The Author's Blood Page 3

  The eyes of the revellor were full of hatred and envy until the scalding water hit its wings. They simply became of no use, so instead of shooting any more death poison at Owen, the beast fell straight back with a flurry and a skittering grab at anything on the way down.

  Owen gained leverage with his feet and, with one hand grasping a slat of the stairway, pulled the sword out and threw it straight and true after the falling revellor. The sword ran through its heart and pinned it to the floor five stories below.

  Owen jumped over the rail and dropped to Mrs. Rothem. “I knew you were a good English teacher, but I didn’t know you could toss a bucket like that.”

  “English teachers are amazing,” Mrs. Rothem said, staring below.

  Owen called for his sword, then cleaned it on a towel in Mrs. Rothem’s apartment.

  She smiled. “I’m glad you came to see me.”

  “If all goes well, we’ll see each other again.”

  As Owen was preparing to leave, Mrs. Rothem said, “I believe your task entails much more than simply reading and following this book.”

  Owen sheathed his sword. “Go on.”

  “When you read in my class, you often became so engrossed that you didn’t even know when the bell rang. You lost yourself in the stories. But now you must do more. You must give of yourself to his story.”

  Owen nodded. “But there are things I don’t understand. A girl is betrothed to me, yet I’ve never even dated anyone. And I’m not sure I can win the war with the Dragon.”

  Mrs. Rothem gave Owen the book and a look. “You will become more than a reader. Your life is bigger even than the enemies aligned against you and your father.”

  “Thank you,” Owen said. He rushed downstairs, past the smoking, hissing hole in the floor and into the cloud-scattered day, where the sun had not yet begun to shine.

  RHM, the Dragon’s aide, met with the two excited revellors—Kweedrum and Lambachi—near the Castle of the Pines. They had returned without their leader, Zeehof, after having been sent to see if the minions of time were succeeding. These two were—how shall we say this kindly?—not the best-tuned instruments in the orchestra.

  RHM tried to pry information from them like an angry father pries a stolen cookie from a child.

  Kweedrum pressed a talon into the sand as if drawing something. In a high-pitched voice he said, “We were reporting our discovery to Zeehof when the noise started again.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said a lot of things in that deep voice of his,” Kweedrum said. “He mentioned that there was a ‘human quality’ to the buzzing of the minions, which was strange now that I think about it.”

  “Yes,” Lambachi said, “it was very strange at the time, even, because we were all standing there ready to get stung or eaten or whatever those minions do to you, and then—”

  “Okay, so we’ve established that it was strange,” RHM snapped.

  “We knew it would be the end of us if those minions started attacking, so we flew away.”

  “And Zeehof?” RHM said.

  Lambachi coughed, then spoke with a whine. “He didn’t follow us, and after the longest time we went back to look for him.”

  “No sign of him?”

  “No, sir. But there was a smell of human in that room.”

  “Why didn’t you stay until you found him?”

  “We really didn’t know what to do,” Lambachi said. “We did wait awhile, but it was still dark and rainy and cold, and you know what that does to our wings. So we came back here as quickly as we could, knowing you would want a report.”

  RHM twitched at something cold moving up his back. It was the same feeling he’d had on the islands of Mirantha when he discovered the Wormling with his sword. “Did you check the nestor?”

  “We didn’t go any farther in the building once we heard the buzzing,” Lambachi said.

  “All right, listen carefully. Go back to the basement and find the nestor I placed there. When the minions have completed their task, they always return to the nestor.”

  “And then?” Kweedrum said.

  RHM hesitated. “Uh, close the door and bring it back to me. And rest assured the Dragon will be particularly grateful for your work.”

  “A special reward?” Lambachi said, drooling.

  “Oh yes. Quite.”

  Owen cautiously made his way through town under the dark clouds. He passed old haunts, including his high school, which was closed tight and didn’t look like it would ever reopen. He skirted the police station, wondering if Mr. Reeder might still be there. If he had been stung, which Owen had every reason to believe, they had probably taken him to the hospital.

  Owen turned at a blinking red light and sprinted down a sidewalk covered with wet leaves. He wanted to make the most of every moment in the Highlands, and he had two stops before finding the final portal.

  The emergency room was crowded, and an armed guard stood at the door. Owen pushed his scabbard behind him and pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

  The guard seemed perplexed by Owen’s presence, as if surprised to see anyone outside. He opened the door wide enough only to pull Owen through. “What are you doing out there, man?”

  “Looking for someone,” Owen said, facing the man so he wouldn’t notice the sword.

  “Those biting things gone?”

  “I think so,” Owen said. “I hope so.”

  Owen listened to people calling out victims’ names as he moved through the jammed hallways. People who had been stung sat propped against walls, moaning, some writhing. All looked aged and frail. Tears suddenly blurred Owen’s vision. Several times he thought he saw Mr. Reeder, but he could tell by friends standing around that it wasn’t. Mr. Reeder was a loner, and Owen could count his friends on one hand.

  “Owen?” someone said from a dark hallway. “Owen Reeder? Is that you?” Staggering toward him was an old man, wrinkled and bowlegged, a little taller than Owen. Something about his eyes and the lilt of his voice reminded Owen of someone.

  “Do I know you?” Owen said.

  “Owen, it’s me, Stanley. Stanley Drones.” Stanley was a burly kid with broad shoulders and an interesting pattern of brown spots on his face. He still wore the long-billed cap—his trademark—but white hair stuck out from beneath it, and the peach fuzz on his face had grown out gray.

  “You were stung,” Owen said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Master of the obvious,” Stanley said, managing a weak smile. “And you weren’t, but it sure looks like you’ve been working out. Where have you been?”

  Owen pulled his friend back into the shadows to one of a few secluded doorways and unsheathed his sword.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Stanley said.

  “No, I have to try something.”

  “I don’t suppose it could hurt,” Stanley said. “I don’t have much time left anyway.”

  “Where were you stung?”

  Stanley pulled up his shirt and with a pained face pointed to his rear. “Sank his teeth in there and wouldn’t let go. The look on the thing’s face as he came in for the kill was awful. You should have heard it hissing and growling. Last time I wear those jeans that ride low.”

  Owen held the sword against Stanley’s wrinkled skin, causing him to flinch, and Owen imagined the skin tightening and his hair turning brown. But no.

  “The metal’s kinda cold,” Stanley said, teeth chattering. “What were you doing?”

  “My sword has the power to restore,” Owen said. “I thought it might work on you.”

  Stanley looked at Owen as if he had suddenly grown another head. “Power? I guess I shouldn’t doubt anything these days. Where did you find this sword?”

  “I’ll fill you in when there’s time. Have you seen my father?”

  Stanley shook his head.

  Owen nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not half as sorry as we are. If they don’t find
some kind of serum for this, we’re all going to die.”

  * * *

  Owen had covered every floor and corridor when he came to the top story and a closed wing with a sign that read Terminal. From a room down the hall two men wheeled a sheet-covered body. Owen slipped inside and held the door open for them as they passed.

  Old people sat or lay on the floor, looking uncomfortable, in fact near death. Owen peeked into rooms with only two beds but five or six people crowded inside. Emotion swept over him. They would all die unless someone could help them.

  A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned quickly.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” a woman said with a slight accent. She was pretty and wore a green hospital gown. It was clear she hadn’t been stung, but she also looked like she hadn’t slept in a long time. “You shouldn’t be back here. It’s only for—”

  “I’m looking for my father. His name is Reeder.”

  A look crossed her face. “Come with me.”

  At the end of the hall was a curtained area containing several cots. “Our most serious cases,” the woman said. “Multiple stings.” She raised her voice slightly. “Mr. Reeder?”

  A woman turned on her side, and her cot creaked.

  In the corner by a window with the shutter closed, a figure raised his head.

  “Talk with him,” the nurse said. “Maybe you can ease the pain of his last moments.”

  Mr. Reeder had not only grown much older, but he had also become more sallow, skin hanging from his bones. He reached out a bony hand and feebly patted the empty cot beside him.

  Owen wanted to try his sword, but if it hadn’t worked with Stanley, how could it work with Mr. Reeder? “I didn’t mean to leave you alone in the police station, but the minions said they had found someone. I had to follow.”

  Mr. Reeder waved. “I should have gone too. But I was doomed.”

  “You have to fight,” Owen said. “You must survive this.”

  Mr. Reeder wheezed, “There’s not much I can do about it. The doctors don’t understand the venom. They’ve given us no hope.”

  Owen searched the man’s face in the dim light. “I need to ask you something. The things you told me at the police station about both worlds—where did you hear about that? From the Dragon’s henchmen?”

  “No. They told me of the Dragon, that he would attack if I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain.”

  “Then who told you about the two worlds?”

  Mr. Reeder’s eyes glazed over and he lay back, sucking in air. “There was a visitor. A voice. He whispered about the Lowlands, about the King.”

  “Nicodemus,” Owen said.

  “I didn’t get a name. And I didn’t believe much of what he said. I thought I was going crazy.”

  “When I told you I had heard a voice, you got angry with me. You said, ‘This is all there is.’”

  “A battle raged in me over whether to believe those strangers in cloaks that I could see or the voice in the dark that I could not see.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He told me fantastic things, things I couldn’t believe. That there was another world much like our own, but it was populated with people and beings who were the mirrors—”

  “Mirrors?” Owen said. “Explain.”

  “I asked, but the voice didn’t want to converse. He simply informed me.”

  “Tell me more. Tell me all of it.”

  Owen’s mind reeled as Mr. Reeder talked. Faces of his friends in both worlds came to mind, and he wondered how much of this could be true. Things were coming together. Terrible things. Wonderful things. And he understood, at least partly, why he was so important to both worlds.

  “What troubles you?” Mr. Reeder said, eyelids fluttering.

  Owen leaned forward, his face in the light. “You must keep fighting. The voice was right. You do have a son. I have seen him. He’s so full of life. And he is waiting for you.”

  “Tell me about him,” Mr. Reeder said.

  Owen described the blond-haired boy, and Mr. Reeder’s eyes flashed with fire. “He is waiting for you, but you must survive this. If I am right, any hope you have of uniting with your family depends on your survival.”

  “But even the doctors have no idea how to counteract the venom!”

  Owen thought a moment. “Are you prepared to do what it takes to survive?”

  “Anything.”

  Owen carefully unsheathed his sword.

  A woman gasped. “You’re going to kill us.”

  “No,” Owen said. “Keep quiet and watch.” He pulled back Mr. Reeder’s shirt, revealing pale skin draped over his rib cage. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you are to survive, I must.”

  Mr. Reeder flinched, eyeing the blade.

  Owen said, “The Book of the King says, ‘The King can heal the broken heart and bind the stings of the enemy.’ But unless your wound is fresh, and you’re willing, I can’t do anything.”

  Mr. Reeder put his hand on Owen’s arm. “I’m willing.”

  Owen placed the tip of the blade against the man’s side, locking eyes with him, and pushed. Mr. Reeder’s eyes widened.

  “He’s killing him!” the woman shouted.

  Mr. Reeder’s mouth popped open, lips trembling. “Quiet,” he managed. “He’s trying to help.”

  Owen pulled the blade out and wiped the blood on his pant leg, then examined the wound. Dark blood pooled thick and heavy near the cut. Owen wondered whether the venom somehow thickened the blood as it aged the victim.

  “Why did you do that?” Mr. Reeder said, choking. “I don’t see how piercing me will help me survive.”

  Owen pressed the blade over the wound, and in the dim light color seemed to come back to Mr. Reeder’s face and his eyes went from filmy and dull to bright. His breathing became more even and he sat up, staring into Owen’s eyes. “Could you do this for others?” he said.

  “Not for those who don’t want it or don’t acknowledge their need.”

  Mr. Reeder nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “I have one more person to see.”

  It was still raining, and lightning pierced the sky. It took Owen an hour to find the right street and the building, but he finally buzzed the apartment. He stepped back and looked up at the window where he had once seen his friend Connie. The apartment she shared with her mother was dark, the curtains pulled.

  He climbed the wet stones on the side of the building but found the windows fastened tight. He could tell no one was there.

  When Owen heard a siren in the distance, he scrambled down, assuming someone had seen him and called the police. He ducked into the alley and hid near the trash cans.

  The cruiser, however, did not stop.

  “You will not find her here,” someone said behind him.

  Finally accustomed to whispers in the dark, Owen casually turned but saw no one. “Nicodemus? You followed me?”

  “I am to ensure you make it to the portal.”

  “Where’s Connie?”

  “Not far. But I must warn you. There may be things still too difficult for you to understand.”

  “What things?”

  “You know the identity of Mr. Reeder—that he is linked to a father in the other world.”

  “Yes, and I’ve been making the connections of friends. Stanley Drones, Petrov who works next door at the Blackstone Tavern, and even Mrs. Rothem.”

  “Good,” Nicodemus said. “Everyone you know in this world has someone—or had someone—to whom they are connected in the other.”

  “Had?” Owen said. “You mean like Mr. Reeder’s—the one I found frozen into the side of the mountain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You talked with Mr. Reeder, Nicodemus. You told him about the family in the Lowlands. You convinced him there was more than this world.”

  “Yes. He had bought the Dragon’s lies that only the things you can see are real. Whether from true belief or simply wishful thinking, he complied with
our request.”

  “So there is hope for someone who has died in the Lowlands but still lives here,” Owen said.

  “Correct.”

  “And if both die?”

  Nicodemus paused. “The death of the first leaves one choice. There is no hope for the second death.”

  “What about me?” Owen said. “Do I have a match somewhere in this world?”

  “No. You need no match, Your Highness. You are the Son.”

  Owen sighed. “I have to find Connie.”

  Another pause. “Perhaps it would be better if I simply told you she is safe. You need to get to the portal and—”

  “I have to talk with her,” Owen said.

  “Your presence may endanger the young lady,” Nicodemus said. “You wouldn’t want that.”

  “Please, I really need to talk with her and make sure she’s all right.”

  “Very well,” Nicodemus said. “But there is something you must see first.”

  Unless Connie looked in a mirror, she couldn’t see the aging effects, except for on her hands, now wrinkled and spotted.

  Equally frightening was the aging process of her mind. You might think she would have remained a girl in her brain, just a young thing trapped in an old thing’s body, but no. The venom worked on every aspect of her being—her muscles, her heart, her brain. Even her memories were affected, clouded by time that had never been but was suddenly thrust upon her.

  Clara waited on her, bringing her something to drink and making sure she was warm and as comfortable as an old, dying person can be. Connie could tell she was dying by the way Clara looked at her. Though she had suffered just one sting, the beast was oversized and had sunk its fangs in deep. Mr. Page had looked concerned when he had brought her here, as if her growing old was not the only thing that troubled him. What could it have been? Did he know something he wasn’t telling?

  “Mr. Page said I was to take you to a safe place as soon as you are well enough to travel,” Clara said.

  “With those things out there?” Connie said, her voice shaky.

  “He said he would take care of them,” Clara said. “How do you feel?”