“Aren’t they great?” Lady Nemain asked, placing her hand proudly on his shoulder. “They cost the Lucent a fortune, but they’re worth every bloodstone. Look at how strong they are.”
“Where did they come from?” Edwin asked.
“Newick, of course. They’re Shades—the traders in Newick crush the rock from the mines to make spice. For most people it’s a drug, a scourge, highly addictive; the Council banned spice from Chardwick ages ago. But sometimes, on the rare occasion, spice does… this. These four would have been captains in the Caretaker’s Guard in Newick, but the Lucent made the Caretaker a deal he couldn’t refuse. And now, the next time something comes from the mines, we’ll be ready.”
The girl with the long black hair came out from behind the stone barrier and, from a small puddle, commanded a wall of water to hover in front of her, which she used as a shield against every oncoming fireball.
“They all control one resource,” Edwin commented.
“That’s right. The two boys are firewielders, obviously. The girl with the black hair controls water, and the bald one air. The bald one cut off all her hair because it kept getting in the way. I was hoping the Lucent could negotiate a earthmover or seer, but there’s only one earthmover remaining in the Caretaker’s Guard, and they say there hasn’t been a seer in generations.”
“And you say they get these powers from crushed rocks from the mines?” Edwin asked, and Lady Nemain nodded. “Why are you showing me this?”
Lady Nemain shifted away from the ledge uncomfortably. “There’s a lot you missed up on that ledge, Edwin…. I wanted you to see what we’re up against. You see, we have a dark history with the unnatural, and so far we have fought back everything that’s come at us from the mines…. Sending you up to the ledge and away from Chardwick and our traditions was a mistake—I told the Council they should let me raise you, but Carrion had his allies and I hadn’t the votes. I wanted you to see why people here are so paranoid, and why you must start following the rules.”
“This is about me sneaking off to the fair?” Edwin asked.
“Yes… But no, it’s more than that. My sister Rona was your mother, and I care about you. You’re my family, my only… since…. And I see my sister’s greatness in you. She was gifted with the Fury too, you know, before she gave it all up and had you. Edwin, if you let people get to know you, let them learn that you’re just a boy, they would let you come live with me. Wouldn’t you like that? And I could teach you everything I know about the Fury, and you could become an acolyte and maybe even be on the Council one day.”
Edwin heard what Lady Nemain was implying, but he had to ask: “Do people think I’m off—that there’s something the matter with me?”
She shook her head vigorously, and Edwin saw that she was crying. “No, no dear, it’s not that. Not exactly. You don’t understand, I see you don’t, and I wish I could explain it to you, I really wish I could. But you see”—she looked down, saw that the Shades had stopped practicing and were watching him, and dropped her voice—“Edwin, there are rules here. We’re raised to think that—but you’re just a boy! A little boy like my—do you understand what I’m trying to say Edwin?”
Edwin shook his head, utterly confused.
“Oh Edwin, just be careful! Please, try harder to do what’s expected of you.”
Though unsure what she meant, Edwin said, “I can do that. I’ll do better.”
“Good, good. That’s good,” she said. His words seemed to calm her down, and her smile quickly returned. To the Shades below, she said, “That’s great work. The Lucent will be pleased to see you’ve made so much progress.”
One of the boys, who spoke with the aloof accent of someone from Newick, said, “We’ve never had such access to spice. Our powers grow every day.” He inclined his head forward in thanks, and Lady Nemain returned the gesture.
Squeezing Edwin’s shoulder, she said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.” As she led Edwin from the room, he turned one last time over his shoulder, and saw that the Shades were still staring at him.
CHAPTER 18: THE FALLEN ROGER GOODFELLOW
At first Edwin wasn’t sure he was going to be able to talk Lady Nemain into letting him walk back to Hawthorne alone, especially not after she told him the Council didn’t want her to let him out of her sight, but she cracked when he mentioned how long Headmistress Vanora had kept him in the cellar. After promising he was only going to stretch his legs and would stay out of trouble, he left the village square, knowing exactly where he had to go.
The moment he was out of sight, he felt a prickling at his legs, and his spirit asked, “What are you doing?”
Knowing he might need the creature for what he was about to do, he swallowed his pride and responded to it for the first time in days. “I’m going to get my mother’s book. After seeing your memory I know where to look.”
“Yess, finally. Good,” the spirit purred, circling Edwin with excitement. Edwin wondered if it would be so happy if it knew he only wanted the book to learn how to control it once and for all. Knowing where he was going, the spirit stayed close, hiding under his coat.
Keeping his head down, Edwin walked on and soon found himself on the little road with The Bitter Hart, where he walked to the shared house across the road and turned the knob. It was right here all along, he thought to himself. The entry hall was dingy, and he had to walk over muddy shoes, broken plates, and discarded clothes to get to Roger Goodfellow’s room on the second floor, but there was no answer when he knocked on the door. He heard someone on the ground floor begin climbing the stairs and knocked again, hoping that whoever it was would keep walking.
“If you’re looking for Goodfellow, try Mortley’s across the street,” a woman said, making Edwin jump despite himself. Too busy carrying bags of groceries, she continued on her way up the stairs without another word.
Knowing he wasn’t supposed to be there, he called up the stairs in his deepest least Edwin-like voice, “Thanks.”
Back outside, as he crossed the road, his spirit whispered in his ear, “Join with me. Roger Goodfellow will not be pleassed to see you.”
“After Ashton? Not a chance,” Edwin spat. “I’ll want to be able to keep an eye on you if anything goes wrong.”
“Being prepared for something to go wrong iss exactly why we need to join.”
Edwin shook his head. “You know why we can’t join. You can’t be trusted.”
“Will it take our own deaths to clear your conscience?” the spirit countered.
“Stay close,” Edwin said, ignoring its question. As he crossed the road, he tried to put a little confidence in his step that he very much didn’t feel.
Opening the door to The Bitter Hart, he was assaulted by the smell of smoke and stale beer. Three men were inside. “Yer Master or Mistress know you’re here, boy?” Mortley asked, not looking up, but his jowls shook. He had been cleaning a mug, and his fat hand must have gotten stuck. His face was red as he tried to pull it free.
“Yessir,” Edwin said, keeping the stutter out of his voice.
“Right.” The old man smirked. “Another one who doesn’t want to go to the mines, eh? Been getting more and more of those lately. Dark times.” Finally getting his hand free of the mug, he looked up and smiled. “Ah, the Hawthorne boy. Ya look in good health—and taller. What can I getcha?”
“Thanks, but I’m not here for a drink. I’m looking for Roger Goodfellow. I was told he was here.”
“Goodfellow, y’ave company,” Mortley shouted, and he began cleaning another mug.
“No need ta bellow, Portley,” a haggard looking man yelled back from a nearby stool. Then to Edwin he said, “Do I know you, boy?”
“May I talk with you outside a moment, please?”
“Cantcha see I’m busy?” the man slurred, nursing his drink.
“It’s tha middle of tha day, Goodfellow,” Mortley said. “Go see what tha boy wants.”
Not looking up from his drink, Goodfellow
replied, “Mind yer own business, old Portley Mortley.”
“Please, it’s important,” Edwin said.
“I don’ wantta go outside,” Goodfellow grumbled, but Edwin was glad to see he was pulling himself from his stool and onto his feet. Though not late in the day, it was clear to Edwin that Goodfellow had spent the greater part of the morning there—probably the night before that too—and he was unsteady on his feet.
“Commere,” Goodfellow garbled, pulling Edwin close to him for balance.
Overwhelmed by the man’s strong odor, Edwin began to breathe through his mouth, and sparingly at that. Leading the way to the door, he struggled to keep the man upright. Behind him Mortley said, “Why dontcha just take him home, boy. Goodfellow, ya sleep some of it off and come back later.”
Edwin smiled, unable to believe his good luck, surprised that it had been so easy. Goodfellow mumbled something intelligible but vicious, and waved Mortley off.
After dragging Goodfellow across the road and upstairs, it wasn’t until Goodfellow had opened the door and was lying face down on his couch that he looked up. The blinds were drawn and the light was dim, but his eyes opened wide as he seemed to see Edwin for the first time. “I kno’ you,” he spat.
Hating himself for having to lie to a man who had already suffered so much because of him, but knowing he would never be able to explain about his mother or his spirit, he said, “Yes, you’re my father.”
“That blanket!” Edwin looked down to see that his cloak was peeking out from behind his open coat, having completely forgotten that he had it with him. “I would have recognized that thing anywhere. Get outta my home!” the man yelled.
“I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to figure out my past, and I’m hoping you can help.”
Goodfellow threw a stained pillow at him, missed, then flopped around angrily on the couch a bit, but he didn’t pull himself up. “Someplace evil, that’s where ya came from! I told everyone, but no one would listen ta me. You aren’t ma boy! You killed ma wife!” He began blubbering incoherently. “Ma beautiful Rona.”
“I’m looking for something,” Edwin said uncomfortably, but he refused to leave, not when he was so close.
“You weren’t ours. Ne’er ours…” He was falling into a stupor on the couch. “Not right. Never right. Not since we foundya in our baby’s crib wrapped in that damn blanket.”
“And there was nothing else? A book maybe?”
His eyes rolling forward, Goodfellow squinted at Edwin and struggled to focus. “How do ya know about tha’?” he slurred. “Get out! I toldcha to leave ma home!” And with that last bellow, Roger Goodfellow’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out on his couch.
Edwin watched the man snore a minute, poked him a bit, and then asked the spirit, “Do you think it’s here? This place doesn’t look much like your memory.”
That was an understatement. The rooms looked to be the same size, but that was all that was familiar. Most of the furniture was missing, and the sofa that remained was old, torn, and brown with age. Even the walls, which were covered with fist-sized holes, were different.
Suddenly the spirit was nowhere to be seen. “Aigh, get back here!” Edwin yelled, and Goodfellow grunted, making Edwin shut his mouth and silently back away. Sensing that the spirit hadn’t gone far, he looked around the room a moment and wondered where Goodfellow could have hidden the book.
In the main room with Goodfellow, there weren’t many places to look. The same went for Goodfellow’s bedroom. It wasn’t until he got to the kitchen that he found himself someplace familiar. The paint was faded and the cook pot was covered in a few more layers of rust, but its likeness to the spirit’s memory was unmistakable. There, next to the stove, was where he had killed Goodfellow’s wife. No, the spirit killed Goodfellow’s wife, he told himself. Hesitantly, he touched the spot on the floor where he had been sitting.
“Go to furnace,” the spirit said, interrupting his thoughts.
“The what?”
“The furnaaace,” the spirit repeated, its essence crackling with energy. Gold sparks ran through its essence as it led Edwin back into the main room with Roger Goodfellow, who was snoring loudly. To the right of the sofa stood a small black iron furnace; the ceiling above it was black with soot. With slow agile steps, Edwin crept to its side, all the while keeping an eye on Goodfellow, who coughed and licked his lips intermittently. With every pause between snores, Edwin stopped, worried that the man was awake.
But he remained asleep. As quietly as Edwin could, he opened the little hatch to the furnace door. Inside, he saw nothing but burnt out coals and ash, and he mouthed to the spirit, “There’s nothing here.” Continuing to crackle softly, the spirit dove into the ash, and Edwin sighed and rolled up his coat sleeves, knowing the spirit wanted him to plunge his hand into the ash.
A result of much neglect, the layer of ash was deep, and touching it made his entire body feel dirty. Even his mouth tasted metallic and grimy. “Stop being so squeamissh,” the spirit reprimanded, its voice muffled slightly by the soot.
With his hand all the way to the bottom of the furnace, at first he felt nothing but slick dirt. It wasn’t until his finger touched the edge of the bottom that he realized it wasn’t the bottom at all—it was the book, and Roger Goodfellow had tried to burn it. There wasn’t enough space between the book and the side of the furnace for his fingers, and he looked around the empty room for something he could use as leverage.
The spirit flew from the furnace and, hovering in the air unsullied, said, “Turn the metal latch under the furnace.”
Under the furnace, he found a latch holding up a door that must have been put there to make cleaning easier. He gave it a slight tug and became frustrated when it didn’t budge, and he wondered if it had rusted shut.
“Harder,” the spirit hissed.
“I’m trying,” Edwin whispered, and he tugged harder and harder until he felt the latch digging into his fingers. Goodfellow snorted and smacked his lips, making the hair on his neck stand on end.
“Join with me,” the spirit said.
“I would like to be able to do something on my own,” Edwin said, and the spirit bristled with indignation. “You know, I kind of hate you sometimes,” he added, and then said the words of joining before the spirit could respond. With the spirit in him, Edwin was more nervous than ever; Roger Goodfellow was barely an arm’s length away. The sooner he could get the book the better, so he returned his attention to the furnace, grabbed the latch, and pulled again. With the spirit’s strength it opened easily, and ash began pouring out the door, flying everywhere, creating a cloud of dust that billowed up from the ground. The book slammed against the floor with a thud.
Struggling to open his eyes, Goodfellow mumbled, “Aigh, what’re ya doin’ here?”
Edwin grabbed the book and scurried back, barely avoiding a swipe of Goodfellow’s hand. Falling forward, Goodfellow’s eyes fell shut and he resumed snoring. With the ash burning his eyes and tickling his throat, Edwin struggled to keep himself from coughing, and he rushed towards the door and outside. It wasn’t until he was well on his way back to Hawthorne that he noticed how heavy the book was. He released his spirit, and said, “I can’t believe how easy that was!”
“You had only to want it,” the creature replied. “Now what are you going to do with it?”
Edwin knew he couldn’t tell the spirit the truth—that he hoped the book was some sort of grimoire that would tell him how to control his spirit, or, better yet, help him get it out of his life for good. He had just opened his mouth to lie when the ground shook, knocking him off his feet, and the air rang with the sound of an explosion deep within the mines. Loose dirt and rocks fell from the cliffs surrounding Chardwick, and for a long second, everything was silent.
“Something is coming from the miness,” his spirit hissed in his ear. “Run!”
The only way back to Hawthorne was through the village square, but he stopped as soon as he
heard someone call on the Fury. Any other day he would want to see what was coming, but not today, not after he had just found his mother’s book.
“Hurry, to the rooftops,” the spirit said.
Edwin nodded, threw the book on the roof of a nearby two-story with plenty of eroded, jagged bricks, and quickly climbed to the top. In the distance another horn called on the Fury from somewhere in the mines. The ground shook with another explosion, and he looked up just in time to see a yellow flame burst from the Black Keep up on the ledge.
“It’s the imp!” Edwin said. The imp’s loud, piercing cry reverberated throughout the crater, and Edwin struggled to cover his ears and staggered to his knees. Up on the ledge, one of the guards tried to drive the imp back inside the Black Keep with a sword, but the imp dove into the guard’s chest and the guard went flying through the air, far over Chardwick, and crashed into a distant house so hard that a great cloud of dust billowed up into the air.
Edwin’s mind raced with options—what could he do?—what should he do?—but before he could react, the imp was speeding down the cliff with its long, tentacle-like hair flowing behind it. It only took Edwin a moment to realize the imp was heading straight for him.
Edwin grabbed his mother’s book and scaled up the side of the house next-door. From there the roofs were more level, and he ran from house to house towards the village square. Remembering that the imp had been able to sense his spirit inside him, he didn’t dare call it into him, but now that his arm was healed he was pretty fast on his own.
Another ear-splitting screech filled the air, and Edwin fell to the ground with his hands over his ears, dropping the book in front of him. “Ahhhh,” he yelled, trying to block out the noise.
As soon as it stopped, he looked over his shoulder and saw the imp hovering right behind him. It looked wilder than Edwin had ever seen it: Its teeth were bared, its slit-nostrils flared, and its hair tasted the air, writing like a pot of snakes. As he backed away, his spirit flew into the air between them, its essence crackling red sparks into the imp’s face. The imp hissed, took a deep breath, and blew, sending his spirit’s smoky essence flying off the roof. The air blew Edwin over backwards to the edge of the roof, but he managed with one hand to grab hold of the ledge. Gripping the ledge with all his might, his feet dangling four floors above the ground, he swung his body and grabbed the ledge with his other hand just as his first hand began to slip off the icy brick. He called out for help instinctively even though he knew no one could.
The Dark Passenger (Book 1) Page 16