The Stone Key (The Novel Adventures of Nimrod Vale Book 2)

by Natasha Brown

  The Stone Key

  The Novel Adventures of Nimrod Vale, Book 2

  By Natasha Brown

  Illustrated by Amber Debelak

  Text copyright © 2016 by Natasha Brown

  Illustration by Amber Debelak, copyright © 2016

  Design by Natasha Brown

  Editors

  Scott Andrews

  Colleen M. Albert

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  www.natashasbrown.com

  Dedication

  This book never would have been written without the encouragement from my husband, children and the students in my class. Without you, Nimrod wouldn’t have continued his adventure.

  I would like to thank Scott Andrews and Colleen Albert for their editorial advice and expertise. And, to all the people who, like Nim, might feel the world’s against them—there will always be rainclouds, so wear galoshes and play in life’s puddles.

  Table of Contents

  Proof

  Crystal Springs

  Unexpected News

  Drawn to Life

  Thieves by Night

  The Book of Secrets

  Pointing North

  The Caverns

  Floating in the Dark

  The Path of Least Resistance

  Finding the Strength

  Proof

  Empty shelves lined the dimly lit wall before me. Their contents were piled along the floorboards at my feet. I assumed all of these things had been important to Grandpa, or else he wouldn’t have kept them in his attic study.

  I held up a ring with at least twenty assorted keys and set them down on a growing pile. Next, I palmed a leather satchel. It was a bit longer and narrower than a wallet and was fastened with a snap. Metallic words were embossed on the suede—Keymaster lock picks. Long, twisted and angular tools stretched out from a pouch. I snapped it shut and tossed it onto a pair of thick woolen gloves. A surprisingly large supply of candles were piled into a heap, along with a lantern, which I buried beneath a fur-lined cape. Whatever animal it was from, it was the softest fur I’d ever touched.

  “Would you slow down?” Pepper demanded while she wrote furiously on a pad of paper. “How can I inventory all of this if you’re going faster than I can write?”

  I rolled my eyes. Pepper was really putting a damper on my excitement. There was nothing more interesting to me than going through my grandpa’s stuff. Any of it may have been used inside of, or even come out of, one of the many stories he’d written. Or at least, that was my best guess.

  Grandpa was the best storyteller I’ve ever known. Although, he might have been an explorer, too. A very unique kind.

  “I think you should water this.”

  I looked up. Pepper was pointing at a decorative pot that held a wilted plant. A few brittle yellow leaves hung from a bulb-like base. It probably hadn’t been watered for the last three years—since my grandpa disappeared.

  “Water can’t bring it back from the dead,” I answered.

  She glared at me and reached down for her bottled water. “You can be such a killjoy, Nim.”

  Though Pepper used my nickname, I knew it was for my sake. She preferred my full name—my grandpa’s given name—Nimrod. She liked the strange and unusual, but I preferred to simply fit in. Something I wasn’t very good at.

  She emptied all of the water from her bottle into the dry pot as she gave me a smug grin. Then she picked up the inventory list again and got back to work. According to Pepper, it was important to record everything my grandpa had in case we needed it. I don’t know why I needed a list to tell me anything. All I have to do is see something to remember it. That’s why I leave everything out in the open.

  My knees were growing sore from kneeling for so long, so I stood up, stretching my fingers toward the wood beams that lined the ceiling. I walked across the room and pulled the chair out from Grandpa’s desk to sit down. On either side of the rolltop, stacks of stories rose a foot or more from the floorboards. It was clear just how much he liked writing. But, I now knew what he’d been hiding from everyone. A secret.

  When he sat down to write, he hadn’t used any common tool, but a special golden fountain pen that could transport you into the story. That very pen sat innocently in its velveteen resting place on the desk. I stared at the etchings that twisted down its length.

  I’d always been told my grandpa died. Although, after moving to my mother’s childhood home following her death, my aunt (and only living relative) admitted that he’d disappeared without a trace. I’m not a genius, but naturally, I deduced that my grandpa had been trapped in one of his stories. I love my aunt, don’t get me wrong, but once I decided there was a possibility that he could still be alive, I knew what I had to do—find him and bring him home.

  Countless compartments lined the front of the rolltop desk. I slid open the tiny drawers, peeking inside to see what they held. I’d gotten the sense that all of Grandpa’s tools had been organized along the back wall—the items I’d just strewn across the floor. So, maybe all of his small treasures, things he could have carried out of a story in a pocket, were kept in his desk. I hadn’t found any more proof yet that he’d gone into one of his stories, like I accidentally had a month ago. The fact Aunt Holly said he’d disappear for hours or days at a time seemed clear enough, but still, a part of me wanted a sign that I was right. That he’d explored his way through his stories and had possibly gotten trapped inside of one.

  Small golden stones rolled around in one of the drawers, their metallic surfaces gleaming in the lamplight. I slid it closed to open another. Iridescent feathers were revealed. They appeared purple from one direction, but when I tilted my head, they turned green. There was no question they were beautiful, but I wasn’t certain they were from out of this world.

  I pulled at another knob, sliding its drawer open. Leather cord was jumbled inside, so I lifted it from its box. A dark gray stone twisted from the strand. It didn’t appear to be a precious mineral, so I didn’t know why it had been important enough to keep. I lowered the pointed rock onto my palm. A symbol was etched onto its surface.

  “Nim!”

  I placed it back in its drawer and turned around to look at Pepper who was pointing toward my grandpa’s overstuffed chair that sat in the middle of the room. It took me a moment to figure out what she was so excited about.

  The decorative pot that she’d emptied her water into now held a flowering plant. Long green spear-shaped leaves lifted along a narrow stalk. Lavender petals were in the process of opening into a spray of blossoms. Fine silver hairs reached out from the center of the blooms.

  “I told you it needed water,” Pepper said with her hand on her hip.

  I didn’t care that she’d been right, and I wasn’t thinking about how pretty the flowers were. My eyes couldn’t break away from the plant’s movement. Its petals danced on an invisible current, almost like a fish treading water while sleeping. There was nothing normal about it.

  “It’s proof,” I muttered. “That’s not from this world. I knew it—he must have explored through his novels. I have to find him.”

  Pepper looked from the flowers to me with a smile. “Gah, finally! I’ve been waiting
for you to say it was time. My parents settled down weeks ago about the whole police incident. Has Holly chilled out too?”

  I wouldn’t exactly say that she “chilled out” yet over the fact that she couldn’t find me for hours while Pepper and I had disappeared into a story I wrote, not finding our way back out until nearly ten at night. She’d worried I’d run away or had gotten kidnapped without having heard any word from me. I answered, “I’ve been really good about being around when she expects me to be. So, I think she’s beginning to trust me again. I think it’s safe to start talking about going into one of the stories.”

  The two words—safe and stories—seemed to be contradictory. I’m not the kind of person who goes on adventures. I’d rather read about other more daring and good-looking people doing dangerous things, saving the day. The problem was that I’d been put into an uncomfortable position. As much as I hated the idea of putting myself in danger, I wanted to find my grandpa more.

  Pepper’s eyes were open so wide, I could see her blue irises of from where I sat. She was silently clapping her hands together. It was obvious just how excited she was about my decision. I knew she’d been waiting impatiently for me to decide it was time to start looking. Adventure wasn’t a negative word to her as it was for me.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  I held up my hand to calm her down. “Tomorrow we can go through the stories to decide which one to start with. After school.”

  On appearances it seemed she was even more excited than I was, so I was surprised when she wasn’t at school the next day. I tried calling her phone at lunch break and when I got home, but she didn’t pick up.

  I went to the attic, assuming she’d show up any time. To keep myself busy while I waited, I sat at Grandpa’s desk. With a sigh, I leaned forward and lifted the pen from its case as I’d done so many times before. If only he’d left instructions. At night before going to sleep, I’d often try to piece everything together myself. There were a couple rules I’d figured out on my own. I picked up a pencil and scrawled down the few that came to mind.

  Rules

  You must hold the pen and the book and say these words to enter the story: Ars imitatur vita.

  Electrical/computerized items break going into a book (digital watch, phone).

  After ‘The End’ has been written, you cannot add to a story.

  You can bring items out of a story (seed, clothing, weapons).

  You cannot bring the pen into the story.

  You enter and exit the book from the same place (glowing portal).

  Time passes at the same rate in the book as it does in the real world.

  You can get hurt inside a story.

  I scratched my forehead. I was sure there were more I couldn’t think of, but I did have questions I was curious about. On a separate piece of paper, I wrote:

  Unanswered Questions

  Can people from a book come out into the real world?

  Will magical objects from a story work in the real world?

  Does a story keep repeating itself?

  Can you only explore the written parts of a story?

  At the last item, I frowned at the paper. I recalled going into areas and meeting people I hadn’t written about when I visited my fantasy land, so I crossed it out and added to my paper with the rules:

  You don’t have to write something into a story for it to exist.

  I groaned. Now that I’d decided I was ready, I couldn’t believe that Pepper would blow me off. I didn’t want to wait any longer.

  Rain tapped against the roof. It was something I’d gotten used to over the last two months since I’d moved here. Portland is known for its warm, tropical weather like I’m known for my cheery disposition. It made it easy to hide away in my room or dark coffee shops.

  I looked at the stacks of papers and books that lined the bookcases and floor in the attic. All left by my grandpa. The golden pen was the key into all of them. It was my ticket into his stories and to finding him. As I thought about it, I realized I didn’t need Pepper around to go through all of his journals.

  I leaned over to pick up one of the books and flipped open the cover. My eyes skimmed over the words, searching for anything familiar. Page after page I read, discovering names and places I’d heard before. Whenever I visited my grandpa as a kid, he’d sit in the comfy chair in his study and read his stories to me. This was one I remembered.

  It was a short story about a little boy and his pet duck. Set in a farm and a sunny little village, it didn’t seem like the kind of place where someone might get trapped. I set it on the floor and began to sort his stories into three piles: ones I’d heard before that didn’t seem dangerous, another for fantasy creatures, wars or risky plotlines, and the last was books I’d never read before.

  For the next hour I went through them. Any books that weren’t written by my grandpa wound up in towers behind me. It almost looked as if I was building a book fort by the time I heard Aunt Holly calling from downstairs.

  “Hold on!” I yelled back.

  She’d probably made dinner and needed me to set the table. Since she usually moved at my pace, I figured it gave me another fifteen minutes before she’d get annoyed. So, I picked up one last journal and read over the first few pages.

  I don’t know if it could be considered a fairy tale, but Grandpa had given the characters a happy ending, and that was my definition of one. Something that’s fantastical and full of imagination. It was the opposite of the dark, depressing story I wrote a month ago.

  I’m sure he hadn’t written this one for me. After all, the duke and common girl got married, created their own beautiful city away from his disapproving parents, and they lived happily ever after. I like reading about adventure, not love. Always have. Romance isn’t the kind of suspense that grips me. Will the royal family allow their son to marry the tailor’s daughter? Who cares!

  It may not have been what I preferred to read, but it seemed safe, so I placed it on top of my low-risk pile. Just as I set it onto the stack, I heard footsteps thundering up the stairs to the attic. My eyes widened and my pulse quickened. Nothing was out that I should be worried about, but I didn’t like the sudden intrusion.

  “Hey, Nim, you and Pepper ready for dinner?”

  Aunt Holly stepped into Grandpa’s study, her curly hair radiating out like a halo around her head. Like every other time, her cheeks creased while she grinned. It reminded me of Mom, triggering a dull ache, something I was used to.

  “She’s not here,” I answered. “But sure, I’m starting to get hungry.”

  She set her hands on her hips as she looked around the room. “Boy, you don’t keep it much cleaner than Dad did. You don’t want me to help you tidy up around here, do you?”

  “No!” I exclaimed a little too quickly. She raised her eyebrow at me, so I explained. “I’m going through everything. I’ll pick up when I’m done.”

  Okay, maybe that second part was kind of a lie. This was my form of organization. I had no intention of cleaning up when I was done, but I thought it would make Aunt Holly leave sooner if I said what she wanted to hear. I knew that I could easily prove to her what the pen could do, but that seemed risky to me. I wanted Grandpa back. What responsible adult would let a child enter an unknown world to search for a man who could be injured, imprisoned or worse? No one, that’s who. I was determined to find and save him, so it had to be done in secret.

  Her curious gaze traveled over everything that was out which made me feel as if she was staring at me in my underwear. It made me nervous having her standing so close to Grandpa’s pen and stories.

  “Think you could knock before coming up next time?” I asked.

  Aunt Holly tilted her head and squinted an eye. “You’re just as bad as your grandfather. He’d lock the door so I couldn’t come in. I get the creative process, but is it necessary to shut out the world around you?”

  A nervous grin lifted the corners of my mouth, and I shrugged.

  “Ho
w’s your homework coming along?” she asked, starting another unpleasant round of questions.

  I shrugged again. “It’s coming.”

  She arched her eyebrow and said, “You have time after dinner to work on it, but I don’t want you up late.”

  For a woman who didn’t have experience raising a kid, she seemed to know exactly what to say. I tried going back to the reason she’d come upstairs, interrupting me. “I’ll be down in a minute so we can eat.”

  She sighed. “Fine. It’ll get cold if you don’t hurry.”

  I watched her descend the stairs out of the attic, my relief growing with every step she took. When I heard the door shut, I picked up my phone and stared at its screen, checking to see if I’d missed a call from Pepper. I may not be the smoothest twelve-year-old around, but I knew one thing—calling someone repetitively wasn’t cool, no matter who you are. I’d already tried twice, although I hadn’t left a message. I had to admit, I was starting to get annoyed that she hadn’t at least texted me. When she practically lived here, it was noticeable when I didn’t have her chattering away in my ear like my own pet parrot. She was my white noise. I’d gotten pretty good at tuning her out. Some people do homework with music playing. I do homework to the sound of Pepper babbling away beside me.

  I decided to call her one last time. One after another, the rings continued until her voicemail picked up. Pepper’s voice announced, “Roses are red, violets are blue, I can’t get to my phone right now, so too bad for you.”

  I cleared my throat and mumbled into the receiver, “Hey it’s me, Nimrod. Thought you were coming over today. Call me back…or not, whatever.”

  I fumbled with the phone, attempting to hang up. Well, obviously this was why I hadn’t left a message yet—not always great on the spot. You would think that your best and only friend would already know the sound of your voice, but that wasn’t something that went through my head at the time I was speaking. Clearly not much was. I rolled my eyes. Knowing Pepper, she’d find my message amusing. Or maybe she finally realized that she didn’t like weird boys named Nimrod. Maybe I’d unknowingly offended her. It was totally possible. I do tend to suffer from foot-in-mouth disease, a rare disorder that comes with ADD. Otherwise known as “social awkwardness.”