The Dark Passenger (Book 1) (16 page)

At first Edwin wasn’t sure he was going to be able to talk
Lady Nemain into letting him walk back to Hawthorne alone, especially not after
she told him the Council didn’t want her to let him out of her sight, but she
cracked when he mentioned how long Headmistress Vanora had kept him in the
cellar. After promising he was only going to stretch his legs and would stay
out of trouble, he left the village square, knowing exactly where he had to go.

The moment he was out of sight, he felt a prickling at his
legs, and his spirit asked, “What are you doing?”

Knowing he might need the creature for what he was about to
do, he swallowed his pride and responded to it for the first time in days. “I’m
going to get my mother’s book. After seeing your memory I know where to look.”

“Yess, finally. Good,” the spirit purred, circling Edwin
with excitement. Edwin wondered if it would be so happy if it knew he only
wanted the book to learn how to control it once and for all. Knowing where he
was going, the spirit stayed close, hiding under his coat.

Keeping his head down, Edwin walked on and soon found
himself on the little road with The Bitter Hart, where he walked to the shared
house across the road and turned the knob.
It was right here all along
,
he thought to himself. The entry hall was dingy, and he had to walk over muddy
shoes, broken plates, and discarded clothes to get to Roger Goodfellow’s room
on the second floor, but there was no answer when he knocked on the door. He
heard someone on the ground floor begin climbing the stairs and knocked again,
hoping that whoever it was would keep walking.

“If you’re looking for Goodfellow, try Mortley’s across the
street,” a woman said, making Edwin jump despite himself. Too busy carrying
bags of groceries, she continued on her way up the stairs without another word.

Knowing he wasn’t supposed to be there, he called up the stairs
in his deepest least Edwin-like voice, “Thanks.”

Back outside, as he crossed the road, his spirit whispered
in his ear, “Join with me. Roger Goodfellow will not be pleassed to see you.”

“After Ashton? Not a chance,” Edwin spat. “I’ll want to be
able to keep an eye on you if anything goes wrong.”

 “Being prepared for something to go wrong iss exactly
why we need to join.”

Edwin shook his head. “You know why we can’t join. You can’t
be trusted.”

“Will it take our own deaths to clear your conscience?” the
spirit countered.

“Stay close,” Edwin said, ignoring its question. As he
crossed the road, he tried to put a little confidence in his step that he very
much didn’t feel.

Opening the door to The Bitter Hart, he was assaulted by the
smell of smoke and stale beer. Three men were inside. “Yer Master or Mistress
know you’re here, boy?” Mortley asked, not looking up, but his jowls shook. He
had been cleaning a mug, and his fat hand must have gotten stuck. His face was
red as he tried to pull it free.

“Yessir,” Edwin said, keeping the stutter out of his voice.

“Right.” The old man smirked. “Another one who doesn’t want
to go to the mines, eh? Been getting more and more of those lately. Dark
times.” Finally getting his hand free of the mug, he looked up and smiled. “Ah,
the Hawthorne boy. Ya look in good health—and taller. What can I getcha?”

“Thanks, but I’m not here for a drink. I’m looking for Roger
Goodfellow. I was told he was here.”

“Goodfellow, y’ave company,” Mortley shouted, and he began
cleaning another mug.

“No need ta bellow, Portley,” a haggard looking man yelled
back from a nearby stool. Then to Edwin he said, “Do I know you, boy?”

“May I talk with you outside a moment, please?”

“Cantcha see I’m busy?” the man slurred, nursing his drink.

“It’s tha middle of tha day, Goodfellow,” Mortley said. “Go
see what tha boy wants.”

Not looking up from his drink, Goodfellow replied, “Mind yer
own business, old Portley Mortley.”

“Please, it’s important,” Edwin said.

“I don’ wantta go outside,” Goodfellow grumbled, but Edwin
was glad to see he was pulling himself from his stool and onto his feet. Though
not late in the day, it was clear to Edwin that Goodfellow had spent the greater
part of the morning there—probably the night before that too—and he
was unsteady on his feet.

“Commere,” Goodfellow garbled, pulling Edwin close to him
for balance.

Overwhelmed by the man’s strong odor, Edwin began to breathe
through his mouth, and sparingly at that. Leading the way to the door, he
struggled to keep the man upright. Behind him Mortley said, “Why dontcha just
take him home, boy. Goodfellow, ya sleep some of it off and come back later.”

Edwin smiled, unable to believe his good luck, surprised
that it had been so easy. Goodfellow mumbled something intelligible but vicious,
and waved Mortley off.

After dragging Goodfellow across the road and upstairs, it
wasn’t until Goodfellow had opened the door and was lying face down on his
couch that he looked up. The blinds were drawn and the light was dim, but his
eyes opened wide as he seemed to see Edwin for the first time. “I kno’ you,” he
spat.

Hating himself for having to lie to a man who had already
suffered so much because of him, but knowing he would never be able to explain
about his mother or his spirit, he said, “Yes, you’re my father.”

“That blanket!” Edwin looked down to see that his cloak was
peeking out from behind his open coat, having completely forgotten that he had
it with him. “I would have recognized that thing anywhere. Get outta my home!”
the man yelled.

“I don’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to figure out my
past, and I’m hoping you can help.”

Goodfellow threw a stained pillow at him, missed, then
flopped around angrily on the couch a bit, but he didn’t pull himself up. “Someplace
evil, that’s where ya came from! I told everyone, but no one would listen ta
me. You aren’t ma boy! You killed ma wife!” He began blubbering incoherently.
“Ma beautiful Rona.”

“I’m looking for something,” Edwin said uncomfortably, but
he refused to leave, not when he was so close.

“You weren’t ours. Ne’er ours…” He was falling into a stupor
on the couch. “Not right. Never right. Not since we foundya in our baby’s crib
wrapped in that damn blanket.”

“And there was nothing else? A book maybe?”

His eyes rolling forward, Goodfellow squinted at Edwin and
struggled to focus. “How do ya know about tha’?” he slurred. “Get out! I
toldcha to leave ma home!” And with that last bellow, Roger Goodfellow’s eyes
rolled back in his head and he passed out on his couch.

Edwin watched the man snore a minute, poked him a bit, and
then asked the spirit, “Do you think it’s here? This place doesn’t look much
like your memory.”

That was an understatement. The rooms looked to be the same
size, but that was all that was familiar. Most of the furniture was missing,
and the sofa that remained was old, torn, and brown with age. Even the walls,
which were covered with fist-sized holes, were different.

Suddenly the spirit was nowhere to be seen. “Aigh, get back
here!” Edwin yelled, and Goodfellow grunted, making Edwin shut his mouth and
silently back away. Sensing that the spirit hadn’t gone far, he looked around
the room a moment and wondered where Goodfellow could have hidden the book.

In the main room with Goodfellow, there weren’t many places
to look. The same went for Goodfellow’s bedroom. It wasn’t until he got to the
kitchen that he found himself someplace familiar. The paint was faded and the
cook pot was covered in a few more layers of rust, but its likeness to the
spirit’s memory was unmistakable. There, next to the stove, was where he had
killed Goodfellow’s wife.
No, the spirit killed Goodfellow’s wife
, he
told himself. Hesitantly, he touched the spot on the floor where he had been
sitting.

“Go to furnace,” the spirit said, interrupting his thoughts.

“The what?”

“The furnaaace,” the spirit repeated, its essence crackling
with energy. Gold sparks ran through its essence as it led Edwin back into the
main room with Roger Goodfellow, who was snoring loudly. To the right of the
sofa stood a small black iron furnace; the ceiling above it was black with
soot. With slow agile steps, Edwin crept to its side, all the while keeping an
eye on Goodfellow, who coughed and licked his lips intermittently. With every
pause between snores, Edwin stopped, worried that the man was awake.

But he remained asleep. As quietly as Edwin could, he opened
the little hatch to the furnace door. Inside, he saw nothing but burnt out
coals and ash, and he mouthed to the spirit, “There’s nothing here.” Continuing
to crackle softly, the spirit dove into the ash, and Edwin sighed and rolled up
his coat sleeves, knowing the spirit wanted him to plunge his hand into the
ash.

A result of much neglect, the layer of ash was deep, and
touching it made his entire body feel dirty. Even his mouth tasted metallic and
grimy. “Stop being so squeamissh,” the spirit reprimanded, its voice muffled
slightly by the soot.

With his hand all the way to the bottom of the furnace, at
first he felt nothing but slick dirt. It wasn’t until his finger touched the
edge of the bottom that he realized it wasn’t the bottom at all—it was
the book, and Roger Goodfellow had tried to burn it. There wasn’t enough space
between the book and the side of the furnace for his fingers, and he looked
around the empty room for something he could use as leverage.

The spirit flew from the furnace and, hovering in the air
unsullied, said, “Turn the metal latch under the furnace.”

Under the furnace, he found a latch holding up a door that
must have been put there to make cleaning easier. He gave it a slight tug and
became frustrated when it didn’t budge, and he wondered if it had rusted shut.

“Harder,” the spirit hissed.

“I’m trying,” Edwin whispered, and he tugged harder and
harder until he felt the latch digging into his fingers. Goodfellow snorted and
smacked his lips, making the hair on his neck stand on end.

“Join with me,” the spirit said.

“I would like to be able to do something on my own,” Edwin
said, and the spirit bristled with indignation. “You know, I kind of hate you
sometimes,” he added, and then said the words of joining before the spirit
could respond. With the spirit in him, Edwin was more nervous than ever; Roger
Goodfellow was barely an arm’s length away. The sooner he could get the book
the better, so he returned his attention to the furnace, grabbed the latch, and
pulled again. With the spirit’s strength it opened easily, and ash began
pouring out the door, flying everywhere, creating a cloud of dust that billowed
up from the ground. The book slammed against the floor with a thud.

Struggling to open his eyes, Goodfellow mumbled, “Aigh,
what’re ya doin’ here?”

Edwin grabbed the book and scurried back, barely avoiding a
swipe of Goodfellow’s hand. Falling forward, Goodfellow’s eyes fell shut and he
resumed snoring. With the ash burning his eyes and tickling his throat, Edwin
struggled to keep himself from coughing, and he rushed towards the door and
outside. It wasn’t until he was well on his way back to Hawthorne that he
noticed how heavy the book was. He released his spirit, and said, “I can’t
believe how easy that was!”

“You had only to want it,” the creature replied. “Now what
are you going to do with it?”

Edwin knew he couldn’t tell the spirit the truth—that
he hoped the book was some sort of grimoire that would tell him how to control
his spirit, or, better yet, help him get it out of his life for good. He had
just opened his mouth to lie when the ground shook, knocking him off his feet,
and the air rang with the sound of an explosion deep within the mines. Loose
dirt and rocks fell from the cliffs surrounding Chardwick, and for a long
second, everything was silent.

“Something is coming from the miness,” his spirit hissed in
his ear. “Run!”

The only way back to Hawthorne was through the village
square, but he stopped as soon as he heard someone call on the Fury. Any other
day he would want to see what was coming, but not today, not after he had just
found his mother’s book.

“Hurry, to the rooftops,” the spirit said.

Edwin nodded, threw the book on the roof of a nearby
two-story with plenty of eroded, jagged bricks, and quickly climbed to the top.
In the distance another horn called on the Fury from somewhere in the mines.
The ground shook with another explosion, and he looked up just in time to see a
yellow flame burst from the Black Keep up on the ledge.

“It’s the imp!” Edwin said. The imp’s loud, piercing cry
reverberated throughout the crater, and Edwin struggled to cover his ears and
staggered to his knees. Up on the ledge, one of the guards tried to drive the
imp back inside the Black Keep with a sword, but the imp dove into the guard’s
chest and the guard went flying through the air, far over Chardwick, and
crashed into a distant house so hard that a great cloud of dust billowed up
into the air.

Edwin’s mind raced with options—what could he
do?—what
should
he do?—but before he could react, the imp
was speeding down the cliff with its long, tentacle-like hair flowing behind
it. It only took Edwin a moment to realize the imp was heading straight for
him.

Edwin grabbed his mother’s book and scaled up the side of
the house next-door. From there the roofs were more level, and he ran from
house to house towards the village square. Remembering that the imp had been
able to sense his spirit inside him, he didn’t dare call it into him, but now
that his arm was healed he was pretty fast on his own.

Another ear-splitting screech filled the air, and Edwin fell
to the ground with his hands over his ears, dropping the book in front of him.
“Ahhhh,” he yelled, trying to block out the noise.