by Anne Zoelle
Twenty minutes later, I entered the main art building, which looked as if it had been half-constructed with tongue depressors, twine, and crystals—held up entirely by dream magic. The other half was constructed using some sort of melted stone and bulged pods. Winding pathways suspended by magic, and bridges that spiraled as they stretched from one side of the building to the other made up the atrium.
I wondered if Gaudí had been magical. Seemed likely.
At the far end of the atrium, the art store brimmed with light and energy. My feet moved faster. I could feel the pull from here. Lovely magic that spoke of creation and promise. My hand curled around the serpent handle and pulled. I stepped forward.
Wiewiewiewie!
I jumped back. Everyone in the store turned in my direction. The door shut, and the alarm stopped ringing. It took a few moments for people to turn back to scanning shelves. Someone walked from behind me, opened the door, and walked through. Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped through.
Wiewiewiewie!
I turned and strode quickly away, shoulders hunched, cursing Marsgrove with each step.
My steps slowed as I noticed an older art student painting the winding suspension bridges above us. He was squeezing paint from a near empty tube. I hurried over.
“Pardon me, can I buy that tube from you?” I pointed at the one that only had a few drops left.
He blinked again, then screwed the cap back on and held it out silently.
“Thank you,” I said fervently, relieved beyond belief when no alarm sounded. I held out a munit.
“Seriously, kid, keep it.” He was looking at me with pity. I was ok with that at the moment.
“Thank you again.” I stuffed the munit back in my pocket. “Does this do anything...specific?” I was going out on a flyer here.
“It's light-induced paint. Brightens and twinkles.” He pointed up. “Great for interiors.”
“Did you make it?”
“No.”
“You don't make your own supplies?”
He shrugged, but thankfully didn't find the question odd. “Don't need to. Store grade supplies work well for me. I'm not working toward a mastery.”
I nodded, putting it on my mental research list. “Ok, thanks.”
“Sure, kid.”
I hurried from the building, just in case I tripped off another alarm. I walked down a level, just to make sure, then sat on a patch of grass. There was no view here, the grassy area was surrounded by buildings tightly clumped together, but I didn't need to draw anything special. I quickly sketched a pond and a starry sky, perfect for twinkling and reflections.
My fingers shook as I uncapped the tube. I touched my finger to the lip, and the barest bit of milky paint transferred to my finger pad. I touched it to one of the stars, willing it to spread through the sky and reflect onto the pond.
Nothing happened. I lifted my finger and a dot of milky white remained stagnant on the page. There was a vague twinkle in the drop, but no spreading. No magical connection of lines.
What—?
“Florence Crown?”
The tube tumbled from my hand and plopped on the grass. A boy wearing a uniform stood in front of me. No. “Yes?”
“Level One Offense. Illegal substance use.”
I shut my eyes.
Two hours later, I finished cleaning the entrance hall to the biology building near the grassy valley.
I flexed my back. The magical grime stripper I had been “issued” chased dirt around. At first it had seemed fantastic, like watching frames of the Sorcerer's Apprentice in real life. But after two dozen squirts, I had quickly comprehended that fantastic was relative, since I had to corral and contain the dirt that my squirts were freeing. And since I had no clue how to do magic, I had chased dirt for two hours, while mages had walked around me snickering and doing little effortless whirls of magic to sidestep the mess. At the twentieth snicker, my cuff had nearly vibrated off my wrist and I'd abruptly blown the entire swirl of filth through a vent in the floor.
Grumpy and pissed didn't quite do justice to the violence of my current thoughts. I decided to do my running punishment to work off some of the rage, but even thirty minutes later, dodging nuts thrown by some kind of weird tree monkeys on the third circle, a little growl still escaped.
Painting was the only way I knew how to bring anything to life. I had felt Christian. I sure as hell had watched that butterfly fly away. With art, I could focus, concentrate, intend, and do. It fulfilled those stinking cornerstones of magic, and everything.
And it had been taken away from me.
I could sketch, sure. But for me, so far, paint was the life-creating medium in this world.
I was stuck with zero knowledge of anything else magical, working from the ground floor up. I narrowed my eyes as I marched into the dorm, looking like a sweaty chimney sweep. Well, I would be learning magic extra quickly now, wouldn't I?
I managed to undo the dorm room lock in quick and precise fashion. Olivia didn't look at me as I walked past, but I saw her nose wrinkle.
A long, hot shower—while only touching the two knobs that I could identify as hot and cold—made me feel a lot better. I sent a quick note to my parents in the journal, noting details about the magnificent landscape and architecture in the Second Layer Depot, how a mage enters the Depot and school, the interesting things mages could do—like making magical fields for specific purposes—and how I was looking forward to telling them all about it in person. I kept it brief, and tried to leave out anything alarming. On the other hand, if needed later, they had some basic information to put together.
I stuck in a little note at the end asking Mom to find out how I could finish high school, either doing assignments that I could turn in or getting a GED. My parents would approve. It would give Mom something to focus on. And I might need it, if I ever found my way out of here.
I quickly accessed the books I had on death and death magic, looking for alternative plans. My time was ticking already. Dealing with Magical Loss and Grief and Grieving were quickly put aside as they contained information for coping, not action. Pain of the Black Arts, Why the Soul Separates, and Guide to Resurrection were more promising.
The latter was by far the most explicit, as it provided actual instructions on how to raise someone within a ten minute time frame post death—although most of the instructions required other knowledge, like “locate magic nucleus” and “create a spinning enchantment.”
All of the authors agreed that customary techniques didn't work after fifteen minutes of death. They hotly debated the moral repercussions of the time frame between ten to fifteen minutes.
No one debated the two to three month time frame.
“Ren.”
“Shh, it's ok,” I whispered quietly.
I read through the books quickly, putting the important pieces into the mental map I had created to remember everything. The mental black paint bucket labeled “Consequences for Christian” now contained the following information based on the books—bringing souls back hurt them, once a soul separated it was at peace, and souls that were brought back didn't always come back right.
In the mental forest green bucket labeled “Consequences for Ren,” I had a significant main item—black magic demanded a physical price on a scale starting at fatigue for the least of the rituals, moving to blood and body parts, then ending with soul death for the truly abhorrent. In addition, there was a magic sacrifice commensurate with the ritual. This meant that successive rituals performed immediately were magically impossible and needed to be separated by a minimum of three days to ensure personal safety. I chewed my plastic cap, then noted in the margin, “Plan for one day between rituals.”
The contents of the red bucket labeled “Time Line” that I had started to populate last night had grown larger.
“Ren...don't do it.”
“Ren, help me!”
Christian's splitting personality was a
concern I didn't need. I shakily tucked my hair behind my ear and drew two stars next to “plan for one day between rituals.” I would do what needed to be done, because my brother was not at peace.
In fact, maybe the books were wrong about other warnings as well. I made a note to locate the story details on the failed four month resurrection.
But even if everything the books said was correct, it didn't matter. My brother needed me.
“Ren.”
“Shhh,” I whispered. “Yes.”
There were a hundred different things I needed to learn—laws, paint making, getting around magic restrictions, ferals, layer dimensions, prisons, art magic...
“Maybe even a guide to getting along with one's roommate, if they have one.”
My hand flew to my mouth. I wasn't sure what would emerge, if the sound trapped in my throat escaped. That was the Christian I knew.
I took a deep breath. One thing at a time. One thing at a time.
“Free me.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Of course I will.”
“I will have my freedom!”
There was a handy ritual for determining a soul's state of peace. A minor type of séance that only required intense focus through repeated words and motions. The text said to fill up on energy first, whatever that meant. Food was going to have to suffice, unless I needed to suck someone's essence out Dark Crystal style. I was hoping for the food option.
It seemed like it might be a bad idea to get more Magi Mart food, plus I needed to save what money I had. I chewed the top of my plastic pencil top. The administration packet said the cafeteria was free for all students.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I argued the merits of getting a part-time job and subsisting on Magi Mart food versus going to the cafeteria.
I looked over at my roommate's stiff spine. “Would you like to go to the cafeteria?”
“No.” Olivia's reply was abrupt and cold.
I gave myself a quick pep talk, verified the location on my map, and headed off on my own. Soon, I wouldn't be alone.
Chapter Twelve: The Cafeteria
I liked walking, but climbing up the mountain was a lot more taxing than going down, and after huffing and puffing for thirty minutes, I gathered my nerve and located an arch on the Academy-sanctioned map that propelled me up three circles, then another that popped me the remaining ones to the cafeteria.
The nice feature about arches was that when I looked at them, the interior of the arch showed the view through to where it exited. The area around the arch was normal, and walking around one was just like walking around any other large stone structure, but the interior clearly showed a different landscape. It was a lot easier to trust arches, since I could make sure I wasn't entering a swamp or another equally unpleasant hazard.
Top Circle was as populated as it had been the previous day, so I hurried through one of the two dozen doors leading inside the Corinthian-columned cafeteria building, like a mouse scurrying through a barn full of cats. I prepared for a wailing siren of wiewiewie, but no alarms pegged me as an intruder.
Ten feet in, I found my feet glued to the floor and my lips parted—the symptoms of another shock, as I'd experienced so many times since I'd entered this world four days past. Someone bumped me from behind. I murmured an apology as my feet took me forward to the balcony's edge.
Since the building stretched almost the entire length of Top Circle on the northern side of the mountain, I had expected it to be enormous. What was unexpected was that the northern wall of the building—the one I was facing—was made entirely of glass, and that the dining hall was multi-tiered.
Dropping down were four long tiers with hundreds of tables on each level. From my view up top, looking down and across the tiers, they were all seemingly full tables, too. The massive glass wall consisted of a single pane—obviously architecturally magicked—which displayed a jaw-dropping view of the north face of the mountain and miles of land stretching out from the base.
Enormous chandeliers hung at appropriate distances above each tier, making the ones hanging above the bottom tier look like tangled glittering gold hooks at the end of deep sea fishing lines. Staircases and ramps striped the tiers vertically and diagonally, in an organized Chutes-and-Ladders fashion.
The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the air, and pleasant crowd chatter filled my ears, but it wasn't overly loud—some sort of sound dampener or spell like in the library?
I swallowed the taste of fear, and dragged my gaze back to the top tier. It was filled with dozens of food lines and hundreds of machines.
I numbly got in line behind a group of mages, hoping we were in line for actual food. As I shuffled forward, I gazed out across the hall. It was overwhelming. A part time job and Magi Mart might be a better idea.
No. After Christian's death, I had sat by myself in the cafeteria every day. I could do that now. I wasn't afraid to sit by myself, though it would feel...obvious. Like people were staring and wondering.
I forced my eyes away again and saw that I was inching closer to a line of food that was being served by magic—food whizzing onto people's plates—and less by staff in white uniforms. I did a double-take on the two thin people with ten tiny eyes who were serving at the end of my line.
Ok. I'd deal with that when I got there.
The line east of me had a periwinkle border. My line was bordered in chocolate brown.
I watched the students ahead of me push the buttons in front of the buffet-styled containers. One push and a half-fist sized portion of food was magically delivered to a plate. Two pushes doubled it. I said a little prayer of thanks that I didn't have to actively perform magic, and chose a little of everything—most of it identifiable. Chicken, veggies, fruit. The first ten-eyed person smiled widely and deca-blinked at me, before offering some potatoes. I gamely accepted, praying I wouldn't do anything weird, and smiled back as the potatoes whizzed onto my plate. The other ten-eyed person offered something that sounded like “caniopidas.” I politely declined and added the word to the “look-up” list steadily growing in my head. I also made a note to explore other races in the magical world.
Maybe I could find an explanation for the creature once tattooed on my wrist. I scratched my cuff against my hip, hands gripping the tray in continued panic.
There was no scanner at the end of the line, so I walked slowly to the railing, looking down at my doom.
There were obviously formed groups everywhere I looked. Magical cheerleaders in uniform? Check. Various sports teams? Check. Alexander Dare sitting at a large circular table full of other athletic and deadly-looking types? Check. So much for me never seeing him again.
Irrelevant. I sure as paint wasn't going to sit at that table.
I forced my gaze away, again, and continued my observation, my palms starting to feel slippery on my tray. Two adjoining tables below me were filled with charts laden with incomprehensible symbols, and the diners were yelling at each other and pointing to the graphs. Scientists? Check.
Another table was full of students playing handheld devices with a projection coordinated in the center of the table. Gamers, check. And, wow, I had to try that. There were tables with people arguing about politics and rights and resolve. Activists, check. I looked for an art table, hoping, but didn't immediately spot one. The tables stretched on and on. At a school of fifteen plus thousand, half of the student population seemed to be here. I made a mental note never to come at this time.
There were no empty tables anywhere, just empty chairs scattered here or there. The tables near the end of the ramp to my left seemed to be populated with more eclectic mixes. I nervously gripped my tray. I would cautiously approach one of those.
“You can do it.”
Easy for you to say, I thought back at him.
Christian would have approached any of the tables and fit right in. Christian was the master connector, an extrovert. People loved him. I was a number two, an introvert.
I had always been t
he number two to Christian's number one. I was the one who observed people and examined peripheral events while he charmed and conversed. I had always provided the extra pieces of information he might otherwise have missed—the details and shading, decoding the symbolically painted sky, and whether it showed a portent of doom or the rolling calm following the storm.
My palms were now actively sweating. I needed him back. And yet, I needed to get him back. Heller's Catch-22 looped in my brain.
Oh, for the love of...Buck up, I yelled at myself internally.
I heard Christian laugh.
Before my courage deserted me, I made a beeline for the ramp on my left and let it take me down to the first tier and one of the tables with empty chairs.
I had made friends with Will, right?
However, in my mad dash and pressing anxiety, I somehow chose an all-female table which included a few girls decidedly of the popular variety.
“Hi,” I said brightly, cursing fate and panic. Three of the girls looked at me blankly, two frowned, and one gave me a piercing gaze. She opened a container of juice, and I noticed her hand had three rings on it.
Oh, crap. I had no idea what that meant, but when he had been showing me the hologram, Will had said something about avoiding three-ringed mages. I had been in an Alexander Dare induced haze at the time. Not good.
“New?” She asked in a lilting voice. The other girls gained more interested expressions, as if scenting blood in the water.
Not good at all. I managed a small laugh as a number of responses ran through my head.
Just transferred!
No, just thought I might meet some new people!
New to this table.
But any further conversation would reveal me for how very new I was, so I stood there like an idiot, leaning over the empty chair, butt poking back, slippery fingers gripping my tray, and wished I had stayed in my room after all.
Then the sketch of Christian, smoking and broken upon my floor, sapped of its life-giving paint, came to mind. I needed to survive in this world.
My magic reacted, swirling suddenly from under my cuff—and all I could think was, please, oh, please don't blow the Homecoming Queen from existence. My eyes rose almost automatically and pulled to the right and amazingly I saw a familiar boy working his way along a second tier ramp. Will was walking, light almost shining around him, and I felt like my suddenly broken lifeline had been given an extension.
