The Academy (Moving In Series Book 6) (23 page)

Ernest regained his composure and walked forward towards the exit. With a gasp, he remembered what his father had taught him and he hissed, “Vincent Armand, you are bound until called.”

Vincent’s attack stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Ernest’s body ached as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. The muscles knotted themselves together, pounding out a symphony of agony on his bones. When he stepped into his father’s office, Ernest turned on the light, stutter-stepped over to the chair, and dropped down heavily into it.

He closed his eyes and thought,
No money is worth this. And I don’t need anymore. At least not right now. Not with the deal Donald and I reached.

“Ernest,” Nathaniel said. “I’m surprised you’ve returned so quickly. Could it be that you succeeded in obtaining another for my collection?”

Ernest cracked open his right eye and was not surprised to see his father. The elder Weiss stood by the door, hands clasped in front of him.

“I did,” Ernest replied.

Nathaniel’s eyes sparkled. “Well done, Ernie!”

Ernest flushed with pride.

“Who is it?” his father asked eagerly, “And to what is the person attached to?”

Ernest told his father about Vincent, the fob, and the bargain he had struck with Donald. By the end, Nathaniel was nodding happily.

“Excellent work, my son. Quite exceptional,” his father said, and once more Ernest felt himself fill with pride. “Put the fob with the others, would you?”

Ernest nodded, stood up gingerly, and went to the portrait. After a moment, he had the safe open and added Vincent to the others. Before closing the door, Ernest said, “I think, father, that I will not be searching for any more of these.”

“You must,” Nathaniel said.

Ernest faced him. “I don’t think I can. Vincent was nearly the end of me.”

His father smiled. Ernest recognized it. It was the smile Nathaniel Weiss had used to get many people to do whatever he wanted. It had never worked on Ernest’s mother.

And it had never worked on Ernest either.

“Smile all you want, father,” Ernest said, “but I’ve no desire to die.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was going to say and then gestured with his hand. The movement was almost lazy, more like an afterthought than a deliberate decision.

Yet whatever the impetus behind it, Ernest was thrown backward. Each breath was a struggle, and it felt as though someone had slammed his chest with a hammer. Wheezing, Ernest twisted his head from left to right, and then he paused.

Beneath the desk was a small, ornately carved wooden hinged frame.

The ambrotype
, Ernest thought. It was his father’s first photograph. One of the man’s most prized possessions. And from it came a deep, reverberating chill.

Ernest rolled over onto his side. Nathaniel was speaking, but Ernest ignored him. He focused solely on the picture. He crawled forward, reached out, and grasped it.

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the ankles and dragged out from under the desk.

“What did you find, Ernie?” his father asked in a low voice, looking down at him.

Ernest showed him and Nathaniel smiled.

“Put it on the desk,” his father said, stepping away from him.

Nodding, Ernest got to his feet, but instead of turning towards the desk, he lunged across the small room to the open safe. Nathaniel yelled, outraged and slammed into him, but not before Ernest threw the frame.

It curved gently in the air, struck the inner right wall of the safe and ricocheted inside with the other items.

Nathaniel tried to push Ernest away. With a snarl of rage and fury, Ernest powered his way through his father’s supernatural barrier and reached the safe.

“Nathaniel Weiss!” Ernest screamed, his father howling and snatching clumps of hair from Ernest’s head. “You are bound until called!”

Nathaniel Weiss went silent, and his hands vanished from Ernest’s head.

Ernest thrust his entire weight against the metal door.

The safe closed with a bang.

For a brief moment, Ernest stood in front of the safe, shocked. His senses quickly returned to him, and he locked the door. He hung up the key and put the portrait back into place. He stared at the image of his younger self and wondered how the safe could hold his father’s spirit.

I don’t care why,
Ernest told himself after a moment. He turned away from the painting and looked at his father’s books. There was money hidden behind them, and Ernest would find it.

And when I have enough,
Ernest thought, glancing back at the portrait,
I’ll find a place to hide that damned safe.

With a shudder, Ernest walked to the nearest bookcase and began ripping the books from the shelves.

*  *  *

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