Old Beginnings (The Forgotten Slayer Book 1)

by Alix Marsh

  So, there had been an old man. An out-of-town senile relative of some or other family who’d mistaken him for someone else. Heck, maybe there’d even been that stupid poem he’d been made to repeat.

  His face screwed up as he tried to remember the words…something about a pledge, of his blood? His honour? No, definitely blood…and maybe honour, and something about him being bound to a house. No, not just a house, a house with a weird name he couldn’t recall, not even when he stopped walking and closed his eyes and tried to recreate the moment inside his head.

  Flynn shook his head and continued walking. But he couldn’t shake off another possibility. If there had been a man, where was he now? What if I did stab him? What if I…I…I hid the body?

  He shook his head more furiously.

  No way.

  Never.

  Not even with a weather-induced lobotomy.

  Every step he took, however, churned his stomach a little more. Dread, guilt and fear. Way worse than the time he’d almost cheated and ended up running to the cloakroom just before the test to puke up his guilt and flush the crib notes scribbled on a tissue down the toilet. This churning in his stomach was really bad, the kind of bad that couldn’t be puked up or flushed away.

  Nan must have been looking out for him from the sitting room window, because she opened the door as soon as he came up the path. Her long white hair was curled into its usual bun, a plaid shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Well, well, and let’s take a look at you,” said Nan proudly, holding her arms out. Her beaming smile wrinkled all the way to crease at her eyes. “You’re grown into a right young man. Happy birthday, my Flynn.”

  Smiling sheepishly, Flynn slowed his step and walked into Nan’s hug. Everything was fine. Normal. Nan wouldn’t be smiling at him, hugging him and smelling like freshly baked cake if it wasn’t. “Hi, Nan. I’ve missed you.”

  “Och, and I you, my boy,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. “And I you. I was just telling your—och, what is that?” She drew back a little, her gaze dropping to the left-hand side panel of his blazer.

  Flynn shrugged all the way out of her arms. “It’s um…just a stick I picked up with this really cool shape.”

  “Flynn!”

  His mom’s voice pulled Nan’s scrutiny from him.

  Still dressed in her work clothes, a navy skirt and jacket with a pale pink blouse beneath, she closed the front door behind her with a soft click and stepped around Nan. “Where have you been? I thought you were coming directly home.”

  “I did,” Flynn protested.

  “You’re two hours late,” she murmured as she fiddled with his collar and dusted down his blazer.

  He’d lost two hours? Huddled under the tree?

  Flynn drew in a breath. Perfect! The lightning had knocked him out cold, which was why he hadn’t seen the old man leave. He’d been having the most bizarre nightmare of his life while the man had left, untouched, unharmed and, most importantly, very much alive.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Mom said. “They want to talk—”

  “Mom!” Flynn ducked to the side when she actually licked her fingers and attempted to slick down his hair.

  Her eyes narrowed on the slash in his trousers. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Flynn, honestly, of all the days to—” She threw her hands up. “Maybe we can slip you upstairs to change without them seeing.”

  “For goodness sake, Lauren,” Nan scoffed. “They’ve already accepted the boy. Too late now to decide he’s too ragged for the likes of them.”

  Mom came down to his level. “You’ve been offered a place at Victor Grey Academy,” she said reverently. Her eyes lit up. “Isn’t that marvellous?”

  “Victor Grey Academy?” Flynn squinted at her, but she didn’t look as if she’d also been struck by the recent lightning bolt. “Someone’s having you on, mom.”

  “I called the headmaster and checked their credentials,” she told him, trying again to slick down his hair. “You know the Crowley family donated the manor house and all that land for the school? Well, apparently the descendants have always held special privileges and a seat on the committee.”

  She clapped her hands together on a proud smile and rose to her full height. “Mrs. Crowley believes you show exceptional promise, Flynn. She’s offered you a full scholarship!”

  “She can’t do that.” Flynn gulped. The old bat must have seen him in her hedge after all, and now she was using her connections to get him sent away. What was the Academy anyway? The Crowley family’s personal detention centre for anyone who bothered them? He should have suspected the Academy long ago, given that no one ever saw the kids. They were probably kept locked up in padded cells.

  “But she has,” exclaimed Mom, totally not understanding.

  “You can’t make me go.” He gave Nan a pleading look. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “If he doesn’t want to go, Lauren...”

  “Not now, mammy. This is a fantastic opportunity.”

  “For you or him?”

  Mom put her hands on her hips and glared at Nan. “You’re not helping.”

  Nan met her glare head on. “Maybe the boy doesn’t want to leave all his friends behind and start new at some wishy washy posh school.”

  “Our previous Foreign Secretary graduated from Victor Grey!”

  “Poor sod’s dead now,” said Nan. “Didn’t last six months in office.”

  Mom was not put off. “It’s a well known fact that a number of high profile leaders of our country attended the academy in their youth.”

  “And since when does rumour mean fact?” quipped Nan.

  Mom huffed.

  Nan puffed.

  Flynn didn’t say a word, thinking Nan was doing a fine job on his behalf.

  After another minute of glaring and huffing, Mom relented and turned her eyes on him. “Just go in there and hear what those fine men have to say about Victor Grey Academy, okay? We’ll talk about it later when your father gets home.”

  Flynn nodded and followed his mom inside. Nan said she was in need of a long, long walk and if she wasn’t back within half an hour, Mom should probably call the emergency services.

  “Parents,” muttered Mom.

  Flynn thought it wise to not comment.

  The two men waiting on the sofa rose as soon as they saw Flynn.

  “Master Heath, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said the tall one, coming forward to shake his hand. He was bald, with a nose that dominated his clean-shaven face, and dressed in white from top to toe. His linen suit hung off his thin body like a slightly-used napkin. “I’m Mr. Rook and this is—” He dropped Flynn’s hand and the second man took over.

  “Mr. Bishop.”

  “Um, hi.” Flynn pulled his hand free when the man kept shaking vigorously.

  Mr. Bishop was also bald on top, but he had an orange beard that reached halfway down his chest as if to mock the sombre black jacket, black trousers and black shirt. He was as short and rotund as the other man was long and thin, and exactly the same height as Flynn, exactly five foot four. Flynn knew, because he measured himself every morning in the hope that the growth spurt his dad kept promising had arrived during the night.

  Flynn sneaked a look at his mom. She had a silly grin on her face and didn’t seem at all concerned that one or both of these odd men might end up being his teacher.

  “Mrs. Heath,” said Mr. Bishop, “would it be convenient for us to have a word alone with your son?”

  “Yes, yes of course. I should probably go and find my mother before she walks all the way back to Scotland anyway.” Mom turned to him. “Ellie’s upstairs doing her homework and I’ll just be down the street.”

  As soon as the front door closed behind her, Flynn blurted out, “If this is about Mrs. Crowley’s hedge, I swear it was an accident.”

  Mr. Bishop stroked his beard. “This has nothing to do with
Mrs. Crowley.”

  “Well, maybe a little.” Mr. Rook gave Flynn a serious look. “Your mother, um, well, she didn’t take well to our line of introduction. She became, um…”

  “I think the term you’re searching for is hysterical,” Mr. Bishop offered.

  “It was most unfortunate.”

  “Unusual.”

  Flynn’s gaze darted back and forth as the conversation bounced between the two men.

  “We had to mind-swipe her and start again.”

  “And the grandmother.”

  Mr. Rook smiled. “She wasn’t hysterical at all.”

  “Merely furious.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Flynn, backing away until he hit the sofa. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re the Keepers of The Book, of course,” Mr. Bishop said.

  “Mrs. Crowley does have ties to the school, naturally, but the scholarship was all our idea,” Mr. Rook explained. “Your mother seemed far more comfortable with that story than…” He raised a brow at Mr. Bishop.

  “Than the truth,” Mr. Bishop supplied.

  “Wh-what is…” Flynn cleared his throat and started again. His head was beginning to hurt. “What is the truth?”

  Mr. Rook shrugged, moving in Flynn’s direction. “We’re here to welcome you to Victor Grey Academy and oversee your official admission.” He reached inside his jacket for a small notepad, no bigger than his palm. A silver fountain pen appeared in his other hand. He held both out to Flynn. “Your signature, please.”

  “I’m just a kid.” Flynn shoved his hands in his pockets, eyeing the notepad suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be asking my mom for that?”

  “Old enough to pledge, old enough to…” Mr. Rook gave another shrug, as if the rest was self-explanatory.

  It wasn’t.

  “Old enough to what?” Flynn’s gaze flew to Mr. Bishop. “What else did you tell my mom that you’re not telling me now? What are you talking about? And what pledge?”

  Unfortunately, knowing the answer to his last question didn’t make him feel any better. He should have guessed these men were somehow related to his nightmare. The steel blade wedged inside his blazer wasn’t helping either. His stomach was churning again and his head pounded.

  “You claimed your Darswich,” said Mr. Rook.

  Mr. Bishop stroked his beard. “Your sworn oath.”

  “You bound your blood to the power of your ancestors.”

  “Okay, okay, the pledge,” Flynn muttered. “Is that what freaked my mom out?”

  “Goodness, no, we never got that far.” Mr. Bishop shuddered. “All I said was Victor Grey was the finest demon slayer academy in the country and she—”

  “The only demon slayer academy in the country,” interrupted Mr. Rook.

  Mr. Bishop shot him a look. “That doesn’t mean it’s not the finest.”

  Mr. Rook conceded with a shrug and turned his pale blue eyes back on Flynn.

  Right about then, Flynn’s head caught up to the details.

  “Demon academy?” he shouted hoarsely. It was a good thing he’d already backed into the sofa, because he didn’t have far to go when his knees buckled. He ended up perched on the arm of the sofa, his mouth hanging open.

  “Demon slayer academy,” Mr. Rook said. “There’s a fine distinction.”

  “Demon’s don’t have academies,” Mr. Bishop said. “At least, none that I’ve heard of.”

  “SHUT UP!”

  Mr. Rook’s expression pinched. “Master Heath,” he said in a quiet, disapproving tone, “we don’t tolerate that kind of insubordination from our pupils.”

  Flynn swallowed hard. He was scared, out of his mind petrified. But he was also angry and right now the anger was winning. This was his birthday. He was supposed to be sitting in the kitchen with Nan, licking the icing off his cake and opening presents. And then he was supposed to go to the cinema with his friends, eat popcorn and try to keep Rose and Toby off each other’s throats. Instead he got monsters and disappearing old men and demon slayer academies and a jewelled dagger that burned as cold as ice straight through his shirt to scorch his skin.

  “Then you’ll be happy to know I’m not going to be one of your pupils.” Flynn pushed off the sofa, standing on suddenly firm legs. “I’m not going to sign that admission form and I’m not going to attend Victor Grey Academy.”

  A deep red flushed Mr. Bishop’s round cheeks. “You don’t mean that.”

  “You have no choice,” Mr. Rook said with absolute authority.

  “What are you going to do?” Flynn glared at them defiantly. “Cuff me and drag me off?”

  As soon as he said that, he blanched. If these men knew about the pledge, then they knew about the old man.

  “You misunderstand.” Mr. Rook frowned at him. “You are a demon slayer, Master Heath. In some instances, home education is an option, but your family is clearly in no position to provide you with the proper training.”

  “We cannot force you to attend the Academy,” Mr. Bishop clarified. “But if you insist on remaining ignorant and untrained, you and your family will suffer for it.”

  “You’re not the first young slayer brought in from the cold, but you are the most poorly informed I’ve ever come across.” Mr. Rook made a disapproving noise. “The pledge is not a matter to be taken lightly. Whomever bound your oath should be held to account. There are protocols that must be adhered to—”

  “Then undo it,” Flynn demanded.

  He didn’t know if he was understanding correctly. That the old man had forced him to pledge his soul to some demon world—no, it was more like he’d pledged his life to slaying demons in this world. He didn’t know how much he believed of anything.

  Did demons even exist?

  This morning, he wouldn’t even have had to think about it. Now, it was time to admit there’d been no nightmare. Things were happening, things he didn’t fully understand, things he didn’t fully believe possible, things he wanted no part of.

  “Undo the pledge,” he said again, scowling from the one man to the other.

  Mr. Bishop blinked in rapid succession. “That isn’t possible.”

  Mr. Rook nodded. “The Touch of Zeus cannot be undone.”

  “You’re a demon slayer now—”

  “Whether you want to be or not, you are on the demon radar. If nothing else, you need to be trained in protection and defence, Master Heath, or you and your entire family will be vulnerable.”

  “It’s inescapable.”

  “An untrained slayer—”

  “—is a dead slayer.”

  “Your duty is now to the honour of your kin.”

  “With the responsibility comes great reward.” Mr. Bishop smiled kindly.

  Mr. Rook’s face remained sober as he held out the notepad and pen again. “The choice is yours, but as I said, you really have no choice.”

  Flynn’s head spun with a thousand varieties of dire consequences, mostly scenes from supernatural television shows and zombie movies. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that signing that form, committing himself to attend the Academy, would make it all real when it didn’t have to be.

  Mr. Bishop came closer, rubbing his hands down the length of his black suit jacket. “Who did you take the pledge with, Master Heath?”

  Flynn bit down on his lip. But it was no use. There was nothing left to pretend. It was all real and he couldn’t hide from the truth anymore. He couldn’t hide what he might have done.

  “There was an old man,” he told them.

  Mr. Bishop have him an expectant look. “His name?”

  Flynn shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Rook. “We’ll track him down.”

  Flynn almost said nothing. Almost. He lowered his gaze to the carpet, grimacing. “He’s dead.” And he almost left it there. But again, he couldn’t live with the uncertainty, with the guilt. “I think… I might have killed him.”

  A weight rolled off his shoul
ders with the confession and he knew he’d done the right thing.

  “We do not kill humans, Master Heath.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” Flynn looked up into the cool, pale blue eyes of Mr. Rook. “It was an accident.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “I know.” Flynn felt as if his entire body was deflating. “Could… Could we wait for my mom before you call the police?”

  “There’s no need to involve the authorities in Academy affairs,” Mr. Rook said sharply.

  “We’ll send our own clean-up crew in.” Mr. Bishop started pacing, pulling a cell phone from his inner jacket pocket. “Where’s the body?”

  Flynn just stared at them.

  “Master Heath?” Mr. Bishop stopped his pacing in front of Flynn. “The body?”

  “Gone.” Flynn sucked in a deep breath. “I made that stupid pledge and there was this lightning bolt and when I looked again, the old man was gone and there was a creature in his place. A monster. I mean, I know the monster was just in my head, but I stabbed it and then…and then I blacked out and when I came around, there was nothing. No man and no monster.”

  It was the men’s turn to stare. Mr. Rook’s expression tightened with every second until his eyes were slits.

  Mr. Bishop’s jaw went slack, giving him a double chin that wobbled slightly. “You killed a demon?”

  “Impossible,” snapped Mr. Rook.

  “Untrained and ignorant,” said Mr. Bishop, “but he is a slayer and neither is it the most impossible event that has unfolded today, now is it?”

  Mr. Rook glared at his colleague. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Yes, yes of course.” Mr. Bishop gave a small cough, then turned his smiling, warm brown eyes on Flynn. “Regardless, Master Heath, whatever you killed doesn’t appear to be human. Quite a relief, I’ll say that much. Humans mean a lot more paperwork and general unpleasantness.”

  For the first time since meeting these two men, Flynn was hearing something he could like. “That old man wasn’t a person?”

  “Well, he would have had to be, wouldn’t he?”

  “A relative of yours, surely.”

  “But it was the creature you stabbed, and the man who took your pledge was most certainly not a demon or a creature,” Mr. Rook informed him with the conviction of a high court judge absolving the defendant of all and any crime.