Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1)

by S. James Nelson

  I smiled and began to speak, but Louise raised a gloved hand for silence. A little vial of orange brink dangled from a delicate chain wrapped around her wrist. In fact, little vials of brink hung all up the length of her arm. Perhaps six of them.

  Her eyes burned into me. It didn’t hurt, though—I was used to that look from Mom.

  “Don’t trifle with us,” she said. “We are not the people you want as enemies.”

  I didn’t want to offend Brock, but Louise certainly deserved to be put in her place. I frowned at Marti and leaned close to her, but spoke loud enough for the others to hear.

  “Did she say we weren’t her enemies? Because she came in here threatening us and calling us rats. Not to mention I can’t take them seriously in their cute little costumes.”

  “Me neither,” Marti said.

  “It’s like they’re little kids, playing dress—”

  “Enough!” Louise said, and actually stomped one foot in rage. She gestured at Brock. “At Brock’s insistence, we came to issue a warning and an invitation, but we will no longer issue the invitation.”

  Brock’s countenance fell. He looked down at his feet and shook his head in disappointment.

  “It’s clear,” Louise said, “that you don’t yet deserve to be part of the movement—regardless of whose son you are. Maybe with time you can be humbled. Your father certainly has his work cut out for him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said. “About my dad?”

  Louise sniffed at me, raised her chin a little higher, and turned to walk away, followed by the others. Their high-heeled footsteps—even from the men—echoed from the ceiling. Not far away, Louise called back to us.

  “We’ll be watching you. Beware!”

  I began to clap again. “Oh—how quaint! She said ‘beware!’ Oh, lovely! Bravo! Excellent performance!”

  Marti giggled and joined my clapping. “Encore! Encore!”

  Our applause chased them all the way out of the warehouse. Only Brock ever looked back. He gave me a disappointed little wave.

  “What do they mean about my dad?” I asked. “You mentioned him earlier, too.”

  “I can’t really say.”

  I glared at her.

  “It’s your dad’s place to tell you. Not mine.”

  I mimicked her voice. “Not mine. Not mine. Why can’t people just tell me what I want to know?” Her face soured and she started to answer, but I waved my hand and rolled my eyes, feeling petty for getting angry. “Sorry. Forget it. Are we really in danger from those fundamentalist rappers?”

  “Oh, yes. They’ve sabotaged many newcomers to Intersoc.”

  “Have they killed or maimed anyone?”

  “Not that we know of. Not for certain, anyway.”

  “As long as the odds are in my favor, I can handle the risk of a little maiming.”

  “They tried pretty hard to get me ejected from Intersoc, but Grant fought for me.”

  “What did you mean when you said they were rappers?”

  “It gets pretty complicated, but there are a lot of different disciplines of magic. They used to have archaic names—which the fundamentalists have re-adopted—but that were replaced with names of different musical genres in recent years.”

  “I don’t get it. Disciplines of magic?”

  “Yeah, it’s like particular skill sets, or proficiencies, or branches of magic. There’s illusion magic, magic that affects inanimate objects, magic that affects a person’s mental state, magic that affects their emotional state. Lots of others.”

  “So types of spells can be grouped into these categories, and each category is labeled as a musical genre?”

  “Exactly. Stuff like classical, country, rap, grunge, heavy metal. It’s quite an extensive list.”

  “And what are rappers good at?” I gestured at where our visitors had stood. “I mean, besides being idiots.”

  “Illusion spells. They can’t really do anything substantial.” She motioned at the door. “We should get going. We’ve met the obligation the Council gave us. Let’s go get that multiplier.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 2:30 a.m. At least, back in L.A. Who knew what time it was wherever I was in the Caribbean.

  We descended from the ring and started back toward the door, our shoes noticeably quieter than the fundamentalist rappers’ shoes.

  “Tell me,” I said, “what genre of magic are you most proficient at?”

  “I’m not certain, yet. It’s not like it’s obvious what your proficiency is without casting a lot of different types of spells in a lot of different scenarios.”

  “And what do you mean ‘more proficient’ at?”

  “Remember how I said that the shape of the spell and the color of brink determine the strength of a spell?”

  “And something else,” I said. “The brink is stronger for the person who generated the emotion.”

  “Well, sure. Priority. But that’s rare. Since Casks are so rare, you’ll almost never have priority with brink. You’ll almost always have to buy brink from someone else—which is very expensive. Never, ever, ever, try to steal someone else’s brink.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are very strong traditions against it. A person’s brink is sacred. Taking another person’s brink is as low a thing as you can do.”

  I frowned. Perhaps that was why Nick seemed so bent on making sure he shared the brink with me once he blew up my emotions.

  Marti said, “The fact that Nick took your emotion is a pretty serious breach of etiquette.”

  “Technically, I gave it to him.”

  “Well, that was stupid. Anyway, we’re getting distracted. Focus, here. All of that is only part of what makes a strong spell—that’s all you can control regarding the strength of the spell. Your proficiency is a natural, built-in amplifier for certain types of spells. Certain types of spells are just more powerful for certain people. It takes time and experience to figure it out.”

  We reached the edge of the room and returned our vials of blue brink to the cabinets. She retrieved her purse and put it over her shoulder. As we exited the warehouse, I started to ask her again about what the fundamentalist rappers had meant about my dad, but the words failed on my lips as I learned something of what it meant to be the enemy of fundamentalist rappers.

  A man with a rapier lunged at me.

  Chapter 39: I get skewered

  My short and glorious life flashed before my eyes.

  -Marti Walker

  I didn’t have time to dodge. The man had just been standing in the hallway, sword ready, waiting to ambush us as we came out of the training room. As we did, he attacked with a shout.

  Marti cried a warning and tried to push me out of the way, but the point of his sword entered me below my sternum. I tensed my body and shouted out in pain.

  No pain came.

  In fact, as the man finished his thrust, he disappeared with a “pop!” One moment his sword protruded from my chest, and the next he was simply gone, and ashes drifted downward where he’d stood.

  Down the hallway, the group of fundamentalist rappers laughed.

  “You see,” Louise called, “you’re in over your head! Do us all a favor and get your daddy to come defend you!”

  By heart pounded. What had I gotten myself into? I wanted to live, for pity’s sake. What was I doing here?

  I turned to Marti. “Just for the record, I’m not feeling particularly welcome.”

  She glared at the fundamentalist rappers. “They’re like this with everyone new.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘they?’ Because so far pretty much everyone seems to hate me.”

  Earlier that night, I’d thought Intersoc might turn into a welcoming place for me. But it already seemed unlikely. Intersoc seemed more exclusive and cliquey than seventh grade, which was the last real social experience Mom had allowed me.

  And I was starting to see why. People were real jerks.

  Marti led me through the hallway
s until we came to the Archive. I asked if I could cast the spell to unlock the door, and she let me give it a shot—but not without significant coaching. I drew the shape of a keyhole, then a straight line through the keyhole. Using the lighter Nick had given me, I lit the emblem.

  It worked. After a red flash, the door lock clicked.

  She screwed her face up. “I hate to admit this, but you seem to be pretty good at this.”

  Inside, the door shut slowly behind us. As Marti put her purse on the desk, she paused and frowned at the door.

  “What?” I said, also looking at the door.

  She gestured at the door. “That seemed off. Like the door shut too slowly.” She squinted and looked around the small room.

  “What do you think is going on?” I said.

  She shook her head and went around the desk. It looked like no one had been in the office since we’d retrieved the diffuser. The folders still sat in disarray on the desk, and the laptop still sat open.

  Marti sat at the computer, and I sat in front of the desk. After a minute of typing she began pulling folders out of the stack on the desk. This time, she took out two blue ones, two green ones, and a red one. Each had a typed white label along the top. I couldn’t read the text from across the table, but Nick had indicated that they had code words on them, and that the database in the computer would tell me which ones to use, and how to arrange them. I don’t know how Nick expected me to do what he asked me to do. It seemed pretty complicated.

  Marti moved her black purse aside and arranged the blue and green folders in a star-shaped pattern, alternating between blue and green, then placed the red one open, on top.

  She paused and looked at me. “Want to cast this spell?”

  I perked up. “Me? Really?”

  “No, the monkey clinging to your face, sticking its butt out at me—oh wait, that is your face. Yeah, I guess you.”

  “Funny that you would have pictures of a face that looked like a monkey-butt up in your room. You have strange taste.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m still going to win the award.”

  I started to get out my brink. “No, sorry, I’m going to win.” Something occurred to me, and I paused as I unscrewed the lid of the brink.

  This was the third time Marti had mentioned the award. What if she wanted to win so badly that she was helping me do something that could get me in trouble with my parents? At this point, it would surprise me if they even let me go to the awards ceremony and perform a song, like I was scheduled to do. But—was Marti trying to sabotage me, somehow?

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  I frowned, and finished unscrewing the lid. “Nothing.”

  But I couldn’t help but wonder.

  She instructed me to draw a foot-wide circle on the red folder, then four foot-tall lines at even intervals around the circle, then another circle at the top of the lines. As I did, she drew another of those eyes in the air, and with a straight line connected it to a spiral on her forehead. We finished at about the same time.

  I started to ask about the eye, but as she lit her emblem she frowned at my shape. The top circle looked a little warped.

  “I don’t think you got it quite right.” Her eyeball emblem culminated and disappeared. “Light it, and see.”

  She stood up and stepped back against the wall, as far away from my shape as she could.

  “What could happen if I got it wrong?” I said.

  “The possibilities are endless—but mostly harmless.”

  “You stepped away.”

  “Mostly harmless. You wanted to cast the spell. Go for it.”

  “If it works, what do I do?”

  “Just reach in and take the multiplier out.”

  “Last time you said you could lose your hand.”

  “So be fast. It would suck if you had to explain to your fans that you can’t play the guitar anymore because your hand got chopped off by a magical hole.”

  I pulled out my boring old lighter and lit the top circle right where one of the vertical lines intersected with it. The flame spread around the top and down the line, until the entire shape burned.

  But no pool of light appeared.

  “Fail!” Marti said. “I thought that the top circle was a little lop-sided.”

  I ignored her, tried not to feel embarrassed.

  The fire puttered out, leaving black ash on the folders and burnt cinnamon in my nose. I brushed the ashes away and drew the spell again. This time, Marti spared me her commentary on the quality of my drawing, but actually rolled the chair back to where she stood, and crouched down behind it.

  “You’re that worried about another misfire?” I said. The top circle of my emblem seemed wider than the bottom circle. “It is a little off, again.”

  If what the Council and Dad had said were true, then I lived on the edge, only one misfiring spell away from an early death. I’d fought so hard to live. Endured all of those treatments to kill off the cancer. Was it foolish of me to light this spell, now?

  She shrugged. “This is a pretty complex spell. The first time I drew one this complicated, I singed the hair off Grant’s face.”

  I looked at the spell again. “Maybe it will be okay?”

  “Light it and see.”

  My hand trembled as I brought the flame up to the tinkling brink. I held my breath as the fire spread over the spell. When the entire emblem burned, it released a bang. Startled, I jumped. Marti screamed.

  The top circle lifted off the shape, spinning and hissing. At the same time, the four straight lines ejected themselves and away from the emblem, shooting like blaster beams from Star Wars. One of them passed by my hip and stuck into the door with a hiss. One zipped to my right and one to my left, hitting opposite walls and leaving black marks and a fizzle of smoke. The fourth streak hit the chair Marti hid behind. The four beams of light faded and turned to ashes. Marti yelped.

  At least, I thought she yelped. Someone did, but Marti had just screamed, and the yelp seemed to come from my left, near the door. But in the confusion and from my surprise, I couldn’t be sure. Now, after the fact, I see that I should have wondered more about it, and investigated.

  Instead, I stood there wide-eyed as I looked up at the ceiling. A circle of black ash had burned into the otherwise white paint.

  Marti stood up from behind the chair, shaking her head. Her hands trembled as they gripped the top of the chair. Smoke fizzled up into her face.

  We spoke at the same moment.

  I said, “You do it.”

  She said, “I’ll do it.”

  This time, fully conscious of the fact that I had a body, and that my body could get holes in it, I hid behind the chair as she drew the shape. Of course, her circles looked immaculate, and her lines as straight as rulers.

  “No way,” she said. “You come over here and put your hand into the pool when it appears. I risked my hand for you to get the diffuser. It’s your turn.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, so moved back over to the desk.

  “How much time will I have?”

  “Ten or fifteen seconds.” She raised the lighter.

  “Which is it? Ten or fifteen? That’s a pretty big difference.”

  “Be careful not to touch the flames. That will interrupt the spell.”

  I started to object again, but she flicked the lighter. Flame spouted out and touched the brink. I prepared to jump away, just in case, but once the entire shape burned, a pool of white light appeared over the red folder.

  I hesitated, but Marti glared at me so I snaked my hand in between the burning lines, down into the white light. Mentally, I started to count the seconds.

  I’d expected warmth. Or even heat. But the pool felt cold—quite a contrast to the heat emanating from the flames. A chill made me shiver. Moving my hand through the pool of light felt like sliding it through a tub of pudding. As I plunged my hand deeper, I had to be careful not to lean into the burning emblem.

  Five seconds. I f
elt no multiplier.

  I explored, moving my hand around, expecting to find a hard surface, like the bottom of the table, or a cold floor, but felt nothing.

  My fingers bumped something. I grabbed it, and jerked my hand up and out of the pool. The pool of light disappeared. The flames died.

  I hadn’t counted even to ten seconds.

  I gave Marti a dark look.

  She smiled sheepishly. “I guess more like nine seconds.”

  “Are you trying to destroy me?” Again, I thought of the award and my music career.

  “Oh, stop it. You’re fine. Don’t worry about it.” She raised her eyebrows at my hand. “What is it?”

  I opened my palm and held it out to her. She gaped in surprise. I laughed, astonished at what the multiplier was.

  Chapter 40: Just a toy

  I was so mad I wanted to kill someone. Richie happened to be the closest person.

  -Sally Hammer, fundamentalist rapper

  “Are we sure this is the right one?” I said, looking at the multiplier.

  It was a Pez dispenser. With Yoda’s grinning head on it.

  She nodded, still staring at the multiplier in surprise. “I guess so. We should call Nick. He may want us to be very fast, or may come very soon, so we’ll have to be ready to get out of here and cast the traps.”

  She sat in the desk chair and rolled it into the corner, well out of sight of the spell. I cast the video-calling spell.

  “This time no sneezing,” I said before I lit the brink.

  She gave me a toothy grin. Then a petite little sneeze.

  When I lit the brink, Nick came into view. Steam rose up around his face, and he wore a blue plastic shower cap over his spiked hair. He didn’t see me because he had his eyes closed. The sound of a shower almost drowned the sound of his singing.

  “... my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza!” he belted as loud as he could. His southern accent sounded as thick as I’d ever heard it. “There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza—a hole!”

  Marti gave me a quizzical look.

  I stifled a chuckle. “Nick, it’s Richie.”