THIRTEEN

Thomas read the clock through bleary eyes. 6:56. He opened the slats and peered through his window. The driveway was empty, his mom’s car already gone. He yawned and burrowed back into the covers. A thought flashed through his mind and suddenly he was wide awake. The wooden box was in his hands so quickly he hardly noticed himself climbing out of bed. He pulled the key out of the drawer and slid it into the lock, the electrical jolt hardly registering above the excitement.

The lid popped open. Thomas’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The creature was peeking out through leaves that were tinted green. Green! Blood pounded into his ears, filling his head with a swift rushing sound.

“What the—?”

Thomas stared, thunderstruck. The other changes were subtle; shifts in the positioning of the vine, faint hints of color in other parts of the picture. He ran his hands over the cover, trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. Color-changing technology? Maybe such a thing existed, but on an ancient leather book? And on top of the other changes?

Only one word seemed to fit. Magic. The thought echoed in the back of his head as he muddled his way through the next chapter. The pages swam and blurred as he grasped for an explanation for the changing cover. Near the end of his third read, his mind snapped into attention.

Then into the mind of Isham cometh a beast, terrible 
to behold, with the countenance of a lion, yet with 
body laden with snakelike scales. Unbidden hast the creature entered the mind of Isham, and unbidden do the words of his mouth describe the shape thereof, and behold! the creature appeareth in the sky, woven of smoke and dust.

Yet though the creature liveth not, the people cry out in fear, for the beast increaseth in size until the shadow thereof doth cover them all. Yea, greater than any creature born of land or sea is the beast wrought by the mouth of Isham, monstrous of countenance and dreadful to behold.

Fear riseth also in Isham, for the face of death filleth his thoughts and stirreth his heart; but the words of his mouth wilt not cease. Nay, Isham canst not cease, but rather speaketh of the vengeance wherewith the creature dost strike; and behold! the beast devoureth many whose forms the storyteller didst call forth in the telling of his tale.

And above Asharia, the beast seemeth to become a living thing, clothed in flesh, ready to spring forth from thought to being. The people then flee unto their dwellings, yet the beast entereth not into the village, but departeth into the deepening sky.

Why couldn’t Isham stop speaking? Without thinking, Thomas nearly turned the page to the start of the next chapter. Instead, he closed the book and stared at the cover. The undeniable changes stared back, hinting at things he couldn’t begin to understand. The red light on his digital clock caught the corner of his eye. 7:49. What? His heart jumped into his throat. Eleven minutes to get out the door and to the bus stop. Not good. Not good at all.

He swore at himself as he tucked The Book of Sorrows under his bed, pulled on yesterday’s jeans, grabbed a fresh t-shirt, and splashed water in his hair. The scramble paid off. Ten minutes later he was climbing onto the bus, backpack in hand and tiny beads of sweat lining his forehead. Thomas slid down the aisle, sidestepping Parker’s deliberately flung-out leg and grabbing the last empty seat. A wad of paper thumped him in the cheek as he sat down. He ignored it, along with the chorus of cruel chuckles, and looked around.

Peggy was a few rows up, chatting brightly with her friends. Across the aisle, Akhil sat with his forehead pressed into the window. There was a grass stain on his shoulder and a welt on the back of his neck. Thomas’s blood boiled.

“Akhil. Hey, Akhil.” If the older boy heard his name being called, he didn’t show it. Thomas tried again, slightly louder. Akhil continued to stare out the window.

The bus pulled away from the curb, bouncing as the driver shifted gears. The brakes squeaked as they pulled up in front of the stop sign at the end of the street. As they slowed, Thomas felt a familiar shiver tickle the back of his neck.

He looked around, wondering who was looking at him. The other kids were either absorbed in their own conversations or working on laptops. Nobody on the bus was paying any attention to him at all. He glanced outside. His eyes landed on a beige van idling at the corner ahead. Somebody with unbelievably thick arms and massive shoulders was hunched over the steering wheel, face hidden behind the dark window. The entire van tilted toward the driver’s side of the vehicle.

Thomas couldn’t see the eyes of the enormous watcher, but he could feel them. The man was watching. A shiver ran down Thomas’s scalp and raised goosebumps on his forearms.

The bus jolted forward and turned, a little too crisply, sending Thomas sliding sideways in his seat. He caught his balance and glanced through the window as the van disappeared from sight. It didn’t follow, but a lingering uneasiness settled in Thomas’s gut. He leaned back in his seat, the attempt to connect with Akhil temporarily forgotten.

• • •

After school, Thomas scrambled down the steps of the city bus, hopped to the sidewalk, and took a hard right. For the second time he plowed into the tiny woman with the dragon pendant. For the second time, she put a steadying hand on Thomas’s arm and froze him in place. This time, her visor was tilted upward, revealing a face that was ageless, distinctly Chinese and entirely unsurprised by the apparent coincidence.

Thomas met her dark eyes, and something flashed in his mind, shapeless and powerful, a giant thing moving through his thoughts. She was speaking.

“. . . be very careful.”

Before he could think or ask questions, she was gone, moving briskly down the sidewalk. He stared after her, not at all certain what to think or how to react. Careful of what?

Deeply and inexplicably unsettled, Thomas jogged the last three blocks to the bookstore, hustling past everyone and everything until his thumb was pressing on the old-fashioned latch. He pulled on the door. It rattled, but the handle didn’t budge.

He tried again, pulling harder. Nothing. His eyes shifted, settling on a beige envelope taped to the upper left corner of the door. His name was scrawled on the outside in large, thin letters. He pulled the envelope down and tore it open.

Dear Thomas,

Sorry we couldn’t be here to meet you today, but Adelia and I had to attend to an urgent matter. By now, you’ve undoubtedly started reading the book, and perhaps have begun to realize how special it is. Instead of helping here, your assignment is to learn everything you can about the book and its history. We’ll meet here next Monday at 4:30 to discuss your findings.

Sincerely yours,

Huxley

Thomas’s heart dropped all the way down to his stomach. No Huxley. No Adelia. No answers. Not even a few minutes inside of the shop. He pounded the door hard enough to rattle the handle. He hit it again. A stab of pain ran up his arm. The only answer from inside was silence. He slumped forward, his forehead thumping into the door.

“Oww,” grunted Thomas, as much from disappointment as pain.

A musical note cut suddenly through the silence, hummed in the same tune that called him down 16th street in the first place. A shiver ran up Thomas’s spine, spreading across his scalp like a dozen scuttling spiders. Olive caught his eye, a flash of movement just at the edge of his sight.

Thomas spun around, expecting to see the man with the tangled black hair. There was nobody there. The street was empty except for a woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of her shop at the corner of Main.

The musical note hung in the air for a long moment, and then was gone. Cars sped past as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Thomas felt eyes on the back of his head. He whirled around, but again, there was nobody there.

He turned and sped up the street, brushing past a stray pedestrian at the corner and turning onto Main at a near run. Cars and trucks rumbled past. A woman in neon spandex jogged in the bike lane, pushing a pair of yipping Chihuahuas in a modified stroller. Businessmen and women passed by, oblivious to everyone and everything that wasn’t work.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder. Sixteenth Street was essentially empty, vacant except for the lone sweeper in front of her shop. There was no sign of the man in the olive overcoat, no hint of humming or music. Just nerves. That’s all. It was nothing but nerves.