The Dark Passenger (Book 1) (10 page)

The spirit stayed behind, watching him from a safe distance.
He took off his glove and put his good hand to the wall and found that it was
warm. On the other side of the building Edwin found a back door, but it was
locked. He needed to find a way inside.

A red spark shot through the spirit’s essence, followed by
another. Even though Edwin thought they were alone on this side of the building,
he wished the spirit wouldn’t risk drawing attention to itself. It wasn’t until
he saw the spirit fly behind a stairwell a few houses away that he realized it
had been trying to warn him that someone was coming.

Edwin moved as fast as he could off the road and into the
nearest recess in the wall, back behind a Lucent’s statue. He caught the sound
of two familiar voices.

“…isn’t a good idea for Edwin to be here. You never should
have let him come down the ledge.”

Smack.
It was the sound of wood hitting flesh,
followed by an exhale of air.

“Remember who you’re speaking to, Sam,” Master Carrion said.
“I did all I could to keep that boy up on the ledge. I was risking too much as
it was. All might have been lost.”

They were walking right in front of the statue now. Edwin
shrank as low as he could to the ground. He didn’t dare peek around the statue
to see their faces.

“Yes, Master Carrion. It’s only that Edwin is going to ruin
everything. He draws attention to our work and to himself. His work with the
Fury has raised more than a few eyebrows. And people still whisper about why
the Medgards so suddenly returned him.”

“The boy is a silly little thing, but he is the key to the Host’s
Tomb. And he’s also only fifteen, Sam. You can’t expect everyone to be as
cautious as you.”

“And then there’s Walt. Walt will also be a problem. Maybe a
bigger problem.”

There was a click and the door to the old bathhouse slid
open. “Your twin is your responsibility, Sam.”

“With Edwin and Walt together, maybe we’d be better of with
him dead.”

“Perhaps… Close the door behind you. The Lucent will be here
soon, and he wants to hear about the boy…”

The door shut, and for a moment Edwin could do nothing but
shake uncontrollably. But he quickly gathered his wits, crawled out from behind
the statue, and ran back to Hawthorne as fast as his legs would take him.

Edwin didn’t want to, but the spirit talked him into going
to his apprenticeship at Master Carrion’s apothecary the next day. The creature
was probably right; not showing up would only rouse suspicion. He worried all
the way to Carrion’s shop, but the day turned out to be completely uneventful.

That night, as Edwin and Walt were sitting alone in their
room waiting for lights out, Edwin asked Walt, “How close are you and Sam?”

“We’re twins. Not identical, thankfully. Everyone knows
identical twins are a bad omen. Most are sacrificed to the hallow tree. Erm,
what was your question?”

“I asked if you and Sam were close,” Edwin repeated.

“Right,” Walt said. “Sam and I share blood and we’re close
in our way, but we’ve never been able to agree on much. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious since you two don’t seem to spend too much
time together.” Edwin knew he couldn’t risk telling Walt about overhearing
Sam’s conversation with Master Carrion, no matter how much he’d like to talk to
someone about it. “I think Sam hates me, and I’m not really sure why.”

Walt laughed. “Sam hates everybody, even me sometimes. Don’t
worry about what Sam thinks. I’m glad you’re different from this whole messed
up village. And I like that you listen to my stories, but you don’t take all
that
Chardwick and its sacred duty
business seriously. At least you try
to think for yourself. And when you relax a little, you’re actually really
funny. And the Fury—don’t get me started on the Fury. When you fight,
it’s like you’re possessed. I wish I could fight half so well.”

Edwin had never received such compliments before, and he
blushed fiercely. He went to bed that night considering everything Walt had
said.

Three hours later, Edwin crawled out of bed fully clothed,
tiptoed across his room, and closed the door gently behind him. Red sparks
coursed through his spirit’s essence. “We’re closse to healing,” it said. “I
can feel it. And the ssooner you heal, the ssooner you can find the book. Your
mother—”

“I know. I heard Carrion and Sam. They know there’s
something wrong with me.” He paused to tie his black blanket securely around
his neck and then made his way downstairs. The hall was dark and he had to feel
his way down the banister.

When they had almost reached the front door, the spirit
asked, “How do you plan to open the door?”

“Shh,” Edwin replied.

As though trapped between snow and sky, the moonlight that
poured in through the window was unnaturally gray. It looked to Edwin like the
color of desperation. Without asking the spirit’s permission, Edwin said the
words of joining, and its essence flew into his body and its power into his
veins. Then, holding his hand as he had seen his mother do hundreds of times in
his dreams, he said the words he knew he shouldn’t.

In his good hand, sparks flickered between his fingers, fighting
his efforts to control it and keep it tame. Control had never been easy for
him, and it was the first time he had attempted to conjure energy into his
hands since death began creeping up his arm.

As sparks crackled in his palm, looking for an outlet, he
pointed it towards the lock and drove the energy forward. A small smoldering
hole appeared in the door. The air smelled acidic. He closed his hand and the
sparks stopped. He felt a stab of pain as death crept further up his arm.

With no lock, pushing open the door was easy; it moved
effortlessly and without a sound. Outside, the still night attacked his warmth.
Grabbing onto the edge of the door to keep it from slamming, he closed it
behind him with a quiet thump. He was careful not to touch the molten red hole
he had left behind.

As he made his way towards the village square, he made sure to
walk on a busy part of the road where his footsteps would be lost. Once past
the village square, he made his way to White Foot Way and Master Carrion’s
garden.

It was a stressful walk. At any moment Edwin expected to run
into someone who would stop him, who would question why he, the strange one,
the new boy, the tree crusher, was out alone. But the village was quiet and little
lamplight flickered out from under closed doors and behind closed windows. The
air smelled dirty, like burning coal, and he could see a few trails of smoke
coming from chimney tops.

Edwin picked up his pace when the old bathhouse came into
view. As though sensing his presence, the wind picked up slightly and the
windflutes began to chime. Any doubts evaporated of the windflutes repelling
the spirit by chance. They were chiming like they knew he was there. With the
spirit in him, he felt how strongly their sound repelled it.

A few small bolts of lightning would probably do the trick
of getting rid of them, but magic might draw unwanted attention. A snowball
would work just as well, and together with the spirit he thought he would have
good aim. Quickly, he packed the snow at his feet. One, two, three, four,
five—the windflutes came down easily. The silence was a relief, and Edwin
didn’t feel the spirit recoil as he approached the front door.

Looking down White Foot Way, first to his left, then his
right, Edwin saw that the road was quiet and empty. Nervously, he whispered
words to conjure energy into his hand. Through touch alone he experimented with
the spark’s intensity. Keeping his eyes on White Foot Way, he felt how each
twitch of his finger influenced the sparks’ nature. When he looked down, the light
in his hand was extinguished and there was a smoldering hole in the door.

Edwin hurriedly let himself in, but none of the lamplight
from White Foot Way made its way through the glass roof and it took his eyes a
moment to adjust to the scant starlight.

“Oh no,” he cried.

The old bathhouse was one large room, and pots filled every
inch of space—and they were empty.

“No, no, no…” Edwin said, winding his way through the room.
He was too late. There was nothing but empty pots and the smell of dirt. His
stomach lurched; the spirit was trying to get his attention. It wanted him to
release it.

“Stop. I need you to help me get back to Hawthorne,” Edwin said.
But that was only part of it. Mostly he just wanted a minute to think. Tonight
had been draining; he should have waited for the fair, and he dreaded the ache
he would feel as soon as he released his spirit.

Deciding he had no choice but to leave the bathhouse, he headed
back towards Hawthorne. Trudging towards the village square, he considered all
the roads he hadn’t seen, the little alleys and dead-ends he hadn’t yet
explored. Maybe if he explored a bit he could get lucky. No matter how tired,
he would never be able to fall asleep tonight; his was an unnatural tired that
only magic would cure.

The idea of the sapling in the village center crossed his
mind, but he made himself push that thought away. Even if he could absorb life
from its nascent bark, the risk was too great. He thought of Walt’s stick-bug—but
no, it was too small. While Edwin tried to think, the spirit continued to
demand its release.

“Stop it,” he said futilely, knowing that holding the spirit
in took energy he didn’t have and would only make the pain of releasing it worse.
The spirit kept pushing against him, and he was opening his mouth again when he
noticed that the snow had taken on a blackish hue. Looking up, he saw a
creature hovering above him about the size of a rat. It had delicate gossamer
wings that it seemed to flap too softly to keep it afloat, and Edwin wondered
whether it was floating by other means. But its head was what really caught
Edwin’s attention. Round like a berry, it was too big for its small body. Its
skin appeared to be smooth, and it had huge eyes and an oversized mouth, slits
for a nose, and long tentacle-like hair that seemed to retract at will. It was
monstrous, and Edwin wondered what manner of creature it was.

“What the—” He made himself shut his mouth. The spirit
sensed the creature’s power and recognized it as the thing that killed Walt and
Sam’s parents. The creature’s long hair was dangling to the ground, searching
the air around it. It appeared to be hunting.

Without telling himself to, Edwin began running towards Hawthorne.
The black light disappeared when he took a sharp right towards the village
square. But when he rounded the next corner, there the creature was, directly
in front of the big arch. Joined with the spirit, Edwin had been running faster
than he ever could himself—too fast for a sudden stop. Slipping, he fell
backwards, but the creature continued floating away from him. It wasn’t until
Edwin felt the spirit stir, telling him to turn and run, that the creature
turned and seemed to notice him for the first time.

Edwin held his breath and froze, and the creature hung in
the air, still flapping its wings. Ripples of black energy flowed across its
surface, and its big empty eyes seemed to peer into him. Even his spirit was
afraid. But then, after several long, terrifying seconds, the creature turned
again and continued moving away.

Realizing the creature wasn’t following him, Edwin sighed
with relief, but he wondered why the creature had suddenly seemed to notice him
when the spirit asserted its will inside him. He also realized that, strangely,
healing himself seemed like it could wait. Running slower now, he checked each
road carefully as he made his way back to Hawthorne. The spirit still wanted to
be released, but he said, “Not yet,” and the spirit stopped aggravating him. He
didn’t think he could risk releasing it until he was safe and back in bed.

It wasn’t until he saw Hawthorne that he considered that
Headmistress Vanora might be awake and waiting for him. Luckily, the door was
just as he had left it, only the hole where the lock had been had cooled. He
hadn’t really thought about what would happen if he were caught, which seemed
stupid now. It had been such a great risk, and he wondered why he had taken it.
He was worse off than before.

Inside Hawthorne, the hall was dark and quiet. Thinking it
best not to risk waking Ashton and Walt, Edwin took off his outdoor clothes
downstairs and carried them up in a bundle under his arm. He opened the door to
his room as quietly as he could and peered inside.

He dropped his clothes to the floor in a heap. In front of
him he saw that the window was open. The creature hovered just on the other
side, flapping its wings majestically. Its ugly tendrils of hair were floating
towards Walt. Both Ashton and Walt were snoring.

“Get away from him,” spat Edwin in a quiet hiss, but the creature
took no notice.

“I said get away from him,” Edwin repeated, his voice no
longer a whisper. There was no time to think. He imagined those tendrils
killing Walt’s parents in the mine. The words came out—his mother’s
words—and he held his hands like he was holding a ball as he pushed
together a sphere of cackling white energy. With a grunt, he threw the ball
forward, and it hit the creature with a thunderous clap.

The creature smiled, showing its little fanged teeth.

Edwin shot forward another long bolt of energy, and a tangy
acidic smell filled the air, the smell of lightning.

And then there was blackness.

In a small cottage barely within the walls of Newick an
empty hearth burst into flames. Five sisters turned from their potion making to
consider the fire.

Gretchen was the first to speak: “You’d best have a good
reason for contacting us.”

The reply was deep and had all the sharpness of a roaring fire.
“Yes, Aunts,” the voice said. “We have a problem.”

“Whose blood did you use to complete the incantation?” asked
one of the triplets.

“My own,” replied the voice.

“I see. Don’t drain yourself too much, little one. We don’t have
the magic to aid you. All must be saved for the fair. Our hour is almost at
hand.”

“I used no more than required to open the portal,” said the voice.
“Don’t worry, I am your creation, and my blood is strong. The portal has worked
exactly as you said it would.”

“Of course the incantation worked,” Gretchen spat. “You
twins were birthed by the Lucent’s kin, but it was sorcery that bore your seed.
Now you said we had a problem. Tell us quickly, before all life is drained from
the pool.”

The fiery outline of the child’s face smiled. “Your likeness
appears surprisingly clear in blood, Aunts, and I’m glad to hear little has
been done to change your tempers.”

The triplets glared. “Your impertinence is—”

“The Host is reckless,” the child’s voice interrupted. “He
has no idea what he is and he reveals too much. He treats the cloak like a
blanket. He fights the Fury with magic. He damaged, accidentally, their hallow
tree. He takes unnecessary risks. Were the villagers more aware of the signs,
all would already be lost.”

“This is disturbing news,” Gretchen conceded. “After so many
years of living quietly on the ledge, why is he suddenly so eager to take
risks?”

“I don’t know, Aunt, but I have my suspicions. He favors one
of his hands but won’t let anyone see it.”

“Hmm…” Gretchen said. “And what of the Lucent?”

“He does what he can to subdue his people, but they are
growing restless. Rumors fly.”

“You must do what you can to rein the boy in, but you
mustn’t reveal yourself, not before we arrive in Chardwick,” Gretchen said.

A triplet interjected: “You say they don’t realize yet what
he is. Perhaps you should allow those who do not know to do your work for you,
before he comes under the attention of those who do. There are cells where you
dwell, are there not?”

“I will do what I must, but be prepared to retrieve him if
the villagers discover him before you do,” the voice replied.

“Yes, all will be ready,” Gretchen replied.

“What of the Master?” asked the voice.

“The Master is sufficiently informed. He’s displeased, but
he shouldn’t be a problem. No need to trouble him further,” Gretchen said.
“Thank you for this information. And do not forget, this will be the last time
we speak before our arrival. We must not waste magic on the hearth.”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you, Aunts.”