Dangerous Designs (2 page)

Once inside, she stormed up to her room. Flinging her backpack onto her bed, she pulled out her sketchbook and her new pencil and threw herself down on her purple coverlet to stare at her latest drawing.

Cool. Dark. Unique. His words. There was nothing cool about it. Terrifying. Crazy. Disturbing. Any and all of those worked and so much more besides. She stuffed her newest pencil behind her ear and tried to see something that was good in the picture. Coiling, snake-like lines and lattice intertwined, showing an entrance of some kind, broken and abused, as if someone had pounded on it for a long time – and had given up.

Tucking the pencil into her fingers, she started shading the broken slat on the top corner. It didn't look quite right, yet. But how could she know? She'd never seen this place before.

Her subconscious spawned this stuff. Was she crazy? She felt like it most of the time. Lord knows, everyone else agreed. Except her mom. And Jeff had never appeared to notice. At least he'd never said anything about it to her.

Since he'd moved, she'd buried herself deeper into her sketches to help deal with the pain of his leaving and the loneliness she'd been left with. Only in these last few days had she'd realized just how deep she'd gone.

Her pencil shifted to shade the edges of the lattice on the right. Thickening it, darkening it, smoothing the top piece and dropping the bottom down lower. Time ceased to exist as she fine-lined and perfected the image.

"Storey? Are you in there?"

Storey reared back with a jerk, looking around to see her mother poke her head around the door.

"Hi, honey." Her mom pushed the door back and walked in, her long, metallic-orange dress swirling around her legs, her brown hair bouncing off her hips. "What are you doing?"

Draw. Storey. Draw.

"Nothing," her standard response to her mom's standard question.

"Oh, that's a nice picture."

Storey raised an eyebrow. Nice? That's the last thing it was. Typical of her mom though. "No Mom, it's not nice. It's not anything."

"Oh, honey. Don't be so hard on yourself. You'll work your way through all this. Soon you'll draw nice pictures."

Come, finish it. Draw, Storey, draw.

Storey closed her eyes and let her mother drone on. She would no matter what. Finally, she interrupted the flow by asking, "Did you want something?"

Her mom stopped, her mouth open, and cleared her throat. "Oh, yes – dinner's ready."

Opening her eyes again, Storey wrinkled up her face. "I'm not hungry."

"That's not fair." Her mother's voice changed, cajoled. "You don't even know what's for dinner."

"It doesn't matter." Storey rolled over to her belly and continued with her drawing. Her mother gave one of those heavy sighs she was so good at before withdrawing.

Come play with me, Storey.

Storey glared down at the artwork. "I'm here. I'm here. What do you want from me?"

Draw. Just draw.

Storey fell back under the creative spell.

CHAPTER TWO

D
uring school the next day, Storey struggled against exhaustion. She'd slept badly, having awakened over a dozen times. Her eyelids drooped. The teacher spoke, startling her awake. She straightened, blinking several times, her gaze instinctively dropping to her backpack on the floor and the sketchbook tucked inside. With a slight shudder, she returned her attention to the blackboard and the lesson of the day. She could survive this class. It shouldn't be that hard. She dropped her head backwards and groaned. The next two years stretched before her in dismal eternity.

"What are you drawing?"

Surprised, she twisted around to find Eric grinning at her from the seat behind hers.

"You're awake, I see."

She flushed and faced the front of the class. He wouldn't stop.

"I asked what you're drawing?"

"I'm not drawing anything," she muttered.

"Then what's that?" He nudged her right shoulder and pointed to the open page of the red binder in front of her.

Straightening in shock, she realized every inch of space on the paper crawled with pencil lines. She'd deliberately kept her sketchbook stuffed deep inside her backpack and still she'd found a way to keep at it – by filling up her notebook.

Ice settled in her belly.

Did this drive...this need to draw have such a strong hold on her that she couldn't
not
draw? That she did it when not realizing? Even on her skin, like on her fingers yesterday when there'd been no paper near? Was she that obsessed? If so, how had it happened? When? Had there been a specific point of no return?

"I like it. What is it?"

She had no idea. Storey studied the familiar looking scribbles. The markings had the same style, yet in no way resembled the full page drawing she'd done last night. Or did they? Frowning, she realized this picture could represent an enlargement of one corner of that other picture, incorporating her geography class notes into the design. She slammed her book shut.

"Hey? Why'd you do that?"

The teacher ended class at that moment. Storey jumped to her feet, snagging her backpack in one hand and notebook in the other before racing out of the room.

"Wait up!"

Eric's voice became lost in the crowd. Good. She hadn't planned on listening to it anyway.

***

This was an easy job?

A simple job, Paxton had said to him and his father. "Go find the girl. Become friends with her, and if she has the stylus – retrieve it. Preferably, without her knowing. You're close to her age, so it should be easy to gain her confidence. The important thing is to bring the stylus home. Before the girl causes irreparable harm through her ignorance."

Eric Jordan had jumped at the opportunity, not giving his father, the Councilman, a chance to argue. Not that he would have. Eric had studied all he could, become the best Ranger he could be. Even more, he'd become an expert on the alternate dimension. Yet in all that time, he'd never been allowed to cross the veil that separated the two worlds. This was a great first assignment. How hard could it be?

Harder than he'd thought. Storey was turning out to be an interesting female. He'd been watching her for a couple of days now. He got along well with girls. They considered him friendly, caring, comfortable to talk to. What wasn't there to like? But if that were all true, why was this one so prickly? Then again, she was an otherworlder. That could account for the difference.

And he suspected she
did
have the lost instrument, making his mentor Paxton's guess correct. If her drawings were anything to go by, the stylus had started bonding already. Not good. The tool had been lost when a scientist had fallen ill on a rare research trip across the veil that divided the two dimensions. Soulbound items were special in his world. Important, coveted, and passed from one person to another only through death. They were also incredibly powerful. Not something to be left in the hands of a sixteen-year-old otherworld girl.

He watched as Storey bolted from the classroom as if demons were chasing her. Had that been fear tightening her fine-boned features as she'd studied at her artwork?

Why? She'd created it.

Or had she?

***

Storey ran straight home. She burst through the front door and came to a skittering stop. Her mother's Wiccan friends were meeting in the living room. Great. On the other hand, their presence gave her an excuse to hide away in her room and sort through these odd drawings. See if there was a connection in them. A message.

And that was just stupid.

"Storey. How nice to see you home early." Her mother, decked out in her ceremonial robes and her face covered in heavy paint, walked over. "Why don't you join us, sweetie?" She motioned toward her friends, all in full Wiccan gear. "We're going over the weekend's events."

It was all Storey could do not to wince. Giving the others a quick smile, she brushed past her mom. "No time. I have homework."

She raced up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her. No wonder everyone thought she was odd. Look at her mother. She'd been shunned and taunted when younger. Now most of the other kids just crossed the road to avoid her. Then there were the whispers and sidelong looks. Odd how her relationship with Jeff had brought acceptance. Until he'd left.

Life had been normal until her father had walked out a decade ago, leaving her homemaker mom struggling to make a living. Her mother had been 'finding herself' ever since. The store and a new religion had been her answer. As much as Storey hated what it had done to her life, she understood that the candle shop had put food on the table all these years. The Wiccan part, not so much. Her mother held some rank on the Council and, of course, she dressed the part, even danced outside on full moons. Storey did not want to know if the group did it naked.

Some things were just too much information.

She pulled her sketchbook out of her backpack, then grabbed her red binder from class. She plunked down on her bed and flipped through the pages in both books. And stopped. Yes.

Leaning close, she studied the images. The newer one
was
an enlargement of the lower right hand corner of the bigger drawing, where she'd run out of paper. Odd how ancient the doorway in her pictures looked. She rarely drew anything medieval or historical looking and had no idea why she would have now. What did it mean?

Tracing the picture with her fingertips, she tried to understand why it was so important to sketch such detail. Her fingers moved slower and slower in a repetitive and oddly mesmerizing motion. She lost herself in the movement, feeling soothed and comforted by the knowledge that, if nothing else, she'd created this.

A tapping on the window drew her attention. The sun had gone behind a cloud. Even as she watched, rain pelted the glass, giving everything an oddly distorted look. Kind of matched her life right now. With a sigh she refocused on the large sketch.

She stopped. Then frowned. Had the picture changed? Shifted? Bending her head, she studied it closer, then shook her head. No. It was the same. At least she thought so. Anything else was so not possible. As she went to close her books, she paused again.

There. A new line. She studied the picture. She hadn't drawn it – or had she? Stupid, that's what this was. If she hadn't, who had? She had to have put it there. Tilting her head to look at it from another angle, she realized the line still wasn't quite right. She snatched up her pencil and thickened the left side of it, widening it on the bottom.

There, that was much better. It felt right.

Silly maybe, but the change made her happy.

She switched to staring at the weird enlarged picture she'd made in class today. With the geography notes underneath, it was irritating to look at. Within minutes, she had redrawn the picture into her sketchbook properly. Now that she could see it more clearly, she realized it
was
an actual door of some kind. Not just a vague entranceway. Now it had defined edges. Without a latch or knob, yet the right size and shape. She laughed at her imagination. So there was a door. Now wouldn't it be great if that meant she could just open the door and walk right through?

The last thing she did was add a flat, metal looking door handle to the right side.

Snick.

Storey glanced at her bedroom door. "Mom, is that you?" Her door was closed and stayed that way. More unnerved by her reaction than at the noise, Storey hopped up and checked to see if someone stood outside her room.

The hallway was empty. Laminate floors and red and gold painted walls stared back at her, remnants of the previous owners.

Closing her door on the horrible colors, Storey surveyed her own lemon and lavender room. So much easier on her eyes. The rain continued to hit the window, filling the room with a steady pounding. With everything as it should be, she sat back down on the bed and picked up her drawing.

And caught her breath. She'd put the handle in as a joke.

It was no joke now. The freaking door was open. She peered closer. At least she thought it was open. The edge of the door was now a thick black line hinting at a darkness on the other side.

She dropped the book on her bed and bolted to the far side of the room. She chewed her nails, not taking her eyes off her picture. The open door stared back at her.

An open door she hadn't drawn. She knew that. Still, she couldn't stop a quick glance at the pencil in her hand. Just in case. There was no way. Really? How could those couple of lines give off such an ominous vibe? With so much power? Chills rippled across her shoulders.

Inviting her? Warning her? Freaking her out –
hell yeah!

Storey knew she wasn't that good an artist.

Could she be having blackouts? Momentary relief bloomed at the idea. Then she reached up and touched her temple. She didn't suffer from headaches. She hadn't been injured. As far as she knew, she was healthy.

How could the picture have changed without her or someone else changing it? And why? She studied the lines of the door. Flat, thick lined, almost needing something from her. Waiting for her to do something. But what?

It's not like she could walk through the thing. And even if she could, it's not like she would. Who knew what lay on the other side? A half chuckle escaped. Right. Now she
was
losing it.

Storey grimaced as she shoved the drawing deep inside her bag, then closed and tied up the outside straps as a deterrent. Determined, she grabbed her English reading assignment and focused on finishing her homework. When she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer, she dropped the book to the floor beside her, clicked off the light and fell into a deep sleep – a sleep full of weird dreams and strange voices calling to her.

Storey, come and get me.

Storey come.

We need you, Storey.

Disturbed, she bolted upright, gasping for breath. She stared wildly around the room. Who said that? No one. She was alone – and clearly losing it. Her heart banged in her chest. A film of sweat covered her skin. She took several deep breaths and tried to calm down. Talk about nightmares. She shuddered and lay back down. It took several minutes to get her breathing under control and when she did, she started to get pissed.