—and she felt her body moving faster. The trees whipped past her, blurry even if she focused on them. Is this running or is it flying? she’d thought.

  Then the path bent suddenly to the left, and, unprepared for the change, she tumbled head-first into a bush.

  As she jumped up to get going again, she noticed a few long scratches on her arms, and felt at least one on her cheek. They didn’t hurt too badly, so she gave herself a small shake and took off again. When she saw the next curve approaching, she decided to try the speed skater approach. She bent lower to the ground and leaned into it, even letting her hand brush the dirt as she moved. It worked okay—she skidded a bit but remained mostly upright, able to keep going.

  Finally, she was back to the start of the trail, where she’d taken off from. She checked her time—about twelve minutes, give or take. So, a little less than three minutes per mile. She tried to remember the fastest mile she’d ever seen at school—maybe six minutes? Maybe five? And what might the world record be? And how far could she push herself if she trained?

  She raised her hand to brush her cheek—and found her skin clean, unblemished. When her hand came back down, she assessed her arm—small red marks lined her skin where there had been open cuts only minutes before. And those marks were shrinking.

  As she gazed down at her miraculously healing arm, she couldn’t help but think about those ridges. She bent her arm at the elbow and ran her fingers along the bone—her ulna, she figured out later. Whatever her father said, she knew the spikes were in there. But how could she make them come out? She tried tapping her arm, moving up and down to see if there might be some specific pressure point. Nothing. She closed her left hand into a fist and slammed it down along the bone; that hurt but it produced no results. Knowing she would only heal if she truly injured herself, she walked over to the nearest tree and tried slamming her arm against it. Still nothing.

  All right, she thought to herself. What am I missing?

  What had led up to the appearance of the ridges in the first place? She’d been play fighting with Damien, and she’d been winning until she stumbled. Then she panicked and threw her arm over her face. So she tried that again now—closing her eyes, tossing her arm up.

  Nothing. So it wasn’t about the motion, then.

  As she stood there, frozen temporarily in place, she had that nagging feeling again, like there was something she couldn’t quite remember. I’ve done this before.

  But when?

  She moved her arm through the motion, backward and forward. The memory was there, just under the surface; she could feel it but she couldn’t bring it forth. It was almost like someone had put it in a box somehow. The more she probed at it, the stranger she felt—how could her brain hold onto a memory but allow her no access to it? And yet she was sure. She was sure it was there.

  She moved her arm again, but this time, she tried to remember exactly what she’d felt before. She’d stumbled and lost her footing, and she’d felt something she very rarely felt: afraid. What did it feel like, to be afraid?

  That was it. Fear.

  She felt that telltale pain in her arm, and when she opened her eyes, four spikes of bone were pushing through her skin. She angled her arm to get a better view, then reached out to touch them. Just before she reached the end, however, she realized how sharp the outer edges were—sharp as blades. So she touched the sides instead, marveling at their perfect smoothness.

  A thought came to her then, unbidden—what would happen if something hit one of the spikes and it broke off? Would it grow back? She felt the reckless urge to give it a try but held back. Now that she’d finally discovered this part of herself, she didn’t want to lose it so quickly.

  As she touched the smooth bone one more time, she saw a sudden flash of memory—rain, and a quietness that didn’t fit. Quietness, and rain, and a voice that was not a voice, tugging at her mind.

  Then, all at once, it came to her. That day on their way to Other Side, when they’d stopped at the gas station and she’d seen something out in the rain, felt a force compelling her. She’d known, somehow, that the force didn’t have the power over her that it expected to have—that it should have had. She pushed into the memory, but she couldn’t quite remember how i
t had ended.

  But that had only been a few months ago. Why hadn’t she been able to remember it? What had happened to her memory?

  The answer was obvious, but she hadn’t wanted to see it.

  Her father had hidden the memory from her. Using some kind of magic she didn’t yet know about, her father had reached into her mind and manipulated it so she couldn’t access a part of her own memory.

  As the realization dawned on her young self, she felt sick. If he could do that to her, what else could he do? What else had he hidden? What else didn’t she know?

  In her rented motel room with a broadsword in her hand, Logan felt just as sick about it as she ever had. She’d never gotten a full answer out of him. In fact, when her father had come home, she’d confronted him about it—and he’d done another spell to hide it from her all over again. She hadn’t gotten back the memories of that day until she was sixteen years old. That time, she knew not to tell her father what she’d recovered.

  So she’d run away instead.

  She glanced over at the clock on the small bedside table: almost 2:30pm. She decided to head over to the school a bit early, on the off-chance that observing the kids at the end of the day might yield some kind of information she wouldn’t otherwise see.

  That, or maybe she just needed a little distraction from memory.

  If there was one thing Logan could remember with perfect clarity, it was this: high school was a horror. She parked the bike at the edge of the lot, hoping it would be far enough away from the rushing masses that it would avoid injury. She couldn’t help but feel a little apprehension as she looked over at the school. Still, she had no choice. She straightened her jacket and made her way inside, marveling at how similar most high schools and most prisons looked. Or perhaps that was only her perception.

  She passed in front of a waiting yellow bus and surmised that classes were about to let out. Good. She’d have a chance to witness a microcosm of the day.