The Fourth Channel (Kari Hunter Series Book 1)

by Jen Kirchner

  His brows narrowed, forming a sharp, confused V. “You think Ruairí’s in New York City?”

  “No, but my career is. And you’re coming with me. We’ll look for Veronica and Ruairí tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going to New York City. I want to stop Ruairí.”

  Fight! Fight!

  If you need my assistance, I’m available for stabbing.

  I closed the knife box to at least muffle the knives.

  “There’s nothing we can do until my dad—I mean, Diaco Rendon—finds more information on the Styx. If you want to be a part of this operation and go after Ruairí, you’re going to New York City. So get in the shower. I’ll bring everything down so you can pick something to wear. And hurry, because everyone’s going to be here soon. Any questions?”

  “Yeah.” He pointed to the massive wall of metal drawers inside the panic room. “What’s in there?”

  “My knives and stuff,” I said irritably, “so don’t even think of going in there to snoop or the knives will take control of your mind. I know you don’t want that.” I pointed behind him into the hall. “Bathroom’s on the left.”

  He glared at me for a moment, then turned and stormed down the hall, muttering under his breath.

  I slid a DVD into the player and opened the knives’ lid.

  Are you sure you don’t want to stab that guy?

  “Hold that thought, Longy. I might actually take you up on it.”

  Awesome!

  While Luucas was getting ready, I took Stubby and my symbols notebook up to the kitchen. I stood in the hall, at the foot of the debris, angrily flipping through the notebook for a power that could clean the mess. I had forgotten how many powers I had researched so far; nearly twenty minutes went by before I finally found a suitable one. The notes I had written about the power made me remember it immediately: two years ago, it disintegrated the table in my laboratory. It would be perfect for the desolation formerly known as my kitchen. Plus, it was a blood power, not a death power, so all I needed was to poke my finger with Stubby.

  In the notebook’s margin, I had written the power’s coordinates. I set Stubby and the notebook on the floor and gestured. Black script flickered before me, inky hashes and dots that crackled the air with energy. Each hand signal I made produced a symbol that reflected The Floor’s simplistic numeral system. I continued my summoning until the string of coordinates was complete and hovered in the air before me.

  I gestured again, releasing the string of coordinates. A loud clang echoed off the walls and rattled the kitchen debris. The coordinates blurred, spinning as they searched for the location on The Floor.

  A half minute later, another clang rang out and the black script solidified into a tangle of wild vines. This was a rune needed to make a spell. It was so long the beginning and end disappeared through the walls.

  I pointed my fingers at the spell script and drew a circle, cutting out the supernatural plane. Then I beckoned with my fingers and separated the layers of spiritual filament. The rune floated toward me, but now it looked like it was drawn upon a layer of blank film. Two more layers of film floated behind it. The second layer was blank, and the third contained my magical fingerprint.

  I waved the first layer away, sending it backward. It floated through the other two layers and hovered in the kitchen. There was nothing I could do with that layer; the only information it ever contained was the power from which the spell would draw its energy and function. I’ve tried inserting multiple powers into a spell, but it never works. The powers cancel each other out and are erased from the layer. Same with the third layer that contained my fingerprint; that layer only ever reflected the person who made the spell and the person who cast it.

  The second layer was what I referred to as the Exception Panel. It was where I spent most of my time when building a spell. This layer is where the parameters of the spell go. If the spell has a duration or only affects inanimate objects or only objects within a set area, then it’s defined in this layer. The Exception Panel is one of the biggest differences between necromancy and other channels. Necromancer powers are part of the necromancer and are more intuitive to cast. Our parameters change with every cast, at our whim. All other magic requires exact spells with fixed parameters. For this spell, I pulled the symbols from each wall of the kitchen, as well as the floor and ceiling. This way, the spell would only burn up what was inside the room and not my entire house.

  I picked up Stubby.

  Yes! Yes!

  I stuck the very tip of the blade into my thumb, making the tiniest incision. A bead of blood appeared.

  What a letdown.

  I set Stubby on top of the notebook and squeezed my thumb, pushing more blood to the surface. I smeared it onto the Exception Panel at the end of the string.

  The blood turned black and the layers snapped together. The familiar clanging of an accepted spell rang out, and the spell string disappeared. A thin line of fire swept around the edge of the room and crept inward, eating everything in its path. When the fire met in the middle, the spell ended and the room was clean. Well, not clean. Bare. Even my flooring was gone. Large black splotches surrounded each electrical outlet. I breathed a heavy sigh, thinking how expensive it was going to be to replace everything. Then I picked up Stubby and my notebook and returned them to the basement.

  As I was locking up the lab, I heard the front door slam shut. I ran upstairs and met Brad in the family room. He was dressed comfortably for the plane ride. A pair of black sunglasses hung from the neck of his t-shirt.

  “I want to give Luucas another checkup. Is he feeling okay?” Without skipping a beat, he added, “And what’s going on with your kitchen?”

  “There was an accident,” I said. “Don’t ask.”

  He smirked and nodded, probably assuming I had destroyed it while recording new powers from The Floor. I’ve destroyed many things doing that. He turned toward the open bookcase. “Luucas?” he called.

  I heard the bathroom door open, and Luucas stepped into view at the bottom of the stairs. He looked radically different in a pair of new blue jeans, soft leather shoes, and a charcoal t-shirt with graffiti on the front. I almost didn’t recognize him.

  “You must be Brad,” he said, and walked up the stairs. I closed the bookcase behind him.

  They shook hands, and Brad proceeded to ask how he was feeling and if there were any pains. I had to admit, Brad had a professional bedside manner. He would have made a great surgeon. After the questioning, Brad proceeded to cast a short series of spells. When that was over, Luucas was given a clean bill of health.

  We finished just in time. Pasha’s voice called down the hall, and I heard her heels tapping rhythmically on the floor, heading our way.

  “We’re in here,” I called back.

  She stepped into view by the elevator doors. She looked right, in the direction of the kitchen, then left, where we were standing. Her eyes widened and she turned back toward the kitchen.

  “Um, Kari,” she said, “didn’t you have a kitchen a few hours ago?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but I’m remodeling.”

  She turned back toward us. “That’s expensive.”

  “The demolition was free.”

  Luucas coughed, masking a laugh. Brad just smiled.

  Pasha joined us in the family room and extended a hand toward Luucas. As he took it and gently squeezed, her cheeks flushed slightly and her mouth fell open. “Oh, you’re… I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Her eyes narrowed and flickered at me briefly. “Someone didn’t tell me you were, ah…”

  “Yes, I’m immortal,” Luucas said.

  She snatched Brad’s sunglasses from his neck and handed them to Luucas.

  “Hey!” Brad said, protesting.

  Pasha ignored him and pressed the sunglasses into Luucas’s hands. “I would have gotten you a few pairs had I known. Please take these. You’ll need them. It’s still very bright out.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”
>
  “Take them,” Brad said. “I have other pairs.”

  Luucas slid them over his eyes. “Thank you.”

  Pasha pointed in the direction of the front door. “Now, if you three are ready, Ryan and Nicolas are outside and the van is already in the driveway.”

  Brad shot me a confused expression, but I ignored it. I couldn’t explain how Mikelis disintegrated my protection spells if he didn’t know about Mikelis. I grabbed my suitcase and followed everyone outside.

  The drive to the private airport took forty-five minutes. Cody’s white luxury jet stood out from the other small, private charters and the shanty that served as the control tower. The small crew of Cody’s plane was standing on the ground, ready to receive us. They took our bags, ushered us up the stairs, and we were taxiing the runway before we were even buckled into the heated leather seats. Ryan was so impressed he decided I may have to thank Cody by showing him my boobs.

  Two hours later, we touched down on another airstrip. The ground crew buzzed around, giving us a superficial sense of importance. We thanked the crew and loaded into a new van, which sped off as soon as the doors had closed. The transition didn't even give us enough time to look around.

  We wove through a towering menace of steel and glass and deafening noise. I was never that impressed with the closely-quartered glamour of New York City, probably because I had lived in sleepy Rochester too long to appreciate the appeal.

  After another hour of traffic and a retelling of the incident with Cody, we descended into a dark underground garage, sucking the cacophony of the city right out of the car. Luucas looked happy for the shade and removed his sunglasses.

  The van came to a screeching jolt of a stop in front of a service elevator. There was no one waiting for our arrival. Other than a cluster of parked cars, we were utterly alone.

  “All out,” the driver called.

  We unloaded our bags by the elevator, wondering what to do next. As the last bag came out, the elevator dinged. The door opened and a short man in an over-starched white shirt and a red vest stepped out, pulling a large metal cart with him. The plastic badges in his hand matched the one he wore around his neck. His voice was high-pitched and nasally.

  “Vis Viva?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Pasha said.

  He smiled. “Hello and welcome! My name is Stuart, and I'll be assisting you while you're here.”

  He passed out backstage passes with efficiency and beckoned us into the elevator. We dragged our luggage inside and he pressed the button for the twenty-fourth floor.

  Eagerly, Stuart faced us, clasped his hands together, and proceeded with the official tour. “Dana DaCosta is the premiere female nighttime show host, averaging two point four million viewers nightly. You must be thrilled to perform on her show!”

  He paused and waited for our obedient head nods, then continued, prattling on about the history of the show and the network. The entire building belonged to the network, with three floors dedicated to housing the small army of people, props, and stages needed to run this one show. We were rightfully impressed. He walked us to a small room where we were to remain until rehearsal.

  The room was small, with white walls, two couches, and a long, folding table. A small buffet of thin, limp hot dogs, buns, and various condiments lay spread out on the table, along with generic-brand chips and potato salad of questionable freshness. Our star power didn’t even warrant two-star cuisine. As we grabbed plates and sat down for a quick dinner, Luucas excused himself to the bathroom.

  I managed two bites before Stuart returned to call us for a sound check, hair, and makeup. I grabbed my purse and we followed him to the stage. The next hour was a whirlwind, and I was given only five minutes to get dressed in a tiny bathroom. Pasha stuffed me into a pair of tight, black pants, high-heeled boots, and a flowing, red top with a neckline that plunged to dangerous places. My hair had been curled to perfection and sprayed into place, and the makeup turned me into a person I barely recognized.

  “You look great,” Pasha said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You avoided chocolate and it paid off.”

  Finally, something was going my way.

  Pasha and I returned to our dressing room. The guys had already dressed and eaten, but Luucas hadn’t yet returned from his bathroom run an hour ago. Death Radar still showed him in the building, not very far away, so I wasn’t too worried. I grabbed the hot dog on my plate, brought it up to my mouth, and heard my phone beep.

  I fished it out of my purse. The screen said Mom had called twice in the last twenty minutes, but the voice messages she left were blank; she had hung up right after it started recording. I excused myself, stepped outside, and ducked into the first empty corridor I found. I called her back but only reached her voicemail.

  “You have reached Isadora Rendon. I am unable to take your call. Please leave a message.”

  After the short tone, I said, “Hi Mom, sorry I missed you. We're in New York City getting ready to perform. I hope you're feeling better. Everyone’s okay. We went to the store like you said. We’re on in a few minutes, but please call me back if you need anything or just want to talk.”

  I stepped back into the hall and saw Luucas at the far end walking toward me. Stuart was right behind, gesturing as he talked, and taking two steps for each one of Luucas’s. As they got closer, I caught the tail end of the conversation: Luucas had found someone sleeping on the job, and Stuart was embarrassed, apologizing for their behavior. Luucas didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked too relaxed to even be listening. I realized he hadn’t gone to the bathroom at all—he had hunted for a little dinner. By his demeanor, it was clear he had found plenty.

  When they reached me, Stuart abruptly changed subjects and said it was time to go.

  “I thought we had another ten minutes,” Pasha said.

  “There's been a change of schedule. You need to go now.” He knocked on our dressing room door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

  “Can I finish my delicious hot dog?” I asked.

  “No time.” He poked his head inside the dressing room. “Schedule change. You’re needed at the stage immediately.”

  Everyone in the room stood up and headed for the door, blocking me from getting back inside.

  “Wait,” I said, “I need to put my phone away.”

  “No time,” Stuart repeated.

  Pasha grabbed my phone and tossed it to Luucas, who caught it in one hand. “Throw that in Kari’s purse, okay?”

  An alarm went off in my mind. I suddenly felt set up. Why had Mom called me just then? Was she trying to get the family busted? I couldn’t watch Luucas from the stage—what if he called the Immortal State’s Principal Conservator and reported us?

  There was no time to think; Stuart was shouting about time sensitivity and Pasha was pulling me down the hall away from Luucas. Just before I stepped into the elevator, I looked back over my shoulder. Luucas stood in the open doorway of the dressing room, watching us, while holding my phone loosely in his hand.

  FOURTEEN

  Backstage felt like a pressure cooker. Each guest had claimed their own corner to review notes or prep for their act. In our corner, the guys paced nervously. There was nothing more we could do to prepare. This was it.

  Five minutes later, the auditorium doors closed and the lights dimmed. No one was allowed to make a sound. We held our breath until the first commercial break when a stagehand holding a clipboard ordered us out. We snuck out in the dark, and I took my place between Brad and Ryan. Behind us, Nicolas situated himself at his drum kit. The commercial ended and hostess Dana DaCosta graced us with an enthusiastic introduction.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our musical guest, a personal favorite of mine, Grammy nominees Vis Viva!”

  Lights flooded our stage. Nicolas tapped out the first measure by rapping his drumsticks together, and we kicked into high gear with our current single: a hard, melodic number with both Ryan and Brad backi
ng me on vocals. As we sailed through the second verse, I knew we had nailed it. Technically, it was a solid performance, but most importantly, we hit a groove and it all felt right.

  We finished strong, with drums and guitars nailing the final chord in perfect synchronization. I almost burst into a spontaneous touchdown dance. Cameras panned back and the “Applause” sign lit up. We received a standing ovation and three girls screaming their undying love for Brad. Wearing the glow of a job well done, we returned to the waiting area and gave each other a round of hugs and high fives.

  We waited between commercial breaks until we were called back for our second number—a ballad from the new album that added piano to the instrumentation. No backing vocals. Just me. When the lights came up, we slipped right in with a soulful feel and glided in perfect synchronization all the way to the fade. I couldn’t have been happier. The crowd seemed equally pleased with this second musical offering and the screams intensified. Someone threw their underwear at Brad. We floated backstage on cloud nine.

  By that time, the show was nearly over, and most of the backstage area was empty. All we had left was the interview, and it was only supposed to last six minutes. It was early, but I felt confident about declaring tonight a success. How could anything go wrong in only six minutes?

  Just before the commercial break ended, a couple of stagehands ran out to the center stage. They removed a large couch and replaced it with a single chair next to the hostess’s desk and a love seat on the far side. Only three blue ceramic mugs were set out on the small, adjoining table. Why seating for only three? Our band was a quartet. We tried getting the attention of a stagehand, but no one would tell us what was happening.

  As soon as the stage was rearranged, the commercials ended and we were being announced for our interview. Before Nicolas stepped out, a stagehand with a headset and clipboard rushed over and held up her hands.

  “Only Brad and Kari!” she whispered. “Change in schedule! I’m sorry!”

  We all started shaking our heads and shooting back furious whispers, refusing to be split up. As far as I was concerned, we were a group and should be interviewed together. Two more stagehands came over to assist and started motioning for Brad and I to go out. One of them grabbed me and pulled me toward the stage. I wasn’t strong enough to resist and found myself tossed out in front of the cameras and audience. Brad tried coming to my rescue, but the stagehands moved in behind him, forming a wall and cutting us off. There was nothing we could do but conduct the interview without Ryan and Nicolas.