by Ken Brosky
I took another step, shield held in front of me. My left leg shook even when I put weight on it.
“Or do you not trust me?” the doctor asked, cocking his head. Suddenly, he spun around and threw the green glass of liquid at me! I held up my shield; the glass broke on its surface, splashing the green liquid all over the room. Some of it reached the fireplace, causing the fire to hiss. More yet landed on the wooden floorboards, coating them like oil.
“You’ll drink my medicine!” the doctor screamed, grabbing another vial. This one was full of a clear liquid, foaming at the surface. The doctor threw it and I held my shield up again. This time, when the glass shattered on the surface, there came a distinct fizzling sound and a sickening smell of burning. I looked at the shield—the liquid was eating through the wood!
“Now take your medicine!” the doctor screamed, holding up another glass of the green liquid. Instead of throwing it, he stepped forward and reached out, tearing away what remained of my shield. Panic struck my body—for a moment, I forgot I was even holding the magic pen in my other hand. But then the doctor was pushing me backward and we both landed hard on the floor at the feet of the Brothers Grimm, who were too weak to so much as turn their gaze from the fire.
“Drink it!” the doctor ordered, tipping the glass of green liquid. It began dribbling onto my pursed lips, causing them to tingle. More yet slipped into my nose and I choked, coughing so hard that my chest ached. The liquid tasted like a minty tea. It left a cool feeling on the tip of my tongue.
The doctor laughed maniacally. I reached out, stabbing him with the pen.
His laugh stopped. The glass of green liquid fell to the floor, rolling in front of the fireplace, green liquid seeping from two cracks. Ashes coated my dress. My heart slowed. The doctor was gone, as if he’d never existed before.
May 27, 1817
I returned to the brothers’ home this afternoon. It was as if the sunlight had brought the entire town back to life—already, a few people had stirred from their homes, looking around with fresh eyes. The mad doctor’s potion was already wearing off, albeit slowly. It would take some time for everyone’s health to return. They would no longer be able to build a road in a day, but most seemed happy enough to be able to enjoy the warm air once again.
I’d hoped the Brothers Grimm might feel in similar good spirits.
“Who are you now?” asked one of the brothers. Jacob—his name was Jacob. Everyone in town had said the younger-looking one was Jacob. He offered me tea, but I declined.
“My name is Abigail,” I said, licking my lips. I stood in front of them, holding out the pen. There was no easy way to broach this subject. “Do you by chance recognize this pen?”
The brothers looked at it closely. Both shook their head. Jacob bent over his tipped-over desk, groaning and gathering up the pages and pages of papers. More fairy tales, not yet complete. But there was no magic in those pages.
“Are you selling pens?” Wilhelm asked testily. He was a tall man, his black suit a bit tighter around his belly than his brother’s.
“No, I—I’m here because of your stories. I must ask you about your stories,” I said. “It is of the utmost urgency that I—”
“The only urgency is this place,” Wilhelm said, motioning to the table of potions and glasses. He was in the process of pouring all of the liquids into a single wooden pail. It made me cringe, wondering what else this Corrupted doctor had been in the process of making. “What happened to our home? Everything is foggy.”
“Food poisoning, I suspect,” murmured Jacob.
“Food poisoning! I doubt our boiled cabbage and pork chops were poisoned,” snapped his brother.
“Food spoils, you old goat,” Jacob responded.
“Clearly this was your work,” Wilhelm said, pointing to the turned-over desk. “I have not the strength to do such a thing.”
“I have not the heart to do such a thing. I love this desk.”
They were brothers, through and through. But their demeanor upset me. How could they not remember anything?
“How did you bring the stories to life?” I demanded. “Is there a way to destroy them?”
The brothers looked at each other. “Destroy them?” Jacob asked, smiling warmly. “Why, my dear child, there are thousands of copies already printed.”
Wilhelm grunted. “So they say. But where is our money, then?”
“No,” I said. “The stories you brought to life. The ones that are the result of magic. I must know.”
They looked at each other again. “You speak in riddles, girl,” said Wilhelm, his eyes cold and dark. “Magic? It’s but a fiction reserved for fairy tales.”
My heart sank. I bid them good-day and left, dismayed. There may be no easy way out of this. There may be no eraser to wipe all of the Corrupted off the face of this earth. There are hundreds hiding among us, all over the world, and only the chosen one can destroy them.
The magic pen feels heavy in my hand. This is my burden now. Like one of the heroes in an adventure book, I am drawn into something far greater than I could have ever imagined.
And, like Hanna before me, and all of the chosen ones before her who were unceremoniously forced into this new role, I may someday die at the hands of a monster that should not exist. Unless I can find a way to stop it.
Book 8: Darkness Rising
Chapter 1
So there we were, packed into the last of the fleet of sleek, black cars: me, Seth, Chase, and Prince Leo Vontescue.
And Mr. Whitmann.
I sat across from the prince, keeping my legs close to my seat so my athletic shoes wouldn’t accidentally bump into his shiny black boots. He had his black overcoat unbuttoned, revealing a dark gray button-down shirt and dark gray slacks, just a shade brighter than black. He kept his cane between his long legs, his thumb gently rubbing the golden top, which was shaped like a puma or tiger or one of those ferocious big cats that’s really good at looking scary on National Geographic. His black hair was slicked back, his dark eyes centered right on yours truly.
“This is a nice car,” Mr. Whitmann said, stretching out beside the prince. “We have cars like this in America. They’re called limos. We have stretch limos, too. Then we have these things called stretch Hummers, which are what all the fancy rock stars and rappers use. Some have a hot tub, you know.”
“Fascinating,” the prince said in a low voice. His eyes slid from me to Chase to Seth. Chase’s hand tried to find mine but I quickly whisked it away, hoping the prince hadn’t seen. Something didn’t feel right here.
Seth had picked up on it. His body was pressed into the expensive black leather seat, his feet pushing down on the floor, his body squeezed against the door. And Mr. Whitmann was right: it was a nice car, definitely what we in the U.S. would consider a limo. Not quite as fancy as the kind that Sam Grayle drove, but still.
In fact, Sam Grayle’s limo was sounding pretty tempting at this point. The seats opposite us were close, offering only a little bit of leg room. Chase’s legs were stretched out, which was the most comfortable for him. But that meant his feet were nearly brushing up against the bottom of the opposite seat, between the prince and Mr. Whitmann.
Mr. Whitmann. Prince Leo.
Seth. Chase. Me.
Dark thoughts penetrated my mind. What would I do if the prince attacked? Could we survive a jump from the moving limo? We were on a highway, travelling fast. Still, there was a soft layer of snow piled up along the shoulder of the road …
“It, uh, sure is nice of you to pick us up,” Mr. Whitmann said, offering a friendly smile. I had to stifle a sigh. Did he seriously not feel the tension in this tight space? Was I the only one having trouble breathing the warm air coming in through the little silver vents in the ceiling? And why were the windows tinted?
“The pleasure is mine,” Leo Vontescue said, turning and offering our coach a warm smile. And by “warm” I mean “absolutely cold and weird.” Like he’d never smiled a day in his life. Like
it hurt to pull up his thin, pale lips.
“So do you really live in a castle?” Chase asked. I turned to him, shocked. Did he not feel it, either? Were Seth and I the only ones picking up on the absolute coldness radiating from the prince?
Vontescue nodded, keeping his head low, looking at Chase from underneath the soft ridge of his brow. It was such an animal-like thing to do. His whiskers were a mixture of black and gray, poking through his taut skin. His lips were parted, revealing the edges of his stained-yellow teeth. Really, does Chase not notice any creepiness coming from this guy?
“Does it have a drawbridge?” Chase asked.
“Uh …” Seth reached out a hand, tugging on Chase’s jacket. “What if we stop asking questions? I’m sure the prince is pretty tired.”
“No,” the prince said sharply. The forced smile returned. He held up a hand, waving off Seth’s concern. Seth, for his part, flinched and squeezed farther back in the seat. “It’s quite all right. The castle once had a drawbridge, long ago when the kingdom of Hungary was invading our lands.”
“That’s a bummer,” Chase said.
“Prince Alexandru, my ancestor, spent twenty years fighting off Hungarian armies that threatened the region. The largest Hungarian army to attack Castle Vontescue was fifty thousand strong. They all perished.”
Seth’s body relaxed just a bit. “Really? Like, how?”
The prince looked down at the golden tip of his cane, staring at his reflection in the glossy gold. His slender, gloved fingers held the cane gently, as if the dark wood might snap in two. “Twas a trap, Alexandru set. He knew the Hungarian army was more powerful and offered the Hungarian king a thousand pieces of silver in exchange for peace. The king of Hungary cared nothing for the silver and sent Prince Alexandru’s messenger back without a head.”
“Holy crap,” Chase and Seth whispered together.
A low growl escaped Vontescue’s throat. “But Alexandru was not as weak as the Hungarian king believed. Alexandru took five thousand of his best soldiers and marched them along the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps, meeting the Hungarian army in battle.”
“Oh crap!” Seth exclaimed, breathless. “It was probably a slaughter!”
“Indeed it was,” said the prince. “Alexandru’s army lost many men. They pulled back slowly, using trails along the mountain that the Hungarian knights’ horses could not traverse with ease. Alexandru’s soldiers marched until they reached Poenari Castle, where they set up a trap.”
Seth began rapidly elbowing Chase. “That’s Dracula’s castle, dude!”
The prince nodded. “This was a hundred years before the one you call Dracula. Poenari Castle first belonged to Prince Alexandru, a gift from his father. Simply getting to it was an arduous climb, one that sapped Alexandru’s men of the last of their strength. But they pressed on, knowing full well that the Hungarian king’s soldiers would have to suffer the same exhaustion. The castle sits high atop a cliff, its walls built into the steepest parts of the mountain. There is only one direction to attack.”
Even Mr. Whitmann was entranced now, scratching absently at his mustache.
The prince licked his pale lips, staring right at me. I had to fight the urge to cringe. “When the Hungarian king’s men finally made their way to the castle,” he said in a mocking, mournful voice, “the prince’s soldiers were rested. Ready.” His hands tightened around the cane, squeezing it. “The Hungarians, exhausted, were routed, splitting up as they fled. Alexandru ordered a full attack, and his men charged down the mountain. They knew the landscape well. They knew the forest, as it was their home. The Hungarian king’s best men were hunted down … and thrown into the river.”
“A river of bodies …” Seth said, wide-eyed. “Oh man. Did anyone else just get chills?”
Before I could respond, both Chase and Mr. Whitmann nodded. I crossed my arms. “Boys sure love their battles,” I murmured.
The prince leaned back, regarding me with an icy glare. “Indeed they do. Which is why the Hungarian king could gather up fifty thousand of them to fight and die for him. He offered riches and spoils of war and glory.”
I thought about the wizard, Agnim. He’d said something similar about human beings and greed. I looked out the window, watching pitch-black pine woods roll by. It was as if the darkness outside was thicker here. Above, the moon gave the rolling clouds a ghost-like greyness as they slipped between the mountain peaks of the Carpathian range.
We were officially in a much more dangerous place.
“Alice,” the prince said, “how is your extended family?”
“My what? Oh. Oh right! The family I was visiting … right before you showed up in town … um, they’re good.”
Mr. Whitmann made a pffft noise through pursed lips. “I don’t buy it for a second.” He pointed a pudgy finger at me, eyes narrowed. “You’re not doing any of that while we’re staying with the prince, or I swear I’ll call your parents, young lady.”
“Kids have a tendency to disobey,” Vontescue said, peeling one hand off his cane so he could gently lower Mr. Whitmann’s still-pointing finger.
“I’m no kid,” I said in a low voice. Maybe a little too low, under the circumstances—both Chase and Seth gave me a surprised look.
“Technically she’s right,” Mr. Whitmann said, stretching his left leg and groaning an old man’s groan. “She’s eighteen after all. I used to sneak out of the house when I was eighteen.” He chuckled. “Went to visit a foxy gal named Tilda Stevens. I’d have to get past these bushes under her window. Scratched myself up pretty good. Anywho, we went down to a diner where a couple kids would drag race. Never participated, though.”
“So you were almost cool at one point?” Seth asked, scratching his head. “Gee, what happened?”
Mr. Whitmann’s face soured.
“My point,” the prince said, “is that the town you were staying in was hardly safe. Hungary is a country in disarray, and that town in particular has a troubling past.”
“You mean the werewolves?” Seth asked. Both Vontescue and I snapped our heads in his direction. He shrank in his seat.
“Werewolves!” Mr. Whitmann exclaimed. “Ho boy, that’s a new one. Don’t mind him, your honor. His generation is all about the Twilights and the Lord of the Rings hooey. He’s not even supposed to be here, technically. Say, are you all right, sir?”
The prince took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. A bead of sweat had gathered at his forehead. “I am merely … homesick. It pains me to be away from my castle.”
Mr. Whitmann grunted and leaned back in his seat, surprised when it reclined a bit. “Oh, I like this. Very comfy. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Rest.” Vontescue’s words came out like a command, and Mr. Whitmann’s eyes shut on cue. It only took a few tense moments before very quiet snores escaped from his wide nostrils.
The prince watched for a moment with quiet satisfaction, then turned back to me. “Sam Grayle has told me much about you. He is quite fond of this fencing team.”
“Is he now,” I said quietly. Steel your nerves, Alice! My hands found my legs, squeezing them to keep them still. I was anxious. Uncomfortable. Totally uneasy. Vontescue’s cold gaze was throwing me off …
He’s testing me.
The realization hit me hard enough that I blinked fiercely. I kept my eyes on the prince’s, forcing my body to calm down. His dark brown irises seemed to pull me in. If those eyes are the porch light, then you’re the moth, Alice. Fight back. And don’t use powerless language! Powerful language. Powerful language.
“Did Mr. Grayle tell you how good I am with a sword?” I asked.
The muscles in the prince’s jaw tensed, as if he was chewing on something between his teeth. “He told me all about your battles thus far. It’s quite impressive.”
“Did he tell you how we met?” I asked, smiling innocently. “It’s really—it’s a funny story. I saved his life.”
“You did?” Chase asked, eyebrows
raised high. “You saved Sam Grayle?”
“He owes you a great debt,” the prince said. “The least he can do to repay the favor is sponsor your fencing team. I should think he owes you more. Much, much more.”
“I don’t need much, much more. A trip to Europe is enough for me.”
“Is it?” The prince leaned back in the seat, pondering my words and tapping on the top of his cane. “And what if your team fails to win? What then?”
Chase’s fingers dug into the leather. “Well, we’ve got a good chance …”
“Sometimes the journey is more important,” I said.
“Ah! Such valiant words. But they ring hollow, I fear. Victory is all that matters. Tell me: did the Hungarian king enjoy his journey? No, he did not. He was cornered by ten Wallachian swordsmen, only able to escape after his most trusted lieutenant held them off. He fled on his horse. Alone. The blood of fifty thousand of his countrymen staining his hands.”
“Gross,” Seth whispered.
I stared into the prince’s dark eyes. What are you hiding, prince? “What about the hero’s journey?” I asked.
He raised one sharp black eyebrow. “I know little about your American stories, but I can tell you with certainty that the European monomyths have very few happy endings for heroes. The hero always has a tendency to … die.”
A cold chill ran through my body. I thought of Juliette, the hero who’d left me the magic pen. He was being cryptic now. He knew more than he’d let on earlier, I was sure of it.
“There will be a happy ending,” I stated.
“Only in fairy tales,” the prince said, sniffing the stale, warm air. “Sadly, the bravest among us are also often the first to die.”
My ears picked up a dry, cracking sound. I looked left: Chase was grinding his teeth together, glaring at the prince.
“Sometimes, the hero dies,” I said. “But in rebirth, she finishes her journey. And totally kicks some butt in the process.”
Vontescue cocked his head. “Curious way of putting it.”
