The Specter Key

by Kaleb Nation

  “Why did you kill her?” he demanded of it. “Why did you have to take her? Why didn’t you take me instead? Isn’t it me that you wanted?”

  Taking Astara had to have been a grave mistake. He was the one whose mother had been a criminal. Astara was just a girl. It seized him, wishing to know why, so that his senses broke free at once and he felt magic reaching through his hands, toward the box in a way he had not done before. He knew immediately that it was the Comsar side of his subconscious trying to communicate with the box as if it were a sentient being—and though he pulled his untamed powers back, it momentarily scraped against whatever inhabited the box. Just that one, simple scratch sent a start through Bran, as if he had connected with something for an instant, and it caused him to drop the box with a crash that echoed throughout the tunnel.

  “What…?” he whispered, and everything was silent again, and he realized there had been a noise or a voice in his mind. It was as if someone had tried to speak but had been cut off.

  He grabbed the box again, squeezing it between his hands and reached for his powers once more, driving them into the box with such fervor they leapt from his palms. The feeling returned with an overwhelming flash of green light that surrounded him, throwing the tunnel and Nim and everything around him aside as if they had become water.

  He gripped the box and refused to let go, even as the light forced him to close his eyes. He felt wind on his face: a strong gust of hurricane force that should have knocked him over if not for the strange strength that kept him rooted in place. It was oddly exhilarating, a blast of pitch-black darkness and then green light again, and suddenly he was somewhere else.

  Chapter 17

  A Voice from the Grave

  Even though Bran’s eyes were shut, he could see flashes of light and bursts of strange colors; it felt like he was being plunged into another world, although he could still feel the concrete of the tunnel beneath his feet. His heart leapt when he caught a glimpse of an image: a face, one he recognized.

  “Astara!” he said, but the face disappeared, and he wasn’t sure if he had really seen her or if it had been imagined. But then she was back, dressed the same as just before she died. She was stumbling toward him, and the world around him materialized. It was Bolton Road, the street shining violently in the green light that pulsated from behind him, police cars and people fanned out on the street. He was somewhere different than he had been that night—standing now in the doorway of the house, looking out at everything. Astara was struggling toward him with blank eyes. Every scream and shout was silenced by a roaring, rushing wind, and everything was blurry except for him, the house, and Astara.

  She was as clear as he remembered, her gaze staring straight into his. It caused him to grimace, because it hurt to see her again when his mind knew she was dead. But he couldn’t look away. He stared straight into her eyes once more.

  “Come,” he found himself whispering against his will, though the softness was magnified as if through a thousand loudspeakers. Astara seemed to fade, to mold and morph, until it was not Astara anymore but an image of Bran himself, stumbling in his own direction. Then it changed again to Astara.

  “Become one of us,” Bran said, his lips moving on their own. Astara was just inches away, and then she stopped. His arms opened, wanting to reach out and pull her close, so that he might drag her from this horrific world—and as if she saw his invitation, she opened her arms as well and stepped forward to embrace him softly.

  The instant they touched everything vanished into a smoky haze, turning to dust. He wanted to scream but was yanked backward, hitting against something hard. He opened his eyes and found himself in the tunnel under the bridge, his back striking against the wall.

  He rolled over, coughing for breath. The box had fallen to the side, and he struggled to get up.

  “Bran!” he heard a soft voice, and Bran froze in recognition. He looked up and saw that he was not alone in the tunnel: there was a girl standing at the end, her hand against the wall.

  “Astara?” Bran said, his voice breaking

  “Are you even real?” he asked, thinking that perhaps he was still trapped in the vision. She didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got to help,” she said, her voice desperate, and he noticed her normally bright eyes were dull and empty. Bran got to his feet.

  “Take the box,” she said, so he did, and then he started toward her to make sure she was real. She stepped backward.

  “Wait,” Bran said, but she just walked away. Bran didn’t care if she was real or not and dashed after her. He stumbled outside and saw that it had grown dark—the magic he had done, which had seemed like it had taken minutes, must have actually taken hours. The woods and water were covered in blue, shaded light.

  “No, wait, Astara!” Bran said, but she was already walking briskly down the bank. He ran after her as fast as he could. She moved tirelessly, and he began to pant for breath as he followed her into the darkened woods.

  He called after her, but she didn’t respond, darting through the trees but always staying within sight even as the woods grew thicker. The canopy kept out what little light remained, so that Bran stumbled over branches and sticks as he tried to keep up.

  She drew him in deeper and turned down a side path, stopping in a small clearing. He slowed, trying to catch his breath, and she stared at him, not speaking. Bran just stood there as well, not quite able to move closer and yet not wanting whatever magic was at work to end. He wondered if it was just an illusion triggered by magic and his imagination. But then he looked down and realized exactly where they were.

  He remembered the place, even though his mind had tried so hard to forget—Astara’s grave site. The dirt was freshly covered over, and he could still see the indentations in the ground from the casket. He looked back up to Astara again, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. She looked at him intently and then pointed down to the place where she was buried.

  Unable to hold himself back any longer, Bran stepped toward her, but the moment he moved, Astara’s feet began to sink, as if her body was losing substance and seeping into the ground. Bran stopped in his tracks, but then he leapt forward, dropping the box and grasping for Astara as her form began to disappear, sinking through the surface. She disappeared before he could reach her, and he fell, kneeling over her grave.

  He looked around, hoping that she would reappear somewhere else. But she was nowhere to be found, and the woods had gone deathly still. He stood up quickly, cursing himself for being led so far into the woods. He looked down at the grave.

  “You’re trying to tell me something…” he said under his breath, stepping around the grave, letting his shoes sink into the fresh dirt. Nim had caught up and flew about the clearing, knocking leaves down and scrambling against branches, as if she could feel something happening. Bran kept staring down at the grave, and he could feel Astara calling to him again.

  “Are you still alive down there?” he asked, feeling near madness for even thinking it. He kept telling himself to leave that place and go home—but seeing Astara again, even for those few fleeting minutes, had broken forth a magic he could not reign in.

  He almost restrained his powers, but his hands wrenched outward, and magic flowed down his arms toward the place where Astara had disappeared. The dirt blew up from the ground as if being struck by an invisible palm, spewing away as tendrils of roots curled toward it like fingers, ripping the ground apart. He was calling on so much magic he couldn’t even discern what kind: Netora powers tearing at the ground, Archon magics calling forth plants. The ground tore and split, fueled by Bran’s anger and frustration. Nim flew about, throwing dust and dirt into a whirlwind around him.

  The ground seemed to erupt, coughing out a large, wooden box. Dirt and rocks fell from the sides of it as it burst out, and Bran let his powers go. The roots slithered back into the ground like a thousand tongues being drawn back into
their mouths. He didn’t move, breathing hard as the echoes of the furious magic resounded in the woods. Nim flickered to his side, catching hold of his shirt and crawling up to his shoulder cautiously.

  Bran said nothing, and slowly it began to sink in exactly what he had done. Astara’s casket stood before him, dirty and scratched on all sides. He clenched his teeth together until the woods fell silent. After hesitating, he finally inched closer, placing his hands on the side.

  The wood was cold to the touch, and his fingers left imprints in the dust. Do I really want to see this? What if he opened the casket and found her body, having already lain in the ground for days? It made him sick even thinking of it, but something within him forced him to go on, forced his fingers to undo the clasp. His arms slowly pushed open the lid, the hinges creaking.

  His gaze stared into the coffin. His hands and arms began to tremble, eyes searching the box. But he could not deny what he saw. The casket was empty, as if no one had ever been in it at all. There were no bones, no markings, nothing. Astara had simply vanished.

  “The Specters took her,” Bran said with realization, as Nim sat shivering and silent on his shoulder.

  Chapter 18

  The Box Is Opened

  Somehow, even in the dark, Bran was able to find his way back to his bike, pedaling madly until he reached Hadnet Lane. He skidded to a stop in front of Adi’s house, pounding furiously on the door until the porch light came on and the door was thrown open. Adi stood there with a look of terror on her face, which only deepened the moment she saw him.

  “Astara isn’t dead,” Bran gasped at her. A minute later, she and Bran were in her car, Polland in the back seat as they roared down the road, headlights showing the way through the darkness. Adi drove wildly until they pulled off to the side of the road, and Bran leapt out and led them through the woods.

  He pulled Adi around the bends of the path, Polland struggling to keep up as Nim flew unnoticed in the trees above them. Finally, they reached the spot, and Adi gasped when she saw the wreckage Bran had caused.

  “Bran, what have you done?” she choked, stumbling toward the casket. Bran threw the lid open, and she gasped again. Her trembling hands stroked the interior, not believing her own eyes.

  “They took her, Adi,” Bran said, his voice filled with anger and bitterness. “The Specters. Somehow, they took her, and I don’t know why.”

  “How did you find this?” she demanded, turning to Bran. He seized the box from where he had dropped it before and told her exactly what he had done and how he had seen the vision of Astara.

  “Comsar…” Polland whispered. “I wouldn’t have dared suggest such a thing. The danger of communicating with whatever is inside is boundless.”

  “It doesn’t matter; it’s done,” Bran said. “What does this mean, Adi? Where is Astara’s body?”

  Bran dropped the box from his hands into the small mound of dirt in front of him and sat, fatigue taking over. His body wanted to scream, but his mind was filled with a fire of determination.

  “It’s the Specters, whoever they are,” Adi said. “It’s haunted or filled with something evil that wants you.”

  “That’s just it,” Bran said. “It wants me, not Astara. Why didn’t the Specters take me instead?”

  Adi just shook her head, Polland’s flashlight casting dark shadows under her features. Bran absently turned the box over, the moon emblem facing up. Seeing the shape, he reached under his shirt and drew his mother’s necklace out. He took it off and found a beam of moonlight that broke through the trees above them. The word hambric flared on the necklace’s surface, lighting the woods a bit more so that Adi and Polland could see the box as they examined its edges.

  “Light up the top of the box again, Bran,” Adi said, so Bran set the necklace on the lid, letting its white glow fall upon its surface. The three of them stared at it silently, for none of them could see a way of opening it.

  “Your mother must have liked that shape,” Adi said, nodding at the similar emblems.

  “Look, it’s even the same size too,” Polland noticed, reaching forward to align the pendant on top of the shape to compare them. It fit seamlessly, covering the mark on the box completely.

  “It does,” Bran said, perking up at Polland’s discovery. “Almost like it was—”

  He froze. Right before their eyes, the moon pendant sank into the surface of the box, as if the wood had turned to quicksand. It stopped with the top of the necklace still standing out of the box’s surface. The glow of the name Hambric flickered and then flared with the same white and blue glow, rushing around the letters like fire before it disappeared again.

  The necklace seemed to have merged with the lid of the box, standing out like a glassy ornament. Then Bran heard a click. The lid gave a tiny pop, and the box opened.

  For a few moments, none of them could move, even as Bran’s fingers fell against the opening that had split the separate pieces of wood.

  “I can’t believe it…” Adi breathed out. Bran had been holding the key the whole time.

  He broke free of his shock and carefully swung the lid up without the slightest sound from the thick hinges.

  Even with the smell of the woods he could perceive the box’s musty odor. Polland leaned closer so that the flashlight beam was trained on the two lonely objects inside.

  Lying diagonally, fitting the box corner to corner, was a thin, black wand. It bore little decoration, unlike Adi or Polland’s complicated designs. It was simply a long rod that narrowed at the end, and Bran immediately pulled it out of the box. Adi drew in a sharp breath but was in too much shock to stop him. On the wide end closest to his wrist, a large, glimmering diamond threw sparkles onto all of them. He quickly covered it and saw that the wand had thin, almost unperceivable markings, going all down its sides toward the end point. When he turned the wand, the tiny lines shone and then disappeared as light hit them. Engraved at the bottom, where his hand would grip the wand, was the tiny indention of a moon, just like his mother’s necklace.

  “A wand…” Adi whispered. Bran held it tightly in his fist; it seemed to sway before him, and only then he realized that his hands were shaking. He restrained himself from letting his magic touch the wand, afraid of what it might do. Polland lowered his flashlight, and Bran lifted the wand higher, into the light of the moon, and just as with his necklace, the moonlight caused the thin lines to glow in a bluish white light, swirling toward the tip like water running over diamonds. It was startling and beautiful and strangely dark at the same time. The marking of the moon on its handle had begun to glow as well, softly pulsing like a calm heartbeat until his hand covered it and drowned the light.

  Bran realized that the others were watching him, and he looked up quickly to meet their eyes.

  “Your mother’s wand, perhaps?” Adi said. Bran could feel power within it, enchantments that his mother had placed in that wand—he couldn’t feel whether they were good or bad magic, just powers beneath its surface.

  “Maybe she left it to me before she died?” Bran wondered aloud.

  “No mage would part with a wand easily,” Adi said. “Especially not for all the time it would take her to hide it in Dunce.”

  “She could have sent it with me,” Bran said. “When she put me in the trunk, in the alley. Astara said she saw her put me in there. Perhaps it was in the trunk as well when she sent me?”

  “Or,” Adi said, straightening with realization, “perhaps it was part of the magic, Bran! When she used Netora powers to send you to the bank, your mother needed something to focus on as the destination. Maybe the safe deposit that you found this box in was the object your mother’s magic used to put you in the vault!”

  The thought had never occurred to Bran before. He hadn’t even thought about the magic his mother had done to send him away. But it made sense: it was the only real way that his mother could have sent him
to the vault. And then the safe deposit box must have gone unnoticed all those years.

  Simply holding the wand made him shudder. He knew what immense power it wielded. Had it been chance that he was sent to the bank? Or had it been planned by his mother all along?

  As he looked into the box, he saw something else was there: a small package, wrapped in black paper. He set his mother’s wand down beside him and gently undid the wrapping, and a large skeleton key fell into his hands.

  The key appeared to be made of a dark gray silver, the metal surface still shining as if just from the mold. The bit of the key was simple, only two curving rods. The key felt heavy, and it had deep markings along its cylindrical shaft. However, in the center of its curved handle was its most distinguishing feature: a solid, shining green gem.

  Bran recognized the green color instantly. It was the same shade and hue as the beam of light that had destroyed the Wilomases’ house many nights before.

  “What is that?” Adi asked. The key made a high-pitched sound as Bran ran his fingers across its surface, like the ringing of a bell.

  “It’s warm,” Bran said. Adi reached forward to take it so she could examine it closer.

  The moment her finger touched the key’s surface, there was a mighty, trembling explosion of green light, and Adi screamed. It threw her hand back like an electrical shock, and Bran dropped the key in fright, where it slammed into the ground and threw up dust. All three of them jerked from it, and Adi was breathing hard, her hand shaking with terror.

  “Are you all right?” Bran gasped.

  “That burns,” Adi said, shaking her hand. “It’s got magic on it, that’s for sure.”

  “But it didn’t give me any trouble,” Bran said, and to prove it he picked the key up again, and nothing happened. Polland curiously touched the key, and again, it burst forward like green fire, throwing his hand back and knocking him back a step.