The Specter Key

by Kaleb Nation

  “So you’re just going to leave again?” Bran asked as Thomas pushed outside. Everything there was rocky gravel, with an open view of the streets on both sides. Thomas moved for a dark gray car parked near the back entrance.

  “Are you?” Bran pressed. “Just leave and take Nim with you?”

  “Perhaps,” was all his father would say, opening the door and dropping his things in as the police sirens got closer. Thomas turned the sack over and dumped all the money out into the music box, taking no care to avoid smothering Nim. He then dug around and scooped out a handful of the money and stuffed it back into the sack.

  “Hold this please,” Thomas said calmly, shoving the sack at Bran. He slammed the door and brought the music box to the front with him. “I am leaving this place. And if I was you, I’d leave quickly as well.”

  He reached for the driver’s side door handle.

  Bran shook his head. “Then I wish I hadn’t even met you. You’re a horrible father.”

  Thomas’s hand stopped, the door pulled halfway. Bran could see the reflection of his father’s face in the window.

  “I was called that once,” Thomas finally said. “By your mother.”

  “And now she’s dead,” Bran said.

  For the slightest of an instant, the hardness behind Thomas’s eyes seemed to shift in the reflection, as if his features fell for just a split second, before stiffening once again.

  “So she is,” he replied. “And soon there will be a few more dead because of it.” He yanked on the door handle, his heart a brick wall once more.

  The engine roared throughout the lot, and Bran stepped back. Thomas pulled the car out and onto the gravel, the wheels throwing up some of the rocks as he drove away, spraying hot pebbles and a cloud of dust upon his son.

  Bran kicked the rocks with anger he couldn’t hold in any longer, but a flash and loud noise jarred him. He spun and saw two police cars coming around the other end of the lot, their sirens blaring and their lights spinning. His first reflex was to point the police in the wrong direction so that Thomas could get away. The reaction shocked him, that he would even consider helping this man.

  “He went that way!” Bran forced himself to shout, contrary to everything his confusing heart told him but obeying what his mind demanded. He pointed down the road, trying to get them in the right direction. It was at that moment he realized that in his right hand he was clutching a sack of money.

  “Oh no…” he said, as he realized what was happening, and looked up and saw that the cars were coming straight for him. A deeply fearful thought came upon him: what if they tested him for magic somehow at the station? They would know he was a mage.

  In a flash he spun around, dashing off before they could get a good glimpse of his form, dropping the bag as he did. He heard their engines roar, but he already had a head start, shooting around the corner and down the side street.

  The cars weren’t far behind, their tires scratching and sliding on the rocks. He felt his heart pounding as he ran, heat rising up and causing him to sweat. He could hear the sirens bearing down, and he leapt through a grove of bushes, falling and rolling into the yard of a small white house.

  He hadn’t lost them yet. The cars screeched to a halt, and he heard the lumbering officers dash out in pursuit. The bushes provided him with hardly any cover. He ran even faster around the side of the house. Great, running from the police now, he thought, panting for breath. Can things get any lower?

  Just then Bran slammed into a tall wooden fence. It knocked the breath out of him for a second, but there wasn’t any time to lose. He grabbed the top, pressing his shoes against the gate’s handle and flinging himself over.

  “Come back here!” the officers roared, but he was already running again through the yard. There were a swimming pool and a swing set but thankfully no people. The opposite end was gated as well, and Bran pushed through it, dashing out onto the next street. The officers were still shouting, trying to find a way past the fence.

  There was a large wooded area just across the next street, and he headed for it, turning back toward the main road before he lost his bearings. He was nearly out of breath, but he managed to get deep enough into the trees and brush that he couldn’t be seen from the road. He fell to the ground that was covered in a bed of pine leaves and sticks, and sat there bent over, trying to catch his breath.

  Cars rumbled by on the road, and he stayed still even though he was hidden well. It had been such a close call that it was hard to slow his speeding heart. He heard the police sirens getting closer and getting louder. He was very still until he heard them pass, and slowly he was able to calm himself.

  He knew he was in one of the parks but not one that had many visitors. He could see the shapes of houses through the trees and across the street, and the roof of the Nigels poking above the gates and rooftops. Already, there were ambulances and fire trucks gathered outside: at least he knew the man at the counter was getting help.

  When he finally thought it was safe, he stood up but found that in his frightful run, much of his strength had been spent. He stumbled and had to catch one of the trees for balance, getting golden sap on his palms. He didn’t care; somehow, he had escaped.

  He made his way through the trees carefully, creeping along the edge of the road until he reached a corner far from the Nigels, and made a quick exit onto the sidewalk. He tried to look casual as he did it, though no one was around to see him anyway. Everyone must have scurried home for the Fridd’s Day parties already.

  It reminded him of why he had come that far in the first place and only made him feel worse about the condition he was in. He tried to brush the sticks from his clothes but ended up smearing his shirt with tree sap. Still, he felt it was best to get as far away from the Nigels as he could, so he headed for the road and caught the first bus that arrived. Thankfully, he had the money that was meant for the Friddsbread. The driver eyed his clothes but drove on. Bran didn’t even know where he was going. He just didn’t want to go home and be interrogated by Sewey.

  So he sat there, facing out the window on the bus, as its tires squealed at each stop. People filed on and off, carrying groceries or pulling along children. The city became a blur as it passed, and Bran continued to stare out the windows, glimpsing the tiny form of his reflection in the windows of the shops that were closing early for the celebration.

  How did I end up here? Bran thought, too bitter inside to offer himself any answers. Anger was mixed in with sadness and fear for what might happen—but mostly betrayal. It was his father’s fault Bran was running from the police. His father had planned it all along; he simply didn’t care what happened to Bran.

  Knowing his father was alive and cared nothing for him hurt worse than thinking he was dead. Part of Bran wished he had never met his father—if Thomas Hambric even deserved to be called that.

  The rumble of the engine continued to lull his thoughts until the exhaustion set in and he fell asleep leaning against the side of the bus.

  ***

  When evening fell on the thirteenth house on the right side of Bolton Road, Sewey was peering out the windows. Bran still hadn’t turned up. And this meant there was no Friddsbread.

  “His head,” Sewey muttered between clenched teeth. “Off with it. Off with it now!”

  As all the stores in town had closed, Sewey was left with no choice but to accept his fate and hope the guests forgot about the Friddsbread. It was a slim chance, like forgetting candy on Halloween or torches at a book burning.

  He was forced to hang up the decorations himself and ended up tying himself in knots of streamers and having to be unwrapped by Baldretta. Mabel threw the food out onto the tables downstairs. The house very quickly became one big, yellow madhouse.

  Bran still did not show. The hour grew later, and then the telephone rang.

  “Shush, everyone!” Sewey hissed. “It’s
the rich people calling!”

  He went for the telephone in his office. They had recently purchased a new one with a big caller ID display on the front. It was one of those fancy gizmos Sewey had no care for, but the picture on the front of the package showed a banker, and he looked like he had gobs and gobs of money, so Sewey bought it. He hummed to himself, hoping it would make him sound cheerful and obliging, as he slid his glasses on his nose to read the caller ID screen.

  Dunce Cops

  Sewey gasped.

  “What the rot?” he said fearfully. “What have I done now?”

  It rang again.

  “If I don’t answer it, maybe they’ll go away,” he whimpered.

  It rang.

  “I’ll get it then!” Mabel screamed from upstairs.

  Sewey was seized with a terror. “No, Mabel!” he roared, grabbing the phone off the hook and then immediately dropping it again to hang it up. He fell back in the chair, wiping his brow.

  “That was close,” he said. But then the phone started again.

  “Dah!” he shouted, leaping up.

  It was the police again.

  “Don’t answer it!” he boomed, and he pulled the plug on the phone and then dashed to the one in the kitchen, pulling its cord out also. He went all throughout the house, disconnecting every phone there was.

  “No police officers are ruining this Fridd’s Day party!” Sewey huffed.

  ***

  When Bran awoke, he didn’t know where he was. The bus hit a bump, jolting away the grogginess. He looked around only to discover that the sun had all but set. Everyone else had gotten off the bus except for one other person, who was sitting across from Bran and staring at him in an odd manner. The man’s thin figure was like a human pencil broken into a sitting position, and his small head was nearly eclipsed by an enormous puff of sandy hair. It stood out in all directions, as if the bus walls buzzed with static electricity.

  Bran blinked, but the man did not. He just went on staring. His face spelled confusion so much it might very well have been written there.

  “Hello,” Bran said, his voice echoing.

  “Aye,” the man replied with a quick nod.

  “Where are you headed?” Bran asked, digging for anything to say. He felt that if he kept this man talking, he might not think about leaping at him with a hatchet—or whatever else he had planned.

  “Out of here,” the man said. “Just got released from the Dunce Jails.”

  “Ah,” Bran said, nodding slowly. His gaze darted to the bus driver—a scrawny, college-aged boy who looked as if he could barely lift a pillow, much less fight off an escaped lunatic.

  “I was innocent,” the man went on. “Got me on indecency. I was masquerading as a man who was masquerading as a man who sold…things.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad,” Bran said. “What’d you sell?”

  “Papers,” he replied.

  Bran lifted his eyebrows incredulously. “Well, then,” he said. “I’ll remember that next time I scribble on a notepad.”

  The man shook his head.

  “Not just any normal papers, no siree.” He looked around, and then put a hand up to the side of his mouth. “Magic papers.”

  Bran coughed. He’d heard that before.

  “The name’s Rat,” the man went on. “Mr. Rat.”

  Bran coughed into his hand again at the name, blinking. “Mr. Rat?”

  The man nodded slowly.

  “The same Mr. Rat,” Bran went on, “who tried to sell magic papers on Twoo’s Day?”

  Mr. Rat blinked. He did it again and about two dozen more times, as if the marching beat in his head had skipped and he now had to get it back on track.

  “I can’t really remember,” he said. “’Tis all muddied up.”

  “You probably don’t want to remember it either,” Bran consoled him.

  “Yes, yes…” Mr. Rat repeated, as if recalling some wistful memory. His face twisted up. They rode in silence for a bit, and Bran quietly plotted various ways of escape if Mr. Rat jumped at him.

  “And it was such a useful invention, too,” Mr. Rat lamented after a while.

  “Well, you’re out and about,” Bran said. “So they must not have thought you were much of a threat.” Or they were too afraid to keep you, he considered silently.

  But Mr. Rat shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “There’s a whole lot more magic in this town than they know of, and I ain’t the deepest threat. None too harsh on Mr. Rat. I was let go after some community service, and now I’s heading off to Yarrow for a job at the subways.”

  Bran nodded, unsure of what to say. He felt a bit uncomfortable when Mr. Rat mentioned the magic in the town, but he was certain enough that Mr. Rat was not hinting at anything. The bus came to a stop just in time.

  “Fifth and Main Street,” the electronic voice said from the ceiling.

  Bran looked about—he hadn’t realized how close the bus had brought him to home. Two passengers got on at the front of the bus, so he stood and headed out the back door, thinking he could stop by Highland’s Books and maybe use the telephone. The streets had already darkened. As he walked back to the corner and the main road, the streetlamps seemed to follow him, flickering on one by one as he went. It was coincidence, but it warmed him inside, as if the lamps were in some way trying to comfort his heavy steps.

  The sidewalk was deserted, with most people heading off to parties or to the grand celebration in Givvyng Park, where the mayor would ring the Watling Bell and light off some fireworks. Much more interesting than anything the Wilomases might concoct. And the longer Bran stayed away from the house, the later it would be for him to get into trouble. As he walked, he felt intensely lonely. He’d grown so used to Nim in only a day that not having her with him felt like he was missing a piece of himself. The streets seemed far colder and far emptier than usual, but he trudged on and tried not to think about Nim back in the music box.

  Several cars turned at the corner ahead on Fourth Street. Bran realized with a start that Mr. Cringan and Astara were having a Fridd’s Day party of their own. He had completely forgotten about it. He started toward the street with renewed vigor, only to glance down and realize that he was not dressed in yellow, but in fact was dirty and covered in tree sap, dust, and bits of sticks. No way could he show up to the party.

  Still, he cut in at Third Street and took the alley around the back, hoping he might get to at least pull Astara aside for a minute and say hello, and maybe take a sip of the Friddspunch, since all the running had left him frightfully thirsty. The back door to the bookstore was unlocked, so he just went through.

  He could hear the loud sounds of revelry. There was rock music playing from in the main part of the store, and people were laughing and shouting at each other. A pang of wistfulness shot through him; he wished he could be a part of it. There were long tables in the back warehouse of the store on which were ice chests and plates and extra cups.

  “Bran?” Astara’s voice called. She was already there, holding an empty tray with plastic silverware and plates piled on it, about to put it into a huge garbage can.

  “Happy Fridd’s Day,” Bran said, hastily brushing off as many of the sticks as he could from his clothes. Astara dumped all the trash and rushed over to him.

  “So you got away after all!” she said, sounding thrilled, even as he went on brushing the mess onto the floor. She was dressed in light jeans and a clean yellow shirt, and had gotten her hair done in curls. She looked different; Bran had only ever seen her when she was working or on an errand—or when they were running from people who desperately wanted to kill them.

  “Yeah, I, um, barely managed to escape,” Bran stammered, partly because he didn’t know what to tell her anymore and partly because he felt embarrassed about how he looked.

  “Well, that’s good,” she said. “Fee
l like joining in? Mr. Cringan’s about to start some of his horrible karaoke.”

  “Actually,” Bran began. “Well…I don’t know.”

  Astara seemed to have picked up that something was not entirely right, so she set the tray onto the table. “Just want to talk?”

  It always struck Bran the way Astara seemed to be able to read his mind, so much that sometimes he doubted she was a Netora at all, but really a Comsar in disguise. Still, he shrugged.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “How about somewhere else?” she suggested.

  “No, I don’t want you to leave the party.” Bran shook his head.

  “I told you, Mr. Cringan is about to do karaoke,” Astara replied dryly, placing the lid onto the garbage can. “Let’s go to Givvyng Park, and we’ll see the fireworks before it’s too late.”

  Bran almost smiled. On Bolton Road, he would never have been allowed to simply leave and head off to the park without running errands along the way. But with Astara he felt as if he had some power in the strength of the two of them, and he no longer feared what was going to happen when he got home. So he agreed, and she smiled, and they started out the back door in the direction of Givvyng Park.

  Chapter 12

  A View from the Water Tower

  Astara knew enough about Bran not to talk about what was troubling him. There was a chilly wind, but the park was not far away. There was a large and bustling crowd already, with a stage set up in the middle of the grass and people gathered all around it. Mayor Demark was on the stage, giving a roaring speech about patriotism and Duncelander spirit, and at the end of each sentence the crowd would shout in approval and ring bells and shake yellow maracas.

  The crowd was vastly different from the sort Bran was accustomed to with the Wilomases and the wealthy people they tried to impress: there were people with children, some carrying cotton candy and ice cream. It struck Bran how odd it was that a group of Duncelanders could seem so happy and yet innately harbor such a deep loathing toward those outside their walls. Seeing the cheerful and smiling faces almost made Bran feel as if each of them was wearing a mask, covering up some dark secret. These same happy neighbors might turn on him in an instant if they knew who he was.