by Anne Zoelle
Will was silent for a long moment. “Well, I do believe, I feel better suddenly.” I looked down to see him smirking at the other paper. “Hurry, go look at it.”
I slowly walked over and cautiously glanced down at the paper that was now completely blank save for the gopher platform.
“Where do you think he went?” I asked, unnerved.
“I don't—”
“Aiyeee!” A gopher made of paper dropped from the sky. An animated gopher made of paper. If a gopher could have a silly, happy grin, this one did.
“Holy—”
“Grab the sketch, quickly,” Will said, his voice high. “And the gopher...paper...thing.”
I didn't waste any time on thinking and scooped up the sketch. The paper gopher started to merrily toddle off, but I grabbed him and stuffed him in my pocket.
“Aiyeee!” Another paper gopher dropped from the sky, this one wearing goggles and shoes and doing little twirls. I nabbed him as he hit the ground, then stuffed him in my pocket too. My pocket started moving.
“Get us out of here,” Will said. “If the Department spook falls out of the sky too, I want to be long gone.”
The last intent on the paper had been happy transport. The ridiculous image of the Scottish man wearing the gophers' euphoric grins flitted through my mind. I threw the crumpled paper into a trash bin three streets over. Will hissed at its loss, but instinct urged me to toss it. The paper gophers had stopped moving in my pocket.
Another block over, a good-looking man around my parents' age walked down the street carrying a handheld device. There was something familiar about him. He looked around, eyes peering into the shadows where I was hiding. For some reason I knew his eyes would be blue, though not quite ultramarine. The older man from that night. The uncle. I started to rise.
“Stay down,” Will hissed.
“But—”
“Shh! Don't let him see us.”
The man finally moved away, and I slipped through a park—a longer route, but less likely to be populated.
Will stayed silent for five more blocks. “Is he gone?”
I looked behind me for the thousandth time. “Yes. Why? Maybe he could help us.” He had helped last time. Well, actually he hadn't wanted to help me at all, come to think of it. But even reluctantly, he had let his nephew do so.
“Not likely. He's one of the Dares.”
“Is that a cult?”
He snorted. “A family. An old, powerful family. High society. Prideful. They stay out of public politics and barely leave their private island, but like all of the old families, they play deep games. None of them work directly for the Department, but my Dad said they occasionally send family members to infiltrate organizations. That one looks like a hunter. Probably hunting Verisetti. One of them goes to Excelsine—my school.”
Alexander. Alexander Dare?
The fractured conversation from the night of Christian's death wound through my mind. They had checked my wrist. I looked at the sapling drawn in clear brown lines. The dots that had been there before were now smoothly connected, and the sapling looked bigger. That night might have gone far differently if this had been on the inside of my wrist.
“He'd scan you at the very least, and...there is something weird about your magic,” Will said. “I don't think most art mages can trap people in sketches. That isn't good news for us.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, it's just as bad for me at the moment. I can't trust that guy not to simply lock me in the family library vault and enslave me in this black-and-white prison for all eternity.” Will cocked his head, eyebrows raised. “I'd be tempted to keep me for testing purposes.”
“What are you, a mad scientist?”
“Someday, I hope.”
“Great.” I shook my head. Just what I needed. Another me. “We have three more blocks, and you're freaking me out. By the way, how did you perform magic from in there? Something hit that guy's scanning device.”
“Yeah...that...wasn't me. I don't know if I mentioned it, but I'd kind of like to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
All told, even with the stop, we made the fifteen minute trip home in six.
Chapter Five: Really Unwise Actions
I looked at the clock blearily and cradled my umpteenth Coke. It steadily showed 5:32 a.m., then the final number blinked to three. Will and I were taking turns watching the draperies in the sketch. I had set up Will with an alarm clock and some cymbals while he stood watch, but even then, with the sketch lying on my pillow, I had woken in a panic every fifteen minutes thinking he had been impaled or eaten. He had had no problem dropping off to sleep, though, after I'd drawn garlands of bells over the drapes and tested to make sure they worked. The sword rested beside him on the bed I'd drawn, and his hand was wrapped around a knife under his pillow.
I didn't know whether it was from too much sugar and caffeine in my system, or something else, but the energy under my skin had steadily gone from a trickle to a torrent, raging through me, seeking an outlet.
Will and I had tried the paint, but a single dot had caused the circles on the drapes to start rotating and battering to commence behind the drapes—forcing them outward, as if by punched fists. I had quickly captured the spreading dot in a container. It had taken all of my focus and intent to do so, and the energy inside of me was raging to get out. The battering and rotations had abruptly stopped. The container now sat in the corner across from Will. We would figure out how to test it in the morning. The blue dot inside the container looked as if it were waiting.
The tube of paint was calling to me and freaking me out in equal measures.
“Ren.”
I started violently, looking around me. That had been Christian's voice.
“Christian?” I whispered.
No one answered.
A good panic was working its way over me steadily. I was sure Will had noticed, but neither of us had said anything aloud about my last piece of magic charcoal being worn to a nub after all of the interim drawings and failed experiments. Using a regular pencil, I could eke out the barest of sketched movements—producing little half-alive automatons—but it was obvious that I wouldn't be able to fight off anything magical with a standard No. 2.
The responsibility for Will's safety was not something I was ready to deal with. I wanted Christian back.
I rolled off my bed and lifted the paint tube. It vibrated in my shaky fingers.
“Help me.”
I closed my eyes tightly together. Christian's voice. I clasped the sound to my heart.
“Help me.”
I sneaked a peek at Will, who was sleeping soundly, his back gently lifting. I wondered at the depth of his sudden sleep. Wondered if perhaps I had magically influenced his snooze in my sketched world.
All for the better, at the moment. I couldn't take this anymore. I would make something work.
I picked through the mountain of papers covering my desk and finally decided on a simple one—a detailed sketch of a butterfly. It reminded me of the one I had drawn earlier in the day, battering at the edges of the paper. It reminded me of Mr. Verisetti calling me that very thing. That thought made me more determined. I threw the clothes that had been hanging over the top of my small standing easel to the floor. My whole room was a sty. Had been for six weeks now—in contrast to my mother's suddenly pristine world. But as long as I kept the clutter within the boundaries of my room, my parents wouldn't say a word.
I clipped the paper up and, after another quick check on Will, squeezed a bit of the shiny ultramarine onto my fingertips. I rubbed them together—marveling at the strange glittering of the charged hue. So like the eyes of the boy who had saved me. I ejected a dollop into a small cup attached to the side of the easel. I chose a short flat brush from my scattered collection, and dipped it. The first small sweep on the paper produced an echoed feeling of heat inside of me. I stopped and examined the paint. It glittered. Waited. That was absurd, but I felt the streak of pai
nt was waiting for something.
I dipped my brush and spread another streak. Everything lit inside of me.
It was almost hard to breathe. Painting the butterfly was quick. The paint was alive, pulling together to darken the lines, making a strange sort of electric pop art piece. I rubbed my finger lightly along the surface. My fingertip brushed something soft, and the edge of a wingtip bristled up onto the page.
I stared at it for a long moment. At the three dimensional protrusion coming out of my piece—a protrusion not created by glue or paint buildup. I stroked my finger a little more carefully around the edges—an archaeologist carefully brushing sand and soot away from my find. With every touch, more was revealed. When I had the edge of a wing half-exposed, it started to flutter.
I jerked back. But the fluttering became a heavy beat.
Working with the blue insect, I pried and willed more of it to break free, and it worked hard, determined to do so.
A final, giant flap fully disengaged the butterfly from the paper, popping it out. It landed awkwardly in my hand. I slowly rotated my hand watching the feathery edges move, feeling the gentle beat of its wings. I set the butterfly carefully on my table and stared in wonder. It had worked.
The butterfly straightened, as if strengthening its frame, then beat its wings fully, lifting into the air. It flew around unsteadily at first, then with greater strength. It landed on my windowsill, which was still open to the night. Its wings flattened, then folded gently as it seemed to consider the night. Then it launched itself, fluttering and disappearing over the edge and into the dark.
Life. Created. Alive.
I lurched forward. With my clean hand, I pushed the papers on top of my desk aside. Some fell to the floor and others shifted to bury everything in their path. I paused only when I came to a canvas near the bottom. I tugged the half-finished image of my brother free.
I had started it in pencil. The perfectionist part of me said that I needed to finish it in pencil. But the need in me said, Paint. Now.
Blue was an odd choice for a portrait of my brother. Yet, my fingers squeezed more from the tube and the first brush of paint was intoxicating.
I paused to look at the tube, lying there so innocently. Mr. Verisetti had used me to create this. How? And why?
Don’t you want to see what is in the box?
I blinked at the thought and gripped the brush. My breath hitched. My knuckles turned white. The paint glistened.
I looked at the picture, at the features that with each glowing brushstroke seemed to come more alive. Really alive. And the electric knot inside me grew.
I made a tentative swipe. Then another. I felt the pleasure in the paint. Easily framing and forming the other side of my twin's face in broad strokes. Every swipe increased my feeling of purpose. Determination and desire filled my motions. Every time a line connected with another, the intersection...glowed for a moment, then transformed into whatever color I imagined it should be. I could almost see the skin of his hand.
I reached out to touch it, and my fingers dipped into the canvas, into a pocket of space that shouldn’t exist, and touched the edges of something soft. Cool skin. I couldn’t breathe—I could feel him. I could feel skin I hadn’t touched in six weeks. My fingers automatically tried to wrap around, but the paint was drying and the softness was turning brittle, repelling my fingers. My hand came free of the canvas and the spell broke, shattering what was in my hand, spilling what now felt like the ashes of paint chips to the floor.
I stared at my hand covered in beautiful, unnatural blue. The digits curled in. I had felt Christian.
I touched the canvas again, but it was solid. No hole or magic vortex in sight. But I had felt him. I had.
I had.
The edges of my vision tinged gold, and I plunged my brush into the paint cup and forced blue onto the canvas again, the edges of the brush splattering before I outlined him once more. The canvas glowed, and I thrust my hand in, the untainted white of the sheet rippling around my wrist like a vat of splotched milk. Skin. I gripped and frantically pulled, trying to wrench my brother from the canvas, but only paint drops and chips spilled free.
Again.
Everything else grayed out around the brightened space of the easel. Dip, brush, thrust, nothing. Dip, brush, thrust, clasp a strong wrist, nothing. Dip, brush, thrust, skin, nothing. Over and over, drops fell from my hand, the remnants drying and crumbling on the floor, resting amongst the other drips and chips and sobs.
Dip…dip, dip, dip. I picked up the paint cup. Splatters only. I picked up the mangled, flattened tube.
I looked at the splatters on the wall next to me. Like a giant blue beast had been slaughtered against it. How many times had I reached into the canvas and yanked my hand out? I just needed one more time. I was certain. I wrapped my fingers around the tube.
“Please, please, please.” I whispered, squeezing the dead tube. “I need just a little more.” I didn't know who I was asking, begging. “I know I can do it.”
“Ren!”
I whirled around to see Will banging on his side of the sketch with one hand, a horrified look on his face as he fastened on the armor I had created for him earlier—complete with pinstripes. I could suddenly feel the paint coated on my cheeks. Dripping from my skin. Some truly feral warrior in a jungle of canvas, cubist lines, pointed colors, and deco blocks.
“I can do it,” I told him, beseeching. “I just need more paint like this. Where can I get more paint like this?” I had the paintbrush gripped in my fist, shaking like a junkie demanding her next fix.
“Ren—”
The building electricity within me exploded with a hiss. “Where can I get more paint?”
His gaze went past me, widening. I followed it...to the drawings on my walls. The dragons, the vines, the parties and battles. The cubist lines and deco blocks. The birds and beasts and abstract things. Stick figures and realistic portraits.
And now magic paint in a warrior's hue was on one of those walls. And I was vibrating with energy and intent. To make things live. A Renaissance woman started screaming as a gryphon dive-bombed from the sky. A stylized female Don Quixote dressed in knightly silver rushed in with her gleaming helmet and sword and stepped in front of the other, fending away the giant beast as the woman in the flowing gown gripped her desperately from behind.
Oh no.
I dropped the paintbrush and grabbed the charcoal nub and lunged to help Knight and Renaissance. But near them, the impressionistic lily pads were winding up a bridge and over a couple standing there. They curved around their necks. I slashed my nub through one of the lily pad vines, and it fell to the floor. Others replaced it.
I slashed again and again, and yet similar events were happening all around me. Geometric blocks smashing, modern art squeezing, and old masters piercing. I could never get to everything in time. The savagery escalated, the carnage multiplied, and I could only watch in horror. I needed an eraser, but I had created mostly with paint and ink and I didn't know how to hit undo.
The festive party scenes and whimsical things I had drawn were being consumed by the destructive elements I had also created—sharp mirrored edges, harsh lines, unforgiving borders slashing through their softer counterparts—the balance left unchecked with too few knights and protectors and far too many victims and predators.
I used the nubs, then the charcoal remnants on my fingers, and then I had no more charcoal. I had no more paint.
I sank to the ground, sob unable to release, as everything around me died, dripping and seeping together into a morass of sickly brown at the base of my walls. I clutched Will's sketch, but forced myself to view the last moments of the others, to watch the last one standing on top of the brownish murk that was trying to suck her in—the female Don Quixote in her silver, knightly armor. She had made it to the end, surrounded by the fallen compatriots she had tried to help and the predators she had been forced to kill, covered in paint and pen splatter. And then she fell to her k
nees and landed face-down in the mud, once-fluffy hair spilling from the back of her helmet in tangled, wet strands. Then she too was absorbed into the endless brown landscape. All lay shattered and still on my walls. The ecosystem collapsed.
Will was quiet. He reached out a hand to me, then let it fall back to his side.
Then his eyes drifted toward my fingers touching the page. The paint splatters on the backs of my fingers had moisturized, then joined together, running down to my pads, unnaturally spreading into the sketch, through my drawings around Will, soaking into his environment. The jar containing the paint dot rattled, the dot jumping around, wanting to join the spread. The circles on the drapes started to rotate— slowly and ominously.
And I realized I had no charcoal left.
Will's right fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his sword, his left around the knife. He looked at me and gave me a tight smile. “Go to the coffeehouse downtown and talk to the women working there. Don't tell them you are feral. Just say you need some help. Then go directly—”
The bells on the drapes gave a cacophonous clang, as razor sharp roots came piercing through each swirling circle portal.
Chapter Six: Deadly Assailants
“No!” I yelled at the paper. I heard something crash down the hall.
The roots flew directly toward Will, spiked and deadly. I was about to watch him die too. Gold light lit everything around me. I let out every sobbing emotion I had and thrust a hand into the sketch.
“No!” Christian's yell echoed mine.
My hand and wrist disappeared into the paper and funneled down, smaller than Will's in the sketch, and twice as ineffectual. Putting my minnow-like fingers into a fish bowl filled with predators. A root flayed the skin from one knuckle, then batted my hand to the side. My whole arm jerked as my hand was thrown into the sketch wall opposite Will.
Will was battling and doing a great job of it. The sword fit him perfectly—exactly as I had envisioned it—and he obviously knew how to use one. But there were too many opponents, just like on my walls—and these opponents possessed some of my magic, whereas Will possessed none here—I could feel the reflection of the opponents' magic in my sketched fingers, the echo of my own electricity—along with what felt like tinted gold. Raphael Verisetti.
