The Specter Key

by Kaleb Nation

  “I’m over here,” Astara said, and Bran spotted her at a long table with boxes of books surrounding her. There was music playing from a radio on the desk beside her, and as he made his way over, she lifted another box and ripped it open.

  “Cleaning out?” Bran asked, sliding to the other side.

  “Sorting it, mostly,” she replied, looking at a book and then tossing it into a large pile on the floor. “Most of these have been here for ages and won’t get sold. We’re getting rid of what we can and putting out the rest for sale.”

  “You sure you’ll be ready to open up by Fridd’s Day Eve?” Bran said.

  “Of course.” She nodded. “There’s not much left. We’ve already got most of it out. We’re just waiting on the flooring to finish up. And I have to watch the—”

  She jerked her head toward the wall nearby, behind which Bran knew was a hidden room containing illegal books on magic. Astara nodded at him gravely: she was there to make sure none of the workers accidentally stumbled upon it, as Bran himself had done before.

  “Are you going to move back in to live here, then?” Bran asked.

  “Not sure yet,” Astara said. “Most of my things are all right. Just a corner got burned, but half of it is ruined from the fire department. It’s going to take some cleanup, and Adi said I could stay at her house if I wanted.”

  “Do that then,” Bran said.

  “It’ll be really different,” she said, twisting her face. “I liked it here. I won’t get to hear cars rumbling by all day.”

  “Your commute to work will certainly get longer,” Bran said, grinning, and she pushed the box at him but smiled anyway.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. “How’d you escape?”

  “Mabel wanted some more medicine,” Bran said. “Who better to send than me? But I really came here because I wanted to show you this.”

  He reached into his pocket and drew out the tattered pieces of the burned paper. He had carefully folded what was left so that it didn’t break anymore, but it was still brittle, and he held it out so Astara could look.

  “See any writing or words on those?” Bran asked her. She looked closer, taking the pieces and laying them on the table.

  “Been playing with matches?” she asked, turning them over. Bran shook his head.

  “No, this paper was all in one piece last night,” he said. “It burned up all by itself.”

  He told her what had happened the previous night. Unfortunately he couldn’t remember all the words that had been typed, except for his mother’s name and what they had called themselves: the Specters.

  “What do you think it means?” Astara asked, looking closer.

  “Either I’m losing my mind,” Bran said, “or there’s something in that box that’s trying to talk to me.”

  “And we already tried getting it open,” Astara said. She stared at him, both of them thinking hard.

  “You didn’t tell Adi, did you?” Astara asked. Bran shook his head.

  “No, she’d take it away for sure,” he said. “She didn’t even want me keeping it. But there’s no way I’m letting this out of my sight. Not now.”

  He let a deep breath out. “There’s just something not right about all this.”

  “What’s not right, now?” a voice broke in, and Bran spun. Astara swept her hand across the table and hid the pieces of paper in her hand just as Mr. Cringan stepped up to them.

  “Can’t be anything wrong with this week, can there now?” Mr. Cringan said, a smile across his face. “Fridd’s Day’s coming up, and it’ll be the best one ever!”

  Mr. Cringan had yellow hair on his head and through his cleanly cut beard, and white teeth shone when he grinned at them. He held two big boxes of books in his muscular, tanned arms. Bran jumped forward to grab the one off the top and set it on the desk.

  “There we are now,” Mr. Cringan said. “Nothing better than the smell of all these pages. And seeing an extra helping hand!”

  Mr. Cringan chuckled merrily. He was much happier these days it seemed, and Bran knew it was because his bookstore was finally about to open again. Fortunately, Mr. Cringan had gotten a generous insurance policy, or else he might not be so jolly.

  “We’ve got everything planned to perfection,” Mr. Cringan boasted. “Hardly a detail left out. Yellow streamers and balloons and five yellow cakes, all laid out on a yellow table with corn tortilla chips and cheese sauce. Gigantic bowls of cheddar popcorn and caramels, and everyone dressed up in yellow like no one’s seen!”

  “Sounds like a real party,” Bran said, and Mr. Cringan looked up.

  “Well, you are coming, aren’t you?” he asked with a smile. “You’ve got to come.”

  “You have to,” Astara insisted. “We’re going to have the biggest party in town. And you know how hard it is to get Duncelanders near any place with books.”

  “I wish I could,” Bran said. “But Sewey has already drafted me into dancing with Madame Mobicci at their company party. I’m pretty much stuck.”

  “Oh well,” Mr. Cringan said. He was clearly disappointed, though he tried to cover it up as best he could with a laugh. He started to walk away, stepping behind some crates. The moment he was out of view Bran spun back to Astara.

  “That was close,” he breathed, and she quickly slid the burnt scraps back to him.

  “We’ve got to figure this out,” she whispered. “There’s something big going on. Last time this happened, this store burned down.”

  “That’s not going to happen again,” Bran vowed, shoving the pieces down in his pocket. There was something else in there, and he was reminded of the other paper. He brought it out for Astara to see.

  “That’s our clue,” Astara said, looking at it. “It’s the only real thing we’ve got.”

  “Right,” Bran said, taking a deep breath. “If only we knew who Nigel Ten was.”

  “Well, Nigel Ten’s not a person,” Bran heard Mr. Cringan chuckle behind him.

  Bran stiffened and turned, not having realized that he could still hear them.

  “It’s not?”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Cringan said, slapping some books onto a crate. “Where’d you get an idea like that?”

  Bran blinked at him, and then he glanced at the note paper. “I just…found it.”

  “No, no,” Mr. Cringan said, coming forward and wiping his hands. “The Nigels are a set of apartments that were owned by millionaire Nigel Stoffolis over by the docks. They were converted out of a mansion, and the rooms are rented out by the year to sailors and travelers and whatnot. There’s about sixty rooms I’m guessing, all in the manor.”

  “So Nigel Ten isn’t a person at all,” Bran stammered.

  “No,” Mr. Cringan spread his hands apart. “Nigel Ten is a room.”

  Chapter 7

  Finding Nigel Ten

  The idea had never once occurred to Bran, and now he felt as if he was hotly onto something. Mr. Cringan saw that it was important and turned to the wall, where a calendar and a big, tattered map were pasted.

  “Look, it’s over this way, not too far,” he said. “Don’t see why you’re interested in going to the Nigels, though.”

  “It’s not really that important, I guess,” Bran said, though he knew his face told the opposite because Mr. Cringan lifted his eyebrows. There was no fooling him. But he was the type of person who wouldn’t meddle into anybody’s business unless they asked for it, and so he finally relented and traced his finger along the road.

  “But if it ever does in the future become of any importance,” he said pointedly, “the best route is to follow along this way here, by the marina.”

  “Good thinking,” Bran said. He knew he was already caught, even as Mr. Cringan turned again and walked off. Bran looked at Astara. Neither of them spoke.

  “I’m going there,” Bra
n finally said.

  “I’m coming,” Astara added, not leaving any room for him to refuse. It was close enough to lunch that she had an excuse to leave for a while, even though Bran could see that Mr. Cringan had his suspicions. Astara had a bike that was just about as cheap as Bran’s own, black with parts of the paint worn off, but he was so used to cheap things he didn’t really notice. It was a warm trip that was mostly flat ground and easy riding, until it got to a few more hills as they got closer to the docks.

  Bran had gotten down this way before but usually only came to this side of town when he had to get something special for Mabel at Larak’s Bakery. There were tall hills around with mansions dug into the sides, overlooking the river like bird nests. He knew the streets well and found the one Mr. Cringan had pointed out, biking down halfway and then skidding to a stop.

  “Here we are,” Bran said, catching his breath. Both of them paused on their bikes for a moment. Off to their right and ahead a way, the road had a sharp drop-off. A steep hill bordered the harbor, with boats parked in docks and people all about. That was Lake Norton, which flowed downstream until it reached the ocean many miles away. There was a muddy beach somewhere down there, though it wasn’t close enough to see.

  Off to their left, however, between a bunch of fancy seafood restaurants and buildings lining the busy street, stood a large, white mansion with tall columns in the front. It was significantly worn and old, parts of the roof sagged, and bits of the steps were broken in places. It looked as if at one time it had been something breathtaking but had aged in recent years. There was a wide wooden sign sticking out of the ground in front that read simply: The Nigels.

  “There it is,” Bran said.

  “It’s an ugly old thing,” Astara noted.

  “But why this place?” Bran asked aloud. She shrugged.

  “No one would suspect anything strange here, I guess,” she offered. It was the perfect place to hide something.

  They crossed the street and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. The steps creaked as they went up, and Bran pulled the door open. A chilly artificial air blew out, wafting with the sounds of an old record playing inside.

  “Close it, please,” an old man’s tired voice commanded. He was sitting at a desk to the left and didn’t look up from his crossword puzzles. Bells around the handle jangled about as the door closed, mixing with the sounds of oldies music from the phonograph on the desk. Bran rubbed his arms in the cold.

  “Good morning, sir,” Bran said, looking about. The inside was all wood of an old design, with intricate carvings on the ceiling and cluttered with antique furniture. Hallways branched out in all directions, and stairs on either side of the room led to more. The creaking floorboards made the room echo as Bran turned slowly, taking it all in. A large stained-glass window on the front wall threw colors across the room.

  “Morning,” the old man replied, still not looking up. He found a word and penciled it in.

  “How’s business today?” Bran asked, searching for anything to say.

  “Usual,” the man said.

  “Should be more travelers with weather like this,” Bran mused.

  “Perhaps.” He erased a word and replaced it with another. Bran took a glance around the corner and saw that there were rows of doors on each side with numbers on the front.

  “We’re looking for a room here,” Bran said.

  “I’ve got plenty of ’em,” the old man replied.

  “Which ones are open?” Astara tried. The man looked up. His face was pale and bony with bits of gray hair poking out on his dirty chin. He was mostly bald, and his eyes narrowed as he looked them over for the first time.

  “Aye,” he said. “You want a room? We only sell rooms to folks old enough to have driver’s licenses. Go get your parents.”

  “Oh, this,” Bran stammered, “is my…sister. We’re…apartment hunting, for our parents.”

  The man blinked and didn’t look as if he was entirely convinced. Bran grinned stupidly, hoping he looked brother-like, and finally the man relented and started to look for his ledger book. He coughed roughly.

  “Twenty-three’s popular,” the man said. “But it’s filled. Forty-five’s filled too.”

  “What about ten?” Bran asked. The man flipped through the book.

  “Taken,” he said. Bran’s shoulders fell a bit. Taken? He hadn’t been prepared for that.

  “Who’s got it?” Astara spoke up.

  “Can’t say that.” The man shook his head.

  “Come on,” Bran said. “It’s just a name.”

  “No, honestly, I can’t,” he said, squinting at the paper. “This bloody ledger’s all smudged out for some reason. It’s been there a long while, too, that’s why. Whoever-it-is paid in advance.”

  “When will they be leaving?” Bran tried.

  “Hmmm,” the man looked in the book. “Oh, they’ve got that one booked for the next two years, it looks.”

  “Two years!” Bran gasped.

  “On for longer than that, too,” the man went on. “Ten’s been taken for the past nine years at least. Probably some sailor who thought it’d be his home.”

  “Do you ever see anybody going in there?” Astara pressed.

  He shrugged. “Never look,” he said. “There’s so many rooms I can’t keep up with them. If they pay, they stay; it’s been paid, so I don’t care if they live there or not.”

  “You don’t check on the tenants?” Astara asked.

  The man furrowed his brow. “What they keep in their room’s their business,” the man declared. “There’s rooms in this place I haven’t been in since I started working here nineteen years past.”

  He nodded strongly. “But eleven’s open, if it’s any recourse.”

  “Great,” Bran said. “Let’s have a look at it.”

  He thought instantly that if they could get into eleven they’d at least be closer to the room than they were now. If anything, they could find a way to glance inside. The old man dug about for a key in one of the drawers, pulling out an intricate one with a metal number 11 welded into the handle.

  “Second floor, right this way,” the man said. He started to stand up but began to cough again and had to sit back down, raising a handkerchief to his face. Astara suddenly slid closer to Bran, dropping her voice to a strong whisper in his ear.

  “He can’t come,” she hissed. “He’ll take us there, and we’ll never get to ten.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Bran whispered, as the man hacked into the handkerchief.

  “Make him stay here,” she said. Bran instantly knew what she meant by her tone: she wanted him to use magic on the man and convince him to stay behind. The man stopped coughing and shook his head, blinking to clear it from his sinuses. Bran was still hesitant, though, and Astara let out a breath and turned.

  “How about you stay back here?” she suggested. “We can show ourselves up.”

  “No, no need,” the man said, trying to stand. “I’ll go up there and open it for ye.”

  “No, I insist,” Astara said. “We can show ourselves up just fine.”

  “No, I’m all right,” he said adamantly. Astara was getting nowhere, and Bran knew she was right. If the man went with them, their chances of getting to Ten were slim.

  “Come on, just sit down,” Astara insisted. “It’ll be much easier, and you can rest.”

  “Thank you but no,” the man said. “I’m not too old to walk up a—”

  “Maybe you should listen to her,” Bran broke in, and he slid command into his voice: it was something he had not done before with magic, but he knew that in his powers he also held the mental abilities of the Comsar: to communicate, to read minds, and perhaps to alter thoughts. The crossword puzzles in the Daily Duncelander obviously didn’t do the man’s mind much good because it took hardly any effort,
and his eyes went blank.

  “On second thought,” the man lifted a finger, “perhaps she is right.”

  The man slid down back into his chair, his face confused. Bran pushed harder on the magic with his mind, feeling as if he connected with the man’s thoughts, suggesting for him to stay behind, until he had fought down the man’s mental barriers.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Bran said, starting to pull Astara toward the stairs. “Why don’t you have some fun with more crossword puzzles?”

  “Yes, yes,” the man nodded, taking his newspaper up again and looking at it. Bran and Astara hurried up, the steps creaking under their feet. Bran felt it was a wonder the balcony even held up, and the whole place seemed like it could fall apart at any moment.

  The hall was lit by a window at the end and some old light bulbs, so it wasn’t particularly creepy or dark. The floor was covered with a thin red carpet, and there were doors on each side with numbers, none of them Ten. At the end, it went in both directions, almost like a miniature maze.

  “Your sister?” Astara finally said. “Couldn’t have come up with anything better?”

  “It’s the first thing that came to mind,” Bran defended, though he saw she was actually trying to hide a smile while they searched. They turned the corner at the end, staying close together, although no one seemed to be up there who might notice. The halls were very wide and quiet except for their shoes against the wood, and the hallway at the end was lined with windows that showed the marina and the lake quite fabulously. They had to turn again, going down another passage until they finally found it.

  “Ten, right here,” Bran said. The door was closed. For a moment Bran looked at it, up and down, and listened for anyone beyond it. When he heard nothing, he pressed his ear against the door.

  “Hear anything?” Astara whispered.

  He shook his head and glanced both ways. “Let’s go in.”

  “Let me get the lock,” Astara insisted. “It’ll make me feel better after not getting that stupid box to open.”