The Book of the King

by Chris Fabry

  The more Owen studied the room, the more convinced he became that this fire had been carried out with great precision. But why? To kill the man? Why would anyone want such a humble creature dead?

  The only other door in the room led to the closet, but Owen hesitated. He had to see what was inside, but he was afraid of what he might find. Could someone be waiting in there even now?

  Owen slowly turned the still-warm doorknob and opened the door slowly, causing it to creak. When he had it halfway open, he peered inside, only to jump when someone spoke.

  “Find anything?” Constance said.

  He whirled. “It hasn’t been anywhere near five minutes.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t have a watch and I count fast. What’s in here?”

  Owen found an old shoe box and a tattered coat. “I haven’t seen the book or any evidence of the man.”

  Constance dropped to her hands and knees near the dresser and examined it. “Sometimes there’s a hidden panel in these.”

  Owen rolled his eyes.

  A door banged below, and heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.

  Constance and Owen locked eyes.

  Every echoing footfall made Owen wonder whether it could be an officer coming for them, someone from one of their schools, or worse. Owen could hardly imagine anything worse than Constance’s school realizing they had a girl missing. Owen tried to hold his breath, desperate to not be heard gasping in the burned-out room.

  Had Owen been alone, he might have stayed glued to the floor. And had he been reading this story rather than living it, his eyes might not have moved past the last period of the previous chapter. But feeling responsible for Constance, and perhaps with a measure of confidence after what had happened at school, he sprang into action. He seized her hand and pulled her into the closet, leaving the door open an inch.

  The footsteps reached the landing, and someone with heavy boots stepped into the room.

  Owen leaned toward the opening and heard something heavy being dragged, like the chest of drawers being pulled away from the wall.

  Constance drew a breath as if to speak, but Owen clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Then silence.

  Had they made a noise? given themselves away?

  They did not have to wait long to find out and neither will you, for the closet door swept open, and through the haze and smoke and darkness, Owen found himself face-to-face with the stranger he had met at the bookstore.

  Constance screamed, and Owen drew her close, assuring her it was all right and not blaming her in the least for crying out at her first glimpse of the craggy face and long gray hair and white beard. As for Owen, a feeling of peace so real he could almost taste it washed over him. Here was the man he had been looking for, and he feared him no more than he feared Constance. It was as if Owen had returned from a long trip and found himself embraced by an entire village. Had you been able to see Owen’s expression at that moment, you would have seen his relief mixed with joy.

  The man recognized Owen immediately, of course, but looked at Constance quizzically. Then a smile of recognition passed over his face that made Owen wonder if he somehow knew her too.

  The man reached in and Constance screamed again, but he gave her what Owen could describe only as a reassuring look. He reached above them, pulled a coat from its blackened hanger, and laid it out on the floor.

  “Would you mind?” he said kindly, motioning the two aside. He pulled some kind of tape off the wall, under which he found a small lever. He tripped the lever to reveal a metal door, which he opened wide.

  The book!

  The man cradled it in his arms, then extended a hand to Constance. “You two shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous.”

  Constance said, “If you avoid the holes in the floor, it’s okay.”

  “I’m not talking about the house,” the man said. “I mean—”

  Suddenly overhead came a sound that made Owen think of a huge, thick sheet being unfurled in the sky. Or could it have been the flap of enormous wings?

  “Run!” the man shouted.

  Owen did not have to be told again.

  As they bolted from the room and to the stairs, the man pulled Constance while clutching the book to his chest, and another gigantic flap sent a pulse through the house. The whole world seemed engulfed in a shroud of black as deep as the night. More sounds now, guttural, chewing, crunching, like bones being ground to bits.

  Owen spotted a flash of red through the hole in the roof. An eye?

  “Don’t look!” the man yelled, grabbing Owen’s collar and yanking him down the stairs.

  A sharp intake of breath above, then a rattling cascade, as if someone with a mouthful of water tried to take a breath. A blast of fiery air threw Owen against the man, and they nearly tumbled down the steps. Red and orange flames burst through the hallway, engulfing the stairs and following them as they hurtled down.

  The man jumped to the landing, the book in one arm and Constance in the other, as a shape moved past a broken window.

  Owen crunched shards of glass underfoot as he caught sight of red eyes watching through the window.

  Several more huge flaps, then a gurgling and what sounded like a howl of victory.

  “Jump!” the man hollered.

  Owen leaped over the banister into the darkness, and his world switched to slow motion while he churned in midair. Behind him came a click-click-click, as if razor blades were being struck.

  Arms swinging, legs spinning, jacket swirling, Owen free-fell toward the first floor. The wall illuminated red, and Owen watched the man with Constance wrapped under his arm hit and smash through the floor, the wood cracking around them like an eggshell. The two plunged into the darkness, and Owen reached for anything that would stop him from doing the same.

  The air was sucked from the room, replaced with a raging inferno. The back of his neck sizzled, and he smelled burning hair as gravity pulled him toward the hole left by the stranger and Constance.

  Owen landed on his back in water in the basement, his shirt hissing and his hair smoking. He looked up to a flickering light and realized the floor above him was afire.

  The man pulled Owen up, and each took one of Constance’s hands. “This way,” the man said, and they sloshed through the water.

  “Do you have the book?” Owen yelled.

  “Don’t worry, Owen.”

  From behind them came a great splintering of wood and a roar as deafening as a lion’s and as piercing as a siren’s.

  The splintering became pounding, like someone driving a tractor down a flight of stairs. Chunks of wood shot through the basement, and a massive, scaly head poked through the floor, nearly reaching the water. But its body was trapped.

  “In here!” The man yanked open a small door and shoved Constance in, then crawled in beside her and reached for Owen.

  Owen heard gurgling and snorting behind him and dived in, slamming the door shut.

  Owen had always feared drowning and was even scared in the bathtub, but he now felt safer half submerged in a foot and a half of water than being grilled like a hot dog—or worse, devoured like one.

  When a stream of molten fire filled the room, the stranger said, “Down we go” and prostrated himself in the dirty, icy water.

  Constance immediately followed suit, and Owen had no choice either. Immediately the water temperature rose.

  Owen held his breath for what seemed an eternity, but as the fire retreated he raised his head, splashed water on the burning door, and kicked it open. He had to dive back in when another wave of flames shot toward them, closing the door just in time.

  After the stranger turned a crank on the back wall, a crude wooden elevator slowly descended. Fire blistered through cracks above them and dribbled atop the elevator. A great roar ripped through the basement, and water cascaded through the shaft.

  “He’s through the floor!” the man yelled. “Hold on!”

  He released the crank, and the elevator plunged
and crashed, breaking the door at the bottom. The man shoved Owen and Constance out as the pounding and splashing above them increased. They were just free of the elevator when it was consumed.

  “Keep moving!” the man said.

  “What is that thing?” Constance wailed, eyes wide.

  The man quickly examined the back of Owen’s head and his arm. He pulled a small vial from his pocket and applied ointment to burns on Owen’s arm and neck. “That, young lady, is your enemy. Our enemy. And he will stop at nothing until we’re dead.”

  “Why?” Constance said.

  “Later,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “How?” Owen said. “We can’t go back up.”

  “No, we won’t be going back that way.”

  “Then what way?” Owen said.

  The man grabbed a burlap sack, tucked the book inside, and said, “Follow me.”

  * * *

  A crowd had gathered outside the B and B, now shrouded in mist and darkness with flickers of light inside. They had heard the commotion and moved toward the yellow tape, only to be repelled by the thundering inside. Somehow the fire had ignited again, though firefighters had declared it extinguished.

  When the people heard roaring and crashing inside, they fell back and ran to their homes or any shelter they could find.

  After the oily black mist lifted, the yellow tape had melted into a mustardy line surrounding a smoldering shell. The tops of the trees had been burned, and the roof of the B and B lay level with the ground.

  Police and firefighters returned, speculating that a gas line must not have been capped. Investigators could not explain the slimy footprints in the bowels of the building or why sharp, pointed scales were embedded in some floorboards. More mysterious, no open gas line was ever found.

  * * *

  Owen feared the beast would follow them, but as they squeezed through a tiny opening and set out through a tunnel beneath the B and B, he knew the passageway would be too small for the creature.

  The man found a torch at a bend in the tunnel and illuminated a passage under the streets. Owen was stunned to notice the same strange striations in the rock that he had seen under the bookstore.

  After just a few minutes following the stranger, Owen and Constance emerged into a room where they sat on a cool stone bench to catch their breath.

  “So it wasn’t lightning that caused the fire,” Constance said. “It was that, that thing.”

  The man nodded. “I’ve eluded him for some time. His desire is to kill and destroy. And his desires rule him.” He turned to Owen. “I wish you had never seen him, but you handled yourself well in spite of your injury. How’s your foot?”

  Owen shrugged. “All right, I guess.” It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice of how to handle himself. He had simply run for his life.

  “Who are you?” Constance said. “What is your name?”

  The man smiled sadly. “I am called by many names. Some I would not repeat to one as young as you.” He gently patted the burlap sack. “I am a man devoted to this book, so I suppose in your world you could call me Mr. Page.”

  Owen recoiled. In our world?

  “Is that your real name?” Constance said.

  “My real name is unimportant. What is important is that you understand you are both—we are all—in grave danger. Owen, if I am right, it will take more courage than you can possibly imagine to make your world safe again.”

  “Me? I’m supposed to make it safe?”

  “The goal is not only safety but wholeness.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not sure I underst—”

  “In time,” Mr. Page said. “Time and this book will help you gain understanding. It will become clear; I promise you.” He stood. “Does any of this look familiar?”

  Owen wondered how much he should say in front of Constance. “Tunnels under the bookstore resemble this.”

  “Tunnels?” Constance said.

  “Take that one,” Mr. Page said, pointing. “It will lead you home. Be careful of the Slimesees, however. Stay clear of the water—for now.”

  “Slimesees?” Owen said.

  Mr. Page handed the burlap sack to Owen. “Guard this book with your life. If it were to fall into the hands of the evil one . . . It could take you a full day, maybe more, to get through.”

  “I’m a fast reader, but I think it will take me much longer than that.”

  Mr. Page smiled and cupped his hand around Owen’s chin. Owen had never felt such warmth and acceptance, and he nearly wept.

  The man turned to Constance. “As for you, my dear, much is planned as well. While your friend is gone, you must keep the veil tight about you.”

  “Owen is leaving?”

  “He will return. If I ask you to do something for him, would you do it?”

  Constance squinted. “I suppose I would. Did you say veil?”

  Mr. Page pulled her aside and whispered as Owen opened the sack. Seeing the book in the firelight made it even more wonderful than he remembered. He couldn’t wait to read it, eager to see what more lay inside its pages.

  We’re not leaving without you,” Constance said. “Where will you stay?”

  “We have a room at the back of the store,” Owen said. “Sleep with the old books tonight. My father doesn’t have to know.”

  Mr. Page’s face beamed. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t. It would put you in more danger.”

  “You can’t go,” Constance said. “I won’t let you.”

  He patted her head. “I’ll go as far as the bookstore with you, but I can’t stay.”

  “You can tell my mom what happened.”

  He knelt before Constance. “You mustn’t tell her about this. I know it seems cruel to make you keep this a secret, but I have my reasons.”

  Constance frowned. “She wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  Owen checked his watch and saw that Constance’s school was just letting out. Maybe they could get her back to her house without her mother suspecting anything. Of course, by now the school had likely informed her mother and a search party had been deployed.

  When they finally made it to the great room under the bookstore, Mr. Page stared at the massive table and chairs. “They’ve held meetings here, Owen. Discussing me. Discussing you.”

  “Why would they discuss Owen?” Constance said.

  “Yes,” Owen said. “Why would they? And who are they?”

  “All in time,” Mr. Page said. “You’d better get up there.”

  “What if there are people in the store?” Owen said. “What if my father is there?”

  The splash of water from the tunnel made his question moot.

  “About which are you more worried?” Mr. Page said. “People who might see you slip through the bookshelf or being devoured by a Slimesees? He hears us, and he’s coming.”

  The three raced up the stone stairs toward the bookcase. Owen was certain that if the Slimesees overtook them, he would target the youngest and weakest first. Though Owen had considered Constance a pest, he had to admit that her company, her questions, and her spirit had changed their search.

  Owen reached the top first and put his ear to the back of the bookshelf. Mr. Page lifted Constance just as the torches blew out.

  “Wh-wh-what’s a S-Slimesees, anyway?” Constance said.

  “A watcher for the other side. A guard of the portals. The invisibles can’t be everywhere at once, so they plant these poor creatures—”

  A snort and the sound of wet feet slapping the stairs came from below.

  Owen found the top torch and pulled. The bookcase moved, and a sliver of light invaded the stairway. Then the shelf stopped, as if snagged on something. The carpet! Owen stepped back and pushed Mr. Page and Constance through, then squeezed through himself.

  “Quick!” Owen whispered. “Pull Medusa’s head.”

  As Mr. Page reached for the bookend, Owen pulled the rug free and stared into the empty channel. There, crawling swiftly alo
ng the wall, came the monster with green eyes, gills at the side of a humanlike neck, and a mouth like a lizard’s with teeth and claws as long and sharp as stilettos. The thing had Owen in its sights, saliva dripping.

  The shelf began to close, and Owen stepped back.

  The Slimesees pulled his upper lip from his teeth and emitted a hideous growl, crawling to the ceiling, using the slime on its feet for traction.

  The door closed just as the Slimesees reached the bookshelf.

  Constance stood shivering with her singed and wet backpack still on. Mr. Page looked more ancient than ever, his gray hair and white beard making him appear even more ghostly.

  Owen turned slowly, praying no one saw them. Might there be customers reading in the chairs behind them, or would his father be holding a gun on Mr. Page?

  The room was dark, as was the rest of the store, but a figure lay on the floor, an arm crooked under his head. It was Karl, the man Owen had seen in the street a few nights before, the one who smelled of strong drink and wore ratty clothes.

  Karl squinted with one eye. “Never seen anything like that, Owen.”

  “Where’s my father?”

  “Been trying to stay out of his way. Snuck in here to rest while everybody else moved outside to stare at the sky. Something weird going on.”

  Mr. Page and Owen and Constance moved to the front window. People stood along the street gazing at the sky. Dark clouds churned and surrounded Tattered Treasures.

  When Owen spotted his father, he retreated, placing the burlap sack containing the book behind a shelf.

  “We need to get you home, young lady,” Mr. Page said.

  “I’ll take her,” Owen said. “If that thing is out there, he might be looking for you.”

  Mr. Page faced Owen. “You must understand that the fight has begun, and we cannot turn back the clock. What has started will be finished, but be certain of this: our fight is not against flesh and blood but against invisible powers that seek to take our very lives.”

  “And how did I get involved in this? Why me?”