The Collectors' Society 01 by Heather Lyons Read Free Book Online Page B

sounds once more in his pocket. Van Brunt sighs and tugs the small rectangle back out of his pocket. As he stares down at it, I choose to do so this time, too.
    The glass on the front of the box glows with words: Wendy Darling / V’s pen unusable, will have to build a new one .
    Van Brunt angles the box toward me. “It’s called a cell phone. In the Twenty-First Century, people are able to easily communicate with anyone they wish with small devices such as these. It allows you to send messages or speak to and listen in return to others.”
    I watch in uneasy silence as he taps on the front of the cell phone. Words magically appear: Estimated completion?
    Just a few seconds pass before new words materialize. 1-2 weeks, tops.
    My voice is hoarse. “Is somebody communicating with you right now?”
    He nods. “Ms. Darling. She’s down in the tech lab.” And then, no doubt after he sees the confusion on my face, he adds a bit more clarification. “The Collectors’ Society is housed in a multi-purpose building we refer to as the Institute. It includes office spaces such as these,”—he gestures around the room before motioning me toward the door—“laboratories, an extensive library, common rooms, a gym, a restaurant, storage, and living quarters for members. One such laboratory is for the building of machines and devices. Ms. Darling is the head of our technology department, and she—”
    These are facts. I like facts. Facts are solid. One can hold onto a fact when everything else is soft and muddled. And yet, right now, as the bigger picture both expands and contracts around me, I could not care less about whether or not Wendy Darling builds machines that apparently allow people to communicate across vast distances. There’s only one thing I need to know.
    “Am I from a story?”
    His mouth snaps shut as he tucks the cell phone back into his pocket. I’ve stopped short of the door, my feet weighed down by invisible lead. I’m undeterred, though. If I’m going to sink once more into madness, I might as well get as many answers as I can before doing so. “We came through time and a magical door from the Pleasance to here. Am I from a story?”
    For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to ignore my question. But then he says quietly, firmly, “Yes.”
    I’m reminded of a time that I stood before the Courts, a bloody sword in my hand and my existence on the line, and I no longer knew if there were shins below knees or feet attached to ankles. But, damn if I didn’t ensure my voice was steady when I addressed them. “Are you?”
    He turns to fully face me. “Yes.”
    A breath is pulled in through my nose, out through my mouth. “What about the rest of the Society?”
    “Some, but not all. We are an eclectic mix here.”
    “Are we real?”
    Deep lines of confusion groove his forehead. “Pardon?”
    “You claim we are from stories. Made up . . .” I swallow hard. “In somebody else’s imagination. Are we real? Am I?”
    Understanding fills the blue of his eyes, and something more. Something like . . . sympathy. “Do you feel real?”
    I do not want sympathy, though. So, I tell him the truth. I tell him, “Not always.” Not anymore.
    A hand goes to the small of my back; I flinch at the light pressure. But Van Brunt has his way, because we finally exit the conference room. “Let us take that tour, Ms. Reeve.”
    Over the next half hour, Van Brunt takes me from floor to floor, showing me labs and offices and introducing me to people whose names I fear I will never remember. Everyone is polite, although some more voraciously friendly than others. There’s a sense of recognition on their behalves upon introduction that I do not share, and my unease grows exponentially.
    They know me. I do not know them.
    To be fair, my focus isn’t on any of these people and spaces, anyway. I’m too focused on what Van Brunt told me about before. This isn’t the first existential crisis I’ve suffered through. One might