The Awakening of Ren Crown (13 page)

“Old Magic.” Will rubbed the back of his head in a gesture Christian had used frequently when imparting bad news. “Which as I was saying—”

Voices rose in the other room.

“
Send her to Miss Angelie's School for Girls, then!”

“
You misunderstood. That is where we send the new thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds who qualify for mage training. Your daughter is seventeen.”

Will shook his head at me. “Boarding school,” he whispered.

I lurched forward and pushed through the door. “No way. I'm going to Will's school.”

And Alexander's school. And the place straight out of Mr. Verisetti's painted images of resurrection.

Everyone stopped talking.

Mom's shoulders were stiff. “We will decide where you are going, Ren.”

I looked at the prim and proper Georgian manor rotating in their hologram field.

“No.”

I remembered being thirteen. It had sucked. I had permanently and safely embedded myself in Christian's shadow.

Screw safe. I needed access to those libraries. And the resurrection experts Will kept teasing me with. I wasn't staying here—in the skeleton of my previous life—but I also wasn't going to some boarding school where I'd be tucked in at nine each night.

“No,
you
won't decide,” I said more forcefully. “I am going to Will's school. You can support me or you can oppose me. I will still go. You didn't believe me when I told you what happened to Christian. You are going to believe me now.”

The side table started shaking. Framed pictures started clattering against the walls. A piece of crinkled paper on the coffee table lit gold and a black stain grew from the middle. My mother's favorite wooden statue of a girl laughing, her head flung back without care, flew over and was sucked inside the paper. I despised that statue. Drawn on the paper, a little platform stood above the statue as it splintered on the sketch floor.

Shocked, I froze. That was my gopher sketch.

I looked at Phillip Marsgrove, who was trying to appear relaxed even as his hand hovered near his pocket. Glasses and pinstripes were similar to Will's, but his gray eyes were arctic. When he had first arrived and assessed me there had been horror and revulsion in his gaze. The same expression was there now.

“Your parents did not have the ability to believe you,” he said stiffly. “That is a consequence of the suppression magic. They will believe you now. And now that the spell is broken, they will remember all you had been trying to tell them.”

My parents' expressions were stricken.

Phillip Marsgrove and Raphael Verisetti had the same intent focus to their gaze. But whereas Mr. Verisetti looked upon me as if I were an adored pet, Phillip Marsgrove looked upon me as if I were the neighbor's rabid dog that he was in charge of putting down.

Something outside of my control flowed over me and emotions twisted within me. On the table near Marsgrove and the gopher sketch, the stems of the flower arrangement curled and twisted together, strangling—a reflection of my feeling.

“How did you get that?” I demanded, pointing at the sketch.

“I thought you said magic couldn't be performed here?” Mom demanded. It looked as if she was trying to put distance between us, pushing against the cushions at the back of the couch. “What happened to my
son
?”

“Magic can't be performed by a normal mage unless he has an exorbitantly expensive stash of separated magic at his disposal,” Marsgrove said in a clipped voice. “Powerful magic occurs when a mage's powers first awaken, and I assume your son's powers were awakening when he was killed. Some try to...harness that power. Normal mages cannot use their own magic here. And only specialized law enforcement mages are permitted to use devices in the First Layer.”

All eyes turned to me. The burn on my wrist said that I no longer had a stash of magic to draw upon. Well, so what. Maybe there was some embedded in my skin or something.

Marsgrove's gaze said otherwise. Ok. Fine. I had known for a long time that I wasn't normal. I had just thought I was a little more
human
abnormal.

Mom's eyes focused on me. I could see fear there. It pinched my stomach. A thick candle flew toward a picture of Christian and me on the wall and cracked the glass. The candle thumped to the ground.

Silence stretched, then the picture fell as well, shattering on the floor. I darted forward and snatched the gopher sketch, holding it against my chest.

“I'm going,” I said softly.

“Ok.” Mom's voice was strangled.

Dad's was only slightly stronger. “Yes.”

I felt a tendril of something wrap around me and extend toward them.

“Great,” Marsgrove said, as if we had all agreed. There was noticeable relief in his voice, as if we were now bound by the decision, and he had just been waiting for such an outcome to occur. Marsgrove popped a black wrist guard out of his tablet, and handed it to me. The wide wrist cuff felt like some form of flexible metal and looked identical to the ones worn by Mr. Verisetti, Marsgrove, and Will.

He popped what looked like a magazine out of his tablet next and handed it to Mom. A thick volume was handed to Dad. “Here’s a brochure on the Academy, and a primer discourse on magic, physics, and the layer system. You have a week with the primer text, then it will be loaned elsewhere. Only the two of you will be able to read the brochure and the primer.”

He collapsed the hologram and began packing up. “You will remember the words of the text, and can discuss the information freely between yourselves since you were spelled together, but you will be unable to speak them to a non-magic user.”

Mom's eyes narrowed. “You spelled us?” The magazine-sized brochure dangled from her fingertips, as if she held a poisonous snake in her hands.

“No. Magical objects have their own properties that can bespell non-magic users. Same with magical places. As I said previously, mages cannot work magic in this Layer on non-magic users. Unless we have a magical device that allows it,”—he pointed to the thick primer—“and then, even that will register on the grid, which is constantly monitored.”

So how had Mr. Verisetti frozen the students in my class? Why had no magical law enforcement people responded to that? Mr. Verisetti had made it a point to say that
I
had caused him to be noticed when I'd pushed against the dust.

“How many devices are there?” Dad asked.

“Few.” Marsgrove stood. “Read the discourse. Miss Crown, Mr. Tasky, show me the other sketch.”

I startled, having forgotten that Will was behind me. I didn't meet his eyes as I led them to my room, leaving my stunned and broken parents behind. I would fix things. They would be happy. We all loved Christian best. I had to stay on target.

Marsgrove took a few moments to look around. His gaze rested on the muddy brown color on the lower section of my walls—where all the paint had run down to collect together and dry.

The sketch was resting on top of the mess on my floor, where it had fallen when I'd pulled Will out. Marsgrove reached for it. Six inches from touching it, he snatched his hand back, as if he had been burned.

He stared at it for long moments, his back to us, then he turned to me. His revulsion was carefully hidden, but I could still feel it. “First things first. Draw an X over that,” he said, pointing to the gopher sketch in my hands. “Concentrate very hard on the fact that you don't want it used for anything ever again.”

“Did you dig this out of the trash? How did you find it?”

“Draw an X,” he said, with forced patience.

“I used all of the magic charcoal.”

His nostrils flared, and his lips tightened together. “Use your finger and
concentrate
. Destruction should be easier than creation for you at this point.”

“What do you mean?” I asked sharply.

“Do it.” He looked scary all of a sudden. I could believe that this man might waste someone in a fight.

The X worked like a water mark, disappearing into the page. I felt the sketch settle, lifeless under my intent.

He took the sheet from me and ripped it into eight pieces before putting the pieces in his pocket. “It is important that you do not utilize such skills again until you can be taught how to use them properly.”

I was going to pull Christian out of a painting as soon as I found more magic paint.

His lips tightened as he observed my expression. He looked at Will. “Did you see magic supplies anywhere else in this Layer?”

Will stared at Marsgrove for long moments. “No, no supplies. What—?”

Marsgrove held out a tablet that looked a lot like Will's, only Marsgrove's was black. “You will not speak of this incident with anyone else.”

“I will not speak of this incident with anyone else without Ren's permission.”

Marsgrove looked displeased at the additions, but nodded sharply. “You are dismissed.”

Will hesitated.

“Mr. Tasky, may I remind you of your tenuous position? And that you deliberately misrepresented your research permit allowances?” Marsgrove's voice was silky and dark, impatience underlying his tone.

Will bit his lip.

Marsgrove's eyes narrowed. “Oh, for magic's sake, I'm not going to kill her after you leave. I'm going to enroll her.”

Will looked down at his tablet, then perked up as if the device had told him that Marsgrove's words were true. He gave me a wave. “Ok! See you at school, Ren. And thanks for the awesome adventure.” He sounded like he one hundred percent meant it too.

Sudden anxiety overtook me. “I...ok, but don't forget to eat.”

Will's cheeks turned scarlet, but he grumbled something and disappeared down the hall, walking peculiarly.

It dawned on me that I hadn't seen the sword I had drawn for him in some time. It had popped out of the sketch with him, but I hadn't seen it since he'd disappeared into the bathroom after my parents had calmed down. He had changed into some of my brother's clothes, which had been slightly too big for him, and he must have tied the sword inside a pant leg, and worn the armor beneath the sweatshirt, since that too was missing. No wonder he had remained standing in the kitchen.

Why was he hiding it?

“What is going on?” I asked Marsgrove, all pretenses gone along with Will.

“You are a mage of interest,” he said, eyes cold. “Until I have further information, that is all you need to know. Where did you get your supplies?”

He gingerly picked up the empty, flat tube of paint, expression displeased as he examined it, then carefully put it in a plastic bag in his pocket.

“Will already told you. A man named Raphael Verisetti—my art teacher for the last four weeks—gave them to me.”

“Did you make any of the supplies?”

I didn't answer for a moment, something in me arguing against answering in the affirmative. “Possibly the paint.”

He showed no surprise at the answer, as if he had expected it. “What did you give him?” His stare hardened.

“What do you mean?” The unease that had overtaken me when I first realized I couldn't remember the landscape I had drawn in Will's sketch struck me again. I could remember most everything I read, which had always made classes easy, but my memory for images was
unbreakable
. Not remembering what had happened with my drawing was distinctly unsettling.

“You painted something at your school. With Raphael involved, and seeing the magic you have already created, I can guess what you are.” His gaze was dissecting.

“What do you mean, what I am? Some feral beast thing?”

He gave a short laugh, devoid of humor. “What did you create and give to him?”

“I saw you at the school, right before those other men arrived,” I said, ignoring his question, unnerved by his words and his reference to Mr. Verisetti by first name. “What were you doing?”

His eyes narrowed. “Mr. Tasky said residual paint on your fingers activated the drawing.”

“I asked what you were doing at my school.”

“As it turned out, I was cleaning up after you.” He tossed the butterfly sketch onto the table. It was the one I had created in the classroom after mixing the paint. The butterfly was still fluttering around, but its wings were badly damaged, like it had been beating itself against the sides of the paper repeatedly. “Do you know what the Department would have done with that, if one of them had managed to carry it back to the Second Layer? They would have used every resource searching for you, instead of Ra—” He cleared his throat. “Verisetti.”

“Why?”

“I answered your first question, now answer mine. What did you paint for him?”

“I don't know,” I whispered. “I don't remember painting.”

Marsgrove looked frustrated and irritated. “What did Verisetti last have in his hands?”

“A box.” A box that had been an exact replica to the one in my initial drawing, but had not been in the latter version. I pulled my lips between my teeth.

Marsgrove was watching me carefully. “And a portal pad?”

I shrugged, trying to ease my anxiety. “I guess?”

He took a step toward me, menacing. “This is not a joke.”

I tightened my fingers and realized I had somehow grabbed the art room scissors and had them thrust out in front of me. Energy pulsed under my skin and muddy brown paint started dripping down my walls.

He crossed his arms and took a step back. “Draw an X over the insect.”

I looked at the butterfly pitifully beating its half-broken wings. “I don't want to kill it.”

“It's not alive.”

I opened my mouth to say that the butterfly that had escaped a few hours ago had been very alive. Even the paper gophers had been animated for a short time. But I shut down the sentences before they could emerge from my mouth.

Holding the scissors firmly in my other hand, I put my finger against the sketch and stroked the edges of the butterfly's wings, soothing its battered appendages. Energy leaped into my finger and out through the tip. The butterfly stopped its sluggishly frantic motions and its wings folded gently under my stroking finger.

The energy continued to flow, and the beat of its wings gentled until stopping altogether, stilling the image on the page. The energy settled, resting in the tip of my finger, sorrowful.