Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire) (36 page)

“To where?”

“To where?” Boeman snapped. “To the
World Next Door, Simon. Shining, glorious Algul, across
the black emptiness above the sky. Our ancient lands beyond the Moat of empty space, to the glorious Empire above the stars.” Incandescent green flickered across Boeman’s eyes. “Tonight we welcome back into this world the darkest and most powerful of the Old Ones, those who seized our world from the cosmic dust and forged it anew, from empty rock and space they created our world,
this world,
the Crucible of the Sun. Your precious Greencloaks speak only of the kingdom of Par Adhara and their dead city of
Thule
, but there was another kingdom, a glorious kingdom--
Par Jabbah, the Empire of the Shroud
! We know of them only in the whispers of ancient shadows, hidden in terrible nightmares that seize us as we drift through restless sleep. The first men of this miserable little world called them monsters, beings older than Life and more terrible than Death, but they are not monsters. Tonight, we reopen the last remaining bridge to their world. We will open the way to the Shrouded Ones of Par Jabbah--the first
true
masters of magic in all the cosmos, worn from time and more powerful than anything you have ever seen. Across the Moat they will come back to this world.” He closed his eyes in reverence, throwing his arms open wide. “Darrow has foreseen this in his Waking Sleep. The
Timeworn
will come. They will be our blessed way to salvation!”

Simon listened carefully, backing away slowly, hoping to disappear into the dark, but Boeman’s eyes opened and locked onto him.

“Stupid boy!” Boeman howled. He reached out his hand, and with it came an unyielding force against Simon, like glaciers, bidding him to hold still. He fell awkwardly to the ground, his body locked solid. He struggled against Boeman’s will until his blood almost ignited from the effort. White-hot agony seared through his temples, and slowly he could move his fingers, and draw a fist. It was a start, a small one to be sure, but a start nonetheless.

Boeman was on him now, his gangly form looming over Simon, his thin arms hanging like branches of a dead tree. “
Obey
,” he commanded, his eyes and hands focused on Simon. His eyes flickered green one last time, then the emerald energy died away, leaving only bone white eyes. His pupils were gone. “
Obey and become as you were always meant to become. Obey, and feel the cold embrace of the Dark Old Ones, the Ones who Conquered Thule...
”

Darkness swam swiftly over Simon, choking him, filling his lungs with ice water. Everything around him grew dim, and his vision began to blur. In the void that filled his head, shapes began to move: odd, unfamiliar forms that erupted, slithered violently, flowing into every corner of his mind, washing over him. It was exhausting. His blood which had burned so hot a moment ago ebbed with cold, and a blizzard of pain dragged over him as his ears filled with a low, continuous humming. Dizziness boiled in him, and his stomach ached and spun as the forms continued their assault from within, vague shadows folding and bending into long arms, and emerald eyes exploded into being all around him. The coldness grew. It was numbing, almost enough to push back all the dizziness and the pain, and Simon welcomed it. In the space of a heartbeat, a way to escape had blossomed within: the coldness, the chilled path of the grave. In that instant he welcomed it, welcomed the release it meant, welcomed the escape from all the agony and the pain. He would give in. He would not fight. The shadows pressed down on him harder, the coldness deepening, beckoning him with its ink black promise of relief.
Almost
he thought.
Almost free
.

The icy waters rose up to him, the same he felt when he almost drowned at the spillway. He wondered idly if this was how it would have felt if Sam hadn’t pulled him from the water and breathed life back into him while Molly and Zoey stood by, both of them crying.

Sam.

Molly.

Zoey.

The thought of losing them strangled him, and somewhere deep down, far in the very recesses of his heart, he felt something odd. Some wall inside him began to crack, and finally, excruciatingly, painfully, it broke.

Electricity sizzled inside Simon, burning deep within. An explosion happened, a passionate swell of
feeling
erupted inside him, filling him, warming him. The ink black promise of relief retreated, fleeing in the rush of adrenaline and heat. His blood pumped furiously, pushing white-hot fire through him again. His muscles relaxed. His bones unfroze.

He could lift his head. He looked at Boeman, and his blood running hot in his ears, his eyes, his tongue. He looked down. Both of his hands glowed a deep,jack-o’-lantern orange.
Focus
he told himself.
Sam. Molly. Zoey.
He drew his feet up under him and pushed himself up. He locked eyes on Boeman and clenched his fists. “No,” he said in between deep
breaths
.
“I. WILL. NOT.
OBEY
.”

Boeman’s upper lip curled back, revealing his perfect, bone-white teeth. His eyes flicked to the shadows, where Streaker stood at the very edge of the circle of stones. “Get him,” he hissed.

Streaker did not move.

“I SAID GET HIM!” Boeman raged, and Streaker looked at him, a look like liquid hell pooling in its incandescent green eyes. Still, the beast did not move.

Greenish white wildfire erupted in Boeman’s eyes. Enraged he lunged forward, seizing Simon by his shoulders. The whites of his eyes grew cloudy and misty, overtaken by tiny storm clouds that tumbled and erupted with a silent, electric green fury. “You will obey!” he screamed. His voice became rhythmic. “
In judgement poor, in haste a trade--free from deceit a deal was made...
”

The pumpkin-glow under Simon’s skin blazed white-hot as a wave of heat erupted from him. Boeman flew back, his hands sizzling as small wisps of smoke rose from him. “The ember...” he said slowly. He chuckled. “Limnic, you funny, funny old man.” His face contorted with amusement and disgust as his eyes settled back down to their same steely gray calm as before.

Simon looked at his hands, glowing with the same familiar orange-red light, the bones from his fingers easily visible. Comprehension came painfully slow. He had absorbed the ember.

Boeman sneered at Simon. “You little
pawn
. Just so willing to accept gifts from strangers.” Another green flicker sparked through his eyes and died. He seemed unable to maintain it. “What would your dear uncle say?”

Simon locked eyes with Boeman. “Release him.” he said, trying to sound as strong as possible.

“No doing,” Boeman said, almost casually. “Nothing’s ever free. His deal was made, and his debt is mine to collect.” He chuckled. “You know this. In your heart you know I have a claim. Look at you. There is nothing you can do.”

“He’s right,” said the Other Voice.

Simon looked down. The glow was fading from his hands, the fire in his blood suddenly burned off. He was without options, it would seem. He closed his eyes, already dreading what he was about to say.

“Yes, there is.” The words were sticky in his mouth. He took a moment to steady the sickness in his stomach. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
Almost there
, he thought. “You release Sam and I will take his place. Heart, mind, body, soul. Everything. Release him, and I will become your thrall.”

Boeman stared at him, the laughter dying on his face. He stared a long, hard moment, then a roaring laugh erupted from him, scraping across the lines of his bony, gray face. He covered his face with one hand, trying and mostly failing to compose himself. Outside the stone circle, Streaker growled again. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, still chuckling. “Oh that’s noble, very noble, but very, very foolish. I’m sorry, Ember Boy, but that’s just not enough.” The last of the laughter died. “I’m afraid that you offer really just isn’t up to trade...
yet
.”

Simon stared at the looming obelisk and the open receptacle in the obsidian base. An idea flickered in his mind. “You need what’s in there, don’t you? Your
master
wants it, yeah?”

The last shred of Boeman’s smile faded.. “I yield to Darrow’s commands, for now. Yes, he desires it, and so do I.”

“Release Sam and I’ll open it for you willingly,” he said. “You need my help, don’t you? You can’t take it yourself, that much is obvious, or you would have already. Let’s make that deal then. My willing help for Sam’s freedom. Is that trade enough?”

“I didn’t always need help,” Boeman snarled, surprisingly defensive. He gazed at Streaker. “If I could, I would have broken down the Maddening Wall and come here already, and you and your whole stupid, traitorous family would have been a pile of ash long ago.”

“Then let me,” Simon said, thrusting out his hand, the ember glowed brightly, but this time it did not hurt.

“Oh, now it’s
let you
?” Boeman smiled again, a long, horrible grin. “Tell me this, Simon. Why would I
let
you, when I can
make
you?” Boeman’s eyes suddenly flushed with white mist again as he flashed his palm at Simon.

Agony
. A terrible phantom weight crushed down on Simon’s neck and shoulders, his bones feeling like they would crack at any instant from the strain. Boeman snarled at him. “Pain is a great motivator, better than any other. Dread is a powerful motivator, but pain--true torture--that’s how you
really
get things done.” Outside the circle of stones, Streaker began to pace, faster now, furious. He barked and snapped his jaws, his eyes an emerald hell burning bright in the darkness.

Simon moved his mouth, but no noise would come. He could not move, could not scream, his own thoughts becoming lost in the loud humming that now seemed to come from the obelisk, seemed to fill his mind. Boeman gestured like a phantom puppeteer plucking invisible strings, and Simon watched in horror as his hand lifted on its own. He could only watch as his palm was sliced open, cut by an invisible knife, and the blood flowed freely down his arm. Unwillingly he approached the obelisk. Boeman gestured again, and Simon lifted his hand and reached out to the black needle in front of him. All the while the humming filled his ears, his mind, until it left him hollowed out, as hollow as the empty receptacle in the stone.

Boeman silently brought agony to Simon’s legs, while the ember roared within him, causing flames to lick at his insides, charring his bones--and yet, he could not resist. He was trapped between agony and hell. He was not strong enough to resist, and he knew that he had no real choice. He understood now.
Obey and suffer
, no matter what.

With a harsh cry he plunged his hand into the obelisk.

Nothing.

The pain washed away while Simon stood there with his fist plunged deep into the obelisk. The pain seeped away, then all sensation followed. All emotions and feelings inside him drifting away until he felt nothing. If he could have been scared again, then fear would have seized him in that moment, held him down, and choked the life from him, but he couldn’t feel anything, so he stood there, as numb as the stone.

The humming in his mind died away too, flowing out just as easily as it had flowed in. He was fixated on the silver leaf, ever glowing in the moonlight, and he grew calm, his eyes drifting out of focus as he settled deep into the bluish white glow of the symbol.

Streaker snapped his jaws again, another low growl starting to turn over.

“Patience,” Boeman said the hound. “Give him a moment. The blood must flow.”

The stone suddenly felt very cool around his fist. Whatever was going to happen had begun. He could move his fingers if he wanted to, but he did not dare, for fear something would snap them off. He had no trouble holding still. Slowly he was overcome with tranquil thoughts and feelings, and he soon found himself completely transfixed by the leaf symbol.

Streaker paced back and forth outside the circle of stones while Boeman was just inside of it, his tall, skeletal frame standing to the left of the looming monolith. His lips moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, and Simon only dimly realized he was chanting. Boeman’s hands were stretched out before him, his fingers slowly flexing open and closed as he spoke the incantation. “
Apple of a fallen man, broken hearth, and bone. A knife that cuts the darkness, a blade that’s never honed
...”

Something rustled in the trees behind him. Footsteps. Simon craned his neck to see three figures approaching, moving quickly through the trees. They paused for only a moment at the hole in the wall of statues before crossing, the three of them jumping quickly through the gap and moving away just as fast. A small flash of silver light marked their crossing.

Boeman’s eyes were wide open, bone-blank as the figures drew closer. Even Streaker failed to notice as the figures approached. It was only when the figures had moved fully into the moonlight that the hound finally took notice, his head swiveling around, his burning emerald eyes focused very suddenly on the trio of dark figures as they stood at the tree line.