Birthright - Book 2 of the Legacy Series (An Urban Fantasy Novel)

by Ryan Attard

  Somehow, I didn’t see that going well. My sister would play Twenty Questions, and I didn’t have the answers. I knew that my father and Crowley were plotting something sinister, but I didn’t know what, why, or how. I just knew. She would tell me to wait until we had some proof, but she didn’t have that vision.

  She didn’t see the expression on our mother’s face.

  I mean, it’s one thing to face death defiantly and choose to fight until the bitter end, but my mother’s look was one of surrender. She had no choice but to lie in that coffin, die, and then be ravaged by a monster. It was that look which made me want to hurt Crowley so much. My mother didn’t deserve to die. I didn’t know her, but I’ve seen pictures of her. I kept a small picture of her in my bedroom, just to have something to look at that was truly beautiful. The moment I got inside my room, I sat on the bed, grabbed the small frame, and just stared at her face. She had kind eyes, the sort you cannot fake. I believe that she was a genuinely good person. No good person deserves that fate.

  I must have lay there on my bed for hours, holding the picture frame high. I had burned my mother’s image into my brain for years, and yet I still couldn’t get enough. This was my relaxation time, when I would stare at the one person who provided some sort of sanctuary from this world of horror. Alone with just my thoughts and my mother.

  But this time, when I gazed into those green eyes, all I managed to see was the horrified, broken expression on her face as blood splattered all over her.

  I have no idea why I had the vision. Baku poison was supposed to send the victim into a trance and their minds into a dream state. As the victims sink deeper and deeper into that dream, their minds slowly shuts down and the Baku gets a meal. Perhaps the toxins act as a hallucinogen. Or maybe I did enter the dream state, but my healing prevented my brain from shutting down. The voice heard during my hallucination kept echoing inside my head like an alarm clock gone off in a faraway room.

  “Every dream is a shard of reality.”

  It was the same voice I heard when I got fried by the phoenix. I had gone to the same dark void, the red desert. Both times, that strange tree had been there. And both times, I had emerged more powerful than ever. Perhaps it was all a build-up to this moment. Perhaps there was some higher power guiding me through all of this, pushing me toward a goal that I had yet to discover.

  Or maybe it was just me. Maybe it was my voice and my own power. The reasoning part of my head told me that things aren’t always what they seem. I needed something to convince me that I wasn’t losing my mind.

  And just like that, lying on my bed and staring at my mom’s picture, a plan formed in my head. I remembered the vision. It all happened in my father’s study, the one we were never allowed to enter. The one place where everything started. Where Mephisto took us to get our initiation in the magical world. Where my father nearly scorched me to death with a purple fire phantasm. If there were secrets to be found, they would be there.

  But how would I get in? There were locks, bolts, wards, charms, you name it. Nothing was getting inside that office without a specific key, just like the Arena or the Zoo.

  My mind connected two and two and I sat up so suddenly that my abdominal muscles cramped.

  Of course. How could I have been so dumb?

  I wiped sweat from my brow and placed my mother’s picture against my chest. It all made sense now. Gil and I didn’t need to train inside the Zoo — not when we had trained in the forest for nearly our entire lives.

  We were being trained for sabotage.

  It was the only thing that made sense. We knew how to capture and kill monsters. But Mephisto took a step further and taught us all about locks and seals. He seemed to know exactly what my father was planning, but couldn’t say. I remembered the lesson about demons. He had casually mentioned the contract he had with our father. There was no need to mention that, and yet he said it, nonetheless. The same thing with channels. Why raise the subject of super-channels if none of us could use them? He wasn’t surprised to see me die and heal back to life. Rather, it was more like he was waiting for it. He was training us not only to survive, but to rule.

  All the pieces fit perfectly inside my head, and I was looking at a completed puzzle for the first time. He had taught us all we needed to know to overthrow our father and rule for ourselves. The question was, why? Why go against his master?

  I rolled off my bed, stood up and opened the drawer. I kissed the picture and placed it back inside before reaching in again and pulling out a folding knife. After slipping the knife inside my pocket and walking to the door, I stayed there motionless, with my fingers curled around the door handle for a few minutes, collecting my thoughts and clearing my mind.

  Tonight, I would break inside my father’s office. The locks would be easy. If there were phantasms or monsters guarding inside I would have to improvise, but I doubted that Dad would leave any creature to guard his valuable trove of information. You could never trust monsters: too smart, and they backstabbed you, too dumb, and they might just turn on you. Either way, I was confident that I could take on anything I met on my own. The knife would be less than useless, but having some sort of a weapon in my hand made me feel safe. The tricky part was the distance required. I had to move to the other side of the mansion, and do so without raising the alarm. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Midnight. It was two hours past curfew and the entire place was on lockdown. Gil and I never dared venture out of our rooms past our bedtime. Usually, we were too exhausted to even consider it. But now that I think about it, we didn’t know what went on at night in this house. This could make or break my plan, and if I got caught before finding what I wanted I would never get another chance.

  I took a deep breath. If I lingered any longer I would probably chicken out. If needed, I would fight my way through. And I doubt even the toughest security guard on the premises had been through even an iota of the harsh training my sister and I had been through. Mephisto always used to tell us that if we could survive in a forest filled with monsters, we could survive anywhere.

  Time to see if he was right.

  I spent the night walking silently from one end of the house to the other. The wide corridors provided ample space to walk, but the overhead lights dimly illuminated everything. I had to press against the sides of the corridors, where shadows overlapped and provided me with some cover. I didn’t have as much liberty as I wanted; I had to stick to one side, away from the windows, or risk the patrol outside catching my shadow against the glass. Stealthily walking around your own house is not an easy thing. I kept my center of gravity low and my pace light, trying to avoid making a sound, and at the same time listening intently for anyone coming my way.

  Turns out I had nothing to worry about. My legs ached after crossing an entire mansion, semi-crouched and taking one soft step at a time. I pressed against the wall and just as I began wondering why the mansion was devoid of security at this time of night, I caught a glimpse of one guard patrolling the corridor where I needed to go.

  He wore the usual black camo’ outfit, and carried a small caliber automatic weapon from a strap across his shoulder. Around his belt, he wore several black cases and pockets — no doubt a small supply of magical ingredients. I’d seen his type before and knew these security guards weren’t powerful wizards. They usually fought as a team, overwhelming monsters with a relentless assault in numbers. This one looked young enough, probably around twenty years old. He must have been a new recruit to get stuck with guard duty in a dimly lit corridor with just a single office.

  He hasn’t noticed me yet, I thought as I grasped my knife and gently unfolded it. I didn’t have to kill him, just incapacitate him long enough to get what I wanted and then bolt. I could easily knock him out.

  I turned to make my move, but before I could take one step, I heard a low growl from my feet. My heart nearly stopped as I saw a large, black figure, its yellow eyes peering into my own. I froze on the spot and the dog ceased growlin
g.

  Mephisto. What was he doing here? Where did he come from?

  Was he going to stop me?

  With a soft whimper, the dog turned tail and walked around the corner, into the corridor where I was headed.

  “Who’s there?” I heard the security guard ask roughly as he levered himself away from the wall and tightly clenched his cigarette between his teeth. His hands were already on his weapon.

  Mephisto walked up to him, his tongue hanging out. This was it. He would alert the guard and it would all be over. I pressed my back against the wall and squeezed the knife until the rubber of the handle dug painfully into my palm. I mustered the courage to peer around the corner, expecting the guard to call me out.

  “Oh, it’s just you,” said the guard, as he leaned back against the wall and took a drag from his cigarette. I saw Mephisto turn his head back, looking at me, and he walked over to the other side of the corridor. He growled and let out a sharp bark before taking off.

  “Shit,” swore the guard as he put out his cigarette and bolted after the dog.

  I walked in front of the office door and looked over to where Mephisto and the guard had disappeared. Had Mephisto really just helped me out, or did he actually see something more suspicious than a sixteen-year-old with a knife trembling in the shadows of his own house? Either way, I took a deep breath and muttered my thanks to whatever kept the demon from ratting me out.

  Now, I had to deal with opening the door. I instantly recognized the generic seal on the doorframe. Deciphering some of the components took more of a memory jog than others as I tried to remember all that Mephisto taught us. I began working on the familiar sigils, pouring traces of magic inside them, short-circuiting them, or else, just plain scratching the carving. It took the better part of an hour, working my knife and magic as precisely as I could. This was meant to be delicate surgical work, although with my lack of finesse, most sigils ended up looking like a child’s carving. Either way, I brought the system down and all I had to do then was pick the lock.

  As I bent down to pry my knife inside I noticed it was a modern mechanical lock. The keyhole was so small that not even a hairpin could fit inside, let alone a blade. I stood up and paced around for a moment, frustration and panic beginning to settle in. That guard might come back anytime. I thumbed the metal door handle, hoping for inspiration. Maybe if I begged it hard enough, the door would just snap open of its own free will. No such luck.

  What could I do? I had taken down a series of magical locks, but some dumb mechanical bolt was stumping me? Just my luck.

  And then, I remembered the bike. That bike I rusted somehow and whose owner beat me up on the same day my father divulged the truth to us. Maybe I could pull off the same stunt again. Heck, I had destroyed enough weapons just by pouring magic through them. Why should a lock be different?

  I grasped the handle tightly and channeled my magic through it. The effect was instantaneous. There was a loud crack, and the handle snapped off. It crumbled into iron filings inside my hand as the door swung open. The lock was cracked and shattered beyond recognition, and a small patch of rust had formed where the bolt held tightly to the frame. I quickly got in and shut the door behind me. I groped around the shelves until I felt a large volume and extracted it. Holding it in place behind the door, I hoped the guard wouldn’t return and decide to lean against it.

  Once inside, I looked around. The familiar couches sat next to a fireplace that was now extinguished. I remembered those statues on the mantelpiece, little trinkets that had absolutely no significance before. Now, I recognized a were-tiger fang and a claw as long as a dagger which, according to Mephisto, belonged to a dangerous breed of demon known as asmodaii. I’d never heard anything official about them – maybe the asshole was just making stuff up to scare me.

  The right side of the room was veiled in darkness. I remembered the half-empty bookshelves and a single bench with a few ingredients, but if memory served me well, it was mostly barren. So, why did I feel an urge to inch closer and closer?

  I walked toward the darkened corner, deviating from my path only to find a switch and flick it. Dim lights came on, shedding the darkness, and there I saw a black lacquered coffin, emblazoned with sigils. The coffin I saw in my vision.

  I stared at it, my heart thumping so hard it hammered against my throat. My mother’s coffin. Was she inside?

  I traced the lid of the coffin, looking for something to hold onto and pry it open with. I dug my fingers into it and lifted. The coffin didn’t budge an inch. I found another place and tried again.

  No result.

  I kept circling around, throwing all of my strength into it, magically enhanced or not, but the coffin seemed to weigh a ton. Flustered, I let go, puffing hard and taking a few steps backward. I felt something against my hip, and heard the telltale sounds of something toppling over and hitting the ground. There was no crash, only the ruffling of pages and a small thunk of wood hitting wooden floors. I thought I had knocked over one of the many books and candleholders lying around the place, when I heard someone yell out.

  “Hey, dumbass, watch where you’re going. I was just getting to the good part.”

  23

  The knife was in my hands in seconds, and for a tense moment, all I heard was the flick of the blade snapping in place and my heartbeat drumming against my ears.

  “Who’s there?” I whispered hoarsely, immediately going into a fighting stance with the knife close to me for defense.

  “Over here,” said the voice.

  I looked in the direction where I thought the voice came from. The coffin was now behind me, and I stared at a corner where one half-stocked bookshelf met another. On the ground were a few books, one of which I recognized as Romeo and Juliet. A wide barstool rolled lazily against the wooden floor. Beside it were two candle holders with pieces of blackened wax adhering to them and a life-sized wooden statue of a cat, now lying on its side.

  “Down here, dumbass.”

  I inched closer to the bookshelves and crouched down. Maybe there was one of those fairytale imps or pixies in here, even though Mephisto said that those were just imaginary creatures. And after facing real monsters, the supernatural stops being an Enid Blyton short story and becomes more Lovecraftian.

  Or maybe the voice was coming from the books. But books couldn’t talk, could they?

  “Oh, man, you blind or something? Down here,” said the voice, irritated. I scanned the floor and lightly poked the statue of the cat.

  “Erm, hi?” I lifted the statue upright.

  “Took you long enough,” it said.

  I nearly dropped it.

  “Jeez, man, get a grip,” it said. “You play around with a coffin all night, but when the cat talks, it’s freaky? The hell you doing in here anyway?”

  “What are you?” I asked, holding the statue at arm’s length.

  “You must be one of them slow kids, right? I’m a talking statue of a cat. Get over it.”

  “What are you doing in my Dad’s office?”

  “That crazy son of a bitch is your old man? Dude, I am so sorry for you.”

  I stood and placed the cat on the barstool I picked up. “What do you know about Dad?”

  “He’s your father, ain’t he? Ask him.”

  “We’re more what you call a dysfunctional family.”

  “Oh, man, I feel you. I got three assholes for brothers and none of ‘em are animal statues. I think.”

  “What are you?” I asked again. This statue was seriously freaking me out, but I just couldn’t get enough of it. I’ve seen some weird stuff in my life, but bonding over family matters with a wooden carving certainly takes the cake.

  “Better you don’t know, kid. Not that I could tell you anyway. But I will tell you this — your old man is insane,” it said.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered.

  “No, kid, you ain’t hearin’ me. I mean, really insane. Talking all the time about hidden gods and power sour
ces and sacrificing children. Oh, wait, if you’re his child that means he wants to sacrifice you.” The statue paused. “Nice meetin’ ya kid.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I growled.

  “Well, you got spirit. But he’s out of his damn mind. I mean, he’s even got some poor chick trapped inside that coffin.”

  I snapped my head back. Trapped? Did that mean she could be still alive?

  Was my mother alive?

  “How do I get the coffin open?” I snapped at the cat.

  “Dude, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She ain’t pretty. All dead and stuff.”

  A part of me died when he said she was dead. I let my hopes rise to fast. But still, she deserved a proper burial, at least.

  “She’s my mother.” The words rolled heavily off my lips.

  “Ah, man, you mean to tell me he’s got his own lover in there and plans to kill his kids? That SOB is all kinds of evil.”

  “Just tell me how to open the coffin,” I said savagely as I grabbed the statue and stood.

  “Hey, man, calm your ass down,” replied the cat. “You see that on top of the coffin?”

  I looked at the coffin. A strange blade pierced was embedded deeply inside of it and only a ring-shaped cross-guard and the handle were visible. I recognized that design — it was the sword my father used to stab Gil and me.

  “You gotta get that thing outta the coffin,” continued the cat.

  “How do I do that?”

  “Are you really dumb, man? You’ve never watched any of that King Arthur shit? Same way you pull any sword, man: grab the handle and yank it. I mean, how old are you, fourteen, fifteen? I really shouldn’t be explaining the whole yanking process to you.”

  I placed the cat down.

  “Wait, wait,” I heard it call. “There’s something inside the sword, so you gotta battle it. In your head, I mean. You gotta mentally whip it.”