Summoner Rising

by Melanie Mcfarlane

  “Promise?” I ask, staring at him in the rear-view mirror.

  Tryan finally meets my eyes and smiles at me. “Yes.”

  “How heartwarming.” The imp speaks up from the back seat. “But let’s hurry up. I’m running out of time.”

  I pull into the driveway next to my dark house. Thankfully, Katya and Constantine must have gone out—it’s too early for them to have gone to bed. I breathe a sigh of relief. The last thing I need is to have to answer uncomfortable questions.

  Tryan grabs hold of the imp, carrying it under his arm, as I open the front door and turn on the lights. We slip into the house and enter Katya’s studio.

  As I click on the lights, the imp gasps at the large number of paintings in it.

  “Mai!” the imp gasps. “Your aunt is either a collector or a master; do you know which?”

  I shrug; I don’t know the meaning of either. “She’s painted these all, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Aoleu!” the imp exclaims again. “She’s a master then. What’s your family name?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Tryan says, pushing the imp farther into the room.

  “Hey!” the imp cries out.

  “Don’t be mean,” I say to Tryan, who shoots me a confused look. “He’s here; he obviously wants to cooperate.”

  “You don’t understand,” Tryan explains. “He might look tiny and helpless, but imps aren’t—they’re sneaky, and they like to play pranks and spy on people.”

  The imp speaks up. “I was good this time. There were no pranks, I promise.” He looks up at me, pleading. “I just want to go back; I want to be safe.”

  “Safe from what?” Tryan asks.

  “From out there,” the imp says, hiding behind my leg.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Tryan says, “I know your kind; you can’t wait to get out of the netherworld. Why do you want to get back there so bad?”

  “I think my new friend will let me out when I’m ready,” the imp says, tugging on my dress. “Right?”

  “Tell me the truth,” Tryan says, “or I won’t show your summoner how to put you back.”

  The imp steps out from behind me and crosses his arms. He stares at Tryan with narrowed eyes and sticks out his lower lip as he taps his foot on the wooden floor. “Fine!” he says, losing patience. “I ran into another demon. He was being a big bully and wouldn’t let me have any fun. He warned me to go back home and come back out with someone else.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Tryan asks. “This demon knows Dacie?”

  “It means he’s a real jerk,” the imp says. “I told him this town doesn’t have his name written on it, and you know what he did? He tried to kill me, just over a simple disagreement!”

  “Demons don’t kill imps,” Tryan says. “They could care less about you guys. You must have been in his way.”

  “I don’t care what you say, tovaros,” the imp snarls. “I told the truth. Now send me back.”

  Tryan crosses his hands, about to argue, but I step in. “Someone tell me what to do. We need to hurry before Katya gets home.”

  “Get a painting ready,” the imp says, “and then paint me into it.”

  “How do I know which are empty?” I ask, looking around the room. My eyes settle on the burning tree, and I remember the fire creature that leaned out toward me. I quickly look away from it.

  “You should be able to tell by looking at it,” he says. “You’re the summoner.”

  “How about this one?” Tryan asks, pointing to one of an open pit.

  “No way!” the imp squeals. “I want something nice.” It looks around. “Like this one.” It points toward a scenic painting of a mountain with a lake below it.

  “That’s nice,” I begin. “But how do I know it’s available?”

  “Look for shadows,” Tryan says. “That’s where they hide.”

  I stare deep into the painting, waiting to see if anything moves. Nothing does. I step back and shrug.

  “Good,” the imp says. “Send me there.”

  “I still think you should send him to the pit,” Tryan says. “Then if we need more answers, we know where to find him.”

  “No, no, no.” The imp runs back behind my leg.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Tryan takes the painting down, and the imp sits beside it. I stare at them both, confused. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Here,” Tryan says, passing me a brush and a paint tray. “Paint the imp and connect him to the painting.”

  “What if I do it wrong?” I ask, getting nervous.

  “If you can summon him out, you should be able to send him back,” Tryan assures me. “Go ahead and try.”

  “Put me somewhere nice,” the imp asks. “Like behind a tree. No one looks behind a tree.”

  I listen to the imp. This is all confusing. It makes about as much sense as the first time Katya told me I was a summoner. I sigh, dipping the brush into some brown paint, and start painting the imp’s feet. What else can I do? Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  “Can you open the window for me?” I ask Tryan as I wipe my brow with the back of my hand.

  “That tickles,” the imp snorts as I run the brush along his foot. Tryan rolls his eyes at the imp, then does as I ask.

  I continue up the imp’s pants to his torso, then switch over to some green paint. He looks content sitting there while I paint across his face over his head.

  “Now,” Tryan says, “you need to link him to the painting. Go ahead and draw on the floor right onto the painting, trust me.”

  I look at Tryan skeptically. This just gets weirder and weirder. But I do as he says and as soon as my brush stroke reaches the painting, the imp begins to squeal. “Thank you,” he says as he leaps toward the painting, disappearing into its canvas. Suddenly, a tree appears where I touched the painting, and a long shadow stretches out from it. I jump back in surprise and drop my brush to the ground.

  “It’s okay,” Tryan says, grabbing the painting. “You did it.”

  “I did?” I say, watching as he hangs it back on the wall.

  “You did what?” Katya’s voice calls out from behind us. Both Tryan and I jump around as Katya enters the room with Constantine. “What’s going on in here?”

  Katya looks from me to Tryan, then raises her hands in the air, waiting for an answer. Her bracelets clink together as they slide up her arms, stopping mid-forearm.

  “I was just showing my friend what you do,” I stammer.

  “Really?” Katya says, pursing her lips together. “Tell me, who is this friend of yours?”

  “My name is Tryan,” he says, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

  “Is that a Romanian accent?” Katya asks, raising one eyebrow and crossing her arms over her chest. Constantine awkwardly reaches in front of her and shakes Tryan’s hand.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  “And what interest do you have in my studio, tovaros?” she says, narrowing her eyes and staring Tryan down.

  I freeze at the sound of that word again. Tovaros. What does it mean? First, the imp, and now Katya. I can tell by the way that Tryan’s back goes rigid that he’s hiding something.

  “You think I was born yesterday?” Katya says. “I can see it all over you. How many summoners have you met before?”

  “Many,” Tryan says, clearing his throat and awkwardly rubbing his arm. I step closer to them, but he avoids looking at me. “I grew up in Romania.”

  “And how many have you served?” she asks.

  Tryan hesitates, as he looks intently back at Katya. I look to Constantine, trying to get some understanding of what’s going on here, but he’s watching Tryan carefully as well.

  “One,” Tryan finally says. “Just this last year.”

  “Am I to assume she is gone now?” Katya asks.

  Tryan nods.

  Katya
shakes her head. “I can only guess why you are around our little Dacie, but she is not seventeen yet, and her circumstances are special.”

  “I see that,” Tryan says.

  Katya frowns and looks at the painting on the wall behind Tryan before speaking again. “I forbid any further contact until after her birthday.”

  “Katya!” I cry out. I’m not sure why I care so much, but it seems a little drastic and none of her business.

  “He knows much more about our world than you do,” Katya warns.

  Tryan still won’t look in my direction. His hands are at his sides, balled into fists, and his jaw clenches, but he slowly lets go and says, “Fine.”

  “No!” I say. “You don’t run my life. My mother never did and you sure as hell aren’t going to start now.”

  “You should go,” Katya says quietly.

  Tryan nods his head and looks over at me. “I’m sorry, Dacie.” He turns and walks out of the room with Constantine.

  I stand frozen and confused. What just happened here? I look back at Katya, who’s glaring at me. “Was that really necessary?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, clearly angry. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “He’s a boy from Art.”

  “He’s a tovaros,” she says. “A summoner’s companion. I imagine he’s hanging around you, trying to see if there’s a connection.”

  “I don’t date,” I remind her.

  “He doesn’t want to date,” she mocks. “He wants to see if you have a connection.”

  “I’m not like my mom. I don’t throw myself at any guy who shows an interest.”

  “Your mother!” Katya laughs. “She wanted nothing to do with her tovaros. She rejected the life of a summoner.”

  “Maybe she was the smart one.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder why she was so impulsive?” Katya asks with more concern. “You can’t run from this life; the demons will always find you. They’re always lurking in the shadows whether you want to see them or not. Your mother tried to hide it all with booze, but in the end it found her.”

  “What did?” I ask.

  Katya waves her hands in the air. “All this,” she says. “It will eventually catch up with you. The weight of the responsibility will play games with your mind unless you can find your companion to share the load.”

  “Is that who my father was?” I ask. “Her tovaros?”

  “Your mother never found her true tovaros,” Katya says sadly. “And that was her undoing in the end.”

  We are interrupted by Constantine’s entrance back into the room. “It’s getting late,” he says, smiling at me.

  “Yes,” she says. “Conversations like these are better served in the morning.”

  I turn to leave and see Katya walk over to the wall where Tryan hung the painting with the imp. She reaches up and straightens the painting, then turns back with a frown on her face. I quickly scoot out of the studio and up the stairs to my room before she can ask any more questions.

  I try to turn in, but too much has gone on tonight. I think about Tryan and the look on his face when he caught the imp. Is Katya right? Did he come here looking for me? Finally, I fall asleep, but my dreams are haunted by the same nightmare I’ve had for six months. At the end of the dream, when everything goes silent, and I’m cowering under my Mom’s bed, I hear a low whisper.

  “Dacie.”

  Wait, that never happened.

  “Dacie,” it calls out to me again.

  Slowly, I open my eyes and realize I’m not dreaming anymore. I’m under the covers in my bedroom at my great-aunt’s house.

  I sit up in bed; my head is pounding from the intensity of my nightmare. I get up and go downstairs to the kitchen to hunt for some aspirin. Katya’s medicine cabinet is full of natural remedies like peppermint, basil, and other herbs and plants. I can’t remember which combination she prefers, but I do remember seeing Constantine stuff a jar of aspirin in the back—after rummaging around, I find it.

  I toss two pills into my mouth and gulp back some water as I stand at the kitchen sink, watching the rain spotting the outside of the window above it. The wind has picked up, and it blows the trees around. I smile, recalling the sight of the imp crawling on the outside of the house hours earlier. He was kind of funny; I don’t know why Tryan was so mean to him.

  “Daaaacie.”

  I startle at the sound, much clearer now, and almost drop my glass. I spin around, but there’s nothing behind me. I set my glass down and steady myself. The door to Katya’s studio slowly creaks open, and I remember we left the window open in there.

  I slip into the studio, well aware of the paintings surrounding me. Are they full of demons? Do they know I’m in here? As I make my way to the window, my mind plays tricks on me while shadows dance about in the corners of the room.

  “Daaaacie.”

  The sound comes from the curtains covering the open window. They’re blowing wildly into the studio and the rain puddles underneath. It’s just the wind. Katya won’t be happy if she sees this.

  I get to the window and have to pull hard to get it to shut as its wooden frame has swelled a little from the rain. Finally, it connects at the bottom, and I close the curtains just as a crack of lightning breaks through the air. I stifle a scream as the figure of a man appears, silhouetted through the curtains.

  I step back, slipping on the puddle of water, and fall on my side. Scrambling, I try to get a foothold, and when I do, I run to the doorway of the studio and turn back to make sure nothing is following me. The silhouette is gone, but the deep whisper returns. This time it’s longer: “Daaaciana.”

  I slam the door to the studio and run up to my bedroom, sliding the dresser in front of my bedroom door and jumping under my covers. There’s no way I’m moving until daylight returns.

  I drag my feet to the school the next day in a daze from my night. Katya woke me up after what felt like a couple of hours sleep at the most. She wasn’t impressed that my door was barricaded, but didn’t ask for an explanation.

  “Dacie!” Brennan’s voice comes from our lockers. “Over here!”

  I grudgingly make my way through the crowd of students toward Brennan. When I get through Chantal is there hanging out next to him. She shoots me a quick smirk, but I ignore her and open my locker.

  “What happened to you at the dance?” he asks. “I went looking for you, but you were gone.”

  “He saw you drive off with someone in your car.” Chantal smirks.

  “Have you seen Tryan?” I ask, ignoring the jibe.

  Brennan looks at me, surprised. “Yeah, I think he’s in the music room.”

  “Thanks,” I say, throwing my books in my locker and slamming the door shut.

  “Wait,” he says, almost pleading. “I was wondering if you wanted to come watch football practice after school.”

  “Hmm?” I say, barely listening. “Football? Sorry, Brennan. It’s not really my thing.”

  Chantal’s smirk has changed into an unattractive grin and Brennan looks like I just punched him in the stomach. I don’t have time for pleasantries; I’m looking for answers.

  Miss Nelson stops me at the end of the hallway.

  “Where are you storming off to?” she says, holding a hand up to me.

  “I, uh, have to get something in the music room.” My words come out weak and lame, but to my surprise, she nods.

  “Make it quick,” she says. “It’s almost the bell.”

  I enter the stairwell, which is usually echoing with students avoiding class as long as they can. The only echoes right now are my sneakers on the stairs, as I run down three flights to the basement. Music lies at the end of the hallway past art. At the far end is drama. For some reason, they decided to stick all the Arts classes where there’s no sun.

  The teachers must be running behind, because the lights are still off down here. A red glow flanks the darkness of the hallway from the two exit s
igns at either end. I step forward and pause at the edge of the darkness. For a second I think I see a shadow move, but then I realize how stupid that sounds. How can darkness have shadows? I step forward and make my way to the music room.

  A faint tune meets my ears. Someone is inside the room playing the piano. I recognize the piece—sometimes I caught my mother listening to it. It’s Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” I lean back in the darkness against the cold cinder block wall, and close my eyes, remembering how my mother used to sway to the haunting music with her eyes closed. I always imagined she was thinking of happier times in her past.

  One time she opened her eyes, and caught me watching her.

  “Don’t stare,” my mother said in a drunken slur. “It’s not ladylike.”

  She burst into fits of laughter, and I ran to my room and hid under the covers, embarrassed that I ever believed she cared about anything beautiful.

  I shake my head, clearing it of my past, and turn with determination toward the door. But something moves by the art room. It looked like a person, but now they’ve disappeared into the darkness. I freeze and can only hear my heartbeat, thundering in my ears. I squint, and look down the hall. Is there really anything there? Shadows maybe—but are my eyes just playing tricks on me? I start to step toward it but then hear a shuffle against the vinyl floor, and I jump forward instead, exploding through the entrance of the music room, where Tryan is sitting at the piano. Was that him playing? I peek out the open doors behind me, but nothing follows.

  Tryan stops playing and looks up from the piano.

  “Why did you leave last night?” I don’t wait for pleasantries. I came here on a mission.

  He frowns. “I thought I better go. Your aunt didn’t look too pleased.”

  “You left me alone.”

  “It is your house,” Tryan says. “I’m sure you’ve been alone in there before.”

  “That’s not the point.” I throw my hands in the air.

  Tryan gets up from the piano bench and slowly walks toward me. His T-shirt clings to his chest, showing he’s more muscular than I realized. Thoughts of his bare chest enter my mind. I shake my head quickly, and hold my hand up to him.