Summoner Rising Page 9

  A shiver runs down my back as I move toward him. He leans in and reaches behind me, grabbing his bag from the backseat. “See you at school tomorrow.” He flashes me a smile as he gets out of the car.

  I sit there in shock at what didn’t happen before I manage to speak. “What about tonight?”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “I’ll call if I’m feeling better.”

  My heart drops. He disappears around the back of the car, then reappears at my window.

  “Oh, and Dacie?”

  I turn toward him and force a smile.

  “No matter what you hear, just try to form your own opinions of me? Okay?”

  He leans forward and kisses my cheek, leaving me more confused than I was seconds earlier. I watch him run around to the back of his house, leaving me behind. I force myself to focus on the positive side—he did just get out of the hospital.

  “You’re far from weird,” rings in my ears as I turn the car around and go home.

  The next day at school, I look for Tryan everywhere. His desk is empty in Art, and I anxiously get through class, hoping to run into him on break, but he’s nowhere. Brennan tries to get my attention, but I ignore him. I’m on a mission.

  I remember Tryan’s house last night—dark and unkempt—and make a plan. If I don’t see Tryan by lunch, I’ll drive over to his place. He could be lying sick, all alone, and no one would know.

  I ask to be excused halfway through class. I’m too distracted to focus on drawing, and I want to try to call Tryan again. But when I get to my locker my phone is dead. Oh, man. I forgot to charge it. There are too many things going on right now. I turn to go back to class, but see Miss Nelson watching me from the other end of the hallway.

  “Everything okay?” she asks, waving me over.

  “Fine. Just checking on a friend.”

  “A friend? Or something more?” she asks, offering a smile. “We’re talking about Tryan, right?”

  I nod.

  “Have you known him long?” she asks.

  “I just moved here.”

  “So he’s not a family friend?”

  I narrow my stare at her. These are nosy questions, even for a counselor.

  She laughs. “I’m sorry. I meant, what do you know about him? It’s hard being in a new place, and meeting new people. Sometimes we put our trust too readily in something that seems comfortable and then we’re open to disappointment.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say, backing away.

  “Wait,” she says, reaching out. “I’m sorry. I’m going about this the wrong way. I’ve been worried about Tryan since he started here. He hasn’t made friends easily. I’m glad he met you.”

  A small bit of relief lifts my apprehension. “We’re just friends. He missed school this morning. I was worried about him.”

  “Then you’re a good friend,” she says. “I’ll go check on him if that makes you feel better.”

  I nod. It does.

  The bell rings, and I leave Miss Nelson with her promise, making my way to History. There, the instructor drones on about founding families, as we finally move through the eighteenth century. But I’m too distracted to pay attention. Outside the turning leaves shift in the breeze and the sun comes through the fall skies, tricking the senses into thinking it’s still summer.

  “Miss Cantar?” The teacher clears his throat. “Did you hear me?”

  I turn away from the windows as my class breaks out into snickers. “Sorry? What?”

  “What do you know about your family history?” he asks.

  My eyes grow wide, and my throat goes dry. I thought we were talking about founding families? What does this have to do with mine?

  “Tell us about the Cantars,” he prompts, looking impatient.

  Umm, I’m sure he doesn’t want to know what I’ve recently learned. I doubt it’s written in any of his history books. “I don’t know anything.” I shrug. “My mother never spoke about her family.”

  The teacher frowns. “Well then, your paper for next week can be to tell us a little something about your family. I’ll keep it short to make it easy: 1,000 words on the Cantars, okay?”

  My mouth drops open. Is he serious? What can I tell them? The Cantars come from a long line of demon summoners to keep good and evil in balance so the rest of you can live normal lives. Hey, maybe I’ll even bring a painting for a demonstration. A smile crawls across my face at the idea of Chantal meeting an Ifrit.

  The bell rings, and I jump up from my desk, but before I can leave, the intercom crackles. “Daciana Cantar, please report to the office.”

  Oh no? Did something happen to Tryan?

  “Miss Cantar?” the assistant says, raising an eyebrow. I nod and stand.

  It’s a new girl this time, younger than the regular. She must be a sub. Her hair is parted down the middle into two braids, making her look even younger. Does she know what news the principal has for me? Maybe if I interrogated her a little —

  “The principal will see you now.”

  In the office, Principal Smyth is on one side of the desk, and Brennan on the other. What does this have to do with Tryan? The principal welcomes me. “Daciana, please have a seat.”

  Brennan looks away sheepishly as I sit next to him. His leg is bouncing up and down, like he’s nervous or something. What could this be about? Does he know something about Tryan?

  “I’m glad things are getting better.” She smiles at me.

  “Are they?” I ask, looking at Brennan, but he’s still avoiding my eyes. I notice his finger has started tapping on his binder.

  “To the point.” Principal Smyth clears her throat. “I must admit, I do have an agenda for bringing you here. I’m electing a yearbook committee and Brennan tells me you’re quite the artist.”

  “Yearbook?” I’m confused.

  “Yes, Brennan is in charge of the yearbook, and frankly, we were hoping you might agree to help out with some sketches. I’d like to make it more personal and fun for the students, using original artwork rather than just some random clipart.”

  I relax. “Is that all?”

  The principal raises an eyebrow. “Are you in?”

  They both look at me with an excitement I have to force onto my face. It actually sounds fun, drawing for the yearbook, an honor. Right now, all I can think of is Tryan, so I give them what they want in return for my escape.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awesome,” Brennan says from beside me. I don’t turn to look at him. Instead, I stare forward at the principal.

  “Can I go?”

  She nods. “Don’t let me keep you from class.”

  I hurry out of the office, glancing at Miss Nelson’s office door in the next room. Closed. Good. At least she won’t head me off at the exit. I sneak down the hallway, but before I get far, Brennan interrupts me.

  “Dacie, wait up!”

  “Can’t. I’m in a hurry.”

  “I just wanted to say I think this will be fun—”

  The door is right in front of me; it’s now or never. I push it open, and the bright sun blinds me for a moment.

  “But you’ll miss next period,” he says.

  I glance back only once and see him standing by the rear door, looking like a lost kid. Guilt flutters in my stomach for a second, but then it dissolves somewhere in my gut. I’ve other boys to worry about, Brennan. Sorry.

  I wave from the car as I drive past, on my way out of the school parking lot. All the way to Tryan’s house, I keep picturing him lying injured, all alone. I should’ve stayed with him until someone else got there last night.

  When I get to Tryan’s house, I pull up on the wrong side of the street and run to the door. When I knock, it slowly creaks open. Why isn’t it locked? I push it open all the way and peer inside. The smell of stale chips and sweat makes my nose wrinkle.

  “Tryan? Are you here?”

  Silence.

  I step carefully into
the room. “Tryan!”

  Nothing.

  The living room looks like someone’s been living in it. Bedding is on the couch and clothes are piled in the corner. But that’s not what concerns me; a lamp and end table are knocked over, and the coffee table is all busted up. It looks like someone got into a fight in here.

  “Tryan!” I call out, running down the hall into the bedrooms. They’re empty. I run back to the living room and pause in the kitchen. A single cup and plate rest on the counter. I have a suspicious feeling creeping in the back of my mind; I throw open the cupboard doors and check the fridge. Nothing. Tryan lives alone?

  My heart races and my breath starts coming out in short bursts. What’s going on? Where’s Tryan? I put the lamp and table upright, then stand staring at the room, feeling lost.

  Katya will know what to do. I run outside and get back into my car, but when I put the keys in the ignition, it won’t start.

  “Ahh!” I slam my hands on the steering wheel. I grab my bag from the passenger seat and run toward the woods.

  In the woods, the sun peeks through the dense trees, casting rays of sun on the path in front of me. I run as fast as I can, as if the quicker I get home, the quicker this will all be over. When the house comes into view, I slow down. My lungs feel ready to explode; I don’t even run like this in gym class.

  I stop to catch my breath, and hear footsteps running behind me. I jerk my head back to look, but the sound stops and nothing is there. I stand frozen, feeling my skin vibrating from the adrenaline, when I hear a rustling from my left. I sharply turn and peer toward the noise, but again nothing’s there.

  My legs feel like they’re glued to the path, but I force them to move, when suddenly a doe jumps out from the trees and runs across the path. I scream aloud, then start laughing to myself. A deer! I’m ridiculous.

  I walk toward the house, my legs trembling like Jell-O. I hear something move, and look back expecting another deer, but instead there is a dark figure. It has the same tall, lean shape as the one behind the window in Katya’s studio, the night of the storm. I don’t wait to hear it call my name; I turn and break out into a full run.

  This time I don’t stop until I reach the back door. I pound on the glass of the patio doors as I fumble with the handle. I look back to the trees on the other side of the yard, but can’t see anything pursuing me. Maybe it was my imagination. Suddenly the door breaks free, and I fall into Katya’s arms.

  “Oh, my dear girl!” Katya exclaims. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen death incarnate.”

  “I—woods—deer—Tryan—gone,” I stammer between breaths.

  Katya sits me at the table and pours a glass of water.

  I sip the water as best I can, dribbling all over my chin as I shake from my exhaustion. I set the glass down and take a few deep breaths.

  “There,” Katya says, sitting across from me and grabbing my hands. “Now, tell me what happened.”

  “Tryan wasn’t at school this morning,” I explain, still gasping for air. “I went to his house. It looks like there was a struggle, so I ran here, and—”

  Katya interrupts me. “Tryan stopped by this morning. He left you this note.”

  I reach out for the paper, forgetting all about the dark figure in the woods. The note shakes in my hand as I unfold it and read its words:

  Dacie–

  Had to go back home for the weekend. Be back soon.

  –Tryan

  That’s it? He went home. I set the note down and look up at my great-aunt, shaking my head.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I say. “I saw the knocked over and broken furniture. Are you sure he was alone?”

  “I didn’t really look,” she says. “Where’s your car?”

  “It wouldn’t start,” I say. “I left it at Tryan’s.”

  “I’ll send Constantine for your car,” Katya says, standing up. “He can check Tryan’s house while he’s there.”

  A visual of the dark figure in the woods flashes in my thoughts. “Tell him to take his sword.”

  Katya watches me suspiciously as I pace the front room, waiting for Constantine to return with my car. I keep looking out the curtains, watching for any sign of him, but really, I just hope that he comes back with news about Tryan. I can feel beads of sweat trickling down my back from the stress.

  “Did Tryan say anything to you?” she asks. “You know, about you and him?”

  “No,” I say uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” She sighs, fidgeting in her chair with her hands in her lap.

  I pause and stare at her for a moment. Katya is always so sure of herself; she never seems nervous.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Hmm?” she says, looking up at me. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Katya.” I walk to her chair. “What is it? Do you know something about Tryan you’re not telling me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  My heart races in my chest. “Tell me.”

  “I believe Tryan is your tovaros,” she says as she stares directly at me.

  I start to laugh aloud, but she purses her lips tighter and continues to stare me down.

  “How can you tell that?” I ask. “We’ve barely spent time together. Plus, look what happened with your ogre.”

  “The incident with the ogre is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says. “Didn’t you think it was suspicious how quickly he healed from his injuries?”

  “It was a sprain—”

  “A boy like Tryan would not pass out from a sprain,” she says. “He healed quickly, as a tovaros linked with his summoner should; the bond gives you immortal attributes.”

  “Immortality?” I stammer. “You mean, like, live forever?”

  “In a sense.” She nods. “Truly just a little longer than most. Together you will heal faster and be stronger. Your senses will heighten, and your abilities multiply. The bond between tovaros and summoner is indestructible.”

  I turn back to the window as my mind races with this new information. Is Tryan really my tovaros? The thought of being tied to him forever makes me blush. Is he my soul-mate? It would explain why I always feel a pull toward him.

  “Why would that make him want to leave then?” I ask. “He couldn’t stand the idea of being with me?”

  Katya rolls her eyes. “I’m afraid it has to do with his past. Has he mentioned anything?”

  Tryan’s last words to me: “No matter what you hear, just try to make your own opinions of me.” Was he talking about his past? I shake my head, and she only sighs. How bad could it be?

  I jump as Constantine comes through the door. He looks calm, which is good—or does he look somber? I can’t stand this.

  “Did you find anything out about Tryan?” I ask.

  “No.” Constantine’s eyes soften, and my heart drops.

  “What did you find out?” Katya asks.

  “He was summoned home by the Senate,” Constantine says. “Don’t worry; he’s all right.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, looking at Katya. Her features have relaxed, but the unknown is still unsettling.

  “It means he has to provide a report in front of the Senate and then he’s allowed to come back,” Constantine says. “That’s all, just standard protocol.”

  I can’t help but let a smile crawl across my face. I look away as it gets bigger. “I’m going to go read some more.” I turn toward the stairs.

  “Okay, Daciana,” Katya says. “And I think it’s time you begin your next stage of training tomorrow.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, turning back from the stairs.

  “Self-defense.” Constantine smiles back.

  My dreams are calmer than usual. Visions of Tryan skip around at the edges, keeping the dark shadows at bay, but my frustration increases as he’s never close enough to be within my reach. Each time I get a little closer though, and just as I can feel the heat
of his body on my fingertips, I’m pulled from the depths of sleep into reality.

  A quiet knock wakes me up.

  “What is it?” I lift my heavy head from the pillow. Did I sleep at all?

  “It’s time,” Constantine says, standing in my bedroom doorway with his arms crossed and a serious look on his face.

  “Time for sleep,” I grumble, rolling over in bed and putting my pillow over my face.

  His muffled voice reaches my ears. “Time for training.”

  “What is the actual time?” I ask, sitting up in bed.

  “Five o’clock in the morning.” A smile plays at the edge of his mouth.

  “What!”

  I look over to my desk, where I spent the remainder of the day before and a good part of the night memorizing demons and their strengths and weaknesses.

  “I don’t do this early,” I advise Constantine.

  “Meet me in the den in five minutes,” he says, leaving my bedroom door open.

  I throw my pillow where he stood in a lame attempt to resist and grumble to myself as I drag my butt out of bed. A change of clothes, a ponytail, and one brushed set of teeth later, I arrive in Constantine’s den before him, with one minute to spare.

  I glance up at his sword, hanging above the mantle of the fireplace. It still seems odd that Constantine used that to fend off an ogre in this house. My great-aunt’s quiet gardener has proven to be much more than I ever imagined.

  I walk over to the bar, which holds various types of coffee and tea from all over the world. I pick up a red container next to me with a label written in a language I’ve never seen before.

  “That’s a Syrian tea.” Constantine’s voice startles me.

  I spin around to face him.

  “Tea is not just for the British,” he says. “The Middle East, Asians, South Americans, and many more make it an important part of their culture.”

  “You know a lot about the world,” I say, putting the container back on the bar. “Funny, not a drop of alcohol in here.”

  “Why is that funny?” he asks. “I thought you of all people would be grateful.”