Magickeepers: The Eternal Hourglass (16 page)

“Are you still afraid of him?”

She nodded.

“Even with Damian and Theo and the family around you?”

She nodded. “I have seen him with my own eyes, Nicholai. You must remember that I knew him. I have seen what he can do. He let my family be murdered in cold blood, Kolya. Be careful. And until you know what that key opens, that key around your neck that you think is so well hidden, don’t let it go for a minute. Not for one second. Wear it close.”

“I will, Grand Duchess.”

“You remind me of my little brother. If he had lived. Be careful, Kolya. I cannot bear to lose anyone I love again.”

He nodded, and then didn’t know whether to bow or give her a hug. He started to bow, but she grabbed his hand, and pulled him to her for a hug.

“Run along now, Kolya. You have to practice for the show. I will be in the balcony applauding on opening night.”

He nodded and walked to the door. He started to say good-bye, but he could see she was already lost in the snows of her childhood, gazing out the window and remembering her family.

T
HE NEXT DAY, BORIS TRIED TO TEACH NICK HOW TO control fire.

“Fire is an element. From the dawn of the Egyptians, magicians have been able to control fire. You simply let fire fly from your fingertips.”

Boris gestured with his hand and a huge burst of flames flew from his fingers to the opposite wall. “When you start, we simply take a ball of fire and play with it.”

Boris cupped his hands together, then uncupped them, and Nick saw a blue ball of flame, the size of a baseball, actually, dancing about a half-inch from Boris's open palms.

“Try.”

“I don’t want to get burned.”

“You won’t. Now try,” he insisted.

Nick tried to imagine flames. He tried to conjure from the place in his belly, from the place that controlled the sword. He opened his eyes, and above his hand sat a tiny flame— smaller than the tongue of flame from a matchstick.

Boris laughed. “Oh, little fire from the little man. Ha!”

Nick glared sullenly at Boris.

“What?” his fighting trainer asked.

Nick was silent.

“Speak your mind, little man!” Boris's face was menacing.

“Fine,” Nick snapped. “How did you get that scar?”

Boris's face turned a florid shade of red. “Why? Why is my scar important?”

Nick wanted to say,
Because I don’t know if you’re one of the good guys.
But instead, he said, “Because how good can you be as a fighting trainer, if you were scarred in a fight yourself?”

It was the wrong thing to say. As soon as the words left Nick's mouth, he regretted them.

Boris growled, turned from Nick, and shot flames to the ceiling. He waved his arms, and swords battled in midair, sending sparks flying and adding to the flames. He sent the swords back to the walls and made a circular motion with his arms, sending the fire into a vortex, like a tornado cloud, swirling, heat making Nick's cheeks feel like they were being burned. It hurt to breathe, the air was so hot in the room.

“Stop!” Nick screamed. “Stop it!”

“What kind of trainer am I?” Boris snorted. “Ha!” He waved his arms and the fire tornado lifted off the ground and to the ceiling, fanning out until the ceiling was in flames, then creeping down the walls, though the swords remained unharmed. The fire grew, sweeping along the floor, until only Boris and Nick stood in a circle of safety, the flames not advancing, respecting whatever circle of protection Boris had designed.

“I’m sorry!” Nick screamed.

At that, Boris lowered his arms and spoke some words to the flames, and they all disappeared. The room was back to normal, no hotter than it had been minutes before. The walls were fine, the floor not even scorched.

“I’m sorry,” Nick said quietly.

“I got the scar from the Shadowkeepers. I was defending someone.”

“Who?”

“That's none of your concern. But there were ten of them, and only me to defend her. I won, but I lost my eye in the process.”

Boris slowly lifted his eye patch. Nick didn’t want to react, but he couldn’t help it as he shrunk back. Where Boris's eye should have been was just a starfish-shaped scar.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was worth it to defend her.”

Nick had a flash in his mind of his mother. But it was just a loose picture of her for a second, like a photograph drifting to the ground. He couldn’t place it in any context.

“What are the Shadowkeepers? I mean what are they really?”

As soon as he asked the question, he felt like he had been punched in his chest as hard as someone could. Nick fell to the ground, sputtering, and thought he could vomit. He shut his eyes, but a vision came to him.

Boris knelt by his side and patted his back. “It is best not to speak of them.” He turned his head and spat over his shoulder three times.

But the vision kept coming. Nick struggled to breathe, air just coming in gasps. He saw people losing their human form, their faces melting into blackness, their backs sprouting leathery wings.

He smelled them. That stench, that horrible odor. It was in his nostrils, on his clothes. It was as though they were right there with him. He clawed the air, as if he were fighting them.

Finally, he shook his head and tried to think of skateboarding, of his old life. The images didn’t come, but eventually the Shadowkeepers retreated.

“They were people?” Nick asked.
“People?”

Boris nodded. “They gave up their magician status, their
bloodline, for false promises of power, and were enslaved by Rasputin.” Again, he spat over his shoulder three times. “Enough. We speak of good things now.”

Boris helped Nick to his feet, but Nick felt weak, and his head pounded at his temples. No amount of goodness would ever let him forget what he saw.

F
OLLOW THE ETERNAL HOURGLASS.

That had been Rasputin's advice. After seeing and feeling the Shadowkeepers while training with Boris, Nick skipped dinner. He had no appetite; it was as if the Shadowkeepers lingered over him. It reminded him of times when he knew he was getting sick or coming down with something, a dragging sensation, a tiredness.

Alone in his room, he stared at his crystal ball. He didn’t want to follow the path of the hourglass. But at the same time, he knew he’d never unlock the key's secret until he did.

He looked at Vladimir. “I think I have to Gaze. Sorry.”

The hedgehog hurried to a corner of his gilded cage and burrowed under soft grasses, hiding his eyes.

Nick reluctantly placed his hands on the ball and searched in the clear crystal for clues to the hourglass.

Detroit's Grace Hospital, October 31, 1926

Harry Houdini lay close to death, a pallor on his face, sweat coursing in rivulets at his temples. A doctor stood over him and spoke to a nurse in a starched white uniform.

“Ruptured appendix… a shame. And on Halloween. Strange indeed. We’ll keep trying to bring down the fever, but this is most dangerous.”

She nodded, made a note on a clipboard, and followed the doctor from the room.

Suddenly, the linoleum-tiled room filled with a black smoke, and Rasputin appeared. He leaned over Houdini's hospital bed, its railings silver and gleaming.

“You should have stuck to illusion, Mr. Houdini, and never have dabbled in real magic.”

Houdini, feverish and delirious, opened his eyes. “You…” he managed to whisper.

“Yes,” Rasputin smiled. “Now tell me where your wife stores the Eternal Hourglass.”

Houdini mouthed the word, “Never,” his breathing labored.

Rasputin touched Houdini, and the magician let out a cry of agony.

“Tell me where it is, and I will lift this spell and you will be healed. For all appearances, you have appendicitis, but pulsing through your abdomen is powerful magic—it will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Unless you tell me what I want to know.”

Houdini shook his head.

“I can always ask your beloved Bess myself. Give her a taste of real magic.”

Houdini's eyes registered terror. He motioned for Rasputin to lean closer, and he whispered something in Rasputin's ear.

Rasputin stood and smiled. “Excellent.”

He turned from the bed.

Houdini flung his head from side to side and moaned.

Rasputin lifted one finger. “When will mortals learn?” With a single gesture, Houdini gasped.

Rasputin disappeared.

And at 1:26 in the afternoon in room 401, Harry Houdini died.

T
HE NEXT DAYS PASSED IN A BLUR OF REHEARSALS UNTIL Nick was exhausted. Then the night before the opening, as he was trying to get some sleep, he heard a frantic knocking on his door.

He opened it to find Theo, Damian, and Irina at his door.

“What?”

“Come with us,” Damian demanded.

“What is it?”

But Damian was already down the hallway. Nick was led into the security room. There, frozen on the banks of monitors, was the most frightening man he had ever seen staring back from each screen. His beard was unkempt, and his clothes were black. But it was his eyes, his expression, that made Nick shiver. His eyes were dead. Cold in a way he
couldn’t imagine. The eyes of death, of evil. Of murder. It was Rasputin. The man he had seen in his crystal ball.

“He's here,” Damian said. “This man!” He touched the screen. “He's here, leading the Shadowkeepers.”

“He's here for me,” Nick said solemnly.

“But look here.” Theo pressed some buttons and the security tapes rewound. People moved backward, and then Theo found the precise spot on the tape he wanted Nick to see.

“There!”

He leaned in close, and there it was in the man's hand. “The Eternal Hourglass?”

Irina nodded. “Indeed.” She spoke to the head of security. “Blow up the hourglass—extra close-up.”

More buttons were pressed, and there it was—the hourglass with the Cyrillic along the top.

Nick didn’t tell them that he already knew Rasputin had the hourglass. He touched the key as it grew warm against him.

“He's here,” Damian said. “With the hourglass. In his hands. It can only mean destruction.”