The Passage to Mythrin 2-Book Bundle (11 page)

“Simon!” Ammy waved her dish towel. “Thinks he can do what he likes with my stuff.”

The phone rang. Celeste picked it up, flyers still under her arm. “Hammer. Hello, Vern. What can I do for you? Your car? What would I be doing with your car?” She listened, while her eyes flicked from Ammy to Simon. Then she muffled the receiver against her sweater. “Did either of you put a lost and found ad in the paper?”

“No!” Ammy flared.

“Um, yes,” Simon said, “but not about a car. We found something small.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“We found something small, Vern,” Celeste told the phone. “Oh — I see. No, smaller than that. Sorry.”

She hung up and dumped her flyers on the kitchen table. “It was small, he said. A Volkswagen. Now, what's this valuable thing you found?”

After Simon finished explaining, and Ammy dug the ring out of her pocket and handed it over, Celeste looked at it from all sides, rubbed the stone with her thumbnail, and handed it back. “Unusual,” she said.

“Valuable? Who knows? But you're doing the right thing.”

She made a pot of orange-flavoured tea for the three of them, and then went back down to Boomer Heaven, which was closed for New Year's Day — a chance to catch up on work for tomorrow's sale, she said.

Simon tried to convince Ammy that the ad was not a stupid idea. “I mean, that ring may have nothing to do with what happened the first night — the blue light, and the thing that you say happened but you forgot —”

“— that we all forgot, because you were there too —”

“— but suppose it does?”

“If it does, d'you really think whoever owns it is going to phone up and claim it?”

“Well —”

“He'll come crawling in my window in the middle of the night, that's what he'll do!”

“We don't know that he crawls. He probably walks, like any other person.”

They answered calls for the next two hours. Most of the callers had lost wallets, or cell phones, or keys, or kittens. Some, like Vern, had elastic ideas about the word “small.” About every fourth call was from Ike. “Nothing yet,” Simon kept telling him. Mara did not call.

At one o'clock Ammy was propped on the windowsill, brooding out at the blizzard — which was
wilder and thicker than ever — and Simon was sitting on a chair by the phone, leafing through a catalogue of robotic airplane models, when the phone rang again. He picked it up.

§

Turning from the window, Amelia saw Simon's head go up. His eyes darted at hers.

“Mara?” She was halfway across the kitchen, hand out, reaching.

He shook his head and covered the receiver with his palm. “I think this is it.” He held the receiver towards her and stepped away from the phone. She wondered why he didn't want to take the call himself. Would've expected him to hog it.

“Hello?”

There was a hissing sound on the line. Then a voice: “You have what is mine.” Then the hissing sound again.

Amelia's arms went all gooseflesh under her sweater. Funny voice. A voice with no colours in it, no ups and downs, each word like a separate little bar of lead. “Uh ... can you describe it, please?” She tried to catch Simon's eye. He was rummaging in a drawer.

“It is a ring.” A pause, and that hissing again. “It has a stone.”
Hiss...

What's that sound?
Amelia wondered.

“The stone is marked.”
Hiss...

Amelia rubbed a chilled arm with the hand that wasn't holding the phone. “Ah — it — yeah. Uh...”

Simon waved to get her attention. He had pushed aside the clutter on the fridge door and was writing something on the white surface with black marker.

“Uh — y-you said the stone is marked,” she said as Simon continued to write. “What mark?”

Hisss...
“The eye of wisdom. The claw of strength.”

“Well, that ... that could be it.” Her stomach felt like she'd swallowed cement. “But there could be more than one ring like that,” she said, though she doubted it. “What colour is it?”

The line went
hiss... hiss...
She thought:
That's his breathing.
Her heart thumped.

“Bone.”
Hisss...

“Ah!” She nearly laughed. “Sorry, that's not —”

“And blood.”

“Oh...”

Simon poked her in the shoulder. She looked at the fridge door. “TELL HIM TO MEET YOU. TOWN HALL SQUARE BY SKATING RINK,” it said.

“Uh ... we ... I.... Uh, meet me in the town hall square. By the skating rink.”

Hiss...
“Yesss.”
Hiss...
“Now.” The line went dead.

Amelia dropped the receiver on the floor with a clatter and sat down hard in the chair. “Now. He wants me to meet him now.”

Simon scooped up the receiver, tapped the hook switch, and dialed again. “Ike? Guess what?”

Amelia took a minute to get her breath. It felt like she'd hardly been breathing, trying not to make a noise: hiding like a rabbit from a snake.

“See you downstairs,” Simon said into the phone. He hung up and looked at Amelia.

“I'm scared.” She didn't feel the least bit embarrassed about saying it.

“He scared me too. That's why we're bringing Ike and Celeste.”

“Why would we —” she began hotly. Then changed her mind. As she headed to the coat closet and started
pulling on layers, she said, “Well, okay. After all, we don't know what this guy is. He could be a child molester or a con man or something.”

But Celeste wasn't in the store. “Left for Elora fifteen minutes ago, to meet a seller,” her helper said. “She'll be back in an hour or so.”

“We can't wait an hour,” Simon said. “He'll be gone by then.”

Ike fell into step with them as they came out of Boomer Heaven. The front of his parka bulged. “Camera,” he explained. “Zoom lens. Got to keep it warm.”

“Wait a minute,” Amelia said breathlessly. They were slogging through ten inches of snow. “Wait — what are we going to do? I can't just hand the ring over!”

“No, you should stall him — as long as you can,” Ike panted. “So I can get a good shot!”

“But I don't” — she gasped — “don't want to give it back.”

And then it was too late. They reached the corner of Barth's Drugstore, next to the town hall square. Ike stopped, and Simon and Amelia walked out into the square.

“What about Ike?” she asked.

“We can't let him see Ike with us, or he'll never get the shot.”

The space in front of the town hall was white and wild. Snow devils eddied as high as the roofs. The only building around the square that showed any sign of life was the doughnut shop on the far side. The square was deserted except for the two of them and a dark figure that sat at one of the concrete chess tables beside the skating rink. Amelia stopped.

“I see him,” Simon said. “Don't be scared, I'm with you.” His voice trembled. Amelia let the “Don't be scared” remark pass. She didn't think she could speak.

The man turned his head and watched them come. Amelia shaped her mouth into what she hoped was a confident smile. From here he looked nothing like his voice. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it wasn't this.

She stopped behind the chair on the near side of the chess table, just beyond arm's reach.

“Sit.” His voice was deep and husky, but there was no hissing.

“No, thank you,” Amelia said.

“I can pay.” He opened his hand and a toonie slid into the snow on the table.

Amelia blinked at it. “Pay?” Her mind was too busy with the man's looks to pay attention to what he was saying.

“For the ad,” Simon muttered behind her. “If confirmed, the owner pays for the ad.”

“You have what is mine,” the man said.

“Uh ... yes.” Her right hand clenched and she resisted the urge to put it behind her back. The ring nestled warm in her palm.
Strong
, it told her.
Strong and fearless
.

He was strangely dressed. The clothes were not strange in themselves; in fact, he was better dressed than anybody she had seen in Dunstone yet. He wore a dark grey suit with a waistcoat of iridescent satin, grey rippling into green and purple when it moved, like a grackle's head. A silky, dusk purple tie was tucked into the waistcoat and a silver chain looped across it. She glanced down. Glossy black leather shoes showed at the bottoms of knife-creased trouser legs.

And that was all. No overcoat, no scarf, no hat, no gloves, no galoshes. Snow settled in heaps on his shoulders and the wind tore his hair. And yet he didn't look cold.

Dark hair, glossy, with the same iridescence as the waistcoat. Pale face with gaunt bones. Long, slightly smiling mouth. Eyes...

Amelia didn't want to look at his eyes. That would be getting too close. But she made herself do it. The eyes, under thick black eyebrows, were large and pale grey. She looked away again quickly. Most people would say it was a good face, she thought. Not handsome, but kind of ... well, noble, in a worn sort
of way. She put up a hand and rubbed her eyes. Her head hurt.

“You may sit without fear,” he said. “I will not eat you.” His accent sounded only a little foreign. Less than at first. That worried her.

“N-no, thanks.” Amelia wondered where Ike was and if he'd got his picture yet. “I ... I have to ask one more question. To be sure.” She'd seen him before. Where?

“Then ask.”

“This, uh, ring you lost. What size is the band?”

“The same size as the ... dial...” His eyes searched her face. Pain walked in her head. She flinched. “... of the ... watch ... on the table beside your bed.”

“How would you know that?”

Simon sidled closer. “Ike needs more time,” he breathed in her ear.

“There's only one way you could know. You were the thing at my window.” Her voice trembled. “You're the Assassin.”

The corners of his mouth curled up. “And the ring in your glove is mine.”

“I — ah —” How did he know it was in her glove? She took a step back. Her fist clenched tighter.

Simon grabbed her arm. “'Nother sec,” he murmured.

“I have no quarrel with you or your friends. You are perfectly safe.”

His eyes were tight to her face. It felt like something was walking around on the inside surface of her skull. Digging at her brain with a spade. “What are you doing?”

“Reading you. Learning.” His white teeth showed. “You are so open, you people. You don't guard your thoughts at all.”

“You're reading my
mind
?”

“Of course. A moment ago you were thinking quite loudly, ‘If he's the Assassin he mustn't get the ring. It must be something he needs to hurt Mara. I can't let him hurt Mara.'” He smiled up at her.
Such a nice, warm smile,
she thought wildly.

“The way you talk has changed,” Simon said suddenly. “You've been skimming it off Ammy's mind, haven't you? Is that how Mara learned? By reading our minds?”

“No!” Amelia snapped. “Mara would never do a thing like that to me.”

The Assassin laughed at her. “Wouldn't she? Ask her. And while you're at it, see if she'll tell you who she is, and what she is. Ask her why she was exiled, and what was her crime. Perhaps you'll think again before you help such a one as Marathynarradin. And now — the ring, if you please!”

Trying to think of nothing at all, Amelia took the first step away. The Assassin leaped straight over the
table at her. She shrieked and crashed flat in the snow. A weight squashed all the breath out of her lungs. She stared up into eyes like diamonds, too bright. She shrieked again. Sharp things tore at her right glove. She hit out with her left fist and kept on shrieking.

Then there were shouts, and chunks of snow hit her in the face, and the weight suddenly lifted. She sat up dizzily. Simon was scrambling to his feet. His left side was coated with snow. Another snowball flew past her, followed by Ike and a fat, grey-haired man wearing a white apron over a red shirt. She looked around for the Assassin. He was gone.

“So much for him,” said the man, wiping wet hands on his apron. “You all right?” He held out a hand and pulled Amelia to her feet.

“Y-yeah, thanks. Just — just shaky.”

“You watch who you talk to after this, eh? Don't get taken in by how nice they dress.”

“I — I won't,” Amelia said.

“I'll tell the police to keep their eyes open for this character. Shows you can't tell a book by its cover, eh?”

“Thanks, Bruce,” Ike said. The man waved and walked back to the doughnut shop. Ike held out a honey-glazed cruller with one bite out of it. Amelia shook her head. Her stomach churned.

“Did he get it?” Simon asked her.

“No. But...” She held up her right fist. White fleece poked up out of four parallel slashes in the black leather. The back of the glove looked like someone had taken a razor to it.

Ike made a choked sound. Simon said, “I didn't see a knife.”

“No,” Amelia said. “He didn't have a knife.”

The ruined glove lay on the table between them. Ammy touched it with her fingertip. “I'm sorry. It was your dad's.”

“Never mind,” Simon said. “It kept you from getting cut.”

He was just starting to feel warm again, and Ammy's hands had almost stopped shaking. At least, she could hold a drink without sloshing it. They'd been in the doughnut shop twenty minutes. Bruce had brought them mugs of hot chocolate and half a dozen doughnuts, all kinds. “On the house,” he said. “Today's a writeoff anyways.”