by Ken Brosky
I digested the information with a dull ache in my stomach. The pen would choose who faced this dark evil. It would not be me. I knew it in my bones. I would die before the Corrupted were vanquished, which meant I could never see my family again without risking their safety.
“I can’t …” I began, but then from outside came an ear-piercing scream. I rushed to the far window, pulling my scarf up and searching the street. A woman ran by clutching the bottom of her dress, her face knotted with worry. Then a man, pulling two crying children by their wrists with such force that I feared he might pull their arms off. Two more townsfolk passed, each of them clutching the reins of a horse that trotted beside them.
“There is danger,” I said, my warm breath fogging the glass. “But what …”
Then I saw them. Shadows in the darkness at the far edge of town. Shadows with glowing golden eyes.
“Hurry, we must—” I turned, my voice trailing off at the sight of the old warrior slumped in his chair. The smell of death hung in the air. I went over to him, running a finger over his eyelids so that his soul may rest.
I grabbed the lantern and went next to the door, pausing beside it to draw a shield in the old floorboards. I made it wide, V-shaped at the bottom, with two curved leather handles just big enough to snugly fit my forearm so that I may clutch it tight. I imagined cherry wood, strong and sturdy. My hands pulled it from the floor, lifting it by the smooth edges.
More screams. There was no time—the shield would have to do for now.
I hurried outside. More townsfolk passed, making their way to the cathedral. The town was dark, with only a few candles left burning inside some of the small houses. Others were little more than shadows, empty or perhaps filled with a frightened family that had barred its door and snuffed the candles.
From somewhere in the town came screams, then a monstrous roar of satisfaction.
Nearer the eastern edge of town now, I followed one of the dirt roads back to the house of Wilma and Gunter. I kept the lantern in front of me, aware of the scent plaguing my nostrils: fur. Animal fur, wet with oils, as if a pack of ferrets had just passed under my feet.
But not ferrets.
Wolves.
The shadowy creature stood on all fours beside Gunter’s house on the edge of town, chewing thoughtfully on my kind hosts’ dairy cow, which lay in the center of the road. The poor thing had been dragged from her pen. The creature smacked its lips, going back for seconds, watching me approach with a wary gait. As the edge of my lantern’s glow reached first the fallen cow and then the creature, I gasped.
Whatever it was—had been—it was no wolf. It was bigger, with flowing fur around its head and a massive bloodstained mouth. I wish I could offer more, but as my light shined upon it, its form changed. Within a breath it was no longer a creature but a man dressed in fine clothes, his mouth still bloodstained.
“Put the light down,” he ordered, still chewing. He stepped over the cow. A drop of blood trickled down his chin, landing on the collar of his brown vest. I moved left, nearer the front door of my hosts’ house. He watched me with bemusement. “You are not afraid. Are you so brave, little boy?”
“Brave enough,” I answered.
He laughed, stepping back and glancing hungrily at the half-eaten cow. As he moved away from the lantern’s glow, his form began to change. He became more animal than man, the glow in his eyes growing brighter.
I moved closer to the house. The eyes watched, the hulking dark form staying just out of range of the glow of the lantern.
There came another roar somewhere on the other side of town.
“I’ll come back for you,” the creature growled. He turned, disappearing into the night. I risked a step closer to the dead cow, inhaling through my mouth to avoid taking in too much of the scent. On the ground beside the carcass: a very faint glowing trail, like breadcrumbs.
The trail was visible only in the glow of my lantern.
November 9, 1822
Stupid girl. You spent all your time reading about science and mathematics and never bothered to read through a zoology book.
They’re lions, of course. Curse me for so quickly forgetting. What did the fox tell me last we met? He told me to read Grimms’ Fairy Tales again and again. Always I put it off. Had I known who—what—was attacking the town, I might have stopped them. I might have saved some of the people who were taken. Even now, my mind will not allow me a moment’s reprieve. I cannot stop thinking about the fate of those poor souls taken last night. Why did my dreams not warn me? All I’ve dreamt about these past few days is a great forest covered with snow and a terrible sound of thunder. If I would have seen these creatures coming …
No. I must stop for the sake of my sanity. The lions will come again tonight. Wilma says they have been terrorizing this town for months. My frightened hosts cannot say why the lions come on certain nights, but I suspect they wait until the moon is but a sliver so they may hunt in the darkness.
Wilma and Gunter say the cathedral is protected by old magic runes. I saw one carved into the front door—a curious % symbol—but don’t expect it will do them much good. They cannot spend their lives sleeping in the cathedral every nightfall. The town would rot. With its few remaining livestock and crops unprotected …
“It is madness,” Wilma told me at dinner. It seemed as if she had not let go of her husband’s hand since they woke in the morning. “What gives you such power that you can stop these monsters?”
“A pen,” I told them. “And your old hunting bow.”
They laughed an exhausted laugh. The skin below their eyes was blue and puffy, but it was clear by the way they looked at each other that they feared not just their own lives, but the lives of each other and their children.
I envy their love. I envy the smell of fresh stew cooking over the open fireplace. I envy the children sitting on their bed, so cherished. But I am also sad. Sad that these children must live through this nightmare.
The lions must be stopped tonight, before anyone else can be taken. Night falls soon.
November 10, 1822
They came two hours after nightfall, expecting to carry away perhaps another feast, the Corruption gnawing deep inside their bones. But when they arrived, they found the town deserted. Most of the people had congregated inside the cathedral. As for the others …
So brazen, these creatures. They walked down the main road, one big pack of hunters. Eight of them. Occasionally, one or two of them glanced into the darkened window of a house. They were only shadows but I could imagine their noses testing the cool, dry air for some delicious scent. I could only hope the prospect of my flesh was enough to serve as a first meal. Or perhaps it was the smell of the townsfolk in the cathedral behind me that wetted their appetites and drove them closer.
“Your bravery serves neither of us,” said one of the hulking, cat-like shadows as it moved closer. They were so close I could hear their claws crunching on the gravel road. I could smell their fur. Their dark shapes stopped just two houses away.
I gripped the hunting bow tighter. Gunter’s old wooden milk pail sat by my feet, fill with arrows. The finest arrows the town could offer, each with a carefully crafted tip.
“Hide, or flee,” said the same lion. He was the same one who’d confronted me the night before. “Hide and save yourself, or flee so that your blood pumps hard and your meat tastes sweet.”
“Closer now,” I whispered.
The lion’s ear flicked. “What now? Do you mean to test your bow? We shall let you test it, boy. And then we shall carry you away.”
I held up a hand.
Behind the lions, men poured out of the dark houses, igniting the torches we had set up at the outskirts of the small town. The town was surrounded by a ring of magnificent orange light that reached the tips of my feet. Gone was the darkness. Gone were the lions. They were men again, squinting in the light coming from two torches positioned on either side of the gravel road leading north. The smell of animal f
ur was gone, replaced by the scent of hay that I’d so enjoyed upon first arriving.
I lifted Gunter’s hunting bow, drawing an arrow from the wooden milk pail at my feet. The eight lion-men watched with bemusement, each one taking a step forward … away from the torches at their backs and nearer the cathedral where there were more shadows.
The leader of the lion-men smiled, the soft glow of his eyes hidden underneath his dark brown eyebrows as he glared at the sharp iron tip of the arrow. “Go on, boy. Test your weapon on us.”
I fired the arrow. My aim was true, hitting the lion-man in his chest. He fell back, burning away so quickly that the warm ashes fell to the ground in a person-shaped pile. The arrow landed on the black pile.
The other lion-men stared, unbelieving.
“Word has not traveled here yet,” I said in a low, loud voice, the same voice I’d practiced for two years to ensure that I would pass as a mature boy. “So I will graciously inform you.”
The lion-men took a confused step back. Three had yet to avert their gaze from what remained of their comrade.
“You are no longer invincible,” I told the lion-men. “You are in danger. From this day forth, this town is under my protection and if I see you here again, I will hunt each of you down and destroy you.”
The lion-men took another step back. Good, I thought; let them not call my bluff. It was clear they could all charge me and overpower me. But perhaps …
I turned my head slightly, watching the townsfolk flood out of the cathedral. Wives and husbands. Children with their entire lives ahead of them. They all stood tall now. Perhaps the lion-men feared the townsfolk’s renewed courage more than the lion-men feared me. And clearly they feared the flames. Good … best to ensure they learn this lesson well, I thought.
I stepped forward, drawing another arrow from the milk pail. I took two more steps forward, two of my fingers pulling the bowstring back. The lion-men moved closer to the edge of the town, between the two torches that flanked the road. They huddled close, then filed into a single line to keep their distance from both torches, their hands held up to shield their eyes from the light. I moved closer, aiming the arrow at the last of the lion-men. He watched in horror as I drew the bowstring back.
“Poor luck,” I told him, firing the arrow. It hit him in the shoulder. The burning blackness spread over his body. Ashes floated down, coating the gravel road between the torches.
The others were on the other side of the ring of fire now, their forms slowly changing as they ran away from the glow of the torches.
November 11, 1822
“Are you sure you must go?” asked Wilma this morning. “They will be back.”
“They will never be back,” I told her, “so long as your priest keeps the magic flame burning, so long as you light the torches every night. And if they do, you’ll take the magic flame and set them on fire.”
We were sitting at the table, all of us. The two daughters were playing with the dolls I’d created. Gunter had cooked some sausage, and the smell of its spices were so mouth-watering that I drew in quick breaths through my nose to enjoy it. Wilma sat beside him on the wooden stool, close enough that their shoulders touched. Underneath the table, perhaps they were holding hands. Not the tense, frightened touch like yesterday morning … instead, their hands were no doubt warm and reassuring, a reminder that their love had survived the darkest of nights.
The magic flame. Created with the sparks of the magic pen’s nib running across a piece of stone. It would do. It would have to do. I could not spend the rest of my life protecting this town.
“Stay with us,” Gunter blurted out, surprising both of us. He cleared his throat, breaking a piece of bread in half. “Not to protect us, but to join our family. We have enough food, and you know much. You could teach the other children in town. You will be respected for all you’ve done.”
I clutched the fountain pen tight. “I cannot. Promise you’ll keep the flame burning, for the sake of your children and your grandchildren and their grandchildren.”
“Always,” Wilma promised. “But where will you go?”
North. To a forest where giant men lurk. Where more Corrupted threaten the lives of people like Gunter and Wilma. I will hide this diary in the town library in hopes that whoever the pen chooses next may find use of it. I will carry on.
And I will try not to think of my family. Or the evil force. Or my imminent death.
Book 9: Malevolence
Chapter 1
“We need garlic.”
“No, we don’t. Turn around.”
Briar turned. I carefully put my t-shirt back on, setting the hospital gown on the examination table. I took a deep breath, testing the pain in my ribs. It felt like someone was pushing on my side. “Someone” being an elephant.
“We need crosses, at least.”
“No, we don’t. Briar, he’s not a vampire!”
Briar spun around, ears pulled back. “Well, what is he then? Certainly not a Corrupted. And so he is something else entirely, and that means neither you nor I are equipped to handle him.”
“We don’t even know if Vontescue is involved, or if … if he’s being used like a puppet or what,” I said. “All we know is that there is a totally dark force of evil that tricked the Brothers Grimm into bringing their fairy tales to life.”
“No doubt for some nefarious purpose.”
I nodded.
“Well.” He tapped his paw on his mouth, thinking. He was sitting behind the examination table where no doctor or nurse would happen to bump into him. That’s right—our lovable hero was stuck in a doctor’s office that looked right out of a movie from the 90’s: white painted cinderblock walls, old wooden cabinets under a stainless steel sink. Hideous orange-brown exam table. I was in Romania. Getting X-rays.
“Briar, the Brothers Grimm wanted to warn me,” I said. “Me! That means I’m supposed to do something about it, right?”
“Perhaps!” he waved his arms wildly in the air. “But who knows what you’re supposed to do or if you can even do anything about it! I … I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Too late for that,” I said. I closed my eyes. The image of Chase’s lifeless body had haunted me all night, and the morning light hadn’t dispelled the image. It was stuck in the darkness behind my eyelids, taunting me.
But Chase was alive. The magic potion that had summoned Death himself to take away Flick Grayle and Agnim the Magician had saved Chase’s life. And now he was sitting outside in the waiting room, unable to shake the pale tint from his skin.
And outside was one of the prince’s black limos, driven by a Corrupted.
“Briar …” I stopped when the door opened. My doctor—middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and kind eyes that belied her stern manner—walked in holding two x-rays. She turned on the little x-ray viewer hanging on the wall and put the images of my torso up there. Gawd, it looked weird. The body of a hero looked no different than the body of anyone else on this planet.
Except for the excessive number of cuts, scrapes, bruises, etc.
“It could be a fracture,” she said, leaning in close to the images. She had a crisp accent and a high-pitched voice that reminded me of one of the princesses from the cavern. Good thing she wasn’t checking my blood pressure right now. “I cannot see anything on the x-rays, but given your discomfort, it is better to err on the safe side.”
“So … you’re going to tape up my chest or something and I’ll be right as rain?”
She turned to me, shaking her head. “Wrapping your chest would ease your discomfort, but delay the healing process. There is no magic cure. You must take it easy for a few weeks. You seem to have no other internal damage, so you should be fine.”
No magic pill. Crud.
“And next time you cut yourself,” she said, motioning to my shoulder, “you should see a doctor immediately. Now you will have scars. And what will your boyfriend say when he sees such a thing?”
“I have a pret
ty good idea,” I murmured.
Back at the castle, we held an emergency meeting in Chase’s room. It was late morning, the house still mostly asleep except for a cook in the kitchen who was preparing what smelled like waffles. We had two hours before our scheduled practice, the last one before the tournament officially started tomorrow.
“We need garlic,” Seth said.
“No garlic!” I exclaimed, exasperated. “Guys. He’s not a vampire.”
Seth laughed incredulously. “He’s sleeping in dirt, for cryin’ out loud!”
“I know that. But he’s not a vampire. Maybe this dark force feeds on people, I don’t know. Maybe this dark force possessed Vlad the Impaler way back in the day, too.”
“OK, so what do we know?” Chase asked. “I feel really lost here.”
We were sitting on the bed while Seth and Briar took turns pacing. I hadn’t let go of Chase’s hand since we left the doctor’s office. He looked at me, grimacing. For a few agonizing moments the image of him, lifeless, seemed superimposed on his face. My heart hammered frantically against my sternum. Calm yourself, girl. You’re getting into some seriously deep mental anguish here. Just remember: he’s alive! He’s alive! I squeezed his hand, as much to comfort him as to reassure myself. The warmth of his skin under my fingertips soothed my ragged nerves; my heart rate slowly began to return to normal.
“A dark force known as the Malevolence,” Briar began, “forced the Brothers Grimm to bring their fairy tale stories to life. The Brothers Grimm ensured that a hero would eventually be warned. That hero has turned out to be Alice. So this Malevolence has been around for at least two hundred years …”
“Waaaaaaaaaay longer,” I said. “Briar, I saw carvings in that cavern from the Middle Ages, for crying out loud! Who knows how old this thing is?”
“Oh my crap,” Seth said. His hand found his head, slapping it. He turned to Briar. “Dude. Dude, dude, dude … Sanda! She’s up there right now with her lunatic father and she probably doesn’t even know! We have to save her. Right now, we have to go now.”
