“What was it?”
“It was Destiny.”
Randy stopped walking and turned toward me. Behind him I could see a group of Ed’s YA Vamp friends sparkling in a patch of sun. So stupid.
“Just… destiny in general?”
“Yeah, I think so. That’s all it said, anyway.”
Randy pulled a magnifying glass out of his coat pocket, which he wore despite the warm weather, because it made him look more the Detective, and put it over his right glasses lens, magnifying his eye weirdly. A new thing he’d picked up lately when he was thinking.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Peter.” He blinked and put the thing back in his pocket. “There’s no real way to know what your destiny is unless we skipped ahead a bit. But I don’t think going through with the plan is any more dangerous now than it was before. We always knew it might not work. So maybe your destiny is to fail—and you have to go up against that. Maybe it’s to succeed, and that’s your conflict. I don’t know. I’m just a Detective.”
“And a Wizard!” Bob said as he swiveled up to join us.
“I know that,” Randy said again.
“Yes, but they may not…” Bob gestured outward toward the Fourth Wall. Of the science building. At least I think he did; it’s hard to tell with trees.
“Either way, we have a lot to do before tomorrow night,” Randy continued. “So I say, let’s grab a quick bite to eat and then head to my office.”
Bob and I both nodded in agreement (I think), and while Randy and I headed to the school’s café, Bob swiveled his pot over to a patch of sun for lunch.
CHAPTER TWO
The next morning, I woke up when it was still dark, sleep fading into a vague feeling of unease, remembering what I’d done the day before when Randy and Bob had stepped out of his office. Don’t worry, we’ll get to it.
I turned my attention to the calming sounds of the Neighborhood Dragon snoring just outside of my window; smoke was drifting in through the open panes lazily. I looked at the clock on my nightstand. Five o’clock exactly. I’d barely been asleep for four hours, after having stayed up going over and over the plan with Randy, each time my stomach knotting up with guilt. After all of that, I still had to finish my reading for Conflict and my unmentioned homework for Creatures of Horror (“Write three pages on the effects Dracula’s early relationship with his father had on his later violent tendencies.”) After twenty minutes of lying in bed, eyes closed, willing myself to go back to sleep and my conscience to stop screaming at me, I dragged myself from under the covers, got up, and closed the window.
It was chilly outside so I pulled on a sweater, but still stood there shivering—until I remembered, Oh wait, I’m a freaking wizard, and I pulled out my wand to make myself a small ball of fire. It floated, contained like a little, but brilliantly glowing orb about the size of a baseball, above my outstretched left palm. The effect was immediate; warmth spread from the tips of my fingers down through my toes.
Just a year ago, a simple spell like this one would have exhausted me, but ever since discovering that what truly fueled spells was strong emotion (the one happy side effect of Jenny briefly breaking up with me the year before), I no longer felt drained by small magic. Perhaps it was just because since Jenny disappeared, my emotions had been running high pretty much all the time, so syphoning some of them off into spells actually calmed me a bit.
With another flick of my wrist, I vanished the small ball of light, pitching the room into darkness. I clapped my wand lightly against the palm of my hand, and—poof!—the overhead light flicked on. Because it’s a Clapper.
I halfheartedly tidied my room, realizing, with another pang of guilt, that I might not be back in it for a while, and thinking it might be nice to come back to something that looked less like a tornado had blown through it when I did. My room is pretty simple; you know, twenty-year-old guy stuff. I have a queen-sized bed which is generally buried somewhere underneath a pile of loose sheets and a blue comforter; maybe a shirt or two. Beside my bed is a wooden nightstand, with a lamp on top, the lightbulb to which had needed replacing, oh, for about two years. On my desk, across from my bed, were a slew of papers: notes from the night before, a folded-up map, a thick manila folder, the homework for Professor Uk’s class, and some empty packs of cigarettes (not because I smoke, but because I’d been using the tobacco in an attempt to make a potion a few weeks before. I am bad at potions to begin with, but try making a Level Two Draught of Presence when you’re not being written). Next to my desk was a small, blackened hole in the wooden floor as a result of said attempt at potion, and next to that, was a giant pile of my laundry. Most of which was dirty.
I was just smell-testing a pair of pants when I heard Randy moving around in the kitchen. I hastily tucked the pants into my backpack, along with a few pairs of socks, a couple of shirts, extra underwear, as well as my homework, the map, and manila folder, and I went out to meet him, making sure they were all packed away discreetly.
“Good morning, Peter. Toast is in the toaster and—”
“Eggs are in the pantry,” I finished automatically. I plopped my backpack into an empty chair at the table and went to the pantry. Randy, as usual, was buried behind the Fiction Free for All. We sat in silence for a while—me, too exhausted and simultaneously nervous to make conversation, much less eat; him, probably reading the comics.
“Heh heh,” he chuckled, the paper jostling lightly in his grasp. “That Marmaduke.” He put the paper down and reached out to take a sip of his steaming coffee, took one look at me, and put the mug back on the table with a solid little thunk.
“You look ill, Peter. Are you okay?”
I was pushing the eggs around on my plate listlessly with my finger. I had forgotten to get a fork. UGH.
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. No. Yes. I’m just a little nervous about today is all. Or, tonight rather. I just… There’s so much on the line. I mean, apparently my whole destiny, and I don’t know if—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he reached across the table and grabbed my hand to stop me poking my eggs. “Peter, tonight is just a test-run to see if it will even work. I don’t expect you to go off and bring the missing characters back tonight. You’ll just nip over, check things out, see how that goes, and then come right back. Probably in time to watch Magnum, P.I.”
Randy had gotten a television for the first time the year before when his children, Molly and Brent had come to visit. Now he watched it for “educational purposes.”
I looked fixedly at my eggs.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I won’t be out there for long.” I couldn’t look at him.
“You’re right, I’m right. No reason to be so nervous, Peter. You’ll come right back almost as soon as you get there. It will be a long time before you’re ready to bring them all back.” He gave my egg covered hand a paternal squeeze before sitting back in his chair and picking up the paper again. I watched as the first rays of sun filled the sky outside the bay window, the two green-glowing moons of Sci Fi fading a little as it grew brighter, and hating having to lie to Randy.
My first class of the morning wasn’t until ten o’clock, but Randy had to get to campus early. While he was technically still a student at Fiction Academy, unlike me, he’d been placed in the Detective Genre our first year, and at this point was almost strictly working as a Detective, rather than taking any Detective Classes. However, he was taking a quilting and gardening course for fun—and gardening met early in the mornings on Tuesdays.
“I’ll meet you at four o’clock,” he’d said, giving my shoulder a little squeeze before walking out the apartment door. So I spent the first few hours of my day lying on the couch, just sort of looking around the living room, trying not to throw up. You know, like you do.
It was mostly the same as ever: the scuffed wooden floors, a worn leather armchair across from the green couch, some accents that only Randy would have thought to add, like the fluffy throw pillows and oil paintings on the walls. The only t
hings that had really changed since that last story were the pictures dotted around the room. I used to have pictures of my little sister, Beth, peering out from frames here and there. She’d been killed at the end of my first series of books—but last year I’d altered my own backstory in an attempt to bring her back. As you’ll recall*, she was definitely not the sister I remembered, and ever since that Other Version of her, I didn’t pine for her the same way I had. Sure, I still missed the girl that she was; but I no longer needed to see her face around the room, reminding me of what could have been. Once you see what could have been, you stop wanting it so much.
*And if you don’t recall, you really should just read the first two books. I mean, come on, who starts a series on the third book?
I picked up one of the picture frames where Beth’s fourteen-year-old face used to smile out and instead touched Jenny’s lips. It was the only picture left of her—and I drew it. When she, along with the rest of the Erased characters disappeared, so did all pictures of them in Fiction; and I supposed, probably in the Real World too. I guess I’d soon find out when I
Something heavy slammed into the window just then and I jerked up, leaving my sentence hanging. It was a tawny owl carrying a large poster that read in a hurried hand, TOP SECRET MISSION.
And below that,
DON’T PUT SHOES ON THE COUCH
I looked down at my feet, heart still hammering, and slid them off the couch and onto the floor. There was certainly no way I’d be able to take a nap after the stupid owl scared me halfway to heart attack, so I got up, grabbed a small bag of toiletries, stuck it in my backpack, and headed out the door.
It was a beautiful day in Fantasy, and as I walked down the stairs from my second-floor apartment, I couldn’t help but dive into superfluous description. Who knew when I’d see it again?
The green grass in the field surrounding my apartment was still dappled with dew and here and there fairies flew by to drink from it, or collect it in thimbles. I could see the centaurs down at the end of my street, turning onto some other murky and ill-described street, on their morning jog, just narrowly avoiding colliding with the Damsel in Distress. Who, let’s face it, was just always in the way.
The bushes that lined the rainbow river rock street waved merrily at me on my way, their green, blue, purple, red, and gold leaves shining brightly in the quickly warming sun. It was early September and in Fantasy this meant… well, not a lot. I’d woken up freezing just hours before, and already was wishing I hadn’t worn a (red) sweatshirt. I’d have taken it off, but it’s usually a few degrees cooler in the other genres, and I had to pass through a couple of them to get to school. And no, it isn’t like I’d be walking through the entirety of the genres—that would be insane. They’re huge. Some argue, infinite. I don’t know about that; but I at least know that they’re always growing. But at the university, they all converge and are narrowed down to just a few neighborhood streets. Lucky for me, I live right by the school’s south entrance, so I get a pretty good taste of each of the genres.
I was just heading toward the lone street of Romance that connects Fantasy and Sci Fi (a shortcut to school), when I smelled one of my favorite smells in all of Fiction: a freshly baking apple pie from Pip and Pop’s. I glanced down at the watch I wore for moments just like this, and decided to run in and grab a few mini-pies to go. When I was done, I waved goodbye to the little gingerbread man, Pip, tucked the wrapped-up little pies into my ever-expanding backpack, and made my way through the seedy little alleyway that would lead me to Romance.
General rule: when you walk down this alleyway, look straight ahead and don’t ask the characters on the corners for directions. (Because they will talk your ear off! Go north two blocks, no wait south, then take a left near that road to Sci Fi, then go by the Droid Repair Shop, etc., etc. Oh, and they’ll also probably try to get you to pay for sex. Because they’re prostitutes.)
After what was only about thirty seconds, but felt like much longer, I popped out of the dark alleyway and into the hazy, pinkish light of one of my favorite streets in the area. It was an odd little street of Romance: odd because it was sandwiched between Sci-Fi and Fantasy, completely separate from the rest of its genre. Here, the air always smelled sweet, pinkish purple puffs of cloud hung low to the ground, couples laughed, held hands, or snuck off into dark corners to make out (or into the alley to… ask for directions.) There were restaurants and shops of all shades of purple, pink, red, and white lining the cobblestoned road; cherubs floated by lazily on small poofs of cloud—which you had to watch out for, really, because they could shoot you with an arrow, and then you’d find yourself in love with some stranger and your day was just done. It was like walking through a giant valentine.
I took a left down a side street, narrowly missing a tall, spindly woman with long dark hair and doe-like brown eyes, and moved toward Sci Fi. The South Entrance to campus is at this weird spot where Sci-Fi mysteriously disappears into Mystery, near an old candlestick store. It’s the closest one to my house, which kind of sucks, because honestly, I don’t much like Sci Fi.
And just to punctuate that point, just then a large, metal, orange and white soccer ball of a droid rolled over the top of my foot, without so much as a beep in apology. Ugh. I hated this neighborhood.
I made my way quickly down the smooth, metallic-looking street that cut its way angularly through the valley the shining, black skyscrapers on either side created. They were like mirrors, these buildings, and as I hurried past, I caught glimpses of the various residents and commuters of the genre making their way to work. Aliens with large, insect-like eyes and octopus-shaped heads in business-suits, antiquated robots rolling along on dinky belts, and even a few YA Vamps, sparkling ridiculously as they stepped into patches of sun between buildings, because, they’re just everywhere. I looked somewhat out of place in jeans, my favorite old, red t-shirt (“Having a Great Vocabulary Didn’t Save the Thesaurus!”), sneakers, and sweatshirt tucked under one arm. I turned down a side street, literally crawling with insect-like creatures the size of dogs, and felt the temperature grow a little steamier; the air a little less electric. Below my feet, the ground faded from smooth metallic asphalt into rough, irregular cobblestones. I’d come to the beginnings of Mystery, and also, to the South Entrance of Fiction Academy.
“Bout time,” I muttered, walking below the archway and up the slight hill toward the center of campus.
Again, school was crowded with those odd, new, clearly non-traditionally published characters, but I didn’t pay them much attention. The descriptive walk had taken up so much time, I was scrambling just to get to class before the bell, despite having left early.
“Welcome to Advanced Spellwork,” my professor said as I took my seat.*
Immediately I recognized him: a tall, somewhat ancient-looking man with long gray hair and beard. He had a crooked nose and gray eyes. In fact, much about him was gray: his doubled traveling cloak, the crumpled wizard’s hat atop his head, and even the long staff he leaned against. It was, of course, Ga—
“Terribly sorry, Peter, but you can’t mention that here,” he waggled a crooked finger in my direction. “Copyright infringement, you know.
“You all can call me,” he said, turning toward the blackboard behind him with the agility of a younger man, “Professor G.” He mouthed something under his breath and as he did, the name appeared on the blackboard.
*What? You really want to know what all happened between arriving on campus and sitting down in class? Okay, fine. I ran to the Main Building, up two flights of stairs, down the hall, and into the bathroom. I went to the bathroom. I washed my hands. And then I saw that they were out of paper towels, so I did a quick drying spell on my hands, in which I had to alternate my wand between hands to dry the other and—this is ridiculous. This is why we skip things forward in Fiction.
“You all are here because you have reached a point in your magic that requires the most skilled honing Fiction Academy can provide. Fortun
ately, the University believes that this means me, and so I am humbled to teach you all that I can. We must agree, though, that this is a journey to be taken together, for both you and I will be learning along the way, as magic is as evolving as we are. Now, you four,” at this, I finally looked around the room. I was in a regular-sized classroom, filled with about twenty Cherrywood desks and chairs, only three others of which were occupied. In them sat a high school aged blonde witch I’d noticed around campus, simply because she always wore very bright clothes—today she wore lavender robes, small, shriveled carrot-like earrings, and a pointed hat that, every few minutes, would mumble something from a crease in its middle. There was also another guy about my age wearing white linen summer pants, a striped button up shirt, a pack of cigarettes visible in his chest pocket, and a rather bored and dismissive expression on his face. I thought his name was Eliot something. And there, to his left was—
“Circe.” I’d been enrolled in private lessons with her the year before, albeit in an alternate reality created by accident when I altered my backstory, brought my sister back to life, and made everyone in Fiction fear and hate me. (Seriously, read the book.) She looked up from underneath her long lashes, her violet eyes mocking. She, of course, knew all about that alternative version of things, even if no one else remembered it once I’d corrected the backstory. She was an extremely powerful sorceress, potions maker, psychic, and not to mention stupid beautiful.
“Ahem. As I was saying,” Gan… Professor G, rather, shot me a look from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “You four will be pairing off today and working on review. I know the summer holidays can make you a little rusty, so I will be helping throughout the lesson should you need it. We won’t have a syllabus or any text books, as this is strictly a practical class. Of course, if you’d like to read my books, I certainly won’t stop you. I believe Professor Uk would have copies, too, if you’d like to borrow them.”
The Actual Account of Peter Able Page 3
