The Blade of Shattered Hope (The 13th Reality #3) (6 page)

What if it happened again? Almost certainly, it would. Something like it. Or worse.

A yawn leaked out, almost surprising him, and he snapped out of his stupor. Stretching his arms high above his head, he stood up from the chair, then leaned forward to shut down the computer. Once finished, he turned to head up for bed, already dreading the dreams that might await him.

Womp.

Tick sucked in a breath, reaching out to grab the back of the desk chair. The burst of energy had swept across him, throwing off his balance. Once he was sure he was stable and could stand, he looked around him, searching his surroundings. All he could see were shadows draped across more shadows, a faint light coming through the windows, another small glow from a nightlight down the hall. But the house was mostly dark, and everything seemed a great hiding spot for a monster ready to spring for him.

Womp.

Again. This time he realized how much
smaller
the energy wave was than those that had hit him earlier that afternoon on the road home from school. It had only been remembering that experience that sent terror pumping his heart when he’d felt the burst of energy this time. He calmed, just a little.

Womp.

Definitely smaller. Weaker. Whatever the word was. Barely there, almost a vibration. A sound that was not quite a sound.

Womp.

A pulse. That described it better than anything else. He was feeling a pulse of energy, sweeping through the air, through his skin, rattling his insides like a tuning fork. He could sense its source, just like he’d be able to tell from which direction he heard a radio or piano playing.

Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .

Again and again.

It was coming from the basement.

~

Tick’s racing heart eased when he realized the pulse was far less powerful this time, felt less dangerous. But having it come from the basement—the unfinished, cement-floored, dark and cold basement? That was way worse than a closet.

He had to investigate. He had no choice on the matter. He was a Realitant, and he’d brought this danger—if it
was
a danger, and it didn’t take a genius to jump to that conclusion—to his family, to his home. Responsibility for that hung like a huge sack of rocks, draped with ropes across his back. Despite what he’d experienced so far with the mysterious power within him, despite what he’d done to Chu’s palace and the weapon called Dark Infinity, despite what he’d done to—

He cut off the thought. The point was, he didn’t
feel
powerful. Not in the least. Having a gun does you no good if it’s missing the trigger.

Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .

But none of that mattered. Something weird pulsed in his basement, and he was going down there to figure out what.

He realized his hands were clasped tightly into fists. If he’d had long nails, his palms would be bleeding like geysers. He forced himself to relax, flexing his fingers and taking several deep breaths. Then he headed out of the room, down the hall, toward the door to the basement.

He hesitated in front of it, as though the black shadows of the hallway clung to him like a gluey mass. He stared at the knob, a stub of gold that was the only spot of color in the darkness. The throbs of the unseen force continued, a small vibration in his skull.

He opened the door and stepped through it onto the landing of the stairway that led below. If he’d thought it had been dark before, the bottom of the stairs was a lightless abyss. He fumbled for the switch, found it and turned on the light, banishing the shadows. Before him lay the wooden staircase, surrounded with bare white walls with a cement floor at the bottom. He couldn’t see anything else yet.

Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .

The pulse strengthened slightly, calling to him from the basement. He had the sudden and terrifying thought that maybe he’d been hypnotized, that he was acting irrationally. He stopped before taking the first step. Was he nuts for even thinking about going down there? The first time he’d felt this energy pulse, something terrible had happened.

But he had to do it. He had to. He wondered if he should get his dad, but pushed the thought away. The hairs of his arms standing on end, he started down the stairs. Even treading lightly, each footfall still made a deadened thump. He wished the steps had carpet. He descended further, running his right hand along the wall, making a soft scraping sound, almost a swish.

Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .

He reached the bottom, then darted toward the long string that fell from the ceiling, attached to a single light bulb. He pulled the string, waiting in dread to see what the light would reveal. When the bulb clicked on and the room brightened, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The single room in the half-basement was maybe twenty feet wide, and Tick couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

The room was cluttered with boxes, bags, plastic tubs full of old clothes, a horizontal pole holding up dusty coats on hangers, a rack of shoes which hadn’t been worn in years, a pile of Christmas decorations that hadn’t quite been put away yet. He wondered if his mom even knew her wonderful and faithful husband had neglected that duty for months now.

But the pulsing continued, stronger now, though nothing like what he’d felt on the street. Still, it was powerful enough that the energy surrounded him, throbbing, and he couldn’t tell from which direction it came.

Womp . . . womp . . . womp . . .

He slowly turned in a circle, scanning every inch of the room with his eyes. Boxes, tubs, junk. Nothing else.

The pulse stopped. Cut off.

It didn’t slow, didn’t fade. It stopped, abruptly. A powerful silence filled the air. Tick’s skin tingled, as if it had grown used to the almost comforting vibrations of the energy waves and wanted them back. He heard his own breathing as he continued to turn, and for some reason that creeped him out. He felt stuck in one of those nightmares where you
know
you’re dreaming, but you can’t wake up.

His instincts came to life, telling him to get out of there. He—

“Atticus. Higginbottom.”

Tick turned sharply toward the sound, stumbling backward until he hit the stairs. His knees buckled, and he sat down on the third step. He sucked in a breath, feeling as if something had been shoved down his throat, clogging it. The barely female voice that had spoken his name had been monstrous. Dry. Raspy. Painful. As if every syllable sent waves of flame through its owner’s body. And it was slightly . . . muffled.

He couldn’t see anyone in the basement. He swept his head back and forth but saw nothing. No one. His hands gripped the lip of the step beneath his legs.

“Two words,” said the horrible voice. “A name. How different my life would be if I’d never heard them uttered.”

Tick concentrated on a certain spot, a dark shadow behind a pile of boxes he hadn’t noticed before. Probably another project his dad should have organized and put away months ago. But there was enough room back there for someone to stand. To hide.

“Who’s there?” Tick asked, relieved his voice came out with no cracks. Relieved he could talk at all.

“An old friend,” came the reply, the harsh voice softening to a bare whisper, like the crackling of dead leaves in the distance. “Someone who wanted to
be
your friend.”

Tick knew his mouth was open. He knew his eyes were wide, full of terror. Every inch of him screamed that he should run. He should book it up the stairs and yell for his parents to call the police.

It was her. It was
her.

He couldn’t move his eyes away from the tall length of shadow. Something moved in the darkness. A human figure formed, then stepped into the light. A robe of dull yellow covered every inch of her body, the hood pulled up and over her head, almost hiding the face.

Except there was no face. At least, not a human face. The figure wore a red mask of metal, its features pulled into a smile that somehow looked more frightening than a scowl of anger.

“Mistress Jane,” Tick whispered, his senses having turned numb. He knew it was her before she nodded ever so slightly to confirm what he’d said. So he hadn’t killed her after all.

But that mask. And her voice. What
had
he done to her?

He waited for her to speak, to explain why she’d come. But she only stood there, completely still, her hands hidden within the folds of her robe. The red mask was impossibly shiny, almost as if it were molten metal. Liquid. Wet.

One of the eyebrows twitched, moving half an inch up then back down again. As he stared, the smile on the mask slowly melted into a frown, into a grimace. The eyebrows slanted with unspoken rage.

How did she do that?
Tick could feel blood rushing in his temples, in his neck. What was she going to do to him?

Still, she said nothing. She didn’t move.

Tick couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Jane . . . Mistress Jane . . .” He was stuttering, searching for words. If his hands hadn’t been firmly holding onto the stair beneath him, they’d have been trembling uncontrollably. “I promise I didn’t mean to do whatever I did to you. I lost control—I don’t even know what I lost control of. My mind wasn’t working right. I don’t know what happened.”

He paused, hoping for a change on that mask. If anything, it looked angrier.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. “I could tell by the way you
. . . screamed, that, um . . .” He looked down at the floor. “I know I hurt you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

When he lifted his eyes again, he almost cried out. She was three steps closer to him, the mask as scary as ever, the rage evident on the sparkling, deep red surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely getting it out.

“Stop talking,” Jane said, her raspy voice muffled but strong, creating a dry whisper of an echo in the room. “Don’t say another word until I give you permission. Do you understand?”

“Ye—” Tick stopped himself. He nodded.

Mistress Jane stood still, her robe unruffled. She reminded Tick of a statue. A very angry statue with a red face. “I don’t want to hear your apologies. Your excuses. Don’t insult my pain by refusing to take responsibility for your actions. You know the nature of Chi’karda. You know the nature of your heart. You did this to me by your own choice. It couldn’t have happened against your will. Your conscious . . . current . . . evident will.” She spat out the last few syllables.

Tick felt awful. It wasn’t so much the words she’d used. He felt the meaning of them more in the tone of her voice. Worse, he felt the truth of it. Shame and guilt blossomed like diseased flowers in his lungs, making it hard to breathe.

“I—” he began.

“I DIDN’T ASK YOU TO SPEAK!” she screamed, her body shaking beneath the robe, the first movement Tick had seen in several minutes. Terror pinched Tick’s nerves.

Then, as if it came from another world, one in which he used to live but could barely remember, he heard footsteps upstairs. Urgent footsteps. The basement door opened above them.

No!
he thought, even as he turned to look up the stairs, ready to tell his parents to run.

But when he saw who stood in the doorway, confusion and surprise almost burned away his fear. He blinked, forcing himself to swallow.

It was Sofia.

~

Shocked to see her, Tick stood up and fully turned around, facing the stairs, his eyes riveted on one of his best friends. He could almost forget he had the most dangerous woman in the Realities standing behind him.

“Sofia?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“Is she down there?” she responded in a whisper, gesturing with a nod.

Tick was completely baffled. “How do you . . .” He didn’t know how to finish or what to ask first. What was going on?

“Is
she
down there?” Sofia repeated, her emphasis leaving no doubt who she meant.

Tick jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Yes!” he snapped in a loud rasp. “She’s standing right behind me!”

“Bring them down,” Mistress Jane said. “They’re late.”

Tick wilted, hoping against hope that maybe the woman would have gone away when she realized they had company. How had she gotten to Tick’s house in the first place? Only inanimate objects should be winkable to his house and its relatively low amounts of Chi’karda. And what happened to that pulsing thing? He felt completely unsettled, like the old dream where he walked into class at school dressed in nothing but his underwear.

At the top of the stairs, Sofia leaned back out the door and seemed to be talking to someone. Then she popped back in and started down the steps, each footstep a thump. To Tick’s complete surprise, others followed her.

Master George, dressed in his fine, dark suit, red-faced and dry-skinned as usual, as if he’d been standing in a windy desert for hours. Behind him came Paul, an inexplicable grin on his face. Next was Tick’s dad, then Tick’s mom, both of them looking bleary-eyed and disheveled as if they’d just been awakened.

Tick could only stare, his mind trying to convince himself he must be dreaming. When Sofia reached the bottom step, he absently moved aside and let her pass, then Master George and Paul, both of whom patted him on the shoulder as they walked by. No one said a word, and it was impossible to read anything from the look in their eyes. There was fear there, but only a little.

His dad stopped beside him, then his mom. They both put their arms around him as Tick turned toward the middle of the basement. Everyone stood in a semicircle, facing Mistress Jane in her yellow robe and red mask, which was now empty of expression, neither angry nor happy. For what seemed like the hundredth time, Tick felt relief that his sisters had gone to Seattle for the weekend.

The whole situation was just too bizarre, and he finally found his voice.