Persistence Of Memory E-Book

Laurie Woodward

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Saving an art-created world changed little for Bartholomew Borax III. His germaphobe mother still makes him bathe six times a day. He can’t tell anyone about the mystical Artania. And he still must sculpt in secret. But when Bartholomew, alongside skater girl Gwen and fellow artist Alex, are yanked back to the magical world of Artania, they discover that much has changed.

Artanians are being infected with amnesia and no one can find a cure. With epic battles, surreal creatures and a growing threat, the trio race to save Artania from certain doom. But are they already too late?

A magical fantasy adventure for young and old alike, Laurie Woodward's 'Persistence Of Memory' is the fifth book in the Artania Chronicles series.

Leseprobe

Persistence Of Memory

THE ARTANIA CHRONICLES

BOOK FIVE

LAURIE WOODWARD

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Laurie Woodward

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Nicholas and Jessica

Chapter1

Rubbing the dust from his eyes, Bartholomew Borax III glanced up at the crumbling arch. The curved monument teetered and several of its carved bats took to flight. A few bricks overhead wavered and loosened. “Alex, watch out!” he cried, shoving his best friend out of the way.

Alexander Devinci bounced off a wrought iron post bordering the wide promenade to land safely on all fours a few feet away. The mass plummeted downward a split second later and crashed with a tremendous boom. Choking dust swirled, darkening the painted sky.

Bartholomew knelt at Alex’s side. The fifteen-year-old’s face was streaked with dirt and his brown curls had a coat of dust “You okay?”

Coughing, Alex gave him a thumbs-up.

The ground rumbled again, and long, jagged cracks appeared in the crushed granite pathway. They widened and dark heads emerged from the splintered soil. Yellow eyes glared from hairless brows as porcine noses sniffed the air.

Alex groaned. “No freaking way.”

Bartholomew pulled Alex to his feet and surveyed the triumphal arch. The red monument was roughly ninety feet high and half as wide. It looked Moorish and both sides were framed with pairs of brick columns capped with decorative crowns. The front frieze above the arch was carved with multiple people, who were now whimpering and cowering in fear. Above them two sculpted lions held up a large shield and crown.

“Help us!” Bartholomew cried.

The stone felines bowed noble heads and roared. They hurdled off their perch and landed with a thud. Their etched muscles rippled before turning to face the emerging army.

“It won’t be enough,” Alex said.

“I know.” Bartholomew turned in a circle. True art? True art? What can I create?

He had only been in this unfamiliar place for scant minutes so didn’t know the lay of the land. But after multiple journeys into the mystical Artania, the blond teen had learned that if he could work paint, clay, or wood, the Creation Magic would do the rest. He and his fellow Deliverer, Alex, had made amazing things these past five years. From swords to skateboards and dragons to great snakes they had wrought weapons and comrades in this long war against the Shadow Swine.

But still Sickhert’s army returned. Ever stronger. With new tricks and powers.

Like today.

An axe-wielding Shadow Swine swung at the first lion. His blade skirted the beautiful sculpture’s mane and a furry clump fell to the ground. With a snarl, the lion jumped back.

Bartholomew grabbed Alex’s arm. “We have to do something.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Alex kicked at the pile of dry leaves crunching underfoot, and they fluttered through the air.

Bartholomew glanced at the drifting leaves. Might it work? He closed his eyes and focused on the image. Scooping up a handful, he turned to Alex. “Remember Subterranea? They battled well.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that.” Bending down, Alex brushed away debris, exposing the moist soil below. He plunged his hands into the clay and formed them into a mound.

Bartholomew plopped some leaves onto Alex’s s pile. Then more and more.

The two boys molded the materials into an animal shape. Without a word, they both knew where to place their hands. They scooped, pulled, and smoothed as if their minds were one. Fingers tugged and pressed, sculpting faster and faster. A leg appeared. Then another. Paws. A larger-than-life head. Soon, they were moving at the speed of light.

One final pinch, and the sculpture shimmered. Fur sprouted all over its body. Two silvery eyes looked up at them. Bartholomew sat back on his haunches and smiled. “Glorious.”

He had but a microsecond to admire the work before the hunchbacked Swiney was upon them. His yellow eyes narrowed as he bared jagged teeth. With a long swipe of his battle-axe, the pig-nosed creature chucked a stone lion aside. He raised an arm to attack the second when the newly sculpted wolf lowered its head and butt him in the gut.

The slimy creature toppled over.

“More!” Alex scooped up a fresh handful of mud and the boys repeated their sculpting performance, this time faster than the speed of light. Within seconds half a dozen wolves were growling and snapping at the jackbooted army.

For a moment all was silence. Then, as if a great unmute button had just been pressed, a cacophonous roar filled the air. Wolves ripped into the burly Swineys. The largest leaped at a tall Shadow Swine, knocking the monster on its back.

Others hurdled toward a dog, Mudlark, with red glowing eyes, one ear completely gone and the other in jagged shreds. The black lab’s contorted face was scarred and twisted as if raking claws had hollowed out great swaths of skin. Still, it dodged two swipes before falling.

Three snarling wolves closed in on a spike-wielding Swiney. The monster swung once. Twice. Three times. The newly formed canines snapped at his heels. Then one wolf clamped down on the Shadow Swine’s trench coat. The monster stumbled.

Bartholomew had just dug up a handful of soil to form a sword when he felt the vibration. His hand began to shimmer. Shaking his head, he glanced over at Alex who appeared to be filled with sparkling glitter. He shrugged at his friend.

And Artania faded from view.

Chapter2

Teetering, Alex thrust out his arms and blinked. He was back in his garage studio, paintbrush still dipped in the palette and the half-finished canvas as wet as it’d been when he’d been sucked into Artania. No mud stained his jeans. No rocky debris dusted his hair. It was as if the past hour had been but a dream.

This had happened to him so many times you’d think he’d be used to it, but it still was pretty friggin’ weird to be painting at home one second, and in an art-created world the next.

His Australian shepherd, Rembrandt, wagged a tail once and nuzzled up against his leg. Alex bent down and rubbed the dog’s ears.

“More weirdness, boy. It’s looking bad.”

The Artanian journeys weren’t the only thing Alex had to get used to. His family had recently undergone major changes, namely the birth of his sister, Destiny, in April. A full-on surprise since his mom was in her mid-forties, had seen specialists just to get pregnant the first time, and had a heart condition that nearly killed her when Alex was eleven.

Not that everything had changed. Dad still quoted from Dr. Bock’s How to be a Perfect Parent and worked on his mathematical theorems as a university professor in Santa Barbara. Between feedings and diaper changes, Mom still experimented with recipes for her cookbook series. And Alex still skateboarded and painted.

But there was this fear looming over their little tract home. As if something terrible might happen at any minute.

And with Shadow Swine waiting to cross over and invade dreams it sure as rat farts could.

“We were losing,” Alex said to Rembrandt. “Gotta get to work.” He picked up the paintbrush and faced the canvas. Although he had set out to create an Impressionist river scene, the jolting journey compelled him to alter it.

Alex closed his eyes, recalling details from the arch and its environs. Had there been Artanians nearby? If so, what type of art were they? He recalled something in the corner of his eye right before Bartholomew had shoved him. A creature made of squares and blocks.

“Cubism. Should I?”

Rembrandt wagged his tail as if to answer yes and then sat with an expectant look in his silvery blue eyes.

“Okay, you’re the boss.”

Alex closed his eyes again, imagining some square-edged soldiers. They had to be strong, so he gave them broad shoulders and muscular arms. Then he put bayonets in their hands. They would need them when they came to life in Artania. He had just put the finishing touches on a blade when he heard his mom call from inside.

“Alex!”

Dropping the brush, Alex raced inside. His voice was quivering when he asked. “Everything okay, Mom?”

Cyndi Devinci glanced up from her seat on the couch. Alex’s little sister, Destiny, was nestled in the crook of her other arm, a few drops of milk on her pink cheek. Brushing her disheveled hair out of her face with the back of her hand, Mom tilted her chin toward the five-month-old. “Can you grab her?”

Alex nodded and scooped up his little sister.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Just tired. Didn’t sleep well. Between feedings and bad dreams, I barely got any sleep.” She buttoned her blouse and took a long sip of water from the glass on the coffee table.

Alex gulped. “Bad dreams?”

“Yeah. Strange because each started out happy. The four of us picnicking at the beach. Then all of a sudden, the sky darkened, and there was this horrible voice. Deep and gravely, threatening little Destiny.” She shuddered and kissed the top of the baby’s head. “Every time I scooped her up to escape, it got louder.”

“What else?”

“Crazy words about art. Its wrongness in the world. But I don’t want to talk about it.” She smiled at him. “Could you watch her while I take a nap? It won’t be too long. Dad should be home from the university in about an hour.”

“Sure, Mom. No problem.”

“Don’t forget to burp her.”

Alex lifted Destiny onto his shoulder and Mom slogged down the hall toward her room. He thought back to his first trip into Artania when the captain of the Shadow Swine had warned him. We invade all dreams. Even the mother of a chosen one.

Having experienced the Shadow Swine nightmares himself, Alex hated to imagine Mom dealing with them. Her recent pregnancy had put a real strain on her heart, and he lived in constant fear of a repeat of her episode a few years back.

Shortly after that heart attack, he and Bartholomew made their first trip into Artania. There they discovered that evil creatures were entering Earth to twist people’s dreams into nightmares. These Shadow Swine gained power with every person who turned away from art.

Only Alex and Bartholomew could paint, sculpt, and sketch beings strong enough to stop the dream invasions. Their Knights of Painted Light came to life as soon as humans drifted off to sleep, ready to do battle. Alex took this responsibility very seriously, never going long before painting a new canvas.

This was why Mom’s nightmare was so perplexing. He was continually painting, so why weren’t the Knights protecting her?

Patting his sister’s back gently, Alex coaxed a small burp. He started to reach for the towel on the kitchen counter. Too late. A second later, spit-up was soaking into his T-shirt. He dabbed at it and shook his head, adjusting her on his shoulder.

“Wanna play with Rembrandt?” he asked. Taking silence as a yes, Alex picked up the tennis ball from the basket of toys and called for the dog to follow them out back. Kicking a lawn chair out from the table, he sat Destiny in his lap and whistled.

Rembrandt wagged his tail, and Alex tossed the ball. The Australian shepherd chased after it, but Destiny didn’t notice. Instead, she puckered her bow mouth and stared at a fluttering leaf.

“No, watch, Destiny,” Alex said, waving the ball in front of her face.

He threw it, and this time Destiny’s eyes grew wide. Rembrandt leaped over the lawn as she let out snickering giggles. A grinning Alex repeated this several times before his baby sister’s down-covered head started lolling over.

With one last ball toss, Alex cradled Destiny in his arms and went back into the house. After a soft Eskimo kiss, he lay her in her crib, turned on the baby monitor, and tiptoed out of the room.

Planning to complete his painting, Alex pushed open the garage door. He grabbed a fresh brush from the coffee can, turned toward his easel.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

Every soldier had been altered. Black paint seeped from stomachs. Faces contorted into screams while eyes cast downward reflected large gaping wounds. All four corners of the canvas were blotched with dark smears shadowing the bright colors he’d applied earlier.

Alex sucked in a breath and looked fearfully over his shoulder.

“Shadow Swine here? What the—”

Chapter3

Bartholomew held out a hand to steady himself. He was back in his hospital white bedroom, unchanged. Even the mud under his nails was gone.

Bartholomew quietly slid back one of the wooden screens that separated his room into two sections. This half of his bedroom suite had a fireplace with brick so white you’d think it had never been used. And of course, it hadn’t in years. Not since Mother inherited the estate.

Ignoring both the cold hearth and the leather loveseat in front of it, he headed straight for his writing desk, yanked open the drawer, and felt around for the latch to his secret compartment. He started to pull out some pencils when he changed his mind. He should make something larger. But his rumbling stomach told him to snack first.

Bartholomew tiptoed down the sweeping staircase and started to turn toward the kitchen when hushed voices down the long hall made him pause. At first, he ignored them, but then he heard his name and curiosity got the better of him. Slinking along the wall, he crept toward Mother’s office.

Mr. White’s clipped British accent made Bartholomew frown. “He steals away for hours.”

Be more careful. Bartholomew shook his head. Artania needs you.

“Is he clean? Or?”

“Yes, yes. Always. But he barely focuses during his studies.”

“It is your job to make sure he does.”

“I do endeavor, Mrs. Borax. However…”

Bartholomew started to turn away. It seemed like his tutor was always complaining to Mother. And he used to care. But Bartholomew was tired of trying. From the cleaning army shooing him from one room to another, to faking focus during Mr. White’s boring lessons, to Mother’s panic attacks, it was too much for this fifteen-year-old.

Mother’s voice lowered until it was barely audible. “You haven’t shown him you-know-what?”

“Of course not. That would be folly. If he knew—”

“Which he won’t. Ever.”

“Not by my admission, ma’am.”

“Filth splashed across canvas! Why haven’t the lawyers been able to do more?”

What is she talking about? Mother hates art. Bartholomew thought. She won’t even allow it in the house.

Most of their mansion had bare walls with the exception of a few framed mirrors, a handful of family photos, and the Cleanliness is Next to Godliness poster glaring daily in the schoolroom.

I hate that stupid poster.

“Did you hear something?” Mother said.

“Dust bunnies!” Bartholomew whispered turning toward the stairs.

“Master Borax, what are you doing?” his British tutor asked before he could take a step.

He’d hopedbolting down the hall would make it look like he had just arrived, but his tutor was too quick. Keeping his back turned,Bartholomew tried to think of some reason for lurking outside Mother’s office.

Mother’s voice joined Mr. White’s. “Bartholomew?”

He pivoted slowly. “Hello, Mother.”

Hygenette Borax was seated behind a computer at her clear plexiglass desk, platinum blonde hair pulled in a tight bun. She wore a white silk blouse with matching slacks. Bartholomew’s middle-aged tutor stood next to her, filing his fingernails.

“Don’t hello mother me. Mr. White asked you a question. Now answer it.”

“I was just coming to ask you, to ask you…” He trailed off, chewing on his lower lip.

Mother thrust her pale hands onto her slim hips. “Well?”

Just ask her what you always do. Even though you know the answer. “I was wondering if I might be able to go back to school again. Alex says that Santa Barbara High is amazing. All kinds of interesting classes. Like—”

“Absolutely not! Too dangerous. Filth. Disease!”

“But…” Bartholomew began but trailed off when she glared at him with those diamond blue eyes. He hung his head, “All right, Mother.”

“Now why don’t you be a good boy and go take a bath. Mr. White and I have business to discuss.”

Bartholomew smiled sweetly as if ready to comply while thinking. Of course, I’ll take my third bath today. Not.

Just then Hygenette’s desk phone rang. Smoothing her blonde bun with a pale hand, she looked to Bartholomew’s tutor.

Pausing from filing his nails, Mr. White tucked the manicure kit in his upper righthand coat pocket and picked up the receiver. “Borax residence. Whom may I say is calling?” He glanced at Bartholomew and nodded. “Yes, I will summon him.”

A few moments later Bartholomew was in the kitchen using the wall-mounted phone. Since Mother was sure that cell phones were a petri dish for germs, the Borax household only used landlines.

“Hello?”

“Dude, you okay?” Alex asked from the other end.

“Yes, you?”

“It’s starting again.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. Another one was,” he lowered his voice, “changed.”

“No! I thought that was over.” Bartholomew shook his head.

“Can you meet Gwen and I you-know-where?”

* * *

Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder, darted around the pool house, and started to trot across the grounds. Taking a deep breath of bleach-free air, he ripped off his tie and headed for his special place.

Although Mother had replaced most of the estate’s plants with plastic ones, one corner remained as wild and glorious as when Grandfather Borax was alive. And Bartholomew would forever be grateful. Grandfather’s will required that the area near the glass conservatory remain untouched and even today, lush vines, vibrant flowers, and moss-covered fountains graced every corner.

Bartholomew had first discovered the hidden space right after his eleventh birthday when a trap door opened and dropped him into the underground room. There, a message from Grandfather Borax explained how he’d designed a concealed studio under the greenhouse with enough art supplies to last years.

Bartholomew supposed that if Grandfather had lived, he would have shown off this amazing place himself. He often imagined the two of them sculpting or painting side by side.

He closed the hatch to the hidden studio before settling into a chair across from Alex and Gwendolyn Obranovich, the only other person who had ever traveled to Artania with them. When it first happened back in seventh grade, he didn’t understand why. She wasn’t an artist. But he sure was glad. That tough redhead had saved his rear more times than he could count.

Ever since he’d shown them the secret space beneath the conservatory and how to circumvent security at the front gate, they’d often met there to catch up, make plans, and talk in private. He was pretty proud of all the art supplies there. And not just a few crayons. Oh, no! There were shelves from floor to ceiling with bags of clay, potter’s wheels, and sculpting knives. Large canvases were stacked in one corner with an assortment of paintbrushes, paints, and pencils above them. A huge gas-fired kiln stood in one corner near the trap door where they now sat.

“Mom has been having the nightmares.”

“No way,” Gwen said.

Bartholomew was perplexed. “But you’re creating. Right?”

“Some. But Mom needs help. I was painting warriors when she called me to take care of Destiny. And when I got back, the painting was all messed up.” Alex shook his head. “Like someone had snuck in while I wasn’t looking.”

There’d been a period a couple of years back when every canvas Alex painted, and every sculpture B-3 formed became a macabre horror overnight. After some experimenting, they realized that the only way to keep them from changing was to make them together. So, they created Knights of Painted Light side by side. And for months now everything returned to normal.

If you can call popping in and out of an art-created world without warning normal.

Gwen clenched her fists. “Swineys. Friggin’ a.”

“Sludge up to his old tricks,” Alex spat.

“Your mom doesn’t need that crap. She has enough to deal with.”

Alex’s face blanched. “I know.”

Gwen was a doer. If there was a problem, she jumped into it as quickly as she leaped onto her skateboard for one of those tricks she was always working on. And she liked Alex’s mom. Always had. Gwen said Mrs. Devinci was so gentle you expected fairy dust instead of words to come out of her mouth.

“So, what are we going to do?”

Bartholomew sighed. “What we always do,” he said picking up a lump of clay. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter4

Captain Sludge trudged past Swallow Hole Swamp toward the shack on its banks. This dwelling was unique in all of Subterranea. Whereas other Shadow Swine lived inside stony caves in his underground home, Crone alone dwelled among wood. The hut appeared small and dilapidated from the outside, but Captain Sludge had discovered long ago that this was an illusion.

Here untold rooms held oddly shaped cauldrons. From perfect ovals to warped and twisted metal to huge vessels of iron, each unique pot boiled a magical brew. Full of answers.

Most of Subterranea’s underground residents shied away from Crone. But not Captain Sludge. From the time he was a pupa wading through swampy waters, he’d watched her with fascination. He was constantly drawn to her power. Later, when he morphed into a nymph, he braved the swamp’s shore to seek answers from this wizened woman.

Of course, each reply came with a heavy price. The hardest one was his height. He would have been just as tall as any other Shadow Swine had she not given him the knowledge, molding his natural intelligence into genius. Or so he liked to believe.

Yes, he gave her a few inches of his height. And spiked his hair to look taller to underlings. But it was all worth it. She made him the most powerful Shadow Swine of them all. Save Lord Sickhert, of course.

He glanced back at Swallow Hole Swamp. There he’d crawled over pupae and nymph alike. Even before he’d bowed before Lord Sickhert on the banks of the River of Lies, he’d practiced dream draining on his peers.

Not that they liked it much. But he didn’t care.

“So, you have returned for more games,” Crone’s quavery voice noted from the rickety porch.

Sludge nodded at the wrinkled witch leaning against the dilapidated doorway. “Its powers have waned.”

The dwarfed woman gave him a snaggle-toothed grin and crossed her arms. “And of course, you need me to recharge it. Don’t you, Pupae?”

Sludge clenched his strong jaw. He would have slapped anyone else to the ground for such insolence. But Crone had helped him too many times for such treatment. Instead, he reached under his coat and pulled out a battle-axe, its steel blade shining in the lava light.

She raised her hairless eyebrows. “But what have you for me?

Sludge’s hand instinctively rose to the top of his head. The last thing he wanted was to give up more height.

Crone laughed. “Worry not Pupae. That is not the payment I had in mind.”

“What then, Witch?”

“Let us play a game.”

Sludge raised a hairless brow.

“A game of remembrance. Of cauldrons foretelling futures. And an ambitious young Shadow Swine.”

Even the mucous coating over his dark skin could not hide Sludge’s paling. His yellow eyes widened, and he glanced away.

“Of course, you need not play. And powers will wane. It is no claws off my fingers.”

“But their strength grows with each year.”

“Then come and play,” Crone said.

Pausing, Sludge caressed the glinting steel. Knights of Painted Light. Bah! He let her lead him inside.

At the end of a long hallway, Crone waved a knobby hand at the round door. It creaked open, revealing the fire pit and warped cauldron inside. The boiling brew popped and steamed as the little woman unhooked a wooden ladle from the wall.

Crone waddled on stunted legs toward a footstool and stepped up. She inserted the long ladle in the bubbling brew and stirred. Misty images of a fair-haired man appeared overhead. The man held a paintbrush in one hand and was facing a large canvas.

Holding the axe aloft, Sludge stepped closer. “Now?”

“No, Pupae. I said, play first.” She grasped the ladle tighter.

“I don’t understand.”

“Do not play dumb. It is beneath you. You know perfectly well the game. Speak. Who is this?” She pointed at the figure in the mist.

The image sharpened and Captain Sludge’s stomach dropped to his jackboots. He stumbled back. Crone crossed her arms and fixed him with an even stare.

“Well?”

He cleared his raspy throat. “It is the second of the Borax line.”

“And?”

“Father to the Deliverer.”

“Now we are getting somewhere. I showed you his image sixteen years ago. Remember?”

Sludge nodded.

“And do you recall what my cauldron foretold?”

“How could I not?”

“Then my suspicion is founded in fact,” she said.

“It is but conjecture. You have no proof.”

“Perhaps. Yet even as we speak, the Deliverer is beginning to suspect. And if he discovers the truth, you know the consequences.”

Captain Sludge swallowed hard. “Death for death. Yes. But there is no evidence linking me to…that.”

“No. But the true art reveals. So, beware.”

Captain Sludge clenched his jaw. I planned it so that no one would ever discover my secret. Even her. Holding up his battle-axe, he tried changing the subject. “Now, may I?”

She pointed at a rickety chair. “Sit down, Pupae!”

Sludge plunked down and pressed both jackbooted feet into the floor. He shot her a quick glance. After many years he knew when not to push.

“I feel the vibrations of Surrealia.”

Sludge heaved a sigh. “I know. I know. You told me that earlier. Why do you think I sent a battalion there?”

“Which the Deliverers battled.”

“And were yanked away before victorious. Their sculpted wolves were newborn pups for my soldiers to crush.”

“Yet you lost many! Lord Sickhert is not pleased.”

“You didn’t—”

She cut him off. “Do you take me for a fool? You should know more than anyone the care I take.”

Sludge held up the axe. “Good, for if he knew this power.”

“Yes, he’d take it for himself. I know.”

“Now, may I?” Sludge asked.

“Let us begin,” she said.

The captain eased his hatchet toward the boiling brew as Crone raised a ladleful in her gnarled hands. Once his blade was directly under the wooden spoon, she tilted it slightly and the steaming potion dribbled over the metal. There was a hissing sound and the mist darkened.

The image of the painter faded while a surreal beach scene took its place. Three draping clocks melted over a dead tree, a cold block of stone, and a humanoid piece of driftwood.

“’Persistence of Memory’ huh? What are you trying to say, Crone?”

“It is not I but the cauldron that speaks.”

Sludge watched as the clocks swelled in the steam, their ticking growing ever louder. The cauldron’s brew bubbled and boiled. The ticking timepieces continued to stretch until they became surreal strings extending toward the horizon.

“If we are to be victorious, memory cannot persist,” Crone said.

The last few droplets of brew slid off the steely blade. Sludge tilted the axe and pocketed it inside his long cloak. “Amnesia is no easy task.”

“For most, perhaps. But others were not given the knowledge, were they Pupae? Nor used it in violation of all laws.”

With no choice, Captain Sludge nodded curtly. He would comply for now. Turning toward the door, he sneered. Your suspicions are groundless. I made sure of that long ago. Be careful, Crone, or your words will be your damnation.

Chapter5

“Okay Dad, pull up over there,” Gwen said, pointing at the huge Spanish-style house with a red tile roof.

Gwen was torn about going to this party. She’d usually be spending her Saturday nights working out in Dad’s gym or practicing fakies at Skater’s Point with her buds. Instead, she was in the backseat of Dad’s Escalade next to her boyfriend, Jose Hamlin, heading for the biggest bash of the season.

Lacey Zamora’s birthday parties were legendary. Every year since elementary she’d thrown an epic event that kids talked about all year. And since her birthday happened to be September 6th, kids actually looked forward to the beginning of school. The first one had a survival theme complete with a climbing wall and an animal-peppered obstacle course. There’d even been a den of snakes to crawl through. Totally gross.

After Lacey’s dayglo party stunt in eighth grade, Gwen said she’d never speak to that bee-othch again, much less cruise through her front door. But tripping in and out of a world on the verge of full-on destruction can make you forget queen bee bullying pretty quickly.

Still, when Dad pulled over to the curb, Gwen had a moment. She almost grabbed her skateboard from the cargo area and jumped on that sweet deck. She imagined rolling off toward the beach where she’d do kick flips and rock and rolls up curving concrete. Then she’d be in a place where sea met sky and the freedom unlocked her nervous mind.

“It’s okay, babe,” Jose said, squeezing her hand.

She searched his face once again, admiring how he always seemed so calm. His dark brown eyes were deep and peaceful and even his black ponytail exuded a meditative mood.

She tapped her forehead against his and hopped out of the SUV. Thanking Dad, she tugged on the fringed hem of her flapper dress. You can do this, girl.

The Zamora house was bursting with teenagers. It seemed like just about every sophomore, junior, and senior from Santa Barbara High was cruising up the sidewalk and through the open gate to the backyard. The sound system blared old-fashioned Ragtime music mingled with techno and pop as shifting spotlights made everything look like a black-and-white movie premiere. Some kids lined up by the gazebo where a couple of big dudes who must work for Lacey’s dad were setting up a karaoke machine.

Jose put a hand on the small of her back to let her know that he’d never let anyone secretly write dog or anything else on her clothes again. “No repeat. Believe me. The slightest hint, I kick butt.”

Man, he knew her. “Ancient history. No prob,” Gwen said, passing through to the backyard. She shuddered. I hope.

Next to the pool filled with floating spheres stood the birthday girl herself. Decked to the nines, of course, in a red beaded dress Daddy probably bought from a Hollywood trunk sale, Lacey raised one bejeweled hand dramatically. “Welcome to the reeling twenties!”

It’s the roaring ‘20s, airhead. Gwen thought rolling her eyes.

“Jose, Gwen!” Coco shouted, running over. “Like my costume? Just like Daisy in The Great Gatsby.” Tapping her bell-shaped hat, the blonde did a slow turn.

Lacey strutted over, waving a long-handled cigarette holder. She smoothed her sleek black hair and sneered. “Like your big butt would really work in Hollywood.”

“I keep telling you, my butt’s not that big. Anyhow, Lady Prime’s bootylicious curves were popular in Shining Star.” Coco pouted.

“Girlfriend you are no Lady Prime.”

Gwen was just about to tell Lacey to cool it when she noticed a flash in the corner of her eye. She jerked her head right.

Nothing but slight mist.

Mist? Gwen glanced around. No fog machine and the sky was clear.

Then she noticed Alex and Mr. Clean under a palm tree, arguing about something. She figured it was just B-3 probably freaking about having enough hand sanitizer or some crap but still wanted to check it out. She patted Jose’s arm and wished Lacey happy birthday before heading their way.

“Dudes, wuz up?”

Bartholomew turned slowly, gaping as if she were a stranger. He chewed on his lower lip like a shy fan meeting his favorite movie star. Long moments passed in silence. Finally, Alex shoved him, and Bartholomew shook his head.

“Hey, Gwen,” Alex said. “Nice dress.”

“Not my usual skater style, I know. But once in a while.” Gwen was surprised how his compliment made her cheeks redden. No trips down memory lane. Your boyfriend is just a few feet away, she thought.

“You look beautiful, Gwen,” Bartholomew gushed.

Now she was really taken aback. B-3 was a lot of things: clean freak, walking encyclopedia, sculptor extraordinaire, but noticing when a girl was dressed up? Not his usual style. If she had to call it, she’d say his interest in anyone, girl or guy, was delayed. Alex and she, on the other hand. Almost.

“Thanks, your fabric’s hanging too.”

Alex and B-3 didn’t laugh at her little pun. Just stared like a couple of nerds from an ‘80s movie. “You guys.” Gwen chuckled. “Come on, Let’s check out the grub. If I know Lacey, there’s something tasty.”

With the boys in tow, she headed toward the Spanish tile patio that spanned the entire length of the house. It sported stylish pottery and groups of wicker furniture that kids were lounging in. Off to one side was a Gazebo with a built-in barbecue pit, a sink, and a bar where the workers were plugging in speakers. Flagstone paths canopied in tropical plants led off to the side yard. The coolest of all was the huge kidney-shaped swimming pool, complete with steaming Jacuzzi, rocky waterfall, and five-foot slide. It was filled with glowing balls that bobbed on the surface.

Just when she got to the long buffet table draped in a white tablecloth, Zachary Van Gromin made his usual strutting entrance, turning right and left as if expecting the rest of the teens to snap photos of his stylish duds. Even though Zach was a good friend, he was totally conceited. Of course, when your mom has credit cards for every Rodeo Drive boutique and a few designers on speed dial, your clothes do earn bragging rights.

Shaking his head, Alex waved him over. “Dude, how goes it?” he asked.

Zach put one foot on a blue ceramic pot and arched one arm as if posing before answering. “Jay Gatsby’s got nothing on me.”

Gwen and Alex exchanged a glance and groaned.

Alex smirked at him. “Sure, you don’t mean Jabba the Hutt?”

Grabbing a slice of pizza from the table, Zach shoved the whole piece in his mouth. Chunks escaped his mouth when he said, “You are my kind of scum.”

Alex pretended to gag and flicked a chunk that had landed on his shoulder at Zach. They all chuckled. The dude might be vain but was cool enough to laugh at himself when overdoing it.

The music cranked and Coco called out, “Charleston!”

A minute later scores of teens were lined up on the portable dance floor, kicking up their heels in a modern impersonation of that 1920s dance. With a gentleman’s bow old Gatsby would have been proud of, Zach held out a hand for Lacey before leading her to the front. Gwen nodded. She had to hand it to him, he had style.

Jose sprinted over and grabbed Gwen’s hand. “Come on, babe!”

Gwen was surprised she let him lead her onto the dance floor. She wasn’t exactly known for her moves. But the instructor Mr. Zamora had hired had choreographed Boogie Time with the Stars so why not? Even though she was drill sergeant strict, it worked. Within minutes Gwen was tapping forward and back, swiveling her heels, and swaying her arms from side to side.

She tried waving Alex and Mr. Clean over, but Alex shook his head. “Wimps!” she cried.

Alex shrugged while Bartholomew put on hand sanitizer.

The music slowed, and Jose grabbed her by the waist. Twirling her around, he pulled her close. She looked up at those soft brown eyes and not for the first time, got butterflies. A black strand of hair escaped his sexy ponytail as he bent closer. Her lips quivered.

Behind them someone screamed, and Gwen whirled around. An overenthusiastic ninth grader kicking his heels too high had slipped on the flagstones and fell in the pool, splashing Lacey’s satin dress in the process.

“Freak! This dress is vintage!” Lacey screamed.

The abashed shrimp dunked under the water and the whole party burst into laughter.

“Swim little fish, swim!” Zach called over his shoulder as he headed back to the buffet table. Gwen watched him grab a glass flute next to the crystal bowl and ladle some champagne punch. As he lifted his hand, the golden liquid began to bubble and darken.

Gwen’s mouth went dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her eyes widened. She pointed at Zach.

“You okay?” Jose placed a hand on her shoulder, blocking her view.

Blinking, Gwen detected a faint malodor, rotten like sickness or death. She sniffed.

Then Lacey stomped by, and Jose stepped aside, blocking her view. When he moved back, Zach’s glass was normal again.

Gwen surveyed the party. She did not want a repeat of last year’s Halloween party with freaky visions and Death Comes suddenly etched in her moon crown. Pissed Jose off royally but she couldn’t exactly tell him that monsters from another world did it. It had taken a friggin’ barrel of spit to invent the lie that mended that fence.

“Did you see—?”

“See what?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.” Although it wasn’t cold, actually Indian summer, goose bumps were rising all over her bare skin. She drew closer to Jose and snuggled under his arm. It didn’t help. She still felt like she’d been boogieboarding for hours without a wetsuit.

“You’re shaking, babe. What’s up? Talk to me.”

Gwen opened her mouth. Clamped it shut again. She couldn’t say she was seeing stuff; he’d think she was high or something.

Then she flashed on a memory. Or was it a dream? Had her mother called?

Gwen knew she hadn’t. The last time Rochelle called was to demand money from Dad. And the only reason she spoke to her daughter was that Gwen happened to answer the phone.

“Oh, hi, Tinker Bell. It’s Mommy. Having fun with your dollies?” she’d asked.

“I haven’t played with dolls since I was six,” Gwen said.

“Ouch! Hey, watch it, that’s my foot!” Rochelle yelled at someone on her end. “Idiot can’t do a simple pedicure. Anyhow, I’m busy, so could you put Daddy on the phone?”

No how are yous. No miss yous. No sorry I forgot your last two birthdays. Gwen had handed the phone off to Dad and headed straight for the skate park. Man, she’d skated hard that day, kicking concrete and doing 360s till the sweat soaked her T-shirt and her hair was flattened against her head.

That was three years ago. No word since.

Jose looked directly at Gwen. She caught her breath. Those gentle eyes danced with concern.

I wish I could tell you about it all. But what good would that do? She sighed.

Then the audio started back up, a throbbing techno beat washing over her. The music grew like a fog over the crowd, misting her body in rhythm. Her heart pulsed to the cadence and Gwen let herself get swept up in it. “Let’s just dance.”

Jose furrowed his brow but complied.

The driving beat moved inside her, pushing her into motion. She swayed to the rhythm. Jose raised his arms overhead and did a slow twirl that showed of his broadening shoulders. Friggin’ hot.

Gwen glanced past him at the floating solar balls drifting over the pool’s surface. The multihued globes flashed in lime green, lilac, and sky blue. She smiled.

Then a dark shadow rose from the depths. Gwen squinted.

“Check it out, babe.” Jose twirled again.

The dark outline took shape. Gwen froze. It can’t be. Not again.

A hubbub rose from the party, followed by some yelling and cursing. The shadow grew larger. Every muscle in Gwen’s body tensed.

Gwen crossed her arms a half second before Jose reached out a hand. He stared at his empty palm.

Mr. Clean and Alex raced toward her.

“We have to leave.” Alex said.

Bartholomew nodded. “Now.”