Page of Swords (The Demon's Apprentice Book 2)

by Ben Reeder

  “Of course, Mar- I mean, Miss Murathy. Chance will be very productive this weekend, I can assure you.”

  “He'd better be. I will see you at home, young man,” Mom said. Her hand came up to my face again, and she shook her head. “What am I going to do with you, son?” she said with a sigh. She cupped my cheek and pulled me forward to plant a quick kiss on my forehead before she turned and walked for the glass doors leading outside.

  I turned to Dr. C.

  “All right, let's go. We have a great deal to do tonight.” He led the way out to the parking lot and his beat up green Range Rover.

  The ride back to his place was quiet. Between being mad at myself for worrying my mom and still being pissed at Dr. C for revealing what I was to her, I didn't have much to say. I watched the rest of the world slide by my window and wondered if I wanted to be out there, or what.

  Chapter 9

  ~ To know, to will, to dare…to keep silent. ~

  Oath of the Magi.

  Most people seem to think being a wizard is all about casting spells and being cryptic, but, really, most of it is really boring. A big chunk of it is research. Reading old books, cross-referencing them against other books, and then double-checking all of that against other sources. Then, for the big finish, writing down your own conclusions in your own journal, detailing what you did and how you did it so that someone else can repeat the process with your notes in a hundred years. Yeah, I was in for a glamorous life. That's why mages get invited to all of the good parties.

  The thing is, it worked. There was a lot of useless crap to sift through, but I ended up learning a lot about the Maxilla. It had a history that went back a long way. I'd never heard of it while I belonged to Dulka, and for good reason. An old Arab mage from back before the Romans were a big deal found out that it could kill a demon for good. I'd never heard of anything that would actually kill a demon up ‘til then. The most a mortal could ever do to a demon was send it back to whichever of the Nine Hells it was originally from. That tended to piss them off, but it wasn't much more than an inconvenience. Not the Maxilla. It just flat killed demons. Dead for all time. No wonder they didn't talk about it. Religion didn’t seem to matter, either. No matter which of the Nine Hells they came from it killed them just as dead.

  Not all of the sources I found agreed. A Greek scholar said that only a holy warrior could use it, but one of the early Phoenicians talked about it like anyone could use it. It had popped up in the hands of heroes of most religions, from the early Greeks to the Mesopotamians, even before the Hebrews told the story of Samson. All the sources I could find in Dr. C's library did agree on one thing. No matter what name you used for the Divine, the Maxilla was the concentrated wrath of God, straight up Old Testament-style ass-kicking in a box. It had brought down kingdoms, allowed warriors to kill dozens of men in battle on their own, and slain some of the scariest-sounding monsters I'd ever read about. It had only fallen into the hands of agents of Hell twice. Both times, it had been found somehow, and heads had literally rolled. But while it was lost to Hell, the world had really, really sucked. The first time had been before the rise of Lemuria, and the second time had kicked off the fall of Rome. No pressure.

  But all of that was about the sword's past. What I needed was its present. The best source for clues on that was going to be in the journals of its last guardian. Dawn was about half an hour away when Dr. C handed me a thick, leather-bound book with the previous year stamped in gold on the front, and the title “Journal, Sydney Chomsky.” My chest went tight and my jaw clenched as I ran my hand over the leather cover.

  I'd known Mr. Chomsky for about a day before he was killed by a rogue werewolf. It happened a few days after I had escaped from Dulka, and I'd been pretty screwed up. Not the usual teenage angsty version, either. I was verging on the homicidal maniac brand of dark and twisty, with an unhealthy dose of low self-esteem for good measure. Okay, I was still pretty neurotic, but now I was just moody and hard to get along with. I could pass for a normal teenager most days. Mr. Chomsky had managed make me feel like I was worth something in only a few hours. He'd made me feel like I wasn't just a warlock. His death had also given me a purpose when I really needed one. It was kind of disturbed, but I've only ever seen normal from a distance anyway.

  Reading his journal was going to be like getting to know an absent, idolized father. It was tempting to start at the beginning, but I had a job to do. I started at the back, and hit paydirt almost right off. The last entry was dated the same day I started at Kennedy High School, and mentioned the sword by name. I went back a few entries and found another one, and started there, in the hope that it would help me make some sense of the last entry:

  Thursday, October 15: The Maxilla has awakened. I know of no other way to describe it. Had I not been its guardian for the past thirty years, I would have missed it. But there is no mistaking the eldritch glow of the blade, nor the pulse of pure, divine power emanating from it. If my theories about the blade are correct, it has just called a Seeker. That can only mean one thing: it will be needed, and soon. There are divinations that will reveal more, but at the moment, I must admit I am afraid. The Maxilla hasn't called a Seeker since 1938, and then even the death of Heidler's Demon was not enough to keep the entire world from plunging into war. What threat is so dire that the sword needs a Wielder now?

  The date was the day before I escaped. I fought down a sense of panic, and wondered if someone somewhere was spouting off some cryptic warning about the slave who was not a slave passing through fire to walk among men, who would walk without walking or something equally hard to understand until it was too late. The next entry was two days later:

  Saturday, October 17: My sources tell me that the representative from Samael and Berith who arrived here three months ago was on the move last night. Could this have something to do with the fire at Truman High School last night? It sounds like I need to make a trip to the Underground tonight and put my ear to the proverbial ground. It's been too long since I had a taste of Patrick O'Gill's darkling ale anyway.

  Sunday, October 18: Note to self: stop at six pints. The headache is worth it, though. And not only for the ale itself! Word traveled fast, and what word! Someone has been spreading it about that the demon Dulka, whom I had long suspected of working here, was beaten last night in a magickal duel of some sort, by its apprentice, no less! All of this is rumor and suggestion, but I think that before long, the demon is going to start spreading a new story that will help it save face. If that happens, I will be sure that the first story is the accurate version.

  Addendum, 8:00 PM: The Council has already sent word to be on the lookout for the fugitive, and has labeled him as a warlock. I disagree with their ruling. Polter will undoubtedly be pleased, but I have to wonder if an apprentice who beat his master is as bad as they think.

  Monday, October 19 (barely): I have been awakened from a sound sleep by the activation of the external wards on my sanctum. I will set wards in the neighborhood tonight to mark anyone who is watching the house. If they are in close proximity to me, I will know. For now, the Maxilla is safe.

  The last entry was the day I met him, and I had to take a second before I could go on.

  Tuesday, October 20: Whoever is seeking the Maxilla is no mage, of that I am certain. The wards were activated, and the aura of the person who tripped them felt . . . familiar. Addendum: This day was particularly frustrating and heartbreaking. All day, I felt the ward marks nearby, but I could not pin them down. Finally, during my fifth period class, I felt them strongly enough to feel certain I was in the same room with the would-be thief. I also sensed the taint of the Infernal Realms in my classroom, and wondered if my new student might be the culprit. Unfortunately, he wasn't.

  I have rarely been so saddened as I am now. The boy, Chance, must be the 'warlock' the Council is seeking. Despite the fact that his aura is tainted by dark magick, I sense that he is not evil. He is deeply scarred, wounded in ways that make my heart break to ima
gine. That a mere child should be subjected to things that could so deeply stain his soul . . . we failed him. The Conclave is supposed to stop this sort of thing before it happens. Not hunt the victims down years later to punish them for what we let them become. He is bright, but woefully ignorant in so many ways. I can see the glimmers of a gentle, good spirit in the boy, hidden beneath the armor he has built around himself.

  The identity of the would-be thief is no less distressing. Alexis Cooper, one of our most talented athletes, bears the marks of my wards on her aura. The girl is a cheerleader! She plays on the volleyball and basketball teams! She seemed to share the interests of many of her classmates, however juvenile and shallow those might be. How can she be involved with this? I will set a tracking spell on her this afternoon, and see where she leads me.

  5 PM: I can't stand by and let the Conclave have this boy. I have to give him the chance to redeem himself. If only to satisfy my own guilty conscience, I'm going to take him as my apprentice in secret, and see if he might be able to make something of himself.

  The last words played across my mind like the last few steps before jumping off a cliff, and suddenly, it was like Mr. Chomsky had died all over again. The book closed in front of me, and Dr. C pulled it out from under my numb hands. While his back was turned, I scrubbed the back of my hands across my eyes and tried to look like I was all business again. He put the heavy leather-bound tome on the desk and took a moment to clean his glasses before he turned back to face me.

  “Well, that was almost useful,” I said dryly. The sniffle at the end killed the smart-ass in that comment, and pushed it toward the borders of teen angst. My eyes itched and my brain felt like my head was two sizes too small for it.

  Dr. C covered his mouth like he was going to yawn, and the next thing I knew, my jaw was cracking in a yawn that I thought was going to swallow my head.

  “It's a start,” he pronounced while I was trying to shake my head clear. It only took me a few seconds to get that he was talking about all the research I'd just done. “I think it'll have to do for now. Let's call it a night. Get your backpack. I'll take you home.”

  Yeah, home. That place where Mom was pissed at me. Maybe I could just walk on broken glass or chew some razor blades. It would hurt less.

  Chapter 10 Sunday Morning (Four days left)

  ~ A mage’s restraint stems from those they love. Threaten the family of a mage, therefore, at your peril, or better, from a range far removed. ~ Rasputin, 1922

  The morning sun was an ugly shade of cheerful when Dr. C pulled up in front of my house. Even with my shades on, it hurt my eyes enough that I was cursing the merry, glowing day-ball from the second I got out of Dr. C's Range Rover and all the way up the front door. The dim interior was like a salve on my bloodshot eyes when I slipped inside, and whoever was playing the drum solo on the inside of my skull decided to take it down a notch. I slipped my sunglasses into my jacket pocket and ran my hand over my head as I tried to relax my back and get my shoulders down out of my ears.

  “Wizards,” I muttered. “They can suck the fun out of anything.”

  Never mind that I was training to be a wizard and grow up just like Dr. C. All-nighters were supposed to be fun. There should have been pizza and green, caffeine-laden soda, nacho cheese chips, and good music. And people. That was how it had been during midterms. Hell, I would have given a lot if all I had to do was make it through a day of midterm exams. Instead, I had a head full of information I didn't have the first clue what to do with, a death sentence from the High Council hanging over my head, and a pissed-off mother to deal with. The first two I could handle. But only an idiot would cross my mother when she was mad.

  “Chance?” Mom asked from deeper in the house. “Come to the kitchen, please, son.”

  Well, so much for slipping in unnoticed. Still, I reminded myself, I did go and get myself arrested last night. I should have figured on getting more than a little punishment, and it sounded like Mom was going to be getting an early start on that. My feet felt like lead weights as I shuffled across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. There wasn't an ounce of the usual comfort in the house as I went. No lights on, not even the smell of food, which was almost always in the air. Mom always cooked breakfast. Except today. Even my usually loud and bouncy little sister seemed to be in on the silent treatment. Extra chores or an ass-chewing should've been nothing compared to some of Dulka's more enthusiastic punishments, but a broken arm would have been easier to deal with than the look on Mom's face last night.

  My feet stopped on the kitchen tiles, and I got a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach as I saw Mom sitting at the table. Her left eye was swollen and her bottom lip was puffy. A man stood behind her with one hand on the side of her neck. Mom looked terrified, and the guy had a smug look on his face. For a second, I had no idea what to do. Every bad thing I had ever dreamed of was suddenly coming true right here in my mom's kitchen and I was almost totally paralyzed with fear for her life. Some of Dr. C's training must have stuck with me, though, because as immobilized as my brain was, I still found my left hand closing around the TK wand in my front pocket. My right hand balled into a fist, and the guy behind Mom chuckled.

  “You need to chill out, kid,” he said. “Unless you want to bury your mother today.”

  While he was gloating and exerting his control over the situation, I looked him over. He was pale with gaunt features that were sharp enough to cut yourself on. There was a redness around his dark eyes and his straight black hair hung to his shoulders like he'd just left the stylist or something. He wore a long black trenchcoat and a black, worn fedora. I thought I caught a glimpse of a logo on his t-shirt, but I couldn't make anything out for sure. I waited for a few seconds and watched his chest rise and fall with a breath. He wasn't one of the undead, then. Sunrise didn't affect all of them as badly as people thought, but none of them breathed reflexively. The fact that he was on the wrong side of a threshold was also telling, even assuming he hadn’t tricked his way inside.

  “You okay, Mom?” I asked.

  “I'm fine, son,” she said, then gave a little gasp of pain as Fedora's hand closed on her neck. I made a mental note that ignoring this asshole pissed him off.

  “You're here to do one thing, boy,” he hissed. “Listen and answer.” His cadence and the slightly formal way he talked was another clue. This guy obviously spent a lot of time on the other side of the Veil. Wording was incredibly precise and manners were everything. Even being rude to someone required specific forms. For example, calling me ‘boy’ as an insult.

  “That's two things,” I said. “And you're an idiot if you think I'm gonna let you walk away from this.” His hand closed a little tighter on Mom's throat.

  “Yeah? You might want to ask yourself where your little sister is before you do anything stupid.”

  The question hit me like a kick in the gut. From an elephant. It also told me something about him. A lapse into normal speech…he hadn’t been born behind the Veil. He’d been born mortal, and if he was still breathing, odds were good that most of my mystic arsenal would work on him.

  “She'd better be okay,” I snarled.

  “One word from me, and she'll be dead. So shut up and listen.”

  “I'm listening,” I said. I had to, until I came up with a better plan. This guy held all the cards, and he knew it. I'd been in the same boat for eight years under Dulka, and being back there, even for a few moments, made me madder than almost anything else. But as angry as I was about that, it was chump change compared to the mad I had going over him hurting my mother. It took all the discipline I'd learned under Dr. Corwyn to harness that rage and focus it into the cold, calculating force I needed it to be.

  “That's better. Now, tell me how you came to interfere in my Lord's affairs.”

  “By accident!” I said sarcastically. “Since I don't know who your 'Lord' is or what his affairs are.”

  “Oh, of course, you just happened to interrogate one of my Lord's se
rvants by sheer coincidence,” he sneered. My brain raced, which after my weekend, meant it moved at a slow walk.

  “Pretty much. You mean Julian? That wanna-be warlock? He worked for your boss?” I let out a bark of laughter even as my sluggish brain tried to remind me that there was something about this that was important. “Your boss must have some pretty crappy standards.”

  “Shut up!” Fedora barked. Mom flinched and went pale at the outburst. “I warned you, boy, about your behavior. You're already a suspect in Julian's death. You won't be able to explain a second corpse in your own home. If I raise my voice one more time, your sister dies.”

  I let my eyes narrow at that and did my best to keep my feelings off my face. Gotcha! I thought. Dee was in the house somewhere. Now, all I had to do was get Fedora off Mom and keep him quiet while I freed Dee before his buddy could hurt her. Yeah, this just got easier and easier as I went along.

  “Hey, I answered, just like you said. Not my fault you didn't like the answer.”

  “Now, you will shut up and you will listen, if you value your family's lives. My Lord demands that you cease your meddling in his affairs. If you do not, you will return home one day to find your mother and sister much . . . changed. Are my Lord's wishes clear?”

  “I think I get it,” I told him as I worked out my plan.

  His grip loosened on Mom's neck and he straightened, leaving me a clear view of his upper body.

  “You're pretty important, then?”

  “I am my Lord's most trusted and powerful mortal servant,” he said. “He does you too great an honor in sending me to deal with you.”