The Sheridan Institute Files

Chapter 4: Tristan

Tristan watched Lizzie go, annoyed that she’d so deftly blown him off—again—and even more annoyed that it bothered him.

He debated letting her charge off alone—after all, there were a hundred other students who would love to have Tristan Lang in their company.

But he did have a bet riding on Lizzie’s latest invention. If it turned out her Living Alarm had indeed failed, then he would soon be twelve dollars the poorer.

It was that reason (or the twelve of them) that Tristan gave himself when he kicked into a jog toward the gate. It was a potential gambling debt—nothing more—that sent him chasing after Lizzie.

Her brown hair bounced, her skirts swished, and her toolbox clanked. She seemed…frazzled. Not that this was unusual, but Tristan had always flattered himself that Lizzie relaxed when he was around. That, somehow, he made her full-steam-ahead brain slow down for a few moments.

But not lately. Not today.

She heard him following and shot a glare over her shoulder. Her spectacles glinted, her eyes blazed, and Tristan thought if she squeezed her pencil any more tightly, it would snap in two.

He tossed up his hands, appeasing. “I won’t interfere,” he promised, offering his signature sideways grin—the one that made all the girls at the Institute turn pink-faced and tongue-tied.

Though not Lizzie. Never Lizzie. She’d been as immune to his charms as a statue…And maybe that was why he’d always liked her as much as he did.

Of course, that didn’t explain why he kept betting all his cash in her favor—and then, losing all his cash each time.

She really was quite a terrible inventor.

Lizzie crossed the short stepping-stone path to the gatehouse’s pine front door. She rapped twice and then tapped her toe, waiting.

There was no window on the front to peer inside—just gray stone and that one door that wasn’t swinging wide. In fact, as Tristan watched on, the only movement was in the oak tree to the right of the gatehouse. All of its golden leaves practically smothered the tiny hut, and as the wind swept past, it set the oak’s branches to scratching against the roof.

That same wind threaded through Lizzie’s hair, towing it every which way. And, not for the first time, Tristan was struck by how haphazard—how…how volatile—she looked, when in reality she was the most organized, well-behaved specimen of young woman he’d ever encountered.

He was also struck by how damned annoying she could be at times like these, when her good-breeding simply wouldn’t give way to the tantrum he knew she wanted to throw.

Or when he wished she’d just tell him whatever vast misdeed had earned him stony silence for the past two weeks.

When the gnarled old gate-guard, Herman, didn’t answer on the fourth rap, Lizzie stamped her foot.

And Tristan laughed—he couldn’t help it, and though he immediately turned it into a snorting choke, it was too late.

Lizzie pierced him with another lens-filtered glare and loftily declared, “I am glad you find this situation amusing, Mr. Lang. Perhaps, in between your poorly stifled chuckles, you could be so kind as to assist me.”

Mr. Lang. Ouch.

Tristan schooled his face back into dreary indifference and popped a curt bow. “Of course, Miss Brown.” Two could play this game.

Lizzie strode past, chin high, and motioned vaguely toward the oak tree. “Watch the bells through the window, if you please.”

“And if I don’t please?” he countered, appraising the branches between he and the only window—which was, of course, situated right behind the oak’s massive trunk.

Lizzie pretended not to hear. Instead she called over her shoulder, “When I cross the property bounds, holler if the bell doesn’t ring! I need the bottom right one to toll!”

Tristan only sighed his agreement. When Lizzie asked, he almost always obeyed. He wasn’t entirely sure why, yet it always seemed to happen that way.

“Twelve dollars,” he told himself. “Dirtying your suit is worth twelve dollars.” He tossed a final look Lizzie’s way, but she was already to the gate—and also hefting up what appeared to be a shovel.

“Well,” she shouted, “I’d say this proves that Herman wandered off with Gardener Frank again!” She smiled triumphantly, seeming to have forgotten she was furious with Tristan.

So Tristan doffed an invisible hat and offered her one more sideways grin—which, as he should have guessed, only earned him a glower in return. Twelve dollars, he reminded himself. Then he sucked in a steeling breath…and dove into the filthy realm of branches and autumn foliage.

He was to the trunk in seconds and then sidling around its rough bark to the warped window beyond. The scent of mulch sharpened in his nose as he pressed in close to the glass—which was so ancient as to be foggy. He had to smash his face right into it to even glimpse the wall of tiny brass bells inside.

It was just like the wall of bells one would find on a Mississippi steamer, and Tristan would know since he’d spent half his childhood on one.

Actually, now that Tristan thought of it, hadn’t Professor Chen said Mr. Sheridan’s Dead Alarm had been fashioned after steamer bells? Steamer bells and fire alarms and…Telegraphs!

Huh. Funny the useless things that Tristan’s brain chose to remember—

A bell started clanging.

Tristan jumped. Then he pressed in more closely to the window, shocked that Lizzie’s invention was working. His lips parted to shout to her…

And then his words died on his tongue. For it was most definitely not the bottom right bell that was tolling.

“Liz?” he called, smooshing his nose harder to the glass. It looked like there was a label underneath that bottom right bell. Perhaps Lizzie had gotten her wires crossed, and now the wrong one was clanging. “One of these isgoing off!”

Which—hey now!—meant the alarm worked…Sort of. Though Garret could be a real stickler when it came to their wagers, Tristan was confident he could get his twelve dollars back. Possibly even spin this situation enough to claim he’d won the bet.

“Liz?” he tried again, drawing back from the window and rubbing his nose. The alarm was still ringing like mad. In fact, if anything, it seemed to be ringing harder and louder and—

A scream split Tristan’s ears.

Lizzie.

He’d only heard Lizzie scream once before—when a football had smashed into her nose and left her with a black eye. But this was a higher scream—this was a grating, rippling, terrified sound that Tristan couldn’t seem to get to fast enough.

He launched away from the gatehouse, mind alight and muscles acting on instinct. Branches slapped his face; leaves smeared in his vision until at last he’d hauled himself from the tree’s claws and the iron gate came into view.

Later, he would wonder how he’d managed to stay so cool—it wasn’t as if he’d encountered the Dead before. He’d only learned about them in class, and even then, he hadn’t a passed any of his necromancy exams or paid attention to a single lecture.

Yet when Tristan saw the skeleton staggering toward Lizzie, with its bone hands outstretched and a tattered dress dragging on the gravel behind it, and once Tristan had realized he’d never reach Lizzie before the Dead did, Tristan cupped his hands and roared, “The shovel, Lizzie! Grab the shovel and aim for the knees!”