Conrad Edison and The Living Curse (Overworld Arcanum Book 1)

by John Corwin

  A few minutes later, it began to rain. I quickly got up and pushed the cart back under the eaves. The plastic bags protected the groceries from the water, but my shirt and hair were wet. I folded my arms tight and shivered. My stomach made a funny noise to remind me how hungry I was. I did my best to ignore the hollow feeling. I'd survived it many times before. It wasn't any different now.

  Still, I wished I'd stolen a cookie or two.

  The store closed two hours later. The young clerk who'd spoken to me earlier saw me on the way out.

  "Where's your parents, lad?"

  "They'll be along soon," I said.

  He looked at his watch. "You've been out here for two hours. Do you have a phone?"

  I shook my head.

  "Do they?"

  I shrugged. "I think so."

  He shook his head. "Bloody wankers." The clerk held up a finger. "I'll be right back."

  "Please don't worry." I forced a smile. "I'm fine."

  He didn't say anything else and went into the store. A few moments later, he returned with a plastic bag. "There's leftover chicken and bread from the deli inside." He held it out to me. "I know you must be starving."

  My smile turned genuine as I took it. "Thank you, sir."

  He looked very troubled. "Your parents aren't right in the head leaving you here like this. Are you certain they're okay?"

  I nodded. "They went to the pub."

  His face darkened. "To the pub?"

  "It's okay, sir, really." I didn't want him finding the Cullens. They would be furious with me if he made them come get me. "They probably got a flat tire. I'm certain they'll be along soon."

  The clerk ran a hand through his hair. "I hope so, lad." He nodded toward the bag. "Now, eat up. I'd wait with you, but I have to pick up my wife."

  "Thank you, sir." The aroma drifting from within the bag made my stomach rumble with anticipation. "I promise I'll be okay."

  "I hope so." He gave me one last look and then got into a small car and drove away.

  I opened the bag and looked inside. A plate with two legs of chicken, potatoes, and two slices of bread was inside. I removed the food. There was a small paper bag underneath the plate. I sat down on the walkway and put the plate on my crossed legs. I took out the paper bag and looked inside.

  Cookies.

  Another smile found me. Some people were so nice. This was the most wonderful gift in the entire world. Cookies were like large edible coins you could use to pay for smiles. Perhaps one day I would make my own cookies. I would find people who looked sad and go up to them and say, "Please, don't be sad. Here, have a cookie. It will make you feel better."

  The person would smile and the tears would vanish.

  I ate the chicken, the potatoes, and the bread, saving the cookies for last. I had the chocolate chip cookie first. A buttersnap and an angel biscuit remained. I decided to eat the buttersnap next. Through the grocery window, I looked at the clock. It was nearly eleven. I didn't care. I still had two cookies.

  It was just after two in the morning when I heard the familiar puttering of the Cullens' car. I finished the last morsel of my buttersnap cookie as the auto screeched to a stop in the parking lot. Mr. Cullen staggered out of the car and walked around to open the boot.

  "Get the groceries in the car," he said in a slurred voice.

  I pushed the cart to the car and put everything inside.

  He shut the trunk.

  "Did he get eggs?" Mrs. Cullen shouted out of the window.

  Mr. Cullen looked at me. "Well, did you?"

  I nodded.

  "And the bread?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He made a noise like a horse snorting. "I'll be right back, dear. Got to relieve myself." Mr. Cullen ambled drunkenly around the corner of the store and up to the bushes. He returned a moment later. "Why aren't you in the car yet, boy?"

  I hastily climbed into the back.

  "How's my little golden goose doing?" Mrs. Cullen said. Her cheeks were very pink and her breath smelled quite fierce.

  I decided not to answer. Sometimes when she acted like this it meant she really wanted to pick on me. Since she was drunk, she might find something else to amuse her.

  Mr. Cullen dropped into the driver seat. The car rocked back and forth for a moment. He made a horse snort again and reached into his front pocket. "Where the hell are my cigarettes?" He looked around the seat but didn't find them.

  "You probably dropped them in the bushes," Mrs. Cullen said.

  He looked over his shoulder at me. "Boy, go look for them."

  I climbed out of the car and walked to where I'd seen him vanish a moment ago. As I searched, I noticed my shadow dancing on the ground. It was strange because a moment ago there hadn't been any light on the side of the building. I looked back and saw something bright in the night sky. It grew brighter, closer, and larger. It looked like a fiery meteor.

  "What are you standing there for, boy!" Mr. Cullen shouted out of the car window. "Find my cigarettes!"

  I nodded, but couldn't turn away from the falling star. Windows shattered and the air rumbled as it streaked low over the town. It seemed as if it would fly right over us, but at the last instant, it veered sharply downward. With a horrendous crunch, it smashed into the car. A blast of hot wind knocked me backward into the shrubs.

  Bits of metal and glass flew through the air. A tire bounced past. I felt something under my hand and picked it up. It was Mr. Cullen's pack of cigarettes. I stood and walked toward the parking lot. Of the car there was little left except a few stray bits. Primarily, there was a large black crater in the middle of the parking lot.

  "Well, I suppose that just happened," I muttered. Today had been the day. I sat down on the walkway, took out my remaining cookie, and nibbled at it.

  Chapter 2

  I almost ran away.

  Unfortunately, I knew from previous experiences that trying to live on the street would be much worse than living with another foster family. I didn't like the idea of returning to the orphanage, but at least it was safe. Perhaps they'd find me nice people to live with who wouldn't die around my birthday.

  Like Cora died.

  We walk down the street looking for a new grocery store so we can steal food.

  "Stealing isn't right," Cora says. "But when you have nothing, it's sometimes a necessity."

  I look up at her and nod. She'd dyed her hair a darker color, but I couldn't tell what it was.

  A homeless man begs for coin.

  Cora reaches into her small purse and frowns. After a moment, she removes a pound and gives it to the man.

  "God bless you, young lady." He tucks away the money.

  As we walk away, I say, "I didn't think you had any money."

  She smiles. "That was almost the last of it." Cora kneels in front of me. "Always help people if you can, Conrad. Good karma is priceless."

  I felt a tear trickle down my face. I balled up on the ground and tried not to cry. Karma had not treated Cora well. She'd died like the rest.

  I spent the rest of the night sleeping in a chair at the police station.

  "Time to wake up, Conrad."

  The familiar voice jerked me awake. I sat up and saw Mr. Goodleigh leaning over me. He smiled pleasantly. I had seen the look enough times to know he was amused. I suspected the misfortunes that found my foster parents entertained him to no end. He was always the one to collect me in the aftermath.

  I stood and felt my pocket for the remaining bit of angel biscuit I'd saved for breakfast. It was still there.

  "I have finished the paperwork." Mr. Goodleigh motioned toward the exit. "We can go."

  I nodded and followed him outside to the old but pristine black car he drove. It looked like a London taxi, but was much larger. I climbed into the back seat and closed the door. Mr. Goodleigh got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled onto the road.

  "Mother will be pleased to see you again," Mr. Goodleigh said. "And just in time for your birthday."r />
  "I will be happy to see her too, Mr. Goodleigh." Due to the bad things that happened to my fosters, I was always at the orphanage for my birthday.

  "Tut, tut," he said. "Since your foster parents are dead, Little Angel Orphanage is once again your home. I am no longer Mr. Goodleigh to you."

  "Yes, Father."

  His gaze met mine in the rear view mirror. I looked down.

  "What did I tell you about looking away, Conrad?"

  With difficulty, I brought my eyes back up. "To never look away."

  "It is a sign of utmost disrespect, son."

  "I apologize, Father." I forced myself to look directly at his reflection.

  He nodded. "Much better." Mr. Goodleigh began to chant one of his favorite songs as he drove. The words were in a foreign but pleasant-sounding language. I tried to make out the words, but as usual, they slipped away from me no matter how hard I tried to listen.

  I fell asleep during the ride as I normally did. It seemed impossible to keep my eyes open for longer than a few minutes after Mr. Goodleigh began singing. A bump in the road just outside the main gates woke me as it had many times before. Tall black iron fences connected to thick gray-stoned walls on either side of the road. The wall surrounded the estate.

  Brickle Brixworth, a giant of a man, stood on the other side of the gate. He nodded once at the car and, with a mighty tug, pulled open the heavy iron. Brickle was a groundskeeper, a guard, and even a farmer all rolled into one. I'd seen him tending to the animals, weeding the garden, and repairing the house. Once, he'd fended off a burglar by picking him up, carrying him outside, and hurling him over the front gate.

  Mr. Goodleigh nodded at the groundskeeper as we drove past. Brickle nodded back. Once we were through, he closed the gates.

  The driveway wound through a wide pasture. Horses and cows grazed in the distance. There were sheep on the farm as well, but they were confined to other fields. The tall gray manor appeared in the midst of tall oaks at the end of the gravel drive. It was not a huge building, but contained thirty-three bedrooms and a large nursery in one wing. Chimneys rose from all sides. The building made an L shape where the residential quarters met with a common room connecting to a large kitchen.

  Mr. Goodleigh pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked in front of the door. A pleasant looking woman stood on the front steps. As usual, Mrs. Goodleigh styled her hair in a tight bun and wore a dark dress. Mr. Goodleigh exited the car, walked around it, and kissed his wife on the cheek. The pair looked at me expectantly.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the car door and climbed out. "Hello, Mother." I dropped to one knee in front of her.

  "Hello, Conrad." She held out a fair-skinned hand.

  I took it and kissed each knuckle. "I ask permission to return to hearth, home, and kin, Mother and Father."

  "With open arms, we welcome you," they said in unison.

  I stood. "Thank you."

  Mrs. Goodleigh inspected me. "You look no worse for the wear. I suppose that will be less work for the doctor tomorrow."

  "As you say, Mother." I was surprised that tomorrow was my birthday. It hardly seemed a year since the last one. The weather didn't seem warm enough for it to be June again already.

  "Twelve years old," Mr. Goodleigh said. He shook his head. "Perhaps this time will be the charm."

  "Perhaps." Mrs. Goodleigh didn't look convinced. She turned and stepped inside the manor.

  I followed them into the empty common room. At this time of afternoon, the other children would probably be doing chores on the farm. I knew not even this day would pass before I was expected to do a share of work. Whether that meant cleaning bathrooms or polishing the wooden floors, I didn't know.

  "Your bedroom is ready," Mrs. Goodleigh said to me. "You will find your work clothes in the chest of drawers. Put them on and go to the farm. There is a patch of weeds that needs tending."

  I nodded. "Yes, Mother." I walked up the wide wooden staircase to the second floor and followed the hallway to the sixth door on the left. A bare metal bed frame sat in the middle of the small room. I unfolded the worn, striped mattress and struggled to put it on the bed. When it toppled onto the frame, the metal feet shifted a fraction, leaving a tiny scar in the wood.

  My stomach tightened in apprehension. Mother would not be happy. I straightened the mattress, looked for the sheets, and found them neatly folded in the closet. I placed them on the bed.

  "What are you doing?" Mother said from the door.

  Startled, I spun to face her. "Preparing the bed, Mother."

  "Is it bed time?"

  I almost looked at the floor, but forced my eyes to stay on hers. She despised looking away even more than Mr. Goodleigh. "No, Mother."

  Her eyes caught on something and hardened. "You damaged the floor."

  "An accident, Mother."

  She stepped into the room and approached me until her nose was only inches away. "An accident," she hissed. "What did I tell you to do?"

  "Change into work clothes and go to the farm."

  "What did you do?"

  "I prepared the bed."

  Her lips pressed tight. When she spoke, her voice was low and cold. "Nearly twelve years of age and you are still as stupid as the day you arrived here. Are you incapable of learning, or do you simply not care?"

  I didn't respond because I knew from experience she didn't want me to answer.

  "I believe you are guilty of incompetence and apathy." She turned and walked back to the door. Without turning to face me, she said, "Put on your work clothes and go to the farm. You will be punished tonight." With that, Mrs. Goodleigh left.

  I shivered. The room felt cold from her anger. I tried not to think about what form of punishment awaited me. The Goodleighs were very inventive. Sometimes the punishment was psychological. Other times it was painfully physical. They seemed to know what worked best on each child in their care.

  After quickly putting on my clothes, I walked as fast as I dared—Mrs. Goodleigh didn't allow running in the house—and left by the back door. I felt cold prickles on the back of my neck and looked over my shoulder at the house. I saw the Goodleighs watching me from a second floor window. Averting my eyes back to the dirt road, I forced myself not to shake.

  I always end up back here.

  The dirt road led between several wooden buildings. Stands of oaks bordered the area. Between the trees, I saw open pastures where the livestock grazed and wondered how pretty it would look in full color.

  The chicken coop stood to my left. Hens pecked in the dirt while a bantam rooster colored with several shades of gray kept a watchful eye. He had long spurs on the backs of his legs and liked nothing better than to fly at anyone who dared come too close to his abode. Gathering eggs required a quick hand and agile reflexes. I had neither, and usually resorted to swinging a metal bucket to keep the vicious cock at bay.

  Pigs snorted and rooted in the mud in their pen on the right. They were huge creatures, some of them with long curving tusks like wild boars. Thankfully, their feeding trough was easy enough to reach by standing on the fence. From there, I could pour the slop along the length.

  Brickle enjoyed telling new residents a story about a boy who enjoyed snorting and throwing things at the pigs. He would climb atop the fence and antagonize them into a frenzy. One day, he'd fallen in and the pigs had eaten him, bones and all. I didn't know if it was true, but had little doubt the pigs could tear me limb from limb if I did fall into their pen.

  The sheep and goat pen, now empty, stood next to the pigpen. I saw William and Stephan mucking it out. Their wheelbarrow held a large pile of dung.

  William looked up and saw me. He nudged Stephan. "Hey look, Killer Conrad is back!"

  "How did you kill your fosters this time?" Stephan asked. He jabbed his pitchfork into the ground. "Did you stab them?"

  William made a whooshing noise. "I'll bet he set them on fire."

  Brickle exited the brown barn behind the two boys. "No talking duri
ng chores." For someone so large, his high voice always surprised me.

  The two boys immediately got back to work, shoveling dung as if their lives depended on it.

  I approached Brickle. When I drew near, I stopped and waited.

  He looked me up and down. "Still puny." He poked me in the shoulder, nearly knocking me over. "Still weak."

  I recovered my balance but said nothing. My fists wanted to clench and my jaw wanted to tighten, but to do so only invited more pushing. Brickle saw such body language as a challenge to his superiority. He enjoyed putting me in my place. I kept my eyes straight ahead and waited.

  "The chicken coop." Brickle pointed to the building. "Clean it."

  "Yes, sir." I turned and went to the red barn across the dirt road from the brown barn. Though I couldn't see the colors, it was what everyone called them. From inside I took a pitchfork, a small shovel, and a metal bucket. I hoped to slip past the rooster and into the coop so he wouldn't chase me. I could probably close the door, but the fumes inside would quickly overwhelm me without fresh air.

  I stepped back outside the red barn and turned toward the chicken coop. The sound of a stomping hoof pulled my attention back in the opposite direction. At the end of the dirt road near the compost pile, I saw the old bull staring me down. What is it doing here? It was either supposed to be in the pasture with the cows, or locked inside its own pen.

  Thankfully, the bull had never been aggressive, except for the time William had mistaken it for a cow and tried to milk it. The bull had not taken kindly to the attention.

  I wondered if I should notify Brickle. A strange light seemed to dance in the bull's eyes. The animal bellowed loudly and, without further warning, charged me. I froze with shock. Why was it coming for me? What was wrong with him? Dimwitted as I was, even I knew to run from the path of this raging beast. I dropped the tools and pushed against the door to the red barn but it wouldn't budge. I rammed my shoulder against it, but the door didn't move an inch and only made my shoulder ache.