by R. T. Lowe
Bill turned to look over his shoulder, discreetly, feeling the weight of their eyes like a pair of rusty nails in his back. The unnerving sensation remained as he headed toward the practice fields on the west side of campus (empty, the students opting for indoor diversions at the climate controlled Bryant Center) and Stubbins Stadium beyond, standing tall and proud like an old naval warship at port. He checked his phone to see if Felix had texted him back. They needed to talk, but Felix was ignoring him. Bill had texted immediately after Channel 8 broke the Numbered Ones story and sent four texts this morning, all unreturned.
Over the past month, Bill had sensed a subtle shift in Felix’s attitude, an indifference that comes when you’re no longer concerned with what someone thinks of you—when the student no longer cares about impressing the teacher. The reason for it was obvious. Allison. She didn’t trust him and she had Felix’s ear, and his confidence. An eighteen-year-old girl had turned Felix against him. It was infuriating. Bill had spent almost twenty years—his entire adult life—laying the groundwork to change the course of history, and within just a few months, Allison had completely undermined his relationship with Felix. No one had sacrificed more than Bill. It was his fateful meeting with Felix’s mom at the Green River Psychiatric Hospital that had started the chain of events that led to all this. He had fallen in love with her—trick of mind or not—then she had left him with his life in ruins, knowing he would carry out the promise she’d coerced from him as she died in his arms. Now Allison was rewriting the story as it was intended to unfold. Felix hadn’t told him about his encounter with the Faceman, and even after the shooting there had been no word from him. Felix, it seemed, didn’t trust him anymore.
Bill circled behind the dorms and lecture halls, taking the path that bordered the Old Campus’s stone wall, Little Ben’s towering clock face visible in the distance above the treetops. The campus had grown on Bill. The cynical side of him had wanted to dismiss it as derivative, an upstart proclaiming itself part of the academic establishment, assuming its place in the pecking order rather than earning it. Even though it was younger than the great colleges of the northeast where Bill was from, the campus had achieved a sense of permanence and history that went far beyond its years, settling into its environment like it had been there for ages. The weather, miserable though it was, played a part. The climate was as close to England’s as any place Bill had ever been, the incessant cloud cover, drizzle and mist bridging distance and time, bringing a sense of the old world—of Oxford and Cambridge—to the doorstep of Portland’s west side. But there was something else at work besides the craftsmanship of master artisans and the weather, something that couldn’t be engineered or attributed to a lack of sunlight. In the five months Bill had worked and lived near campus he’d come to realize it had a spirit of its own, shaping itself in its own image as much as by any human hand: When Bill clipped off an encroaching tree branch it might stay that way, or sometimes it would sprout back during the blackest hours of night; the bed of bleeding hearts tucked in behind the Siegler Building bloomed every third day after sunset and shed their pink and white petals before dawn; near the campus chapel was a garden of crushed stone in the shape of a circle where nothing grew, neither plant nor weed, and all that watched over it were bronze statues of pagan gods and a black marble fountain whose waters never froze, steaming in the cold the last time he’d wandered by; and there was the time the ivy on the south side of Rhodes Hall came snaking back as thick as a blanket up to the roofline while he sat for lunch in the office he’d acquired by making a sizable ‘contribution’ to the head groundskeeper’s retirement fund and the promise of another at the end of the school year. Never mind that Bill had killed every twining vine that morning with a ten gallon vat of herbicide. There were other hints of its spirit, but usually he just felt it in his gut, knowing it was somehow manifesting itself just outside his range of perception.
Bill didn’t know why the campus had a mind of its own or what it meant. And he didn’t know how to regain Felix’s trust. He had no answers. Only questions. Only uncertainties.
Trust was a fickle thing, Bill realized, hard to gain, yet maddeningly ephemeral, capable of slipping away over something as inconsequential as a poorly chosen word or the mood of a teenage girl. If Felix only understood the extent of his sacrifice. The planning. The years lost. How do you explain that to an eighteen-year-old kid, someone whose perspective was defined by the limited experiences of youth? Would it mean anything to him, he wondered, if Felix knew he had purchased a house in his subdivision just after his first birthday? That he’d watched him waddle around his yard on unsteady toddler legs. Watched him ride a bike for the first time, steering into a curb and spilling over the handlebars and right to his feet without a scratch, his dad chasing after him, unable to keep up. Saw him go on his first date and the first time he went for a drive in his car. Bill had been present for the important moments in his life, at a distance, always watching, fulfilling his promise to Felix’s mother. Bill had long ago put to rest the idea of living a normal life, of marriage and kids and settling into a Colonial in the suburbs. That was a dream for other men. He would never know what it was like to hold a child in his arms, but the closest thing to a son he would ever know didn’t trust him, and the ache he felt in his heart had nothing to do with Lofton or the unseen men who watched his every step.
Chapter 18
Tough Love
Felix sat on the front steps of St. Rose, looking out glumly at the trees beyond the path, watching the lamplit branches bending with the wind. He hadn’t been there long, spending most of the day at the Old Campus, hiding out at Inverness in the library, a place he knew his friends wouldn’t find him. An image of Caitlin’s face had been replaying itself over and over in his head, a dull hateful sheen in her eyes he couldn’t shake. The fear, the hatred, the look of disdain usually reserved for some ghastly occurrence that caught you unaware, like the sight of a maggot infested animal carcass splattered alongside the highway. His mind felt thick, his body slow and heavy, as though he was treading water. He deserved Caitlin’s contempt. All of it. He’d done things far worse than what she’d witnessed this morning. Despite how hard he’d tried to bury his pain and his self-loathing—and how often he’d convinced himself he could live with the knowledge of killing his parents—it didn’t require much to send him spiraling back down into a sinkhole of black despair. One look from Caitlin and now here he was, again wallowing in self-pity, like tires slipping into the deepest ruts on a dirt road.
“The choice is yours,” a voice sang sweetly, as if carried by the night wind.
Felix twisted his head all around, recognizing the voice at once. Agatha.
“In your time of need, bring her to me. The choice is yours. The choice is yours…”
Felix stood, searching the darkness.
The din of late hours traffic racing up and down Adams Street died away. The branches stopped stirring. Something in the air changed, raising the hair on his arms. Suddenly she was there, at the steps, just as he remembered: flowing blue dress, dark hair long and lustrous, porcelain skin, emerald eyes burning.
“Agatha?” Felix said, reaching out hesitantly, wanting to touch her face, to feel her skin on his fingertips, to find out if she was real.
“No,” she replied, and her voice sounded different. He blinked to clear his vision. Agatha had melted back into the night and in her place stood Allison regarding him dubiously, wearing jeans and a dark jacket, one foot on the bottom step. “Talking to ghosts again?”
“Did you see her?” he asked, swiveling his head, confused. “She was right”—he pointed at Allison—“there. She said ‘bring her to me. In your time of need, bring her to me’. Did you hear her?” he demanded, voice rising in frustration. He jumped down the stairs to search the area by the path, knowing it was pointless, and by the time he’d given up and returned to the stoop he was beginning to think he was losing his mind. The whole thing was already taking on the slip
pery, dissolving texture of a dream. Allison hadn’t moved. “You didn’t see anything?” he begged, sounding desperate now. “How could you have missed it? She was right—”
“You just left us there,” Allison told him sharply, her expression cold and unsympathetic. She climbed the steps, stopping beside him. “What if there had been more of those things?”
Felix worked his jaw, Agatha’s sudden appearance only adding to his malaise. Why did she keep popping up anyway? Was there a reason for it? Did she want something from him? Or was she simply symbolic, a disquieting reminder that some things would always be outside his control, tearing at his moorings, shifting beneath his feet like a foundation of sand? He put his face in his hands for a moment, trying to chase the demons away, unsure of himself, doubting his senses.
“I don’t know what I am,” he said morosely, hanging his head.
“Stop being such a fucking narcissist!” Allison shouted. “A few months ago, I’d never been in a fight. Not one. Before you showed up this morning, two Protectors thought they were going to kill me. Protectors—you know, trained assassins and all that. Well, this trained assassin came at me with a knife and I kicked his ass in like four seconds. If the other one hadn’t been eaten, I would have removed her appendix with her own knife. Here’s what I know, Felix. The person I am now isn’t the person I thought I was. So stop with all the ‘I don’t know what I am’ bullshit. You don’t think I’m asking myself the same question? You are what you are. You’re a Sourceror. You’re the Belus. But forget all that for a minute and just remember one thing. You’re Felix. That’s who you are. Above all else. Okay?”
Felix stared at her, momentarily silenced by the intensity of her speech. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t remember what happened. That monster in the raincoat was biting your arm and then my mind just went blank. I blacked out.”
“Thanks for that,” Allison said with a sarcastic laugh, tugging back on her sleeve to show him the bandages. “Eighty-two stitches. Think you could’ve gone nuclear a little sooner?”
“Jesus,” Felix whispered softly, shaking his head at the medical wrap encasing her arm from elbow to wrist. He felt terrible. And responsible. “It’s my fault. I should have done things…I don’t know…differently. I think I just get panicked and do the first thing that comes to mind. I should’ve stopped them before they did that to you. Sorry.”
“You didn’t bite my arm.” She watched him. “You know I’m just joking about the nuclear thing, right? You did what you had to do. That’s why we’re still alive.”
“What…what if I’d hurt Lucas and them?” He paused, dropping his gaze to his feet. “Remember the big guy at the Cliff Walk? Parni?”
“How could I forget?” Allison snorted. “When someone kicks you off a thousand foot cliff, you tend to remember them.”
“Well, I didn’t just kill him. I…I set him on fire, and I did it…slowly.”
“So?” Allison shrugged.
“If I’m capable of doing something like that when I’m conscious, who knows what I might do when I black out. And the shooter in the building—I could’ve killed him quick. Quick and easy, you know? But I didn’t.” He remembered squeezing the man in his mental vise, wanting to see his eyes explode from his face, and being disappointed when he accidentally sent him flying out the window. “I wanted to…I wanted to hurt them.” He looked at her, his voice thick with shame. “I tortured them, Allie. Both of them.”
“Good.”
“Good?” Felix echoed, stunned, not expecting a pat on the back for torturing two guys to death. Because of the circumstances, he didn’t think Allison would judge him too harshly, but he assumed she’d encourage him to rise above his anger and do the right thing. In Felix’s mind, doing the right thing probably didn’t include torture.
Allison put her hands on her hips. “If I thought someone had killed you, I’d skin the motherfucker alive, and you’ve gotta be joking about the shooter. Whatever you did to him, he deserved worse. Look, I know what you’re saying, but this guilt you’re feeling about killing these people is starting to sound a little self-indulgent. Maybe my perspective is getting a bit warped, but the fact you tortured Parni just means you’ve got my back.” She raised an eyebrow. “I consider it a compliment. Look at it this way. I know I can always count on you. Even in death.”
“Don’t even say that.”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” Allison chided him.
“Really?” he exclaimed, horrified she could joke about dying. They’d seen too much death recently to take their own lives for granted. Not that Felix was superstitious, but it felt like bad luck to mock death, as if such brazenness could only tempt the fates. “You think I’m being sensitive?”
“I know you would never hurt me or our friends,” she said slowly, forcefully. “Conscious or not, you did exactly what you needed to do. I’m not saying blacking out is ideal or anything, but you still took care of business.” She tilted her head to the side. “Isn’t Groundskeeper Bill always telling you to be focused and to stay in control? The guy’s a lying asshole, but I guess maybe he’s right about that.” Then she turned to Felix and smiled, her expression softening. “Who can really blame you for losing your shit when a bunch of monsters were trying to eat us? I mean seriously. I think you deserve a pass for your temper tantrum.”
“I don’t even know if it matters anyway.” Felix sighed. “Lofton’s just gonna try to kill me again.”
“Why do you say that?” Allison asked after a moment’s pause.
“Well, don’t you think he knows I’m the Belus? Isn’t that why he sent the Numbered Ones? To kill me?”
“If Lofton knew you were the Belus and wanted to kill you,” Allison said, frowning in thought, “wouldn’t he just do it himself?”
Felix hadn’t thought of that. “So you don’t think his monsters would have killed us?”
“Are you shitting me?” Allison exclaimed. “Of course they would have killed us. Isn’t that how Lofton operates? Remember the Faceman? If you fail, you die. Those are Lofton’s rules.”
“Fail?” Felix repeated, widening his eyes at her. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? You think it was a…test?”
“Maybe.” Allison chewed on her lip. “Maybe even more than maybe. I wouldn’t say definitely, but I’d go so far as to say probably. Yeah—it was probably a test.” She smiled and added, “Congratulations! I guess you passed.” She chewed her lip again. “The question, I suppose, is what Lofton does next. You did more than just pass his test. You showed him a lot. You went fucking nuc—”
“Nuclear?” Felix finished with a shake of his head. Then a question popped into his mind and he blurted, “How would Lofton—?” He stopped himself short, answering himself in the same breath. “Holy shit! Lofton was there! He must’ve been watching. How else would he know if I passed? There weren’t any Numbered Ones left.”
Allison nodded and blew out a steaming breath. “I think you’re right. At least I think someone must’ve been watching. One of his Drestianites maybe. Either way, it’s creepy.”
“Just another day, huh?” Felix sighed, shaking his head. “Just one goddamn thing after another.”
“Better get used to it,” Allison said, shrugging. “I know you were hoping to come back to school and things would be more…normal. Well, this is the new normal. Going to class and the Caffeine Hut and playing football and partying and studying in Woodrow’s Room are all nice and I love those things, and I know you do too, but we’d be crazy to think that’s the norm. We’ve been here for exactly two days and we’ve already been shot at and attacked by Protectors and Numbered Ones. I’d like to worry about not being caught up in English Lit, but a monster tried to eat my arm today and that changes a girl’s perspective. You need to snap the fuck out of this funk you’re in. You can’t be all wounded just because Caitlin thinks you’re a freak. You are a freak. So cut her some slack if she can’t wrap her ahead around what she saw today.”
Felix swallowed his pride and vowed to himself—once again—since he clearly wasn’t strong enough to come to terms with his past, he’d commit to the only other available alternative: bury it. Submerge it beneath a mountain of mental scar tissue. Forget about it and move on. That’s what he would do. He let out a decisive breath. “You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.” Allison grinned.
He laughed. “Sorry about leaving, but you were there. I wasn’t worried.”
Allison leveled her eyes on him. “I’m not you, Felix. Let’s just say when things get really bad, I feel better if you’re around.”
They both went quiet. An occasional car could be heard braking and accelerating on the corner of Adams and 10th. Allison was right, Felix thought. Deserting his friends was reckless and stupid. He couldn’t let his emotions control him like that again. He had to get his shit together.
“You need to speak with them,” Allison said finally. “I made them promise to keep this between all of us. They understand—at least I think they understand—their lives are in danger if they open their mouths. They wanted to know everything, but I told them they needed to hear it from you. This is your story, Felix. Not mine. I was talking to them after dinner and I think they’re keeping it together.” She lowered her eyes, brow wrinkling with concern. “I’m worried about Caitlin though. She said something about going home for a while.”
Felix thought about his friends and wondered if they’d gone about the day like it was an ordinary Tuesday: classes, dinner at the dorm, coffee, a study session in Woodrow’s. The usual stuff, he thought enviously, and realized Allison spoke the truth. He did love those things, and it saddened him to think it could already be more a part of his past than his future. But it wasn’t just his future anymore—or Allison’s. Now they were all in this craziness together, Caitlin, Harper and Lucas, and because of Felix, their futures at PC would be no more normal than his own. He felt awful for that, and nearly getting them killed left him feeling sick with guilt and anger. Involving his friends wasn’t by design, and it was the last thing he’d wanted, but none of that mattered. There was the reality of the situation and nothing else, and he owed it to his friends to explain that the world they lived in was far more dangerous, and far stranger than they could have ever imagined.
