by Kyle Shultz
“I’ll have to destroy it first.” She reached for the flower.
“Hold on,” I said, carefully laying a hand over the Rose. “I don’t think so.”
“I don’t expect you to agree with me. But please, don’t interfere.”
“I take it that you’re keeping secrets from your father. I don’t know what they are, and quite frankly, I don’t care. But I cannot allow you to destroy something that he’s paying me large sums of money to retrieve undamaged.”
“You don’t understand,” said Cordelia, taking hold of one of the Rose’s long thorns in an attempt to pull the flower away from me. “You know about the trade in fake magical items, but that’s just a cover for what Father is really doing. So long as people like you keep the public thinking that magic is fake, it allows him to search for the real magical artifacts in secret.”
“Fascinating,” I said, tightening my grip on the Rose. I was careful to prevent the flower’s sharp thorns from piercing my skin. I had no intention of getting lockjaw from this piece of detritus. “It’s not actually the most bizarre conspiracy theory I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid I still don’t believe it.”
“He’s dangerous. He wants to control the Afterlands, completely. I’m not sure exactly how he plans to use the Rose, but I don’t intend to let him get his hands on it.” She pulled harder this time, nearly tearing the Rose from my grasp.
I was amazed that the decrepit flower was standing up to such rough treatment. It should have crumbled to bits by now. Deciding to take a chance on damaging it, I jerked it sharply away from her. The thorn she held tore off, but otherwise, the plant remained intact. She snatched at it, but I lifted it up out of her reach, grasping her shoulder to hold her back.
“Give it to me!” she demanded.
I shook my head. “Not a chance.”
At that moment, footsteps echoed through the corridor outside. They were distant, but rapidly growing louder.
Cordelia froze. “It’s Father,” she said. “I had a feeling that dungeon wouldn’t hold him for long.”
“It can’t be,” I argued. “How could he ever have gotten free on his own?”
“Magic,” she said simply.
“Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Shut up and give me that rose before it’s too late!” She grabbed for it again. “If Father gets to us first, it’ll all be over. Even if I had my magic, it wouldn’t be enough to take him down. We can destroy the flower and just tell him we found it like that. It might not convince him entirely, but if you back me up—”
“For the last time,” I interrupted, “I am not going to let you destroy this Rose! I don’t care what your agenda is. I have a business and a lazy brother to support!”
She gave up desperately reaching for the rose, and brandished the thorn she had torn from the stem, holding it up like a dagger. “You’ve left me with no choice,” she said. “If I can’t reason with you, I’ll have to convince you another way.” She poised the thorn above my forearm. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
“Wait, what are you—”
She plunged the thorn into my flesh.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ouch
A trickle of blood ran down my arm and dripped onto the floor.
“Ow!” I yelped, recoiling and stumbling over the edge of the rug. Still holding the Rose aloft, I stared down in shock at the wound on my arm – a deep hole oozing a steady stream of red. “What the devil did you do that for?”
Cordelia was watching me in nervous anticipation, as if I were an egg about to hatch into something that terrifying. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Once it’s over, I’ll change you back. I just need you to help me first.”
I seized my arm, trying to staunch the bleeding. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re babbling about.”
“So,” said Whitlock from behind me. I whirled around to see him standing in the doorway, fixing Cordelia with a censorious glare.
“I must say, I’m very disappointed, Cordelia,” he went on, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame. “Coming along on this little trip was all an elaborate ruse for you to destroy the rose, then? You wound me.” He glanced at the blood dripping from my arm. “Though fortunately, not in the literal sense.”
Cordelia ignored him. She stayed riveted on me, encouraging me with her eyes me to do something remarkable – only, I was completely oblivious as to what she had in mind.
Her face fell. “It’s not working. Why isn’t it working?”
“Enough, Cordelia,” said Whitlock condescendingly. “We’re going home - and once we get there, we’re going to have a very long talk.”
Cordelia looked at me with the same expression I had once seen on a former girlfriend when I failed to impress her father with scintillating conversation at a family dinner. “It’s not going to happen,” she muttered. “Of course it’s not going to happen. Just my luck.” She let the thorn fall to the floor. “I’m sorry, Father, but I think it’s time I said goodbye.”
He stepped forward. “Oh no, you don’t,” he warned, menace creeping into his tone. “You can’t betray me like this and get away with it.”
“Watch me.” She reached down and grabbed the carpet under the table. With a jerk, she pulled it free, sending the table crashing to the floor. Whitlock made a grab for her, but tripped over the fallen table. Cordelia hurried to the window, pulling off her shoes as she went.
“Wait!” I cried, rushing after her. “What are you doing?”
She leapt up onto the sill. For a split second she perched there, looking at me with regret. “Sorry about the arm. Truly, I am.”
I skidded to a stop, worried that sudden movement might encourage her to dive over the edge. “Just hold on,” I stammered. “No need to do anything hasty.”
“I’ve never tried this before.” She looked down at the carpet clutched in her hands. “But there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”
Whitlock and I lunged forward in unison, but it was too late.
“No!” I clutched the windowsill, staring down in horror as she fell. The rug fluttered around her like broken wings beating helplessly at the air.
A sudden jolt of pain seared my injured arm, distracting me. I staggered back from the window, glancing down at my wound. To my surprise, it looked as if it were already healing, dwindling to an angry red scar. But it still hurt like sin.
I hurried back to the window. A mist rolled in, clouding my view of the rocks far below. I was desperate to find out what had happened to her, yet reluctant to see the aftermath of her fall. My mind conjured up ghastly visions of her broken body, but I could see no trace of her through the fog.
“Such a melodramatic girl,” said Whitlock, rubbing his shin where he had bashed it against the table. “Always was; even as a child.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “What is wrong with you? She’s just jumped to her—” I stopped short of saying the word “death”, as if speaking it out loud would make it real.
Whitlock rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Oh, calm down. She’ll be all right.”
“All right?” I grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. Or rather, I tried to. The man was like a brick wall; I ended up shaking myself instead. ‘What is wrong with you? She fell six stories! There’s no way she survived that!”
“Please calm yourself, Mr. Beasley.” Whitlock carefully took the Rose from my hand, pinching it between a meaty thumb and forefinger. He bent down to scoop up the detached thorn from the floor, then slipped it into his pocket. “The important thing is that our mission was a success. The Rose is mine.”
“Is that piece of mulch really all you care about? You can see for yourself it’s not real!” I pointed to the gash on my arm. “See? I’m not a beast!”
“Of course you’re not,” said Whitlock. “It was foolish of Cordelia to think that she could enchant you with only a fragment of the Rose, especially since the flower is dormant. The chances of there being enough magic left in t
hat thorn to turn you into anything are practically non-existent.” He laid the Rose on the windowsill from which Cordelia had jumped and took a pen-knife from his coat pocket. “Fortunately,” he continued, unfolding the blade, “re-awakening the Rose will be child’s play. Though I don’t normally approve of children playing with sharp objects.”
“Look,” I snapped, “I don’t know what your game is, but—wait, what—”
I gasped in surprise as he drew the knife across his palm, drawing even more blood than Cordelia’s attack on me had. His face betrayed no hint of pain. Holding his injured hand over the Rose, he let his blood drip down onto the withered bloom.
To my amazement, the blood soaked instantly into the Rose’s leaves and petals, disappearing in seconds. At the same time, the blackened flower was suffused with bright red and green hues. I watched, open-mouthed, as the withered plant transformed before my eyes into a healthy bloom, looking as if it had just been cut from a thriving rosebush.
Before I could try to explain this to myself, pain shot through my arm again, blurring my vision and nearly causing me to double over.
“Excellent,” said Whitlock, paying no attention to me as he wrapped a handkerchief around his injured hand. He picked up the Rose and examined it with a contented smile on his face. For just a split second, I could have sworn I saw the flower move beneath his touch.
“I’m going down to look for Cordelia,” I said, shaking my arm in an attempt to relieve the pain.
“Why?” said Whitlock, never taking his eyes off the flower. “If she fell, she’s dead. Nothing you can do about that.”
“I could bring back her body,” I shot back, through gritted teeth.
“After a fall like that? Sounds like a messy job.”
“You’re a monster.”
He sighed. “Not yet, sadly. But once I’ve gotten a few more details taken care of—” He glanced at me, as if noticing for the first time that I was there. “Oh, cheer up,” he said, clicking his tongue in impatience. “She’s almost certainly not dead. I trained her to use magic. I’ve put her through far worse than falling off a tower, and she’s always managed to survive.”
I couldn’t even begin to think of a response to this statement. “Get out of my way,” I said. “I’m looking for her, no matter what you say.”
“No,” said Whitlock, “you’re not.”
“Excuse me?”
“I appreciate your assistance in this matter, Mr. Beasley. Really, I do. But it’s high time we parted ways. And after we do, I’d prefer that you not involve yourself any further in my affairs.”
“You may not care about what’s happened to your daughter, but—”
“My daughter,” Whitlock snarled, the mask of politeness dropping, “is my responsibility. Not yours.” He seized my injured arm, pressing his thumb into the exact spot where Cordelia had stabbed me. Agony blazed all the way down to my fingertips, and it was all I could do to keep from crying out. I clenched my jaw and glared back at him in defiance.
“There are forces at play here you couldn’t possibly understand,” he said in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Things far outside of your tiny, blinkered worldview. If it weren’t for the fact that killing you would almost certainly arouse public suspicion, I’d throw you out of that window right now.”
“You’d try,” I muttered.
“But,” he went on, ignoring the interruption, “I can’t afford to have people getting too suspicious - not when I’m so close to achieving my goals. So as long as you leave well enough alone, I’ll leave you alive - both you and your brother.”
“I wondered when you were going to bring him into this.” I wrenched my arm free from his grip - a far more difficult task than I had expected. “If you or your thugs even go near Crispin, I’ll—”
“Yes, yes, I can imagine.” Whitlock made a dismissive gesture. “I just want to be sure you know where you stand.”
“Of course.”
“So, no looking for Cordelia, and no meddling in my business from this point forward. Understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“And,” he continued, pulling a wallet from his pocket, “here’s your—”
“I don’t want your money. Just get me back to Talesend.”
He flashed me a thin-lipped smile and put the wallet away. “Insufferably noble, aren’t you? Well, perhaps I’ll find some other way to reward you.” He pointed to the door. “Shall we go?”
My eyes fell on the Rose in his hand. I wished I had just let Cordelia destroy the thing in the first place.
It was the first of many times I would make that wish.
The trip back to Camelot passed in silence, for the most part. Whitlock was busy admiring the Rose, and I was so preoccupied with the loss of Cordelia that I hardly noticed the pitching of the airship this time. Even when I did, though, I found it didn’t bother me nearly as much as it had before. My balance seemed better, all of a sudden.
The memory of Cordelia falling from the tower still haunted me. Her sudden loss was difficult enough to accept, but the fact that it had come due to her deluded belief in magic made it even worse. It brought back far too many painful memories. As we soared back across the Channel, I shut my eyes and focused on the noise of the zeppelin’s engines, trying to block out the images flooding my mind.
A woman’s body, draped in a blanket. A half-circle of men with guns, horrified looks on their faces. This wasn’t meant to happen. It was supposed to be a trick. Entertainment. Magic...
I couldn’t say I had been particularly fond of Cordelia - I’d barely known her, in any case - but her heart had been in the right place. She had wanted to stop her father’s criminal activities, even if she’d had the wrong idea about what they actually were. She certainly hadn’t deserved to die. I seethed with anger against Lord Whitlock and others like him, who led good people to bad ends by making them think that all their problems could be solved with a spell.
The sun was sinking low in the sky by the time the airship touched down in Camelot. I ignored Whitlock’s cheerful goodbye and proffered handshake as we descended the ramp leading down from the airship. I was determined to get as far away from the man as possible. Plus, I wasn’t feeling at all well. Not only was my arm still throbbing, but a dull ache had spread through the rest of my body. All I wanted to do now was get home and rest.
Crispin was gone when I got back to the flat; out with Sally again. Apparently, the two had made up over the telephone that morning. I considered waiting up for him, but I was so exhausted that I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I trudged down the hall to my room and collapsed into bed, hoping things would be better in the morning.
They weren’t.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Monstrous Morning
It took me a surprisingly long time the following morning to figure out that I’d turned into a monster. In my defense, I’m generally not sure what my own name is when I first wake up in the morning, let alone what species I am.
I will admit, I did get slightly suspicious when I reduced my alarm clock to a pile of gears and springs with a single blow of my fist. My confusion grew when I discovered that my dressing gown was strangely tight across my shoulders, and seemed to have grown shorter as well. I would have taken the time to investigate this further, had I not been distracted by my head hitting the top of the door frame on my way out of my bedroom. It hurt the woodwork far more than my skull. I brushed splinters out of my hair and muttered something uncomplimentary about the architect who designed my building.
I shuffled into the living room, nearly tripping as my feet snagged on the carpet. Making a mental note to hunt for my nail scissors later on, I stepped out onto the balcony for my usual morning ritual – three deep breaths of fresh air. Or, to be more accurate, one deep breath of smoggy Talesend air, followed by six or seven deep coughs. I shut my eyes and waved a hand in front of my face, trying to disperse the unpleasant smells. For some reason, the acrid tang of the city’s atmosphere was e
ven worse than usual this morning.
As I stretched and yawned, I heard the sound of shattering china from somewhere across the street. Blinking, I saw Mrs. Poggett on her balcony. She was a somewhat dotty old lady whom Crispin and I had chatted with from time to time. I had once, with great difficulty, convinced her that a malevolent genie was not possessing her favorite teapot. At the moment, she was standing perfectly still, with a look of utter astonishment on her face and the remains of a teacup scattered around her pink bedroom slippers. Her unblinking gaze was locked on me.
I waved and smiled. “’Morning, Mrs. Poggett.”
With halting steps, she edged backward into her flat, never taking her gaze off me. Once she was fully inside, she turned and fled from my view, her pink nightgown billowing around her. She was saying something in a shrill voice, but it was too incoherent for me to make out. Apparently she was even dottier than usual this morning. I shrugged, then turned and went back inside, scratching my chest. I felt uncommonly itchy this morning.
“Crispin,” I called, stepping to his bedroom door and banging on it. The wood cracked slightly under the blow. “Whoops,” I muttered, frowning. “Don’t know my own strength.”
A few seconds later, the door swung open to reveal an even more bedraggled Crispin than usual. His pajamas were rumpled, his hair stuck out in all directions, and he rubbed both eyes with his knuckles as if trying to force them open. Clearly, he hadn’t gotten home until very late the night before.
“Coming,” he yawned, lowering his hands and blinking several times. “Don’t get your knickers in a GAAAAHHHHH!” His red-rimmed eyes flew wide open, and he jumped several inches off the ground. Quick as a flash, he slammed the door in my face.
I blinked in surprise. “What in blazes is wrong with you?” I demanded, pounding on the door again. “This is no time for fooling about, we’re already late for…”
My voice trailed off as I noticed my hand - and the reddish-brown fur that now completely covered it. I turned it over, examining it from different angles. It was an interesting fusion of a hand and a paw. As I wiggled my fingers experimentally, sharp claws sprang from my fingertips, then retracted again.
