Shadow Summoner: Choronzon Chronicles Book One

by Tess Adair

  “That’s true,” Logan nodded.

  Ashley’s eyes rounded a little as she looked at Logan. Possibly in admiration, or something similar.

  “It was cool talking to you,” she said. Her hands no longer twisted at her hem. “Do you think I could come by again sometime if I need to? I mean, just if you have the time.”

  Huh. Well, that’s…new. And, I guess… good. It’s good. Blending in as a fake grief counselor. Cool?

  “Of course,” said Logan. “As long as I’m here, you are free to come back whenever you need to.”

  “Thank you.” For a moment, Ashley’s eyes got even rounder. Logan wondered if she was going to hug her again. Then she blurted out, “I gotta go. Bye!” And she ran off.

  Logan immediately crossed Ashley off the mental list of possible suspects. She’d never even made it to the physical list. If that girl is guilty, Logan thought to herself, she’s too good an actor to catch.

  She crossed back over to the desk to see who was up next.

  Missy Vreeland. Perfect. Missy was already on the list, so one way or the other, this interview was bound to tell her something. Logan wondered what the odds were that Missy would turn out to be as sweet and sensitive as Ashley.

  Right off the bat, Missy wasn’t quite as prompt as Ashley had been, but Logan chose not to hold it against it. She had an occasional habit of tardiness herself from time to time, if her last job weren’t perfect evidence of that. When Missy rolled in about a minute after the bell rang, Logan gave her a quick smile and a wave and pointed her at the far chair, taking a quick mental note of her basic description as she did. White, 5’5 or 5’6, brown hair. Distinctly a teenager.

  Choosing to learn from her mistakes, Logan closed the door right after her, before coming to sit on the chair across from her.

  “Hello Missy,” said Logan. “I’m Logan. Do you prefer female pronouns?”

  Missy scoffed and cast her gaze down to her nails, which were meticulously painted in bubblegum pink. “Obviously.”

  “Hm. Fair enough,” said Logan. She could feel the well-practiced smile she turned on for clients slipping into place. It was the kind of smile that humored without letting on. I guess if the whole day is one-on-one, I can just treat each one of them like a client. A small and hormonal client. “Tell me, what would you like to talk about, Missy?”

  “God,” Missy huffed. “I can’t believe I even have to do this. I’m not some psycho basket case, you know.”

  Makes one of us, I guess. With years of practice behind her, Logan could be reasonably sure her sarcastic thought process wouldn’t show through on her face.

  “I never thought you were,” said Logan. “Did somebody say that you were?”

  “Of course not,” said Missy. “I just meant—with all this.” She waved her hand in the air around her, eyes up on the ceiling. Missy didn’t seem overly fond of eye contact.

  You’re lucky I’m not supposed to assume you’re being defensive, kid. The book taught me better than that. Knatt would be so pleased.

  “It’s my understanding that you and Violet were close friends. Were you not?”

  “I guess so,” she shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “I like to think that friendship matters quite a bit, actually. It’s good to have friends. Sometimes friends can make you a better person.” Might not apply in your case, sweetheart, but I’m not supposed to say that out loud. With considerable effort, Logan pressed pause on her own thoughts. It’s not even ten and I’m already getting salty. She needed to pace herself if she was going to get through the day without exhausting herself. She took a breath and refocused on her attempt at playing the counselor. “And it’s hard to lose them, especially if it’s unexpected. When someone close to you dies, there’s nothing unusual about talking to someone about it. It certainly doesn’t make you a psycho basket case.”

  Missy shrugged and shifted in her seat. A twitch of irritation came over Logan, but she brushed it aside.

  “You don’t have to talk to me, of course. We can sit here quietly. It’s up to you.”

  Missy glanced down at her nails again, then let her eyes drift up to the ceiling. With a huff she said, “Yeah, I was friends with Violet. I guess. I never really knew if I could trust her.” She clicked her tongue. “You can’t trust some people.”

  So worldly, this one.

  “Why is that?”

  “Some people are just shady and jealous.” She pursed her lips and deigned to glance at Logan. “Everyone’s jealous of the pretty girls. And the pretty girls are jealous of each other, most of the time. Somebody’s always out there trying to one up you so they can take what’s yours.” The hint of a smirk played at her face, curling up the farthest corner of her mouth. “Don’t you remember that from when you were in school? Like, 30 years ago, or whenever?”

  Logan gave a semi-involuntary chortle as she popped a placating smile into place. Wrong crowd, kid.

  “Nope, I don’t remember that at all. So, you feel that Violet took something from you?”

  Missy faltered, her brows furrowing as she considered the question.

  “I mean, Violet was just like that. She was one of those girls.” She drew out the “o,” then gave Logan a look like she was sure Logan would understand exactly what she meant.

  “What girls?”

  “The kind of girl who tries to steal another girl’s boyfriend. You know, because she can’t get one on her own. The kind of girl who just needs that attention. You know. A slut.”

  Suddenly, Logan realized she was developing a new artificial expression: concern-guided confusion. She felt it take over her face as she considered the girl in front of her.

  “I was under the impression that Violet did have a boyfriend.”

  “Well, yeah,” Missy uttered, clearly exasperated. “Now she does. Or did. Whatever. She was dating Derek. But, like, she wasn’t always dating Derek. You know?”

  “I don’t. Tell me.” She clasped her hands together and let her head tilt to the side, like she was eager to find out.

  Missy rolled her eyes. The whole exercise was obviously quite a burden on her, and yet she kept on talking. “Violet always wanted what I had, okay?” She flipped a piece of hair behind her shoulder and pursed her lips again. “It’s not my fault. I mean, when I first got together with Jason, she, like, completely flipped out. It was just sad. Nobody is going to date you if you let yourself look that pathetic. And, I mean, It’s not my fault that I’m more popular than her, but she just couldn’t deal with it. Every time I turned around, she was basically throwing herself at him. I mean, god. But that’s just who she was, I guess. Just another jealous little slut.” She ended with a pointed look back at Logan.

  As Logan gazed at the child sitting across from her, she imagined it wasn’t hard to guess Missy’s entire life in this little town. What must it be like to live your life dependent on the approval of the crowd, with all those shifting loyalties and mercurial whims? It was no wonder she came off so petulant and insecure, even in front of a stranger. Missy had put it into words herself: you can’t trust some people. Or, in Missy’s case, any people.

  “It must have been hard for you to be friends with her,” said Logan, her tone careful and measured. “I heard there was an incident at the Homecoming dance. Would you like to talk about that?”

  She watched as Missy’s eyes flashed, her face almost crumpling before she recovered herself.

  “There’s no need. I’m completely over it.” She shrugged one shoulder, a half-smile struggling to spread on her lips. “Besides, I got my crown. That’s what counts.”

  Logan had never, at any point in her life, wanted to be a homecoming queen. But she tried to imagine being the kind of girl who wanted that. And what it must have felt like to finally get it, only to have your boyfriend break up with you within a few hours. For your best friend, no less. Your best friend who didn’t even want him anyway.

  “Were you angry with her? For trying to tarnish your nigh
t?”

  Missy’s gaze remained pinned to the floor. That pesky eye contact.

  “No. I don’t get mad. That’s for idiots and freaks. I just get even.”

  Logan kept her gaze neutral, refusing to let any expression pass. Her voice followed suit, sounding almost robotic as it escaped her lips. “Did you get even with Violet?”

  Missy shrugged. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded hollow. “I got Jason back, didn’t I? I’m gonna graduate high school as the Homecoming Queen, with the hottest guy on the football team as my boyfriend. And Violet is—”

  She broke off, her expression frozen. Logan chose to finish the thought for her.

  “Violet is not going to graduate high school at all.”

  “Right,” said Missy. “Because she’s dead.” Finally she met Logan’s eyes again. Her own looked muted and far away. “I win.”

  Logan heard no triumph in her voice. Only defeat.

  Lunch, by the time it rolled around, proved a much-needed break from the drama of high school students. After Missy, she’d seen two kids in a row who openly and smugly admitted to agreeing to a counseling session just to get out of a class. They were both equally shocked by how quickly she sent them packing. Since she didn’t know the schedules of any of the students on her list, she had to call Mrs. Wendell after each one to get her to send the next kid along. The third kid after that had been another crier who barely knew Violet but wanted someone to talk to. Though that was draining in its own way, she decided she would take a million of those over another encounter with Missy.

  Mrs. Wendell had told her the day before when she should take her break, and she took it on the dot. Since she didn’t feel particularly in the mood for cafeteria spaghetti, she chose to forgo the actual meal and take a walk outside instead. A walk, and possibly a brief smoke.

  Locking her jacket and helmet inside her “office,” she shouldered her bag and went outside. The sun blazed down on her, heating up the day and urging her to roll up her sleeves, or even lose the over-shirt entirely. She ignored the impulse. Tattoos didn’t work so well as an explanation for her deformations when she was supposed to be setting an example for teenagers. She couldn’t help feeling a little resentful; if she were back in her home city, the weather would undoubtedly be cooler, likely with a crisp breeze rolling through.

  She strolled out one of the back doors of the building, heading toward the field instead of the parking lot. The grounds currently lay empty, all students and teachers still cloistered in their air conditioned halls. Logan had never been great with heat, though she fared unusually well in the cold. Unusually for a human being, that is.

  Once she passed behind a line of trees, she opened her backpack and fished out her emergency pack of cigarettes. She didn’t smoke regularly anymore, but she kept a pack with her when she traveled as a kind of nervous habit. She’d picked up smoking a little before her eighteenth birthday, when she’d settled, for a time, in Los Angeles. Most days, she tried not to remember the LA months. LA was hot and miserable, and she’d been hot and miserable while she was there. She’d picked up a few good skills though—like how to hotwire a car, and how to disable a home security system. A few good skills, and at least one decidedly bad habit.

  Missy had reminded her too much of other people, other moments. Logan popped a cigarette in her mouth and lit it, imagining Knatt’s disappointment as she did. When she’d gone to LA, she’d been fresh from a brief respite at Other Side, which had meant that, for once, she was relatively washed and clean. The main advantage to cleanliness, she’d learned, was that it helped you stay anonymous in a crowd. If you had a distinctive scent, people tended to remember you with more ease.

  She’d never wanted people to remember her. Especially back when she made her living by shoplifting and stealing wallets off men in suits.

  She got about halfway through the cigarette before shame, and an unpleasant cough, overtook her. Then she stubbed it out and headed back, hoping the smell wouldn’t linger with her if she walked briskly enough.

  On her way back, she saw that a few girls had come outside and were now kicking a soccer ball around in one of the fields. She paused for a moment to watch them, glad of the reminder that, at the end of the day, most of the kids she had to talk to were just that: kids. Even the piece-of-work kids like Missy.

  As she started walking again, she realized that she recognized one of the girls on the field. It was the angry girl from the day before, who’d slammed her locker and kicked it before running off. Logan paused briefly to watch her as she sprinted with impressive speed down the field. Well, perhaps soccer was a more constructive outlet for her energies.

  Finally Logan pushed back into the air conditioning and made her way up the stairs, trying to steel herself for an afternoon of taxing interactions with teenagers.

  The next student who walked through the door was an underclassman, a bright-faced girl in the freshmen class who idolized Violet. Logan got through that hour easily enough, though she could hardly say she’d connected with her. But that’s not what I’m here for, right? At least I didn’t scare her off, I guess.

  Her appointment after that came quite late. Despite her interview with Missy, Logan once again determined that she shouldn’t hold tardiness against him and did her best to put it out of her mind. Still, she’d clocked his name right after she came back from lunch, and she wasn’t at all sure what she should expect from him: it was Jason Reed. No one is any more a suspect than anyone else, she thought to herself with determination. All I know is that either he doesn’t respect the concept of consent, or he doesn’t understand it. But that does not a murderer make. Not for sure, anyway. As he took his sweet time to show up for his timeslot, she considered what kind of questions she might want to take him through.

  I am starting to understand why Knatt hates it when I’m late. But she forced herself not to dwell on it.

  Finally, he knocked at the doorframe. He was white, tall, and somewhat nondescript in the face with a semi-vacant look in his eye. She waved him to the seat while she walked over and shut the door, then came to stand near the desk.

  “Jason Reed?” she asked, her right eyebrow arching as she took him in. He’d slumped immediately on the chair, letting his legs spread wide before him. Entitlement wrapped around him like a cozy blanket. Stop that, she told herself.

  “That’s me,” he said, letting an indolent smile slowly creep over his face as he stared at her.

  Oh kid. Don’t test me.

  “And your preferred pronouns?”

  His expression was blank and uncomprehending.

  “My what?”

  Logan kept her face frozen, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

  “Do you go by he?”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  She glanced over at the clock.

  “Tell me, Jason. Do you normally show up to scheduled appointments seventeen minutes late?”

  For a split second, he looked uncomfortable. Perhaps he hadn’t expected to be questioned. Perhaps the better question would have been—when was the last time someone called you on it?

  The discomfort was gone in an instant, however. He covered it neatly with a new, more sheepish grin.

  “Am I really that late? I guess I got more distracted than I realized.”

  Logan shrugged but held off on the placating smile. “I suppose it’s your hour. You may waste it if you wish.” Her head cocked to the side as she continued studying him. Underneath the smarm and self-satisfaction, his face was handsome. She supposed the sports jersey earned him some popularity among his peers, but it meant nothing to her. “Nonetheless, it would be polite of you to apologize.”

  “Uh…yeah. I’m sorry.” His discomfort came back, accompanied by a dose of confusion.

  Better than nothing. She turned on the conciliatory client smile. “That’s not so hard, is it? Now, why don’t we talk about you for a bit?” She eased into the chair across from him.

  “You want to talk about me? I th
ought we were gonna talk about Violet.”

  “Whatever you like. Do you want to talk about Violet?”

  “Uh, I guess so.” He shifted in his seat, like he wasn’t sure of his conversational footing.

  “I understand she was close with your girlfriend, Missy. Were you and Violet also close?”

  In an instant, it was almost like he forgot he was still talking to an authority figure. He cracked what he clearly thought was a sly smile, full of blunt teenage-boy innuendo. “You could say we were close, yeah.”

  Her own smile dropped as she zeroed in on him. “You could say so? What does that mean? Were you close, or were you not?”

  He bobbed his head back and forth, more like an imitation of a rooster than a nod. “In a manner of speaking, yeah.”

  “Mm. Another qualified answer. Are you implying that you had a sexual relationship with Violet?”

  He shrugged, that sheepish noncommittal smile back on his face. “Hey, I’m not saying anything ever happened.”

  “But you are implying so. Maybe you simply wanted something to happen?”

  “Well, yeah, who didn’t? Violet was hot shit, and she knew it. She loved to taunt guys, you know, wearing those tight little outfits and all. She looked good. Everybody wanted a piece.”

  Logan took a slow breath, hoping the boil of her blood hadn’t changed her outer demeanor. Good job staying neutral, she scolded herself. She blinked and took another breath, centering herself.

  “May I ask you something that might be a little personal?”

  His gaze changed abruptly, growing more focused as he looked her up and down. Disgust overtook her but she pushed it back; she wished she’d worn looser pants.

  “You can ask me anything,” he answered, the suggestion in his voice ringing clear.

  “Were you there with Violet the night she was killed?”

  She knew she could have phrased it more delicately, and she’d deliberately chosen not to. Her words had the desired effect, acting like a cold splash of water. All the smarm died in an instant. He nodded soberly. “Yeah. I was.”