The Wicked Passage (A Blake Wyatt Adventure)

by Singel, N. M.

  “Get on with it. You’re wasting my time.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Ickbarr said, continuing to bow. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if I hadn’t thought you needed to hear this news immediately, but it’s just that--”

  “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  Ickbarr struggled to his feet and spoke barely above a whisper. “Your Excellency, Hugo Price is nowhere to be found. And even worse, Blakemore Wyatt has the Chronicle of the Rellium and has opened the text.”

  “Impossible!” Dagonblud snatched Ickbarr’s thin arm and squeezed it until the frightened servant’s face flushed to the color of sun-scorched clay. “What else, you little worm?”

  “Nothing, sir,” he squealed, grimacing through the torture.

  Dagonblud released the terrified servant as hundreds of scheming and restless voices swelled in the chamber below them.

  “Silence! This assembly must remain united!” Dagonblud glared at the agitated devils and decided to remain quiet about the missing chronicle. None of the weak nitwits knew the true power of the Rellium anyway. And once he seized its power, never again would the conniving vultures challenge his authority. “This meeting is adjourned!”

  He strode through a door behind his chair. Worn stone steps zigzagged up a cold turret. A massive mirror gleamed on the upper landing and beyond the mirror lay the Tolucans’ most precious treasures: the lost relics of human history. Dagonblud stomped up the stairs but slowly sank to his knees when he approached Nura, an intricate wooden statue of an eagle with a lion’s head that glared angrily down the stairway. The regent ran his hand down her back as though real feathers lay flattened against her body.

  “Come to me, my little darling,” Dagonblud said, petting the lifeless, carved piece of oak.

  The wooden statue shook, sending small bits of sawdust to the floor. The wings extended, stretching wide until the creature flew down and then up the stairwell. She finally landed lightly on Dagonblud’s shoulder.

  “Yes, yes, stretch your wings, my unsettled companion. Soon you’ll no longer be a prisoner in this timber tomb. The Wyatts will be gone forever, and your power will be all mine. You’ll see. It will be better this way.”

  The griffin squawked furiously and flew to the top of the mirror.

  “Stop these stupid games! I’m in no mood for them today. Do you want the leash again?”

  Nura shrieked.

  “Ickbarr!” he shouted. “Ickbarr, where are you?”

  After a few adjustments to his elaborate velvet costume, Dagonblud studied himself in the mirror. His long black hair was graying, and gauzy films clouded his glacial blue eyes. The effects of the coriane tea were wearing off quickly.

  “Ickbarr!” Dagonblud reached into his pocket. A few delicate coriander seeds remained nestled in the velvet fibers. He pinched the seeds between his fingers. “Where’s my coriane tea?”

  “Yes, sir, coming, sir.” The slight man scrambled up the steps with the rare drink. “Coriane, sir.”

  Dagonblud grabbed the tall glass and looked inside. “Where’s the rest of it? Spilled again?”

  “Sir, my apologies, sir, it’s just that these steps are so--”

  “You complain about the steps? Twenty-five hundred years have tried to rot Tolucan flesh, but the tea you so carelessly spilled keeps you from becoming bones heaped in the dirt!”

  “Yes, sir. It does, sir.”

  “I saved every single one of you. Without the coriane, the whole blasted empire would be a pile of ashes by now.”

  “Yes, sir. I know, sir. It has been quite a long time. It’s just that, well, sir, I get so tired sometimes. Perhaps the young ones should--”

  “All these years you’ve been my servant, Ickbarr, and now you want me to toss you into the dungeon like a common criminal. Pity.”

  “No, sir! Of course not, sir. I would never suggest such a thing. I was merely trying to--”

  “Find sympathy somewhere else, you sniveling insect.”

  “Right away, sir. We are fortunate to have the tea, Your Excellency. The Wyatts don’t seem to be so lucky with the coriane.”

  “Of course not, you idiot.

  “Their special abilities can’t tolerate the substance, so it certainly seems like an unfair advantage, Your Excellency. I mean the coriane tea makes us stronger but--”

  “An unfair advantage? You thankless mud turtle! Perhaps you’d rather be a shriveled sack of skin in a pine box?”

  “No, sir, it’s just that--”

  “What? You’d rather live among the pitiful mortals who walk that planet?”

  “No, sir, of course not, sir. It’s just that I have noticed that coriane affects the Wyatts much more than typical humans. It seems a bit unfair that--”

  “Enough!”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll fetch more tea, sir. You seem to be graying faster today.”

  “Out! This time double the seeds! No more of that diluted wash water you brewed last time.”

  “But, sir, almost the entire supply of coriander seeds was destroyed by Michael Wyatt. There’s not enough to go around.”

  “There’s enough for me, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned toward the uneven stone steps.

  “And don’t spill any this time!”

  “No, sir,” he called from the staircase.

  The tea was made from crushed coriander seeds. It was yellowish-green and contained a compound that had preserved the youthfulness and strength of the Tolucan for over two millennia.

  Dagonblud almost couldn’t believe that that much time had passed since he opened the rift into this strange new world. The memory of the first time the plant touched his skin in that musty forest thrilled him all over again. His skin, rough, creased, and overworked, had smoothed to the vibrancy of his youth as he walked through the woodland. He had grabbed a leaf and chewed it. As he swallowed the pungent, foul-tasting spit, his hair darkened and his eyesight improved. The herb gave him power over death, and he was the only one who knew where to find it.

  Now, Dagonblud rolled the coriander seed between his thumb and forefinger. It was the same substance that would pierce the Wyatts’ unprotected underbelly, the potion that would destroy them all.

  “Ickbarr!” he shouted down the stairs. He then turned his attention to the squawking griffin atop the mirror. “Open the mirror, you mutant little beast!”

  Nura stretched her wings and loosed an earsplitting screech.

  “Enough! No one defies me!” Dagonblud threw out his hand, and a force coiled itself around the creature’s neck and yanked her into Dagonblud’s waiting clutch. Nura expelled a low, sickly moan.

  “Who controls your bloodless abilities?” He squeezed harder. “I control your power, and you will do what I want when I want it. Is that clear? Or have you suddenly forgotten what I can do to you?”

  He threw Nura to the ground, then kicked her aside and walked to her empty perch. The shiny black column was about five feet high and a foot wide and had occupied that spot at the top of the staircase for thousands of years. The regent ran his hand along the column’s smooth surface and waited for the heat to warm his skin. “Your perch seems especially hot today, Nura. Your planet must be bleeding again.”

  Nura raised her head.

  “Oh, what’s the matter now?” Dagonblud feigned concern. “Are you worried about that wretched place? It must be terribly difficult to feel the destruction of your world just below your little feet. But don’t fret. Soon your planet will be dead, and you’ll never have to worry about it again.”

  Dagonblud scooped Nura up by her claws and dangled her upside-down. Staring into her golden eyes, he noticed a few small teardrops trickling down, onto the stone floor. “Tears? Really, Nura, so unbecoming of the power you once possessed.”

  Dagonblud turned the delicate animal around by her claws, admiring her from every angle. “I know what will cheer you up. Your so-called scientists have finally discovered my world in the universe. Can you imagine? After
all this time. I’d say they’re a little late to the party, but no matter, I must compliment them on the name--‘dark energy.’ I rather like that, but they have yet to uncover the substance that makes up most of the universe. Perhaps I’ll present a name change to the grand assembly. The Tolucan will now be called the Dark Energy. What do you think?”

  Dagonblud looked at the bleary-eyed creature again. Her tears had formed a puddle at his feet. “Still not happy? Ehh, there’s no pleasing you,” he said, dumping her on the cold stone. “Your scientists are all numbskulls. I discovered your world. Do you remember that? Of course you do. The explosions in your sky were stupendous.”

  Dagonblud placed his hand on Nura’s perch again. Twenty-five hundred years before, he had ripped into the fabric of her world and discovered the power of a million suns. The fire was still burning below them, but tonight the light would be extinguished, and her world would fall once and for all.

  “Ickbarr! Where is that tea?” Impatient, Dagonblud turned and snatched Nura up by her neck, squeezing her airway until she gagged. “Open the mirror! I have more power than even the largest star, and I’m surrounded by mindless fleas.” He turned and shouted down the stairs. “Ickbarr!”

  The griffin dangled in Dagonblud’s fist. He raised her limp body higher and shook her. “Enough drama, Nura. If I meant to kill you, you’d already be dead. Now let’s get on with it. Open the mirror.”

  The creature flew toward the mirror and then fluttered her wings over the surface as though she were erasing the reflection but instead revealing an open door. Beyond the opening, a vast chamber appeared--the chamber of lost human history.

  Nura flew into the enormous room and around every collected relic, the world’s greatest missing treasures: Galileo’s telescope, King Tut’s scepter, and Amelia Earhart’s flying jacket . . . The chamber brimmed with objects from every part of the globe, but two golden podiums in the center of the room stood empty.

  “Ickbarr!” Dagonblud shouted. “Ickbarr! The coriane!”

  “Coming, sir!”

  “Now!”

  The worn little man scrambled into the cold, forbidding chamber, spilling some of the rare drink again before he knelt in front of the imperial regent. “Your coriane, sir.”

  “Does quickly mean nothing to you?” Dagonblud sloshed back the tea. “Get up.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ickbarr stood and bowed his head.

  Dagonblud flipped open a square, gilded pocket watch. “Has this tempus been checked?”

  “Yes, sir, accurate to the second.”

  “Good.” Dagonblud closed the ancient timepiece. “We’re on schedule. That fool Price will wish he never existed.”

  Dagonblud hurried around his treasures and stopped at an enormous gray wall at the far end of the room. Thousands of knives hung from iron pegs. Daggers, machetes, swords, scimitars, and cutlasses. Nearby, rifles and cannons lined the wall. Some were old, and others new, but no weapon was as dangerous as the black diamond named Atomic Number Six.

  The stone was about the size of a human heart, with black crystalline facets defusing smoke-colored light through the transparent darkness. Dagonblud’s long, muscular fingers reached beyond the armory and carefully plucked the black diamond from its perch.

  Atomic Number Six contained the dark matter of the Tolucan world--black energy filled with hate, misery, and wickedness . . . evil rolled together like the waste of demons. The icy stone felt good in his hands, strong and reliable, like the force it possessed.

  But nothing was more intoxicating than the thought of consuming the power of the Rellium.

  Dagonblud stared at the weapon--so small, so potent, and yet nearly destroyed by a Wyatt.

  The Wyatts are nothing, he thought, and their strength is even less.

  A twist of the diamond to the right and left separated its sides and exposed black particles suspended in the hollowed-out center, as though an evil fruit had been halved, with black seeds floating inside its core.

  Ickbarr turned away, covering his nose and mouth with his hand. Dagonblud knew the stench from the particles was offensive, poisonous, and disgusting, but it amused him to see Ickbarr’s nausea well up each time the black diamond was opened.

  “Breathe, you fool. You must respect and honor this stone. Do you know what it means to be in the presence of such a destructive weapon?”

  Ickbarr nodded, still holding his breath.

  Dagonblud rubbed his thumb over the facets in the stone, waiting for the particles to choke off all the light in the room. What a beautiful gem, forever igniting battles and plagues and genocides. The stone burned hatred in his hand. It felt good, exhilarating. The Tolucan Grand Assembly glorified the power of the stone, but no one knew its true force except for Dagonblud and, of course, the Wyatts.

  Dagonblud inhaled the deadly air. The stench reminded him of Michael Wyatt’s last day on earth. Very fitting, he thought, since this would also be the last day for the son of the greatest sapphire traveler. He closed the sides of the black diamond. Light slowly returned to the chamber but not without a final explosion of stink from the weapon.

  The regent brushed off the black ash left on his skin from touching the stone. Atomic ash, as it was called, burned like fire until every particle was wiped away, but the discomfort was well worth it. As long as Dagonblud had the stone, the ability to destroy the future was within his grasp. He worshiped violence; it consumed him. Tonight the universe was his, and he’d finally inherit more power than even he could imagine.

  “Your Excellency,” Ickbarr began, trying to dodge Nura fluttering around his head. “Perhaps the Wyatt boy has not yet acquired the skills of a sapphire traveler. You could steal the chronicle’s force quite easily then, perhaps without using the black diamond.”

  “What do you mean, steal?” Dagonblud smoothed back his graying raven mane. “I’m taking back what’s mine. Now get me more tea.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ickbarr backed out of the chamber.

  Dagonblud breathed in the last of the stench left by the particles and rested his stinging hand on the empty golden podium. The Chronicle of the Rellium would never have influence over humanity again, true, but nothing would be more satisfying than completely eliminating the Wyatt legacy. Once the coriane tea took full effect, he’d be ready for the journey to destroy the last Wyatt.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE PARABULLS

  At thirteen, Blake was way past believing in any of that fairytale crap. What difference would it make if he opened the book? Nothing was going to happen. Hugo Price was probably some lunatic, and this bizarre book was most likely dug up at some yard sale. It was really cool looking, but definitely weird.

  He gazed down at a random page. The letters were shiny silver, sort of like a mirror, but he could still read the words--something about Christopher Columbus, nothing important. Then the words lit up and changed color, glowing as if each one had its own battery. Then the thing went nuts, flooding the classroom with megawatt power, like someone had cranked up the lights at the football field. Blake squinted, trying to focus on the source of the lights, but bright, Technicolor streaks darted from wall to wall, zooming and zipping past his face and making whizzing noises like an electric guitar in hyper speed.

  He reeled and covered his eyes. Was it radioactive? Was it contaminating him and his school? He should’ve listened to that old guy and not opened the stupid thing! He snapped the cover closed before the whole school became one giant, nuclear spotlight. The intense brightness immediately sucked back into the book as airy tings jingled like the wind chimes in his neighbor’s backyard.

  Then silence.

  “Whoa!” Blake circled the chronicle and skimmed the cover with his palm. It felt sort of warm, and the jewels stuck to it still glowed. His hand vibrated and tickled when he touched the book. Why hadn’t his mother ever told him about this or Uncle Leopold? And who was that Hugo Price guy anyway?

  The tickle now felt like an electrical current. It was weird, but it d
idn’t hurt. For some reason it almost felt normal. But then it started to burn slightly. He tried pulling back his hand, but he couldn’t. Chimes sounded in his ears.

  The crazed book fluttered its pages and lifted Blake off the floor. “Hey! What the--? Someone help me!” Breakfast rose to the back of his throat. Cereal, milk, toast--the whole thing was about to hurl.

  “Relax, Blakemore. You must learn to trust me.” It was a woman’s voice, warm and kind.

  “Who said that?” Nausea roiled in his throat.

  “Please, shed your doubt, Blakemore Michael Wyatt. There’s no need to question my motives.”

  “Help!” Blake shouted in the empty classroom, trying every twist, pull, and jerk to free himself. He continued to float toward the ceiling. “Stop this stupid thing!”

  Blake used his other hand to try to break the book’s grip on him, but that didn’t work. It wouldn’t stop climbing, and it was gaining speed.

  As he drifted above a bank of suspended fluorescent lights, he spotted a pencil he had flung up there two weeks before. Maybe he could use it to break the bond. He stretched as far as he could, sending dust over the edge, willing his arm to be longer. His fingertips nudged the pencil just enough to send it rolling off the light fixture. He saw it bounce off a desk far below him.

  He wanted to yell every bad word he knew and even make up a few more, but there was no time for that. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the inevitable impact with the ceiling, but the book stopped just short of smashing his hand through water-stained acoustic tiles. He slowly opened his eyes and peered down at the desks.

  “Son of a--”

  “Curse words? Really, Blakemore, only those with the language skills of a whistle pig would grunt out such vulgarities.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Do you not know better words with which to express yourself?”

  “Who’s talking?”

  “Once those ugly words are sent into the world, their filth is very difficult to retrieve.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Clearly you do not understand your duty, Blakemore. Please forgive me for what I am about to do.”