The Eye of Elektron: A Clean Urban Fantasy (The Sumrectian Series Book 1)

by Leigh G. Wynn

  “Is that the human?”

  Fortunately, the question coincided with the shutting of the ceramic lid, and Steve, who appeared from the bend, did not hear the sound. Neither Steve nor Cameron noticed the soup dripping down the bowl’s side.

  “Take the food, Cameron,” Steve directed as he snatched Myles’s arm. “Let’s go check out your new home, human!”

  Chapter 18

  A jingling of keys roused Dawn from her nap. She was losing track of time in the perpetually lit cell. Has it been two days? Three?

  She expected Cameron to walk in with the usual tray of food and was shocked when Myles appeared at the door, held on tightly by Steve.

  “Happy to see your human friend, eh?” Cameron said as Dawn bolted from the metal bed.

  Upon seeing her, Myles waved his free arm wildly, first pointing at the tray, then making plucking motions with his hand. Dawn shook her head at him, not understanding the message.

  Steve glowered at Myles. “What are you doing? Keep it under control! The food is for her!”

  “Sorry,” Myles said quickly. “Dawn, you have to eat the food, alright? You have to. That’s the only way!”

  Cameron set the tray down on the floor next to the metal toilet. “Hear! Hear! Listen to the human and eat your blasted dinner.”

  More confused than ever, Dawn stared at Myles for clarification.

  “Let’s go,” Steve said. “Lock this one up.”

  Behind Cameron, who was taking his sweet time with the lock, Myles mouthed “Ansel” and “soup” over and over again until Steve dragged him away.

  He said soup… She kneeled next to the dripping bowl and opened the lid. A rich aroma of tomatoes and basil greeted her. Never had a soup smelled so enticing. The minestrone boasted hearty vegetables, pasta and—

  What on earth is this?

  She furrowed her brow as she fished out a sodden leather bag no bigger than her palm. This must be what Myles was trying to tell me!

  No longer hungry, she covered the bag with napkins from the tray and squeezed herself in between the sink and the toilet, facing away from the glass screen. Just in case someone is watching.

  She pulled open the drawstrings and dumped the contents of the bag into her hand. An odd, rectangular piece of dark blue ice fell out. Miraculously, the ice neither melted nor chipped on its trip to her cell, but the instant it met her fingers, the ice began to evaporate. To her great astonishment, the chunk of ice converted into steam within seconds, leaving her with a blue satin handkerchief, on top of which sat two glowing amber stones and a short message scrawled on parchment.

  On closer inspection, she gasped; embroidered on the blue handkerchief was the Etherian spell Kai had shown her. Except this version contained an extra stanza—the ending to the spell:

  Transfer power or meet defeat,

  Eleven years, it is complete.

  Only One soul shall rule the rest,

  More than One soul undoes the test.

  Dawn let out a shaky breath. She perched on the verge of comprehension, but many pieces of the puzzle were still missing.

  Quickly, she read the note on the parchment.

  You now hold the keys to the Etherian spell. Take a trip to my past. Trust your gut.

  Then, as if scribbled in at the last minute—

  Whatever you do, stay alive. I’m on my way.

  ~Ansel

  She could sense the urgency through Ansel’s handwriting. Though he told her to trust her gut, she could only feel her gut roiling from a mix of hunger and anxiety. However, his message gave her hope; Ansel never went back on his word. She took a silver fork from the tray and dug into the meatloaf. If she were to stay alive, then she would not be skipping any more meals.

  ✽✽✽

  Ten miles north of Crimson Estate, a dark blue glider stopped in front of a modest one-story, red brick house. Two Crimson soldiers on the front porch turned to stare at the glider warily, but Ansel knew they could not see through the tinted windows. He tapped the steering wheel with his index finger while his mind spun. Tomorrow, the very soldiers Vance stationed at the Langs’ house for protection would be the ones to silence the family forever.

  But the soldiers were not the problem. It was the Langs.

  Ever since Myles took on the dangerous job of spying for him—or rather, on him—the Lang family’s lives had been flipped upside down. Any wrong move on Myles’s part could jeopardize them all. Ansel was sure the Langs, like all Tempeia residents brainwashed into hating him, would rather die than entrust him with their fates. Still, he must convince them to leave. Tonight.

  The soldiers stepped off the porch and walked down the cobblestone path toward the glider.

  Perfect. Ansel flexed his left hand. Warm Sumrectian force spread to his fingertips as he lowered the convertible roof. The powers felt foreign. Harder to control. Brows crumpled, lips pressed, he thrusted his left hand into the air.

  From nowhere, a whirlwind of snow appeared around the two Crimson soldiers. All streetlights on the block snuffed out in a sudden onslaught of wind and snow. In mere seconds, the snow squall reduced visibility to near zero.

  Ansel’s vision, however, remained unobstructed. He moved quickly against the gusty wind. His eyes penetrated the thick snow enshrouding the Crimson soldiers ahead. Confused and panicked, they yelled at one another, grabbing at the air around them. Unlike Ansel, they could not see beyond a foot in any direction.

  Two flashes of light illuminated the night sky, followed immediately by two dull thuds. The wind howled. The bickering ceased. Ansel stepped over the Crimson soldiers’ unconscious bodies sprawled on the cobblestone path and continued on his way to the front porch.

  A strong gust of wind blew open the door before he could reach it—not quite the introduction he intended, but he was struggling to maintain control over the storm he started. Dressed in black from head to toe and framed against a hazy backdrop, he made a formidable figure. His eyes immediately fell onto the Langs, who had backed into a corner of the kitchen, their faces pale as the countertop.

  Myles’s father, Max Lang, stood in front of his quivering wife and daughter, wielding a chef’s knife with both hands. The blade glinted ominously in the kitchen light, warning Ansel to keep his distance. But Ansel glanced at it with more intrigue than concern. He advanced toward the family, careful not to produce any sudden movements.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Ansel kept inching forward.

  “Mr. Lang, you and your family are in danger. I’ve come to protect you.”

  “That’s a lie! We have protection from the Atma! Who are you?”

  Eyes bulged, cheeks puffed, Max waved the knife at Ansel.

  Ansel did not reply right away but moved forward still.

  “Stop. Where. You. Are!”

  “Mr. Lang, I don’t mean you any harm. I come from Chesterfield, where your son works.”

  The family shuddered collectively at the response. Ansel could tell from their horrified expressions that they realized exactly who he was. It was time to act. He had not wanted to scare their daughter with what he was about to do, but at this crucial conjuncture, he saw no other way.

  Gritting his teeth, Ansel flung himself at Max.

  ✽✽✽

  Vance sat alone, staring at the purple box resting above his own reflection on the shiny obsidian table. He knew the box held the truth and key to the Etherian spell, yet he hesitated to access its contents. The engraved name danced in the dim light, taunting him.

  Ealon, did you ever think this day will come?

  The corners of his lips curled in contempt at the thought of his brother, that paragon of virtue he, Eanon, could never be. Since birth, he resided in the shadow of his older brother, always a second thought, a lesser than. Everything Vance secretly yearned for—power, esteem, empire—his brother attained with little to no effort.

  Everything. Including that dream of a woman, Amber.

  Ansel was not th
e only one who lost everything that night. But unlike his brother, Vance fought to reverse his fate. How ironic that after he had conquered the impossibility of becoming an indigo Sumrect, the guardian of souls ultimately fell at the hands of his own brother.

  Vance picked up the purple box and examined all sides. Each face was smooth without cracks or openings of any kind. Muttering under his breath, Vance squeezed the box until his face turned red and dark smoke escaped from the gaps between his fingers. Nothing. He tapped along the edges until the box burst into flames. For an entire minute, he watched it burn, but when the flames disappeared, there it sat, as pristine as ever, mocking him. No matter what Vance did to it, the box stayed sealed and unalterable. Incensed, Vance threw the box against the opposite wall where it ricocheted off the door frame and landed back on the table. Ansel and his tricks! Even at death’s door, he still must have the final laugh.

  Not this time.

  “Praeus!” he called.

  There was only one way the box could be opened, and luckily, he knew just who could help him.

  Before long, the hooded Etherian materialized, bringing with him enough chill to lower the temperature in the room by twenty degrees.

  “You called, Atma.” He rested a pale hand on the obsidian table. Ice emanated from his palm, cracking the surface. “Are the souls ready?”

  “Not yet. And don’t place your hand there. You’re ruining my table.” Vance fumed. His patience was running low this evening.

  The Etherian leaned forward, pressing down harder so that the ice spread to engulf the entire table.

  “Shall I remind you of our accord?”

  Vance shivered from a combination of the sudden drop in temperature and unease at the tone of Praeus’s voice.

  “No need.”

  Praeus smiled. Or at least, he tried to move the dead muscles around his mouth. “Then why was I summoned?”

  “Because…” Vance motioned to the purple box. “In order for me to deliver on my promise, I need to access the contents of that box.”

  “Open it yourself.”

  “I thought it might interest you, too.”

  “Etherians are not interested in earthly mysteries.”

  Vance snorted, much to Praeus’s dismay. He spun the box with his fingers and said, “This, I guarantee you, is no earthly mystery. I thought you were searching for a copy of the missing portal belonging to your dead Etherian.”

  The information captured Praeus’s attention at once. There was a hint of surprise on his frozen, deathly features.

  “Who gave you this portal?”

  “Don’t worry about whom or where I got it from. Help me open the box, and you’ll find out, I’m sure.”

  “It responds to the Etherian touch?”

  Vance rolled his eyes. “If it responded to my touch, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now, would we?”

  The look Praeus gave him was colder than Etherian breath.

  “Give me the box.”

  With only a finger, Vance guided the box to Praeus.

  “Ealon. Your brother,” the Etherian said after only one look at the gold engraving.

  “Surprised?”

  Praeus did not respond. Instead, he placed his thin, almost transparent fingers on the box and closed his eyes. Vance scooted forward in his chair with anticipation.

  For a suspended moment, the box made no observable change. Praeus and Vance exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “Nothing is happening—” Vance began, growing frustrated.

  “SHH! Wait!” Praeus hissed.

  More seconds ticked by, but the box remained as unaffected as ever. Vance held his breath, hanging on to his last bit of patience.

  Then he saw. Soft white light spilled along the edges, which cracked ever so slightly. The faces of the cuboid expanded outward, exposing more and more light until finally, the velvet container vanished completely, replaced by a blue satin handkerchief, folded neatly under Praeus’s hand.

  Vance’s nostrils flared from excitement. “Unfold it!” he urged.

  Praeus was frowning as if he already guessed the outcome. He slid a slender finger through the fold and flicked it open.

  Nothing.

  That is, nothing but a sheet of parchment paper fluttered out, which Vance caught nimbly in the air. The blood drained from his face when he recognized the cursive handwriting before he even read the short message.

  Vance, the time is not yet ripe for you to enter the portal.

  Your brother, Ansel.

  The Atma’s eyes could have popped out of his socket right then and there. A strangled cry of frustration ripped from his throat as he reduced the parchment to ash.

  “Bring me Myles! Now!” he screamed at the Sumrects standing outside the room. Thwarted yet again by his nemesis, Vance slammed his fist onto the ice-covered table, breaking it in half.

  I’ll make sure this is the last time.

  ✽✽✽

  Acktum Inktus Leus. Dawn remembered those Sumrectian words from her trip back in time with Ansel. She took one of the amber pieces from the leather pouch and gave it three light taps while uttering the phrase. A moment later, the air around the amber vibrated, and she found herself back in Ansel’s old study, standing before the painting of Amber in a lavender field. I have been in this portal before, she thought when she heard laughter coming from behind the secret entrance. She knew exactly what would happen next.

  Why did Ansel give me a portal I have already accessed?

  Confused, she watched young Ansel and Amber emerge from the secret passageway and followed them to the rotunda where a tunnel of crackling electricity cocooned the Eye of Elektron. As before, the scene concluded with Ansel granting Amber ownership of the Eye.

  Why? Back in the holding cell, Dawn racked her brain hard. She could not understand Ansel’s reason for giving her this amber stone. Trust your gut, he had written, but she wished he had left her clearer instructions.

  She pocketed the portal to the Eye of Elektron and tapped the second amber piece left to her. Again, the stone transported her to Ansel’s study. Yet this time, she could tell from the condition of the room that something was wrong. Hail pummeled the windows while thunder roared menacingly outside. The walls appeared burnt, the shimmering water streams surrounding the bookcases had dried off, and the entire room reeked of smoke. Some paintings, though untouched, had fallen off the walls. A small one in particular caught her eye—Amber against a tapestry of Ansel’s name in Sumrectian. It must have been the same portrait Kai saw at the Brightons’ old residence because the bottom of the painting was covered with bullet holes… and fresh blood.

  Dawn jumped when the giant oak door blew open. An ashen-faced Ansel ran into the study, tripping over piles of burned books.

  “No, no…” he repeated to himself as he approached the secret passageway. With a single push, the painting lifted, letting more smoke into the study. Ansel spoke in Sumrectian, and the smoke condensed into a snakelike form, spiraling and twisting into his hands. Like a vacuum, he cleared the air while Dawn watched in both awe and trepidation. Once the tunnel was clear enough to enter, Ansel jumped inside with Dawn at his heels.

  They both landed softly.

  During this time, the secret tunnel had not yet been lit with amber pieces. Ansel sprinted down the passageway, wielding a ball of light in front of him. Even on this different plane of existence, Dawn could sense the dread that saturated the atmosphere. The dread intensified as she followed Ansel numbly down the passageway. They were coming up to the ninety-degree turn when the sudden awareness of past events permeated her very being; it was as if she foresaw what would happen next around the bend: the girl’s body sprawled on the floor, the sound of Ansel weeping at the sight and the soul-shattering darkness that ensued when the light in Ansel’s hand faded away.

  Dawn stood rock still in the darkness, listening to the ebb and flow of Ansel’s sobs. Waves of understanding washed over her and crashed against her throbbin
g heart. She creeped back around the turn of the tunnel so that she was no longer next to the grieving Sumrect. There she slid into a ball on the ground and waited. She had seen enough to grasp what had happened.

  Somehow, even though Ansel allowed her access, Dawn still felt as if she was infringing upon something very private. Ansel would not have wanted her to see him in such a state.

  The weeping continued until a soft voice whispered, “Ansel?”

  Dawn drew in a sharp breath. Although she could not see, she heard a shuffling of bodies and Ansel calling out Amber’s name.

  “Why did you come here, Amber? Why did you leave home and come to Fors?!”

  “Vance… he told me you were in danger…”

  “He was lying!”

  “Ansel,” the voice spoke again faintly as dim light filled the tunnel ahead once more. “Vance… the Etherian… stop him…”

  “Vance! What did he do? Amber, look at me!”

  There was no answer.

  “Amber, open your eyes! Where’s Vance? What has he done? Look at me, Amber!” Ansel pleaded, his voice cracking.

  “The spell… I carved it… but there’s more…”

  It was her! Dawn remembered the unfinished poem etched into the tunnel wall.

  “Amber, you are going to be okay… I’ll find Vance, and force him to reverse the spell, but you have to give me some time!”

  More painful silence.

  “Amber! Amber!” His voice trembled with fear.

  “I love you, Ansel. Thank you… for everything…”

  “No, no, no… Amber, I love you… stay with me… you promised…” His voice broke. He kept calling her name, knowing he would no longer get a response.

  Around the bend, Dawn pressed her hands over her mouth. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew much too well the pain of loss, of saying goodbye for the last time, and she was glad she could not see Ansel or Amber during their last moments together. Why did Ansel send me here?