Shadow Summoner: Choronzon Chronicles Book One

by Tess Adair

  There were two more incidents logged in Violet’s file, but these were logged by her and not against her. First, she’d filed a straight-up sexual harassment claim against Jason Reed. She alleged that despite her repeated rejections, he continued to proposition her in overtly sexual terms, often on school grounds. She also claimed that he’d started multiple rumors that he had already engaged in sexual acts with her, which caused his cohorts to harass and catcall her in the halls. Mr. Reed’s defense of himself had been to state, “She should take it as a compliment. Any other girl in this school would be happy to get with me.” He denied that he’d started the rumors, but one of his buddies had outed him, stating, “Yeah, Reed totally banged that slut!” Both boys had been temporarily removed from the football team and received in-school suspensions, which resulted in the need for them to take summer classes.

  Logan checked the dates. That particular bout of harassment had occurred the year before, yet if she remembered Mrs. Wendell’s story correctly, Jason Reed had continued his dogged pursuit of Violet through Homecoming of this year.

  Violet had learned better. Jason had not.

  Logan sighed, realizing that every name in Violet’s file was a viable and likely suspect. She turned to the last incident, which was a little vague. Violet reported that she suspected someone might be following her. She’d found a note taped to her locker after cheerleading practice, and discovered a hand-drawn picture of herself inside it, with the words “my beloved” written underneath. She’d also seen someone standing in her yard at night, but she couldn’t tell who. An unknown number called her phone but all she heard was breathing when she answered. She found another note on her locker, which read: Nobody understands you but me.

  She thought it might be Jason, but she wasn’t sure. The reports went nowhere. Teachers barely believed her, and Violet herself had conceded it might be a prank pulled by one of her friends.

  Logan made a quick list of everyone in the files, everyone who might have wanted to hurt Violet. She put Jason at the top.

  By now, the sun was disappearing behind the line of trees outside her window, past the short expanse of the soccer field below. She put Violet’s file back in the box, and that box in the bottom drawer of the desk. The list she folded up and slipped into her back pocket. Then she left the room and locked it back up behind her. She planned to get some takeout from the diner she’d found the previous morning, then head back to the motel for mindless television and sleep.

  An unsettled feeling creeped over her as she crossed the parking lot to her Ninja. Even though she couldn’t sense anything but her own shadow, she couldn’t shake the feeling, somehow, that someone was watching her.

  Chapter 3: Elimination Rounds

  I’d been on my own for over a year the first time I saw it. It was beautiful—shining and shimmering, like a mirage, full of light and promise. Just seeing it made me warm, made me hopeful. It was almost like its very presence melted away the outside world.

  I’d been on my own for a year. At first, I stayed with my aunt at Other Side. I begged her not to tell my father where I was, but she could only hold to that promise for so long. In the end, all she’d told him was that I was safe, but that had been enough. He was there within the day, but I’d known him well enough to get gone long before that.

  I made my way to an unfamiliar city, getting by like the rest of the homeless do. After that I spent some time drifting between the spare beds and spare couches that friendly acquaintances from Other Side could make available to me. When nobody had any room anymore, I started camping. I’d left home with just enough borrowed gear to make long-term camping semi-tenable, although food occasionally became an issue.

  When I saw it for the first time, I’d been out of touch with real civilization for weeks. I was trekking west through the Cascades, and the last town I’d seen was long behind me. I’d made camp in a small enclave of trees, which offered weak protection against the snow. I’d finally drifted off at some point in the night, huddled in the bottom of my sleeping bag beside a slowly dying fire.

  I’m not sure what stirred me. Maybe a sound, maybe just a feeling. But I woke up, and I could see a light somewhere above my head, spilling onto me in patches through the gap at the top of the sleeping bag.

  I wriggled my way out into the open, and though the fire had gone cold, the air around me felt warm. No snow fell on my skin, but I could still see it coming down in the trees around me. I looked for the source of the light; it seemed to be some 10 feet ahead of me in the woods.

  To this day, I’m not sure what I was thinking as I walked forward. Maybe I wasn’t thinking anything. Maybe I moved on primordial instinct.

  As I placed a hand on a nearby trunk and sidestepped it, I looked around, sure that I must be right on top of the light source by now. I was correct.

  On the ground ahead of me lay a glowing bronze artifact. When my eyes found it, I fell completely still, briefly mesmerized. Then, suddenly, without a single conscious decision, I was on my knees before it, brushing away the leaves so I could see it in full.

  It was an image similar to a labyrinth, like the kind I’d walked for meditation at Other Side—but different. Unlike a labyrinth, it wasn’t perfectly round, but rather came to a point at the top—like a teardrop. And the design inside was different, too—the path of lines created a vortex at the top, just above but not connected to the landing point at the center. And of course, this artifact was much smaller than a meditation labyrinth—only about two feet in diameter, far too small for someone to walk on.

  When I’d fallen asleep, I’d been thinking about how angry I was at my father—and how absolutely perfect it was that he finally cared about my whereabouts now that I wanted nothing further to do with him. I’d been wondering if anyone in the world missed me while I’d been off the grid. And I’d started laying pessimistic odds on my own survival in the mountains.

  But all of that worry and anguish melted away as I gazed at the strange bronze labyrinth before me. I felt so warm. I felt right, somehow, though I couldn’t say why.

  The Choronzon Key.

  Its name came to me before I ever thought to ask. And I knew, without a doubt, that it was right.

  I gazed at it a while, letting myself feel that soft, sweet quiet. I felt compelled to touch it, so I did. It was so warm to the touch it almost burned, but not quite. I felt its warmth travel through my body.

  And then, all of a sudden, it was gone.

  The cold returned immediately, like the Key had never been. I ran back to my sleeping bag and hurried inside. I had no idea what had just happened, but somehow, I still felt better than I had before. I fell asleep again with no trouble, an alien and unfamiliar content settled over me.

  I wouldn’t see the Key again for almost a year after that. I don’t know what it was doing all that time, but I harbor the sneaking suspicion that it was evaluating me.

  I suppose I must have passed.

  Logan woke in her small rented room. The Key stung slightly on the skin of her back, but she ignored it. It was prone to bother her for the duration of the missions she undertook for it. Was missions the word? Should she call them quests? Does it matter?

  As she slowly lifted her head, a thin piece of paper gently unstuck itself from her face—she’d fallen asleep on the book Knatt had given her on how to talk to teenagers. Setting it aside, she pushed herself from the bed and showered quickly. When she stepped out of the stall to grab a towel, she couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Anyone who didn’t know better might guess all her markings were tattoos; more than a few people had before. The Key certainly had the appearance of a tattoo, but by now, it wasn’t the only unusual permanent mark on her skin.

  The first ones she’d noticed had shown up on her forearms, right over the very spots where her ridges slid out. Four dark grey diamonds marked the skin over her ulna, each with a thin red line in the center where her skin always broke. She’d noticed them a few days after
her twentieth birthday; they just appeared there one morning when she woke up. A year or so after that, she’d gotten what seemed to be identical rashes on the upper parts of her shoulders, near her collar bone…only unlike most rashes, these were purple. Within a few days, one of the alien rashes started to itch, the skin peeling. When she scratched at it, a thin layer came painlessly away. The skin underneath was a purplish black, and the pattern was more defined.

  It looked almost like leopard spots, only a little too unfamiliar. It was like she was slowly turning into an alien.

  A day later, the other side came away, too. Every year, the two patches seemed to stretch a little farther. She didn’t know what they meant or when they would stop growing. By now, they ran halfway down her upper arms. To a layperson, they looked like tattoos, so she let everyone who asked about them think they were.

  As she examined them briefly in the mirror, she wondered if they looked bigger than they had the day before. Then she let her gaze fall lower, to the shiny three inch scar on her lower abdomen. With habit so ingrained it felt like instinct, she reached her right hand over to her left elbow, the inner skin revealing the only intentional mark she bore. It read The Field Only Reveals. Soothed as if by a security blanket or an old friend, she took a deep breath and turned away from the mirror.

  She’d packed her messenger bag the night before with a few weapons and an old lore book, as well as a paper bag full of fruit-based snacks for the day. Once she’d dressed herself in a white collared shirt and tight black pants tucked into motorcycle boots, she picked up her jacket, helmet, and bag and headed out the door.

  Her ride was pretty short now that she knew the route. Deciding that her strategy the day before to keep her bike safe from traffic had likely been optimal, she parked at the far end of the lot again. As soon as she jumped off and threw down the kickstand, she shrugged out of her jacket and carried it with her. Summer encroached on the last vestiges of spring; even without the jacket, she grew uncomfortably warm as she walked. Fortunately for her, she already knew the insides of the building would be crisp and cool, pumped full of artificial freeze.

  Once inside, she headed for the teachers’ lounge first. She had no intention of trying her hand at the day without the aid of a decent amount of coffee. She found the biggest mug the cabinet offered and filled it, adding a little cream on top when she was done. Then she headed toward the door so she could find her way back to the classroom that was her office.

  “Excuse me!” a female voice called to her. She turned to the noise. An almost impossibly tiny woman was running at her—white, with curly gray hair piled in a loose lump atop her head. She smiled warmly at Logan as she approached. “You’re the grief counselor, aren’t you?”

  Inwardly, Logan cringed. She’d been hoping to avoid any and all unnecessary conversation, with either students or teachers. But there was no backing out now, it seemed.

  “Yep, that’s me,” said Logan. She used a voice that she hoped sounded counselor-worthy.

  “Wonderful!” She struck out a hand, which Logan shook. “Esmerelda Swinson, lovely to meet you.”

  “H. C. Logan,” Logan answered. “I usually go by Logan.”

  “I’m so pleased you’re here,” Esmerelda Swinson said, adjusting her hair-pile with a light pat. “And, frankly, shocked that anyone in admin bothered to send for someone like you. I’ll be sending a number of students your way today, hope you don’t mind. They might not all have much to say, of course, and that’s perfectly all right. I’m just hoping to give the children all a chance to make their peace with what’s happened, however they need to. But I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Of course,” Logan answered, nodding automatically. She supposed it was a good thing that the teacher wanted to look out for her students, though she couldn’t help but selfishly wonder if this woman was placing unnecessary work onto her plate. On the other hand, it was fully possible the killer never had a direct connection to Violet, so casting a wide net might prove the better option in the long run. “Feel free to send anyone my way that you think could benefit from it. We’re all here for the students, after all, aren’t we?”

  “How right you are!” the tiny woman exclaimed, clapping her hands together with a look of delight on her face. “Well, it’s just fantastic having you on the team, Miss Logan. I’ll be seeing you around, I’m sure.”

  And with that, she tottered off again. Logan gave a small sigh of relief. If she could only get through all her interactions with so little effort, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe.

  When Logan reached her makeshift office, she saw that a sign-up sheet had been posted on the door, and the first page of open slots had already been filled. She tore off the page and took it inside with her. Inside, she placed the list and her coffee on the desk, then arranged two chairs in front of it, facing each other. The part of her that remembered being a teenager didn’t think she’d get too many answers out of people sitting behind that overbearing slab. On a sudden thought, she hopped over to the supply closet in the corner of the room and pulled out a box of tissues to place on the desk as well.

  There. It was almost like she knew something about being a grief counselor. Almost.

  The time was 7:45am. Only five minutes until the first class, which was also about the time her first student should show up, according to Mrs. Wendell. She pulled out the same book she’d brought with her to Miss Adelaide Humphrey’s estate and propped it open. At the moment, she didn’t have any particular interest in reading it, but she didn’t want to look too expectant to the first student who walked in.

  She needn’t have bothered, of course. As soon as she cracked the spine, she heard a knock on her open door. Making sure to catch a quick glimpse of her sheet first, she turned to see her first potential suspect.

  The slim girl with the downward slanting mouth who stood before her didn’t look too much like a threat. Inwardly Logan braced herself, remembering the advice she’d pored over in the guidebook the night before. Don’t treat them like monsters, she told herself. It’s counterproductive.

  “Hello,” Logan offered with a welcoming smile. “Are you Ashley?”

  The girl nodded without speaking, anxiously twisting the hem of her T-shirt.

  “Come on in,” said Logan, gesturing toward a seat in front of the desk. As the girl crossed over, Logan left the swivel chair to come sit on the other side with her patient like a good ersatz therapist. She got the sense that this one didn’t need any help feeling intimidated. Once they were both seated, Logan took a stab at getting them started. The first direction from the book ran through her mind: Stay open and make no assumptions. “My name is Logan. I know your teachers may have instructed you to call me Miss Logan, but I don’t think that’s necessary. I usually just go by Logan. Do you like to be called Ashley, or is there something else you would prefer?”

  The student paused before answering. Logan almost worried she’d overtaxed her already.

  “Ashley’s fine,” she muttered.

  “Excellent. And do you prefer female pronouns?” We live in a world of increasing diversity, the book had said. Not every student will identify with the gender of their birth. Here are a few questions to help you avoid some awkwardness…

  Confusion took hold of Ashley’s face but then disappeared again.

  “Yeah, I’m a girl.”

  “Good to know. Thank you, Ashley. So, how about you tell me how your week has been?”

  Ashley was quiet, still twisting the edge of her shirt, and now worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Logan let the silence stretch almost a minute before breaking it.

  “All right. We don’t have to start there. We can talk about whatever you want. If you like, you can spend the hour telling me about your favorite TV show, or a book you read once, or whatever celebrities you think are cute. Or we can talk about how you’re feeling now. Or, of course, we can sit here in perfect silence, too. It’s entirely up to you.”

  The girl nod
ded slowly, her lower lip quivering dangerously. Both her hands now pulled at the white cotton fabric. Finally, she spoke.

  “I was in…I had Spanish and Pre-Calc with Violet. I had…we…we used to ride the bus together, back in middle school.” Her voice wavered and she shook her head furiously, like somehow that would keep her from crying.

  It didn’t. Seconds later, she burst into tears.

  The rest of Logan’s first hour was something of a roller coaster. Once the girl started crying, Logan hopped up to shut the door as quickly as possible, immediately angry with herself that she hadn’t thought to do that as soon as the girl came in. She knew better now, at least. Then she spent the next few minutes assuring the girl that crying was not only natural and normal, it was even good.

  “As awful as everything seems right now,” she said in soft soothing tones, “it’s better to let it all come to the surface instead of pushing it down.”

  She started by giving the girl a new tissue every time she needed one, but eventually she just grabbed the box and held it in front of her, so Ashley wouldn’t need a middle man anymore. Slowly the sobbing subsided, and Ashley related her entire history with Violet, which didn’t amount to much. When pressed to consider what affected her so deeply about Violet’s death, she admitted her sense of trauma had more to do with the idea of death itself than with her actual relationship to Violet. After that, she and Logan ended up chatting for a while about the nature of death, why it scared people, the subtle and strange ways its presence shaped the world around them. All in all, Logan felt this was a pretty solid start to her morning.

  In the end, when Logan got up to open the door for her, Ashley asked if she could get a hug before she left. A little bemused, Logan obliged.

  “Everybody thinks she was so mean,” Ashley said as she left. “But she was nice, too. She let me borrow her pink flower shirt one time. She didn’t need to do that.”