Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire) (34 page)

Simon’s stomach finally dropped out of his abdomen. “Me? Why? Why was he so--”

“Just another sad, pathetic, broken young man who just wanted to trade.” Boeman’s grin was an upturned grave. “It was too good to pass up. His soul for the ability to disappear. Simple enough. Just a rabbit’s paw and a little chanting. Then he surprised me. He took
you
before he vanished. I should have seen that coming. He thought he could hide forever. Probably would have too, if he hadn’t had to revive you. ” Boeman suddenly seized Sam around the neck and swung him around the room. “But I have him now!” He laughed wildly, an insane noise that made Simon’s skin crawl. Boeman dropped him on the bed and turned his wicked eyes on Simon. “He wanted to protect
you
, the little bundle of joy, torn from his wicked parents at such a young age. He couldn’t just leave you out in the cold--I mean, you started it all.” Another insane laugh. “Your little family started unraveling the instant you came along. How could you
not
know?” He swung his wild eyes out to look at the moon. “I guess I can understand.” He laughed again. “I can’t say I feel Sam has been very fair about our deal, but then again, he always has fought dirty when it comes to
you
.”

Simon’s was sick from Boeman’s laughter. “I don’t understand. Why did he care? Why do all that to protect me?”

Boeman stared out the window. “Who else would?” The laughter started again, deep in his stomach, growing in pitch as he laughed maniacally at the sky. “Why? Why care? Why indeed!” His mismatched eyes blazed with cruel humor. “Stupid boy, that’s what an
uncle
is for!”

Act Three

The Devil and The Dog

The key to successful wizardry is to always be on your guard.

If you’re not careful,the magic ends up controlling you.

––
Nicodemus Limnic, An Honest History of the Wizard’s Craft, Chapter 36

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE GRAVEYARD

The words were novocaine. “My uncle?” Simon whispered softly.

Boeman’s laughter continued for a full minute before showing any signs of dying. Finally he composed himself. “Emma’s half-brother. The so-called
good
child,” he said slowly. “Honestly, I’m not at all that surprised he never told you. He’s never been one for sharing much about himself.”

Numbness bled into anger and confusion. “Why?” Simon’s face was hot. “Why never tell me?”

“That would be a question to ask him now, wouldn’t it?” Boeman sat on the molded couch. “But you can’t have it both ways, so take your pick, Simon.”

“What do you mean?” Simon said, confused. The throbbing in his arm grew worse..

“I mean, what’s more important to you,” Boeman said. “The truth of why your uncle kept this secret from you, or meeting your parents?” Boeman smiled his empty grin. “It’s your choice, Simon. I really am just here to give you what you want.”

“I don’t even have anything to trade,” Simon said. “You already have my soul.”

Boeman’s smile was a field of rotted tombstones. “Takes more than one of those to make a person, Simon. You really ought to learn that. I have your soul, yes, but there is
so much more
there. Your heart, your
mind
. No, your parents sold me only a
part
of you, boy, and now I want to negotiate for more. Right now, the question is, which is more important to you? Parents you’ve always wanted to know, all the answers finally revealed, everything you ever secretly wanted and more--” Boeman jabbed a thumb lazily at Sam. “Or him?” Sam leaned sluggishly against the doorway, his eyes staring blankly down the hall. A cold wind rustled down the corridor, kicking up leaves and sending a few tiny creatures scurrying off into the shadows.

Boeman picked at his rotten teeth. “Or maybe...maybe it’s
revenge
you want,” he said. “Is that what burns inside you now, Simon? They
sold
you, traded you away like an object, signed away your life to serve their own selfish desires. Is that what smolders in your heart, right this very moment?”

Heat flooded through Simon. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard, and his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. Boeman had struck a nerve. Under everything, deep down, Simon was
mad
,
betrayed,
and Boeman could feel it, draw it up to the surface, until the anger began to speak, whisper in Simon’s ear.
Rage
toppled over his reason, until he heard only the
thump-thump
of his heart, and was drowning in anger.

“You need to decide,” Boeman said, his eyes filled with greed. “Right
now
.”

Simon looked at Sam, who remained at the door, motionless. The only family he had ever known, and now, after learning they were truly related, seemed a total stranger. Why keep this from him, for all these years? This was wedged between them now, and in his heart Simon wondered if he could ever forgive Sam. If they did survive, they could never really ever go back to Crowley, to the Paw, to Molly and Zoey and homework and regular life and everything else, not after knowing
the truth about where he came from, that all
this
was out here. Even if he dragged Sam back, he would not be the same person anymore. He would not be the same anywhere. Wherever he would go, he would always be a stranger, in either world. He would always be alone.

Sam had done this to him.

“You don’t have to be alone,”
whispered the Other Voice.
He tried to quiet it, tried to push it out, turn his anger and resentment into a wall and block it out, but it was no use. The voice slid through every crack, found every way back into his thoughts, until Simon could resist it no longer.

“
You don’t have to be alone.”

Simon whispered his answer.

“Sorry,” Boeman said, “what was that?”

He whispered again.

Boeman smiled, obviously savoring the moment. “One more time.”

“I want to know why,” Simon snapped, fury dripping from his words. He had hoped letting the words out would bring him relief, take the weight off, but none came. Instead he was utterly and completely lost in his rage, even as he groped with the decision. “I want to meet them, to learn why they sold me. Why they went
bad
.
Why they did this to me
.”

Boeman smiled. “And all these answers will be yours,” he said softly. “If you give me your
heart
.”

Simon’s anger cracked, the pieces melting into confusion. “What? My
heart
?”

Boeman rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t make that face. I’ll let you keep it, after all. In your chest, that is. It’s just...it will be
mine
. You’ll still have your mind and body. Two out of four isn’t so bad, is it? You won’t even miss it, I promise.” He held out his hand. “Just take my hand, and we’ll be off. If you want we’ll come back for old droopy-faced Sam later.” Boeman’s hand was right in front of him, bone white and perfectly still. He stood motionless, waiting for Simon to take it and seal their deal.
Not alone,
Simon thought, or maybe it was the Other Voice? He realized he couldn’t tell. He raised his hand, which ached horribly, and took Boeman’s hand.

Red-hot agony fired up his arm as his palm began to glow. Boeman seized it, holding on for only a few moments before letting out a harsh gasp and backing away, the smell of burned flesh filling the air. “My, my, my. You are full of little surprises, Warner, but the deal is sealed.”

The pain in Simon’s arm lingered. “What was that?”

Boeman stared at his hand, then at Simon, his eyes calculating. “The shape of things to come, I’d imagine,” he said, grabbing his hat from the bed. “You’re the apple of a good man, Simon. That’s getting rarer these days.” He stood in the doorway. “Fortunately that’s just what we need, and that makes you special. Never lose that, young Warner. Never stop being so very, very special.” Boeman headed up the hall. “Sit tight,” he shouted as he made his way down the hall.

The burning in Simon’s arm faded. “Where are you going?”

“We need something,” Boeman said. “Wait there.”

“You said you were taking me to my parents,” Simon shouted.

“We are, we are. Now wait
there
.” Simon suddenly felt very heavy, unable to rise from the couch. He watched Boeman disappear around a corner.

Several minutes passed in silence, and Simon began to regret his decision. What had it meant, when he took Boeman’s hand? Why had it burned? It was a bad sign, a warning that he had possibly made a mistake. He knew so little about his parents. He tried to recount everything he knew about them, about Sam, about everything. His parents were Thomas and Emma Warner. They were members of the Old Dominion, maybe even Acolytes, and they had sold his soul to Boeman, but he didn’t know why. Then they had disappeared, and Sam had abducted him. All before he could walk. His entire life since then had been a lie.

A weak moan escaped from Sam.

Simon jumped at the noise. He looked at his uncle cautiously. Another full minute passed, then another groan came, just barely louder than the first, but there were words in it, words Simon could only barely make out. “Exxxx...”

He managed to sit up. “Sam? What are you--”

“Lllluuuucee...”

The air crackled around Simon. “Sam?” he asked, uncertain what was about to happen.”

“Vvviita...”

The air
popped
between them, and Simon’s body was itself again. Gone was the feeling of dead weight, of the heaviness Boeman had inflicted on him. He rose from the couch slowly and made his way to Sam. His eyes were milky white, but there was something else: a faint, blue glow. Sam was fighting Boeman’s control, and he was pouring all his energy into helping Simon. Another word squeezed through his lips. “Rrrruuunn.”

Images played themselves out in Simon’s mind. The lake, almost drowning, Sam breathing life back into him. The Paw, Molly, Zoey, their first day in Crowley. The big orange couch. Boeman’s wall of hatred broke, and everything flooded back into him. Suddenly everything was precious to him, it was his life, a life that he had loved, and somewhere deep down, he knew it was something he would love again. His emotions swirled and spun inside him, fighting the grief and the anger from minutes earlier, until he felt sick, and there was Sam--motionless, bewitched, but still trying to help him.

“Sam!” Simon grabbed him and shook for dear life. “Please!” He shouted. He didn’t care if Boeman heard. Regret has swelling inside him, harder and heavier than Boeman’s spell. “Sam! Please! Wake up!” The white clouds in Sam’s eyes swirled more violently than before, but Simon kept shaking, shaking, shaking until his arms began to ache. “Sam! It’s Simon! Please! Your
nephew!
Come! On!”

Sam blinked rapidly. His lips parted, and the mist in his eyes barely moved--just barely a flicker, and words began to form in his mouth. “Rrrrrruuuuunnnnnnn--”

Footsteps like thunder crashed down the hall.

They had moments now at best. Everything was on the line. “C’mon! Now! Sam, WAKE UP!” Simon’s hands burned like fire. It wasn’t working. The spell was too strong. Simon took a deep breath, tried to focus. “Ex luce vita,” he whispered, and the burning in his hands turned to a buzz, pins-and-needles erupting in his palms. Sam’s eyes flared with blue. His nostrils went wide and he took a deep breath, followed by several more. Simon spoke the words again, and Sam began to work his jaw back and forth. He started to stretch his neck, all the while the footsteps in the hall became louder and louder. Several more small creatures bolted out of hiding and down the corridor, knocking over decaying furniture and sending up clouds of dust and paint chips as they burrowed straight into the wall to escape. Boeman came swiftly around the corner into Simon’s field of vision. He was carrying a shovel, and he scowled madly at them.

“Think you’re a strong one, do you?” Never breaking his stride, his free hand shot out, pointed right at Sam. His fingers locked into a claw as he twisted his palm upward, closing tight into a fist. Sam shuddered and collapsed against the wall.