Keepers of the Stones and Stars

by Michael Barakiva

Genres: YA Contemporary; YA Historical Fantasy; YA Fantasy

Synopsis

Keepers of the Stones and Stars is a witty, young adult contemporary epic fantasy about a cheeky quintet of teens chosen by magical gems to save the world.

Save the world.
Get the guy.

Reed is leading his best life: he’s just kissed the boy of his dreams, his band is finally taking off, and he’s a shoo-in to getting elected as next year’s Student Council president. But he’s ready to give it all up when his suspiciously aristocratic guidance counselor tells him he has been chosen to go on the adventure of a lifetime.

Because Reed is the first of five Stone Bearers to be chosen by magical gems and granted their powers. All he has to do is unite all five and lead them to seal a portal that will release an onslaught of uncontrollable chaotic magical energies, and destroy the world as we know it. It’s up to the Ruby, Sapphire, Topaz, Emerald, and Amethyst Bearers to save the world, fulfilling their roles in a centuries-old cycle that dates back to 17th century Mughal India and the first Keepers of the Stones and Stars.

Release date: May 21, 2024

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Print pages: 528

Sample

PRÓLOGO

I know you have questions, and I know you want answers.

I am reticent, however, to give them. Not because I am withholding. But because I will not be able to satisfy your desires. Understand this: it is not my job to explain such things. Many of them remain a mystery, even to me, even now, all these years decades Passes later. And that is how it should be. You must be able to live with that, as I do. As I have. As I will. At least you have the privilege of your mortality. And yes, it is a privilege. A privilege that, like so many, can only be appreciated once it is gone.

But I am getting ahead of myself. As I often did. Do. Did.

So I will step back, so that I may take a great leap.

“Quien saltar quiere lejos, debe medir la distancia.”

There are many ways to tell this story, but I will let Reed begin. It is one of the many courtesies I have granted him.

 

CHAPTER 1

Runaway Reed

 

DO NOT TRY TO FIND ME.

Was it too short? Too mysterious? Not mysterious enough?

The all caps were definitely extra.

Reed crumpled up and threw away yet another draft of his runaway note.

Midnight approached.

Get it together, Reed.

The minimalist approach wasn’t going to cut it. At the very least, he needed his mom and Rose to know he was okay. That he’d be home in a few months. It needed to serve “don’t worry about me” vibes.

Inspiration struck.

Reed grabbed his notebook and scribbled giddily. Like all good runaway notes, his would also contain a secret clue. To the other person he cared about most.

Dear Mom and Rose and everyone else,

Please don’t think this has anything to do with you. Please don’t think this has anything to do with what you did or didn’t do, because the last thing I want is to cause you any pain. It’s just that I’ve been called. To do something important. Something big. Something only I can do. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but don’t worry. I got this, and it’ll all make sense after I’m there and back again in a few weeks. I see now that life would be so wonderful if we only knew what to do with it.

Sincerely,
Reed de Vries

Reed folded the note in thirds and slipped it into an envelope. He made space on his crammed nightstand by rearranging half-full glasses of water, burned-down candles, and errant sheets of music that seemed to multiply of their own accord. Earlier that afternoon, he’d thought about cleaning the junkyard of discarded artifacts that was his room but decided against it. Nothing that would call attention to itself. He put PJ, his red-pawed teddy bear, on the nightstand and propped his runaway letter up against him.

He wasn’t taking much. He even left his wallet behind, as he’d been instructed. Mr. Shaw said he’d take care of everything. Even if he hadn’t accidentally shorted his cell phone (could it really have been only) a few hours ago, that was obviously a no go now. The only thing he was taking, in fact, was the Stone itself. He grabbed the black velvet drawstring pouch that until recently had held his lucky set of scarlet carnelian dice and slipped it into his pocket. The journey to the other side of his room, to the wall with windows, never felt so significant. He raised the blinds to the far window and slid it open. May’s humidity greeted him with a damp caress.

Now or never time.

He allowed himself one last look back: the crimson Maple Electric he’d gotten for his fifteenth birthday after his mom finally let him drop piano for guitar; the collection of reverb, delay, phaser, and flanger guitar pedals he’d painstakingly assembled; a menagerie of shells from a lifetime of beach-walking; pages and pages of sheet music; the backpack full of books he dutifully lugged to school every day; the closet door that didn’t completely close, hiding a lifetime of T-shirts, jeans, and flannels.

It wasn’t too late—he could still rip up the note, get back into bed, and pretend none of this had happened. If not for …

Reed slipped the black velvet pouch out of his cargo shorts pocket and tugged it open. The perfectly round ruby inside emitted a cherry glow, pulsing like a heart.

My precious, he chuckled to himself.

If not for that.

His calloused fingertips pressed the opening chords to “Adventure of a Lifetime” into his palm as if it were the fretted neck of his Maple Electric. Coldplay was more mainstream than Reed’s usual jams, but if the tune fit …

Dm–G–Am

What would happen when he turned his magic on?

He returned the pouch to his pocket as a gust of wind blew in from the window, planting kisses on the back of his neck. Reed turned his back to his room and slid

the screen up. He climbed through the portal and balanced himself in the frame.

Then he jumped.

---

“To James de la Shaw, first and unacknowledged son of Charles II, deposed King of Great Britain and Ireland. As discussed in terms with Amalia Roe, daughter to the British Diplomat to Hindustan, and verified by Elizabeth Stuart, the Winter Queen, please find enclosed the Jewel Muraqqa. It is my hope that the de la Shaw House, as stewards of the Stone Bearers, will guide and mentor them with the utmost sincerity, respect, and kindness. I know, firsthand, theirs will not be an easy journey.

As per our compact, please find the agreed-upon shipments of cotton, silk, indigo dye, saltpeter, and tea, all tariff-free. We hope this is the beginning of a long and equitable relationship between the British East India Company and the Hindustan Empire.”

Princess Zeb-un-Nissa
Daughter of Aurangzeb, Third Son of Shah Jahan, King of the World

Pass One, 1653

 

CHAPTER 2

President Reed

 

Just two days ago, the idea of Reed abandoning his life and embarking on an epic adventure to save the world would have seemed as unlikely as farting glitter.

He was a normal kid, growing up in the very normal suburbs on the very normal shore of the unfortunately normal New Jersey. He had very normal hobbies, which ran the gamut from geeky (Magic: The Gathering, Dungeons & Dragons, really all things sci-fi/fantasy) to almost cool (playing lead guitar in his band Ragna Rock, which just started getting its first paid gigs of bar mitzvahs and sweet sixteens). He was a normal five-foot-seven and weighed a normal (okay—slightly scrawny) 121 pounds. He spent the spring of his junior year practicing parallel parking with his mother in the office building lot down the street and tormenting his younger sister with tales of what high school would hold for her next year.

The only thing unusual about Reed was his flame-red hair. Reed’s hair wasn’t the strawberry blond of a Norfolk terrier, the rust of weathered cast iron, or the auburn of autumn. It was unmistakably fire-engine, pigeon-blood, thermometer-mercury red.

Strangers assumed he dyed it, especially since his mom and sister were standard milk-chocolate brown brunettes. But with an awe she saved for very few things, his mom told anyone who asked that it had always been that way.

Until two days ago, Reed’s biggest concern was whether to run for Asbury Park High School Student Council president.

“You have to run!” Arno insisted as they walked to the boardwalk after school that cloudy Tuesday afternoon. “You’ve been talking about it since freshman year.”

“I don’t hafta do anything,” Reed responded playfully.

Reed and Arno arrived at their familiar boardwalk stretch, an expanse nestled between the mini golf course and the convention hall. It was thinly populated with a handful of preseason beachgoers braving the heavy clouds, thick and full like swollen organs.

“Sit or stroll?” Arno nodded to their bench, directly across from their hot dog vendor, Louise, with her classic Jersey Shore Italian accent.

“Stroll,” Reed decided.

“Let’s pro/con Student Council. That’s the best way to make decisions.” Arno was a few inches shorter and rounder than Reed, with an olive complexion. His hair was almost as dark as his eyes, which were decades older than his sixteen years. “Pro: if you were president, it would be great for the school.”

“Con,” Reed countered. “I’d have to work with Principal Trowbridge and her legion of doom.”

Although the summer season didn’t officially start for another two weeks, a few of the ice cream, trinket, lemonade, and fried-food storefronts had already emerged from hibernation.

“Pro—isn’t this exactly the kind of thing colleges look for?” Arno asked. “At least, that’s what Mr. Shaw says.” Both of them sighed jointly at the evocation of the impossibly dreamy college consultant who appeared last year like a deus ex machina.

“He specifically wrote about that on his blog,” Reed conceded without admitting that his Google alert told him every time a new post dropped. “Did we ever find out where he’s from?”

“The accent’s British, right?”

“Yeah, but he could’ve picked it up at Oxford.”

“Señora Perez-Walters told us he speaks Spanish like”—Arno searched for the words—“a chilango auténtico!”

“After he visited our French class, Monsieur Ouellette said he could pass for a native Parisian.” Reed inflected “Parisian” with his best attempt at a French accent. “Which is just about the greatest praise he could bestow on any mortal.”

“And his website says he also speaks Russian, Arabic, and Farsi.” Arno sighed. “With that skin tone and those green eyes, he could be from anywhere from Spain to the Middle East.”

“Is it wrong to crush

on a teacher?” Reed asked with faux concern.

“He’s not technically a teacher.”

“Which is probably why we take him seriously.”

They continued strolling down the worn wood of the boardwalk, narrowly avoiding a collision with a pack of unruly skateboarders.

“Okay—con.” Reed picked up their thread. “If I ran, I’d have to give up GSA.”

“What?” Arno exclaimed. “Really?”

“Student Council distributes money to the rest of the groups,” Reed insisted. “It would be a total conflict of interest.”

A flock of white birds flew above, V-shaped, like a spearhead.

“Okay—another pro,” Arno started shyly. “I’d be your campaign manager.”

Reed stopped walking. “Really?”

“That is a pro, right?”

“Of course!”

This was one of the moments when Reed suspected maybe, just maybe, Arno was crushing on him. Not that Reed had any definitive proof. Arno was so painfully private that despite how much time they spent together, Reed still felt like he barely knew him. Reed and Arno had hung out at Reed’s house many times, but never at Arno’s. He’d never even met Arno’s parents, and only one of his four siblings in passing. Whenever they were together, the conversation moved with a healthy ebb and flow. Only afterward, when replaying it in his mind, did Reed realize how many questions Arno had asked him, and how few Arno himself had answered.

“I believe in you, Reed.” The deep brown pools around Arno’s pupils quivered. “And I believe that you’d make our high school a better place.”

Reed had met Arno in the Gay Straight Alliance group at Asbury Park High. Reed, who’d come out unceremoniously in seventh grade, started the GSA chapter in his middle school shortly thereafter. He joined the high school chapter his first week of freshman year and had attended the biweekly meetings since. (“GSA: where the weekly meetings are not the only things that are bi,” Reed would joke.)

Arno first showed up to GSA just after winter break. Many of the kids who joined started out identifying on the S part of the GSA rainbow and slowly made their way over to the G. But Arno didn’t participate at that meeting, or the entire year. He just listened, intently, knitting needles bobbing up and down during discussions, presentations, and guest speakers.

As freshmen, they’d taken that pivotal step from making eye contact when passing in the hallway to actually saying, “Hey.” Sophomore year, they sat next to each other the first day of Mr. Huff-Wells’s humanities class and stayed in those seats for the rest of the year. When it came time to partner up for the final presentation, their eyes met as if they were the only two students in class. The friendship bloomed in those spring afternoons researching World War II espionage and evenings watching movies. Their final, interactive, multimedia presentation about Spanish double agent Juan Pujol García scored them both As. By junior year, they were running GSA, Reed as president and Arno as his VP.

“Do you ever…,” Reed started.

“Do I ever what?”

“Do you ever think”—Reed gestured to the boardwalk, the beach, the town where they’d both spent their entire lives—“there has to be more to life than this?”

“More what?” Arno asked.

“I just mean…” Reed searched for the words to articulate the phantom haunting him. “Are we destined to go to college, get a job, get married, maybe even have some kids, then retire, like our parents and their parents, never actually doing anything important, then disappear from the world like we were never even here?”

“It sounds so hopeless when you put it like that.” Arno frowned.

“But isn’t it?” Reed asked. “Unless we do something that tips the needle to good in some real way?”

“We?” Arno closed his eyes the way he did when he was thinking about something intensely. “You. Everybody knows you’re meant for extraordinary things.”

Before he could chicken out, Reed slowly slipped his hand into Arno’s. His guitar-calloused fingertips found the ridges of Arno’s knuckles.

Neither of them acknowledged this hand-holding, just as they hadn’t acknowledged when it first happened a few weeks ago, or any of the times since.

Reed conducted a quick scan. Even in his hometown, with its famed history of welcoming LGBTQIA+ communities, he’d learned the hard way to always be vigilant.

First, was anyone radiating toxic hostile vibes in their immediate vicinity?

A bored hot dog vendor.

A few middle schoolers eating pretzels.

No toxic hostile vibes, check.

Second, were there any groups of guys within line of sight?

Any groups of guys, unless they presented as unequivocally queer, would automatically be cataloged as potential threats.

The skateboarders circled back around. Reed instinctively put his body between them and Arno, tightening his hold on Arno’s hand as they passed. The wannabe hooligans certainly clocked them, but more with curiosity than hostility.

No dangerous groups of guys, check.

Third, what were their nearby escape and authority figure options? The stairs to the boardwalk were a trap: fleeing was harder on sand. The boardwalk stores were a potential refuge, especially that hipster coffee stand coming up. As for authority figures, they’d passed two police officers a few blocks back, but even with Reed’s white privilege, he never really knew if he could count on cops in these situations.

Escape options and authority figures, good enough.

Satisfied they were not in clear or present danger, Reed initiated the stroll down the boardwalk, hand in hand with Arno.

The sharp smell of sea salt.

If, two and a half years ago, a future version of Reed had traveled through the fourth dimension and told him he’d be holding hands with Arno, Reed would’ve laughed him out of time. When they first met, Reed hadn’t experienced any of the heart-fluttering, sweaty-palmed, self-conscious agony/ecstasy that had underscored his meet-cutes with either of his two ex-boyfriends. But Lucas ended up being a liar, and Anuvab, a bore. Arno, with his tent T-shirts, ancient eyes, and quiet calm, hadn’t exactly inspired

romantic swooning.

But since this new development of hand-holding, Reed found himself thinking about Arno in all kinds of ways and wondering—was Arno thinking about him? Of course, he didn’t know. He didn’t even know if Arno had ever had a boyfriend. Or ever kissed a guy. Or ever kissed anyone, for that matter.

“Besides, you’re a shoo-in.” Arno tugged on his two-sizes-too-large, faded mustard T-shirt. “Everybody loves you. And it’s about time Asbury Park High had its first queer Student Council president.”

“At least its first out one,” Reed joked. “You know, with me gone, you’d be prez of GSA.”

“What? No way.” Arno’s fingers tensed around Reed’s. “I’m not executive material.”

Reed chose not to acknowledge Arno’s self-disparaging remark, just as he chose not to acknowledge their hand-holding. At least with the latter, Reed was scared that acknowledgment would dispel it, like an illusion.

“Come on.” Reed tugged Arno toward the ocean. “I wanna feel the water on my feet.”

Reed and Arno scrambled down the steps, yanking off sneakers and sandals, hands finding each other again the moment they were free. They ran over the lukewarm sand to the wet ribbon of shore. The next wave, ambitious, splashed their shins and ankles.

“Seriously, Reed. Here’s the thing.” Arno burrowed the sole of a foot into the wet sand. “If there were some other great candidate for Student Council, it would be different. But Raul is basically a fascist-in-training, and Jane is high seventy-five percent of the time. Which sort of means you have to do it, you know?”

“You’re right, Arno.” Reed pitched his voice above the waves. “But only if you’ll help. Can I count on you?”

Words failed Arno. But actions did not. He arched up on his tiptoes and kissed Reed. Without thinking, Reed kissed him back.

Arno’s feelings flooded into Reed—his desire, like a dog sprinting across a field; his hope, guarded like a fortified castle; his fear, as blinding as a spotlight. Reed welcomed them all.

One, two, then a multitude of raindrops fell from the nimbus clouds, dotting the sand and the ocean. The two boys kissed in the rain, the final chord of a melody that had taken its sweet time to resolve.

---

“At all costs, protect the Stones.”

Hortense de la Shaw

Provost, Pass Five

 

 

CHAPTER 3

Reed's Menagerie

 

The afternoon shower had animated the ocean, prodding the waves into competition, until they curled and crashed up to Reed’s and Arno’s knees.

“Just Like Heaven” by The Cure. A much more sophisticated song than it first appears, with almost no chorus, an insistent rhythm guitar that allows the lead guitar a unique simplicity. And the title sung only once, at the abrupt end of the song. How often does that happen?

Reed didn’t know how long they stood there, kissing. Time had lost its shape, twisty and gooey like saltwater taffy, until Arno realized he was about to be late for work.

“Arno…” Reed searched for the right words to express how utterly surprised, how utterly unexpected, how utterly delicious their afternoon had been.

“Yes?” Even in that simple word, Reed sensed Arno’s fear about what the next words would be.

That meant Reed would have to be extra careful. But what could he say that was meaningful without being cheesy? “I see now that life would be so wonderful…”

“… if we only knew what to do with it,” Arno completed their favorite quote with obvious relief. He pulled away, sneakers in hand, throwing back a smile as radiant as the emerging sun before scrambling off to his job at the Empress Hotel.

The moist sand welcomed Reed’s feet as he meandered up the shore, but not as much as Reed welcomed bathing in the sensation of getting to kiss the boy he didn’t realize he’d been crushing on for weeks.

Would they kiss again? Should he call him tonight? Or play it cool and just see what happened when they saw each other in school tomorrow? Were they going to become boyfriends? Or was this going to be strictly a FWB sitch? And what about prom in two weeks?

Reed let himself mull the possibilities as he relived the warmth, the intimacy, the absolute perfection of the moment. He strolled the beach, occasionally stooping to pick up a shell. Many caught his eye, but few would be honored with an invitation to join his home menagerie.

The rain had dissipated, but every part of him was soaked, from his red hair splattered to his head like roadkill to the now-translucent white T-shirt clinging to his wiry (okay, skinny) frame. Every third or fourth wave erased the footprints he’d squished behind him, restoring the tabula rosa of the sandy shore.

The beachgoers who’d been caught in the storm emerged from the stores where they’d sought refuge, ice cream or fudge or lemonade or french fries in hand, glancing suspiciously at the sky. The weather had already betrayed them once.

Half an hour later, three seashells had passed Reed’s standards: a swirl of white and gray that almost looked silver in the beams of the emerging sun; a long, thin spiral alternating streaks of white and pitch black; and a bulbous taupe affair that could’ve passed as a pastry in any bakery.

He wouldn’t call Arno tonight—too needy. And texting wasn’t an option since Arno was literally the only person their age who didn’t have a cell phone. Besides, Reed didn’t want to appear desperate. That meant he had until precalc tomorrow to figure out how he was going to play it. Decision made, at least for now.

He was about to turn back and go home when he felt … a tug was the best way to describe it. As if Rose were yanking on his shirt to get his attention. He squatted, following the pull to a flat, large shell. Unremarkable. Certainly not take-home-worthy. But nestled in the sand underneath …

Words couldn’t do it justice. Neither could music.

A bloodred ruby, multifaceted and round like a disco mirror ball, dazzled in the sun’s emerging light. Reed snatched the gem out of the sand.

Joy, like finishing a race

The moment his fingers came in contact

Hunger of watching your prey

with its warm, smooth,

 inexplicably dry surface,

Satisfaction of a job well done

emotions flooded him.

Anger, the moment before a volcano erupts

They attacked him from all sides,

Desire for one more kiss

pounding into him like juggernauts.

Helplessness of witnessing the inevitable

He fell out of his squat, back, down, landing on the wet sand with an unceremonious plop.

“It’s contact with the Stone.” The girl appeared from nowhere. She must’ve been younger than Rose—maybe ten years old?—with two side braids framing sparkling eyes.

Reed managed to squeeze out a “Huh?”

“Release the Stone.”

Reed shoved the gem into his pocket. The moment his hand was free, the emotions evaporated, dispelled like demons onto another plane, leaving no trace behind but the tears he hadn’t realized were running down his face.

“How did you know?” he asked the girl.

But she, too, was gone.

---

“We’ll try again tomorrow, okay?” Mr. Tomasevic told Reed’s chemistry class the next morning. His experiment to illustrate chemical bonds and ionization had failed, again, slipping the befuddled teacher’s success rate lower than most baseball players’ batting averages. He stared, confused, at the sugar cubes and stirring rods in his ancient, wrinkled hands. The stubbornly clear liquid refused to turn pink, taunting him with its transparency.

The clock’s minute hand took its sweet time inching to 11:45. In a few minutes, class would finally end. In a few minutes, the bell would ring and Reed could sprint down the labyrinth of halls to Mrs. Bryant’s precalc. In a few minutes, he’d see Arno for the first time since their first (but please, God, don’t let it be our last) kiss. In a few minutes, Reed would ask him to junior prom. He was nervous, he was excited, he couldn’t wait.

Reed performed the ancient ritual perfected by students the world over, of pretending to pay attention during the last few minutes of class while putting away his textbook and notes.

Last night, he’d written a 250-word essay about “Why He Wanted to Run for Student Council President.” He had completed the online form, entered in his 3.7 GPA and extracurricular list, and gotten his mom’s signature. All he needed was for Mrs. Bunge Bowers, Mx. Adelewitz, and Ms. Chung to send their teacher recommendations, and his application would be complete.

That was the first thing he’d tell Arno. And then, casually, very casually, he’d take the folded

junior prom flyer out of his pocket and ask Arno what he was doing in two Fridays. Even though the early-price ticket period was over, even though he knew Arno’s parents were all kinds of messed up and might not let him go with another dude, even though he had no idea how to procure or pay for a tux … he shook it all away. Drowning in a whirlpool of “even thoughs” never accomplished anything.

Besides, a vision of them leaning into each other, slow-dancing to “The Night Is Still Young,” persisted in his imagination. The calloused fingertips of his left hand pressed the A–B–C# minor opening chords on the imaginary guitar neck of his palm. The certainty of that image gave him the courage to do anything and everything he needed to make it so.

The turtle of the minute hand finally arrived at the nine. Reed leaped to his feet and darted out the moment the bell rang, ignoring Mr. Tomasevic’s lingering instructions about tomorrow’s homework. He made it through the annex before hitting foot traffic. He raced his way down the breezeway and turned the corner, passing the library on the right, multimedia on the left, and into the main hall, which he decided against cutting across because of the science fair. He spent the rest of the trip in the Sisyphean chore of trying to smooth down his dreaded cowlick. He arrived at precalc in record time, buying him a precious two minutes.

Two minutes with Arno, who sat at his desk, dutifully reviewing yesterday’s homework. Could he have any idea how beatific he appeared, the sun casting a saintlike halo behind him?

Reed faltered. What if Arno says no? Or even worse, what if he laughed? Maybe Reed should wait for a better time. A more romantic time. How was his breath? Why’d I wear that stupid old T-shirt today instead of …

Then, as if they were telepathically linked, Arno looked up, straight at Reed. The smile that spread over his face was the only talisman Reed needed to banish his fears.

Reed ignored the throbbing Stone in one pocket and slipped his hand into the other. Junior prom flyer, check.

Okay. Now or never time.

“Reed de Vries?” A ruggedly handsome man in his early forties, with a touch of gray dusting his temples, approached him.

“Mr. Shaw?”

“Good day, Reed.” Mr. Shaw’s British accent was as smooth, crisp, and tidy as his signature button-down shirt and linen jacket. He held up an official-looking form with the school’s insignia. “I’ve permission to pull you out of class.”

“Is everything okay?” Reed turned back. “Does Mrs. Bryant…”

“Yes, and she does.” Mr. Shaw adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses and made eye contact with Mrs. Bryant. She responded with a nod and held up a copy of the official-looking form. “All legitimate.”

“Is this about my PSAT scores?” Reed scrambled. “Because I could retake them before…”

“As much as I appreciate the gesture”—Mr. Shaw laughed—“this is to do with something of actual import. I don’t mean to alarm you, but time, as they say, is of the essence. Would you follow me?”

Daring one last look at Arno, who was throwing him some major WTFs, Reed followed

Mr. Shaw out the nearest exit. They emerged into the faculty parking lot, a dismal corner formed in the amorphous space between the original building and the newer annex. The sun shone bright and unforgiving in the clear aquamarine sky.

Mr. Shaw’s gray linen jacket hugged the white button-down shirt, open one button lower than most teachers would dare. His perfectly tailored chinos tapered at his sturdy calves, meeting his brown leather wing tips. He dressed at least two clicks better than any teacher at Asbury Park High: a royal failing to pass as a commoner.

He aimed his smartwatch at Reed and tapped it twice. The gizmo chirped like a bird on steroids. Mr. Shaw didn’t bother to contain the ear-to-ear smile that splayed across his face. A dimple creased his right cheek.

“May I see it?” he asked with a child’s eagerness.

Reed didn’t know how or why, but he understood exactly what Mr. Shaw meant. Even though he had considered leaving it at home, the idea of being apart seemed as nonsensical as showing up to band practice without his guitar. “Should I just—I dunno—whip it out right here?”

“Of course, you’re right. ‘Urgency is the enemy of safety.’” Mr. Shaw looked about furtively. “I must ensure nothing—not even my enthusiasm—jeopardizes the mission.”

He tapped his watch again. A car that called attention to the fact that no faculty member at Asbury Park High could ever own, let alone drive, a classic sixties James Bond convertible, complete with a front hood that swooped over the front tires, managing somehow to be both full of classic style and ahead of its time, pulled up next to them.

“Sweet.” Reed whistled. “Is that a Tesla beta autopilot?”

“I am fortunate to have access to some technology that hasn’t quite yet reached the mass market.” He tapped his smartwatch again, and the doors hinged up and open.

“I don’t know, Mr. Shaw,” Reed joked. “My mom told me never to get into a car with a stranger.”

“Good thing, then, that I’m not a stranger,” Mr. Shaw quipped back. “But if you’d feel more comfortable calling her first?”

“JK, dude.”

“LOL.”

Mr. Shaw’s response earned him a noticeable cringe from Reed but that didn’t stop him from sliding into the leather luxury of the passenger side. Mr. Shaw climbed into the driver’s seat just before the doors hinged close.

Mr. Shaw looked at Reed expectantly.

Reed withdrew his repurposed black velvet pouch. Remembering the mystery girl’s instructions, he opened it and showed Mr. Shaw its cherry-glowing contents without making direct contact.

“It’s been so long…” Mr. Shaw folded his fingers in front of his heart and let his eyes close. “Hear me, all Chancellors and Provosts back to the first Pass,” he chanted. Or was it a prayer? “I vow to mentor the Five Stone Bearers

 and to teach them the Feat of Terminatio, which will seal the Pentacle Portal. Red, the first Stone, the Stone of the Leader, all this I say unto you.” Mr. Shaw opened his eyes. “You must forgive me, Reed. But when you finally arrive at the moment to which you’ve dedicated your entire life … it’s simply transcendent.”

“Tell me I’ve been chosen!” Perhaps someone else would’ve been freaked out by the recitation, or the unexpected holy fervor. But a lifetime of J. R. R. Tolkien, Ursula K. Le Guin, George R. R. Martin, N. K. Jemisin, and other fantasy authors with initials in their names had prepared Reed exactly for this moment. “Tell me I’ve been chosen to go on an epic magical quest to save the world!”

“Righto!” Mr. Shaw exclaimed. “That Stone that you’re holding is … okay, a few centuries ago, my family was entrusted with…” He took a few deep breaths. “Would you mind accompanying me to my office? I’m not exaggerating when I say the fate of the very world hangs in the balance.”

Reed looked over his shoulder, to where Mrs. Bryant and precalculus and, most of all, Arno were waiting for him. “Is there any way this could wait, like, forty-five minutes?”

“I’m afraid not, Reed,” Mr. Shaw said. “Remember what I said about time?”

“It’s of the essence?”

“Exactly!”

“Then what are we waiting for, Mr. Shaw?” Reed yanked the velvet drawstring pouch shut and slipped it back into his pocket, past the folded-up junior prom flyer. Mrs. Bryant, precalc, even Arno would have to wait. “Time for me to meet my destiny!”

“Shall we?”

Reed nodded his consent.

“Please do buckle up.” Mr. Shaw pressed a button, and the car’s engine whispered to life. “Safety first!”

---

“Sapphire single-handedly fought her way through the Szeged witch trials, through all who stood in her way. Care must be duly taken to harness her considerable power.”

Bayard de la Shaw 

Provost, Pass Three

 

CHAPTER 4

Reed Smells an Info Dump

 

Reed drove with Mr. Shaw through downtown Asbury Park to the swankiest commercial high-rise in town. (There wasn’t, for the record, much competition.) When they arrived, Mr. Shaw handed the keys, along with a crisp twenty, to the valet. “Good afternoon, Jimmy.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shaw,” Jimmy responded with an OG Brooklyn accent as he pocketed the tip with surprising nimbleness for someone whose fingers looked as if they had both broken things and been broken repeatedly.

Reed followed Mr. Shaw into the lobby of the building, full of swooping beige and off-white curves. The walls, the furniture, and even the doorways melted this way and that, undulating like a Dalí painting.

They walked through a lobby populated with suits, consulting their tablets or talking on their cell phones in hushed voices—the things important-looking people did to look important. In the far corner, a young receptionist sporting a smart black suit greeted them from behind a counter.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shaw.” The receptionist smiled and smoothed a stray strand of black hair behind their ear.

“Good afternoon, Satvi.”

Satvi waved Mr. Shaw in but gestured for Reed to wait. A small orb of a camera took his picture before they nodded him through. The turnstile wasn’t a standard bar affair: sliding panels, like angel wings, parted to let him enter.

Mr. Shaw and Reed passed the main elevator bank and continued to what was clearly the most special, fancy-schmancy elevator tucked in its own corner alcove. Mr. Shaw punched a series of numbers into the chest-level pad embedded in the wall. A long beep (F#?) rewarded his efforts, and the doors slid open. Up, the elevator whisked them, to the penthouse floor.

“All this is yours?!” Rather than opening into a hallway, the elevator revealed—well, “office” didn’t do an iota of justice to the penthouse Stark Tower–Bat Cave love child.

“Have a gander, if you’d like.” Mr. Shaw smiled.

“Holy…” The torus-shaped loft wrapped around the elevator like a life preserver. One half was dedicated to research: microscopes, gizmos, and tools piled up high on concentric tables.

“… freakin’…” Bins filled with jewels sat on the most interior ring of tables, organized by color, like a serve-yourself candy store: rubies, sapphires, topazes, emeralds, amethysts, onyxes, and finally, diamonds.

“… shit…” The dragon’s hoard glittered in the light streaking through the entirely glass exterior wall of windows, which also doubled as monitors. Sometimes they collaborated to create one large image; other times they went their separate ways, running different feeds simultaneously. “… dude!”

“I made some adjustments, naturally,” Mr. Shaw said with faux humility, “when I first leased this humble gaff last year, Red.”

“You mean Reed.”

“Do I?” Mr. Shaw tapped his smartphone, and the exterior window wall turned opaque pearl.

“Why’d you even set up camp in sweet ol’ Asbury Park in the first place?” Reed asked. “You don’t strike me as a Springsteen fan.”

“It’s true—I wasn’t quite born to run.” Mr. Shaw grinned. “I came here because of you, Reed. Father’s algorithm allows us to discover the general vicinity of Red’s manifestation. And the Muraqqa’s protocol instructs to establish a presence as soon as possible so that trust exists when the first Bearer is chosen. That is the only reason someone of my pedigree allowed himself to be employed by the”—he involuntarily shuddered—“New Jersey public school system. The Stones manifested two weeks later than my calculations predicted but still well within the margin of error. So everything is still going rather swimmingly.” He smiled. “Tea?”

“Righto,” Reed said in his best approximation of a jolly chap who had all the patience in the world.

Mr. Shaw led Reed to the residential part of the penthouse. A zinc bar horseshoed around the

 elevator shaft, presenting bottles of every hue and shape. A low-backed leather chaise ran parallel in a larger arc, with slabs of granite acting as modular coffee tables. “Take a pew.”

Reed lowered himself onto the leather chaise. The cotton-poly blend of his shorts, he suspected, was the cheapest material to ever grace its surface. “So spill the tea.”

“But I haven’t made it yet.” Mr. Shaw tilted his head quizzically. “Besides, even if I had, why would I want to…”

“Never mind.” Reed allowed himself a perceptible eye roll. “You were saying…”

“The truth is”—Mr. Shaw took a dramatic pause—“I am not actually a high school college counselor.”

“I smell an info dump.”

“You are a wise young man, Reed.” Mr. Shaw produced the pot, cups, and saucers of a perfectly matching bone-white tea set decorated with cornflower-blue blossoms. “This info dump is the behemoth of bowel movements.”

Reed crossed his legs and made himself comfortable.

“Centuries ago, my family was chosen by Zeb-un-Nissa, Blue Bearer in Pass One and Princess of the Mughal Empire, to act as mentors to the future Bearers of the Stones.” Mr. Shaw filled an electric glass kettle at the bar, then plugged it into a previously hidden outlet. “My entire life has been spent preparing for this moment.”

“Your entire life was spent”—Reed leaned against the low back of the leather chaise—“preparing to make tea for a hilarious, dashing, queer high school junior?”

“I wonder if you should first perform the Feat of Relinquo,” Mr. Shaw mused, stroking his chin. “Perhaps the next Bearer whom Red selects will exchange snark for deference.” He flipped a switch on the kettle. It lit up.

“Keep on dreaming, Mr. Shaw. You and I—we’re stuck with each other.”

“In that case, here goes.” He was suddenly all business. “You have been chosen to unite the Five Stone Bearers and use the Feat of Terminatio to seal the Pentacle Portal and save the world on July 6, 14:51, UTC.”

“That’s so weirdly specific.”

“‘God is in the details,’ said the atheist.”

“Okay.” Reed knew this was the moment when he was supposed to protest. Oh no, Mr. Shaw, magic couldn’t possibly be real. Or: Someone absolutely normal like me couldn’t possibly have been chosen for an adventure like this. But he had no need for that facade. “What is the Pentacle Portal?” He wanted the facts. “Who are the Five?” The deets, the specs. “And how am I supposed to unite them/us?”

This was his destiny.

“Approximately four hundred years ago”—Mr. Shaw took a deep breath—“a cosmic event altered the path of the Ikeda comet. In its new orbit, the Ikeda passed closer to our planet than any other celestial body in recorded history. A mere three lunar distances, ...