Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2)

by Lesley Woodral

  Brandon laughed again. "I'm gonna tell her you said that, Albert. That'll make her smile."

  If Albert blushed any harder, his face was going to catch fire. Desperate to change the subject, he pretended to just notice the record in Brandon's hand. "Sweet! DARK SIDE OF THE MOON!"

  The two boys had the shop to themselves, except for the girl working the counter. She looked to be only a few years older than themselves, very pretty, with hair too black to be anything but dyed. Of course, the light purple highlights gave that away. She sat with her feet up on the counter, watching a little flat screen TV bolted to the wall, every so often casting surreptitious glances in their direction.

  Brandon didn't hold her watchfulness against her. It was a music store and they were teenage boys. It didn't take a stretch of the imagination to think that shoplifting wasn't far from their young minds. The store was something of a rarity in Brandon’s opinion, not just selling music, but also comics and other geek specific odds and ends. Brandon put the record down and asked Albert. "So, are you going to the costume ball on Halloween?"

  Albert shrugged and picked up an old Blues CD. He said. "I haven't decided yet. Not sure what I'd even dress up as if I did go. Are you and Claire dressing up?"

  "Sure." Brandon picked out an IN THIS MOMENT and a JOHNNY CASH CD and went to the counter. The girl took the CDs, ringing them up, and glanced at Albert before smiling at Brandon.

  "Find everything okay?" Her voice was husky and appealing and older than her face. Up close, he had to reevaluate his earlier estimate of her age. She was older than he thought. Maybe early twenties? But still very fetching.

  "Sure." Brandon said, his gaze drawn to the tattoos on the girl's arms. He couldn't make out all of her ink, but it was impressive. Not quite full sleeves, but close. He said, trying to sound cool and nonchalant. "Nice tats."

  She caught his eye and her lips curled into a coy smile. "Aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?"

  Albert snorted back a laugh and even Brandon chuckled. "It's not like that." He said. "I've got a girlfriend."

  The clerk arched a pierced eyebrow at him and her smile became mischievous. "Me too."

  Flustered, Brandon looked for an easy way out of the awkward turn the transaction had taken and noticed her name tag. He said. "Your name is Tuesday?"

  Bagging his music, she handed it over and said. "Nah, I just have a name tag for every day of the week."

  He blinked at her. "But it's not Tuesday?"

  The girl was still laughing as Brandon followed Albert out of the store. Albert was laughing, about to comment on Brandon's way with girls, when there was a familiar ugly chuckle behind them. They turned, neither one surprised to see the Kruegers. The twin uglies stood side by side, blocking the sidewalk and staring at Brandon with undisguised hate. Luke spared a withering glance for Albert before saying. "What are you sissies doing?"

  Perry snickered and said. "Probably looking for someplace to make out."

  Brandon put an hand on Albert's shoulder and pushed him to the rear, placing himself between the bullies and the smaller boy. He stared down the Kruegers. "Are we seriously doing this again?" He spoke calmly, mentally preparing himself to fight. "It seems like beating up the two of you is becoming a full time job."

  Perry glared at him. "You think you're pretty funny, don't you, orphan boy? You won't get to use any of your fancy tricks this time." He took a step forward and Brandon set himself to defend, but the moment was shattered by the blare of a car horn as a Lincoln jerked to a stop on the curb beside them. The door crashed open and a bigger uglier version of the Kruegers heaved himself out. The man's cheeks were mottled red with rage and partially blocked arteries. He said. "You boys just break it the hell up, right now." He jabbed two meaty fingers at the twins. "In the car. Right now!"

  Luke and Perry gave Brandon and Albert matching resentful glares, before doing as ordered. Brandon was about to thank the man, who looked too much like the twins to be anybody other than their father, when the big man turned and shoved a finger at Brandon's chest. He snarled. "I don't want to hear it, punk! You're damn lucky I didn't call the police after your last stunt. You broke both their goddamn noses, you little shithead. You're friggin’ lucky I don't rearrange you're face for it."

  "Sir..." Brandon tried to get a word in, but he was cut off by another jab of that meaty finger.

  "I said I don't wanna hear it, punk!" His face twisted with a hate very much like that of his sons. "I don't give one teeny tiny shit about your dead parents or who your uncle is, so just save your sob stories for somebody who does. If you mess with my boys again, I won't bother with the police. I'll be the one knocking on your front door." With a last hateful look, he stomped back to his car and threw himself inside, already yelling at the twins in the back seat.

  Brandon watched the car leave, his stomach soured with pent up rage.

  "That guy was a dick." Albert said softly. He flashed Brandon a nervous smile. "It's no wonder the Kruegers are the way they are."

  "Yeah," Brandon said. "No wonder."

  Emily was sitting up in bed, watching TV, when Claire pushed open the door after giving it a soft rap with her knuckle. "Knock knock?" She said, smiling to see her friend up and around. Emily's face was still a mess of stitches and fading bruises but she looked oh so much better than the last time Claire visited.

  Emily knew enough now not to try and smile with the stitches in her lips, but her eyes were warm with welcome. Her voice was a whisper, but Claire had no trouble hearing. "Hey, Claire Bear."

  Claire eased onto the bed, placing her bag between them, and began taking out bundles of homework. Emily's books, as well as a big bouquet of flowers sat on the little roll around night stand. There were dozens of floral arrangements spread around the hospital room. Emily was a popular girl at school, more so than Claire, and she had lots of friends. That got her some perks from the nurses on her floor, including her private room and more flexible visiting hours.

  It also didn't hurt that Claire's dad worked at the hospital or that he was even more well liked than Emily.

  As a rule, Claire didn't condone nepotism, in any of its myriad forms, but she would make an exception for Emily. Claire said. "All your class work is here. At first, nobody was going to send anything."

  Emily gave her a questioning look.

  Claire placed a hand on Emily's and smiled. "I'm pretty sure every one of your teachers is ready to pass you with an A, no questions asked. But when I told them how bored you were getting, they completely understood. So they piled it on." She looked at the not inconsiderable stack of homework and chewed at her lower lip. "They might've overdone it a bit."

  Emily laughed. It was so soft a whisper that she might have been sighing, but Claire knew a laugh when she heard one. She pretended not to notice. It was the first time Emily had laughed since the night at the mill. She'd told the police that she didn't remember anything of what happened and that was partly true.

  But Claire knew better. She'd held her more than once as she sobbed and raged over what had happened. Not just what had happened to her at the hands of the boy she loved. But also over losing him. As bad as he was, she had still loved him. Sure, it was a twisted sort of love, a dependency that made her ashamed of herself, but it still felt like love. And nobody could fight love.

  Not for long. And not without tearing away pieces of their own soul in the process.

  Claire had visited Emily every day since the night at the mill. She couldn't forgive herself for not getting there in time to protect her friend. None of it should have happened. None of it should have been possible. Not in the real world.

  Her mind veered dangerously towards a dark place that she didn't dare travel along. A place full of teeth and the stink of wild things in the shadows.

  A place of monsters.

  Emily must've sensed something of her thoughts, because her expression became somber again. When she spoke, she nearly sounded like her old self. "How's Bran?" Thoug
h it hurt her to talk out loud, she did so. She loved Claire enough to ignore the pain.

  Claire gave Emily her brightest fake smile. She felt that her voice had never sounded so high and happy. So naturally exuberant! "Bran's great! He sends his love and promises to come see you soon."

  Emily laughed again, wincing a little as she did it. "You're a pretty shitty liar, you know that?" She leaned back against her pillows and sighed. Claire cleared everything from the bed and stretched out beside her, getting as comfortable as you could get while sharing a tiny hospital bed. Claire watched the silent TV for a moment, gathering her thoughts before speaking. Emily didn't press, she knew Claire too well to do that.

  Claire finally said. "I'm scared for him, Em." The words felt brittle, hard, not what she'd intended to say at all. "He acts like it's his responsibility to save everybody. He blames himself every time somebody goes missing. Whenever something bad happens and he isn't there to stop it."

  Emily cradled Claire's head against her breast, running her fingers through her silky blonde hair. Her voice was soft, thoughtful, as she said. "Then we just have to show him that he isn't alone. That shouldn't be too hard."

  "Oh, no. Not at all." Claire said, layering her voice with sarcasm, but gently. She sighed. And, suddenly, she understood Emily better. Emily loved her. Truly loved her. Not just as a sister and best friend, but also as a fellow survivor of the terrors they had faced. And would face again. "You're a warrior at heart, Emily." The words felt strange as they tumbled forth, coming from someplace within, from some deep and true fountain of knowledge that her mind had brushed up against.

  Intuition, she told herself, trying to rationalize the words still slipping out of her mouth. "In time, you'll move past the darkness, leading others to the light with your strength and grace. You will save lives, Emily. You will save souls." The words stopped coming and Claire swallowed hard. She hadn't intended to say any of those things, but she knew that every word was true. She knew it with every fiber of her being, to her very bones.

  Emily's hand had stopped stroking Claire's hair and she looked up to find her friend staring down at her in wonder. Tears were drying on her cheeks, but she was smiling. Even with the yellowing bruises and her broken lips, maybe even because of them, it was the most beautiful smile Claire had ever seen. Full of love and strength and something new. A steely determination that took Emily's shattered beauty and turned it into something grander. Something almost angelic. Emily said. "You're awesome, Claire."

  And the spell was broken. Both girls began to giggle and soon they were once again a pair of teenage girls. Resilient and tough, as all teenagers tended to be.

  CHAPTER 6

  Brandon and Albert were walking to school, having just left The Coffee Nook, when Brandon noticed something in the dusty window of Goldman's Antique and Curiosity Shop. He stopped walking, staring at the handful of items on display with a hollow feeling in his chest. The old Tiffany lamp and worn old pitcher's mitt held no interest for him. Forgotten relics of somebody else's past. Nothing to do with him.

  But the hardcover book with his father's name on it was something else. It was THE MURDER HOUSE, his father's debut novel. A paper placard next to the book proclaimed. "Signed copy! Limited Edition!"

  Albert continued walking a few steps before realizing that Brandon was no longer beside him. Pivoting on his heel, the smaller boy came back and stood with Brandon, staring into the dusty window. "Wow." His voice was hushed. He didn't seem to know what else to say.

  Brandon didn't slow to think about what he was doing as he stepped toward the shop door, but Albert tried to stop him. "We're already late, Bran. If we're too tardy, we could get detention. They might even call our parents." Realizing exactly what he just said, Albert winced. "I'm sorry, Bran, I just mean we can get into a lot of trouble. We should go."

  But Brandon paid his friend no mind. Still looking at the book in the window, he reached for the door. "You go ahead, Albert. I'll catch up." He went inside the store.

  Albert stood there for a long time, his face expressionless as he stared at the closed door and the darkness beyond the dusty glass. Then he turned and walked away.

  The inside of Goldman's Antiques and Curiosity Shop was dim, forcing Brandon to pause as he allowed his eyes to adjust, and not so dusty as the display window had led him to believe. Standing silent sentry at the front entrance was a suit of armor unlike anything Brandon had ever seen in history books. Painted a dull green, it was made up of a series of overlapping plates, shaped to resemble scales. Massive spikes on the shoulders, elbows, and knees gave it a demonic appearance. The helm resembled an open mouthed bullfrog. It should have looked comical, but its bulging eyes and gaping mouth were terrifying. It brought forth faint memories of his dreams of his grandfather. The bullfrog armor was similar to the armor worn by the General that he saw die in his dreams.

  Stepping beyond the silent guardian, Brandon moved out of the vestibule's shadow and into the warm glow of a desk lamp. The lamp sat on the edge of a tall center counter, behind which sat an old man, watching Brandon as he entered the store. He was easily the oldest person Brandon had ever seen up close, his wrinkled skin as fine as parchment and his white hair standing in an almost comical tuft on the top of his mostly bald head. But his gaze was hawk like in its intensity as he studied his visitor. Brandon felt himself measured and weighed by that icy glare, but couldn't guess at what value the old man put in what he saw.

  "May I help you, young man?" The tone was clipped, cool to the point of rudeness, but it didn't put Brandon off. Instead, for no reason that Brandon could fathom, the sound of the old man's voice reminded him of his father. It somehow made him feel safe. It was something like the magic surrounding Highgarden, but even stronger.

  Brandon said. "You knew my father, didn't you?" He wanted the words back as soon as they tumbled from his mouth. He had no idea what made him ask such a question of a stranger. A man he'd never met before. The old man couldn't possibly know who Brandon was talking about. He didn't even know who Brandon was. Just a crazy kid, poking around in his shop when he should've been at school instead.

  The old man laughed, a soft snort of amused surprise, and rested both hands on the counter before him. He smiled as he said. "I knew your father well, Bran. I dare say, I knew him better than you ever did. Or ever will." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Tapping the end of his nose with a slender finger, he said. "But you still haven't answered my first question, boy? How may I help you?"

  Brandon struggled to respond, to order his thoughts which had scattered like a child's Legos kicked across the bedroom floor. The old man's words had knocked open the locked door to the room in his mind where he'd so carefully locked away all of his memories of his mother and father. He'd hidden them away in a tiny chamber, much easier to cope with all of the other horrors around him if he didn't have to keep remembering that they were dead and gone, but the door was open and he was terrified to realize just how much of them he'd kept hidden away.

  A flood of memories, images and sounds and smells, seemed to attack him all at once. His dad, teaching him how to swim in their pool back home. His mom, helping him with his homework, even as she prepared dinner. The way his dad would take off his glasses and polish them while giving one of his many lectures about all the opportunities that Brandon had that he never did as a boy. The touch of his mom's fingers as she adjusted the collar of his shirt before letting him leave for school.

  So many memories. Good and bad. A flood that was impossible to stop once freed from their prison. Turning away, Brandon dipped his head in an attempt to hide the sudden tears. He said, his voice rough with emotion. "How did you know my dad? Who the hell are you?"

  "Can you not read, boy?" The old man gestured toward the front of the store, at the reversed letters in the front window. "My name is Goldman. You are standing in my store, my repository for all that is weird and terrible. And sometimes wonderful." He narrowed one eye at Brandon and waggled
a long finger at his face. "And, as to your first question, I knew your father when he wasn't much older than you are now, when he first came to Matheson. A strange quiet young man. A man with secrets, much like yourself."

  Brandon grunted and wiped at his face as he turned and asked. "What secrets are you talking about?"

  Goldman blinked at Brandon and said. "We all have secrets, do we not? Those secrets are his. As mine belong to me." His smile was sly and far too knowing. "And yours to you."

  "Stop talking in riddles, Mr. Goldman." Brandon said. "What do you know of my family and our secrets?"

  "My friends call me Arch. My father is Mr. Goldman and always will be." He surprised Brandon by rising and offering his hand.

  Brandon shook the man's hand, surprised by the strength of the old man's grip. He was suddenly ashamed of his harsh tone. "I'm--I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice like that, Mr. Gold--Arch, I mean."

  Arch waved away the apology, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. "I knew your father, as I said, and you are much like him. You have the same passion. The same temper, as well."

  Brandon looked around the shop, his eyes lighting upon the book in the display window. He asked. "If you and my dad were so close, why weren't you at the funeral?"

  "I am an old man, Bran." Arch made a small gesture, giving a sad shake to his head. He said. "I wish I could've undertaken the journey in person, but know that I was there in spirit. Your father never strayed far from my thoughts, even after he left Matheson behind." He shook his head again. "Stephen was a good man. A good friend. The world became a far darker place with his passing."

  Brandon said. "Can you tell me about him? There's so much I never knew about him? About his time in Matheson, when he was my age? What was he like? How did he come here?"

  Arch shrugged. "As I said. He was a quiet boy. Always studying the world around him, as if trying to memorize everything he saw. Perhaps the writer in him was already gleaning what it could, to use in the fantastic stories that would come later? He was always quick to protect those weaker than himself, though I never saw him raise his hand in anger."