Color Wars: the First Arbiter
by Brandon Wood
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Brandon Wood on Smashwords
Color Wars: the First Arbiter
Copyright © 2011 by Brandon Wood
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Color Wars: the First Arbiter
Chapter One: Mirrors
As I always did when I washed my hands, I kept my head down to avoid looking at the mirror. That green blur—the same unnatural, emerald color as my eyes—hovered just at the edge of sight, taunting me, threatening to draw me in. I'm not sure what it was that I thought would happen if I looked at it too long. I was pretty sure I was crazy, but then, I had learned in psychology class that mentally insane people didn't know they were insane, so if I could question my own sanity, then I wasn't insane. Right?
“Hey there,” Byron said, sneaking up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Hey,” I said, shaking my hands dry and turning my neck to kiss him on the cheek, making sure to look only at him, not at the mirror with that menacing green blur that, honestly, meant I had to be at least a little crazy. Not looking at the mirror was easy with Byron there. I strained to turn and he loosened his grip, pulling me into an embrace when I had turned to face him. He was beautiful with those pearly white teeth of his and that dangerous smile he flashed every time he saw me, but as I tussled his thick, black hair, it was his eyes that drew me in. I could stare into those ice blue eyes for a good, full minute before having to turn away, and for someone like me with the attention span of a squirrel, the fact that he could hold my gaze for even a second was impressive. But then, that was Byron: impressive no matter who you asked. I knew I was biased because he was my boyfriend, but I noticed every head in the room turning when he walked in. “Surely they must be looking at you,” he would say with that wry, playful grin of his when I would mention how much attention he got. He knew full well what he looked like—probably helped that he wasn't a crazy person like me so he could look in a mirror—but I never felt jealous or insecure. Once the shock of seeing someone as perfect as Byron wore off, people usually noticed me. Plus, why did it matter what I looked like? I couldn't look in mirrors and Byron was clearly happy with my looks. Since he was the only person whose opinion of my looks mattered, I didn't think too much about it.
He kissed me and with his warm lips pressed against mine, I didn't care how much trouble we'd be in if a teacher caught us in the bathroom together. I barely even noticed we were in a bathroom. “What were you dreading so severely that I could sense your concern halfway across campus?” he said, pulling away from my lips.
“Nothing,” I said, not meeting his eyes and wincing inside at having to lie to him. I was a terrible liar, but what was I going to say? I had looked in the mirror for too long when I had been washing my hands and the green blur had started to spill across the mirror, giving it a liquid appearance, and like the curious idiot I was, I had touched the mirror—just for a second—and it had rippled, two eyes flashing in front of me that weren't my own. I had pulled away and lowered my gaze before anything had happened, but it was nice to know that Byron had sensed my distress. If I wasn't crazy and something was going on, I felt safe with him. Safe as I felt with him, and as badly as I wanted to confide in him, I couldn't find the words to tell him that his boyfriend was certifiably insane.
“I love you,” he said simply, running a hand through my short, blond hair, and with that touch I felt calm. Sure, I knew it was cliche, knew that my feelings for him weren't unique or legendary, but that didn't matter because those cliche emotions were the best I had experienced in my short seventeen years of life.
When I leaned in to kiss him, I heard a man clear his throat and I knew it had to be a teacher, because only teachers could clear their throat in that stomach-clenching way that made you feel guilty for whatever you were doing and knowing that you were probably in trouble. I groaned inwardly when I saw the teacher. “Mr. Poole,” I said, stepping back from Byron as he took a step back from me.
“Austin Adler,” Mr. Poole said to me. I hated Mr. Poole—and for good reasons, too—but I had never been able to figure out why he said my name like that. He called Byron by his first and last name too, but all other students he called by just their last name. There was no doubt that Mr. Poole had a personal vendetta against me and Byron, but the way he said my name weirded me out. “What, exactly,” Mr. Poole said, taking a step toward me and Byron, “do you think you are doing in here?”
“It's a bathroom,” I said flatly, meeting Mr. Poole's stern eyes with a defiant gaze of my own. “I'll leave it up to your imagination as to what I was doing in here.” It wasn't at all typical for me to confront teachers and I never got in any trouble, but there was something about Mr. Poole that was off to me. I half-suspected that he just hated me and Byron because we were together. Not everyone was thrilled to see two guys dating, but Mr. Poole was the only one at the school who ever gave us any trouble.
With a quick glance at the mirror, he smiled and took another step toward me, placing a hand on my shoulder and gripping just a little harder than was appropriate. That's how it always was with Mr. Poole: he would just barely cross the line with me and Byron, careful not to leave any evidence to bring to the principal. Keeping Byron from just dealing with the wretched teacher himself had taken some effort and smooth talking on my part.
“Sometimes,” he said with a rude smirk, leaning in too close and whispering into my ear, “if you stare at something long enough, you'll start seeing things.” My heart caught in my throat and I didn't need to hear Byron's snarl to know he was mad. And could probably sense how frightened I was. How could Mr. Poole of all people possibly know about my thing with mirrors? I wanted to wonder how much and what he knew, but I pushed the thoughts aside.
“You're invading my personal space,” I said, taking a step away from him. “I feel uncomfortable and respectfully request that you respect my need for space.” I delivered the lines from memory, repeating what the principal had told me to tell Mr. Poole after I complained about how close he got to me. It hadn't helped, but it hadn't hurt either, so I kept saying it hoping that a teacher would overhear me and see what was going on one day. That hope was slim because Mr. Poole hadn't been caught yet.
“Byron Ibanescu,” Mr. Poole said, and as soon as he laid eyes on Byron, his smile disappeared. Byron's own teeth were clamped shut and he was visibly shaking. I took deep breaths so Byron would sense my calm and maybe cool it himself, even though he told me that's not how it works: he said he could only get a vague sense of my emotions or well being. Still, not having any supernatural abilities of my own, I did what I could, and remaining calm couldn't hurt in any case, even if I couldn't influence Byron with my tranquility.
Byron met Mr. Poole's eyes and they stood still as stone, not even seeming to breathe. Anyone who didn't know that Mr. Poole was a teacher and Byron was a student would've thought that the two were about to kill each other. I waited, feeling helpless. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't say anything to Byron without Mr. Poole learning too much, and I couldn't say anything to Mr. Poole because, well, he was a teacher. It wasn't until Mr. Poole turned without a word that I realized I had been holding my breath. The door to the bathroom slammed shut behind Mr. Poole and Byron's hand on the small of my back brought me out of my shock.
The entire experience in the bathroom had left me disoriented. Whatever had happened with the mirror was bad enough, but seeing Mr. Poole, with his auburn hair clipped short, almost in a military style, matching Byron's height, glaring with those deep brown eyes that had, for a moment, seemed to turn a dark maroon had frightened me, although I wasn't sure why. I knew what Byron was, even if I didn't know the name for it—calling him a werewolf the first time had caused him to giggle, a sound I hadn't heard from him since—and knew that he could rip Mr. Poole apart with his bare hands.
“Are you ok?” Byron asked, giving me a quick hug.
“Yeah,” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling myself up to my toes to kiss him. “Are you?”
“I'm angry,” he said, ever the expressive one. Not that I enjoyed talking about feelings, either. We had a running joke between us of the perks to dating someone of the same sex, like neither of us wanting to talk about feelings or not having to go see the latest chick flick or being able to share clothes in a pinch. I smiled at him and smoothed back his hair, mostly just to touch it again. He had the smoothest hair I'd ever felt. Plus, it gave me a chance to tease him. “Down, boy,” I said, patting him on the head like a dog.
He grinned and before I could blink, I was flying toward the wall. I didn't scream because I knew Byron was going to catch me. Well, that and it all happened so quickly that I was back in his arms before I could really register what had happened.
“You know that doesn't scare me,” I said, hopping out of his arms and opening the door. We had been standing in the bathroom for way too long and I was late to class as it was. “And if you're really not a werewolf,” I said as if I didn't really believe him, “then you need to tell me what you are so I can properly tease you!”
“I'll explain it all one day,” he said with a laugh, the same response I always got when I asked him that question. “Don't worry about Mr. Poole,” Byron said, knowing me well enough to tell that I was still upset about the incident. I smiled at him and was rewarded with one of his smiles in return. I didn't care how overly romantic and nonsensical love was when he smiled like that. “Ready to check out that house tonight?”
I stopped walking to class and turned with a start. “We're going tonight?” I said, knowing the day would come but dreading it nonetheless.
“Sure,” he said much more casually than the situation called for. After all, he was planning on sneaking off campus to find an abandoned house that my dead parents may or may not have lived in at one point. “It's been over a week since we got the address to the house,” he said, ignoring the fact that “we” hadn't done anything: he had been the one to sneak into my case worker's office and steal my file. All I had ever known was that my parents had died when I was two years old; the file had contained no further information beyond an address they might have lived at once. “Why the delay? If you're unsure that you want to do this, I understand.”
“No, I want to do this,” I said, sounding much more sure of myself than I felt. “And you're right; we should go tonight.” It was past time to find out about my parents. I couldn't tell Byron, but I was worried that once I found out who my parents were, I wouldn't like what I discovered. I wasn't worried that I'd learn that they had been drunks or crooks, but I did worry that they might have been crazy and had passed on their insanity to me, in the form of my problem with mirrors. “I'll leave the planning up to you,” I said with a grin. Planning wasn't my strong suite but Byron loved to make lists and think in advance.
“Meet at our spot at our time,” he said, trying—and failing—to sound mysterious.
“So, the boy's bathroom, this time tomorrow, right?” I said with a laugh. “Because this is really the only time I see you during the day.”
“Love you,” he said, leaning in to kiss me on the forehead. He smiled and I watched with what must have been a stupid grin on my face until he headed down a hallway. Somehow, knowing Byron loved me made questioning my own sanity, dealing with creepy and quite probably evil teachers, and finding out the truth about my dead parents all manageable, as if it didn't matter because I knew that he'd be there each step of the way.
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“Why are you in all black?” Byron said. I turned and saw his eyes sparkling in the faint moonlight. He was in his typical, “self-imposed uniform,” as I called it: dress slacks, dress shoes, dress shirt. But no tie; he left the top button of his shirt open and I never complained because I didn't mind seeing hints of his firm chest.
“The same reason you are, I suppose,” I said, noticing that I hadn't been able to make out the color of his clothes because they were lacking in it. Or maybe they had all the colors in them? “I can't remember: is black all or none of the colors?” I asked aloud as I usually did when I had a random thought cross my mind and a question I couldn't answer.
“Lack of color,” he said without a pause, the reason I usually voiced my questions. He was, on top of attractive and kind, incredibly smart. I had stopped trying to compare myself to him a minute after meeting him, exactly how long it had taken me to realize how amazing he was. “Isn't it pretty out tonight?” he said, standing behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. Knowing that he could physically crush me in that embrace made the tenderness of it all the more special, for some reason.
“Are you trying to distract me from worrying about sneaking off campus?” I asked, not turning away from the sight before us. We went to Mountaintop High School, a private boarding school in the hills of North Georgia, where the elite of Atlanta sent their children to prepare for acceptance into the prestigious colleges and universities of the nation. I hated it here and had never understood why my adoptive parents had even bothered adopting me if all they were going to do was send me away for years, but I couldn't deny that the campus was beautiful. Every night Byron and I met after lights out on this hill, under the oak tree.
“Just relax and enjoy the view,” he said, giving me a tight squeeze. I nestled back into him and looked down at the pond with its dark blue water stirring ever so slightly in the cool, night breeze. The reflections of stars dotted the pond and all was quiet and still. I hated the country for the most part, but view was spectacular, what with the mountains looming in the distance and the sliver of moon that was out casting the landscape in a faint silvery haze. One thing I had never understood was how people could say the country was “quiet.” Between the sounds of crickets chirping, owls hooting, and the breeze rustling the leaves, it wasn't exactly “quiet” out. Granted, there wasn't the sound of cars and sirens like there was back in Atlanta, but there wasn't silence, either.
“Are you ready?” I said, still looking out into the night.
“Always,” he said with a chuckle, moving in front of me quicker than my eyes could follow. “Want to hear my plan?”
I smiled at the question, thinking it was cute how he always seemed nervous when he asked for my opinion, almost as if I intimidated him somehow. Ridiculous, of course, but I liked that I had such a strong effect on him. “Of course, my love,” I said. We didn't use petnames with each other—it sounded weird calling him “babe” and vice versa—but we instead used “love” when we wanted to be more intimate. It worked just fine for me.
As always, he relaxed at my reassurance and I couldn't keep from smiling. “I'm going to hold you and run with my back to the wind—otherwise I'm concerned the force of the air slamming into you as I run might crush you—all the way to the house. I've already made the trip three times and am certain that it's the house we're looking for.” I guess I was making a face, because he frowned. “Oh don't get pouty,” he said, shoving me lightly on the shoulder. I always wondered how much effort it took him to restrain himself around us mere mortals.
“I'm not pouting!” I protested, sticking out my bottom lip. I wasn't entirely sure if that was how you “pouted,” but I went with it. Who cared if I looked stupid? Byron loved me, simple as that.
He chuckled and pecked me on the cheek before continuing. “I didn't go into the house, just to the driveway. So don't worry, you haven't missed out on anything. You know I wouldn't go into that house without you; I know how much it means to you.”
“I know,” I said, trying to focus on the task at hand and not on how much I wanted to lay under the stars and kiss him all night. It wasn't that I didn't want to find out about my parents, it was just that I was afraid that whatever Byron and I discovered that night might lead to us breaking up, and I wanted to hold him as long as I could before that happened.
“What's wrong?” he said, pulling me into him and holding on tight. I hadn't said anything, but the thought of not being with him had been such a sad thought that he must have felt my extreme change in mood.
“No matter what happens tonight,” I said, unwelcome tears welling up in my eyes. I hated crying, especially in front of Byron. “Promise me you'll still love me?” I said once I was sure I wouldn't break down into sobs.
He grabbed my head with both of his hands and rested his palms on my cheeks, leaning down to kiss me. I fell into him, my hands gripping his tight, muscular chest, and I dug my fingers into him for all I was worth since I knew I couldn't hurt him. Our tongues touched and my lips met his bottom one and time stood still and thoughts fled as sparks flew and I got lost in my irrational, ridiculous, beautiful, wonderful love for him. “I promise,” he said, tears at the edges of his own eyes. We were rarely so emotional, if only because we had little to be sad about in our lives and our relationship, and it was nice to see that I was important enough to him for a few tears every now and then.
“Then let's go.” I closed my eyes and kept my arms by my side. With a lurch that sent my stomach to my throat, it was all over. The world was spinning but I could tell that we weren't moving. Byron was rubbing my back and whispering comforting, sweet nothings in my ear but all I could focus on was fighting the urge to vomit. I had thrown up on Byron the first we had done this, and I didn't want to repeat the embarrassing experience. It was bad enough that Byron was, well, whatever he was and pretty much perfect to boot, and it didn't help that I had a weak stomach when there was nothing weak about him.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and I couldn't help but resent the question.
“I'm fine,” I said testily, knowing I was being irrational. It just annoyed me that I couldn't keep up with him. And, sometimes, it worried me: what if he got sick of having to carry me around all the time and decided to go for one of his own kind? I realized I was overanalyzing the situation, but I wanted to keep my mind off of what we might find in the house.
“Well, I'm not sure how many clues we'll find here,” Byron said, unfazed by my snippy response and stepping closer to the house that was in shambles. The scant light of the moon blanketed the woods in an eerie light and I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. I could only see the outline of Byron's body the light was so bad, but his eyes stood out even in the darkness: those pale crystalline eyes emanated a light of their own, just enough to be noticeable but not so bright that a casual observer would start asking questions. His eyes looked like they were reflecting the little light there was, only brighter. I couldn't be sure if I was imagining things; dating Byron had its challenges because he was used to navigating the world in a different way than I was and I didn't always understand him. But I always loved him, and that was enough. “It had to have burned down years ago,” he said, kicking open the the half-burnt door that had been resting against the remnants of the door frame.
“It looks like the house burned down in a fire caused by explosions or something,” I said, looking out through the burnt holes in what was left of the house that had once been my home. Most of the house had collapsed but only some of the wood was burnt, so the fire apparently hadn't spread. It had been a log cabin, once, a humble mountain home in a quiet part of the country. The woods surrounding the house looked like the same as the trees around campus; my GPS had said this house was an hour drive from school, but it was hard to tell distance when I had Byron to take me places faster than anything manmade could.
“There's clearly nothing here,” I said, glancing around the empty rooms. The house was barren, lacking even furniture, and I wondered if anyone had ever really lived here, or if my parents had been running from the law or something so had put a fake address on my adoption file.
“We just got here,” he said, playfully tugging me along as he moved further inside the house. I'm not really sure what happened after that: I heard an earsplitting noise and felt myself be lifted off the ground and there was a bright flash of light, but after that I couldn't hear anything, my body felt numb, and I was having trouble seeing.
When I finally came to and the shock wore off, I slowly noticed the sharp scent of burning wood and the unnatural silence. Not even the crickets were chirping; whatever had caused that blast had frightened the insects into hiding. Something had definitely caused an explosion; part of the house was smoldering and the fire from the flame flickered in the smoky haze that was filling the room. “Byron?” I coughed out weakly, frightened that he wasn't with me. I had been expecting to come to with him standing over me, a sweet, concerned look on his face and his absence worried me. What could be keeping him from me? He was as nearly invincible from what I had been able to tell.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a green blur and noticed that there was a small sliver of a mirror laying on the floor near me. I don't have time for this, I thought, panic starting to set in. Byron was still nowhere to be found and I was starting to think that whatever had caused the explosion had been attacking us, trying to kill us. Could Byron be killed? I didn't want to find out. “Byron!” I yelled, pushing myself up on shaky legs and wobbling to the door.
When I got outside, my heart stopped and I was struck by an overwhelming sense of horror. “No!” I screamed, though I don't think any sound came out. Byron was lying on the ground clutching his side, a pale blue liquid spilling out around his hands. Small fires, the color a deep maroon, burned in the yard, lighting Byron's face, illuminating his pained expression. His eyes were shut tight, his teeth bared in a silent scream he was too proud to let out. And standing over him, eyes burning with that same dark, maroon fire, was Mr. Poole. Blood, the same unnatural color as his eyes, was spilling from a gash on his cheek, but it was clear to me that Byron had been on the losing side of the fight. And unless I did something—fast—the one person I cared about more deeply than I would've ever thought possible was going to die.
But what could I do? Anyone that was able to hurt Byron would easily be able to crush me. Even though I was powerless to save Byron, I never once considered running away. While I didn't want to die with Byron, I wasn't going to leave him to die alone. If nothing else, he'd die knowing I was there for him. He deserved no less.
Acting more on impulse and instinct than anything else—I wasn't about to start making plans now of all times, when my death seemed imminent—I grabbed a piece of old, splintered wood and ran at Mr. Poole. Maybe I could distract him long enough for Byron to get away. I couldn't be sure how bad he was hurt, but he was conscious so I refused to give up hope.
As I swung my makeshift weapon at Mr. Poole's head, he turned and raised his arm, letting the my desperate attack hit him. The force of the collision knocked the wood out of my hands, scraping my palms and leaving a splinter. I barely noticed the pain; my attack on Mr. Poole had showed me that he was as strong as Byron, and with him standing right in front of me, I knew that I was going to die. I knew it was cliché, but I had honestly believed that I couldn't die: I was so young, and young people dying always happened to someone else, kind of like how this girl at my school got pregnant and said she had just never thought it could happen to her. My mind was racing and I couldn't stop all the random thoughts that flew through my head. I had always thought that people really did see their lives flash before their eyes before they died, but all I could think of were the unanswered questions, experiences I'd never have, and most depressing of all, all the time with Byron I'd miss out on.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Poole said, sounding genuinely surprised to see me.
“What happened to your hand?” I said, pointing to the deep gash on his raised hand. It was a sickly sight: the flesh around the wound was black, as if it had been burned and that odd blood of his was trickling out from the hole. If I hadn't been so scared, it would've made me sick to my stomach. “Did Byron cause that?” I said, trying to stall. Byron was no longer on his back; he was crouched on his knees, still holding his side but looking less pale. Did he heal quickly? I wasn't sure. Not for the first time this night, I wished that he had been more forthcoming about his abilities or powers or whatever it was. All I knew was that he could run inhumanly fast and had superhuman strength, but that knowledge was woefully inadequate for the situation.
Mr. Poole looked at his hand and cussed. “I do not like repeating myself,” he said, narrowing his unnerving eyes at me and dropping his arms to his side. Apparently he didn't consider me a threat. “You're in way above your head, kid. Leave. Now.”
“Or what?” I said, angry. He had no right to tell me to leave when he was murdering my boyfriend! The stupidity of my bravado didn't deter me; I was leaving with Byron or not at all. “Will you kill me like you're trying to kill Byron? You're a teacher! You shouldn't be killing students!” I would've laughed at my own ridiculous words if I had found anything funny about the situation we were in. “I've always known that you hated me and Byron, but I didn't realize you were a homicidal maniac!”
“You think I hate you?” Mr. Poole said, sounding sad, though I couldn't imagine why. “Not at all,” he said, taking a step toward me. I flinched and backed away when he raised his hand and he had the nerve to smile at me. “One day you'll thank me for saving you,” he said, turning to Byron who I was happy to see was on his feet, though he was still holding his side and that strange blood was pouring out of him at an alarming rate.
Before Mr. Poole had time to finish off Byron—and by this point I was sure that that was his intention—I jumped on his back and covered his eyes. “Byron, run! He's not after me; I'll be fine!”
Byron looked at me and those icy blue eyes warmed me, filling me with a calm assurance that he loved me and didn't want to leave me. “Go,” I said quietly, tears staining my cheeks. I didn't see Byron leave because Mr. Poole grabbed my arm and ripped me off of him, tossing me on the ground and knocking the breath out of me.
“Don't you understand what he is?” Mr. Poole shouted at me and the dark expression on his face made me question how safe I really was.
“Why don't you tell me?” I managed to say once I could speak again. My entire body was burning with a pain that I wasn't used to, but the adrenaline was keeping me going. I wasn't out of danger yet.
“You have no idea how much danger you are in,” he said, and I worried that he could read my thoughts. But then, if he could, he would've known that I was going to jump on his back, right? Leaving me with my questions, he disappeared in a flash, the same way Byron always seemed to pop out of existence when I would watch him take off.
I scrambled to my feet, heart still racing. Why wasn't Byron back yet? Having a supernaturally fast boyfriend had spoiled me and made me more impatient than I already was. “Byron?” I said nervously, turning when I heard the familiar woosh of wind that normally followed Byron's arrival.
“He is clearly not what you think he is,” Mr. Poole said, stepping toward me.
“Where is he,” I demanded, body trembling from fear. I wasn't afraid of Mr. Poole; I was terrified that something had happened to Byron.
“Somewhere I can't touch him,” Mr. Poole said in a too-cool tone. “Yet,” he finished ominously, and as confused as I was, that look in his eyes convinced me that Byron was seriously in danger, even if he had escaped tonight. “We are going back to campus,” he said, taking another step toward me.
Without thinking about it, I took off running for the house. Well, it was supposed to be a run, but I was hurt worse than I thought, so I mostly just hobbled to the house. I must have been a pitiful sight, because Mr. Poole smirked and slowly followed as I hobbled inside. “You need to get back before someone notices you're gone,” he said.
I didn't stop. I knew where I was going: back to the corner of the living room, where that little piece of mirror was. I still wasn't sure if I was crazy or not, but Mr. Poole's comments in the bathroom that morning had stuck with me. Considering he had some strange powers of his own, he probably knew what he was talking about. It was a desperate hope, but it was all I had. I would not let him take me back to campus, not the man who had tried to murder my everything, my heart. Pretending to collapse on the floor—it didn't take much acting—I looked around for the piece of mirror. With all the dust and smoke, I couldn't be sure that I had hobbled to the right place. Through the smoke, I saw a faint, emerald glow and I reached for it, enclosing my hand around the piece of mirror just as Mr. Poole noticed was I was doing and blurred toward me. I could feel his fingers brushing against my leg and then a blinding flash of green light enveloped the room and I blacked out.
Chapter Two: Questions
I came to disoriented, an all-too familiar feeling for me as of late. I slowly opened my eyes, unsure what I would find.
New one. I sat up, startled at the sound. I had heard the voice—a dark, ominous voice that matched the empty, gloomy, stone room I was in—but I had heard it in my head, like someone was in my thoughts. Given everything that had happened already, I hadn't thought I was capable of being even more frightened, but somehow I was. My only hope was that Byron would find me. But could he travel through mirrors like I could?
“Who's there?” I said, scrambling to my feet. I looked around the room but couldn't see much more than the gray, worn stones upon which I stood. There was a faint light far off in the distance, but it wasn't close enough to illuminate the darkness. I wasn't scared of the dark, but I was scared of this dark place.
According to the Treaty, the strange voice said inside my head, I cannot yet kill you. My heartbeat quickened, and I looked around for a way to leave. Obviously I didn't feel safe with some disembodied voice in my head that couldn't “yet” kill me.
“What do you want?” I said, trying to stall until I could find a way out. There was nothing around me, no glowing light that promised escape, no doorways, no paths, nothing. All I had was the clothes on my back; the piece of mirror that I had used to get to this strange place was nowhere to be found. Since the shard of mirror was my way in to this place, I wasn't sure how to get out. And I wanted to leave: I'd rather deal with Mr. Poole than this unseen menace and this strange place that felt wrong to me.
Looking for this? the voice said, and a small, emerald gemstone rolled toward my feet, glowing brighter and brighter the closer it got to me. I reached down and snatched it up, a burst of light shooting out of the stone when I touched it, bathing my surroundings in a green light. The light died down from that powerful burst, but the gem was glowing enough that I could see that the room wasn't as big as I had first thought, about the size of the theater stage at my school. If that thing attacked me, I wouldn't be able to run very far: there were stone walls enclosing the room, reaching higher than I could see. The sky above me was open, but I couldn't see the moon—or stars for that matter—even though the moon had been out at my parent's old house. There was no wind or breeze either, and I wondered if I really was outside, or if the walls of the room just went up so high that I couldn't see them.
“What are you?” I said, trying to figure out where anyone could be hiding. The room was empty by all appearances, but I could feel something near me.
State your affiliation, the voice said. And the number of members in your group, as is required by the Treaty.
“My affiliation?” I said, confused. Emerald light was spilling out of the gem, coalescing around me until I was enveloped in an emerald glow. And I still couldn't find whoever—or whatever—was talking inside my head. “What do you mean?” I asked when I didn't get a response.
You do have an affiliation, don't you? the voice said, and I could tell I was in trouble.
“I want to leave now,” I said. The gemstone was warm in my hands, pulsating with the emerald light that continued to leak out of the stone. “I've never been here before and . . . and I'd like to go. So, show me the exit,” I said, trying to sound as authoritative as possible. Just in case, I kept looking down at the stone, unsure what I was supposed to do to get back to my parent's house. I was pretty sure that whatever was talking to me was not going to help me.
In that case, the voice said, you are not covered by the Treaty. Suddenly a pair of eyes, the same pale-green eyes I had seen in mirrors since childhood, appeared in front of me. Even though the emerald light around me was bright enough to light my surroundings, I still couldn't see the body that those eyes were attached to.
I turned to run, and felt a sharp pain in my back. I screamed from the agony—I could feel my flesh being torn by something that felt like claws—and fell to the ground, gripping the gemstone for all I was worth.
Reach through the stone, a different voice said in my mind, and somehow I understood what it meant. I could hear more and more voices in the distance, though it was disorienting because I wasn't actually hearing anything.
I dropped the stone in front of me and reached, those claws still digging into my back. I was close to passing out from the pain, but I struggled to remain conscious, reaching further into the gemstone.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor of my parent's house, the little piece of mirror shattered in tiny pieces around me.
“Austin!” Byron shouted, rushing to my side. I tried to smile at him, but I was in too much pain. Between Mr. Poole and whatever that thing was in the strange mirror world, my body just couldn't take any more.
“I love you,” I managed to whisper before succumbing to the pain. Hot tears streamed down my face and I screamed until my throat was raw.
Byron laid down next to me, holding my head in his hands, keeping my eyes focused on him. He held me with his gaze and though I knew I was still screaming in agony, the pain seemed distant somehow. I could see Byron's lips moving but I couldn't focus on what he was saying, couldn't focus on anything other than the searing pain in my back that eclipsed even my love for Byron.
A soft blue light began to emanate from Byron and I could feel a warmth in my stomach, expanding through my entire body, dulling the pain, though not numbing it entirely. Emerald light began to spill out around me, mixing with the light coming from Byron, coalescing into an aqua light that enveloped the two of us. It wasn't until Byron's lips were pressed against my own that I realized I had stopped screaming. With Byron kissing me, my pain seemed a distant memory, almost as if my wounds had happened to someone else, and that warmth inside of me grew hotter and hotter, to the edge of discomfort, and I had to struggle not to scream again, from the pain or the ecstasy of the kiss, I wasn't sure.
Byron moved a hand from my face to the small of my back, inching down and I longed for him to go further but he pulled away, standing and helping me to my feet. “Are you all right?” he asked, and for the first time ever, I saw fear in his eyes.
“I think I'm fine,” I said, surprised. With the amount of times I had brushed up against death just in the past hour, I couldn't believe that I was alive, never mind standing. “My back,” I said, lightly touching my back. I didn't finish the thought because I my hand felt smooth skin, not the flayed flesh I had been expecting to touch.
“So, he is really is an Arbiter,” a man said, stepping into the room with us, and there was no doubt that he was Byron's father with those enticing eyes, dark hair, and commanding stance. “This cannot be allowed. Byron, come with us. Now.”
“What is he talking about?” I whispered to Byron, though I don't think he heard me because he was having what appeared to be a staring contest with his dad. I was pretty sure an “arbiter” was a judge of some sort, but that didn't really explain anything. If someone didn't start answering my questions soon, my head was going to explode. This was not at all how I envisioned meeting Byron's parents, but it was clear that his father wanted nothing to do with me, so I wasn't too worried about making a good impression. I just wanted to know what the hell was going on.
“Testy, aren't we?” a woman said, and it wasn't until then that I realized I had spoken my frustration aloud. The woman stepped next to her husband, and I knew she was Byron's mom because of her smile. Her eyes, though, were a vibrant violet instead of the ice-blue color of Byron's and Mr. Ibanescu's eyes. I could feel my face turning red, but I decided not to say anything, not even to apologize. I knew Byron would explain it all to me eventually, and I didn't want his parents to hate me more than I could tell they already did. “Should we let him live?” Mrs. Ibanescu said, not at all sounding like she was considering killing her son's boyfriend.
“No!” Byron shouted, grabbing my hand and holding it tight. “Mom, dad,” he said, sounding more nervous than I was used to hearing from him, “this is my boyfriend, Austin. And,” he said, pausing, “I love him.” He set his chin in that stubborn way of his and I couldn't help but smile. His parents wanted to kill me and the events of the night hadn't even begun to sink in, but knowing that Byron was by my side made all the turmoil seem irrelevant.
“I see,” Mr. Ibanescu said, pursing his lips in obvious distaste. “Get back to school before anyone notices you're gone. Your mother and I will come this weekend. There is . . . much to be explained.”
“What about Mr. Poole?” Byron said, squeezing my hand twice. I squeezed back—twice; it was an inside joke of a game we had with unspoken rules that he adorably got upset over if I broke—and didn't let go, even though his mom was looking at me like I was covered in sewage.
“We will handle him,” Mr. Ibanescu said with a snarl. “He will not attack you on campus, so as long as you do not sneak away again like an irresponsible child,” Mr. Ibanescu said, giving Byron a stern glare, “you will be safe. As I said, I will explain it all to you this weekend. For now, you will do as I say.”
“Whatever you say, dad,” Byron muttered, standing in front of me and placing me on his feet as he always did before he ran carrying me. “See you both this weekend,” he said to his parents, and with that, he took off and my parent's house disappeared, my surroundings blurring away in a flash. Before I could even blink, we were back on campus.
“Well, tonight was . . . special,” I said, hopping out of his arms. “Byron?” I said when he didn't respond.
Without saying a word, he grabbed me in a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. I wrapped my arms around him and leaned my head on his shoulder, content just to hold him. “I thought I was going to lose you tonight,” he said, his voice shaky.
“I thought I was going to lose you too,” I said, unable to express to him how horrifying it had been seeing him clutching his side in pain, realizing that he wasn't invincible. He wiped the tears from my eyes and I noticed that he was crying too. I never wanted to see Byron cry, but it was touching to me to see how much he really did care for me.
“I don't want to have to live without you,” he said, cupping my head in his hands as he leaned in to kiss me.
I hope you never have to, I thought. I want to spend forever with you.
* * *
“Excuse me,” a brown-haired, tan girl said to me as I sat on a bench outside, waiting for Byron. I had Mr. Poole's history class next period and wanted to talk to Byron before I went in. His parents had said that we would be safe as long as we were on campus, but I had a hard time believing that.
“What's up?” I said as friendly as possible. I had never seen the girl before; she was probably a new student and I didn't want my troubles to burden her. I was worried that my teacher was going to try to kill me—again—but she was probably just as terrified as I was, walking around our big, green campus, not knowing anyone.
“I'm new here,” she said, and I could immediately tell that I liked her from the confident tone in her voice. “Could you point me in the direction of Crowder Hall? My next class is there and this map the school gave me is ridiculous.” She waved the map in front me and I smirked: the school “maps” were notoriously unhelpful and looked like a cartoonist had drawn them. Nothing was to scale and some of the buildings were misnamed or forgotten entirely, but Mountaintop High had paid too much money to just toss them all out and make new ones.
“You can follow me there, if you'd like. My next class is in that building,” I said. “My name's Austin, by the way.”
“That would be great!” she said, flashing a smile. “I'm Ursula, but my friends back home call me Lala.” She shook my hand and I was surprised by the strength of her grip. She smiled at me again and though her teeth weren't as nice as Byron's—no one's were—but she had a stunning smile nonetheless. She was a pretty girl: short and petite, but toned, like she worked out constantly. With her friendly smile and interesting accent—I had decided she must be Portuguese, or maybe Brazilian—she would have no trouble fitting in at Mountaintop. We were an eclectic mix of students from all over the world, but there were never enough of one nationality to form a clique so we all intermingled. Not that there weren't cliques; they just weren't based on where we were from like other private high schools I had seen during one of my tennis matches.
“I just need to talk to my boyfriend first really quick, but I'll get us there before the bell rings,” I said with a smile. Her upbeat energy was infectious.
“Oh, so you're the gorgeous gay guy everyone's told me about,” she said, and I could tell from her tone that she didn't have a problem with me or Byron.
“Gorgeous?” I said in mock surprise. “They must have been talking about my boyfriend. I hope they said nice things about me.”
“No one said much more than that there was a really hot gay couple on campus,” she assured me. “Heard anything about me?” she asked with a grin.
“Not yet, but I didn't go to the cafeteria for lunch, so I'm woefully out of the loop,” I said. “Care to give me all the juicy gossip straight from the source?”
“Well, I'm the new girl from Lisbon,” she said, and I smiled inwardly that I had been right in guessing her home country. “People think that I must have been kicked out of my last school, since I transferred in halfway through the second semester. They also think that my parents are rich and donated a large sum of money so I would be allowed to go here. I'm not really sure how any of those rumors started; I haven't really had a chance to talk to anyone yet. But I have overheard people whispering things about me in the hallways.”
“This school is in the middle of the mountains, mountains that are themselves located in the middle of nowhere. You're the only new thing that's happened to this campus since the last freshman class entered,” I said. “So don't worry, it's not personal.” I saw Byron over her shoulder and grabbed my backpack. “That's my boyfriend, Byron,” I said, pointing. “Come on; I'll introduce you.”
“You've already made friends with the new girl, I see,” Byron said when we met him halfway.
“She has a name, you know,” I said, lightly poking him in the side. He pretended that poking him was an annoyance, so I did it as often as possible. “Lala, this is Byron. Byron, Lala.”
“Interesting name,” Byron said with a smile on his face. From the way Lala smiled back, I could tell she wasn't offended.
“At least I don't have a name that makes me sound like an old man,” she said, shaking his hand. From the look on Byron's face, he was as surprised by her grip as I had been.
“Nice to meet you, Lala,” Byron said, stepping next to me. “We need to talk alone,” he whispered in my ear, and even though I was going to face Mr. Poole in my next class, I couldn't help but be distracted by his warm scent: he used one of those sports body washes that really did smell as good as the commercials claimed.
“I'll be right back,” I said to Lala, walking back to the bench I had been sitting on to talk to Byron. “So what's the deal?” I said, sitting on the bench. Byron sat next to me, closer than I would let anyone else sit. His firm leg against mine was almost as distracting as the smell of his body wash. Focus, Austin, I thought to myself once I felt my face flushing, and not from embarrassment. Mr. Poole might finish what he started last night, and I'm preoccupied by Byron's touch. Well, it's his fault for being so hot, but I need to concentrate on surviving history class. I smiled at the thought, amused that I had once worried about “surviving a class” in an entirely different way than I was now.
“Why are you smiling?” Byron said, draping an arm around my shoulder.
“This situation is just so ridiculous,” I said, relaxing into his strong body. “Mr. Poole tried to kill us last night, and now I have to go to his class as if nothing happened.”
“My parents are convinced that he won't try to hurt either one of us on campus,” he said, giving my shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze. “And I won't let him hurt you. I promise,” he said, looking me in the eye. When Byron made me a promise, he kept it. I wasn't sure how he'd keep this one, but staring into his deep, calming eyes, I believed him.
“I love you,” I said, pecking him on the cheek. “But I have to run; I don't want to be late to class. Mr. Poole would be none-too impressed by that!”
We stood and Byron gave me a hug goodbye. “I'll see you tonight?” he asked, as if there was really any question.
“Of course,” I said, smiling and giving him one last kiss.
“Well,” said Lala once I had walked back over to her and Byron was leaving, “I see what all the fuss was about. You two are a cute couple.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Ready to head to class?”
“Don't really have a choice,” she said with a groan. “First day of classes at a new school and I'm already over it.”
“I hear that!” I said, dreading my next class as well, though for different reasons. “Who's the teacher of your next class?”
“Mr. Poole, for history,” she said, checking her list of classes. “What's that look for?” she asked, running a hand through her long, dark hair.
I hadn't realized I had made a face; but the thought of Mr. Poole left a sour taste in my mouth. I couldn't possibly hate anyone more than I hated him, but I couldn't tell Lala why. “He's my least favorite teacher,” I said, hoping she'd be content to leave it at that.
“I can tell!” she said with a laugh. “The look on your face when I said his name made me think he ran over your puppy or something.”
“Not quite,” I said, trying to make a joke of it, but unable to smile. There was nothing funny about Mr. Poole, not after the previous night's events.
“I'm going to introduce myself to him,” she said when we got to the door. If she hadn't been with me, I wouldn't have walked so quickly: we still had a couple minutes before class began. Actually, if she hadn't been with me, I probably wouldn't have come to class at all. It's not that I didn't trust Byron, it was that, the more I thought about it, I couldn't bear being in the same room as Mr. Poole. I wasn't worried about his safety; I was concerned that I wouldn't be able to contain myself if he gave me any problems today, as he usually did—calling on me to answer questions constantly, pushing me harder than he pushed the other students, smirking at me in that patronizing way of his whenever I would get an answer wrong.
“I'll save you a seat,” I said, trying to smile so Lala wouldn't be so nervous. I didn't want her to think that Mr. Poole was a terrible teacher: most students enjoyed his class, he just hated me and Byron. And after the night at my parent's house, I hated him just as much. Still, it wasn't likely that Mr. Poole would try to kill a new student from Portugal, so I wanted her to at least form an opinion of him without being biased by me.
I walked to my usual seat in the back of the classroom, staring straight ahead so I wouldn't have to look at Mr. Poole, who was sitting at his desk grading papers. I didn't understand how he could act like nothing had happened, but I was determined to play it just as cool.
I watched Lala walk to Mr. Poole's desk, but with the pre-class chatter that was going on, I couldn't make out what they were saying. They shook hands, and Mr. Poole looked down at Lala's wrist, his expression going blank. She pulled the sleeve of her white button-up down, covering her wrist, and she turned with a dangerous grin on her face, walking to sit next to me.
“What did you say to him?” I whispered to her. “He looks like he just saw a ghost.”
“At first I acted like I only spoke Portuguese,” she said, chuckling softly. “I don't think he's the type to appreciate a joke, but I like to keep my teachers on their toes.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering why I had been suspicious in the first place. My life had changed radically since the day Byron had rescued me after a school rafting trip had gone awry, but I had to remind myself that most people lived in a normal world filled not with supernatural beings, but with teachers to hassle, essays to write, and exams to study for.
All through class, I kept waiting anxiously for Mr. Poole to call on me, or to be rude to me as he was every day I had his class, but he never said a word to me, didn't even look in my direction. I couldn't believe that he really wasn't going to call on me until the bell rang.
“That wasn't so bad,” Lala said, shoving her books back into her shoulder bag.
“You're right,” I said, surprised. “That wasn't bad at all.” I had preoccupied myself during class, doodling in my notebook, careful not to look up at Mr. Poole. I knew that if I looked at him, I wouldn't be able to contain my rage.
“Austin,” Mr. Poole said before I could walk out the door. “I need to speak with you. It won't take long,” he said when I tried to protest that I would be late to my next class.
“I'll wait for you outside,” Lala said, patting me on the back.
“What do you want?” I demanded of Mr. Poole. All the other students had left so there was no one to hear me cuss him out, if that's what I chose to do. Fists clenched at my sides, I wanted to hit Mr. Poole, even though I knew I couldn't hurt him.