I dropped into a stout uncomfortable chair by the wall and crossed my arms.
‘You should tell Dex that you know about the manuscripts,’ Marie said. ‘Tell him that and he’ll open up. Or he won’t. But at least then you’ll sound like you know what you’re talking about, and not like some—’
‘Some lip-smacking babbler,’ Castor finished for her.
They started arguing and ten ticks later were gone, probably off to finish their spat in Limbo. I tried to stand, but all zest for life seemed to have fled. Being manhandled and shaken by Nimrod will do that to you.
“Are you still down there?” a faint voice called down from a few stories up.
I was silent, hoping he’d take that as confirmation and wander down here to make sure. I figured if I could keep my jittering and moaning under control long enough, and get Dex close enough, I might just be able to pull a Mesmer on him. But I didn’t hear any footsteps on the spiral stairs.
Far overhead lightning lit up the domed ceiling. I tried to conjure some clever plan.
Something tickled across the back of my right hand. I peeped down at it, ready to brush aside a feather or whatever muck this drafty library had blown across it. “Ah, man,” I screeched and flicked my right hand with my left. The black-hearted spider flew a few feet away, landed on the floor without a sound. As I struggled to my feet, pumper beating away, the arachnid righted itself and snarled at me.
Okay, so maybe it didn’t snarl, but the thing did give me the evil-eye, sure as sure.
I shivered. Realizing I was on my feet, my shins in agony, but upright all the same, I limped forward. Kept glancing back to make sure the spider wasn’t following.
“Hey Dex!”
A few seconds later: “Why are you still here? I said leave. What’ll it take to get you to get lost?” He sounded tired, like the world had been giving him a hard time for a long time.
“I um, I just—I know about the manuscripts.”
Dex finally descended, eventually sidling up to me again. He considered me with his dilated peepers for many ticks. “What’s your name, dude?”
The jitters were full blown now; even my teeth were rattling. A decent human would have offered me food, bandages, a joint. “Morgan,” I said. “I was raised in the Home with twelve Morai. The Mythicon Faustus said you could tell me about my father.”
My knees knocked together and I was ready to puke from withdrawal, collapse from pain and scream from frustration.
“What do you know about the manuscripts?”
“Um.”
The man sighed. “Not the brightest bulb in the pack, huh. Just tell me who told you about the manuscripts.”
Didn’t see any upside to lying, so I said, “Marie?”
Dex leaned closer until we were almost nose to nose. “Marie?”
I sighed and laid it out on the table, explaining Marie’s post-life existence, etc.
A few seconds of silence, followed by Dex clapping. “Ha! Inherited thaumaturgic alteration. Amazing.” When he saw the dumb look on my face, he continued. “You’ve inherited your fathers’ ability to perceive spirits, dude. You’ve even inherited his ghosts, for Pete’s sake. Do you know how he did it?”
“I didn’t know he could. I don’t even know how I can.”
“Magic.” With that, Dex crossed his arms and grinned. A few moments later, as if speaking to someone else, this kooky wizard guy said, “Yes, perhaps he can make up for the sins of his father.”
He then scampered up the stairs, mumbling incoherently. After scrounging around for ten minutes, he returned, lugging reams of papers wrapped in rubber bands, and what looked to be a plastic shotgun case.
“Knox left these for you.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What are they?”
Chapter 16
“Here, take this,” Dex handed me the case. It was surprisingly light. Still toting the three reams of banded paper, he led me out of the library, uttering some kind of incantation before opening the door. For him it opened without resistance.
On the way out, an old fart emerged from the four-foot wide doorway opposite the library. Dex stopped, and I nearly ran into him when I jiggered to keep weight off my left leg.
“Ah, Argus,” Dex said. “Did you order those books from the list I gave you?”
The old man, lined and slightly hunched, sporting a torn green sweater, shook his head. “I told you, Dextrian, I am not your manservant.”
“Dang it, man! I told you I needed those books.” Dex ran his free hand through his spikes. The spikes bounced back like they were made of plastic. “How am I supposed to keep Arthur King from entering politics if I don’t know the specific spells and curses to place on him?”
The old man—Argus—grumped and licked his lips. “You have thousands of ancient tomes in that dusty old library, books of magic and magical books and grimoires. You telling me you don’t have what you need?”
“No! Those old spells won’t work for political dealings and the like. Just do as I say!” Dex said, shoving past old Argus. “We’re not having this conversation again.”
“Praise God,” Argus spat. “I hate reruns.”
Dex spun. “Listen, you old manfac. If you don’t follow my orders I’ll be forced to—”
“What? Put a spell on me?” Argus licked his lips again, making a nasty slimy sound. “We both know if you try it, my master will have your soul in a jar the second he returns.”
“It’s been fifteen years!” Dex shrieked. “He’s not coming back.”
Argus stepped up to his not-master. “Then go ahead and put a curse on me.” He waited. “No? I didn’t think so. Even after fifteen years you’re still scared of him. He will be back—soon. I can feel his return in my bones.” Then the old man toddled away, grumbling under his breath.
“God! I hate that man.” Dex turned and stepped down into a large formal gathering room. Large windows draped in cream colored venetian blinds lined the opposite wall. Dex nodded at an easy chair. I dropped into it.
“So who is his master?”
Dex waved, as if trying to bat this question aside. “His master owns this house. I’m just sort of leasing it in his absence. Not like it matters anyway; the sorcerer’s probably dead by now.”
I closed my eyes and felt a constipation of the mind forming from my steaming pile of questions.
“Ah, son of a with!” A sudden jolt of pain sprung up in my legs. I opened my eyes. Dex had dropped the slabs of paper right onto my lap.
Dex snorted. “Dude. What an ironic thing to say. Okay, now listen, those are all you need. They’ll tell you everything you want to know and plenty you don’t. Now go forth and forget you were ever here.” He finished with a dramatic wave of his hand. “Just . . . be careful. If you’re anything like your old man . . . well, if you are, you won’t listen to reason, so never mind.”
“Can you at least tell me where he is?”
He pointed at the reams of paper in my lap.
“What the flip is your problem?” More silence. “Fine. What are these?”
Dex stubbed out the joint. He made a big hubbub of opening a bag of Big League Chew and depositing a huge chunk in his mouth. “’What are these?’ He says. One thing to another, never ending. Just like Knox.” Pointing at me, he yelled, “Well you won’t suck me back into that world, junior.” A pause. “Look, those three manuscripts comprise the Mythcorp Trilogy, written by the Icons Tolkien and Lewis during the War. There it is. That’s all you’re getting from me. Now go.”
“Tolkien and Lewis?” I asked.
‘That’s right, I remember those guys,’ Marie perked up beside me. She was hanging out a lot now that I was off the doojee. Before I could stop myself I asked her: “How did you know them?”
“It doesn’t matter how I knew them,” Dex said. “Now—”
“What happened to them?” I asked both Dex and Marie. Marie was too distracted by the smoke emanating from Dex’s ashtray to answer.
“
During the Purge they went into hiding,” Dex said without moving his lips. He placed a small log on the fire in the wood stove. “The sorcerer was wise enough to hide them out here while all the Morai and other products of Mythcorp were being rounded up and questioned or Recycled.” He sighed. “The FBI confiscated all the published copies of these manuscripts. That, dude, is all I know, so don’t ask another question. Just leave.”
“But what about Knox—”
POOF!
Blinding pain as something smashed against my forehead. I found myself lying on Dex’s stoop. My shin was wrapped in a bandage beneath my jeans. Beside me lay the long plastic case and my backpack, which, on inspection, I discovered contained the mysterious manuscripts.
With some effort I sat up.
“What just happened?”
‘I think you just got bamboozled by a wizard,’ Castor said. ‘Listen, pus-pot, I got some intel on your boy Sanson. So do let’s blow this joint before any more voodoo or demonic tussling goes down.’ He adjusted his tattered Iconocop jacket and inspected the plastic case. Hey moron, what’s in the case?’
I pulled the thing over and set it on my lap. After making sure Nimrod wasn’t lurking in the tree-line or on the street, I clicked the hasps and lifted the lid. Instead of a gun or pool cue or trombone, a mean looking dark blue cane made of twisted bones lay nestled inside. It was topped by a crows head with a pair of purple gemstone eyes that managed to catch the sparse light coming from the neighbor’s house.
“Whoa,” I ran my fingers along the cane reverentially. “This is sick.”
Castor loomed over me so closely his legs were phasing into mine. ‘Holy hell—I recognize that.’
“You do?”
He nodded. Up close you could see his network of scars. ‘That’s the sword-cane that killed the president of Mythcorp—the first time, anyway.’ A contemplative expression, then, without another word, Castor vanished.
How come every time someone explained something, it only prompted more questions?
It was still pouring out, but at least the fires were extinguished. I stood, leaning on my father’s cane. Before limping out into the puddle-strewn street I glanced back at Dex’s door. My name had been carved into the pentagram thingy, added to the List of the Unwelcome.
“Great.”
As I walked, Marie talked, explaining how the cane was demon-forged and that there was a small button on the back of the crow head I could press to release a stream of potent energy. I moved my finger over to the button.
‘Well don’t do it now, you idiot,’ she said. ‘It’s probably not charged after all these years, but if it is, you’ll draw attention.’
The walk down the street was performed in mute ambivalence: I might have possible answers in my hands and I now possessed a dynamite cane-sword, but my collection of aches and pains was still raging.
I took a slight detour onto Alpha to avoid the ambulance and police cars milling around the prostrate firemen.
‘So,’ Castor had reappeared about a half mile away from the house. He was mock-limping beside me now in his dry uniform. ‘Are you done pining after dear old deadbeat dad? Ready to hear about Sanson? Cause you should probably know, he’s helping that Ash-hole take over the school.’
“What?”
Chapter 17
Sanson
Next day I sensed the Sanson family chill following me around like yesterdays bad news. I got the sense I wasn’t the only one feeling the chill; people were swerving around me in the halls—even more than usual, practically pulling u-turns to avoid me.
But despite the chill and the tape on my nose I was in a good mood.
So it was a bit of a shocker when I walked in on Ash talking with Mrs. Deem just before third period Internet History. Ash was sitting on her desk, his little feet swinging as he talked, Mrs. Deem listening raptly. When I walked in she didn’t even raise her head from their huddle.
I tried not to stare as I took my usual seat in the back. I needed a distraction: checked my thermal, checked my chrono, inspected my fingernails. They never grow. A minute passed. Ash and Mrs. Deem laughed and then the little guy tapped our teacher on her shoulder before receiving the piece of paper she offered. He headed towards me in the back as First Bell rang and the yahoos started filing in. Mrs. Deem proceeded to set up today’s lesson on the plasma-projector up front.
“What was that all about?” I asked Ash while everyone else jabbered away.
He smiled and lifted his folded hands from the paper she’d given him. It was a colored-pencil drawing of— “Is that you?” I asked. Ash nodded. “Why did she draw a picture of you teaching class? That’s weird.”
“I asked her to,” he said. “I ask all my friends to draw pictures of me.”
Mmhmm. “You haven’t asked me.”
“You are my partner. Now, to answer your question, I was asking Alice about our classmates. I’ll bet you’ll never guess who Lexi’s father is.”
“I’ll bet you’re right.” He was calling our teacher by her first name now?
“He’s a US senator. Isn’t that fascinating?” he beamed as he slipped the drawing in his bag. I couldn’t help noticing that there were several other drawings already nestled snug inside.
Satisfied that his pretentious colored-pencil likeness was safe, Ash placed his folded hands on his desk and gazed up front at Mrs. Deem. “As it happens,” he whispered, “Lexi’s father is one of the last of the old guard who worked to legalize Mythcorp’s many products in the early days, and he even lobbied to reopen Mythcorp after the Purge. I think he could be useful to us. What do you think?”
“What do I think?” This relationship was getting too zany for me. Class had started; Mrs. Deem droning on about the evolution of Pentium processors. I leaned over to whisper to Ash. “What exactly is inside of Mythcorp that you want so badly? And don’t say ‘something to help you, Sanson,’ because it’s getting obvious that you have a whole other agenda going on.” You’d think he’d get snarky in response to my snarkiness, but oh no, not Ash, not the littlest Morai.
He gazed over at me, his white eyes all sinister as usual, clashing with his innocent smile. “I want answers. I know they must be inside Mythcorp. And to get there, I need to meet Lexi’s father, Mister Montaigne. Make it happen, please.”
“Make it—” I leaned back in my seat. Put my hands up. “Make it happen? How the heck am I suppose get some sen—” a couple yahoos turned at the frequency of my voice. I sat still, looked up front at Mrs. Deem and lowered my voice to a murmur. “How am I supposed to get some senator to meet you? You can’t even leave the school, and why would he come here? No offense, but who are you?”
“None of that matters,” Ash said, calm as an empty swimming pool. “All you need to do is get in tight with Lexi.”
“Get in tight with—” it was getting tough trying not to sound shrill. “How?”
He shrugged. The Morai seem fond of this gesture. “I’m sure I don’t know. But you’re clever, and if you want to get into Mythcorp to get your curse lifted, then I’m sure you’ll find a way. Lexi waits for her ride after school under the Willow tree up front. That might be a good place to start.”
An hour later I was slurping Nanex beside Ash at the Morai lunch table. Lamorak had nodded at me when I sat down; a couple of the others gave terse little nods as well, including Pellinore and Ga-Wayne or Gerwin, or Gerkin, or whatever his name was.
They were a quiet bunch, talking in a low buzz, never looking around. Which gave me an idea. I got up and wandered over to the Goth table, trying not to let the putrid stench of yesterdays veggies make my nose crinkle. God knew this was going to be hard enough without coming off as some lame-o acting like she stinks. In addition to her usual posse of Misty and Missy, Lexi was sitting with Mindy and Minnie and some chick named Joe who wore black magic-marker-cross tattoos on her arms.
I marched right up to this Goth party and then completely forgot my plan. But at least I’d made it to the table s
o five Emo’s could stare at me with five pairs of mascara-lathered eyes, all while fingering trays of uneaten food.
I could hear the clock counting down. At least I couldn’t blush.
“What do you want?” Misty or Missy asked, diddling with her braid.
“Um.” Suave Sanson, suave. “I was hoping wishing I could speak with . . . ah . . . Lexi?” I yelled her name; it just sort of burst out of me when I finally remembered it. I did a little foot move as if I were stubbing a butt. “So ah, can I speak with her . . . I mean with you, in private parts—I mean in private.”
Kill me now—again.
Luckily I didn’t happen to have a baseball bat in my hand, or I’d have been smacking myself in the head with it. Talking to girls was harder than breaking into a government building and surviving a demon attack. As I waited for the chicks to stop giggling, my thermal beeped.
“What is that?” Minnie asked, leering at my wrist.
I pressed the OFF button. Body temp was down to 60. Stress causes the nanites to trigger the release of hormones to keep the Nanex from flowing too quickly and giving me an aneurysm. And the harder the nanites work, the quicker they deteriorate and the quicker my body temp drops.
The Curse.
“N-nothing,” I stammered. Had to make this quick so I could inject myself. “Can we talk?”
“About what?” Lexi asked, sounding exasperated.
The cafeteria had gone silent. I turned and looked around. Yep, I was the center of attention. I was going to have to kill Ash now. “Um . . . never mind.” I turned and jogged out of there. By the time I made it to the hallway my thermal read 59 degrees. I dropped my pack and stooped to my knees. After making sure no one was around, I ripped the case out of my pack and loaded the hypospray gun with a vial.
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