The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen (35 page)

Before you could even walk, our father was killed in an accident. When a Tinshire dies in an ‘accident’, it means the Protectors have found you. You, me and our mother changed our names and moved from Pinder to Evinlock. Five years later, our mother was killed in a car accident. We had no other family. It was just you and me. I had to protect you. So I did what we Tinshires have done since the time of Isabella’s Deceit—I sent you away. For you, it was the west coast of America to live with people I trusted. They were not really our aunt and uncle. As I said, you and I are the last of the Tinshires.

I had to do everything in my power to shield you from the Protectors. I had to cut off all ties. I could not call you or write. I hope you understand now that I had no other choice. Sending you away, and being away from you for all this time, has caused me endless pain. It is like a wound that never heals. But I do not regret my decision.

I moved to London. One day, a man approached me and asked if I was ‘Eve Tinshire’. I thought he was a Protector. Then I realized who it was. He told me his name was Dietrich Ashfield. The introduction was not necessary. Everyone in England knows of him. He asked me to come to his castle. Curious, I agreed.

He introduced me to his father, Hermann. Then they asked me to ‘show them something’. I knew what they meant, but I feigned ignorance. I asked a question of my own. I asked them what they wanted of me. Then they answered. I had showed them ‘something’ without them even knowing. Our mother called it PERSUASION. The Source touches Sourcerors in different ways.

Hermann and Dietrich had come into the possession of a manuscript (no time to explain how) called Constantine’s Manifesto which contains The Warning and a history of the Order. Hermann and Dietrich believed the Suffering Times were upon us and the Drestian’s arrival imminent. They were searching for Sourcerors to rebuild the Order. I was the first, and unfortunately, the last—they found no others. From the very day of my arrival, they insisted I stay in the castle where they could protect me. If I had just left, then none of this would have happened.

That is where I live to this day—happily for many years. I will not lie to you: At first, I felt like a princess in her castle. And having sent you to live with strangers in a strange country, I felt terrible that I was so happy. It was so unfair. There were so many times I thought about asking Dietrich to bring you home. But something inside me—a voice I always imagined was our mother’s—warned me against it.

Dietrich and I fell in love. It seems strange, that I, a virtual vagabond, would fall in love with the heir to the Ashfield Empire. But it happened. And it was real. Then I became pregnant. Dietrich insisted we marry. He wanted me to know his love was true. Proof was not necessary, but I accepted and became Eve Ashfield.

My pregnancy was utter torment. Dietrich, however, was thrilled. He wanted to be a father. But I knew he and Hermann hoped my child would be another Sourceror—one who might perhaps re-establish the Order. I could not blame them. They thought they had their secrets. But the one keeping secrets was me: They did not know about the Cycle. They did not know about you. And they did not know you were destined to conceive a child in twenty-one years. And if I were to have a son, you would have a son. A son born without a father—the Belus.

What would that mean for my son? I kept asking myself. If your son was destined to be the Belus, then wouldn’t my son be the Drestian? But how could the Drestian come from me? From my body? I knew I had choices. I could have ended the pregnancy. But I chose not to. I had the baby. A boy. We named him Lofton.

That seems so long ago—so many years have passed. Now you are 24—you will be pregnant in just 3 years. And in all this time, I have never told the Ashfields about you or the Cycle—and I never will.

From the very beginning it was obvious that Lofton was a powerful Sourceror. At six months, he exploded a jar of pureed peas to express his distaste. As a toddler, whenever he was near mechanical equipment it would turn on and off on its own. At five, he could manipulate his toys to chase his grandfather around the castle. I watched for the signs he might be the Drestian. But there were none—at first. In the years that followed, Lofton was at times good-natured and innocent, the furthest thing from what I imagined the Drestian would be. And then there were times when I questioned what he was. Out in the courtyard one day, he created fire and unleashed it on a horse, turning the poor animal into ash in seconds.

Lofton has done other cruel things over the years, like with the horse, but I know it gives him no pleasure. But I also know he has no aversion to doing it. He will do anything as long as it serves a purpose.

You should always be wary of the Protectors even though Dietrich and Hermann believe they have disbanded. With the Sourcerors either dead or unaware of what they are, the Protectors’ mission has been accomplished. Even so, I worried about Lofton like any mother would. At 13, Lofton began sneaking out of the castle at night. To do what, I cannot say. I admonished him and reminded him of the dangers, but he just smiled and said, “Really, mother. You honestly believe that I have anything to fear from someone who thinks a knife and a garrote are weapons?”

It was about that time I suspected he was the Drestian. He sensed it and began concealing things from me—his abilities. I tried to persuade him to talk to me, but he knew what I was doing. His mind was closed to me. It always has been to an extent. He may be my son, but

“Felix! Felix! Felix!”

The voice sounded like it was calling to him from the other side of the ocean.

“Felix! Come on now. Felix! Wake up. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Just stay where you are. Here, have some soda. The caffeine will help. Come on now, snap out of it.”

Felix found himself staring down at a mottled piece of paper with writing on it. The page was full. The ink was good. A ballpoint. No blots. The last word on it, he noticed, was “but.” He realized he was sitting in a chair. There was a table in front of him. He blinked. Everything went dark and then flashed white. The piece of paper, he knew, connected to other pieces of paper and all together, they formed a book—a journal. His aunt’s journal. A silver can with looping black and red script intruded on the space between his face and the journal. A Diet Coke can. The can looked small because the hand holding it was big, the fingers long and thick. Felix turned his head to the right and saw a face. He focused on the nose. It looked like a boxer’s nose.

“Here,” the man said, looking at him anxiously. “Just have a drink. I know this is hard.”

Felix made no effort to take the can. He didn’t move. The man’s name came to him: Bill. The room was out of focus, distorted. His peripheral vision was graying around the edges. The world was bending in strange ways. He felt nauseous. His stomach heaved. He dropped his head between his knees and threw up on the floor. He didn’t care. He wiped his mouth. It came away smelling like a protein bar.

“Don’t worry about that,” Bill said, standing up straight and sliding back a few feet. “That’s fine. Just have a drink.” He held the can out to Felix. “You’ll feel better.”

Felix wanted to leave. He just wasn’t sure if his legs were working; he couldn’t feel them. His stomach churned. His head throbbed. The room was tilting and spinning. It was making him sick. He threw up again. Less volume this time, but the smell was even worse.

Bill watched him as the seconds (minutes? hours?) ticked by.

Felix strained the limits of his voice to choke out two words: “What happened?”

“You read the journal.” Bill pointed at it. “Remember? The journal.”

Felix stared at it numbly. “I don’t understand.” His voice sounded weak, distant.

Bill set the can down on the table, reaching over Felix’s shoulder to stay clear of the mess on the floor. “Of course you don’t. Your aunt’s journal is cursed. That’s how I think of it anyway. Did you feel like you were experiencing someone else’s emotions? Well—that’s because you were. Your dead aunt’s. When you read the journal you feel what your Aunt Eve was feeling. You’re drawn into her emotions. You can’t escape from them. That’s why it’s so extraordinarily difficult to stop reading once you’ve started. I’ve also learned the hard way there are physical consequences: disorientation, nausea, headaches and confusion. Basically, what you’re…”

The words passed over him like a gust of wind. Some time passed. How much, Felix would never know.

“…allows you to tap into the feelings of another person who was writing in another time. The experience creates a kind of disconnect, or sensory overload that confuses your central nervous system. We’re obviously not designed to feel someone else’s emotions. That’s just my theory, anyway. There’s no way to validate it because a book like this has never existed.”

He couldn’t focus on what Bill was saying. He didn’t even try. He just needed his legs to work. More time passed.

“…and despite what everyone thinks about him, he’s actually the Drestain. You know who Lofton Ashfield is, don’t you?”

Felix didn’t answer.

“Felix?”

Felix’s brain felt like a garbage disposal had chewed it up. Words and phrases were spinning around like a cyclone in his head:
Drestian, Belus, Elissa, Drestianites, Protectors, Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius…

“Felix?”

No response.

“You’re the Belus,” Bill told him. “Do you understand? You’re not just a Sourceror.
You
are the Belus.”

“I don’t believe you.” Felix couldn’t listen to this any more. He stood abruptly and his prickly half-numb legs buckled for a moment. “This thing’s a crock of shit. It’s stupid.” He swiped at the journal, lost his balance and missed by at least a foot.

“It’ll take you some time to recover,” Bill said reassuringly. “You were reading for a long time. Just stick around. You’ll feel better. We’ll talk. Okay?”

“Whatever.” The walls were closing in around him, suffocating him. He felt like he was going to burst out of his skin if he didn’t get out of the room. He took a few tentative steps toward the door. His body seemed thick, wooden.

“Felix, don’t leave.” Bill sounded anxious now. “You’re in no condition to be on your own. You could hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care,” he said, half aware that he was badly slurring the words. “I have a game tomorrow. A football game. Maybe we’ll be in the Rain Cup. Win. We’ve gotta win.”

“I’ll go with you.” Bill started toward him.

“Get away from me!” Felix shouted, waving him off. He flung the door open and limped heavily out of the office.

Bill didn’t try to stop him.

The stairs of the Stamford Building seemed to be swimming in cooking grease. Felix slipped and stumbled, but somehow stuck the dismount, planting his feet on the smooth flat stones of a path. He went left and started walking without considering where it might lead him. It was dark. Darker than most nights. Heavy clouds. No moonlight. Only the pathlights glowing softly overhead lit the way to wherever the path was taking him. The ground felt like it was moving in waves beneath his feet. He fell to his knees and got back up, drifting along until he couldn’t stay upright any longer, catching himself against a statue of a Greek god wearing a fig leaf over his private parts. He started up again, his inner ear spinning like a roulette wheel, reminding him of the time he went deep sea fishing with his dad and was slammed so badly with motion sickness he actually contemplated going overboard to get off the boat.

His stomach heaved. He doubled over and retched on the ground. Not much came out. He’d already left his meager dinner on the floor in Bill’s office. He placed his hand against a thicket of shrubs to hold himself up, but the stiff branches gave way and he fell through, getting raked in the process. He retched again.

“Yuck!” a girl’s voice cried out up ahead.

The sound dug into Felix’s brain. He wiped his mouth and pushed his way through the hedge, then ducked under a small spreading maple to get to a path that led him away from the offended girl. His head was pounding, splintering with pain. It hurt in a way that a couple of Advil couldn’t fix.

So I’m the Belus
, Felix thought sluggishly, half-conscious that he was laughing out loud. Two kids strolling toward him (smiling, hand-in-hand) gave him a weird look and a wide berth.
The Belus?
What did that even mean? It wasn’t even a real word.
Adopted?
How could he be adopted? He couldn’t be—right? Bill was full of shit. What was wrong with that guy? His parents were dead. Wasn’t that bad enough? Why would he tell him that he was adopted? That his birth mother was dead? That his mom and dad weren’t even his real parents? Why would he lie?

I wasn’t adopted.

But what if everything Bill said was true? What about the journal? How do you explain that? He’d read it and experienced whatever the hell that was—
his aunt’s emotions.
Bill couldn’t make that up. That wasn’t a party trick. He’d
felt
that. But there had to be an explanation. Drugs? It must have been drugs. Maybe something on the paper?
Isn’t that how you get high on LSD?
Maybe he was tripping? That must be it. That asshole had drugged him.

But what if he wasn’t high? Then what? But the journal was crazy; nothing in it could possibly be true.
Could it?
There’s no such thing as the Source or Sourcerors. No such thing as the Drestian, or the Belus, or cursed journals. And people aren’t immaculately conceived. Bullshit! It was all bullshit!
The Cycle?
What the hell’s that? Just the drugs talking—that’s all. He caught his foot on something and nearly fell. The earth kept bucking and shifting under his feet. He couldn’t feel his legs. They’d gone numb again. His vision was going in and out of focus, graying and clouding over, then, in intermittent bursts, lighting up like it was midday. He tripped again and fell against a low branch that clipped the very top of his ear. It stung.