Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire)

by Clay Held

  Simon didn’t even have to turn around to know he was there. “I could jump,” he said.

  “I already saved you from that first fall two nights ago,” Boeman said. “I’m not feeling quite so generous this time.”

  “I thought you wanted me to die.”

  Boeman’s grin was ghastly. “When the time is right,” he said grimily. “So I suggest you have a seat and we discuss your options.” Sam was with him, leaning against the wall. His face was sunken, with his eyes cast down to the floor. He lifted his head, and Simon saw his eyes had gone milky white. A moment later his head dropped hard against the doorframe.

  “What have you done to him?”

  “Nothing he didn’t do to himself,” Boeman said. “Nothing’s ever free, Warner. He made a deal. I’m just here to collect, keep the books balanced, simple as that. I did him a favor, really. Those who defy my debts always lose, Simon. Always. The old laws demand it. It was either this, or let him become a moatling. Well, technically he’s become one, but I kept him on the fresher side of things. Give him a few years, and he’ll be all good and scraggly, like the rest.” He patted Sam on the back. “He might make a good agent to have among all them regular folk out there in the world, don’t you think? He’s already used to all their inane little problems and quirks. You as well, come to think of it. Tell me boy, how is life in that little town of yours? Are people...wanting?”

  Disgust swelled in Simon. “What are you anyway?”

  Boeman smiled. “Come,” he said. “Let’s sit and have a talk.” He motioned to Sam. “Bring us something to eat,” he said, and Sam woozily walked away.

  “See?” Boeman said. “See that power? I could make him do anything I want. Anything I say.” Boeman leaned over. “All I have to do is ask, and it is done. That’s my power. Your parents’ power. Now sit down.”

  Simon sat back down on the decrepit couch, the springs jabbing him in the leg. Boeman flopped on the edge of the bed opposite him. “What do you really want to get from this, Simon?”

  Simon did not speak right away. “Sam,” he whispered.

  “Oh come on now,” Boeman said, his one green eye flickering wildly. “You have all the world at your disposal, you could have anything you want, and all you think to ask for is for him back?” He waved a finger condescendingly. “I don’t think you’re considering all the possibilities before you, boy. You could have anything. Just say the word, take my hand and it’s all yours. Just like that...for a price.”

  Simon looked at his hands. “Why do you do this?”

  Boeman laughed a thin, wispy laugh. “Why?” he said. “Because I believe. Silas Darrow is not just a man. He is a visionary. He remembers the witch hunts, the inquisitions. The burnings. He remembers when our people were taken to the very brink of extinction. He is a great sorcerer, and he will save our people. But the hearts of our people are not easily moved. Give and take, Simon. Give and take. He wants to take our people out of the shadows, so he asks that I use my talent to give them what they desire, and so for now I do.” He snapped his fingers. “Is Sam all you really want, Simon? To go back to that little family diner, and that little family life, when all this is right before you? It’s all here, you know. All the answers, everything, everyone who should matter to you.” He leaned forward, both eyes flaring with magic. “Why do you want him, when you can meet your parents, learn exactly why they sold me your soul?”

  Simon flinched.

  “There we go,” Boeman said. “That’s it. You want to know more about them. Who they were, what they did, why they were so terrible. I can’t blame you. I didn’t know who my parents were either, but that’s just me being a product of my environment.” He leaned in. “Tell me, Simon. Would you want to see them?”

  “Don’t do it,” whispered the Other Voice.

  Sam returned before Simon could answer, carrying a tray of bright green apples and a crystal water pitcher.

  “Thank you,” Boeman said quietly. “Watch the door.” Sam set the tray on the bed and returned to his post in the hallway.

  “Apple?” Boeman offered, tossing it to Simon. “Come on, lad. Tell the truth, you have to be dying with curiosity. It’s okay, Simon. No one will blame you. Not even him,” Boeman said, pointing at Sam. “He knew this day was coming. He’s known for a very long time, ever since he stole away with you. He’s known the day was coming when he couldn’t hide you from the truth. From your parents. From me.”

  “Where are they?” Simon said.

  “Can’t tell you,” Boeman said, tauntingly. “Not yet.”

  Simon stared at the apple in his hand. “You already have my soul. What more could you possibly want?”

  Boeman stood and walked to the window. “Join us. Join your parents and the warlocks of the Old Dominion. Give your heart to Darrow and his vision for our glorious future.”

  A glacier ran down Simon’s spine. “My heart?”

  “Yes,” Boeman said, looking out the window. “And it’s about time, I might add. This has always been your path, since before you were born, but I think you already know that much, what with your parents selling you to me and all. You can keep your mind, don’t worry about that.” He pointed at Sam. “You won’t end up like droopy face over there, I can promise you that much.”

  Simon stared at Sam. “Is he even still alive?”

  Boeman puffed out his chest. “People are funny things. Your bodies have a mind all their own. He’ll still be good for a nice, long time. After his heart stops it’ll only take a small investment to keep him upright. That’s the power of our trade, Simon. Your trade. Like so many before, like so many to come. Join us, and he can even be your personal attendant. That would be my gift to you. What could be better?”

  Simon stared longingly at Sam, turning over everything in his mind. “What was it?”

  “How’s that?” Boeman said, still staring out the window.

  Simon’s arm began to ache. “What was so important to him that he would--”

  “What?” Boeman giggled. “Make a deal with me?” He turned away from the window. “It seemed so banal, so bland, at the time. The ability to hide, he told me. Said he had gotten in bad with a couple of Edisonites and needed to disappear.” Boeman laughed, a harsh, angry laugh that stretched his face in odd directions. “I had no idea what he was planning. That is rare, you understand that? For someone to pull the wool over these eyes.” He stared out into the sky. “I gave him the ability to vanish. I didn’t think much about it. Sam Thatch, nothing special there. Figured he’d be dead soon enough and the Old Dominion would have just another moatling, another foot soldier in our fight to save this planet from those wretched ape cousins of ours.” Another tortured laugh rose out of him. “You, Simon. It really was for you.”

  Simon’s stomach finally dropped out of his abdomen. “Me? Why? Why was he so--”

  “Just another sad, pathetic, broken young man who just wanted to trade.” Boeman’s grin was an upturned grave. “It was too good to pass up. His soul for the ability to disappear. Simple enough. Just a rabbit’s paw and a little chanting. Then he surprised me. He took you before he vanished. I should have seen that coming. He thought he could hide forever. Probably would have too, if he hadn’t had to revive you. ” Boeman suddenly seized Sam around the neck and swung him around the room. “But I have him now!” He laughed wildly, an insane noise that made Simon’s skin crawl. Boeman dropped him on the bed and turned his wicked eyes on Simon. “He wanted to protect you, the little bundle of joy, torn from his wicked parents at such a young age. He couldn’t just leave you out in the cold--I mean, you started it all.” Another insane laugh. “Your little family started unraveling the instant you came along. How could you not know?” He swung his wild eyes out to look at the moon. “I guess I can understand.” He laughed again. “I can’t say I feel Sam has been very fair about our deal, but then again, he always has fought dirty when it comes to you.”

  Simon’s was sick from Boeman’s laughter. “I don’t
understand. Why did he care? Why do all that to protect me?”

  Boeman stared out the window. “Who else would?” The laughter started again, deep in his stomach, growing in pitch as he laughed maniacally at the sky. “Why? Why care? Why indeed!” His mismatched eyes blazed with cruel humor. “Stupid boy, that’s what an uncle is for!”

  Act Three

  The Devil and The Dog

  The key to successful wizardry is to always be on your guard.

  If you’re not careful,the magic ends up controlling you.

  ––Nicodemus Limnic, An Honest History of the Wizard’s Craft, Chapter 36

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE GRAVEYARD

  The words were novocaine. “My uncle?” Simon whispered softly.

  Boeman’s laughter continued for a full minute before showing any signs of dying. Finally he composed himself. “Emma’s half-brother. The so-called good child,” he said slowly. “Honestly, I’m not at all that surprised he never told you. He’s never been one for sharing much about himself.”

  Numbness bled into anger and confusion. “Why?” Simon’s face was hot. “Why never tell me?”

  “That would be a question to ask him now, wouldn’t it?” Boeman sat on the molded couch. “But you can’t have it both ways, so take your pick, Simon.”

  “What do you mean?” Simon said, confused. The throbbing in his arm grew worse..

  “I mean, what’s more important to you,” Boeman said. “The truth of why your uncle kept this secret from you, or meeting your parents?” Boeman smiled his empty grin. “It’s your choice, Simon. I really am just here to give you what you want.”

  “I don’t even have anything to trade,” Simon said. “You already have my soul.”

  Boeman’s smile was a field of rotted tombstones. “Takes more than one of those to make a person, Simon. You really ought to learn that. I have your soul, yes, but there is so much more there. Your heart, your mind. No, your parents sold me only a part of you, boy, and now I want to negotiate for more. Right now, the question is, which is more important to you? Parents you’ve always wanted to know, all the answers finally revealed, everything you ever secretly wanted and more--” Boeman jabbed a thumb lazily at Sam. “Or him?” Sam leaned sluggishly against the doorway, his eyes staring blankly down the hall. A cold wind rustled down the corridor, kicking up leaves and sending a few tiny creatures scurrying off into the shadows.

  Boeman picked at his rotten teeth. “Or maybe...maybe it’s revenge you want,” he said. “Is that what burns inside you now, Simon? They sold you, traded you away like an object, signed away your life to serve their own selfish desires. Is that what smolders in your heart, right this very moment?”

  Heat flooded through Simon. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard, and his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. Boeman had struck a nerve. Under everything, deep down, Simon was mad, betrayed, and Boeman could feel it, draw it up to the surface, until the anger began to speak, whisper in Simon’s ear. Rage toppled over his reason, until he heard only the thump-thump of his heart, and was drowning in anger.

  “You need to decide,” Boeman said, his eyes filled with greed. “Right now.”

  Simon looked at Sam, who remained at the door, motionless. The only family he had ever known, and now, after learning they were truly related, seemed a total stranger. Why keep this from him, for all these years? This was wedged between them now, and in his heart Simon wondered if he could ever forgive Sam. If they did survive, they could never really ever go back to Crowley, to the Paw, to Molly and Zoey and homework and regular life and everything else, not after knowing the truth about where he came from, that all this was out here. Even if he dragged Sam back, he would not be the same person anymore. He would not be the same anywhere. Wherever he would go, he would always be a stranger, in either world. He would always be alone.

  Sam had done this to him.

  “You don’t have to be alone,” whispered the Other Voice. He tried to quiet it, tried to push it out, turn his anger and resentment into a wall and block it out, but it was no use. The voice slid through every crack, found every way back into his thoughts, until Simon could resist it no longer.

  “You don’t have to be alone.”

  Simon whispered his answer.

  “Sorry,” Boeman said, “what was that?”

  He whispered again.

  Boeman smiled, obviously savoring the moment. “One more time.”

  “I want to know why,” Simon snapped, fury dripping from his words. He had hoped letting the words out would bring him relief, take the weight off, but none came. Instead he was utterly and completely lost in his rage, even as he groped with the decision. “I want to meet them, to learn why they sold me. Why they went bad. Why they did this to me.”

  Boeman smiled. “And all these answers will be yours,” he said softly. “If you give me your heart.”

  Simon’s anger cracked, the pieces melting into confusion. “What? My heart?”

  Boeman rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t make that face. I’ll let you keep it, after all. In your chest, that is. It’s just...it will be mine. You’ll still have your mind and body. Two out of four isn’t so bad, is it? You won’t even miss it, I promise.” He held out his hand. “Just take my hand, and we’ll be off. If you want we’ll come back for old droopy-faced Sam later.” Boeman’s hand was right in front of him, bone white and perfectly still. He stood motionless, waiting for Simon to take it and seal their deal. Not alone, Simon thought, or maybe it was the Other Voice? He realized he couldn’t tell. He raised his hand, which ached horribly, and took Boeman’s hand.

  Red-hot agony fired up his arm as his palm began to glow. Boeman seized it, holding on for only a few moments before letting out a harsh gasp and backing away, the smell of burned flesh filling the air. “My, my, my. You are full of little surprises, Warner, but the deal is sealed.”

  The pain in Simon’s arm lingered. “What was that?”

  Boeman stared at his hand, then at Simon, his eyes calculating. “The shape of things to come, I’d imagine,” he said, grabbing his hat from the bed. “You’re the apple of a good man, Simon. That’s getting rarer these days.” He stood in the doorway. “Fortunately that’s just what we need, and that makes you special. Never lose that, young Warner. Never stop being so very, very special.” Boeman headed up the hall. “Sit tight,” he shouted as he made his way down the hall.

  The burning in Simon’s arm faded. “Where are you going?”

  “We need something,” Boeman said. “Wait there.”

  “You said you were taking me to my parents,” Simon shouted.

  “We are, we are. Now wait there.” Simon suddenly felt very heavy, unable to rise from the couch. He watched Boeman disappear around a corner.

  Several minutes passed in silence, and Simon began to regret his decision. What had it meant, when he took Boeman’s hand? Why had it burned? It was a bad sign, a warning that he had possibly made a mistake. He knew so little about his parents. He tried to recount everything he knew about them, about Sam, about everything. His parents were Thomas and Emma Warner. They were members of the Old Dominion, maybe even Acolytes, and they had sold his soul to Boeman, but he didn’t know why. Then they had disappeared, and Sam had abducted him. All before he could walk. His entire life since then had been a lie.

  A weak moan escaped from Sam.

  Simon jumped at the noise. He looked at his uncle cautiously. Another full minute passed, then another groan came, just barely louder than the first, but there were words in it, words Simon could only barely make out. “Exxxx...”

  He managed to sit up. “Sam? What are you--”

  “Lllluuuucee...”

  The air crackled around Simon. “Sam?” he asked, uncertain what was about to happen.”

  “Vvviita...”

  The air popped between them, and Simon’s body was itself again. Gone was the feeling of dead weight, of the heaviness Boeman had inflicted on him. He rose from the c
ouch slowly and made his way to Sam. His eyes were milky white, but there was something else: a faint, blue glow. Sam was fighting Boeman’s control, and he was pouring all his energy into helping Simon. Another word squeezed through his lips. “Rrrruuunn.”

  Images played themselves out in Simon’s mind. The lake, almost drowning, Sam breathing life back into him. The Paw, Molly, Zoey, their first day in Crowley. The big orange couch. Boeman’s wall of hatred broke, and everything flooded back into him. Suddenly everything was precious to him, it was his life, a life that he had loved, and somewhere deep down, he knew it was something he would love again. His emotions swirled and spun inside him, fighting the grief and the anger from minutes earlier, until he felt sick, and there was Sam--motionless, bewitched, but still trying to help him.

  “Sam!” Simon grabbed him and shook for dear life. “Please!” He shouted. He didn’t care if Boeman heard. Regret has swelling inside him, harder and heavier than Boeman’s spell. “Sam! Please! Wake up!” The white clouds in Sam’s eyes swirled more violently than before, but Simon kept shaking, shaking, shaking until his arms began to ache. “Sam! It’s Simon! Please! Your nephew! Come! On!”

  Sam blinked rapidly. His lips parted, and the mist in his eyes barely moved--just barely a flicker, and words began to form in his mouth. “Rrrrrruuuuunnnnnnn--”

  Footsteps like thunder crashed down the hall.

  They had moments now at best. Everything was on the line. “C’mon! Now! Sam, WAKE UP!” Simon’s hands burned like fire. It wasn’t working. The spell was too strong. Simon took a deep breath, tried to focus. “Ex luce vita,” he whispered, and the burning in his hands turned to a buzz, pins-and-needles erupting in his palms. Sam’s eyes flared with blue. His nostrils went wide and he took a deep breath, followed by several more. Simon spoke the words again, and Sam began to work his jaw back and forth. He started to stretch his neck, all the while the footsteps in the hall became louder and louder. Several more small creatures bolted out of hiding and down the corridor, knocking over decaying furniture and sending up clouds of dust and paint chips as they burrowed straight into the wall to escape. Boeman came swiftly around the corner into Simon’s field of vision. He was carrying a shovel, and he scowled madly at them.