Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire) (4 page)

Zoey lifted her head and looked right into Simon’s eyes. Her eyes were puffy and red--she had been crying into Simon’s jacket.

“It’s okay,” he said, desperately watching the dog, who was starting to kick its legs and thrash its head. “It’s okay.” He scooped up Zoey and checked the street, completely empty of any cars, then bolted towards the tavern. He didn’t care if the dog took off again, it was stunned, for now at least, so if he could make it to the door, they could get inside and lock it. The motions of his plan burned in his mind as he reached the front door of tavern, set Zoey down, and yanked hard on the handle.

The door held shut. Locked.

“Simon!” Zoey shouted. “He’s up!”

Simon snapped his head around at the dog. It had just worked its way to its feet and was shaking its head violently.

“The back door!” Simon grabbed Zoey’s hand. “There’s a hidden key! Hurry!” They took off running. The dog was alert now, pursuing them again as they rounded the corner to the back alley. They dodged around the dumpster for the video store next door and bolted straight for the back door. Simon hoped maybe it would be unlocked, but no such luck. He pounded on the door in frustration and fumbled for the key hidden behind the loose brick. Where was everybody? Why was the Paw all locked up in the middle of the day?

The dog had reached the alley, running faster than before. Simon wasn’t sure what had blown the creature back, but he had no time to wonder. There was no time to guess. He needed to get them inside.

The dog had cleared the dumpster and was coming straight at them. They had run out of time. The dog was going to get them.

Simon jumped to his feet, pushing Zoey behind him. He braced his legs and prepared for the dog’s teeth to sink into his arm. Desperation crept over him as he searched in vain for an alternative. His knees and stomach still ached from the attack at the firehouse.

“
Your family motto,”
the Other Voice whispered in his mind.
“You know the words. Use them
.”

The hound closed in, jumping high in the air, coming fast. Simon flashed on Sam’s motto.
Ex luce vita
, those very words Sam had spoken so many times, always in times of trouble. Sam had never shared what it meant, and Simon had never bothered to learn. It was always just Sam’s weird little thing, nothing more. Really what harm was left in it, especially now?
Ex luce vita.
The notion blossomed in an instant, and Simon was lifting his hand to protect himself. He gazed along the top of his finger directly at the dog, and he shouted the words which now seemed to boil on his tongue.
Ex luce vita. Ex luce vita. Ex luce vita.

He took a deep breath. “
Ex vita luce!
”

A sizzling, burning, crackling sensation tore across his hands. Everything went white.

Then, all was dark.

* * *

Simon spasmed and sat up on the big orange couch. His last memory overtook him and he looked at his hands, expecting to see burns, but remarkably he was unscathed. He stared in disbelief.

“Sam!” Molly was approaching. “Sam, he’s up.” She placed her hand on Simon’s chest, pushing him back down onto the couch. “Oh, Simon,” she said. She pushed a few stray hairs out of his face, kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for protecting my baby.”

Simon tried to talk but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. He tried to sit up but Molly put her hand on his chest, stilling him. His eyes found the window over the couch. It was night already. How long had he been out?

“Rest for now, sweetheart.” She turned towards the door. “Sam?” She called downstairs. “Did you hear me? I said Simon’s awake.”

Sam’s voice floated up from the tavern below. “I’ll be up in a minute,” he said. He sounded funny.

Molly furrowed her brow “That man,” she said to herself. She looked back to Simon. “Are you feeling okay, Simon? Do you need anything?”

His throat was sore. “Water,” he croaked. “Please.”

Molly smiled. “You got it.” She crossed the floor to the kitchenette and pulled a glass from the cabinet. She filled it with a pitcher from the fridge and was back to his side without taking her eyes off the door. “Here you go.”

The water soothed Simon’s throat, and he found it easier to talk after finishing the whole glass. “Zoey?” Unease gripped him. “Is she--”

“She’s fine,” Molly said. “She told us what happened. You were very brave to fight off that dog. It’s a miracle you didn’t get bitten.” She took the glass from Simon and set it on the old trunk that doubled as a coffee table. “We think it’s the dog they’ve been talking about on the news.” She felt his forehead. “Are you feeling any better? Do you need something to eat?”

“I’m fine,” Simon said, sitting up. His head swam and he laid back against the cushions. “Did they catch it?”

“No,” Molly said. “Animal control couldn’t find him when we called. Zoey said that you knocked him down?” Her brow furrowed again. “What exactly did you do, Simon?”

Simon struggled for an answer. “I just blocked him, that’s all.” He stopped for a moment before continuing. “It doesn’t make any sense. I held my arm up, then I yelled and swung with my other arm. I don’t know if I hit him or not. I didn’t want to, I mean, he’s just a dog, but I was--”

“Simon, it’s okay.” Molly patted his shoulder. “You were defending yourself and Zoey. Believe me, I’m grateful you did what you did. We all are.” She gave him a small smile. “Even if it doesn’t make any sense.” She glanced at the door again. “I’m going to go see what’s taking Sam so long. He wanted to know the moment you were awake. I don’t know why he isn’t up here.” She stood in the doorway. “Zoey’s sleeping on your bed, I hope that’s all right. Holler if you need anything.”

Simon watched Molly disappear through the door, then let his head collapse back onto the pillow. Everything was still a blur. What had happened, anyway? The dog had been leaping at him, and then he had shouted...

“Ex vita luce,” Simon whispered to himself, and it hit him: he had gotten their motto backwards. Sam had made him say it so many times, and he had still gotten it wrong.
Ex luce vita
. He mouthed the words to himself. His head spun. He stayed on the couch only until he felt strong enough to walk. When he could, he got to his feet and walked to the kitchenette. He grabbed his glass on the way and drew himself some water from the tap, but as he drank, the water didn’t soothe like it had earlier. He put the glass in the sink, then started to make his way downstairs, his head still pounding slightly.

He descended the stairs into the back hallway. The kitchen was completely empty, no dirty dishes stacked by the sink, no tickets on the wheel, nothing cooking on the grill top or the stove. The kitchen was utterly dead. This was strange for a weeknight. He could hear angry voices coming from the dining room. He peeked through the order window.

Sam and Molly were behind the counter. They were speaking to an odd-looking man Simon didn’t recognize. He wore what looked like an old, mousy gray suit, which had obviously seen much better days. The sleeves were ripped and worn to tatters at the end, and his hair hung in long gray strands over his forehead, poking out from under the brim of what must have once been a very splendid hat. Then there were his eyes, one deep ocean blue, the other a putrid, rotten green. They were sunk deep into his face with large purple bags under his sockets, and he looked like someone who never slept much,if at all. His skin was the palish, sickly white of curdling milk, and his nose dove sharply down from his huge brown eyebrows until it almost collided into his rotten, grinning mouth. He made Simon think of a skeleton who was wearing only the costume of man.

Simon moved slowly from the order window to the swinging door, learning carefully against it, straining to hear what they were saying. One of the stranger’s marble white hands leaned on a couple of very large pumpkins on the counter, and he spoke with a hissing, mocking rasp. His words rattled like pennies falling down a wishing well.

“This all took quite a bit the effort, Thatch.” He jabbed a ragged finger at Sam. “I applaud your ingenuity, but nothing lasts forever. All this...” the man gestured his arm around the dining room, “this...tiny
effort
you’ve put forward, it’s still impressive, but really, now, we’ve done this long enough, don’t you think?” The man let out a long, wheezing cough. “We both knew this day would come.”

“Who do you think you are?” Molly leaned over the counter at the man, her eyes narrowing. “You can’t just come in here like this, insulting us. How do you even know Sam?” She folded her arms and glared. “He beat you up in high school?”

The man turned to Molly. “Hardly.” He removed his hat, and his hair was a greasy mess stuck to his head. “You are correct, ma’am. I am forgetting myself. While I cannot count on Sam here to remember his manners, I should not forget mine. Allow me to introduce myself.” He sat his hat on the counter and extended his withered hand. Molly remained still. “Well, then.” He smiled. “My name is Fellis Boeman, ma’am. Sam and I, and
Simon’s parents
,
all
go way back.” His eyes flicked to Sam. “Don’t we, Sammy boy?”

Sam leaned forward, and when he spoke, the words came out through gritted teeth. “Get. Out.
Now
. This is my home. You are not welcome here.”

“Oh, but you see, I am.” He snatched his hat from the counter and returned it to his head. “This, this place is a public establishment, is it not? And I am one of the public. I am a guest, as all your patrons must be, and so, I am welcome.”

“We’re closed tonight,” Sam said. “Private party.”

Boeman smiled. “Well, I should say so! You
really
didn’t have to do all this for me.” Simon peered around the dining room and was shocked. Rubber bats hung from the ceiling. Paper skeletons surrounded the windows. Decoration were everywhere. Sam’s surprise.

“My home, our home, is upstairs.” Sam leaned back. “The threshold applies.”

“Well, then.” Boeman opened a packet of sugar and poured it on the counter. “Apparently not,” he said. He dipped his finger in the small pile of sugar, then touched it to his lips. He smiled, then reached into his pocket and produced a scratched and beaten silver coin, which he flipped on the counter. Neither Sam nor Molly made a move to touch it. “You couldn’t hide forever. It was noble of you to take Tom and Emma’s son, but again, really, we both knew you couldn’t hide forever, let alone keep him in the dark like you have. Boys will be boys, after all.”

Simon twitched at the mention of his parents’ names. He and Sam did not talk about their situation much, not since Simon’s fifth birthday, when Sam sat him down and explained that Simon’s parents had to go away for a very long time, and that Sam would keep watching over him until the day they came back. That had been almost ten years ago, and they had still never come. “Someday,” Sam had told him. “Someday they’ll be back, and you’ll be with them again.” This had been before Molly and Zoey entered the picture, before they even had the Paw. Before everything, really. This talk was one of Simon’s earliest memories, and though he would never tell Sam, it was also one of his saddest. Besides a few suspicious birthday cards and Christmas gifts, Simon didn’t have much to go on with his parents. He suspected the cards and presents were from Sam all along, really. Every time he thought long and hard about them, tried to remember how they looked, or what they sounded like, he always ended up feeling with the same feeling of being broken, incomplete, so he capped those feelings as tightly as he could, kept the pain and the anger tucked in the weird hole their absence made. Still, it was a nagging sadness, spoken by neither Simon nor Sam, but always there, under a tight cap. They were a giant, sad mystery to him, one he had failed to solve.

Hearing the tall man call his parents by name violently uncapped those feelings in Simon and threatened to flood over him. It blinded him to the fact that he was leaning too hard on the door between the kitchen and the dining room--he fell into the room with a loud
thump
. All talking stopped, then a pair of boots, scuffed and covered in mud appeared in his field of vision.

“Look who it is,” Boeman said, watching Simon pick himself up off the floor. “Simon Warner, I am so pleased to see you again. Fifteen long years.” His green eye was fixed on him. “Tell me boy, did you
feel
this night coming?” Slowly he extended his hand to Simon. “Oh come on now, boy,” Boeman said when Simon didn’t move. “Don’t forget your manners too. Shake my hand. You injured my dog, after all. The least you can do is show me some respect.”

Sam stepped in front of Simon. “Don’t do it,” he said. “Don’t even look at him.”

Boeman waved a finger at them. “That’s hardly nice, Sam. The boy and I do have a certain history, after all.”

Sam leaned into Boeman’s face. “Look. You are not welcome here. Leave now.” Sam’s voice was tinged with something Simon couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t anger, but more like intense wanting, very strong desire, compelling, palpable and heavy. Whatever it was made Simon’s skin break out in goosebumps.

Simon peeked around Sam at the skeleton man. “That was your dog?” His and Boeman’s eyes met. The man’s eyes were both bright green now, the color of the sky before a tornado. A frigid feeling squirmed its way around Simon’s chest.