by John Corwin
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter Meet the Author
Conrad Edison
and
The Broken Relic
Overworld Arcanum
Book Three
John Corwin
Books by John Corwin:
The Overworld Chronicles:
Sweet Blood of Mine
Dark Light of Mine
Fallen Angel of Mine
Dread Nemesis of Mine
Twisted Sister of Mine
Dearest Mother of Mine
Infernal Father of Mine
Sinister Seraphim of Mine
Wicked War of Mine
Dire Destiny of Ours
Aetherial Annihilation
Baleful Betrayal
Ominous Odyssey
Overworld Underground:
Possessed By You
Demonicus
Overworld Arcanum:
Conrad Edison and the Living Curse
Conrad Edison and the Anchored World
Conrad Edison and the Broken Relic
Stand Alone Novels:
No Darker Fate
The Next Thing I Knew
Outsourced
Seventh
Mars Rising
For the latest on new releases, free ebooks, and more, join John Corwin's Newsletter at www.johncorwin.net!
Chapter 1
I jerked awake on a cold slab of stone, the coppery stench of blood in my nose.
Something tight around my neck strangled the gasp rising in my throat. Sitting up, I felt a leather collar squeezing the flesh just below the Adam's apple. Blood soaked my shirt. Where am I? I tried to remember where I'd been, what I'd been doing before this. I peeled off the shirt and threw it to the floor in disgust.
My breath came in pants, stress and the choker on my windpipe doing their best to deprive me of air. Think, Conrad, think!
I took a long deep breath and held it a few beats. Before I could think, I had to be calm. My thudding heart carried on its panicked race, but eventually it began to slow. Some shred of rational thought finally penetrated the haze of desperation.
"My name is Conrad," I croaked. The choker made it difficult to speak. I swallowed hard against the dryness in my throat and conserved my breath.
I remembered my name. I knew that I was attending my second year at Arcane University, and that my best friends were Maxwell Tiberius and Ambria Rax. It seemed my long-term memories were intact. The last thing I remembered was leaving Golem's Gourmet, having eaten fairy pies with my friends and leaping from the top of the building only to drift slowly to the ground since the ingredients made a person light as air.
After that, Max had left for his uncle's house on his broom. Ambria and I had boarded the saddles on our brooms and flown for the house on the corner of Dowling and Bucket Streets. Beyond that, I remembered nothing, no matter how hard I squeezed shut my eyes or tried to remember the way home. How long ago that had been, I couldn't even guess. Had I slept here for a night, or longer?
Now that I'd determined the distant past and the recent past, it was time to evaluate this most unpleasant present time. Whose blood is that?
The sight of so much blood might make most people go weak in the knees or toss up a recent meal. I'd seen worse—much worse. I'd seen a demon devour a werewolf. I'd killed the wardens of my former orphanage. I was only thirteen, but I'd seen more than enough blood for one lifetime.
Apparently, someone didn't agree.
A thin layer of blood coated my chest and stomach, crimson streaks running down my ribs where the blood had seeped through my shirt. I ran my hands over the sticky mess and found no wounds in my skin. I checked my other extremities, looked down my blood-soaked pants, and found no cuts. I gingerly fingered several bruises, especially on my right arm and shoulder.
Four walls, a ceiling, and a floor of slick gray stone made my prison. The stone slab that had served as my bed was polished to a sheen barely reflective enough for me to see a shadow of my face looking back. Blood spattered the edges, leaving an outline of my upper body where it had collected the blood.
I felt for cuts on my head and neck and found nothing, except—there, on the right side just below my ear, the flesh tender and puckered. A small scab covered what could only be a puncture wound. A dart perhaps? It might have delivered a dose of potion that knocked me out as I flew down the winding roads of Queens Gate toward home. That would explain the bruises.
The blood did not appear to be mine, which meant—icy claws gripped my heart. Had the kidnapper taken Ambria as well? Had he done something awful to my friend? My heart raced. I tried to breathe, but a vice of despair squeezed my ribs.
I ran to the steel door embedded in the stone wall. I pounded, my small fists hardly making a sound against the dense metal. "Let me out!" My voice came out as a harsh whisper. I clawed at the rough leather of the choker. A metal clamp locked it. Try as I might, I couldn't pry it loose. My panic turned to claustrophobia, fear choking off my air supply. The room went dim and I teetered on the edge of consciousness.
Calm yourself, you little fool. Della sighed loudly in my head. Ambria is dead. My eyes burned with tears. I curled up on the cold floor and cried.
Crying certainly won't bring her back, Della said.
I ignored the voice in my head. After some time, I cried myself out and lay on the floor, spent. I felt calm and absurdly relaxed, as if I were not the prisoner of someone who had killed my best friend and poured her blood on my chest.
Why would anyone do such a horrible thing? Why were they not in here gloating over my misery?
I did not have many friends. Most of the other kids at school kept their distance. I had nearly as many enemies as friends. Harris Ashmore hated me because my parents had murdered his. My parents, Victus and Delectra Edison had used me as a demonic vessel to store their souls. After they'd been resurrected, parts of their souls had stuck to mine. Even now, they wanted me dead because my death would restore those soul shards to them.
I doubted Harris capable of kidnapping me and murdering an innocent. It seemed more likely he would prefer to beat me up and humiliate me as he'd tried to do in the past. My parents, on the other hand, were evil enough to do something like this. Perhaps they hadn't yet killed me because they enjoyed toying with their prey. Beyond the usual suspects, I couldn't imagine anyone else would go to the bother.
Sometimes the soul shards spoke to me, usually to berate me. I'd nicknamed them Vic and Della after their corporeal counterparts. I waited for them to chime in on this situation, but they remained quiet.
I huddled in the corner of the room, shivering in the ch
ill, but unwilling to put back on my blood-crusted shirt. How long does it take blood to coagulate? Not long, I suspected. That meant little time had passed since the kidnapper poured it on me. It meant he timed it so I would wake up with wet blood on me. It meant he knew I was in here suffering, sick with worry about the source of the blood, and questioning everything.
Why hadn't the kidnapper introduced himself yet? Was he watching me?
In this new calm state, rational thought came much easier. To gain entrance to Arcane University, I'd been subjected to tests, both physical and mental. I had to view this experience as yet another test designed to make me fold.
I took another long look at the room. The door was smooth iron—no lock or handle on this side. The walls had no markings, the floor had no drain, and the ceiling had no vents, only a glowing orb providing the light. There seemed to be no way out.
I went through my pockets but came up empty. The chain my foster mother Cora had given me with her stone was gone from around my neck. My heart caught in my throat at the thought that it might be gone forever. I took a deep breath and calmed myself. The only way I'd recover it was if I escaped. I once again looked for options.
My only assets were a bloody shirt, my pants, and shoes. I bumped into the sharp corner of the stone table and winced. As I rubbed my sore skin, I realized the corner might be an asset.
Holding a finger to the leather next to the locked buckle on the back of my neck, I lined it up with the corner of the table and worked it up and down until my legs grew tired. My fingernail found a nick where the stone had worn through. It was a small victory, but at this point I was willing to take whatever I could get.
Once I felt rested, I resumed my labor. Three more rest periods later, the leather finally parted. I tore off the choker and threw it to the floor.
"Hello." I tested my raspy throat with a few more words until my voice sounded dry but normal. It felt good to be free of the constricting strap, but it brought me no closer to being free of this room. My parched lips begged for water, and I felt the urge to use the bathroom. It seemed that whoever trapped me in here wanted me to suffer in all ways possible.
I finally gave in and urinated in the corner of the room. Right after I finished, I regretted not having something to store it in. I'd read stories of people drinking their own urine to survive. Then again, what good would it do to drink my own waste water? I could only recycle it once, and that would barely delay my dehydration.
Somehow, I had to find a way out of this room.
I went back to the door and traced my finger along the seams. There were no hinges on this side, and the crack at the bottom was too narrow to look beneath. I found a slight gap on the right side of the door, and through it, a sliver of light. Something halfway up the door blocked the light. The latch? It looked about an inch wide, but I couldn't make out how thick it was.
If only I had something to pry at it.
My eyes wandered to the discarded collar. The metal buckle was thin on the ends where it was stitched into the leather. I picked it up and tried to bend the leather away, but the thick hide was too stiff. I went back to the table and worked the inside of the collar against the sharp corner of the stone table. I worked feverishly, sweat dribbling into my eyes, and finally cut through the leather.
Tugging hard, twisting the leather back and forth, I finally tore it free from the buckle with a grunt of effort. The thin metal was tougher than it looked, and didn't bend when I tested it. Now to try it on the latch.
The blade of metal slid into the groove. I pulled up and felt it catch on the latch. It jiggled but didn't move so I increased the pressure. Still it resisted. I lowered the makeshift jimmy and slid it up fast. It dinged against the metal, but the latch didn't give in the slightest.
Maybe it moves in a different direction.
I'd thought this door similar to the ones in Arcane University where they used a latch that flipped out and down to lock into a notch. Perhaps this one was more like the ones used by normal people—the noms.
I pressed the tip of the jimmy against the latch closest to the door frame and then pried it to the left. The latch moved ever so slightly. My body trembled with excitement. I can do this! I nearly congratulated myself but the second I tried to slide the pry bar back to the right, the sliver of progress slipped back into the jamb. My shoulders slumped. Apparently this was harder than I'd hoped.
Once again, I positioned the jimmy and moved the latch to the right. I knew the moment I tried to adjust the angle, the spring-loaded lock would go right back into position. I needed another piece of metal, but I had no way of cutting the buckle in half.
I might as well wish for a blowtorch.
The keyhole looked relatively simple, but I had nothing that might be used as a lock pick. That meant I had to come up with another way of holding the latch in place, but what would work? All I needed was a bit of pressure to keep the spring in the door from pressing the latch back into place. There was really only one option.
I braced my feet against the floor and pressed my shoulder against the door. When I moved the jimmy, the latch stayed in place. I felt a grim smile on my lips. This will work. I pressed the jimmy into place, removed my shoulder from the door, and worked the latch another fraction to the left. Using my body weight against the door, I held the latch in place once again.
My hands ached and the metal bit into my fingers as I worked the jimmy back and forth, the latch barely moving with every effort. Minutes ticked past and I soon wondered if the latch was moving at all or if it was my imagination. Blood trickled from a cut on my left index finger, and my joints ached from the strain.
I gave myself a moment to rest and then resumed the grueling work. Slide, pry, hold the door. Slide, pry, hold the door. My movements became so automatic that when the latch clicked and the door swung outward, I fell to my knees and the buckle clattered to the floor.
Freedom!
Chapter 2
A glance into the hallway beyond told me that wasn't nearly the case. Four more steel doors with levered handles were on the opposite wall from mine, and three more were on my side. The corridor dead-ended on my left, but a short hallway to my right led to a stairwell.
I left the door to my cell hanging open and cautiously tested the other doors in the hallway. None were locked, and all opened to rooms identical to mine except they held no occupants. I crept up the stairs at the end of the hall and found another hallway of cells. These too were empty. The next level up was different. Wooden doors lined a corridor that stretched from left to right. An open doorway a dozen paces down was the only break in the monotony of this dungeon. I heard a faint cough and froze with dread.
Someone was inside that room. I certainly wasn't strong enough to fight someone, especially not with my exhausted hands. Stealth was my only option. I retreated back down to my cell where I picked up the buckle, the leather choker, and my bloody shirt. My assets were so few that I couldn't afford to leave anything behind.
Once back upstairs, I treaded softly, pressed my back to the wall, and sneaked up to the open doorway. A man in black Arcane robes sat inside small living quarters, his profile to me. Yellowed parchment filled a box on one side of his old wooden desk. Leather-bound books weighed down sagging shelves against the back wall, and next to the shelves was a small wooden bed with rumpled sheets. Behind it was a closet filled with more robes.
Though the man could glance right and see the hallway at any moment, his full attention was on a sheet of parchment where he scrawled with a feather quill. He faced in the direction I needed to go if I planned on proceeding down the hallway. Despite being preoccupied, his peripheral vision would spot me in an instant if I tried to pass.
It seemed prudent to turn around and go the opposite direction, so I did. The door at the end of the hallway was locked. I tested the other doors. Those that were unlocked opened into living quarters like the one occupied by the man. It seemed I had no choice but to go back the other way.
>
I returned to the open doorway and peeked around the corner. A wand hung from a holster at the man's side, and a compact rod of wood about ten inches long and slightly thicker than a broom handle sat on the desk.
If only I had that wand.
I had to get my hands on it. Unfortunately, there was no way to slip inside without detection. The man might be distracted with his paperwork, but any movement was bound to attract his attention. My only hope was that he got up at some point and put his back to me.
Time ticked away, but the man seemed intent on writing a book in one sitting. The moment he reached the end of one parchment, he grabbed another and continued to write. The longer I waited, the more antsy I became. What if there were more guards? What if the man got up and came to check on me?
I'd closed the door to my prison, but that didn't guarantee they wouldn't look inside to make sure I was still there. At any moment, the man in the room might get up and put his back to me, but he was just as likely to come my way. Then I'd have no choice but to run.
Since the desired situation hadn't occurred organically, I decided to force it. I peered in and waited for the man to work his eyes from the left side of the parchment to the right as he wrote. When his head began to shift my way, I ducked behind the corner and tossed the leather choker down the hall.
He made a confused noise. "Hagan, that you?" Wood grated across stone and footsteps came toward the doorway. The man leaned out and looked down the hall away from me. "Hagan, this better not be one of your jokes." He flinched and looked down at the leather collar. "What the bloody—"
I swept my blood-soaked shirt over his face, held the corners, and jerked back, using all my weight. Despite my smaller size, he wasn't prepared and fell over backwards, hands windmilling for balance. His head bounced off the floor. I leapt on top of him and swung both fists down at his face. His head lolled to the side and his body went limp.
There was a chance he might recover so I quickly nicked his wand and prepared a spell. He remained still, breath wheezing from beneath the bloody shirt. I plucked it off his face. Prodding him with my foot elicited no response and a sense of mild relief eased the knots in my stomach.
