Magickeepers: The Eternal Hourglass (12 page)

“Dad, it's all real. I wouldn’t have believed it but…”

“Now I know why none of my tricks have worked since she died.”

Nick struggled to think of something to say, something to make his dad less sad. “I promise to learn everything I can, Dad. Then…then I’ll have a magic act. We can work together.”

His father smiled slightly and put a hand on each of Nick's shoulders. “All right, then. One day, we’ll work together. Now, look in the shopping bag. We never got to pick out your birthday present.”

Nick grinned, hoping it was what he thought it was.

He ripped aside tissue paper, and sure enough, it was his dream skateboard, with a wider seven-ply deck and a skull and crossbones on it. “Thanks!” Nick said. He already imagined riding on it in the basement of the hotel.

“It's the one you wanted, right?”

“The exact one.”

“Enjoy it, then. In the meantime, your mother used to have this Russian saying, ‘Eat what is cooked; listen to what is said.’”

“What? So that's how she got through eating Russian food?”

His dad laughed. “I think so. But remember to listen. And stay safe. I’ll come see you on opening night.”

“How did you know?”

And then Nick saw it. Rising two stories high at the other end of the lobby was the poster for the new show. Damian, of course, was front and center, staring out over all who entered the hotel's opulent lobby. Next to him was a white tiger; on the other side, a huge polar bear. And behind Damian on the poster, stood a horse, a rider on its back.

A young Damian.

Nick.

R
EMEMBER HOW I SAID YOU WERE ON AN ACCELERATED training schedule?” Theo asked. He peered over his glasses as Nick painstakingly wrote the Cyrillic alphabet while his hedgehog looked on, bored.

“Yeah,” Nick murmured.

“Good. Because you and Boris have
sword fighting
at one o’clock.”

“Huh?” Nick looked up. “That's really funny, because I thought I heard you say sword fighting at one.”

“I did. And look, it's one o’clock now.” As if on cue, an enormous cuckoo clock's hands clicked to one o’clock. A door opened, and a strange-looking bird popped out and said, “One o’clock.” It ruffled its feathers, which were ebony and shiny and gleamed with a purplish sheen, then preened
them some more. Finally, it looked down from the wall and screeched, “Nick! It's one o’clock on the dot. Get moving!” It squawked once more and disappeared behind the doors of the clock again.

“All right!” Nick snapped. “Fine. I’ll get going. But who's Boris?”

“I am,” said a deep voice from the doorway, which seemed to be blocked, casting the room into dimness. Nick turned around, and there stood the biggest man he had ever seen, with layers of muscle on layers of muscle and a shiny bald head—with eyes the same color as his own. Make that eye. His left eye had a black eye patch over it like a pirate, and an angry scar ran down his face. Boris looked like he could crush Nick between his thumb and index finger.

“Great,” Nick said. He glanced at Theo, stood, and followed Boris out into the hall. They walked down to the very far end, and Boris spoke to the door—this one heavy and wooden, like from some medieval dungeon. It swung open, and Nick found himself in a huge room with wooden floors covered in mats, and walls lined with strange costumes, swords, and plates of armor.

Boris gestured for Nick to stand in the middle of the room. He sized him up and then pointed at a sword. It flew across the room, its tip pointed right at Nick. He screamed and ducked. The sword fell clattering to the ground.

“Are you crazy?” Nick screamed. “No, make that, is
everyone
here crazy? Are they? You could have killed me.”

“No. I am finding a sword for you. Hold still!” At that, Boris pulled Nick back up to a standing position. “Hold still. You think I would risk harming a hair on your head? This is the only way.”

Boris began signaling at other swords, which flew toward Nick. They sliced through the air, making a faint whistling sound. Each one poised in the air, hovering, before crashing to the floor. Finally, only one sword remained on the wall. Boris gestured to it.

The sword flew through the air and circled Nick several times, before swooping down and placing its hilt gently into Nick's hand.

Nick held it up. The hilt was encrusted with three red rubies. “It's heavy,” Nick observed.

“Sure. Of course. You expect it to be plastic?” Boris snorted. He raised his hands and all the other swords rose from the floor and flew back to their rightful places on the wall.

“Now, we fight.”

Boris took off his white shirt, revealing a muscle shirt beneath that only served to show off his immense biceps. They looked like the boughs of a sturdy tree.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No.”

“You’ll pulverize me.”

Boris's sword flew to him from the wall, and Boris wrapped a thick, meaty hand around it. “We do not fight. Our swords do.” Boris let go of his hilt and the sword stayed suspended in midair, almost gracefully, as if it were as light as a feather. Nick let go of his sword, and it crashed to the ground.

“No!” Boris said. “You must take this seriously.”

Nick sighed. “You have shiny metal swords flying at me. You think I’m not going to take this seriously?”

“Concentrate. Close your eyes.”

“If I close my eyes, how can I see where your sword is? How do I know you won’t just chop my head off with one of these swords?”

“Silly young cousin, if I wanted to kill you, I already would have. You are like a little fly I can swat.”

“That makes me feel
so
much better. We’re cousins, too?”

“Yes.”

Nick looked up at Boris. The scar ran down his face from beneath the eye patch almost to his neck. It was purplish and red, and it looked like whatever Boris's long-ago wound was, it was deep. Whoever got him with the sword…Nick shuddered to think of what was under that patch.

Boris snapped his fingers, and a black satin scarf appeared in his hand. “All right. You won’t close your eyes, so we do it this way.” He stood behind Nick and roughly blindfolded him.

With his eyes covered, Nick's mind flashed. He staggered back a foot or two, heart pounding. He could see the swords in his mind. Now he struggled to feel his sword. As if, somehow, he could stretch his hand, invisibly, to the hilt, and control it.

Nick could hear the two swords colliding in midair. He united with the sword in his mind, until he flashed on it being forged. He saw the sword's maker. He looked Japanese, wearing flowing white robes, with a Japanese-style house in the distance surrounded by cherry blossom trees.

Nick felt heat, as if he were next to the anvil and the fire. He was far away—and yet he was still in the room with Boris.

Boris untied his blindfold, but Nick didn’t lose his concentration.

“You may look now,” Boris said.

Nick opened his eyes. The swords were fighting in midair, striking each other with such intensity that sparks flew from their blades and fell to the ground.

Boris waved his hand, and the two swords separated. Nick's flew to his side.

Boris took the hilt of Nick's sword. “Give me your palm.”

“Why?”

“This is your sword, Nicholai. It cannot harm you. ” He took the end of the sword and pressed it against the fleshy part of the heel of Nick's hand. Nothing happened. No cut. No blood.

But Nick knew the sword could slice through anything. It could find its mark, itst target. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

“Wow.”

“You take the sword. It will defend you. But just as Theo trains you with your crystal ball, the sword must be wielded with an open heart, never for personal gain, nor for simple revenge. Only to save your life or the lives of your loved ones if under attack. If not, the blade could cut you. Do you understand, Kolya?”

Nick nodded.

“Good.”

Boris bowed to Nick.

Nick bowed back. He took his sword, which still emanated heat.

Okay, so there weren’t cheeseburgers, he hated fish eggs, and Shadowkeepers wanted to kill him—but the sword stuff was cool.

B
ACK IN HIS ROOM, NICK LOOKED AROUND FOR SOMEPLACE to store his sword. As if it had read his mind, the sword flew from his hand to the wall, hanging there perfectly though nothing held it up but magic. Nick smiled. The sword made the last few days worth it. Almost.

His crystal ball sat on its pedestal on the dresser. Feeling silly, he did what Theo had taught him. He approached the ball and rubbed his hands on it, familiarizing himself with his crystal ball. Theo said it was how the ball would “imprint” on Nick. It was how relics and magic worked in their world. Objects bonded to the magicians they were destined to serve.

Suddenly, the ball grew hazy, filling with a bluish smoke. Nick waited for the smoke to clear away. He heard someone coughing, and Crazy Sergei appeared inside, waving his hands.

“Hey, Nick!” He coughed. “I hate the blue smoke.” He coughed again. “Smells like pickled herring.”

“What are you doing in my crystal ball?”

“You happy with your horse?”

Nick shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, now that Irina calmed him down. I could have been killed climbing on him at first. Between swords, the horse, and nearly drowning, so far being around you people has been pretty dangerous.”

“But for a chance to learn Damian's secrets? It's the chance any Magickeeper in the entire world would kill for.”

Nick gulped. Maybe that was what he feared. He didn’t want to learn things magicians would kill for.

“Listen, I have a good deal on a brown bear. From circus. He already dances on a ball. Good trick. I think you will like him.”

“I can’t have a pet bear, Sergei. That's Isabella's area, not mine.”

“But it's a
steal.
For you, cheap. He's very tame. He could be like roommate. Keep you company.”

Nick shook his head. “Ask Damian.”

“I can’t. Damian hates me.”

“But he bought my horse from you.”

“Only because I am the last dealer of the Akhal-Teke. Please. Talk to him. The bear is adorable. Very smart. He can count to four. You say, ‘Bear, count to four,’ and it claps paws four times. Charming.”

The image of Sergei was replaced by a brown bear dancing on a red ball in a Russian circus, judging by the lettering.

“No, Sergei.”

“Okay. I come back later.”

Nick couldn’t help smiling. He turned away, but the key burned against his chest. He turned back and saw a frightening man in the crystal ball. His eyes were like Nick's, but they had no reason behind them, just pure insanity. They stared so intensely that Nick shivered, overcome by a sudden chill.

Nick walked closer to his ball, afraid to lean too close. It was the man from the tree—the charred part. It was Rasputin.

“Privet
, Nicholai Rostov.”

Nick had learned that what sounded like “privet” meant “hello.” It was actually
—and he was so sick of learning Russian that it made his head hurt.

“Privet,” Nick said, fear tingling through him like electricity. Nick wished he had an off switch. He just wanted to turn off the crystal ball entirely. He didn’t want to be a Gazer. He had thought he did when it might tell him the future and make him rich. But not this. Not Rasputin. Nick shut his eyes, thinking that might make the face inside his crystal ball go away. But his mind flashed on him anyway—those insane eyes filling up his mind like a bad dream. It would be no use to run away. Rasputin would come to him in his head.