Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire)

by Clay Held

  He could lift his head. He looked at Boeman, and his blood running hot in his ears, his eyes, his tongue. He looked down. Both of his hands glowed a deep,jack-o’-lantern orange. Focus he told himself. Sam. Molly. Zoey. He drew his feet up under him and pushed himself up. He locked eyes on Boeman and clenched his fists. “No,” he said in between deep breaths. “I. WILL. NOT. OBEY.”

  Boeman’s upper lip curled back, revealing his perfect, bone-white teeth. His eyes flicked to the shadows, where Streaker stood at the very edge of the circle of stones. “Get him,” he hissed.

  Streaker did not move.

  “I SAID GET HIM!” Boeman raged, and Streaker looked at him, a look like liquid hell pooling in its incandescent green eyes. Still, the beast did not move.

  Greenish white wildfire erupted in Boeman’s eyes. Enraged he lunged forward, seizing Simon by his shoulders. The whites of his eyes grew cloudy and misty, overtaken by tiny storm clouds that tumbled and erupted with a silent, electric green fury. “You will obey!” he screamed. His voice became rhythmic. “In judgement poor, in haste a trade--free from deceit a deal was made...”

  The pumpkin-glow under Simon’s skin blazed white-hot as a wave of heat erupted from him. Boeman flew back, his hands sizzling as small wisps of smoke rose from him. “The ember...” he said slowly. He chuckled. “Limnic, you funny, funny old man.” His face contorted with amusement and disgust as his eyes settled back down to their same steely gray calm as before.

  Simon looked at his hands, glowing with the same familiar orange-red light, the bones from his fingers easily visible. Comprehension came painfully slow. He had absorbed the ember.

  Boeman sneered at Simon. “You little pawn. Just so willing to accept gifts from strangers.” Another green flicker sparked through his eyes and died. He seemed unable to maintain it. “What would your dear uncle say?”

  Simon locked eyes with Boeman. “Release him.” he said, trying to sound as strong as possible.

  “No doing,” Boeman said, almost casually. “Nothing’s ever free. His deal was made, and his debt is mine to collect.” He chuckled. “You know this. In your heart you know I have a claim. Look at you. There is nothing you can do.”

  “He’s right,” said the Other Voice.

  Simon looked down. The glow was fading from his hands, the fire in his blood suddenly burned off. He was without options, it would seem. He closed his eyes, already dreading what he was about to say.

  “Yes, there is.” The words were sticky in his mouth. He took a moment to steady the sickness in his stomach. “I’ll make a deal with you.” Almost there, he thought. “You release Sam and I will take his place. Heart, mind, body, soul. Everything. Release him, and I will become your thrall.”

  Boeman stared at him, the laughter dying on his face. He stared a long, hard moment, then a roaring laugh erupted from him, scraping across the lines of his bony, gray face. He covered his face with one hand, trying and mostly failing to compose himself. Outside the stone circle, Streaker growled again. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, still chuckling. “Oh that’s noble, very noble, but very, very foolish. I’m sorry, Ember Boy, but that’s just not enough.” The last of the laughter died. “I’m afraid that you offer really just isn’t up to trade...yet.”

  Simon stared at the looming obelisk and the open receptacle in the obsidian base. An idea flickered in his mind. “You need what’s in there, don’t you? Your master wants it, yeah?”

  The last shred of Boeman’s smile faded.. “I yield to Darrow’s commands, for now. Yes, he desires it, and so do I.”

  “Release Sam and I’ll open it for you willingly,” he said. “You need my help, don’t you? You can’t take it yourself, that much is obvious, or you would have already. Let’s make that deal then. My willing help for Sam’s freedom. Is that trade enough?”

  “I didn’t always need help,” Boeman snarled, surprisingly defensive. He gazed at Streaker. “If I could, I would have broken down the Maddening Wall and come here already, and you and your whole stupid, traitorous family would have been a pile of ash long ago.”

  “Then let me,” Simon said, thrusting out his hand, the ember glowed brightly, but this time it did not hurt.

  “Oh, now it’s let you?” Boeman smiled again, a long, horrible grin. “Tell me this, Simon. Why would I let you, when I can make you?” Boeman’s eyes suddenly flushed with white mist again as he flashed his palm at Simon.

  Agony. A terrible phantom weight crushed down on Simon’s neck and shoulders, his bones feeling like they would crack at any instant from the strain. Boeman snarled at him. “Pain is a great motivator, better than any other. Dread is a powerful motivator, but pain--true torture--that’s how you really get things done.” Outside the circle of stones, Streaker began to pace, faster now, furious. He barked and snapped his jaws, his eyes an emerald hell burning bright in the darkness.

  Simon moved his mouth, but no noise would come. He could not move, could not scream, his own thoughts becoming lost in the loud humming that now seemed to come from the obelisk, seemed to fill his mind. Boeman gestured like a phantom puppeteer plucking invisible strings, and Simon watched in horror as his hand lifted on its own. He could only watch as his palm was sliced open, cut by an invisible knife, and the blood flowed freely down his arm. Unwillingly he approached the obelisk. Boeman gestured again, and Simon lifted his hand and reached out to the black needle in front of him. All the while the humming filled his ears, his mind, until it left him hollowed out, as hollow as the empty receptacle in the stone.

  Boeman silently brought agony to Simon’s legs, while the ember roared within him, causing flames to lick at his insides, charring his bones--and yet, he could not resist. He was trapped between agony and hell. He was not strong enough to resist, and he knew that he had no real choice. He understood now. Obey and suffer, no matter what.

  With a harsh cry he plunged his hand into the obelisk.

  Nothing.

  The pain washed away while Simon stood there with his fist plunged deep into the obelisk. The pain seeped away, then all sensation followed. All emotions and feelings inside him drifting away until he felt nothing. If he could have been scared again, then fear would have seized him in that moment, held him down, and choked the life from him, but he couldn’t feel anything, so he stood there, as numb as the stone.

  The humming in his mind died away too, flowing out just as easily as it had flowed in. He was fixated on the silver leaf, ever glowing in the moonlight, and he grew calm, his eyes drifting out of focus as he settled deep into the bluish white glow of the symbol.

  Streaker snapped his jaws again, another low growl starting to turn over.

  “Patience,” Boeman said the hound. “Give him a moment. The blood must flow.”

  The stone suddenly felt very cool around his fist. Whatever was going to happen had begun. He could move his fingers if he wanted to, but he did not dare, for fear something would snap them off. He had no trouble holding still. Slowly he was overcome with tranquil thoughts and feelings, and he soon found himself completely transfixed by the leaf symbol.

  Streaker paced back and forth outside the circle of stones while Boeman was just inside of it, his tall, skeletal frame standing to the left of the looming monolith. His lips moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, and Simon only dimly realized he was chanting. Boeman’s hands were stretched out before him, his fingers slowly flexing open and closed as he spoke the incantation. “Apple of a fallen man, broken hearth, and bone. A knife that cuts the darkness, a blade that’s never honed...”

  Something rustled in the trees behind him. Footsteps. Simon craned his neck to see three figures approaching, moving quickly through the trees. They paused for only a moment at the hole in the wall of statues before crossing, the three of them jumping quickly through the gap and moving away just as fast. A small flash of silver light marked their crossing.

  Boeman’s eyes were wide open, bone-blank as the figures drew closer. Even Streaker failed to notice as the fig
ures approached. It was only when the figures had moved fully into the moonlight that the hound finally took notice, his head swiveling around, his burning emerald eyes focused very suddenly on the trio of dark figures as they stood at the tree line.

  “So much for that,” the tallest figure wheezed, barely more than a whisper.

  Boeman’s head snapped up. He scanned the tree line briefly, then smiled. “No matter,” he said. “You are all far too late.” The three figures remained in the shadows. “Oh come on,” he said, beckoning to them. “Come out, please. Celebrate with us.” Slowly, the figures moved forward, stepping out into the full wash of the moon’s light. Nathan came first, looking as haggard and tired as any man Simon had ever seen. He had almost a full beard on him, and he looked to have lost several pounds. Kate followed him, then Penny. Both of them were still in their Masquerade dresses. Penny held Malkin in her arms.

  Boeman’s smile widened. “Brought the whole gang, I see.” His eyes found Nathan. “Now that’s impressive,” he said, pointing a finger. “Even I couldn’t have gotten him out of where they had him tucked away, Ms. Merrimoth.”

  Kate bristled. “So the arrest was your doing?”

  Boeman chuckled. “Oh no. He did that one all himself, but I was watching that whole affair with great interest. Tell me, Nathan, I simply must know--how did you escape?”

  “No escape,” Nathan said. “Suspicion of kidnapping lands you in the regular holding cells.” He smiled. “Assaulting a council officer--that means you serve your time in one of our special cells--a timeless cell.”

  Boeman stared at him a moment, adding up the variables, then laughed. “Oh that’s clever, Tamerlane. Truly clever.” He bowed slightly. “I salute you and your unending willingness to shoot the moon.”

  “I was out as soon as I went in,” Nathan said, stepping closer. “Wasn’t easy, I admit. Few months at least, maybe a season. See, time really doesn’t mean that much in there, and the phantoms who run the place aren’t really all that timely, which shows a real lack of discipline.” He stepped forward again. “And you just can’t get any sleep in there.” He popped his neck and back. “After my sentence was up I was released, right back into the thick of things. All that was left was to track you down.”

  “Well, that’s dandy,” Boeman said. “You’re too late, anyway. Big hand moves around, and the hour is already slipping away.” He glanced at Nathan. “I’m not sure you’re even well enough to die, let alone fight.”

  “Heh. Shows what you know,” Nathan said, swaying a little until Kate steadied him. He leaned against her, clutching his salt bag in his other hand. “I haven’t even begun to get myself in trouble.” He slowly looked at Streaker. “Hey pup. Now didn’t I kill you already?” Streaker circled around in front of them, baring his teeth. “Then again, you’re not an ordinary hellhound, are you? I’m starting to think you’re something bigger that just pushed itself into that shape. It was the way your body sizzled in the library that finally clued me in. You’re a simulacra, aren’t you? An artificial vessel built to hold the essence of one of the Timeworn. So what’s your real name, pup? Adulz? Nollib? Pazog?” He opened the salt bag. “Stop me when I’m getting close.”

  Simon struggled hard against the obelisk to no avail. He remained glued within the obelisk while Streaker’s eyes blazed hotter than before, his growl shaking the ground beneath them.

  “You sure do growl a lot, pup.” Nathan wheezed, then he chuckled a hollow, rattling laugh. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you have no bite left in you, you mangy, old, decrepit--”

  That did it. Streaker lunged straight for Nathan.

  Kate dove left, Penny right.

  Nathan stood alone, right in the path of the snarling beast. He dropped to his knees, throwing the salt bag aside. His last bit of strength seemed to fade from him. His eyes rolling back in his head and he fell forward onto his hands.

  The hound closed in, faster now, foam flying from his mouth as he charged.

  The ground in front of Nathan erupted. Dirt exploded up from the ground, and roots, and leaves, and muck, then it was all twisting, writhing into shape as it churned upwards. A large canine head formed inside the swirling mass of earth, followed by large shoulders. It didn’t have time to completely form itself, bursting upwards to catch Streaker mid-flight. The hound let out a loud yelp as it was knocked aside, momentarily stunned.

  Nathan slowly lifted his head and smiled as the earthen wolf coalesced in front to him. Nathan looked to Simon. “Told you I had been practicing,” he said, managing a small smile.

  Penny was next to Simon now, tugging feverishly at his wrist, trying to yank him free from the stone. “It’s no use,” Simon whispered, his heart pounding hard and slow in his chest. “I’m stuck.”

  “Not good,” Penny whispered. She saw the silver leaf above the receptacle. “Dogs and devils,” she whispered. “Do you know who’s grave this is?”

  “Not now!” Simon yanked harder to free his hand, feeling his wrist almost pop from the strain. “Get me out, please! Hurry!”

  Penny hesitated, her eyes still fixed on the symbol.

  “Penny!”

  She shook her head. “Okay, sorry. Sorry!” She calmed herself and placed her palm against the stone. A moment later her eyes went wide. For a second she seemed lost inside herself, knocked down inside her own head. She backed away, shaking her head a few times before regaining her senses.

  Simon’s hand slipped free from the stone. “Thanks.” He rubbed his wrist. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Penny said quickly. Her gaze darted back and forth before slipping behind the obelisk. “It was nothing.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Simon said. “Are you okay?”

  “Shh,” she said. “Follow me, before they see us.”

  “No,” Simon whispered. “How did you get me out? What was--“

  “Quiet, Simon! Please!” She turned to face him, and he saw it--her eyes were glowing, but they were a sickly mixture of blue and green, like ink dropped in water. Her face seemed drawn and thin, and she looked like she might be sick any minute.

  “Our girl here is awfully special, isn’t she?” They turned to see Boeman standing behind them, his eyes normal again, voice calm and deep. “You are a real rarity, young lady.” He walked towards them casually, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing questioningly in the air. “What a little secret you’ve been, and a Nettle at that! Tell me, pretty little apple, does your heart go bump in the night?”

  A tiny shape mewed and bounded out of the darkness. It ran along the ground, heading fast for Boeman. Malkin tore up Boeman’s front, finding his face and tearing into him viciously. The kitten hissed and caterwauled furiously, his teeth biting and his claws slashing at Boeman’s face without relenting. Boeman fell back, his focus on the two children lost.

  “Penny,” Simon started. “I--”

  “Run,” she whispered. Behind them Malkin continued to hiss and claw. She grabbed his arm and kept her head down. “Run.”

  They ran.

  Boeman howled behind them. Penny gripped Simon’s hand tighter as they tore through the cemetery. “Watch the wall!” Simon shouted as they approached the grotesque, twisted stonework. “Stay clear of it!” Penny took a hard turn and ran alongside the wall, being careful to avoid the outstretched stone arms of the statues. One statue of an animal frozen mid-snarl almost tripped Simon.

  “Keep going!” Penny shouted. In the distance they heard Boeman begin to shout, rhythmic and loud.

  “Here!” Penny let go of Simon’s hand. They were coming up on the large hole in the stone wall. “We have to get through,” she shouted, breaking into a full run.

  “The statues!” Simon shouted. “Something’s not right about them.”

  “Don’t look at them!” Penny threw herself through the hole, spinning around after landing. “Go!”

  There was no time to doubt. Simon squeezed his eyes shut and jumped without slowing down. Something hard hit him in the
shoulder, and when he looked back up, the hole in the wall was gone. Every last inch of space had been filled in by the statues, dozens of stone creatures all silently screaming at him. Their numerous hands and claws and beaks and eyes were just inches away, every last one reaching right for his face.

  “We can’t leave them,” he said, getting to his feet. “I need to go--”

  Penny slapped him, hard, and he fell to the ground even harder. “What were you thinking?” She hissed at him.

  She had completely knocked the wind out of him. “What was that about?”

  “Why did you follow him!” She turned away. “Why couldn’t you have just stayed at the house? Why couldn’t you have just stayed where it was safe?”

  Simon wasn’t sure what to do. He started to speak but hesitated, then he started to put his hand on her shoulders, but stopped. Awkwardly he backed away. “Penny, please.” It was a stupid response, but he had nothing better to say. “He’s the only family I have.”

  She kept her back to Simon. “We’re not supposed to be here,” she finally said, her voice low and fragile.

  Simon swallowed. “I had to follow.”

  She slowly turned around. Her eyes were red and puffy. “It’s not safe here. There’s too much...stuff out here. A lot has been laid to rest that isn’t quite ready to be there.” She looked at the ground. “Some people are out here that shouldn’t be.”

  Simon looked over Penny’s shoulder. Right behind her was a tombstone that somehow seemed familiar. In a moment he realized where he had seen it--it was the monument he had seen when he and Penny had connected in her father’s office. The inscription was clear in the moonlight:

  ELIZABETH JULIET NETTLE

  BORN IN A FIELD OF WHEAT

  RAISED TO RUE THE NIGHT

  TAKEN BY A HUNGRY RAVEN

  AND DIED BY WAY OF BITE

  “Penny,” he started. “I--”

  Boeman shouted in the distance again, followed by the dreadful sound of moaning. This was not just one moan, but several, all blended in a terrible cacophony of wailing and dread. Moatlings.