Portal Rift (The Artania Chronicles Book 4)

Book summary

In "Portal Rift," Bartholomew Borax III longs for another adventure in magical Artania, but unexpected doorways hurl him through time and space. Each portal presents a new challenge, from Parisian lofts to burning cafés with sinister creatures. When his best friend falls into an inexplicable coma, Bartholomew must unravel cryptic anagrams to unlock the mystery. With time ticking away, can he decipher the clues and save his friend before it's too late?

Excerpt from Portal Rift (The Artania Chronicles Book 4)

Bartholomew Borax III staggered back and bounced off something hard. He thrust out his hands but still tumbled over, landing on all fours. Gasping for breath, he dug his fingers into the ground and clung to the grassy soil.

Please stay this time.

Arching his back, he gulped in a lungful of fresh air and choked on the ash in his throat. His body spasmed and he sputtered, coughing up dark phlegm. He spat twice.

Dew soaked through his silk pajamas to his knees. The boy leaned back on his haunches and tried to calm his breathing. He closed his eyes and began a silent count. One…ten…thirty-one…thirty-three. Once his chest rose and fell without spluttering, he opened them.

The shining moon broke through the clouds illuminating the Spanish-style building beyond. The school was still standing?

But he had just watched it melt away.

A breeze blew back his blonde hair. Slowly, he stood, bare feet slipping on the wet grass. He leaned against the flagpole and brushed his cheek against metal. Cool as the dark sky above. No hint of that fiery furnace now.

That Bartholomew was back in the real world.

The fourteen-year-old had traveled into the mystical Artania three times before, and while each journey was unique, he’d never experienced anything quite like this. Every other crossing had been with Alex by his side, knowing full-well that something magical was about to happen—he was about to breach an enchanted doorway.

Not this time.

This time he’d plodded into Mother’s office to dutifully say goodnight and submit to inspection. After taking his third bath and patting his head to tame the cowlick that refused to stay down, Bartholomew had applied hand sanitizer, deodorant, and cologne. Since Hygenette Borax’s sense of smell was stronger than a Mudlark elephant, he doubled each application before descending the winding staircase to make his way down the long hall toward her office.

As his footsteps echoed down the lonely hallway, he considered asking to return to school. Maybe the months of being extra clean were enough for her to say yes. It had been almost two years since the incident.

When he saw her from the doorway, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. The monitor light shone on her pale skin as she mumbled something about cleansers. As she stared at her laptop on the Plexiglas desk, he felt a pang of pity. Those diamond blue eyes used to cut him to the core, but not anymore. Now, Bartholomew understood her cool glances were simply a mask protecting her from the world. A world where a husband can drown in inches of water and leave you to raise a child on your own.

“I’m ready to rest, Mother.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the computer screen. Mother must have been preoccupied, because for once, she didn’t beckon him closer to look for dirt under his nails or specks of dust on his monogrammed robe.

He stepped up behind her. “Mother?”

“What?” She closed the laptop and set a hand over it, protectively.

That was strange. She usually reveled in sharing articles about how germs live everywhere, or a new cleanser. What was she looking at?

“I-I, uhh, have bathed.”

“Hmm.” She sniffed, raising her nose in the air. “Hand sanitizer?”

He held up his hands for inspection.

“Fine. Good night.” She waved him away with a flick of her wrist, but waited until he was back at the doorway before returning to whatever was on the computer screen.

Back inside his room, Bartholomew pondered her strange behavior. Hygenette Borax was many things—controlling, fearful, and of course, obsessed with cleanliness. One thing she had never been, though, was secretive. All his life, Bartholomew had heard her tell stories of the horrors that waited just outside. How if he weren’t careful, he could end up just like his father, drowning in mud.

For many years he’d believed her, but over time came to realize that it was all lies. Lies she told herself to explain Father’s death.

He shook his head and had just hung up his robe, when the humming started. Then there was a flash.

And that crazy night began.

Alexander Devinci had trouble falling asleep that night. Tossing. Turning. Getting tangled in the sheets. So much on his mind. Starting high school. Wondering if Gwen would go back to giving him that soft-eyed look, or keep smiling at Jose every time he walked by. Worrying if there’d be a relapse of Mom’s heart condition.

Not to mention the nightmares.

Even painting in the garage studio, his fluffy-eared Australian Shepherd, Rembrandt, at his feet had brought little relief. When Alex settled onto the paint-splattered stool and faced the easel, savage images flashed in his mind.

He tried to fight them by painting something familiar, like a skater grinding a curb or one of the Olympian gods in Artania. But his hand would turn them into a gunner trying to kill freakin’ terrorists.

“What’s going on, boy?” He set the brush down and rubbed Rembrandt’s black-and-gray-striped head.

Rembrandt didn’t snuggle up against his knees, but cringed as if expecting a beating. This made no sense. The Devincis barely raised their voices at their dog, much less hit or kicked him. Gwen often said that his mom was so gentle you expected fairy dust to come out of her mouth instead of words.

Then Alex noticed a breeze rattle the garage window.

He wasn’t exactly the superstitious type. More logical, a doer kind of kid. But after three trips into another dimension where opposing forces battled for control, he’d learned to take heed of signs. Some might indicate that Artania was about to call upon him, whereas others had a more sinister meaning.

Either way, he couldn’t create that night.

After smearing a blotch over the whole canvas, he threw his brushes in the garage sink and rinsed them off. Swirls of color blended to gray and then brown as they circled the drain and disappeared down the pipes. He wiped his hands on the towel hanging over the sink and called Rembrandt inside.

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table with papers strewn in every direction, mumbling about some new equation he was working on. Alex smiled. Dad got as lost in mathematical theorems as he and Bartholomew did in their art. But where Dad’s scribblings ended up in college journals or in front of the students at the University of Santa Barbara, Alex and his bud’s created living beings.

When first there’d been hints of something supernatural, back when he was eleven, Alex had thought Bartholomew was messing with his mind. Then they passed through a painted doorway and ended up in a magical world where all art was alive. He didn’t have long to gape at the wonders of Artania before discovering that it was in grave danger and he and Bartholomew were the only ones that could save it.

A heavy responsibility for a kid. One that continually weighed upon him.

So whenever he created, he tried to imagine what sort of creature he was unleashing in that world. And when malevolent images came from his fingertips, he painted over them. Like tonight.

Alex rolled over again. Punched his pillow. Slowly breathed in and out. “…ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five…” By the time he reached twenty-one, the fog of sleep had finally drifted over him.

Restful? That’s another story.