The Magician: An Epic Dark Fantasy Novel: Book One of the Rogue Portal Series (3 page)

              "Sorry, it's an expression. It means to go to bed. Hit the hay. You know, like on a farm."

              Stuart's face relaxed into laughter. "Oh, yes. I understand now. Very good."

              Connor shook his head, amused. He walked over and shut the door to their room, turned back, and changed into sweatpants and a white tank top. It was only September, but already the Northwest winter chill had settled in.

              Making his bed, he slipped beneath the covers, pulled his blanket up under his chin, and rested his head on the pillow.
I knew I was tired, but man,
Connor thought. His body felt like a weight against the bed. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, and the second he allowed himself to relax he felt relaxation overcome him like a powerful drug. 

              As though to confirm Connor's feelings, Stuart said "You don't realize how sleepy you are 'til you lay down."

              Connor glanced over to find Stuart in bed on his side of the room.

              "That's the truth," Connor responded, laughing.

              "Well I'll see you in the morning."

              "Sure thing. Good night."

              Connor reached over and turned off the light. A blanket of darkness descended around him, and he settled into his bed ready for his first restful night in too many years.

              His eyelids fell, leaving mere slits for him to see through. Not that he could see anything anyway. Sleep took his hand. Guided him out of reality down a river of dreams. And just as his mind succumbed, went over the edge like a canoe over a waterfall, a last, fleeting image from his waking life appeared. A blue light, glowing on the desk, emanating from the pocket watch.
Just the moonlight,
he thought. And somewhere between almost believing that to be so and coming to the awareness that there
was
no moon that night, he surrendered at last to sleep.

FOUR

⌛

Connor drifted, like a leaf in the wind. No sensation of falling, no fear, just an awareness that he was tumbling in slow motion, drifting down, an acrobat against a cosmic backdrop. All around him starlight punctured holes through a velvet darkness. Colors swirled in different places, some pink and green, others blue and purple, a few he'd never seen before.

              In an instant, he assembled the fragmented images.
I'm in space,
he thought.
Or something like it.
The downward motion made no sense, seemed too much like gravity. But it looked like space.

              Without warning the movement ceased, and he stood in a grand room he'd never seen before. The megalithic room was rivaled in size only by the hourglass before which he stood. Its oak features boasted intricate carvings, its supporting columns adorned in leaf designs. The glass encased sparkling white sand that glittered with the radiance of a million diamonds, a constellation of unspeakable beauty. A spigot crafted from gold projected from its base.

              Above the hourglass an expansive glass domed ceiling offered a stunning view of the Universe. Looking once more at the hourglass a fragmented memory crossed his mind.
Why does this look familiar?
An image - a flash in his mind like a snapshot - answered: the hourglass in his attic sitting with the pocket watch he'd taken with him.

              He spun around, a sharp knock demanding his attention. A man stood, golden staff in hand, dressed from head to toe in a cranberry and gold suit complete with a top hat. He walked toward an aisle of books, passing most of them, a determined look taking up residence on his face. For a moment Connor thought that the crease furrowing his brow might leave an indelible impression.

              Until that moment Connor hadn't taken in the true expanse of the room.
Grand Central Station looks like a dollhouse compared to this place,
he thought. Rows upon rows of books were arranged in a spoke-like fashion along the walls of the circular room, coming within about four feet of the walls and ending after the length of a football field. Still, they didn't come close to reaching the center of the room, where a massive wooden desk sat. The exterior walls were thoroughly adorned with shelves from bottom to top, which all contained hourglasses identical in craftsmanship, but varying in levels and states of time-telling. Given the celestial heights of the room Connor decided there must be hundreds of millions of hourglasses stored on the shelves - perhaps much more, he couldn't say.

              The man disappeared down one of the endless rows of books, the heels of his shoes making sharp clicks, the never-ending echoes of which punctuated the size of the place. After a moment's hesitation, Connor followed the strange man with cautious steps.

             
I must be dreaming,
he thought as he made his way across the room toward the man.

              Rounding a corner he saw the man still walking with methodic precision down the aisle, his brow still furrowed, still looking for something specific on the shelves.

              At once the man froze and the crease in his brow evaporated, causing the man's eyebrows to jump up as though of their own volition. Reaching forward, the man grabbed a book from the shelf that had clearly not been retrieved in quite some time. Dust was catapulted in all directions, and the man batted it away furiously with his hand, smiling like a child on Christmas morning.

              Connor took a few steps closer to the man, and decided that yes, this was most certainly a dream. The man had yet to notice his presence, even though Connor now stood only a few feet away from him. The crimson man shifted slightly and rested his staff, which appeared to be of no practical use to him other than as an instrument of showmanship, against the shelves of books. The action produced a distinct
knock
, which radiated along the interior of the room before dissipating some moments later.

              "Found you!" the man said aloud, brimming with visible joy like a parent who had, after a long and worrisome search, found a child who'd run off in a store. 

              For a moment, the man seemed entirely absorbed by the book he'd taken off the shelf, opening its pages and running his hand over them with the gentle care of an antique dealer handling a rare manuscript. After a few moments of contemplation, the man snapped the book shut in a contradictory fashion to his previous state and spun, grabbing his staff in the process, facing Connor. Before he could move out of the way, the man brushed right past him and continued on for a few steps.

              And then he stopped.

              Connor's heart froze and all his muscles turned to cement. He felt like a child who'd been caught in a forbidden room. For what seemed like hours he stared at the man's back, willing himself into invisibility, though he had been quite certain he'd already accomplished that. Time passed at a snail's pace and with the speed of a bullet train all at once, and finally the crimson man turned around, straightening his posture, a smile crossing his face.

              Unable to move, Connor swallowed hard as the man approached him. His hair fell in unkempt waves to his shoulders, and the crimson top hat...hadn't he seen it somewhere before? But of course this was just a dream, and the man in front of him was not real, and at any moment he would wake up.

             
Now would be a great time for that moment.

              The man stowed the book away in his jacket pocket, which he must have accomplished through some magical means because there was no physical space for the book there, and leaned with both hands upon his staff in a somewhat dramatic fashion. The man looked him straight in the eye.

              "Well hello there, Dearie," he said, "I was wondering when you'd show up."

FIVE

⌛

The alarm clock shattered the confines of sleep and woke Connor with a start. He sat straight up in bed, half expecting to see his room, and the crimson man within it. Slowly, reality made its way into his awareness and as the features of his dorm room came into focus, and he remembered that he was not at home, but away at school. Yes, it had to have been a dream. Both realizations brought him a great amount of relief.

              "Long night?"

              Connor looked across the room and saw Stuart dressed and ready for class. He had on a pair of jeans with dress shoes, a tan collared shirt, and an argyle sweater vest over it in brown and black hues. His glasses sat a bit too far down his nose, a fact that Connor seemed to telepathically transmit to Stuart because he adjusted them with his forefinger at that very moment. A crumpled mess of brown curly hair sat atop his head, the only thing that wasn't neatly situated. Bookish, for sure, but somehow he carried it off.

              "What?" Connor mumbled.

              "Did you have a long night? You look tired," Stuart said, smiling. "Also, we have to be to chemistry in about 20 minutes so..." he trailed off, tapping a nonexistent watch..

              "Oh. Not so much a long night, just a bizarre one. I had the weirdest dream," he said, shaking his head. "Anyway. Let's get outta here." He smiled.

              He grabbed the first sweater he saw and a pair of jeans out of the box next to him. He hadn't bothered to unpack clothing the night before, and it served him well given his current lateness. It would probably take them about ten minutes to walk to class from the dorms, and he had no desire to be late on his first day of classes.

              The pocket watch caught his eye, still open on the edge of the desk. It shouldn't be left alone. Not there. Not here. He couldn't explain why - didn't need to. The only thing he knew was that the pocket watch wasn't safe.
You're losing your damn mind.
Maybe the Jiminy Cricket in his head was right. But he didn't care. He grabbed it, snapped it closed, and put it over his neck, tucking the chain inside his jacket.

              "Alright, let's go," he said, smiling.

              "You taking notes telepathically?" Stuart laughed.

              Connor blinked. Then the light went on. He had nothing in his hands but his phone.

              "Oh, right. Man, I'm glad you're my roommate. They knew what they were doing sending me the other half of my brain."

              Both of them laughed as Connor grabbed his notebook. Locking the door behind him, he looked at Stuart, his thin hands grasping his backpack's shoulder strap like a nervous kid going to his first day of school. It must have been terrifying to start school after such a tragedy, and being older than the other students. Connor related. But something in the creased brow Stuart sported as they walked toward class made Connor feel that there might be more underneath the surface. Something gnawing at Stuart that nobody could relate to. Not even Connor.

              "I'm glad we have a class together. Kind of tames the nerves a bit," said Connor.

              "Yeah, strength in numbers, right?" Stuart responded, lifting his furrowed brow long enough to smile.

              "Exactly," he laughed. "Hey, are you going to be around later tonight? I thought we might order a pizza, settle in, get to know each other."

              "Oh, sure thing. That sounds great."

              Stuart grinned from ear to ear, and the familiar feeling that Stu hadn't been invited to much of anything in his life, ever, crept up again.

              The walk from the dorms to their class was lengthy, and it seemed that every student on campus traveled the same route to get anywhere. People bumped into one another, backpacks jostled Connor's arm, and with every crowded corridor Stuart's furrowed brow deepened further.

             
Like the man in your dreams looking for the book?
The unwelcomed subconscious voice brought the memories of the dream to the forefront of his mind again. Precisely where he didn't want them to be. He told his inner logic to shove it, and took on his own furrowed brow before willing it away.

              "Almost there," said Connor, trying to be reassuring.

              "Glad of that."

              Stuart smiled, but it wasn't convincing. It reminded Connor of the smiles his mother used to give. The ones that continually lied and were pasted on by obligation and, perhaps in his early childhood, actual attempts at happiness. Thinking of his mother caused his stomach to lurch and his mind to wonder about too many things. If she was okay. If the house had consumed her yet. Or if it planned to savor its victim now that he was out of the way.

              "PSC-41, right?" Stuart asked, snapping Connor out of his thoughts.

              "Yeah. That's the room."

              "Looks like we're here."

              This smile was genuine.

              They entered the room through double doors that had been propped open. It looked more like a stadium than a classroom. After a momentary pause to scan the place, Connor headed for the middle row, and Stuart followed. Someone had told Connor many years previous that sitting eye level to a professor was the best way to absorb information, and didn't hurt when it came to connecting with the professor, either. As though he really wanted to do such a thing. But at least he could see. Surprised that Stuart wasn't a front-row kind of guy, he thought about breaching the subject, but then thought better of it. If this was Stuart's attempt at blending in, he certainly didn't want to ruin it for him by bringing up stereotypical assumptions.

             
This place is gigantic,
Connor thought, taking the time to observe the room now that he was seated. The amphitheatre style half-moon seating area faced a podium and screen, both perched on a raised platform that acted as a second, minor stage to the large one behind it. Both stages were black, as was the carpet, and it struck Connor as something of a safety hazard to the presenter. To the left of the desk a balloon hung from a hook on a stand that looked like the kind biology professors often used to display skeletal models.

              "I wonder what our professor will be like?" said Connor to nobody in particular.

              "I don't know. I kind of feel like I'm waiting for a movie, though." Stuart responded.

              The both laughed under their breaths as students filed in around them, sitting down, nodding greetings in the cold fashion one is expected to administer to a stranger.
And here comes the exception.
A girl headed down his row, tossed her backpack unceremoniously on the ground, and plopped into the chair next to him with a defiant sigh.

              She was about five foot five, slim, was dressed almost entirely in red and black, and sported fire red lipstick - which she may have used to dye her waist-length hair of the same color. She wore entirely too much eye makeup, but Connor thought that was probably by design, and something like combat boots, but prettier. Rings in gear and clock shapes adorned nearly every finger. She was like nothing he'd ever seen, and he instantly liked her.

              "Hello to you, too," Connor said, raising an eyebrow.

              "What's up?" the girl asked, chomping her gum as though her life depended on it.

              "Waiting for a chemistry class, and you?"

              "Good one."

              "So what's your name?"

              "Kit Andrews. You?" She extended her hand loosely in a "one-chance-only" way, as though he should be genuinely pleased she offered. He was.

              " Connor Galveston. This is Stuart McElderry," he said, nudging Stu with his left arm.

              She shook Connor's hand and then waved over to Stuart.

              "Good to meet ya." she said with a jut of her chin.

              "You, too." He replied, offering Connor a raised eyebrow and sinking back into his chair.

              Connor settled back in his seat and leaned forward to remove his spiral notebook and pen from his backpack, opening it to the first page. The professor was late, which he understood to be both common and looked down upon in college.

              "Sweet pocket watch," said Kit, motioning to her body as though she were wearing a necklace. "Didn't peg you as the steam punk type."

              "Thanks...the what?"

              "Never mind. I was right." She gave him a half-smile.

              "I don't...I don't follow."

              She laughed and snorted as she did. It was cute.

              "Nothing. I like your pocket watch."

              "Oh. Thanks."

              "Sure," she smiled. "Maybe our professor could borrow it and be on time next class."

              He laughed, and even Stuart, who had done all he could to remain invisible up until that point, chortled beside him. 

              As though on call, the back door slammed open and shut again. A man swept down the hallway as though his feet weren't touching the ground. The three of them exchanged looks.
Ichabod Crain,
Connor thought.
That's who he reminds me of.
He was taller than tall and, as Connor's grandmother would have said, thin as a reed. He wore a black suit with, of all things, a top hat and held an umbrella in one hand and a small bag in the other - both as black as his suit. As he passed, Connor noticed an old fashioned silver ring with a blue centerpiece.

              As the man turned to face the room Connor was surprised at how young he looked. They were seated at a distance from the front, but where he'd expected wrinkles and wire spectacles there was only the near flawless face of a thirty-something year old man. He didn't remove his top hat.

              "What's his deal?" Kit whispered.

              Connor shrugged.

              "Hey, I didn't know your pocket watch was glow in the dark," she said.

              He looked at her, furrowing his brow. She gave a smirk and raised her eyebrows toward his necklace. The timepiece was glowing a faint blue that he'd become all too familiar with but had tried vehemently to ignore.

              "Yeah, must be the lighting in here or something," he said, tucking it into his jacket again.

              "Or the lighting in there," she motioned toward the location of the timepiece.

              "Maybe," he smiled, shooting her a sideways glance.

              Without so much as a greeting, the man flipped open his bag and began to retrieve items from it, setting them on a long table that rested on the stage. He arranged the items in a perfectly straight line, seemingly without intention. At last, he retrieved a black matchbox.

              "He's got a thing for black, doesn't he?" Connor whispered to Kit.

              "Seriously. And I thought I did."

              "Well," Connor said, smiling at Kit. Her eyes were blue. He hadn't noticed that before.

              The man continued to arrange items on the table, setting the matchbox to the side for a brief moment. Connor had only gotten a brief glimpse of the man's face, but he looked somehow familiar. Maybe he was imagining things.

              At long last, the professor finished lining everything up and reached for the matchbox again. Sliding it open, he revealed black matches with light blue tips.
Like Kit's eyes,
he thought, then blinked to rid his mind of the thought. He had to focus. Science wasn't his strong suit.

              "Good. Morning. Class."

              The professor made each word into its own sentence, leaning on them with a monotone yet somehow melodic stance that made him seem at once amused and annoyed with the selection of students before him. Some people mumbled a "morning" in reply, but most sat in dumbfounded silence, waiting to see what the strange man would do next.

              "You had the option of selecting physics or chemistry for your science course. And you chose chemistry. Which means you have at least enough intelligence to know that you want to have fun."

              Some of the students laughed.

              "But some of you chose this class because, frankly, you didn't know the difference, knew you had to take a science course, and picked one because, let's face it, you're liberal arts majors and you just want to pass through this area of campus as quickly as possible."

              More students laughed, and Connor chuckled slightly at the statement. The professor didn't smile. He didn't transition from his monotone song-speech. Just marched on, almost as though he was alone.

              "Let me explain, briefly and concisely, the difference between physics and chemistry."

              For the first time, he raised his head so as to address people above first row level, and though he was looking to the side, Connor couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen him before. The man continued.