by Chris Miller
Chapter 11
Lights On, Nobody’s Home
Swimming during a lightning storm, juggling chainsaws, and attempting to eat the cafeteria “chef surprise” are all great ways to get oneself killed. I found a new one to add to the list.
With no training, no license, and no clue what I was doing, I was operating the Ghost on pure instinct. Normally, this would be a bad combination for me—tech and impulse—but for some reason, it was working. The bike almost seemed to understand my need to get back home as quickly as possible, directing me to make quick work of retracing the impossibly dark tunnel route back into the open. Once there, I steered the bike up the embankment toward the road.
Boo-dwe-oop! A digital ring chirped from my Symbio wrist device. Its smooth face lit up with the message: DESI. I knew what she wanted. She was just going to try to talk me out of going, but my mind was made up. There was no way I was turning back—not while Mom and Emily could be in trouble, not while I could still do something about it. I tapped the Ignore option and squeezed the Ghost’s throttle harder.
The sun was low in the sky when I finally made my cautious turn onto King Street. Long shadows had stretched themselves out across the road, making a checkerboard of dark and light patches to count off my nervous approach.
Remembering the chilling image of the painting, I held my breath, waiting for my house to come into view. There. Both cars were in the driveway. Lights were on. But, no birds, no Vogler….
Yet, I reminded myself, looking nervously toward the sky. It was empty. Still, who was to say how much time I had before he showed up?
I made a wobbly turn into the driveway and lurched up beside the house to park the conspicuous bike around back. My clutch and braking skills, or rather complete lack of them, got the bike to stop, just short of crushing Mom’s prized rosebush. Luckily for me, the advanced bike automatically engaged its kickstand to support itself before I dropped it.
Still wearing the helmet, I rushed in through the back door, calling out loudly for anyone to hear. “Mom! Em! You home?”
I flipped up my visor and frantically surveyed the scene. From all appearances, someone was. The small, persistent chirps from the kitchen timer were declaring dinner ready. Emily’s favorite radio station played quietly in the background. The table had been set for three.
I took a deep breath, relieved to know they were still here. Removing my helmet, I set it down on the counter and shut off the incessant timer.
“What’s for dinner?” I called out again, peeking into the oven’s glass front. Meatloaf—extra, extra crispy. I sighed and twisted the oven knob to off. Not hearing the replies from Mom and Emily that I was expecting, I reached out and switched off the radio. Now the house was quiet, too quiet.
“Mom?”
There was no reply. Something was wrong—I could feel it.
Instinctively, I reached in my backpack for my Veritas Sword, but hesitated when I remembered the painful results of my last two attempts. Thinking better of it, I looked for the next closest weapon. My choices were between a dirty frying pan, or…a mop. I wasn’t going there again.
Armed with the frying pan, I approached the basement door and nudged it open. No lights. No movement.
They must be upstairs, I reasoned, trying to avoid an outright panic. The entryway was mostly dark; only a small patch of sunset spilled in through the window strip above our front door. My senses were on overload. Cautiously, I tiptoed toward the stairs.
Suddenly, my foot slipped out from under me. The pan flew from my grip and clattered violently against the tile floor. My face narrowly escaped the same fate when I managed to catch my forward fall with one hand. As soon as I touched the ground, I recoiled. The floor was smeared with something slick and dark.
Horrified, I jumped to my feet and flicked on the lights, fearful of what I would find. The oozing liquid on my hand was red, but it wasn’t blood. It was worse—paint. The floor was streaked with it. Sloppy red strokes left a terrifying message: a symbol in the shape of an ever-watching eye.
The Watchers had already been here. And that could only mean one thing: they had my family.
Boo-dwe-oop!
The sound of the Symbio’s incoming call snapped me out of my state of shock. This time I chose Accept.
Desi’s face appeared as a video stream. At first she looked annoyed, but that quickly switched to concern when she saw the fear in my eyes.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“I…I didn’t get here fast enough,” I stammered, breathing hard. “I’ve…lost them.”
“Hunter. Listen to me. I’m locking in your location now.” A small orange light suddenly appeared at the top of the screen. “Stay out of sight. Stay where you are.” Her firm tone made it clear that she wasn’t asking. “I’m coming.”
The Symbio’s screen went dark, all except for the orange dot. For now, I was left alone with my swirling thoughts. Heeding Desi’s commands, I dropped low to a corner of the entryway that effectively hid me from any window. The waves of questions washed over me.
Why was the Watcher after my family? Was this really all about Dad? What exactly had he gotten us into? Just thinking of that made my fists begin to tighten; I could feel an overwhelming rage welling up in me.
Wasn’t leaving us enough? No. Now he rips apart what little family I still had left by dragging us all into his dangerous dealings. Why couldn’t he just leave us alone?
In that moment, I truly hated him for what he’d done, for the pain he’d caused. Yet, as quickly as the raging emotions came, they faded; my hands slowly relaxed.
If what Simon said was true about the Author’s Eye of Ends and how Dad had been protecting it, how could I hate him for that? If it were true, then his cruel absence from us was only in a noble attempt to protect us too, from the evil that had now found us. Could I fault him for that? Then again, there was still Mom’s side to the story to reconcile. Most of her account certainly didn’t make Dad out to be anywhere near noble with the stress, and then neglect, he’d given her…and the family.
Somewhere in the middle of these conflicting portraits of mayhem lay the truth. That was what I needed to find before it was too late for Mom and Emily…and if he still lived, Dad too.
From where I sat on the floor, I felt and heard the approaching footsteps crossing the porch before they ever reached the door. Desi had arrived faster than I expected.
I cautiously stood up, peering through the door’s eyehole first to make sure it was her. It wasn’t. It was Trista. Her hand was still raised to knock when I whipped the door open.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I hissed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her inside.
“Ouch! Easy,” Trista complained. “I tried calling ahead. I just came over to show you this, to help you remember,” she said indignantly, reaching to remove the hand-crafted bow slung over her shoulder. I remembered it all right. It was identical to the bow Hope had used in Solandria, but it didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was getting us out alive.
I grabbed her by both shoulders and said, “Forget the bow. I’m in bigger trouble.”
I stepped back and directed her to the tiled floor with my paint-smeared hand. Trista’s eyes went wide when she finally saw the graffiti. Her gaze went from the floor to my hand, before returning to me.
“Uh…no way José,” she said. “If you think I’m going to help you clean up one of your messes, you’re insane.”
“No. Not the paint,” I groaned in frustration. “They’ve kidnapped Mom and Em!”
“They? Kidnapped?”
“The Watchers,” I answered urgently, pointing back to the symbol. That’s when a shadowy movement in one of the living room windows caught my eye. Whatever it was had moved quickly. No sooner had it disappeared than another dark shape followed it, the passing shape of a bird.
P
ushing past Trista, I thrust my head out the front door. From every corner of the sky, ravens were dropping down into my yard, blocking the pathway and filling up every open space around my home.
The drawing was coming to life.
“Oh no,” I said in whispered dread. “He’s coming back for me.”
“Who is? What’s going on?” Trista asked nervously, looking out over my shoulder. She gasped loudly when she caught site of all the swarming black birds.
“Caw! Caw!” A wave of calls now began spreading throughout the flock; they had seen us.
Grabbing Trista’s arm, I wrenched her away from the disturbing spectacle and raced down the hallway for the back door.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” I shouted, “Now!”
Chapter 12
Iron Sharpens Iron
The Ghost’s engine whirred to life, leaving an angry flurry of ravens in our wake as Trista and I sped from my house. Thankfully, Vogler was nowhere to be seen…yet. Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he would find me soon. After all, he had all the resources of the entire Destiny Police Department at his disposal. By now, every cop in the county would be on high alert, looking for a boy on a conspicuously white bike with rimless tires and neon lights. Though I had the black one now, it still was not exactly your perfect getaway vehicle.
Our only chance of remaining unseen was to stay off the main roads and quickly find a safe place to hide. The Underground was my best hope, but without Simon or Desi to help guide me, I’d never be able to navigate the riddle of train tunnels again.
I tried unsuccessfully to reach Desi on my Symbio device, but nothing seemed to work. Eventually, I gave up and Trista and I settled on Plan B, heading to Rob’s house. At the fairgrounds, Rob had told us his family were all Codebearers. We needed allies and we needed them fast. I only hoped that the tracking system was still in place and Desi would be able to find me.
Keeping to back roads and alleyways, we wound our way through town toward the address Rob had scribbled out for Trista earlier that day. We soon came to a street lined with single-story ramblers. Each home looked about the same as the others: beige, brown or grey. The only exception was the home that Rob had identified—the only purple house on the block, and quite possibly the entire town, for that matter.
But the color was only the start of the differences. The garage had been replaced by bay windows and a larger addition to the structure had been made in the backyard as well. The fifteen-passenger van parked in the driveway looked like it was twenty years old or more but had been custom painted with the Author’s mark boldly displayed on both sides. As if it weren’t loud enough, a wooden carved sign hung over the door that read: The Way of Truth and Life.
“You sure this is the place?” I asked jokingly as I pulled the bike up the driveway and around the side of the house to hide it from view. Even before we reached the porch, we could hear the rowdy buzz of activity indoors.
Trista rang the doorbell, but she might as well have poked a stick at a beehive. The commotion inside whipped up into an even greater frenzy than before. With shrieks, squeals and pounding footsteps, an apparent stampede of small elephants raced to be the first to answer the door.
The curtains in the narrow side windows were moved aside by little hands as the deadbolt clicked and the door was tugged open as far as its chain lock would allow. A little girl’s face squished into the gap and peered out at us through purple-rimmed glasses. As soon as she saw me, her eyes widened and then narrowed.
“You again!” she exclaimed, none too pleased.
It was the precocious, red-haired girl I’d met at the library this morning. Before I could say a word, the door slammed in my face, followed by a shout.
“Mom, it’s that weirdo from the library!” Sabrina shouted.
“Wow,” Trista laughed, “should I even ask?”
“No,” I said, “but you wouldn’t happen to have a dollar on you, would you?”
The mother of the house finally managed to shoo away the barricade of kids and answered the door with a diaper in one hand and a dishtowel in the other. I recognized her at once as the woman from the library—tan, short, curly black hair and a slight Hispanic accent. We introduced ourselves as Rob’s friends and she invited us into the chaos with a welcoming smile.
At least a half dozen kids were racing through the house, all of them differing in age and ethnicity. None of them looked like the other, but they all were clearly Bungles. How Rob had ever failed to mention being adopted before was beyond me.
“It’s really great to finally meet both of you…properly,” Mrs. Bungle said after inviting us inside. She gave me an amused smile, clearly not forgetting our memorable encounter at the library. “Rob hasn’t stopped talking about you two all weekend, although I’m sure there’s more to tell. I hope you can stay for dinner and we can hear your side of the story.”
We graciously accepted the offer though I realized I’d have nothing to share. Perhaps hearing Rob’s side of the story would reignite some of my memories.
Mrs. Bungle reached down and scooped up her youngest son: a bashful little guy, clinging to her pantleg and a well-loved blanket. As soon as he was hoisted up, he tenderly leaned his mop of blond hair against her slender shoulder and melted into her embrace as only a child could. It struck me how, despite their obvious differences, they were unquestionably a family.
“I’d apologize for the mess,” Mrs. Bungle continued as she artfully kicked aside one of the many wayward toys obstructing the hallway, “but with the Bungles, what you see is what you get. Come on back. I’ll show you to the basement—that’s where Rob and his dad are.”
As we followed her back past the kitchen and family room, Mrs. Bungle gave us a quick introduction to the other Bungle girls and boys who happily looked up from whatever activity they were engaged in to wave. Sabrina was the only one who didn’t smile back, preferring to keep her arms crossed in a bitter reminder of the dollar I owed her.
Having reached the door to the basement, Mrs. Bungle yelled down the stairs, “Rob! I’m sending down visitors!”
She stepped aside and motioned us down the low-ceilinged staircase. “I’d take you down myself,” she politely offered, “but some of these trouble-makers just can’t be trusted to themselves.” As if on cue a skirmish between two of the kids suddenly broke out in the other room. Mrs. Bungle smiled, then dutifully snapped her head around to hurry off in the direction of the trouble, her voice trailing as she went, “No, no, Shane. Mommy said no eating Sarah’s crayons!”
Trista and I left the happy chaos behind us and headed down into the much quieter basement. The switchback stairs led us out into a surprisingly large recreation room beneath the house. Blue padded panels covered the typical cement basement floor and walls. Except for a row of supporting posts down the middle, the room was wide open.
Looking through the posts towards the back right corner, we could make out two men dressed in martial art uniforms, slowly circling each other in disciplined stances. One of them was a stocky, but powerfully built Asian man (Mr. Bungle, I assumed), dressed in white; the other, suited up in dark red, was Rob. Both were too engrossed in their lesson to notice us watching from the stairway.
“It is written,” Mr. Bungle’s impressive voice sounded every bit like the measured, authoritative voice of a real sensei, “His feet will be swift, his strength will not falter…” Then, in a blur of unnatural speed, he surged toward Rob who deftly countered the move with his own flourish of speed as he recited, “…whose mind is fixed on truth,” completing his father’s words.
The elder nodded his head in approval and calmly readied for his next attack. Unleashing a powerful sequence of punches and kicks, he began forcing Rob backwards. “It is written: Every word of the Code has been given for teaching…”
Rob met each of his teacher’s blows with practiced skill, continuing
the recitation, “…for challenging…”
“…for correcting…” Mr. Bungle added.
“…for training in the Way of Truth,” Rob finished.
In defending himself, Rob had not noticed how close to the wall he’d allowed himself to be steered. Mr. Bungle didn’t hesitate to take the advantage. With an artful swipe of his hands, he suddenly had both of Rob’s wrists locked between his own. Pressing in with his full strength, he attempted to pin Rob against the wall.
“It is written: As physical training increases strength…”
I could see Rob’s arms giving in under the pressure. He couldn’t possibly expect to hold off his dad for long, but Rob wasn’t giving up that easily. Determined, Rob dug deeper. “…so hope remembered…” he grunted, “…produces endurance!” Rob ended with a shout, sending his father sliding backwards by some unseen force.
While evident fatigue was showing in Rob, his dad appeared remarkably unaffected, even energized from their match so far. Mr. Bungle reached for his belt and brandished a Veritas Sword. It was unlike any I’d seen before. The transparent, blue blade of light that flashed to life was long, straight cut and thin, curving slightly back at its chiseled tip. The gold forged hilt was longer as well, its handle wrapped with black leather strips to create a diamond pattern where the gold was exposed. Unlike the winged design on mine, the hand guard on his was a much smaller, flat disc atop which rested an artfully sculpted version of the Author’s mark. The three, interconnected Vs curled around the handle, repeating the design on both sides.
Mr. Bungle assumed an attack stance, calling out to Rob, who was still catching his breath, “It is written: The sword is made ready for the day of battle…”