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- Herausgeber: Next Chapter
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
Books 4-5 in Laurie Woodward's 'Artania Chronicles' series of fantasy novels, now available in one volume!
Portal Rift: Ever since Bartholomew Borax III returned to homeschool, Mother has been so cleaning-obsessed that all he dreamed of was finding another portal to the magical Artania. But now, with doorways opening without warning and thrusting him through time and space, he has no idea where he’ll end up next. It might be a Parisian loft with a depressed Monet, near a burning café with monsters in pursuit, or in the middle of an empty street at midnight. And then his best friend falls into a coma that no one seems to be able to wake him from. Everyone is perplexed but there are clues, and Bartholomew is determined to help his friend. With Alex unconscious and time running out, can he find the key in time?
Persistence Of Memory: Bartholomew's germaphobe mother still makes him bathe six times a day, and he can’t tell anyone about the mystical Artania. 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 losing their memory, and no one can find a cure. With epic battles, surreal creatures and a looming threat, can the trio save Artania from certain doom?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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The Artania Chronicles Collection
BOOKS 4-5
LAURIE WOODWARD
Contents
Portal Rift
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
Persistence Of Memory
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
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.
Portal Rift
THE ARTANIA CHRONICLES BOOK 4
For Nicholas and Jessica
Chapter1
Bartholomew Borax III staggered back and bounced off something hard. He thrust out his hands but still tumbled over, landing on all fours. Gasping for breath, he dug his fingers into the ground and clung to the grassy soil.
Please stay this time.
Arching his back, he gulped in a lungful of fresh air and choked on the ash in his throat. His body spasmed and he sputtered, coughing up dark phlegm. He spat twice.
Dew soaked through his silk pajamas to his knees. The boy leaned back on his haunches and tried to calm his breathing. He closed his eyes and began a silent count. One…ten…thirty-one…thirty-three. Once his chest rose and fell without spluttering, he opened them.
The shining moon broke through the clouds illuminating the Spanish-style building beyond. The school was still standing?
But he had just watched it melt away.
A breeze blew back his blonde hair. Slowly, he stood, bare feet slipping on the wet grass. He leaned against the flagpole and brushed his cheek against metal. Cool as the dark sky above. No hint of that fiery furnace now.
That Bartholomew was back in the real world.
The fourteen-year-old had traveled into the mystical Artania three times before, and while each journey was unique, he'd never experienced anything quite like this. Every other crossing had been with Alex by his side, knowing full-well that something magical was about to happen—he was about to breach an enchanted doorway.
Not this time.
This time he'd plodded into Mother's office to dutifully say goodnight and submit to inspection. After taking his third bath and patting his head to tame the cowlick that refused to stay down, Bartholomew had applied hand sanitizer, deodorant, and cologne. Since Hygenette Borax's sense of smell was stronger than a Mudlark elephant, he doubled each application before descending the winding staircase to make his way down the long hall toward her office.
As his footsteps echoed down the lonely hallway, he considered asking to return to school. Maybe the months of being extra clean were enough for her to say yes. It had been almost two years since the incident.
When he saw her from the doorway, he knew it wouldn't do any good. The monitor light shone on her pale skin as she mumbled something about cleansers. As she stared at her laptop on the Plexiglas desk, he felt a pang of pity. Those diamond blue eyes used to cut him to the core, but not anymore. Now, Bartholomew understood her cool glances were simply a mask protecting her from the world. A world where a husband can drown in inches of water and leave you to raise a child on your own.
“I'm ready to rest, Mother.”
Her gaze stayed fixed on the computer screen. Mother must have been preoccupied, because for once, she didn't beckon him closer to look for dirt under his nails or specks of dust on his monogrammed robe.
He stepped up behind her. “Mother?”
“What?” She closed the laptop and set a hand over it, protectively.
That was strange. She usually reveled in sharing articles about how germs live everywhere, or a new cleanser. What was she looking at?
“I-I, uhh, have bathed.”
“Hmm.” She sniffed, raising her nose in the air. “Hand sanitizer?”
He held up his hands for inspection.
“Fine. Good night.” She waved him away with a flick of her wrist, but waited until he was back at the doorway before returning to whatever was on the computer screen.
Back inside his room, Bartholomew pondered her strange behavior. Hygenette Borax was many things—controlling, fearful, and of course, obsessed with cleanliness. One thing she had never been, though, was secretive. All his life, Bartholomew had heard her tell stories of the horrors that waited just outside. How if he weren't careful, he could end up just like his father, drowning in mud.
For many years he'd believed her, but over time came to realize that it was all lies. Lies she told herself to explain Father's death.
He shook his head and had just hung up his robe, when the humming started. Then there was a flash.
And that crazy night began.
Chapter2
Alexander Devinci had trouble falling asleep that night. Tossing. Turning. Getting tangled in the sheets. So much on his mind. Starting high school. Wondering if Gwen would go back to giving him that soft-eyed look, or keep smiling at Jose every time he walked by. Worrying if there'd be a relapse of Mom's heart condition.
Not to mention the nightmares.
Even painting in the garage studio, his fluffy-eared Australian Shepherd, Rembrandt, at his feet had brought little relief. When Alex settled onto the paint-splattered stool and faced the easel, savage images flashed in his mind.
He tried to fight them by painting something familiar, like a skater grinding a curb or one of the Olympian gods in Artania. But his hand would turn them into a gunner trying to kill freakin' terrorists.
“What's going on, boy?” He set the brush down and rubbed Rembrandt's black-and-gray-striped head.
Rembrandt didn't snuggle up against his knees, but cringed as if expecting a beating. This made no sense. The Devincis barely raised their voices at their dog, much less hit or kicked him. Gwen often said that his mom was so gentle you expected fairy dust to come out of her mouth instead of words.
Then Alex noticed a breeze rattle the garage window.
He wasn't exactly the superstitious type. More logical, a doer kind of kid. But after three trips into another dimension where opposing forces battled for control, he'd learned to take heed of signs. Some might indicate that Artania was about to call upon him, whereas others had a more sinister meaning.
Either way, he couldn't create that night.
After smearing a blotch over the whole canvas, he threw his brushes in the garage sink and rinsed them off. Swirls of color blended to gray and then brown as they circled the drain and disappeared down the pipes. He wiped his hands on the towel hanging over the sink and called Rembrandt inside.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with papers strewn in every direction, mumbling about some new equation he was working on. Alex smiled. Dad got as lost in mathematical theorems as he and Bartholomew did in their art. But where Dad's scribblings ended up in college journals or in front of the students at the University of Santa Barbara, Alex and his bud's created living beings.
When first there'd been hints of something supernatural, back when he was eleven, Alex had thought Bartholomew was messing with his mind. Then they passed through a painted doorway and ended up in a magical world where all art was alive. He didn't have long to gape at the wonders of Artania before discovering that it was in grave danger and he and Bartholomew were the only ones that could save it.
A heavy responsibility for a kid. One that continually weighed upon him.
So whenever he created, he tried to imagine what sort of creature he was unleashing in that world. And when malevolent images came from his fingertips, he painted over them. Like tonight.
Alex rolled over again. Punched his pillow. Slowly breathed in and out. “…ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five…” By the time he reached twenty-one, the fog of sleep had finally drifted over him.
Restful? That's another story.
Chapter3
Captain Sludge emerged from a sewage drain and held up his battle axe. As the glint of steel reflected moonlight into his yellow eyes, he smiled. Now that he had his weapon back from Crone, he could truly wreak havoc in those idiot boys' lives.
He sniffed and his piggish nostrils flared. “No Knights yet. Good.”
Even if he did meet one of those painted protectors, he wasn't worried. He'd just recharged his axe's shielding, making it virtually undefeatable.
He faced the dull house that looked like every other one on the street, except Alexander's had a stupid little flower garden under the front window.
He sneered. “Blooms, soon to wilt in Devinci dreams.”
The hunchbacked monster ran a palm over his slime-covered face, spreading viscous gel over his spiked hair. He began to morph and shrink, until a few moments later he was small enough to snake his way under the front door. When Sludge took shape inside, he opened and closed his claw-tipped fingers in bone crunching pops, so quiet only his bat-like ears could discern them. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the entry and hall. All was still.
He took a deep breath through rattling nostrils and skulked down the hallway toward a closed door. There, he scratched sharp nails over the wood.
“Be ready to suffer, Deliverer.” He slithered inside.
Alexander lie halfway out of the bunched-up graffiti-art comforter, sweat beading across his forehead.
Sludge ran a tongue over his bulbous lips, tasting the boy's discomfort. The human's dreams will be easy to twist tonight.
The captain of Lord Sickhert's army bent forward as curling wisps of smoke rose from his cavernous mouth and crept through the cracks of his shark-like teeth. These dark clouds floated over the bed and poured into Alex's right ear. The boy was still trapped in a sleep fantasy when he gasped and sat upright. Sludge reached into the vision to twist the stupid dream. His dream connection strengthened, causing the child to stir.
“No…no,” Alex mumbled.
Inside Alex's dream, Sludge saw the mother jogging on the high school's track, her smile widening with every stride. It was a sunny day, with the sky a nauseatingly bright blue, and Alex was skateboarding in the lane next to her.
Well, he'd change that.
Sludge raised his arms, turning the dream sky dark and the track field into an undulating wave. Then he twisted a finger and the ground rose like a great tsunami poised to swallow both boy and mother. He smiled when the weak Cyndi Devinci fell to her knees and Alex bent down to help her.
“Stop or destroyed!” the Painted Knight commanded.
Sludge glanced away from the dream long enough to notice the robot painting train its binocular eyes on his long cloak. He had tangled with this Knight before and lost. But not this time.
This time he had the magic of a trapped unicorn.
Instead of running, Sludge turned to fight. He reached inside his cloak and raised a jet-black arm, curling his other hand into a fist.
From his perch at the foot of the bed, Sir Cyan pointed his binocular lenses at him. “I am warning you.”
“Go back to your canvas, Creation!” Sludge growled, holding his axe up like a shield.
Sir Cyan twisted his lenses and his eyes magnified, brightening the glass for several seconds. Then, in a burst, dual beams of light shot out.
When the rays hit his axe, Sludge stumbled back and almost lost his footing. He teetered, only managing to stay upright by widening his stance. He'd show that Knight!
He grabbed the axe handle in both hands and tilted it until the blade was perpendicular to the assaulting rays. He crouched lower. A hum filled his bat-like ears as the Knight's lasers bounced off his axe. Sludge nodded.
Flapping his wings just like he had years before, Sir Cyan rose a few inches to lock onto his foe by narrowing each beam. He puffed up his robotic chest and flew nearer, eyes trained on the grinning captain.
Come closer, Knight.
With a sneer, Sludge swung his battle axe, knocking the Knight off balance. Sir Cyan's rays flickered and he fell onto the ground.
Without hesitation, the captain swung again, hurling Cyan against the wall. The crumpled Knight's lasers shot in crazy directions before he leaped to his feet and jabbed, fists meeting air. Then came a desperate kick. Sludge sidestepped it with an easy guffaw.
The captain would have loved nothing more than to destroy this Painted Knight right then and there. But Sir Cyan had been created before the Deliverers had journeyed into Artania, and he was strong. It would take all his unicorn magic to defeat him.
Anyhow, his work was nearly done.
After tucking his axe back inside his coat, Sludge once again spread slime over his spiked hair and began to shrink. With a final grin, the monster brought his hands together in a thunderous clap, sending another horrific vision into Alex's mind. One worthy of war.
Hand extended, the struggling boy crawled over the buckling ground, toward his mother. When his fingertips reached hers, the ground exploded, leaving the pair in a slow motion nightmare of ripping flesh.
As he watched the boy twitch and tremble, Captain Sludge began to cackle and howl, filling Alex's ears with nightmare sounds.
Chapter4
Heart pounding, Alex leaped off the bed and rubbed his shivering arms. While trying to slow his panting breath, he looked around, confused. Stared at the crumpled sheets. That nightmare…was so real.
He had to know.
He swallowed hard and tiptoed down the hall toward his parents' room. Afraid of what he might find, he stuck his head through their open doorway. Both were sleeping soundly, Dad snoring away. Still, Alex couldn't stop shaking.
Something was wrong, and he needed to check it out. Now.
After throwing a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans on over his shorts, he shoved his pillows under the graffiti-art covers, in a boy shaped lump. It was a hurried form, but he wasn't concerned with making it perfect. Even if an earthquake dropped California into the ocean, his parents would keep on sleeping. And they weren't the paranoid, I-gotta-check-on-my-kid type. The Dr. Bock Guide to Parenting said to give teenagers space.
Rembrandt, who'd been sleeping on a rug at the foot of the bed, leaned against Alex's legs and whimpered.
“Shush. I'll be back soon.” He caressed the dog's floppy ears.
Tennies in hand, Alex tiptoed over to the door and slowly turned the handle. Then he crept down the hall to the front entry, where his skateboard leaned against the wall. After tucking it under his arm, he stole out the front door, donned his shoes, and jogged across the front lawn.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Alex threw his board down and kicked off. Even though the misty summer evening was warm, he shivered, unable to shake the vision.
The stars twinkled above the streetlamps in the midnight sky. Porch lanterns glimmered through the fog. A lone car's headlights shone in the distance.
While the nightmare darkened every beam.
He thought focusing on the whirring wheels would calm him. If he willed himself to think of other things, maybe that horrific image would fade. But Mom's shocked face appeared in every shadow, turning what should have been a been a beautiful ride into a phantasm's trek.
Palm trees swayed in the low light, their sharp fronds cutting macabre shapes in the night air. Homes and store fronts seemed to inhale and exhale fetid breath. Clouds wisped by like wraiths assaulting the sky.
Alex skated faster. He tried closing his eyes against the violence assailing his psyche. But the back of his lids displayed images even worse than Santa Barbara shadows. Breathing hard, he kicked. Up one street. Down another. Dreading what he would find.
But when he turned the corner and saw the Spanish tiles resting below inky air, Alex let his skateboard drift.
The high school was still there?
Gaping, he almost forgot the deck below him as he coasted ever slower. He blinked repeatedly before realizing he'd glided to a stop. Then, shaking his head, he turned and pushed off toward the school.
In the center of the circular driveway stood the flagpole. The base looked odd. Lumpy. Alex squinted at the ghostly figure leaning against it, rubbing a cheek against the steel.
Alex inched toward it. “Bartholomew?”
When his best friend turned his head, Alex staggered. Even in the low light, he could see Bartholomew's agony. Disheveled hair. Clenched jaw. Quivering shoulders. The shadows beneath his eyes said, I've just been through hell.
B-3 tilted his head and spoke slowly. “Alex, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I don't know. One minute I was getting ready for bed, the next I was in little garret in Artania—”
“What? Artania? Without me?”
Bartholomew nodded.
“But there've been no signs.”
He nodded again. Stared off into space. “It was surreal. Of course, so was every trip we've taken there. But then, we had a beckoning doorway.”
“The rainbow.”
“But not this time. This time I had just hung up my robe, when I heard a sound like a balloon popping. Then I was in a dark attic. Alone.”
That's when Alex noticed the silk pajamas and bare feet. He took off his sweatshirt and placed it over Bartholomew's shoulders.
“Dude, sorry. You okay?”
Nodding repeatedly, B-3 went on to explain that he'd ended up in a Parisian loft. Everything was soft and muted, an Impressionist painting. Here he met a morose artist who kept saying that he didn't have enough money to support his little baby. Bartholomew had talked with him for a few hours, hoping that sharing his own loneliness would comfort the depressed man. He thought he was making headway, when he found himself transported to a new land, as realistic as photos on a smartphone.
“I knew I was in the Photography District by the way black and white creations passed freely among full-fleshed Artanians. Then I was in a film of Santa Barbara High. The school was empty. It was burning.”
“Did you hear an explosion?” Alex recalled the nightmare that had driven him here.
“Yes. Then it all began to melt and you were there with your mom. It was…”
“I know, I dreamt it. Why do you think I skateboarded here in the middle of the freaking night?”
“That's never happened before. The nightmares and Artania have always been separate. Do you suppose that the Shadow Swine have some new power?”
Alex thought for a moment. There'd been a period the year before when every canvas he painted and every sculpture B-3 formed was altered into some macabre horror overnight. After some experimenting, they realized that the only creations which remained unchanged were the ones he and his bud made together. So for months they created as one to make Knights of Painted Light. But when they got back from their last journey into Artania, they'd tested it out and things had returned to normal.
“Maybe, like last year,” Alex said.
“Sludge,” Bartholomew spat.
Alex clenched his jaw, remembering that vile monster. If the Shadow Swine were learning to twist dreams into Artanian realities, they were in trouble.
Big trouble.
Chapter5
Gwen Obranovich grinded her skateboard against the curb and brought her arm down in a fist pump.
“Yes!” she crowed popping back onto the concrete.
“You're improving,” said Jose Hamlin, his hands clasped in front of him like a sexy yoga instructor.
“Cha, I know.” Gwen tried to keep from shaking her head at him.
Even though he was easy on the eyes, with that long black ponytail, dimpled chin, and copper skin, her boyfriend could be annoying. Ever since he'd won the Volcom Games the year before, his ego had gotten bigger than a vert ramp.
But he did make up for it. In some pretty nice ways.
Gwen heard whirring wheels and turned to see Alex rolling up, lips pressed together in concentration as he kick-turned back and forth. Gaining speed, he crossed in front of Jose and skidded to a halt.
Jose stepped back and arched an eyebrow at Alex. “Brother, you're a hurricane when a breeze would do just fine.”
“I like it that way. No wasting time.”
Jose kept his gaze fixed on Gwen. “Grace and beauty are no waste.”
Blushing, Gwen looked at her skater shoes.
“I know what's beautiful just fine,” Alex said.
“Really. Is that so?”
“So dude, what's up?” Gwen interrupted, before the conversation got too awkward.
“I was wondering if we could talk. Umm, alone?”
Gwen tilted her head and narrowed her green eyes. After they'd returned from Artania in eighth grade, she'd thought he'd ask her out for sure. Expected him to. Yet weeks passed, then months. All he did was skateboard around her until she gave up and started dating Jose.
She put her hands on her hips. “Why?”
Alex opened and closed his mouth, jerked his head at Jose and raised his eyebrows.
“Perhaps she'd rather practice with me,” Jose said.
Alex ignored him. “It won't take long. Promise.”
Gwen considered giving him the cold shoulder. After all, he'd said he liked her a whole year before, but still hadn't done anything about it. She knew there were other considerations. Mr. Clean, that freaky painted world—keeping art true to fight those dream-invading monsters.
She turned to Jose. “Let's practice 50-50's later, 'kay?”
Jose undid his ponytail, shook out his long hair, and faced West Beach.
Gwen couldn't help but stare. Man, with the ocean breeze blowing it back, he looked like a friggin' model on the cover of a romance novel or something. Gorgeous.
Turning back with a knowing look, Jose placed one foot on his skateboard and kicked off into a long graceful curve around the skate park.
Why is such a hottie with me? She watched his buff bod cruise up and down concrete hills.
“Gwen? Hello?”
“Coming.” She tried not to groan as she turned away from that vision.
Head down, Alex led her out the gate, toward the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the beach. Board under her arm, she followed him to the shade of a tall palm tree.
“So?” she asked.
Alex got straight to the point, like boringly usual. “I was wondering if anything strange had been happening to you. Like, at night?”
“What? What have you heard?” she blurted, afraid that the moonlit meeting with Jose had gotten around school.
“Not heard. Seen.”
“Seen?” Gwen gulped.
“Yeah, it was horrible. Mom and I walking at the high school. Explosions…”
“Oh, nightmares.” Gwen sighed. Alex had not been spying on her and Jose.
“Of course. What else?”
Yeah, what else? How about a kiss so soft it makes your stomach do flip flops? That's what else., she thought but said, “Nothing.”
Alex explained how a couple nights before, he'd had this dream about their new high school exploding. It was so realistic he had to check it out, only to find B-3 there in his pajamas.
“PJ's?” Gwen said.
“Yeah, somehow he'd been transported from his bedroom. He said—”
“No blue jewel? No flash? No rainbow friggin' rollercoaster?”
“He just popped there. In the blink of an eye.”
Alex went on to explain how Mr. Clean had spent a couple days with a French artist, then had gone to the Photography District, where pictures of their high school morphed and melted.
“No way.”
“I know. It's never been like this before. The last few times, we could tell we were about to go.”
“That crazy doorway.”
“Yeah, B-3 is freaked out. I mean, if we can be transported to that other dimension any time, how can we prepare? And why our school? And my mom?” Alex's tan face turned pale.
“Hey, hey, chill. It'll be okay. You two just need to keep doing your art, and things'll get better.”
Alex looked at her as if she were an idiot. “I don't think it's that simple.”
Gwen shrugged. “So aside from needing to save a magical world, how are ya doing? Haven't seen you out in weeks.”
“Okay.” He paused. “Not really. B-3's been MIA.”
“What's up with him?”
“I don't know. Maybe Mrs. Borax has him locked down taking baths or something.”
“She is full-on obsessed. Poor dude.”
“I know. Parents…” He paused for moment and got a pained look on his face. “My mom has been sleeping all the time. Looks tired.”
Gwen knew Alex's mother had a heart condition which the doctors were still watching. Even had a gnarly heart attack three years before. But Cyndi Devinci had seemed better all through junior high, even jogging and stuff.
“Hope she's okay. I like your mom.”
“Thanks. Means a lot. Anyhow, your dreams?”
More kisses from a ponytailed skater boy. Gwen smiled slightly at her private joke. “I'm fine. No nightmares for a year.”
“One less thing to worry about.” Alex raised his gaze to her. “You know, Gwen, I…”
“Yeah?” She tried not to look into those big honey-colored eyes.
She did have a boyfriend, after all. Who happened to slam the skate park gate just then, making both of them turn. With a confidant wave, Jose headed toward them.
Alex stepped back, glanced at her skateboard. “Uh, saw your grind. Good job.”
Gwen sighed. “Thanks.”
Even though Jose was full-on hot, she still felt a twinge of disappointment. It seemed like she and Alex were forever destined for the friend zone.
But after all they'd been through, traversing crazy worlds, fighting pirates and riding dragons, she had his back. Even if it meant slapping the slime off one of those disgusting monsters.
Again.
Chapter6
Bartholomew tiptoed down the stairs toward the front entry, planning to steal out to the hidden studio under the conservatory, and sculpt. But when he reached the bottom tread, he heaved a tired sigh. I'll probably just sit there, creating nothing. Never mind.
He was about to go lay back down, when he overheard hushed voices down the hall. He ignored them at first, but when he heard his own name, curiosity got the better of him.
Slinking along the wall, he crept toward Mother's office.
“He hardly rises,” Mr. White said. “In bed for hours,”
What's the point? Nothing ever changes.
“But he's clean.”
“Yes, but during his studies he's detached.”
“He's always been easily distracted.”
Bartholomew almost turned away. It seemed like his tutor was constantly sharing some concern with Mother. And he used to care. But now he was tired of trying. From the cleaning army shooing him from one room to another, faking focus during Mr. White's boring lessons, to Mother's panic attacks, it all wore him out.
“I know, but this is different, ma'am. For weeks there's been a sadness about him.”
Mother's voice lowered until it was barely audible. “He hasn't been doing you-know-what?”
“Of course not. We keep all lessons most practical.”
And boring.
“Which will continue, if you value your job.”
“Yes ma'am.”
“Paintings! Filth splashed across canvas.”
“Yes, Mrs. Borax.”
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 at him in the schoolroom.
I hate that stupid poster. Leaning back, Bartholomew hit his head on the wall.
“Did you hear something?” Mother asked.
“Shoot!” Bartholomew whispered, turning toward the stairs.
“Master Borax, what are you doing?” his British tutor said, before Bartholomew could take a step.
Dust bunnies! He'd hoped bolting 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.
“Bartholomew?” Mother said.
He pivoted slowly. “Hello, Mother.”
“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 chewed 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! We have had this discussion multiple times. You are not to associate with those hooligans.”
“But…”
She glowered at him through 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 shrugged. “Whatever,” he mumbled, as he plodded to the stairs.
Chapter7
Gwen rushed through the halls on her way to first period. She was tardy. Again. She didn't know what was up with her. In junior high she'd only been late once, and that was because Dad had a flat tire. And even then, he'd called an Uber and she got there right after the bell.
Dad was a time freak. He timed everything, from her morning jog on the treadmill in the exercise room to how long it took her to brush her teeth. Mr. Time Management said punctuality equaled responsibility. And boy did he have a lot of that, rushing around to manage his California Dreamin' gyms with the slogan Where the dreams of a California body come true. Gwen remembered Mom coming up with the phrase back when she and Dad were still married. Dad didn't like it at first, saying it put too much pressure on people to be movie star perfect. They'd argued for weeks, until one day he threw his hands in the air and said, “Fine, have it your way.”
Mom always got what she wanted, in the end. Gwen just wished that included spending time with her daughter. She hadn't even called in, what was it now? Fifteen months? And then it was just to rag on Dad about money.
After years of this, Gwen was used to it being just the two of them. Sort of. I mean, she was fourteen and a freshman in high school, she should be too grown up to worry about stupid stuff like a mom who took off for Europe to model when Gwen was nine and hadn't visited since. Gwen was tough. A skater. A gym rat. She didn't need Mom's beautiful voice singing silly lullabies.
Gwen flashed on a memory of being really little, maybe two or three, and snuggling under the covers while Rochelle sang about a mockingbird that wouldn't sing, so she'd buy her a ring, or a goat, or a dog, or something. She'd looked up at Mom's pouty lips, thinking they were saying, “I love you so much, I'd give you the world.”
“Yeah, right.” Gwen muttered readjusting her backpack as she turned the corner.
The halls were nearly empty, just a few stragglers like herself rushing to get to class. Quiet with just enough morning breeze to pick up a math sheet someone must have dropped and swirl it past her vision. She paused and watched it rise and fall before gliding out of sight. Then, taking a deep breath, she clutched her hall pass and faced the door.
She knocked.
It seemed to take hours, but was only a few seconds before it opened. Gwen wasn't usually the get-embarrassed type, but being late to first period for the third time in a month gave her pause.
Keeping her gaze averted from the audience ready to snigger at the slightest hint of awkwardness, Gwen dropped her late pass on Ms. Leed's desk and took her seat. She expected her algebra teacher to say something snide about tardiness, but she must have been tired or something, because instead she just sighed and tossed the note in the trash before saying, “Page fifty-three, problems two through seven.”
That's when Gwen noticed how quiet everyone was. She glanced over at Alex, who was curled around a piece of paper, face screwed up in concentration. Zach was chewing on his lower lip, looking at his paper as if it were Chinese. Even Lacey Zamora, who usually sat cross-legged, dangling a stiletto from one swaying toe, had both feet tucked under her desk as she copied the equations down in neat little rows.
Then Gwen remembered—Ms. Leed was famous for pop quizzes. At random times she'd assign a few problems and tell the class they were having a test that day. Oh, of course today would be one of those.
Pirate poop!
It's not that she never did her homework. Gwen wasn't a tweaker sneaking out to the parking lot to vape, or a populo like Lacey and her gang, who studied in spurts between shopping trips and parties. And she wasn't the type to study all the time like the Book Arms, who seemed to have a book growing from their bodies like one of those weird creatures in Artania. She was somewhere in the middle. She took a Goldilocks approach to school. Not too hard or too soft, studying just enough, kind of like Baby Bear's chair.
Anyhow, there were other things in life. Like nailing a fakie or looking into the dark eyes of dreamy skater boy while he brushed back a lock of hair that'd escaped one of her braids.
Gwen opened her book and read the directions. Just five problems. Did she remember how?
* * *
Forty minutes later she was slumping out the door with the other frustrated freshmen, when she caught up with Alex and Zachary Van Gromin, who we were commiserating about how tough the test was.
“Cha,” she said. “Why does Ms. Leed do that? I mean, with no time to prepare?”
“Well, maybe if you got to school on time for once, you'd be ready.” Alex flashed a patronizing look, which didn't escape Gwen.
“What? Can I help it if Dad's gotta leave early and can't give me a ride?”
“You managed last year.”
“Hey, my mom could give you a ride,” Zach said. “She loves doing carpools. Acts like they're as exciting as buying Volcom Games merch.” He flicked his wrists toward his Carhartt chore coat, unbuttoned to show off a print tee.
That dude loved his clothes and usually rocked the skater boy look. Shopping all the time. So it made sense his Mom would be into the whole transport thing.
“Thanks, but I'll just skate. I like to, you know?”
Alex and Zach nodded their heads sympathetically as they moved down the hall.
A few doors down, Zach jerked a thumb at a classroom and said, “My stop,” before entering.
Now Gwen and Alex were alone. She turned to ask him how things were going, but he wasn't there.
“Huh?” She looked around. Where'd he go?
But then she thought about his holier than thou attitude and got pissed. Ditches me as some sort of lesson. Who does he think he is? My dad?
Shaking her head, she tightened a backpack strap and stomped off toward second period.
“Jerk, jerk, jerk.”
Chapter8
While clutching his backpack, Alex glanced around. Five minutes ago, he'd been in the school halls chatting with Gwen. Then his body began tingling and he'd found himself in a cartoon-like park.
He knew he was in Artania—painted trees, cotton clouds, origami birds flying overhead, and clay-like grass under his feet.
A few yards away, a mustached man on top of a soap box was giving a speech.
“Another village has been swallowed! The third this month!” He punctuated each word with an index finger. “And what does our leader do? Nothing! It's time for change.”
After pushing through a few men in berets to get closer, Alex cocked an ear to listen. Then the tingling started up again, and the next thing he knew, he was at his front door.
The shaking boy entered and headed for the kitchen. There was Dad, a jumble of papers strewn about on the farmhouse style table they'd had ever since Alex could remember. When he was little, Mom used to cover it in blankets to make a fort, or with a plastic tablecloth so he could work in play dough. Later, when her cookbooks took off, it became the backdrop for photo shoots of amazing dishes from around the world. And of course, it was the place they gathered nightly to talk about the day, share stories, and for Dad to impart wisdom from Dr. Bock's How to be a Perfect Parent.
Until lately.
Lately, Mom was more often in bed than experimenting with cool recipes, like Ziggurat Pancakes or Acorn Pudding. Lately, no exotic spices filled the kitchen with pungent aromas. Lately, her camera stayed in the case. I mean, who wants to photograph gooey, boxed mac and cheese or pizza from Dominoes? Recently her olive skin, so often rosy from a recent jog or bending over a warm oven, had taken on a greenish tint, and it worried Alex.
“Alex, what are you doing home?”
What could he say? Oh, some magical planet seems to have gone haywire and transported me here.
“Umm, I forgot an important essay. It's in my room.”
“Shh. Keep your voice down. Mom's resting.”
Alex swallowed hard. “Again?”
“She needs to.”
“It's not—” Alex couldn't bear to finish the sentence.
A heart attack had nearly killed her when he was eleven.
“No, no, no. Not that.” Dad gave him a reassuring smile.
“But it's been a lot lately.”
“It's just her, ahem, tummy. Don't worry, kiddo.” He turned back to his papers.
Dad was being so vague. Alex narrowed his eyes. What was the big secret?
He started to imagine something terrible and had just reached in his back pocket to Google it on his phone, when Dad slapped the table.
“Yes!”
“What?”
“I think I found a proof. Not complete yet, but if I keep the requirement of invariance of the joint probability density of all entries, I just might be able to arrive at a broader class of…” He began scribbling notes.
Alex shook his head. If Dad could get into Random Matrix Theory, then maybe Mom was okay.
He felt better. For about two seconds. But then this other part of his brain, which was just as mathematical as Dad's, began counting back. Mom had been resting for weeks now, and a cold usually only lasted a week at most. Even for a forty-four-year-old lady.
Actually, she'd started to look bad about the same time Bartholomew had returned from Artania. Could there be a connection? Might that crazy appear-disappear experience be causing illness? It'd been almost two months since that horrific night, and he still didn't know what was going on.
“Can Swineys make people sick?”
“Hmm?” Dad glanced up.
“Nothing, just thinking.”
Pulling out his phone, Alex walked towards his room and googled, What stomach problems lead to weeks of weakness? One hundred forty-five things popped up on Webdoctor.
Lack of exercise, hypocalcemia, and multiple sclerosis.
He dismissed the first one since she did exercise, but as he read about the symptoms of the other two a pit grew in his gut. She might have muscle spasms, confusion, or weakness, like they described online.
He scrolled down further. Anemia, hypothyroidism, lupus, hepatitis. He scanned each disease and its description. She could have one of those. Or…mononucleosis, pancreatitis, peptic ulcer, tropical parasites, heart rhythm disorder, diabetes, toxic shock, histoplasmosis, kidney stones, radiation sickness, typhoid fever, appendicitis, lead poisoning, shingles, atrial fibrillation, tuberculosis, gallstones, bird flu, stomach cancer, OR cat scratch disease!
She had markers for every single one. She was tired, said she felt nauseous, and was in the bathroom a lot. Both colitis and diverticulosis caused intestinal cramping and diarrhea, along with about ten others. Including cancer. Oh, man. Anything on that list could cause increased sleep.
Alex gripped his phone tighter, tempted to just friggin' go knock on her door and ask. But if Dad said she needed rest, bugging her would make her sicker.
Shaking his head, Alex tore his gaze away from the phone. Some of his creations hung on the wall, next to his skater posters and Andy Warhol prints.
Dad had framed them a couple years back, saying, “Dr. Bock believes that one must display the fruits of a child's labor.”
If Dad knew that each was a Knight of Painted Light protecting children's dreams from a slimy race of creatures, he would have had put them behind bullet proof glass.
Alex glanced back.
Intestinal ileus. Aortic regurgitation. Hypoparathyroidism.
Cursing, he tossed his phone on the bed, its neon handprint case blending in with the graffiti-art bedding and curtains. He'd picked out the patterns because their fat dayglo words splashed over a black canvas inspired him. They reminded him of the cool walls he'd seen in in L.A., where taggers marked their territory with one-of-a-kind images.
One day, while the family was on the way to the La Brea Tar Pits to check out all the ice age displays, Dad took a wrong turn and ended up in a rundown neighborhood. While he tried to figure out the navigation system on their new Honda, Mom pointed and shook her head.
“We don't do enough to take care of our own. Other countries make sure the poor are cared for,” she'd said, once again railing against the cruel government, as Dad drove in circles up one alley and down another. “Europe, Canada, Australia, New Zealand all spend more. In fact, a smaller percentage of our economy goes to help needy individuals like the elderly and unemployed than twenty-six other developed countries…”
Alex had barely heard. He'd been too blown away by all the sprayed images on walls and fences, wondering if he'd ever have the chance to create something so big and bold. Some were just gang symbols and numbers, but man, others had such detail he was sure there must be a land in Artania just for graffiti.
Alex picked up his phone again. Over a hundred different diseases. Over a hundred sicknesses that could cause Mom real pain. Make her suffer again. Over a hundred things he was powerless against.
Like having nightmares where Mom's heart slowed to silence that seemed so real he woke in a cold sweat. Or being yanked into another world at any moment and ending up miles from where you started.
He stared at the long list in his phone. “What the frick is going on?”
Chapter9
Bartholomew was lying in bed picking at a hangnail, when he heard a soft knock.
“Master Borax?” the maid, Yvette, called through the door. “You have a telephone call. It's young Alexander calling again.”
Sighing, the boy slowly rose and said, “Coming,” before shuffling down the long hallway toward the white telephone atop a glass table.
After handing him the receiver, Yvette curtsied and hurried down toward the hall.
“Hello?”
“What's up with you?”
“Huh?”
“I've been trying to call for hours and all I get is, 'He's resting.' How much can a dude rest?”
“I just haven't felt that good.”
“Sick?”
“I don't know, maybe.”
“Oh, I know. It's one of your pity parties. Poor me.” Alex huffed. “Have you ever thought that other people are dealing with stuff, too?”
Bartholomew didn't know what to say. “I…I…I, yes.”
“So ask.”
“How are you?”
“I don't know. Mom's been sick for a while. Keeps resting but doesn't seem all down in the dumps like you. Dad says it's her stomach. But I think it could be something worse.”
“Her heart?” Bartholomew gulped.
“God, I hope not. She's been better for three years now.”
Bartholomew remembered how Alex had come in late to their sixth-grade class, his eyes hollow sockets. Later he shared how Mrs. Devinci had a heart attack and almost died.
“Me, too,” Bartholomew whispered.
“You read a lot. Why don't you come over and see what you think?”
Bartholomew felt tired again. “I don't know. It's so hard.”
“Getting a limo to drop you off is so hard?”
“I'm tired…”
“Oh, I get it, too tired to be a friend. Fine, I'll figure this out on my own. Baby.” Alex hung up.
Bartholomew stared into the receiver and thought about calling back. Then he heard Mother's bell ringing from her boudoir. He knew what that meant. More maids would soon descend, and he'd be surrounded by whirring vacuum cleaners, feather dusters, and sponges.
It was too much.
He went back to bed, wishing he could sleep this stupid life away.
Chapter10
Captain Sludge leaned back against his granite chair molded into the cave wall, and twirled his claw-tipped thumbs. Stench and Gunge sat across from him on boulders, expectant looks on their faces. But his minions knew enough to keep quiet until spoken to.
Crone, what are you playing at?
They'd been allies for years, with Crone including him in her every scheme. But lately she'd been shutting him out. What were these secrets she kept talking about? And she said she wanted to protect him?
“Bah! I don't need protection.”
“Of course not, sir.”
As he rolled his eyes at Stench, Sludge tapped his thumbs together. While the idea of the Deliverers popping in and out of Artania was as sweet as a dance with the Mud Princess, there still was this nagging feeling at the back of his mind. He couldn't help but think that this was part of a power play. One he'd either need to be included in, or thwart before Lord Sickhert found out.
“Hmm.”
“Sir?” Stench straightened his hunched back.
“No, no, don't think so,” the captain murmured.
Stench sunk back onto his rock, squirming from one perched butt cheek to the other. Beside him, Gunge scraped a jackboot on the dirt floor.
“Would you two stop with that infernal fidgeting? You're corporals, not nymphs!”
“Sorry, sir,” Gunge said.
“Is that all you have to say? How about some new ideas for invading the Impressionist Republic? How about a way to keep those Deliverers from protecting Paris? Or perhaps a new dream-draining scheme. Have you even tried to make your nightmares more terrifying, you useless waste of space?”
“I-we-um…”
Sludge stood and pointed a bony finger at Stench. “And you? My second-in-command, whose intelligence should exceed all those in Subterranea. Do you have anything for me?”
“A dream of filth for the Deliverer's mother. Where dirt—”
“She's already a germaphobe, idiot! How about the other mother or the father?”
Stench blinked his yellow eyes, opened and closed his square jaw. “Attempts were blocked by a strange energy.”
“Blocked, by a Knight?”
“No, not one of the Painted Knights. This was as if another Shadow Swine had started invading her mind but was keeping the nightmare to himself.”
Or herself. Sludge thought. Then instead said, “And you could not join in?”
Stench shook his head.
“I had the same block,” Gunge added.
“So what did you do? Give up and enjoy a cup of worm tea?”
Beads of viscous sweat popped up on Gunge's dark forehead. “No, sir, I tried three, four times before moving on to another human.”
Sludge paced from one end of the cave cut into Subterranea's wall, to the other. “Did Lord Sickhert send you this dream, or did you actually show some initiative?”
“Our great leader sent it from his stalagmite castle. I was proud—”
“And you?” Sludge turned to Stench.
“The image of the Devinci mother floated down over the River of Lies before I snatched her ghost face from the sulfuric mist.”
“He transported you to Earth?”
Stench nodded. “As always, I oozed up near the home of captured dreamer. But when I tried to snake in the Deliverer's doorway, my hand was met by an invisible wall.”
“Did you relay this information to our leader?”
Stench and Gunge hung their heads and said no. Both were too afraid of the consequences.
“Keep it that way. Or you may find yourselves in the Correction Chamber. Again.”
Gunge's snake-like eyes widened as he readjusted his army coat. Sludge knew he bore the scars of that torture chamber, as did most Shadow Swine. All who displeased Lord Sickhert endured the scalding shower. There, hot droplets dripped from an obsidian pipe and singed naked backs, burning their gelatinous hide until it cracked and peeled.
Only once, when those idiot Deliverers defeated him, had Captain Sludge watched sheets of his charred skin slide down the drain.
And he never wanted to repeat that excruciating experience.
“The next time either of you idiots encounter this blockage, report it to me immediately. Or I will deliver you to Lord Sickhert's Correction Chamber myself.”
Chapter11
Alex took a bite of his burrito and glanced around the Quad to see if any of his buds were there. None of the skatepark crew in sight, until 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 designer 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?”
Zach put one foot on the bench and arched one arm as if posing for his Instagram account. “All right, for a Wednesday.”
Alex raised his brows. “Leg tired?”
Ignoring Alex, Zach glanced over his shoulder. “Naw. Just stretching.”
Alex smirked at him. “Sure?”
Tossing his pizza box on the table, Zach winked before sitting down.
“What can I say?” He brushed a hand over his denim shirt with the rolled-up sleeves.
They both chuckled. The dude might be vain, but he was cool enough to get the message when he was overdoing it.
Alex slapped him with the back of his hand. “But I get ya. Mid-week. Mid-semester. Piles of homework.” Still better than being jerked from one world to another.
“So been to the Point lately? After last year, thought you'd be working on your skills for a rematch.”
Zach was referring to the skateboarding competition he'd lost the year before.
Alex shrugged. How could he explain that when things like dragons appear in the sky, it makes it hard to compete?
“Nah. No more comps for me. Not my thing.”
“And one red-headed lady has nothing to do with it?”
“I don't know. Maybe.”
“Speak of the devil.” Zach pointed to Jose and Gwen strolling toward them, arm in arm.
As soon as Alex saw them, all the blood drained from his face. It'd been months and he should have gotten used to them dating by now, but every time he saw them together he got a pit right in his gut.
“Hi, guys!” Gwen said, too brightly.
“Hey,” Zach said, while Alex jerked his chin hello and pretended to enjoy his burrito.
“What?” Alex said. “Still not talking to me? Being all judgey?”
“Huh?”
“Your disappearing act last week after your Tardiness is Next to Delinquency lecture.” She shook her head. “As if you've never been late.”
Alex thought back. He'd forgotten that he'd been talking to Gwen when Artania had jerked him away. He guessed disappearing in the middle of a conversation would tick her off.
“Oh, that. Sorry, I had an emergency.” he lied.
Gwen gave him a quizzical look as if not sure whether to believe him or not.
“You're choosing health, I see.” Jose tilted his head at the lunch table.
Zach opened his mouth wide and took a huge bite of his slice. Then with his mouth full of food, mumbled, “Yep.”
Still cracking up, Gwen and Jose sat down opposite. Alex sighed, glad to have her watching Zach's goofy antics instead of trying to exchange some sort of meaningful glance with him.
After a few minutes of catching up on who was dating who, how epic Lacey Zamora's fourteenth party had been, and Jose's latest victory at a recent skating competition, Gwen pulled out her phone and started sharing couple pics.
“Ahh, babe, you look adorable here.” Jose draped an arm over her shoulder.
Can I vomit now? Alex thought.
“Thanks.” Gwen snuggled into the crook of his arm. “You guys should have been there. Malibu. Skaters from all over the world. Even saw…”
Gwen's words barely registered. Alex was too engrossed in the dark mist coming from under her racerback tank. It twirled in tendrils behind her shoulders, rising toward the trees overhead.
“And then Jose said…”
Jaw dropping, Alex raised a pointing finger. The swirling smoke thickened, but Gwen went right on talking. He reached across the table and tried to wave it away, but it kept slithering out like a freshly upset nest of snakes. He extended the other hand and began flapping it faster and faster, hoping to stop whatever it was.
“Hey, dude, what's your trip?” Jose shoved Alex back.
The black fog twisted around Gwen multiple times like a boa constrictor around its prey. Her face paled.
Arms raised, Alex vaulted over the table and leaped behind her. “Get it off!” he cried, as more smoke encircled her.
“What the—!” Jose rushed at Alex.
Alex tried to cover Gwen's body with his own. “Hurry!”
Jose grabbed him by the throat and began tugging backwards. “Leave her alone.”
“Jose, no!” Gwen cried.
But Jose only squeezed tighter. Gwen came up behind him and tried to pry his hands loose, while Zach grabbed him around the waist. Meanwhile, Alex went from grabbing at the elusive smoke to trying to wave it away. He didn't notice his increasing light-headedness until near to passing out.
Then Jose relaxed his grip and they all fell back in a tangled heap on the grass.
“Moron!” Jose jerked his body to the side.
Rolling away, he stood and helped Gwen to her feet. Alex sat up and blinked at them. The mist had disappeared and Gwen looked normal. Sort of. If a grass- and leaf-covered girl inside a circle of gaping teens could be called normal.
“What is wrong with you?” Gwen accused.
“I saw…it was…dark…and you…” He glanced around at the silent faces and shook his head. “Crap.”
“Alex?” Zach whispered. “You okay?”
“Sorry.” Alex waved and bolted out of there.
Chapter12
Far away, in a magical art-created land, the sculpted Thinker gazed into his steely hand as sparks fizzled down his bronze arm. The images of Alex flickered in his palm and faded.
How could this be? Alexander shouldn't be seeing visions, nor traveling to Artania and back. Never had one Deliverer traversed their worlds without his knowledge, much less two.
He thought back. For millennia, every time a human lifted a paint brush or dipped hands in clay, a wondrous being, like himself, had been born. Over time, Artania's population grew into a perfect blend of watercolor, collage, and mosaics—a mix of multi-hued lives.
As art changed, separate countries emerged. From the Renaissance Nation, where the competing Michelangelo and Leonardo watched over Mona Lisa to the Land of Antiquities, where Greek, Roman, and Egyptian gods raced over sands to Gothia, where medieval knights fought dragons. He had watched his world expand.
Until the time of danger.
Shadow Swine horrors were becoming all too common. The new millennium brought constant tales of Sickhert's army attacking from their underground lair. With increasing frequency, they pulled his brethren below to become mindless slaves. Or at chosen times they opened their horrible mouths, and with great slurps, swallowed brilliant chunks of this land's beauty.
Like a fading photo, every bite turned the earth whiter, causing the Blank Canvas to grow. Now they were attacking the Impressionist Republic, that place where muted light and color capture a moment in time.
Closing his bronze fist, Thinker lifted his gaze to the man in the bushy beard and linen suit in the wooden chair opposite. His words echoed in the nearly empty cafe as he spoke.
“The Shadow Swine seem to have some new power. I fear for the soft hues of this land.”
Claude Monet took a long draught on the stub of a cigar and blew a wisp of smoke over Thinker's head.
“As do I.”
“The Blank Canvas grows.”
“Oui. There have been reports of new areas bleached white. The sinking village of the Alps.”
“When you ceased dipping brush in paint.”
Monet looked at his feet and nodded sadly. “I was immersed in depression.”
“Do not berate yourself, friend. It was he who painted you. His poverty got the best of him, and no one, not even I, could have altered that.”
“Gauguin would argue otherwise.”
“Is he spouting more talk of revolution?”
“Larger crowds come to listen. Many say you are growing old and are unable to lead us.”
“My strength does not wane with age, but with the belief in the power of creation.”
“I know that, but others do not.”
Thinker shook his head. “It seems that no matter how hard we try, it is never enough. The Shadow Swine capture more and more of our kind.”
“We are weighed down every moment by the sensation of Time. And there are but two means of escaping this nightmare—pleasure and work. Work strengthens us.”
“True. I only hope Bartholomew realizes this before it's too late.” The Thinker shook his head.
“Yet now he struggles.”
“Leaving ripples of despair here. If he'd just—”
