I admit, it’s pretty cool to be awoken by the sunrise. You get all the sunbeams, and it gets annoying when they sparkle in your eyes, but then you sit back and watch nature’s clock tick.

Except for when it’s a school morning.

And you’re late.

I cursed the sun as I leapt out of bed—an incredibly bad idea. My bed is about four feet off the ground, because I wanted a bunk bed, but I didn’t have any siblings to share it with, so my dad fixed it up so my bed was really high. He insisted on putting in guardrails, but I insisted on taking them out (feeling like a baby) and...Well, this morning I regretted it.

I lolled around on the floor for a good two minutes, holding my elbows and gritting my teeth. Definitely a bruise. Slowly I got to my feet, glanced at the clock, yelped, and tried to do a three-way jig by shoving on my pants, brushing my teeth, and slam my feet into dirty socks and my shoes. Ick. I’d have to clean them in the sink at school or something. I darted down the stairs, slamming several times into the narrow passageway. My parents, being the parents they are, pressed on buying the oldest house in the town. This meant scary sounds when you were trying hard to sleep, mold, and characteristic old-century staircases. Meaning things that were meant for midgets.

They said it had "character".

Hah.

I grabbed a box of pop tarts (ignoring the fact that I could not even theoretically eat them all) and a bottle of coffee. Bottled coffee isn’t the best stuff around, and it’s cold, but my parents are time-efficient people. I hate the idea, but whatever floats their boats. I have to admit, our house is organized to the max. On my way out, I was able to grab my books, grab my backpack, my CD player, and even an extra pack of batteries (I knew I wouldn’t need them, but I figure it’s easier to be safe, because while you can get "feminine hygiene products" for free from the first girl you ask, nobody is willing to give up their batteries).

Next thing you know I was missing the bus.

Oh, I also ran into some strange men dressed in black in my hall. But no worries there, all they wanted was some girl named Kathryn Osman. My name’s Kate Osman, so I explained this to them and showed them to the door. They thanked me and left.

It’s not like they carried guns or anything.

I looked anxiously around at the bus stop, nibbling on a pop tart. So it wasn’t there. And it probably already came and went, because the streets were deserted. I shoved my wrapper in my back pocket, drank a swag of coffee (which was worse than usual) and began to jog to school.

I’d be late. Not a first. But I didn’t think I would be this late. I glanced nervously at my watch as I began to break a sweat. Ugh. I tried to speed up, but I was winded. School was still a half mile away. And I was dead tired. I could just skip, but no—grades are my only priority, because I lack a life. I furrowed my eyebrows, readjusted my backpack, and tried desperately to get there as fast as possible. It would’ve been quicker to hop fences, but I have a fair sense of privacy, so I didn’t trespass. I’m a goody-goody—so what?

I probably could’ve missed only half of first period if I didn’t run into those men in black again. Unfortunately, I ended up missing all of it (and the rest of the school day, too), because I did run into them again. Actually, "men" in "black" became "man" in "brown". But I associated the two groups together all the same—they asked the same question.

"You’re Kathryn Osman?"

I stopped in my tracks. The question floated past my ears, struck a memory, and I turned on my heels angrily. "NO!" I shouted at the man standing about ten feet behind me. His hands were on his hips and he was staring intently at me. His face was sort of shrouded by the terrible sombrero he was wearing, and he had on the oddest array of clothing—it looked like he was wearing a spandex shirt, farmer’s trousers, and gigantic goulashes. I gaped at him. "I’m not her! Why are people asking me that?! Listen, my name’s Kate. Kate. Simple. Like...Well, rhymes with gate. And state. And abate. And—I need to get to school, can we talk about this later?"

Can you see I’m not too good with strangers? My mind was racing—why were people all of a sudden asking me who I was? It’s not like anyone cared before. I’m sort of borderline between a social outcast and a social "nobody cares about you" person. Actually, there’s no borderline—I’m all "nobody cares". The teachers praise me only because I’m more intelligent than the average toad...I mean, the average student.

"Eh...What do you mean, why are people asking you that?" His voice was heavily accented, but I couldn’t tell what. It sounded almost British, but then it was French, and then it was—I couldn’t distinguish it. Who am I kidding? I’ve never talked to a French person. "Have you been asked before?"

"...What’s it to you? My name’s Kate, that’s all that matters. Peace." I began to walk away, but somehow he grabbed onto my shoulder. I stared at him. "Weren’t you just...really far..." I snapped my jaw shut. "Who are you and why are you touching me?"

I slapped his hand off.

"I’m not touching you anymore," he pointed out with a smirk. His hair was really long, and I saw now that he couldn’t be any older than twenty or so. I think he even had freckles. His grin disappeared. Now he was frowning, confused. I glared icily at him. School, a little part in the back of my head said. School, school, school, it sang, repeating the word over and over again. I began to panic. "Who else asked you what your name was?"

"...Some dudes. They were like you, you know? Big, stupid, and delaying me. I have school. I don’t know if you know anything about the public system," I snorted, looking at him up and down, "but we have to be there on time. Odd, isn’t it?"

"How’d you know?" he asked, amazed.

"Know what? That I’m late? Because I have a watch!" I held it up as proof. Augh. This was frustrating—really frustrating. I fixed my best evil stare on him, trying to make him wither. Didn’t work.

"No, how’d you know I wasn’t...from...around here? What did the others that asked you who you are—what did they tell you?" he whispered, almost fearfully. I coughed. Nutshell.

"They asked me what my name was, and I wasn’t who they wanted. So I let them out of my house."

"They were in your house?"

"...Yeah, I thought it was sort of strange too," I admitted. "I mean the front door was locked and everything, sort of gave me the heebie-jeebies, but—I AM SO LATE." Rudely I shoved him off of me (he was grabbing both of my arms now and firing the same question over and over at me) and began to sprint to school. Though my stopping to chat did recuperate me a bit, it definitely didn’t help my situation. If Mom and Dad found out...

"I can’t let you leave."

This creeped me out even more than the men in my house.

He was grabbing my hands from behind and preventing me from moving. I don’t think I could have moved anyway—I was paralyzed with...fear? I’ve never felt like that before, but I assumed that’s how it was, because I couldn’t move and I know I was entirely frightened. He whispered gently in my ear, "I’m sorry, but I need to interrogate you a little."

His sombrero bumped into my head and tipped off. I caught a glimpse of his face, from the corner of my eye. Yes, he had freckles. And he didn’t look normal. He looked...I couldn’t put my finger on the strangeness in his features. Foreign, yes, but not entirely so. I struggled to get away from him, but I still couldn’t move.

Rape, rape, rape, the voice was now repeating over and over. "SHUT UP!" I screamed, and in a short period of time an odd sequence of events happened.

The first, I realized I was screaming shut up at myself. Which wasn’t right. It just wasn’t.

The second, the man (or boy, because he looked awfully young, maybe closer to my age than I would ever imagine) was hoisting me over his shoulder and leaving his sombrero. Which wasn’t right either, because as ugly as it was, it was still probably worth some money. I tried telling him this, but I couldn’t work my mouth. Or my legs. Or my arms. I was pretty much stiff.

And the third, two seconds later I saw the school going by in a blur, like I was on a subway or a train, or in a very fast car. I tried shouting, "That’s my stop!" but the ride just kept going. Then I realized it wasn’t a ride. I was over the shoulder of a man (boy) I didn’t know. And he was taking me somewhere, planning something, at very high speeds.

I couldn’t kick, I couldn’t punch, and my vocal chords didn’t seem to be working. So I bit as hard as I could against his shoulder blade.

The world stopped spinning, and I could finally distinguish the leaves on the trees that had only moments before been an incredibly blur. We were at the center of the town, in the center of a crowded street, and people were beginning to stare.

I soon realized I had mobility once more, and I began flailing my arms and legs. He was having a hard time keeping a hold of me, and I managed to wriggle out of his grasp and fall hard on my elbows and knees, taking him down with me. They had already been bruised from my bed escapade earlier that morning, so I was moaning with pain and rolling about on the asphault. He recovered considerably faster, and his cheeks were turning a dark red as he saw all the people gathered around at the crosswalks, looking open-mouthed at us.

"Lover’s quarrel," he explained loudly to them.

I fumed and jumped to my feet. "Quarrel this," I muttered as I slammed my backpack into the side of his head. The line was cheesy, the action was cheesy, and the textbooks inside were definitely cheesy (algebra is quite a boring subject, so the producers try to spice it up with illustrations of happy pencils), but it worked. He dropped to the ground, dazed. I rubbed my elbows and began to march off.

The sound of an eighteen-wheeler horn almost blew my brains out.

I turned around, now on the safe, safe sidewalk. An enormous crowd had gathered now on the surrounding sidewalks, and it was spreading apart as I tried to swim through it. I stared at the guy in the street. He looked unconscious. I stared at the light. It was green. I stared at the semi. It was roaring.

The street had two lanes. The semi had one path. And it was right into the man’s head.

For a second I decided I’d better just let him get run over. But after another second, I realized I’d be responsible. And another second later (precious seconds of his life, no doubt, but this thought didn’t really bother me) I knew it’d make me a killer. And it would probably screw my GPA. Guilt washed over me and I darted back into the middle of the street, waving my arms wildly. I skidded to a stop next to me. The semi was awfully close—he wasn’t going to stop, was he? I shut my eyes and vowed that if he had the 1-800 number on the back that said, "How’s my driving?", I’d call it and complain profusely. You don’t just run over people. You just don’t.

"Get up," I grunted hopelessly to the man, trying at first to lift him under his armpits, then trying to shove him unsuccessfully in the direction of the nearest sidewalk by standing behind him and pushing on his goulashes. "Please? I mean, you were trying to abduct me—I’m really sorry about biting you, but..." It was useless. I was rambling on to deaf ears. He was out like a doorknob, whatever that expression means. The semi blared again. It was, at most, fifty feet away. I could’ve gotten out of the street, but I was frozen to the spot again, this time definitely from fear. And guilt. I felt awfully guilty—I mean, this guy might deserve what was coming to him, but that didn’t mean he would necessarily have to get it. It’s a corporate world, right? Which means you don’t get punished. A feeling of dread washed over me as I realized this little trick only worked for the famous.

This guy had better be a rock star, because I really didn’t feel like becoming road kill.

"STOP!" I bellowed at the semi. Maybe if I held out my hand, like they do in the movies, it would stop majestically two inches from my fingers. I tried the theory, but it didn’t look like he was slowing down. And when he was about two feet from the man and myself—an arm flashed out, grabbed me around the waist, and ripped me out of the way.

The truck whistled by, and the tires were so close to my face that I whimpered. I was lying on something soft, warm, and—yeah, it was the man. I glanced down. He looked in an awful amount of pain. I’m pretty heavy. I got up slowly, just to draw out his agony. He should have told me that he was awake. And he should have never touched me in the first place. I looked at the semi’s receeding back. There, in the lower right corner, was a bumper sticker that I could barely read—"How’s my driving?" it asked.

That’s nice. Real nice.

"Are you..." he gasped a little, "alright?"

"You’re asking me if I’m alright?" I demanded incredulously. Our little conversation was obviously annoying the oncoming traffic—a few sleek little cars were honking angrily at us. He stood up slowly, painfully, and limped to the curb. He sat down, and gestured next to him. I eyed him warily. "I’ll stand." I assumed a purposeful position—arms crossed legs slightly apart. He looked up at me. I saw that he had quite a few bloody scrapes on his arms, and a big bruise was rapidly forming around his eye. Must’ve been where I hit him. I was proud of it.

"Yes, I’m asking you," he panted. He brushed his hair from his eyes—reddish brown eyes, reddish brown hair. I blinked at him. "Because you looked pretty traumatized."

"Yeah, well you looked pretty dead," I pointed out. "Lying there in the middle of the street..." The crowd, I noticed, was gone. I was glad the police weren’t called. "You could’ve mentioned, maybe, that you were awake? It would’ve made things a hell of a lot easier."

"I was too busy rescuing you."

"Rescuing me? It was your fault in the first place!!"

"If you hadn’t hit me with that stupid satchel, I wouldn’t have been in the position!"

"If you hadn’t kidnapped me, none of this would’ve happened!" I said with a hint of smugness. I was right, he was wrong. He’d have to face the facts. I then realized his odd choice of words—satchel? Where’d that come from? "Where are you from, anyway?" I demanded. "Who sent you? The Mafia? Do they want to kill me or something?"

He stared at me, then began chuckling. "I don’t know anything about this Mafia you’re talking about, love."

"SINCE WHEN DO YOU CALL ME LOVE?!" I screeched, and kicked him in the chest. He winced and gave me what looked like an apologetic (or perhaps a Bambi) look.

"It’s just a name I use for people."

"..."

"Sorry."

"..."

"My name is Fetcher, by the way," he added absently. He ran his fingers through his hair and examined the cuts on his arms. I noticed him start to pick at one of the necklaces (he had many) dangling form his neck. "And I’m technically not allowed to tell you where I’m from, not yet."

"...That explains a lot," I grunted. So he was from the Mafia! I was trying to decide between fear and excitement. It was either scary that he was after me, or a great experience—maybe I’d get to fight something! I weighed the options, and settled on an emotion somewhere between the two. I decided to call it fearment.

Fetcher brushed himself off and stood up. "And are you sure your name isn’t Kathryn? Kathryn Osman?"

"Are we really going through this again?" I drawled. "Because I need to get to school." I looked at my watch and growled. The lens was cracked. "And I don’t know what time it is, but I know I’m late. Really late. No thanks to you, I’ve probably already missed half of it. I’m blaming you if I fail."

"I’m afraid you can’t go to school today," he sighed. "You’ve got some important business to attend to."

"Yeah, and I’m also the Queen of England, a Keebler elf, and you know what? I’ve met Harry Potter!" I said sarcastically. He tilted his head at me. Confusion was in every inch of his face. "Nevermind."

"Come. I need to take you to the Gate." I don’t know what it was that made me know there was something special about this gate. Maybe it was the fact that he stressed it, like it was supposed to be capitalized. Or maybe it was because of the serious look that now shrouded his eyes. "I’ll explain everything there. Do you promise to cooperate?"

"...Do you promise to tell me what you’re talking about?" I looked at his arms. Odd. There weren’t as many cuts as I originally thought.

"Yes," he answered.

"I still don’t promise to cooperate. I don’t know who you think you are, but I have to get to school."

"There is school where I come from, if that’s what you need."

"Uh, if I ever know what you’re talking about, I promise I’ll get back to you on that one."

"Follow."

He was walking (not limping, which made me surprised) in a direction totally opposite from school. I nervously shifted my backpack, looked over my shoulder, and did as he said.

What could go wrong?

Three hours later I was gasping for breath, sweating, and dragging my feet miserably over hot pavement. "Where aaaaaare we?" I asked, sticking my tongue out and crossing my eyes to look at it. It felt really dry. "And do you have any water or anything? I think I’m getting dehydrated."

"Get used to it," he grumbled. For the last thirty minutes or so I asked, periodically, a number of questions, just for the sake of annoying him. They went something like, "Where are we? Where are we going? Where are you from? Where is there water?" And other various "where" questions.

He should have been flattered. I rarely waste my time talking to other people.

"There it is," he proclaimed, pointing off in the distance. I never knew my city was so...flat. And...barren. We were outside the actual city limits, of course, and I always knew that West Pointe was situated in the center of a desert. It used to be an oasis—or something. But now it’s just a city. With a bunch of dirt around it.

I saw a little speck on the horizon. "What is it?" I asked him. He grinned boyishly at me.

"A warehouse."

Some panic bells went off in my head. We were in the middle of nowhere. I had no connection to anyone. He was taking me to a warehouse. I read murder stories where the people died in warehouses. I stopped in my tracks.

"Why a warehouse?"

"I don’t know. Marvin said the gate could appear anywhere, and I should be thankful it wasn’t in the center of the ocean," he said airily. He noticed I stopped.

"What’s wrong?" Fetcher asked. Oh ho, he sounded so innocent. I pointed an accusing finger at him.

"I followed you for...well I don’t know how long it’s been, but I know that school’s probably over by now. And I don’t know you. And you’re evil. Why did I follow you?"

"My irresistible persuasive powers?"

He sounded so serious that I laughed.

"Oh, certainly," I cackled. "You just put a spell on me and now I follow. Listen, buddy. I’m not your friend. You aren’t mine. And...I’m going home." I turned around. He made a loud sighing noise from behind me.

"Listen, love," he whispered curtly. He did it again! And he was right next to my ear, even though I had barely taken half a step. I froze with fear again.

No, it couldn’t be fear, I realized. Because I wasn’t scared. Not really...

"Don’t call me love," I tried hissing back, but my voice wouldn’t work again. So in consolation, I tried to give him an evil glare. He didn’t seem to get the message.

"I’m not here to hurt you, and I know you don’t want to believe that," he murmured. A tingle went down my spine. Not a good tingle, either. It was a warning tingle. The voice in the back of my head began to happily chirp rape again, but I silenced it with the thought, how do you know he’s not gonna murder me instead? It stopped repeating the word. I think I fall on the brink of insanity. "You’ve got a big attitude and that’s not really helpful in this situation. If you will calmly follow me into the warehouse, I will explain everything, and we can be on our way."

...And then what? I furrowed my eyebrows. At least those were working, because my arms and legs sure weren’t. "I will also explain why you can’t move," he chuckled. "Now, please, come."

He didn’t give me much choice, because he lifted me up again and balanced me over his shoulder. I felt degarded. I felt stupid. I felt—well, I felt like I could almost trust this oaf.

No, no, no. Murder, the little voice piped. I widened my eyes. Murder would solve everything, wouldn’t it? "NO!" I shouted, and had to gasp for breath while I did it. My chest began to ache like crazy. But I continued my relentless oration. "I can’t be killed," I pleaded, "because my parents aren’t important people. And it’s not like I’ve ever hurt anyone—sure, I’m sorry about the street thing, but that’s not really my fault. It’s the driver’s fault. And that time when I killed the bird? It was an accident, I swear! I wanted to test out my teacher’s theory, kill two birds with one stone, you know the one? I didn’t expect to actually kill anything! And—"

Fetcher had put me down and was staring at me in amazement. I noted his breathing was quite hard—as was mine. We both stood gaping at one another for a few minutes, and I found I could move again, so I slowly took a step back. "What do you want with me?" I demanded, but it was a soft demand. Fetcher rubbed his eyes.

"You just broke...How’d you do that? How’d you know you were in a bind—Marvin said you wouldn’t know anything about...anything," he asked quietly. I stuck my tongue out at him.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I spat, "but I’m sure I won’t want to anyway. I’m going home."

I began to run, and suprisingly, he didn’t stop me this time. He just stood there, almost awestruck. Almost. Because he snapped out of it and lunged after me.

"Why are you doing this?" I yelled, and the wind carried my words back to him. My head start was a pretty good one—I was about twenty meters ahead of him. He was gaining, though. I’d never been good in PE.

"Because," I heard him call back faintly, "I have to. You don’t understand."

"I already KNEW that," I snapped. "If I understood, I’m sure I’d be perfectly happy to just let you kill me, you know, because then I’d actually know why you were doing it!"

"I don’t want to kill you," he shouted. "I don’t want to hurt you at all."

"With the exception of the street thing, I assume?" I grunted, and slowed to a stop. He was behind me again—and didn’t even look winded. Stupid guy. I was still debating whether to call him a man or a boy. He looked so young.

"Yes," he said sheepishly, "with the exception of that."

"Good."

"Very. You ran the wrong way—look." He pointed. I followed his finger and saw he was indicating towards the warehouse about forty meters away. Great. I wanted to kick myself. He laughed. "I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m going to make sure that no harm comes to you in Calcaria."

"...Is that a cult or something?"

"No," he corrected, "a province."

I was more lost than ever. Calcaria? Was that a third world or something?

We reached the door of the warehouse in silence. He jostled with the lock for a second and then the hinges creaked and it swung open.

It was picturesque, if you wanted to commit a murder. Dust motes were filtering from broken, cobweb-covered windows, rusty beams hung over a huge, flat plot of cement. It screamed, "Dangerous!", but I ignored that. It looked almost like an airplane hanger. And it looked incredibly cliché. Fetcher was strolling lazily to a chair in the center of it all. Smack-dab center. Wooden chair. He gestured at it.

"What?" I asked. My voice echoed over and over in the abandoned—warehouse. An abandoned warehouse. How wonderful.

"Sit," he commanded. I narrowed my eyes.

"I’d rather stand."

"And I’d rather you sit. Being binded while standing gets extremely painful if you have to do it for a long period of time," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. I nodded enthusiastically.

"Sure, and I know exactly what all this ‘binding’ crap is, yeah," I bubbled sarcastically. "And you know what else? I think I’m ready for this Calcaria place! It’s giving me the warm fuzzies just thinking about going there!"

Fetcher sighed. "Your sarcasm annoys me. Sit, please."

I sighed. "Your instructions annoy me. I’ll stand."

"You’ll be more comfortable sitting," he warned.

"You’ll be more comfortable if you let me stand," I warned. Because if he was going to try to make me sit, I swore right then and there I’d kick him where it hurts.

"I don’t doubt that," he laughed. "But I really don’t care about my comfort right now, love. My orders were to make you as ready as possible, and I don’t want you aching so badly you can’t remember what I said."

Again! I darted at him and slapped him on the side of the head. "Don’t call me love! Got it?"

"Fine," he submitted, raising his hands to prevent me from hitting him again. "I’m sorry, old habit."

Then he grinned mischievously, grabbed my shoulders, and forced me into the chair. I was too transfixed on that grin to notice—it suited his face perfectly. And made him...I shut my eyes quickly. No, he’s not handsome. Then I chuckled to myself. Never will be. Well, maybe just a little.

It was a while before I regained my senses and realized where I was, and that I couldn’t move again. Partially because my limbs wouldn’t work, and partially because Fetcher’s face was two centimeters from my own.

I stared him down in fury.

"See," he said, "that wasn’t so bad."

"Your perception of good and bad must be really screwed," I seethed.

"That or my head is," he purred. Oh God—whatever happens here, it’s not my fault. I reminded myself of this over and over again.

"Anyway," he announced, and stood back. "Time to tell you everything you probably didn’t want to know."

And he did. And I really didn’t want to know it.

He paced around me, looked me up and down, and then nodded.

"See," he began, "there are millions of planets."

Really intelligent.

"And your planet isn’t the only inhabited one, nor is it a very good one, but it’s the only one we have access to. Our magic can only reach so far, and you’re the closest, so though our spells are weak by the time they get here, they work."

No sense, no sense.

"I come from a planet that we call Earth, too, because there really isn’t any other name for those, is there? Of course, in the many languages, it isn’t Earth, but that’s a minor detail. It’s the basic concept. Marvin taught me all this—a while back, I was just as clueless as...what do you call them...your first graders.

"A very, very long time ago, when our people were just learning to use their magic, and your people were still in the caves, our people accidentally discovered a spell."

"So you’re saying your place has magic?" I huffed. "Doesn’t sound entirely possible to me."

"It is. Now, please, be quiet. Our people’s spell somehow transported them here, about twenty colonists or so, and they met up with your people and taught them how to make fire, how to use the plants, all that good stuff. So your planet has forever been in debt, because had we not taught you these things, you would never have survived.

"Your planet owed us twenty people. You are the second."

"..." I couldn’t talk, but I opened my mouth angrily.

"See, in our land, there’s this really evil man—maybe you’d prefer the term dude. This dude is seriously cruel; he’s the kind that eats babies for breakfast. And he’s been in power for over a century now, because nobody can stop him. There’s a legend that one person did try to stop him fifty years ago, but this person wasn’t a person, he was an immortal, and he failed at the last possible second. He was trapped in a box of the strongest crystal, under the strongest curse. This curse was laid by the evil man—also called the Elsarius—and he was a crystal mage. Are you getting all this?"

I could speak again. "No," I said furiously, "I’m not. Should I be? All I understand is that you’re a nut."

"At least I’m making progress," he reasoned.

"None at all."

"Too bad. To continue—a crystal mage is a very, very powerful being. In our world, we have all sorts of mages and magicians—practically everyone knows a little bit of magic, and those who don’t are looked down on. Mostly there are elemental mages, the kinds that deal with the four elements and the magics that branch off from those. Some are special types, like myself, an illusion mage, or battle mages or mind mages or what have you. But a crystal mage is all of those, and more. They say that if three were to combine their powers, they could be a lesser god, and if four were to, they could be a god so powerful it would overtake all of the higher realm.

"The Elsarius—that’s the evil dude—he’s a crystal mage, and a big one at that. So that is why he was able to defeat the immortal that stood against him. And lock him away. The only way that lock can be broken is by another crystal mage. Which is where you come in.

"We have reason to believe you are a crystal mage, Kathryn Osman."