Harbinger

by Emme DeWitt

  I dragged my fingers heavily down the outward curve of the carving, finding it had a little give.

  My head snapped back to stare at the carving. I stepped forward, my nose nearly touching the door. My fingers pushed gently around the edges of the design, feeling the wood give slightly. As I pressed more toward the center, I had to use more pressure to feel the give in the wood.

  An idea struck me.

  I placed my palm fully on the snowflake, pressing hard inward and then twisting it like a combination lock.

  The snowflake sprang back in my hand, opening a small hatch. Peering behind it, I found a slightly tarnished metal-plated keyhole for an old-fashioned key. I fished the key out of my jacket pocket, sliding it home into the lock and twisting it.

  Something jabbed me in the hip, and I jumped back in surprise.

  A handle had sprung from one of the panels in the dark wood. If it hadn’t practically impaled me, I wondered if I would have noticed it against the dark-stained wood. I tested the handle but found the door just as shut as ever. I grabbed the key with one hand and the handle with the other. Twisting the key again, I pushed the handle and felt it give slightly.

  I shoved the door with my shoulder, barreling into the room. The door snapped shut cleanly behind me, with the key safely back in my left hand. Scowling at the door, I stepped back to see if I could find the mechanism from this side of the door. My fingers traced where the snowflake had been on the opposite side but met only smooth, cool wood.

  “I’ll be damned,” I said aloud, tapping the spot with my nail-bitten fingertips.

  I moved away from the door into the room proper. The scattered plush furniture, several decades out of date, and the star pattern on the evening blue walls made it seem like a secret hideout the Lost Boys might enjoy. Part of the plate glass of the domed ceiling created an overhang before brick took over. The odd ceiling dimensions pointed to the secrecy of the rooms. Even from the outside, you wouldn’t be able to tell they were here.

  Where the fort atmosphere left off, an old-time study took over. It was an odd pairing, but it worked well for the space. The walls, carpet, and furniture were all deep shades of blue, blending into the near black of the stained wood continuing from the outer door.

  A large desk sat sentry at the end of the room in front of a series of lead-lined stained glass windows. The natural light filtered through, throwing just enough brightness onto the desk to illuminate a neat pile of books stacked to the side. I moved them a millimeter to better read the spines and noticed the dark imprint of where they had protected the desk from dust. A thin film coated the rest of the desk’s surface, and I drew the Elevated sign absentmindedly in the fine powder.

  It sat there taunting me before I wiped it away with a swipe of my palm.

  “Ludicrous,” I scolded myself. “This whole situation is absolutely ridiculous.”

  I sighed, forgetting about the cloud of dust I’d stirred up by disturbing the desk. A series of sneezes attacked me, and I rubbed my nose violently to discourage any more from popping up. Leaning against the desk, I looked up at the stained glass of the windows.

  The style was similar to the windows in the dining hall, and I realized belatedly that the school had likely hired the same architect when they first built the campus. The library had undergone some renovations, but the old section and the conservatory dorm was too old fashioned to be anything other than original. It still had the soul old buildings have.

  My thumb found its way to my lips, and I gnawed thoughtfully at the sliver of nail that had dared to grow past the nail bed. I let the images in the stained glass wash over me, imprinting them to memory.

  Several of the texts I’d been categorizing for Ms. Xavier dealt with the history of campus. They were stuck in the middle of Mythology: A Beginner’s Guide and Herbal Remedies for the Highly Attuned. While copying names and titles, I’d taken note of the topics of each book, hoping if I bookmarked them from the beginning, sorting them into categories would take less time.

  I remembered some architecture books in the mix, and I’d taken advantage of the time given to me. Several of those design books had glossy printed pictures stuck in the middle of tissue paper thin pages. Something about the stained glass window in front of me niggled the back of my mind. I’d seen something similar; I just couldn’t place which book it had been or if it was just the dining hall stained glass impairing my memory.

  I dared to sigh again, this time bracing for a series of sneezes. When none came, I pushed off the edge of the desk, my eye catching on the pile of books I’d moved earlier. I tapped them back in place before exaggerating the angle the other way. The spines seemed innocuous, except for the emblem at the bottom.

  It was the Elevated symbol.

  I pulled the pile of books to me, searching the front matter, searching for some connection. The titles and topics varied, with one of the books even being a work of fiction. They all had the same publisher, though. The publisher with the double square signature.

  On a hunch, I marched over to the wall of bookshelves, which had to hold a thousand books. My fingers plucked through the many volumes, pulling out the marked books one by one. By the time I was done, my back ached from the awkward exercise.

  I stood back, surveying my handiwork.

  Almost a hundred individual texts were pulled out, creating a floating staircase maze throughout the sea of books along the wall. I switched to my other thumb, tearing savagely at the overhanging quick.

  “What is going on around here?” I interrogated the books. “What are you doing here?”

  A series of bangs came from the door, and I jumped out of my skin. I managed to cover my mouth, however, and no sound escaped.

  I could hear voices on the opposite side of the door, but I was too far in to distinguish individual words or speakers. With a leery glance at the bookshelves, I moved toward the door, leaning my face as close to the door as I dared.

  “Someone’s in there, I know it,” the first voice said. Since it was muffled through the door, I wasn’t sure if I knew the speaker.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” the second voice scolded. “No one’s been in Winter for twenty years.”

  “That’s nice. There’s still someone in there right now,” the first voice said. “I swear.”

  “Not everyone can easily locate a needle in a haystack like you, but I’m telling you you’re wrong. No one is in there,” the second voice said. “Besides, how are you going to prove it?”

  “Prove it?”

  “Yeah, no one gets in without the key. No backup either. If the key is gone, it’s gone for good,” the second voice said. “You know how these rooms work. Don’t make a fuss.”

  “Just because you can’t prove I’m wrong doesn’t mean you’re right,” voice one said, followed by quick, heavy footsteps.

  I heard a sigh through the door and soft footfalls follow the first speaker away from the door. I looked behind me at the wall of books. Could they hear me through the wall?

  The books called me back to the shelves, and my curiosity overruled my sense to stay away from the common wall that had drawn attention to me in the first place. I crossed my arms, slowly going down the rows one after another and reading the titles of the mysterious publisher. No particular common topic or time period seemed to pigeon hole the marked books. Fiction books were interspersed among them and transcended genre categorization.

  I leaned against the back of the couch, falling onto it into my favorite thinking position. All the blood rushed to my head, and my hair escaped its loose tie to splay around my flushed face in a large halo. The softness of my curls on my cheek comforted me as I crossed my legs over the back of the couch, letting them dangle in the air.

  Resting my hands on my stomach, I let my mind wander. All the little bits and bobs I’d picked up today floated through my brain, sometimes branching down further into sub-thoughts and ideas. I let my mind play with the possibilities, allowing the logic to speak up for itse
lf. If I put enough data points in a graph, I was bound to come up with a correlation. I just wasn’t sure what would come of all these seemingly disparate facts.

  My phone buzzed. I fought with gravity to unearth it from my pocket, amused to find I could connect to the school Wi-Fi in this super-secret lair.

  It was an email from Mags asking if I was coming to dinner. Not likely. I checked the time, finding it early even for grandma dinner.

  My daydreaming time interrupted, I sighed heavily, coughing in response to the cloud of who knows what I’d kicked up in my collapse onto the couch. Checking my landing spot, I flung my legs over my head, tucking them in with just enough clearance not to annihilate the coffee table also covered with books.

  I stuck the landing, hopping upright with my curls cascading not far behind. I needed a guitar in my hands as soon as humanly possible, I decided.

  Taking one last look at the puzzle I’d left myself in the bookcase, I grabbed my bag from its neglected spot on the floor and pressed my ear to the door.

  I was greeted with silence. After a quick count to three, I yanked the door open, sticking my head out to check if the coast was clear. Finding an empty hall greeting me, I slid out the door, closing it as quietly as I could behind me. I lunged around a stack of books, making it seem like I’d been searching for fourteenth-century religious texts instead of discovering my new favorite hideout.

  A pair of green eyes waited for me at the end of the stack. I spooked, nearly letting a loud curse escape me.

  “Ig!” I scolded the cat. He waved his tail at me, and I imagined the finger waggling he was trying to give me. “I will get a bell for your collar. Try me one more time.”

  Ig sneezed at me, getting up and wandering away. His disinterest annoyed me, but he somehow managed to turn his dramatic exit into my escort to the stairs. He sat at the top of the stairs and waited, racing me down to the ground level and out the side door.

  Our paths forked as soon as our faces hit outside air. Ig dodged into the bushes as I made a beeline for the practice rooms. I shook my head, hoping some owl didn’t feel like an early evening snack.

  I stopped, realizing I was worrying about a cat. I shook my head, trotting in the cooling evening air to get back into the safety of a heated building before anyone came looking for me again.

  Sixteen

  I ghosted through the empty dining hall without being seen. Even the distant banging of the kitchen staff barely registered as I strode through the cavernous room. The buckles on my boots echoed loudly in the open space, and it occurred to me that I might need a change of footwear if I was going to beat Ig at his own game. Being able to move imperceptibly across campus would be preferable to the catwalk I’d endured earlier. Self-consciousness and cobblestones were a dangerous mix.

  The raucous noise of my boots only got worse as I barreled down the indoor-outdoor staircase that led to the practice rooms. I made it to the subbasement floor in record time, walking into a brightly lit hallway.

  It took me a second too long to register the lights in the hall. The time sensitive lights were handy for more than energy conservation. I walked into the unwelcoming arms of Sean.

  “Could you make any more noise?” Sean grumbled, his arms crossed outside his practice room.

  “I could always try,” I offered sincerely as I pulled out Colm’s spare key. “At least it’s just me and not some other hooligan.”

  “Yes, thank God.” Sean threw his arms in the air. “And here I thought I could practice in peace.”

  “Oh, speaking of that.” I wedged my bag between the door and its frame. “Can I ask a favor?”

  “Other than mooching off a prepaid practice room?” Sean asked. “What is it now?”

  I placed my hands together in front of me, adopting the closest thing I had to puppy dog eyes. I even went so far as to stick out my lip in a little pout.

  “Can I borrow a guitar?” I asked, adding a helpless sniff for good measure.

  Sean sighed, rolling his eyes.

  “There’s only a piano in here, and I don’t want to pilfer one from the classroom upstairs.”

  “Do I look like someone who cares?” Sean turned to retreat back into his room now that his scolding was done.

  “Pretty please?” I asked, grabbing his sleeve playfully. “You know I’ll take the best care of it. Plus, it’ll only be fifty feet away from you at all times. Scout’s honor.” I placed my hand over my heart for added effect. Sean turned around to scowl at me.

  “You really push the boundaries of neighborly etiquette, you know?” Sean disappeared into his room and reappeared with a beautiful cherry red acoustic guitar.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said in a hushed tone, stroking the firm neck and fret decals with reverence.

  “Don’t make me regret it,” Sean said in a warning tone.

  “Never.” I gave him my broadest smile. “I really appreciate it. Having a really shitty week, and the piano isn’t quite cutting it.”

  Sean waved me off.

  “I don’t need to know the personal details. No crying on my guitar,” Sean pointed at me in all seriousness.

  “I’ll do my best.” I tried to stifle a laugh.

  “I’m dead serious. You cry and you never see that guitar ever again.” Sean was holding the doorknob to his room.

  “No,” I whispered in horror, clutching the guitar tightly to me. “I promise I’ll be good.”

  Sean waved me off again, this time the sharp smack of his door slam reactivating some lights that had dimmed. I punched the air in delight, careful not to bump the guitar on the doorframe as I retreated into my own little room.

  As soon as the door shut behind me, I pressed the button to lock it.

  A sigh escaped me, and I felt my shoulders relax again. I pulled out the piano bench, folding one of my legs beneath me as I settled down onto it. A quick pluck at the guitar strings determined the guitar was in perfect tune. Of course it was, I thought to myself with a dry chuckle.

  My fingers drifted from chord to chord, the other hand picking the notes lazily. The tone wasn’t particularly clean with my thumbnail now nonexistent and my pride too fragile to go across the hall and request a pick. Even so, I found myself humming along to the nonsense I was creating along the fret board.

  Slowly, my humming brought about its sibling tone and my hands stilled against the strings. I sighed, feeling the heat grate against my vocal cords. I couldn’t even sing along to my own compositions without slipping into a song.

  I checked the time, figuring everyone was at dinner by now. If I was going to let loose, now would be the time.

  My fingers resumed their place on the neck, and I followed through on some scales before going into the chord progression I’d been messing with for a while. As I hummed along, my voice picked up on dissonant tones. After a few runs of clashing notes, my fingers slid into the chords that would harmonize against what I was singing. The warmth in my throat slowly trickled down to my stomach, and I could feel the power growing as the volume increased.

  As quickly as I dared, I pushed the edge of my voice, hoping to burn through the song so I could go back to my peaceful practice of my own original work. The song, as powerful as it was, was annoying me today, and I wished it would go away.

  I coughed, my throat cutting off the tone as soon as my tongue stuck back against the roof of my mouth. It was as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of molasses. Nothing I did cleared the blockage, and I was having trouble breathing.

  My eyes watered as I clawed at my throat, pressing in random places to see if I could dislodge whatever was blocking both my airway and my voice. Then, the bottom half of my vision blacked out. I felt like I was floating. I had enough sense to fall to my knees and rest the guitar against the wall. Whatever was happening, if I survived and the guitar didn’t, I wasn’t counting on Sean to be very forgiving.

  And just like that, I blacked out.

  The field of black was new for me. I was either awake o
r in my dreamscape. I never transitioned into an intermission screen. It was like an extended blink, and then bam, bedroom. Bam. Dreamscape.

  I was getting more nervous the longer the darkness remained. Was I dead? Or was this sleeping?

  On a scale of apathetic to blood-curdling scream, how freaked out should I be?

  Before I had any longer to think about it, my dreamscape blinked into existence. But it was the daytime kind, and a pair of blue eyes greeted me.

  “Hey, stranger.” Colm smiled. “I was wondering when you would come visit.”

  I sat up, my hands gripping the dry grass that cushioned my fall. If I’d fallen. I wasn’t sure that’s how this whole thing worked, having just experienced materializing myself.

  “Do I just appear?” I searched the landscape for any other indication of my impact. “When I show up. Is it like, poof, I’m here or like I fall?”

  I hated the desperation in my voice, but I needed something concrete to analyze. I needed a question and an answer. Something had to make sense, or I was worried I would really lose my mind.

  Colm sat cross-legged next to me, resting his arms comfortably on his knees.

  “Does it matter?” he asked, his face hovering near mine to try to catch my eyes. For some reason, I couldn’t look him in the eye. Not when I was freaking out about possibly dying.

  “Can you just answer my question, please?” I said, the edge of panic slipping through my fragile facade.

  “I can tell you’re coming, but you do just kind of appear. I knew where to look for you, and by the time I got here, so were you.” Colm reached out for my hand in the grass.

  His warmth remained, and my body flinched at the contact. He didn’t recoil, though, but kept his steady hand on mine.

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Good to know.”

  “Noah,” Colm said, his voice softened. “You’re okay.”