Will Wilder

by Raymond Arroyo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Raymond Arroyo

  Cover art copyright © 2016 by Jeff Nentrup

  Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Antonio Javier Caparo

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Arroyo, Raymond.

  The relic of Perilous Falls / Raymond Arroyo. — First edition.

  pages cm. — (Will Wilder ; [1])

  Summary: “A thrill-seeking twelve-year-old boy with a mysterious family heritage who discovers ancient objects of rare power—and must protect them from the terrifying demons who will do anything to possess them” —Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-0-553-53959-2 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-553-53960-8 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-553-53961-5 (ebook)

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Relics—Fiction. 3. Supernatural—Fiction. 4. Families—Fiction. 5. Prophecies—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.A74352Re 2016 [Fic]—dc23 2015006124

  eBook ISBN 9780553539615

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  ep

  To the Arroyo children:

  Alexander, Lorenzo, and Mariella, who first heard the tale

  Detail left

  Detail right

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Prologue: The Courtyard of Hell

  Chapter 1: A Ride in the Yard

  Chapter 2: Punishment

  Chapter 3: Twelve Trees

  Chapter 4: Captain Nep Balor

  Chapter 5: Trouble in the Den

  Chapter 6: Another Crackpot Scheme

  Chapter 7: Entering the Undercroft

  Chapter 8: Bottom Dwellers and Deep Water

  Chapter 9: The Fiery Trial

  Chapter 10: The Relic

  Chapter 11: The Evil Eye

  Chapter 12: Elijah’s Mantle

  Chapter 13: The Book of Prophecy

  Chapter 14: Dismal Shoals

  Chapter 15: Repelling Leviathan

  Chapter 16: The Summoner

  Chapter 17: The Sarcopha-Bus

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  If that the heavens do not their visible spirits

  Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,

  It will come,

  Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

  Like monsters of the deep.

  —William Shakespeare, King Lear

  Ortona, Italy

  December 20, 1943

  Nazi bombs hurled half the dome of the Basilica di San Tommaso Apostolo to its marbled floor, exposing a smoke-filled night sky. Even the stars failed to pierce the darkness hanging over the church. Shattered marble and brick, busted statues, and splintered chairs rose on all sides like ugly snowdrifts. A biting cold filled the dilapidated church. Aside from the dust, the only thing moving among the rubble was a darting figure.

  A young man, trailed by shadows, scaled a ruined wall that had once served as the cathedral’s entrance. He moved with speed and precision. He wore the green uniform of an American soldier and a round brimmed helmet on his head. Reaching the top of the debris, he lay flat, studying the chalky pit before him.

  For the last three hours he had fought through the narrow streets of Ortona, desperate to reach the bombed-out church. An elite team of German paratroopers—“The Green Devils”—had taken control of the town days earlier. Crawling on his belly for much of the journey, the soldier painstakingly advanced block by terrible block, alone. Each time he dashed into the open, Nazi snipers fired from multiple positions. He was quick, but there were few places to hide.

  Crumbled buildings blocked alleys, and clouds of debris made a clear view of the church all but impossible. Lifeless bodies filled the cobblestone streets. The soldier pressed a sleeve to his nose throughout the journey to block out the unbearable stench. The closer he got to the church, the worse the smell. At least it was a familiar scent. Like rotting fish, it had always been the first sign for him—the sign of what was to come.

  The American soldier had reached the town with the First Canadian Infantry Division after being separated from his platoon in Sicily a week earlier. But his Canadian allies knew nothing of his personal mission: to get inside the Basilica of St. Thomas the Apostle in Ortona before it was too late. Now he finally rested on its ruins.

  From the canvas satchel on his back he drew a flashlight, aiming its beam at the wrecked high altar below. Chunks of the ceiling had smashed the main altar in two, so the top stone now formed a dilapidated V. He jerked a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose. The stink was intensifying. With his free hand he pulled a pair of gloves and a velvet pouch from the satchel. Then he made his move.

  Silently, the soldier leapt down the hill of debris and turned sharply to the left, crouching between a huge piece of the roof and the altar. With the flashlight he studied the damaged marble.

  The front of the altar had shattered, exposing a shiny gold casket. The soldier carefully freed the bent chest from the broken stone. On the lid was a delicate painting of St. Thomas the Apostle, his hand raised in a blessing. The soldier removed his scuffed pith helmet, ran a hand through his thick black hair, and pressed his ear to the top of the chest. He balanced the flashlight on the edge of the container, the light catching his sharp cheekbones and wild green eyes. Slipping a knife blade into the keyhole on the front of the box, he waited to hear a familiar click. After a few attempts the lock gave way and he pried open the centuries-old, warped golden lid.

  “AH-CHOO!” The soldier’s sneeze echoed through the church. Outside, cannon fire and gunfire lit up the night sky in bursts. He dimmed the flashlight and spun his head around. Peering into the darkness, he searched for the thing he could feel approaching. But he saw nothing. Remaining stone still, he desperately tried to hold back another sneeze.

  “AH-CHOO!”

  He had to be quick. One of them, maybe more, was near. Opening the golden casket, the soldier, wearing cotton gloves, lifted out the bones of the Apostle Thomas. First the skull, then the ribs, arm bones, pieces of the legs, and finally the remains of the hands—one of which had touched the side of Jesus. He placed each relic in the velvet sack, then bundled the sacred load into his satchel.

  “Herr Jacob Wilder,” a gravelly, pinched voice called out from above.

  Startled, the soldier tilted his flashlight upward. Blocking a statue of Jesus, a six-foot-tall Nazi officer in a long black leather coat straddled the broken altar stone. His skin had a yellowish tint. A trail of dried blood started at a wound on the left side of his face and ran down into a burgundy-stained collar. Dust covered his head and clothing.

  The stench nauseated Jacob Wilder.

  “I will not hurt you, Jacob. The Brethren told me I would find you here,” the Nazi wheezed in accented English. “Have you got them all?”

  Jacob Wilder secured his satchel and yanked the gloves from his hands, saying nothing. He palmed the pith
helmet, placing it on his head as he stood.

  “I am here to assist,” the Nazi hissed, jumping down from the altar. “The Brethren asked me to ensure your safe passage out of the city. Do you have the bones?”

  “Your name?” Wilder demanded in a low, firm voice, pulling the brim of his helmet low. He backed up a few feet, as if preparing for a fight. “What is your name?”

  The Nazi clacked his tongue as if chastising the American for lacking manners. “Captain Gerhold Metzger of the SS,” he said stiffly. “I am a collaborator with the brothers at Montecassino,” he whispered. The officer smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

  Wilder pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling a sneeze. “Your name, beast?”

  “I told you: Metzger,” the Nazi gasped, stumbling toward the young soldier. “It is imperative that we see the bones.” His eyes darted from side to side. “The skeleton in your bag could be the bones of a pious monk or some beggar with no family. How do you know they belong to the apostle? Let us have a look for confirmation’s sake.”

  “Quiet!” Wilder said evenly. “Give me your name—now.”

  “It is hard to know what is true. If you believe those to be the actual bones of Thomas the Apostle, let us see them,” the Nazi pressed, choking on every word. “A bright young man like you already knows the truth. Would a saint allow this to happen to his shrine?” The Nazi released a guttural laugh, his arms jerkily indicating the wreckage surrounding them.

  As if wielding a weapon, Jacob Wilder raised a small vial filled with clear liquid and splashed it across the front of the Nazi. “Reveal your name, serpent! Come out of him!”

  The officer quaked and grimaced, madly attempting to scrub away the fluid streaking down his face and uniform. His whole body trembled. Then, as if he were a balloon suddenly drained of air, the Nazi crumpled to the ground. In his place stood a pale young man with long, gleaming white hair, a suit nearly as white as his skin, and yellowed eyes. His elongated, bloodless fingers were adorned with diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies.

  “Your name?” Jacob Wilder said forcefully.

  “Must we?” the silky voice, neither male nor female, responded. “The name will do you no good.” Then his expression changed to shock. “You can see me?” the creature muttered with some worry. He waved a jeweled hand in the air and began to squeal, “You see me!”

  “The black aura around your disguise gave you away. Humans don’t have those. You’re a liar and the father of lies.”

  The demon smirked and casually looked down on the deflated Nazi officer. “Is there nowhere for us to rest our weary head? Poor fellow died three days ago. It seemed the ideal time to raise him again. Well, you work with what you have.” He glanced up at Jacob and hovered in his direction. “Young Wilder, you have strengths and gifts. A Seer, are we? How nice.”

  Wilder said nothing. He looked down at the demon’s startlingly white suit, seemingly lit from within. The color was consistent except for the lower part of the pants, which were streaked with dirt and blood. Sharp animal hooves peeked from beneath the cuffs, where feet should have been.

  “Your gifts are extraordinary—and look how the Brethren use you. They’ve made you a common thief, sent to loot the spoils of others!” the demon jeered. He shook a lengthy finger in Jacob’s face. “Stealing is still a sin, you know.”

  The soldier remained silent.

  “Why so quiet, Wilder? Your dear brothers lack our special gifts. They see nothing. Oh, they play at their rituals, but we have powers they’ll never understand. Why are you not the leader of the Brethren? I could help you become leader. They would all follow you instead of that bearded fool….” The demon’s yellow eyes flashed. “You question Abbot Anthony the Wise, don’t you?”

  Jacob’s face flushed. “That is what you say.” He looked straight ahead, not at the demon.

  “Of course you question Anthony….Look where his leadership has gotten you. The world your Brethren created lies in ashes. Their prophecy has failed. The Sinestri have risen, and we are conquering the world. Sieg Heil! Jacob, we are here for you now. Let us see the trinkets in your bag.”

  Jacob Wilder extended his flat hands in front of him, touching his thumbs and index fingers together in the form of a triangle. He inhaled deeply.

  “Your fortress in America burns, even at this moment,” the demon whispered soothingly. “There is nothing to return home to, Wilder. Gathering the bones of the dead won’t help you now. But as leader you could rebuild something new—”

  A red flash lit up the remaining walls of the Basilica of St. Thomas the Apostle for several seconds. Two Nazi artillerymen noticed the strange light from their second-story window a block away from the church.

  “Is that a flare?” a short soldier holding his rifle out the window asked his superior.

  Lifting a pair of binoculars to his eyes, a young bony officer scanned the edges of the church. He struggled to see by the flashing cannon fire. “There is a man running on that wall. Shoot!” the officer screamed.

  Looking through the scope of his weapon, the sharpshooter saw nothing. Each time an explosion lit up the scene, there was only debris.

  “Sir, if someone was there, he is gone,” the short soldier said, lowering his rifle. “Or maybe it was only a shadow.”

  “It was a man, I tell you,” the officer said, falling into a nearby chair and rubbing his eyes. “He had a light-colored helmet—not like the Canadians. I saw him!”

  “Could have been a statue in the church,” the sharpshooter replied, unconcerned.

  “No. This was no statue.”

  “On late watches, sir, the eyes can play tricks on us.”

  “His hands were glowing,” the officer sputtered like a scared child. “The man’s hands were red—and they were glowing!”

  All Will Wilder meant to do was ride the donkey at his eight-year-old brother’s backyard birthday party. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone, he didn’t mean to unlock his destiny, and he certainly didn’t mean to see the shadows. But that is exactly what happened. Life often came at Will while he was focused on something else.

  Since Will was twelve and nearly five feet tall, his parents thought he had outgrown riding the donkey they had rented for his brother Leo’s birthday.

  “Aren’t you a little old for a donkey ride, Will? It’s for the kids. C’mon,” Deborah Wilder said, playfully mussing his spiky black hair in their sweltering backyard. She had a thin face like Will’s, full lips, and blue-purple eyes that even the hardest of hearts could not resist for long. It was no wonder her TV show, Supernatural Secrets, had so many fans. “You’re getting so big, the donkey could ride you! Why don’t you and your friends go finish that catapult thing you’ve been working on?” She gave him a quick one-armed hug and made her way back toward the party guests.

  “Mom, please, just one time around the yard—or maybe down the block,” Will begged.

  “No, you’ll kill it, you big ox!” she said over her shoulder with a smirk. Deborah swept back her straight brown hair and bent down to fix Will’s six-year-old sister Marin’s pink dress.

  “So now donkey rides have age restrictions?” Will yelled after her. “I didn’t know that, Mom! Is there a height limit too?” But Deborah Wilder paid him no attention. She had already mingled back into the crush of family, children, and neighbors in the fun part of the yard.

  Marin stuck her tiny pink tongue out at Will, both hands on her hips. “Follow the rules, mithter. Follow the rules,” she scolded with a lisp before cartwheeling away.

  Sulking in defeat, Will shuffled back toward his three friends, two boys and a girl, who were watching closely from the fence at the rear of the yard. Since when am I too big? Will believed he had at least another year, maybe two, before he would officially outgrow amusements like donkey rides. He knew he had to let them go eventually. But not now—especially when money and prestige were on the line.

  “Strike one, Will-man,” Andrew Stout, a massive kid with blaz
ing red hair, and one of Will’s closest friends, bellowed. “Where’s my five dollars?”

  “I’m not finished yet,” Will said.

  “Oh, no. You’re finished. I said you couldn’t get on the donkey, and you ain’t on the donkey. So pay up. If you want to try again, it’ll be double or nothing.”

  “Can we check the law on this?” interrupted a rail-thin boy with eyes that looked like black BBs behind his rectangular glasses. Simon Blabbingdale lightly poked Andrew’s side with one of the thick paperbacks he always seemed to be carrying. “Is it legal for Sheriff Stout’s adolescent son to bet on ponies at a birthday party?” Simon unleashed a series of high-pitched snorts, which he considered laughter. Nobody joined him. Simon and Will had been friends since the first grade. When no one in the cafeteria would sit next to the scrawny, curly-haired kid with glasses, Will did.

  “Can it, Simon.” Andrew flicked the paperback from his ribs and focused on Will. “We made a deal, Will-man, so pay up. I need the money for our trip.” The big kid extended his open palm.

  The Wilders had invited Andrew and Simon to join them in Florida at the National Pee-Wee Karate Championships. Leo, an accomplished brown belt, was to compete at the tournament in two weeks’ time. Will and his friends would tag along for moral support and hit a few amusement parks between matches.

  “What if I told you that I just came up with a new way to get on the donkey?” Will mysteriously threw out, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Let’s see it. Double or nothing,” Andrew said.

  Camilla Meriwether, a girl with wide green eyes, a long chestnut-colored ponytail, and braces, rapped her knuckles on the fence behind her. “Guys. Can we please try to act a little more mature? I mean, it’s embarrassing. If Will’s parents don’t want him riding the donkey, why can’t we just have some cake and enjoy the party?”