The Summoning (Darkest Powers 1)

The twisted lips parted. “Maybe now you'll pay attention to me. ”

I ran headlong down the hall. As I flew past one classroom door, it opened.

“Chloe?” A man's voice.

I kept running.

“Talk to me!” the horrible, garbled voice snarled, getting closer. “Do you know how long I've been trapped here?”

I flew through the doors into the stairwell and headed up.

Up? All the stupid heroines go up!

I veered across the landing and hit the next set of stairs.

The custodian limped up the flight below, fingers clutching the railing, melted fingers, bone peeking through—

I barreled through the doors and raced along the main hall.

“Listen to me, you selfish brat. All I want is five minutes—”

I swerved into the nearest empty classroom and slammed the door. As I backed into the center of the room, the custodian stepped through the door. Right through it. That awful melted face was gone, and he was normal again.

“Is that better? Now will you stop screaming and talk to—”

I darted to the window and started looking for a way to open it, then saw how far down it was. At least thirty feet… onto pavement.

“Chloe!”

The door flew open. It was the vice principal, Ms. Waugh, with my math teacher, Mr. Travis, and a music teacher whose name I couldn't remember. Seeing me at the window, Ms. Waugh threw out her arms, blocking the two men.

“Chloe?” she said, voice low. “Honey, you need to step away from that window. ”

“I was just—”

“Chloe…”

Confused, I glanced back toward the window.

Mr. Travis shot past Ms. Waugh and tackled me. As we hit the floor, the air flew out of my lungs. Scrambling off, he accidentally kneed me in the stomach. I fell back, doubled over, wheezing.

I opened my eyes to see the custodian standing over me. I screamed and tried to get up, but Mr. Travis and the music teacher held me down while Ms. Waugh babbled into a cell phone.

The custodian leaned through Mr. Travis. “Now will you talk to me, girl? Can't get away. ”

I thrashed, kicking at the custodian, trying to pull away from the teachers. They only held me tighter. I vaguely heard Ms. Waugh calling that help was on the way. The custodian pushed his face into mine and it changed to that horrible melted mask, so close I was staring into his one bulging eye, almost out of its socket.

I chomped down on my tongue so I wouldn't scream. Blood filled my mouth. The more I fought, the harder the teachers restrained me, twisting my arms, pain stabbing through me.

“Can't you see him?” I shouted. “He's right there. Please. Please, please, please. Get him away from me. Get him away!”

They wouldn't listen. I continued to struggle, to argue, but they held me still as the burned man taunted me.

Finally, two men in uniforms hurried through the door. One helped the teachers restrain me while the other moved behind, out of my sight. Fingers tightened on my forearm.

Then a needle prick. Ice slid through my veins.

The room started to sway. The custodian faded, blinking in and out.

“No!” he yelled. “I need to speak to her. Don't you understand? She can hear me. I only want to…”

His voice faded as the paramedics lowered me onto a stretcher. It rose, swaying. Swaying . . . like an elephant. I'd rode one once, with my mom, at the zoo, and my mind slipped back there, Mom's arms around me, her laughter—

The custodian's howl of rage sliced through my memory. “Don't take her away. I need her!”

Swaying. The elephant swaying. Mom laughing…

Four

I SAT ON THE EDGE of my hospital bed and tried to persuade myself I was still asleep. That was the best explanation for what I was hearing. I could also chalk it up to delusional, but I preferred dreaming.

Aunt Lauren sat beside me, holding my hand. My eyes went to the nurses gliding past in the corridor. She followed my gaze, rose, and shut the door. Through a glaze of tears, I watched her and pictured Mom instead. Something inside me crumpled, and I was six years old, huddled on the bed, crying for my mother.

I rubbed my hands over the covers, stiff and scratchy, catching at my dry skin. The room was so hot every breath made my parched throat tighten. Aunt Lauren handed me my water, and I wrapped my hands around the cool glass. The water had a metallic taste, but I gulped it down.

“A group home,” I said. The walls seemed to suck the words from my mouth, like a sound stage, absorbing them and leaving only dead air.

“Oh God, Chloe. ” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her nose. “Do you know how many times I've had to tell a patient he's dying? And somehow, this seems harder. ”

She shifted to face me. “I know how badly you want to go to UCLA for college. This is the only way we're going to get you there, hon. ”

“Is it Dad?”

She paused, and I knew she'd like to blame him. She'd wanted to raise me after my mom passed away, spare me a life of housekeepers and empty apartments. She'd never forgiven my father for refusing. Just like she'd never forgiven him for that night my mother died. It didn't matter that they'd been sideswiped in a hit-?and-?run—he'd been driving, so she held him responsible.

“No,” she said finally. “It's the school. Unless you spend two weeks undergoing evaluation in a group home, it will go on your permanent record. ”

“What will go on my record?”

Her fist clenched around the tissue. “It's that da—” She caught herself. “It's the zero-?tolerance policy. ” She spit the words with more venom than the curse.

“Zero tolerance? You mean violence? B-?b-?but I didn't—”

“I know you didn't. But to them, it's simple. You struggled with a teacher. You need help. ” In a home. For crazy kids.