The Awakening of Ren Crown (57 page)

I didn't really know exactly what he was asking of me, nor what the answer to that question was. “Because you are not so bad.”

He examined the paper. “No, I'm worse, darling. And this...this is a gorgeous piece of work.”

I ignored the latter part of his statement. “You are egocentric and narcissistic and treat people in a shoddy manner.” I had seen girls run crying from his room on four separate occasions. I had also seen the same women trying to get back in his good graces days later. Made me want to shake them a bit. He'd never stop his games when he was so rewarded. “But you are a good business partner, and a stimulating intellectual, and I don't wish to lose you.”

He gave a short laugh, then smiled again, leaned toward me, and grabbed my broken wrist. “I'll use you too.”

If I had been less numb, I would have been writhing on the floor in pain. “If I let you, maybe.” I leaned toward him as his magic touched my wrist. “But I'm rather stubborn.”

His magic wound through me, somehow fixing the wrist I had been sure was a total loss. I could see bruising steadily spreading across his strong forearm, leeching the black magic from me. It was the reason I never went to Neph before I worked off the height of the consequences. Saying something to Constantine about the bruising, though, would make him sneer. Very likely he was doing this in order to keep us even in his mind. For someone who used people ruthlessly in the social sphere, he hated business debts.

We were so close that I could see the speckles of gold in his brown eyes as he looked steadily into mine. For all that I might think of him as my friend—to Mr. Verisetti's friends versus allies lament—Constantine didn't have friends.

One side of his mouth lifted immediately. I had long wondered if he had an ability to sift through surface thoughts.

I turned and began walking away, his hand slipping from mine. “Thanks for the wrist.” I put the bottled narwhal-tadpole down on the side table. “Offer the officers this guy, if you want, since I'm sure they will believe you like deadly pets. But don't let them kill it, and don't get caught.”

His bark of true laughter echoed behind me as I opened the door. It made me smile.

“You're a weird bird, Crown,” he called.

I gave a wave of acknowledgment over my shoulder without turning back, gripped my working fingers gratefully, and descended the stairs. Constantine Leandred was on his own now. But then, I thought he was probably used to that state of affairs.

~*~

I got through service without further trouble, and the next morning tried the second red experiment...

...which left me with only one lung. Freakishly unpleasant and horrifying. I had needed to use a drop of special paint on my own chest to grow a new one, along with using the focusing magic I had been practicing while watching Neph regrow my body parts. I had been very careful with the tube Mr. Verisetti had given me, but I had used enough drops now that it was getting low. I really hadn't wanted to waste a precious drop on me.

I couldn't stop rubbing my chest at lunch at the memory of the lung-less sensation, so I doodled a sweeper sitting on top of a mage, whose arms and legs were raised in the air, torso squashed flat.

“I told Ren she should sell her pencils,” Mike said. “And now she is making a killing.”

Neph nodded. “It was a good idea.”

“But, anyone can just make one.” I made the sweeper rise, then sit again, the mage's breath exhaling in an “oomph.” I could eke out sound, if I put massive effort into it.

Neph laughed softly. “It takes time and skill to learn a craft. Most people don't have time to learn even a one thousandth of the possibilities open to them. Specializing grows a civilization. Even the First Layer folks buy what they need instead of making everything from scratch. You invest your time in what interests you, knowing you can buy anything else from others.”

Mike pointed his fork. “Interests are fine and all, but more importantly, do what makes you
money
. Those pencils are better than the generic ones at the bookstore. People will buy or trade for them as long as you keep selling them.”

“There have to be art students who make far superior ones,” I argued.

“Maybe.” Mike shrugged. “But if so, they aren't selling or trading them on the open market here. And sometimes a mage just gets a freaky skill at something. I can make it hail in a two inch space at any velocity I desire. Can I make it snow without also causing a deluge of rain? Noooo. Stupid snow. Stupid rain.” He forked a piece of steak. “But I can outdo any fifth year with precision hail. Then again, I
am
unbelievably awesome.”

~*~

Five days later I had performed seven more rituals—forcing double days twice—and had even had a moment of panic and used my precious lavender paint on the golem, trying to force it alive. The golem had brightened, its flesh and hair looking absolutely true, but with flesh-tone eyes completely empty of soul. I had received nothing else other than looking like I had gotten in a fight with a sweeper, and lost. My bruises were nursing bruises and I had a lovely black eye. I was also missing a toe that was showing signs of not growing back.

Things were...not going well. And my lack of sleep was making it worse.

But I was still eating in the cafeteria. I was still working with my friends. Helping them with anything I could. I always volunteered to do research, to debate, to sketch a diagram, to go on missions, or just to work quietly with someone in the library. Sometimes I worked with Will on the fourth floor, where the black-and-white book always watched from far above. And slipping off to the Midlands was actually very easy, because everyone assumed I was with someone else.

It didn't give me much time to sleep, though.

Tucked into the northwest corner of the main library—with a wall at my back courtesy of a front facing stack rack behind, I rubbed my chest. I had lost a rib earlier in an utterly failed biblical magic experiment.

I had known from the start that I was never getting that rib back, but the rending of it had left me breathless on the floor.

And the ritual hadn't worked.

But Guard Rock had toddled over, chipped off a piece of his rock, and stuck it against my chest. Astonishingly, my rib had grown back.

I had immediately used a precious drop of paint to make a Guard Friend for him. When I left, they had been sitting guard together, rock against rock side, arms and legs pressed against each other. Even utterly exhausted, and shaky, the sight made me happy.

I was going to have to figure out why the rib experiment hadn't worked—nothing had happened, besides
me
losing a rib—but I'd figure that out later. I wanted to think of something happy instead. Like the pair of loyal Guard Rocks.

Beings that protected and saved.

I withdrew a sheet of paper with one hand and sketched out a square jaw. No. Too square and overly puggish. I softened the lines just a hair. Not toward anything remotely approaching soft, not for Alexander Dare. But definitely not bulldoggy.

He was strong and assured, arrogant even, but not pugnacious.

I propped my chin on my hand and chewed on the end of my pencil cap, staring out at the spectacular view over and down the mountainside.

Students began filling in the seats to the right of me. I propped my cheek on my right hand easily enough, my elbow holding the paper, as I sketched with my left—sketching out the night Christian had died and the way I remembered it. I let my hair fall in a wavy curtain to the right, not wanting anyone to see what I was doing. I was decently adept at the maneuver, long practice with my brother letting me test out necessary angles.

I had sketched this scene before. Animated it. Tried to see if something twigged my memory and showed something I had forgotten. What I might have done.

But today, with bone-weary exhaustion riding me, instead of one figure saving the other, staff in hand, my doodles started...
doodling
. Or was that noodling? I slapped my left hand down automatically and dragged the sketch into the space of my arms, heat blooming and spreading down my neck and up from my palms.

“Excuse me?” a deep, lovely voice said.

I jumped, startled, and lifted my fingers slightly to peer down at the page. But my Dare doodle was...doodling...too enthusiastically to have said anything like that. There were other noises being emitted instead. Frankly, I wasn't sure of my ability to recover from the sight and sounds.

“What the devil are you looking at?” the voice asked me.

I jerked the paper to me, crumpling it under my palm a bit. The voice had not come from the paper, it had come from my right. From a person leaning over me. No. No. I
couldn't
have.

I hunched over the paper—and I could hear the blasted figures contorting around the bends under my fingers, swearing, then finding their places again. My mind separated between the image of the contortionist positioning that must be happening on the page and the real problem next to me.

Head still tilted down, I peered to my right, through a curled break in my curtain of hair. Alexander Dare, square jaw and all—though not
too
square—stood in all his glory at my side. My moist palm grew damper and I peered down to see the two figures on my page glistening and frolicking together in the sudden downpour. The water making their skin gleam...and...and they began...and...oh...dear...god...

The speaking voice grew more annoyed. “Ren Crown?”

“Yes.” I cleared my own throat, trying to liberate the squeak. I did my level best to crumple the paper against my chest while still keeping it on the table. I couldn't risk taking my fingers away. I turned to him, hunched. “Can I help you?”

“You can hurry up and come with me. We have five minutes left to do this.”

My mouth dropped, but he was striding away, so I grabbed everything and stuffed the sketch in my bag, hurrying after him. I couldn't let him get away. But...five minutes to do what?

Too much light suddenly flooded my vision, but I couldn't get my eyes to narrow. I probably looked like a gobsmacked owl fluttering behind him.

Oh my God, I had created and produced a full-fledged Alexander Dare out of my sketch. One who wanted to...doodle. I cast eyes around the halls. Surely, someone would notice at any moment what I had done.

I checked him out from behind. I had done a really nice job actually. My magic had filled in everything.

“For magic's sake, hurry up,” he growled over his shoulder.

I glared at his back. Next time I was going to concentrate on creating one who was slightly friendlier. My eyes went to the edges of the sketch crumpled in my bag. That one sure was friendly. How had he not translated?

Wait. My exhausted, slow thoughts froze as I looked at the crumpled page. That Dare was still in the sketch.

I took a few quick steps, reached out without thought, and pinched the Dare in front of me on the back of a muscled arm.

He whirled and I looked at my death for a moment. Then I wondered what showed on my face, because the thundercloud expression on his flattened. “What?”

“Are you real?”

“
What
?”

I looked at the edges of his body, trying to relax my mind and magic and see if any color existed there. Agitated as I was—along with a keen mixture of mortification and horror—it took an agonizing two seconds to see, but faint aura lines of ultramarine blue and warm mocha mixed and swirled into my vision.

Well, that made it official. I was screwed. None of my projects had been able to produce magic on their own.

“Is there something wrong with you?” he demanded.

“Yes,” I said frankly and wiped a hand over my brow. This sucked. I tried to gather my scattered wits. Luckily for my body I was already perspiring and flustered, so it didn't have to do too much work to keep those responses going. “Um, where are we going? What is going on?”

He looked down at a black device in his hand that I had taken little notice of in my flustered state, and his expression was anything but happy. “There is a Level Five and all hands are requested. You weren't answering your tablet, and I was sent after you, since I was passing this way.” His voice indicated his thoughts on such a task.

Crap. My tablet was in one of the silencing pockets Will and I had created together last week, which protected me from Justice Toad's karmic rage when I was being delinquent. I fished the tablet out of the pocket, where it was shrilly ringing.

Dare's eyes narrowed and stayed focused on the pocket for a long second, before returning to me.

“Oops,” I said weakly.

He turned and began striding again. I hurried to keep up.

We arrived at the training station, and Dare immediately walked to a boy standing at the perimeter. The boy looked barely sixteen, but there was enough of a facial similarity to indicate some sort of familial association between them. The boy was sitting upright and looking far less stoic than Dare. Combat mages were everywhere—I could even see Camille Straught looking beautiful in her uniform. They stood alongside every justice squad mage I had ever encountered.

Isaiah raised a brow at me, and I mouthed a “sorry” back. He held up his hands to the room. “Here is the situation. We have a Level Five somewhere.”

People started muttering at that. I checked my tablet, so tired I was barely able to read it. They didn't know where? But...Level Fives were prompt response. That meant someone was probably dead and without help.

I channeled a kick of adrenaline.

Isaiah held up his hand again. “Let's not get excited. As many of you have been discussing, magic on campus has been pushed out of alignment.” People started muttering louder to each other, and Isaiah held his hand higher. “Not irreparably, not yet. We can still fix it. We think there is an illegal focus somewhere on campus giving off chaos vibes. It is possible that this focus is what has been pulling things through the campus wards and killing off magic spots in others.”

Hands went up all over the room.

Isaiah pointed to one. “Yes?”

“What about the rumors that the feral students are causing it?”