“What does that mean?” Emrys asked.
“It blasts things to bits. I developed the spell myself and added it to the Atlas with my own hand. As the new bearer of the Atlas, you are empowered by its magic. You alone can learn the spells within. In theory, anyway.”
“What’s all this writing below it?”
“Instructions for entering the meditative state necessary to perceive the threads that make up our fragile reality, followed by the hex’s incantations, both short- and long-form. Once you’ve mastered the longer incantations, you can utilize the shorter command words for quick application in the field.”
“So I meditate and then I say some words. Got it.” Emrys flipped the page. “Wait—these incantations are in French!”
“Oui,” Van Stavern answered dryly.
Emrys spent the next half hour attempting to enter the trance state described in the Atlas, but couldn’t perceive much beyond Sir Galahound’s eager, curious muzzle nosing into his line of sight. Next, he tried the incantations, but found the French even more difficult to grasp than the Latin from earlier that day. Every new consonant melted against his tongue, like a bite from a snow cone that disappeared as soon as he had it.
“This is impossible!” Emrys grumbled. He threw himself back onto his bed.
“If the impossible is what you mean to command,” Van Stavern said, “then it is what you must achieve.” Then, after a beat, he added, “You’re distracted.”
Emrys exhaled toward the ceiling, but he couldn’t disagree.
Finally, he sat up. “They called me weird in my old town, too,” he said, picking at his comforter. “Whether it was my anxiety or my ADHD, I always seemed to be too much or not enough. Too focused on the wrong things. It wasn’t until Hazel and I met at camp that I found someone who really got me. I thought … I thought maybe New Rotterdam would be better. I became a little obsessed with it, I guess. In a place where weird is ordinary, maybe I’d finally fit in. But it hasn’t been like that at all. Even with monsters and magic, I’m still me, and other people are still other people.”
The pages of the Atlas flipped closed, the book’s eerie blue eye narrowing upon Emrys.
“You have an unquiet mind,” Van Stavern intoned. “I understand that better than you know. You’re far from the first aspiring sorcerer to think differently, Emrys. It’s practically a prerequisite.”
“I’m tired of feeling weird,” Emrys said.
“That word again.” The book chuckled. Emrys realized it was the first time he’d heard Van Stavern laugh. It was a bit unsettling, truth be told. “Do you know its origin? Originally it meant fate. Destiny. Weird is our charter, Emrys. As witches and wizards, we sculpt fate to our liking. The weird is ours to wield. It is only through embracing it that you will come into your full—”
“I thought you said there was math.”
“—oh, enough about the math! Honestly, you’re more afraid of a little algebra than the child-eating monster. But what I’m saying is, for all my talk of ancient languages and wicked equations, the truth is that sorcery isn’t science. It wants to tell a story—a strange story—and true mastery is just about letting it tell that story through you. Pourrir le tissage was my spell. It worked for me. You will need to find your own way into this tale.”
Before Emrys had a chance to process this odd bit of advice, a ping sounded from his computer. He leapt up from his bed, opening the StrifeChat window.
Someone had replied to his question! A user named @TheGatekeeper. Emrys recognized the handle from the wiki. They’d edited tons of articles.
Looking into disappearances, huh? Be careful, @EmDash! We all know that digging for answers in NR can quickly lead to digging your own grave. Mwa ha ha ha. Kidding aside, there were several odd ones in the last few weeks. Young folks, mostly. Awful stuff. You won’t find these in the news, of course, but below are some links to the social pages of their friends and family. Probably a better place to start researching.
As soon as Emrys finished reading, a private message notification popped up. Someone had DMed him? He clicked into his inbox, where a user named @AmberBishop had sent a note. Emrys didn’t recognize this handle. The profile picture was of a gold-colored chess piece.
@EmDash Are you researching for a particular article in the wiki? Which one? Maybe I can help.
Emrys nearly found himself replying that he was looking into the Wandering Hour, but then thought better of it. As much as he loved the wiki community, his loyalty was to the Order now. Van Stavern had warned him about revealing sensitive secrets. Maybe once they put a stop to Edna, it would be safe to share more.
Emrys typed out a quick reply.
@AmberBishop Just some general research. Might have more soon. THANKS!!
Then he opened the social media links and quickly logged out. Scanning through, Emrys was surprised by the number. Including Brian, six people had gone missing in eight weeks, and yet nothing had made the news. Most of the families seemed sure their loved ones hadn’t just up and left, and nearly all described the police response to the “runaways” as being half-hearted at best. (Usually with much ruder language.) Emrys finally had to close the posts entirely. They made him too sad.
So Serena was right about something else, too. New Rotterdam seemed eager to forget these poor people, the oldest of which was just a college student.
So far, Brian was the youngest.
Emrys opened the map app on his phone and dropped pins where each of the missing had last been seen. When he got to the final address, he paused.
Casper Leonard, the college student, had been just a block away when he’d disappeared last night. He’d taken a bag of dirty clothes to the nearby laundromat and was quietly studying during the spin cycle. He never emptied the laundry and never made it home.
Emrys drew a line with his finger across the various pinned sites. As he suspected, they were all clumped pretty closely together. Was this the territory Edna was hunting in?
Emrys frowned. His own apartment building was so close. Was it too close? He couldn’t be sure yet. There weren’t enough data points. He needed to talk with Hazel first thing, though. If all these disappearances really were connected to the Wandering Hour, then Edna’s hunting ground might be just under their noses. Maybe they could find her before she claimed anyone else.
Or, Emrys thought with a chill, maybe she’ll find us.
Mark my words, Emrys. Serena’s warning tolled through his thoughts like a bell. By the time this is over, one of you will be dead.
It had the uncomfortable weight of a prophecy. Looking down at the map clustered with blood-red pins marking young lives that had been cut short, Emrys was keenly aware of how powerless he still was against the forces that hunted in this town. There was so much he didn’t know—including how to fight against them. He needed to learn fast.
A knock on his bedroom door jarred him from his worries. Emrys cast a quick glance to the Atlas, but it already looked like a simple notebook.
“Come in!” he called.
Emrys’s dad poked his head in. “Whoa, pretty dark in here, guy. Turn on a light so you don’t wear your eyes out, okay?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Emrys said, flicking on his desk lamp. “Lost track of time.”
“Serena’s outside,” his dad said. “She wants to talk to you—in the hall. Everything all right between you two? She seemed a little tense.”
