The Specter Key

by Kaleb Nation

  “Nim?” she said softly.

  Bran nodded. “We’ve got to hurry, and you’ve got to stay out of sight.”

  In that instant, understanding his words, Nim popped her arms to her sides and they seemed to mesh back inward, her head melting back to the blossom it had been in the box. In less than a second she was a withered flower again, and Bran had to bring his hand up to catch her before she fell off his shoulder. He gently put her into his pocket, trying to be as careful as he could.

  “Be very still,” he whispered. “Remember, you’re illegal here.”

  They hurried to the door. Taking her out of the room might set the person who had been taking photos hot on his trail. But she was so small, so seemingly helpless.

  They slipped out into the hall and crept down the stairs. The old man was back in his chair, still at the crossword puzzles with the record playing as if nothing had happened.

  “Visit the Nigels sometime again,” the old man said as they passed.

  Bran nodded back at him as he pushed the door, but just as he was stepping outside, Bran’s shoulder collided with another man coming in.

  “Oh sorry!” Bran apologized. “I wasn’t watching where—”

  But the man didn’t even turn to look back at him, trudging ahead. It had happened so fast Bran hadn’t even seen the man’s face, but he caught the back of his head: he had messy, dark hair and a black coat. Bran rubbed his shoulder where they had hit.

  “You all right?” Astara asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, stepping outside.

  “Anything wrong?” she pressed.

  “No, nothing,” Bran replied, but something within him kept saying otherwise. He tried to shut it out, but it went on whispering a warning. He dismissed it as his nerves from narrowly escaping the room upstairs. The wind was beginning to get stronger and smelled of the water nearby.

  “That man coming in was rude, wasn’t he?” Astara said. “Ran right through you.”

  “Did you see what he looked like?” Bran asked quickly.

  Astara blinked at him and then shook her head. “No, I wasn’t watching either,” she said. “Why?”

  Bran shook it off. “No reason.”

  But inside an indefinable feeling kept pulling at him, and he felt an urge to look at the Nigels one more time. It was as if he could sense someone watching him from the house, though he kept walking briskly to his bike.

  Chapter 9

  Nim

  That night, two thick cotton balls swiped from Mabel’s medicine cabinet served perfectly as a bed for Nim. Bran stretched them apart and laid them flat on his windowsill, and she rolled around in the fluff before pressing her face to the window. The glass was almost the size of a cathedral to her. She was curious about everything; she could stare at things for hours.

  “Nim,” she said again, turning to Bran and pointing out the window. He was sitting on his bed, watching her closely. The light from his lamp reflected his face so he could hardly see anything through the window.

  “The house?” he suggested. She shook her head and tapped the glass, insisting he come closer. He did and put his hands up to block out the light in his room. She was pointing down toward the road, where he could see the Schweezer parked askew.

  “That’s Sewey’s car,” Bran said. “It’s a ferocious thing. Run when you see it coming.”

  Nim shook her head and went on tapping at the window.

  “Garbage cans?” he said. “I see a car, garbage cans, the road, Mrs. Hortibury’s garden, and then the next house. That’s it.”

  Nim gave up and fluttered back down to the windowsill. Bran went on looking outside, but there wasn’t anything that he could see. Nim turned her attention to the board of drawings next to his desk, flying up and hovering there for a minute. She gently lifted the edge of one that had been falling so she could see it better and then moved to another, touching the pencil marking and then looking at the gray it put on her hands.

  “Those are my drawings,” Bran said softly, turning from the window. She wiped her other hand across the pencil shading and got it gray as well, and then she darted over to Bran, holding her hands out with a terrified expression on her face.

  “Look, it’s just pencil,” Bran said. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  She didn’t look convinced. Bran gently rubbed her hand between two of his fingers. The gray wiped off instantly.

  “It comes right off,” he assured her. Bewildered, she looked at her hands. Bran sat down at his desk, ripping some paper off the roll beside it. He waved Nim over, and she stepped onto the paper, looking down as he gently shaded a long streak with a pencil.

  “See?” he said, pointing to it. She got down on her knees, looking at the gray closely. Bran wondered how she could have not seen a pencil before. Had she been trapped in that box all her life?

  She rubbed her fingers in the gray, but this time she smiled widely when she saw them. She wiped her hands on a clean part of the paper and looked delighted when they left a faint mark.

  “Hold on, sit over there,” Bran said, unable to keep from smiling. “I’ll show you.”

  She slid back on her knees, watching him very closely. He started to carefully draw the lines, glancing at her every few seconds and seeing that she was held enraptured by his motions. His pencil swept across the paper until very slowly he had formed a likeness of Nim, kneeling down just as she was at that very moment. He shaded her wings in with deep strokes, and then her wide eyes.

  “Look at that,” he said. “I think it’s you.”

  “Nim,” she said excitedly. Bran carefully added the three letters that spelled her name to the bottom of the sketch, and she stood before her likeness, still staring at it.

  “Like it?” he asked.

  “Nim,” she replied. She crawled off, and Bran pulled the drawing up to put on the board, sticking it in the bottom corner so she could see it from the desk.

  What am I going to do with her? he wondered. He hadn’t wanted to ask the question, but he knew the real danger he had brought to himself. If she was seen he would be off to jail in no time. He heard a sound and glanced at the box and was startled to see Nim peering into the keyhole.

  “Wait, no!” he burst, leaping forward and seizing the box from her. His rush of motion caused her to fall over. He dropped the box onto the desk again with alarm.

  “Are you all right?” he asked frantically, but she was already getting up. She shook her head, looking to be very dizzy.

  “You can’t touch this, understand?” Bran said severely, but the harshness in his voice caused him to stop. She blinked up at him, confused, and he bit his lip.

  “Listen, this is just very, very dangerous,” he tried to explain. “There’s something in here, and I don’t know what it is. It could hurt you—or me.”

  She didn’t look as if she really understood, but the fear in her eyes told him that she knew from his reaction that it was something important. He covered it with the old blanket again. Nim fluttered up to pull the corner over the other end. When he was finished, he glanced at the clock.

  “It’s late,” he said aloud. “I’ve got to get to sleep. Since you’re staying here you probably should as well.”

  He reached to the lamp switch and turned it off. Instantly, two circles of blue appeared as a glow in the night, resting on the edges of Nim’s wings, almost like eyes. Bran was surprised to see the color. As Nim breathed in, it went green, and when she breathed out, it went to blue again, like a softly pulsating lamp. She had flown to the window and was looking out again.

  “What’s out there now?” he asked. She shifted her head, crawling up the window and then tapping on the sill. He sighed and went back over.

  “Look, there’s nothing out there,” he said after studying the lawn and road again. “There’s not even a squirrel or a cat.”

 
“Nim,” she insisted, trying to keep his attention.

  “Look, it’s really late,” Bran said, checking the window one final time. “I need to sleep. Tomorrow we can go out there and look if you want.”

  Nim sighed and gave up trying. She settled down into her cotton ball bed and folded her wings softly over her like a blanket. The glow of her wings continued, but it was so soft and Bran so tired that as he settled into bed, even it didn’t keep him from falling asleep.

  Very early the next morning, Bran awoke to a huge racket downstairs. He almost leapt up but felt something on his cheek. He didn’t move, expecting a wasp or a mosquito, but found Nim curled up on his face, sleeping.

  “Wake up ye and feel the cheer! Tonight’s the feast ’cause Fridd’s Day’s here!” a chorus of voices roared in song downstairs, banging bells. Bran blinked and shifted his eyes up—not even daylight out.

  “Fridd’s Day Eve already?” he groaned. The singing voices were far too in tune to be the Wilomases; it was probably Ms. Hattie and Her Roaring Chorus out caroling and paying back the neighbors for never going to her parties. Bran very gently slid Nim onto his pillow, stealing down the ladder. He overheard Sewey give a nervous chuckle by the front door.

  “Thank you everyone, thank you and bravo!” Sewey called out, the front porch light illuminating the visitors in the dark. “Wonderful performance. Five stars. Stupendous.” He clapped frantically. “I feel practically full of Fridd’s Day cheer already and it’s not even four o’clock! Not even four o’clock!”

  The people laughed and whacked their bells, not catching Sewey’s drift. He winced at the clamor and gave another fake laugh. Mabel came out of the bedroom, squinting and wrapping a robe around herself. The neighbors waved. Mabel did not.

  “Look, Mabel,” Sewey said, turning to her. “These people have come to wish us Fridd’s Day cheer. Come: happily sacrifice precious hours of sleep with me.”

  Mabel furrowed her brow. But the most important thing in the world to the Wilomases was to appear at least as respectable as, if not more than, their neighbors, so she forced a smile. First went up half of her lip, and it fell. She tried a second time. The muscle trembled from lack of use.

  “Like you, it is about this time every year,” Sewey went on, “I actually feel like climbing out of bed at some unholy hour and waking my neighbors with an accolade of metal instruments! Truly a—”

  The lights on the front porch started to flicker, causing Sewey to lose his concentration.

  “Ah,” Sewey said. “Truly a remarkable—”

  It happened again. Not only were the lights on the porch starting to dim, but the lamp Sewey had turned on downstairs faded as well. There was a night light plugged into the wall next to Bran’s foot, and even it buzzed in and out.

  The neighbors looked at one another awkwardly and then up at the lights. For a moment, the flickering seemed to have stopped.

  “Erm,” Sewey tried again. “A remarkable feat to—”

  But then the lights went out entirely, with a horrible fizzing sound that caused the carolers to jump. It sounded like the hiss of an angry cat. It was followed by a strange rumbling. The noise seemed to be coming from all the walls at once, like a great stone being rolled across concrete, reverberating around them.

  The neighbors began to shuffle about nervously, and Bran could not deny the fear that crept up his back. The sound kept growing louder and more horrible, grating at his nerves. Then, suddenly, the lights came back on. Sewey jumped, and the sound was gone again.

  The neighbors gave a collective gasp and turned to one another, as if checking to make sure they were all there.

  “Totally sorry about that,” Sewey stammered. “I, uh, it must be something with the power lines.”

  The neighbors had begun to whisper, and Bran caught tidbits about “overdue bills” and “Wilomases getting poorer” and “city cutting off their power.”

  “Oh, nothing of the sort!” Sewey stammered.

  The neighbors did not look convinced. The Wilomases appeared to be in an even worse financial state than before. One of the neighbors even came forward with her checkbook, offering a donation. Sewey nearly went into hysterics but finally got them all off his porch and closed the door with the lightest of slams.

  “It’s mad!” he whined. “What the rot is going on with our lights?!”

  Bran, still in shock over the strange sounds, was beginning to be convinced that it had something to do with the box. He tore himself from his thoughts and came down the stairs, hoping to get some cereal. Sewey, however, followed him into the kitchen for coffee—but the moment he stepped through the door, he reared up like a mad goat.

  “It’s that bloody machine!” Sewey roared, jerking his finger toward Mabel’s tarbofluximator.

  Mabel gave an enormous scream, casting herself in front of it.

  “It is not!” she squealed as loud as she could, causing the cups in the cabinet to rattle.

  Sewey leapt toward the machine in a frenzy, as if he might tear it piece by twelve-thousandth piece with his bare hands.

  By the time Balder and Baldretta awoke a few hours later, the tarbofluximator had been tossed outside in the backyard rot heap behind Sewey’s shed, with its wires hanging down like a sad spider. The separation left Mabel in tatters as well, and she sat by the window that faced the yard, occasionally reaching out toward it.

  Sewey was in a far more delightful mood now, and he came back inside with grease and dirt on his hands.

  “Good morning children,” he said.

  “Monster,” Mabel hissed at him, going upstairs and slamming the door. Sewey felt no remorse and instead grabbed the newspaper and carried on as if nothing had happened.

  Mabel didn’t appear for breakfast, so they all had cereal, much to Balder’s dismay. To make up for it, he doused his in three heaps of sugar, while Sewey ranted and raved about something in the newspaper.

  “We’ve got that rotten party tonight,” Sewey grumbled as he ate. “The whole rotten thing’s going to be a mess. All those rich people and their gold buttons and fancy watches.”

  “You could always rent a fancy suit and watch tonight,” Bran suggested.

  “It’s just all rot,” he said. “Decorations and cooking and Friddsbread to get.”

  “From Larak’s?” Bran said, perking up. “I was just down on that side of town—”

  Bran caught himself and stopped, but Sewey had already heard it.

  “What the bloody rot were you doing down there?” he gasped.

  “I was…seeing a friend,” Bran said, which was basically true.

  “A friend?” Sewey stammered. “What the rot does that word even mean? You could have been out picking up our Friddsbread order from Larak’s instead of cavorting with hooligans. Now you’ve got to bike all the way back there this morning.”

  Bran didn’t feel like protesting. He finished breakfast, cleaned up, and went back up to his room. Nim was waiting for him, and she zipped around his head.

  “Shh,” Bran said. “I’ve got to head out somewhere today.” He knew he couldn’t leave her there alone. “You’ve got to hide if you want to come along.”

  She seemed eager to join him, and Bran set off outside. Larak’s Bakery was a good way off, very close to the Nigels—so close Bran wanted to kick himself for having to go all the way out there again. It was the rougher side of town, where the roads were bumpier and there were more dogs and fewer businessmen. Bran had to swerve his bike to avoid pockets of dingy men arguing in the streets. When he started to smell something burning he knew he was getting close. He came to a large building with a sign hanging over the street and blowing in the wind, which read:

  Larak’s Bakery

  Over 95 years of breathtaking service

  It was, in fact, so breathtaking that people stumbling out of the building seemed to have troub
le breathing at all. Smoke poured out of the windows like they were chimneys. Bran coughed as he made his way in and saw three other people already standing inside with drooping faces. The smoke was so thick Bran couldn’t see the ceiling. The sound of breaking pots and dishes filled the bakery with an echoing clamor.

  “Leave it open!” Larak the baker shouted above the noise, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was short and in his mid-thirties, with a walrus moustache and big ears that stuck out the sides. His clothes were stained from head to toe. Gigantic blimps of smoke were pouring out of the oven behind him, but he wasn’t even paying attention; instead, he was furiously scribbling on a yellow notepad.

  “How goes the new play?” Bran asked, but Larak only waved his hand to silence him until he had finished what he was writing.

  “Well, Bran, very well, thanks,” he said. He shoved the pad in his pocket with a dissatisfied huff. “This one’s for the big stage, it is. Full house, that’s what. I see the reviews. Sizzling. Wonderful. Hottest play of the season.”

  “There’s something else that’s a bit hot in here,” Bran said, nodding toward the oven.

  Larak blinked, and, spinning around, he leapt forward with his oven mitts. Out came a solid black, bricky loaf of bread—amid a stream of curses. “Blasted ovens!” he roared. He tossed the pan onto a cooling rack and fanned the smoke toward the window, coming to the counter. “You’re here for the Friddsfeast, I’m sure. Everyone’s wanted my Friddsbread.”

  “Only the best,” Bran said.

  Larak snorted. Bran covered his mouth and went on breathing in the smoke; his eyes were beginning to sting, and he felt a little dizzy.

  Bran felt Nim jerking about in his shirt pocket. He quickly turned to face the wall, fearful that someone might see but instantly disregarding it: the smoke would cover almost anything.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered, pulling his pocket open. He couldn’t see much in the dark room, but she thrashed about, and he dug his hand in quickly.

  “Are you all right?” he said, setting her in the palm of his other hand. She went limp for a second, and for a terrifying moment Bran thought that she had suffocated to death. But then she rolled over, jumping to her feet.