COF 4: The Abject Throne

Foreword

It was a beautiful day for jet lag. Not.

The plane landed without much ado (by that, I meant no magical flaming creatures chasing me around the city) and I wheeled out of Charles de Gaulle Airport with my brand new suitcase courtesy of Jacqueline. I caught a cab with the little bit of French I searched through Google translate. Through a hazy Google Maps search, I chose the first road from de Gaulle I noticed and told the driver to get me there.

That's how I ended up in a fancy bed space in Rue François Ory in Montrogue, a few kilometers from the Eiffel Tower. Now, as I sipped macchiato in a nearby cafe, my barely-out-of-the-box laptop sat on the table, ignored. The word processor's cursor blinked at me almost like a ticking clock.

A groan rumbled in my throat. I didn't want to work on this current journal. My head pounded; my focus was out of the window running marathons with crocodiles or something. I tried searching for the cause but all my phone showed me were websites written in French. I shut it off and let the phone clatter against the table.

I sipped my coffee, the flavor blending with the spoiled saliva in my mouth. A pang of nausea slammed through my temples. I gripped the edge of the table and blinked repeatedly, waiting for the spell to pass.

"Do you know anyone called Jacqueline Shaw?" a voice asked.

I whirled to find a boy not older than fourteen standing next to me. It's like he just popped up like an errant fungus. I blinked at the freckles splashed across his nose and at the reddish hair sitting in a tangled mop on this head. Why and how did he know about a person I met twenty hours ago?

"You're doing it again," the boy said in an accent that sounded Irish. I blinked again. Okay, I wasn't hallucinating. "You're thinking of her."

I set down my cup and dragged my eyes towards the boy's uniform that reminded me of those fancy British prep students I only see in Western movies. "Kid, don't make it sound so romantic," I said. My voice slurred for some reason. I wasn't not drunk. I swear. "I don't do that kind of thing," I waved my hand with a frown.

"Kevan, did you find something?" an older boy, probably around seventeen, stepped between me and the Irish boy. He looked like he was the oldest one in the bunch. He crossed his arms and trained his dark eyes on me. A frown etched across his lips like I wasn't what he wanted but he was willing to deal with me just to get it done.

Hmm. Maybe I should have combed my hair a bit. I shrugged. Eh.

"Markel, what are you doing?" a girl probably the same age as the older boy sauntered into the cafe, followed by another boy with earphones stuck in his ear and another girl with wild black hair.

The older boy, Markel, frowned as he turned to the girl with light brown hair coming towards us. "Jocasta, I told you to wait outside with Ji-yeon and Alon."

Earphone boy looked up at the mention of his name. The girl swore in Korean as she raked at her long strands with pale, bony fingers. Jocasta arrived at my table and narrowed her eyes at Markel. She looked like she was the same age as him, anyway. "We should stick together. We don't know what that monster has planned for us. It's too risky to split up."

My nerves perked up at the mention of the word "monster". Did these kids possess magical journals, too? I sighed. Let's hope that it was a different kind of monster than what I had in mind. I barely made it to Paris! I cleared my throat and raised my eyes to Markel who still glared at me like I stole his candy. "Do you need something?" I turned my cup against its saucer and took another sip. "This banter is kind of hurting my head."

"You're jet-lagged," Jocasta shook her head. A faint British accent crept into her tone. I raised an eyebrow. Fancy, if I should say so. "You shouldn't be drinking coffee."