The Felix Chronicles: Freshmen (34 page)

“And that’s where you met my mom?” Felix exclaimed incredulously. “My mom the mental patient? Is she still in the loony bin?”

Bill dropped his chin and stared down at his lap. “No. She um… she died… just a few… just a few days after we met. You were just a baby at the time.” His voice was thick and hitching. He looked up at Felix. “I’m sorry. I really am. I wish that she…” He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment, then looked away.

A sudden wave of confusion swept over Felix. Was it possible, he asked himself, that Bill wasn’t crazy?
Was any of this possible?
There were pictures all over his house and photo albums down in the basement, but he couldn’t recall if he’d ever seen a picture of his mom pregnant. He didn’t think so, but what did that prove?

“She gave this to me before she passed away.” Bill nodded at the journal. “I promised her I’d give it to you. Just read it. Please. It’ll all make sense.”

Felix reached out for it. Then he hesitated, his hand hovering over the journal like it was a chess board, and he, an indecisive player dithering over his next move.
Bill was screwing with him
, he told himself. He had to be. He
was
crazy. Why else would he be trying to convince him that he was adopted? If he opened the cover, he’d be playing into his sick twisted game. All at once, he was furious—and deeply insulted—that this guy thought he could manipulate him so easily.

Felix snatched his hand away and jumped up from his chair.

“Dammit!” Bill shouted.

Felix was about to tell the groundskeeper to go screw himself when he realized there was a bat in his face. Not a little wooden souvenir bat, but a long heavy-barreled aluminum number with bright black and yellow letters spelling out EASTON. The kind of bat that can crush a skull like an empty beer can.

“What the?”
Felix said in disbelief.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Bill said evenly. He’d gotten to his feet. The guy was quick. Ninja quick. “If you try, you’ll be leaving with a rather serious limp.”

Felix was frozen with shock. He knew that he should be doing something—threatening to call the police maybe? But his lips were as petrified as the rest of him. He just mumbled, “What the?” again.

Bill’s face was a mask. “I’ve sacrificed everything for this moment.
Everything.
You’re going to read the journal. And that’s the end of it. I don’t want to hurt you.” He paused. “But I will if I have to.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Don’t try me. And in case you’re thinking about using your cell”—he tilted his chin to indicate the outline of a phone in Felix’s front pocket—“I’ll break your goddamn fingers. Now sit your ass down and do as I say.” Then he paused again and bellowed: “Sit!”

Felix stayed put, afraid to move. Bill was big, agile, and he looked strong. He was also clearly out of his mind. Felix glanced over at the door and wondered if he could make it. Not a chance. Not before Bill got in a couple of swings anyway. And the window was useless: too small to squeeze through without a lot of body contorting (which would take time), and even if he could manage that, an awkward fall from the third floor would probably shatter most of the bones in his body.

Bill’s expression told him that he knew what he was thinking. And so did his actions: He drew the bat back like he was about to swing for the fences.

Felix slumped into his chair, resigned.

Bill remained standing, gripping the bat in his hands like he knew how to handle it. He exhaled slowly, staring down at Felix. “Look—I didn’t want to do that. I really didn’t. But you gave me no choice. There’s too much at stake. You simply don’t have the option of not hearing me out, okay?”

“So spit it out!” Felix snapped through his teeth.

“All you have to do is read the journal. That’s it. After that, you’re free to go. I promise I won’t try to stop you.”

“Fine.” Felix eyed him warily. He had no reason to trust him, but as long as he had the bat, what choice did he have?  “Give it to me.”

Using his middle finger, Bill slid the journal across the table until it rested in front of Felix.

“You’re seriously crazy, you know. A baseball bat? Really? You won’t get away with this.” Felix had already decided that as soon as he got out of here, he would go straight to campus security. They could deal with this crazy asshole.

“Just turn the cover, Felix. Please. Please.”

Felix glanced up at him. The guy was
pleading
with him. He sounded desperate, like he was begging for his life. Why did he want him to read it so badly? And again, Felix thought about his mom, wracking his brain to remember if he’d ever seen a photo of her pregnant.

“As a show of good faith, I’ll leave the bat here.” Bill placed it on the floor, barrel down, propped up against his chair. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. When you’re done, we’ll talk. Deal?” And then he walked away, crossing the office to his desk.

Felix was all alone at the table.

Now he was really confused. Bill was preoccupied; he was actually pouring himself a cup of tea at his desk. And the bat was his for the taking if he wanted it. He could easily get to it before Bill. It was right in front of him. But he didn’t even need it. He could make it to the door before Bill finished filling his cup. He would be out of the building and long gone. There was no way he could catch him. Bill was practically inviting him to take off. Then he looked down at the journal, and all thoughts of escape instantly melted away. It exerted a strange power over him, compelling him to stay. Something inside him wanted to know—
had to know
—what was in it.  He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t just walk away from this. He opened the cover, throwing a quick glance at Bill. Then he placed his forearms on either side of the tattered little book and looked down.

His eyes moved over the lines and swoops and curves, and then the words they formed began to fill his mind. His vision misted and blurred and the world shuddered, rippling suddenly out of focus. There was no Portland College, no Stamford Building. No table. No chair. No crazy man with a bat. Just Felix and the words on the page. But the words were more than just collections of letters sequenced to reflect the thoughts of their owner; they were living things that breathed their meaning inside him, tearing through him like a storm, creating a new reality from the vestiges of the old one. The rhythmic beat of a heart pounded violently in his ears—
th-thump th-thump th-thump
—and as he wondered dully if it was his or the journal’s, his consciousness ebbed steadily away until all sense of self was lost and only the words remained.

Elissa, time is short. I have only minutes before Lyndsey comes for this. She will find you. Six months before your 28
th
birthday, you will immaculately conceive a child—a boy. Do not be scared. You must protect your son at all costs. I love you. You will soon understand why I sent you away.

I will start from the beginning. The Ancients discovered it. Some say the Egyptians were the first, others the Mesopotamians, and still others say it was the peoples who dwelled in the jungles west of the Great River. The knowledge of its discovery has been lost to time. But it was the Druids who adopted it as their God and worshipped it, unlocking its secrets. It was they who named it the SOURCE, the wellspring from which all life flows, the energy that if darkened will extinguish the sun and all life with it. The Druids ritualized the training of those rare individuals born with the gift to draw energy from it to manipulate what most consider the natural order of things. They called them ‘Sourcerors’ and they were honored above all others. It was the mightiest among them, a man named Myrddin, whose prophecy forever changed the world.

Myrddin’s prophecy, known as THE WARNING, is a vision of the future that has been passed down through the ages: It tells us that we have a symbiotic relationship with the Source. It is not just an unalterable wellspring of energy—the Source is like a mirror that absorbs and reflects the state of humankind, constantly changing as we change. In the beginning, the Source was perfect and we were not the base creatures we are today, practically immortal, living without disease or hardship. But with each act of human cruelty, each act of human evil, we damaged ourselves, and in turn, we damaged the Source. It is a cycle that is vicious like no other: as the Source diminishes and darkens, so does human nature, heralding a final tipping point—the SUFFERING TIMES. On that day of judgment, if the Source is not healed, it will die, and none shall be left to witness its passing.

Yet the Source cannot be healed unless we heal ourselves. Our relationship with the source is one of mutual dependency, and as such, the Source can only be repaired through our actions—humankind must first be healed. To restore itself, the Source will deliver the two fated ones. The first will be the DRESTIAN. If he prevails, nations will burn, armies will fall at his feet, and all who refuse to succumb to his rule will be slaughtered like sheep. The Drestian will restore the Source, but at a steep cost: our freedoms will be stripped from us and we shall become his slaves. The second will be a boy born to a woman undefiled—the BELUS—and only he can defeat the Drestian. If the Belus prevails, then we must restore the Source through our own deeds for the Belus cannot restore the Source on his own. We shall be free. Free to repair what we have damaged and free to destroy what was once perfect. Our fate, and the fate of the world, will be in our own hands.

Centuries passed. The Emperor Constantine learned of The Warning and prepared for the arrival of the fated ones. He sought out all Sourcerors and created a secret society—the Order of Belus, which he organized into five Fortresses, each led by a master Sourceror, its purpose to find the Belus.

But it is not in man’s nature to endure consensus for long. A faction within the Order soon emerged that did not share the belief that the Belus was the path to humanity’s salvation. This rival group of Sourcerors, calling themselves DRESTIANITES, believed that non-Sourcerors—‘WISPS’—were responsible for damaging the Source, and therefore deserving of the punishment and enslavement foretold by The Warning. While the Wisps will be reduced to slavery by the Drestian, the Drestianites believe they will be rewarded for their loyalty and will rule the world alongside him.

Even before the Order split into opposing factions, they were harassed at every turn by the PROTECTORS, a society of assassins who viewed themselves as the guardians of the Source. The Protector’s philosophy is simple: Sourcerors damaged the Source by going beyond their intended boundaries to use it for their own selfish needs; if they are allowed to live, they will eventually destroy it, causing all life to come to an end.  The only way to guarantee the survival of the Source, therefore, is to kill every last Sourceror, regardless of whether they owe their allegiance to the Belus or the Drestian. From the time of Constantine, the Protectors have kept records of the Sourceror bloodlines and have tirelessly tracked down and killed anyone with a drop of Sourceror blood.

For a thousand years, there was a kind of uneasy balance. The Order searched for the Belus, the Drestianites awaited the Drestian, and both waged war against the Protectors, and sometimes, each other. Then in the year 1250, a Sourceror named Isabella became the master of the First Fortress and everything changed. The leader of the Drestianites convinced her to relinquish her loyalty—to join the Drestianites—and they made a pact: He would abdicate his title to her, and in return, she would sacrifice the entire Order. The pact would forever be known as Isabella’s Deceit.

Isabella called a gathering of the five Fortresses to a forest in northern France. It was there that the Drestianites sprung their trap. But before they could finish their ambush, they themselves were ambushed. The Protectors had learned of the gathering and had allied themselves with King Louis IX, who desired the vast treasures the Order was rumored to possess in its Fortresses. The King’s archers let loose their arrows, raining down death upon the unsuspecting Sourcerors, the Order and the Drestianites alike. When the last arrow fell, men on horses clad in armor and foot soldiers with long spears and tall shields attacked from all sides.

Nearly every Sourceror was killed in the initial onslaught, yet those who survived unleashed their wrath upon King Louis’ army in a manner that will never be forgotten. During the battle, the earth heaved, the heavens thundered, and the forest was leveled. When it was over, the number of dead could not easily be counted. The King’s army had been wiped clean from the land. Thousands of Protectors lay dead. And of the Drestianites and the Order of Belus, all but a few left their lives on the field of battle—including Isabella. It is said that so many lives were lost that day the land itself perished. The rivers ran red and the skies cried tears of blood for a hundred years.

King Louis ransacked the Fortresses and burned the Order’s strongholds to the ground. The Order was scattered across Europe, too weak and too disorganized to recruit new Sourcerors. The Protectors intensified their offensive, and like bloodhounds, the assassins tracked down the Sourcerors and murdered them. The fight was over. The Protectors had won. There was only one thing left to do. In order to survive, the last of the Sourcerors went into hiding.

Our family name is Tinshire, Elissa. We were once the most powerful of the Sourceror families. But after Isabella’s Deceit, we survived by hiding in the shadows, moving from country to country and from town to town, changing our names, and separating at the first sign that the Protectors had discovered us.

Our numbers dwindled. Many Tinshires did not even know the name Tinshire. But that did not stop the Protectors from killing our young in their cribs. They knew who we were even when we were blind to our own identities. The Tinshires were on the verge of extinction. And then a very strange thing occurred. There were two Tinshire sisters one year apart in age. The older sister became pregnant and had a girl. Then the younger sister became pregnant with a girl—but she was a virgin. She became pregnant when she was exactly the same age as when her sister had become pregnant. The Tinshires call this phenomenon the CYCLE. The Cycle repeats itself whenever there are two sisters and the older of the two becomes pregnant. We believe the Cycle is the Source’s way of preserving the Tinshire bloodline.