Chapter 3 - A Turn for the Worse
Magnus kneeled to collect the morning paper at the foot of the doorstep. Dawn's glow smarted his eye as he rose. The storefronts lining the opposite side of the street were still daubed in shadow, the sun's rays only beginning to seep over the eastern rooftops.
Magnus turned to grip the chill-bitten handle of the apartment door tucked behind the end of the bookshop window. Striding through, he made his way up the steep flight of stairs to the second floor.
He entered the apartment. The living room was fairly large for a residence so discreetly nestled above a bookshop. Blanketed by the dull shine of a floor lamp, an oval glass table stood before a beaten couch and a pair of matching seats. Though the premises were well kept, they were piled with dated newspapers and book-filled cardboard boxes that had found their way upstairs from the bookshop's packed storeroom.
Magnus' gaze immediately took hold of the scintillant book on the table—his father's book, MorningStar, which stood out like a jewel in an otherwise drab tableau. His heart flinched as he picked up the book. It had been a little under a week since he'd first discovered it; the previous night, he'd finally turned its last page. His brother had promised him an answer to every one of his questions once he'd read the book entirely, and Magnus wouldn't waste a day to hear them.
He turned and headed left, through the doorway of the kitchen. Drake was there, rummaging out a pair of plates from the overhead cabinet. He whipped around and hastily laid the dishes on the dining table, outstretching a hand to his younger brother to accept the morning paper. "Thank you, Magnus."
But as Magnus approached, he dropped the newspaper onto the table and passed MorningStar into Drake's open hand instead. "I've finished it," he declared. "Just last night. Now we can talk."
Drake gaped, as if caught off guard. He hardened his grip on the book and stammered when he tried to muster a response. Then he laid the book aside and quickly diverted his attention back to the kitchen counter. "Later. Later this afternoon when the shop is closed. We can't spend time now discussing something so...complex."
"The shop doesn't open for a couple hours," Magnus protested. "Can't you at least tell me now why those books were hidden down there in the first place?"
"Please, Magnus, these aren't questions I can answer in five minutes!" Drake hastened to distribute cutlery over the table, dodging eye contact with his brother.
"You don't have to," Magnus countered. "We can talk over breakfast. I don't expect you to answer all my questions now; I just want to know why you'd hide our own father's past from me! I've waited a week to ask you!"
Drake picked up his head and feebly attempted to reply, but he was cut short by a clamant rapping on the apartment door. The brothers stiffened and spun toward the noise. Seconds later, the knocking repeated. Drake glanced at his wristwatch as he hurried out of the kitchen. "Who in their right mind...?"
Magnus trailed his brother through the living room and down the entrance staircase. Drake strained to peer through the door viewer, then pulled away with wide eyes. He turned the lock and swept open the door. "Cecil!"
A wiry, middle-aged man stood in the entranceway. His face was framed with dark-gray hair that straggled down the length of his neck and brushed the collar of his olive-green trench coat. His sapphirine eyes were bright, but his smile was thin and faltering as he greeted the older Wingheart. "Good morning, Drake." He tipped his head, hands buried inside his pockets. "I—I'm sorry for disturbing you so dreadfully early."
"Oh, no disturbance at all! Come right in!" Drake showed Cecil Handel inside the tight vestibule. "But what on earth brings you here at this hour? Is everything alright?"
Cecil seemed more intent on sealing the door behind him than on answering Drake's question. He greeted Magnus with a brusque nod. "No, no, everything's..." he choked on his words when he turned to face Drake again. "Perhaps we'd better talk inside."
Drake gulped; his eyes twitched as he extended a hand. "Let me take your coat."
Cecil passed his coat to Drake and followed the older brother up the staircase. Magnus lumbered behind with unease. He was disappointed at having been cut short in his questioning about the book, but his former guardian's solemnity told of far more pressing matters.
It was not a rare occasion that Cecil would travel to meet the brothers in their shop, despite the arduous length of the drive. Whether he would come to donate books from his immeasurable collection, or simply for an afternoon visit, he seemed never to abandon his cheery air—until today.
The three headed into the kitchen, where Drake slung the coat over the back of a chair and nervously ushered Cecil to a seat at the dining table. "Have you...have you had breakfast yet?" he stammered.
"No, I haven't." Cecil directed a searing stare at the older brother. "I'm afraid I left my house in a bit of a rush this morning."
Drake nodded uneasily. He swiveled over to the counter and began to trifle with any utensils at his disposal, as if to stall while he devised a response. Magnus pulled up a chair next to Cecil and tried to think of something worth saying, but the troubling silence weighed his mouth shut. His lungs tightened when he noticed that Cecil's attention had drifted onto the book MorningStar on the table, where his brother had left it minutes earlier.
"Magnus came across the book last week," Drake blurted out, then slowed his speech. "He just finished reading it yesterday night."
Cecil's expression morphed from shock to curiosity. "I see." He took the book into his hands and slanted a look at the younger Wingheart. "So?" he asked. "Did you enjoy your father's book, Magnus?"
Irritation hardened Magnus' face. It was apparent that Cecil had known of the book just as Drake had. "An interesting read," he remarked icily. "I didn't know that my father wrote fiction."
"Fiction?" Cecil was impassive. "I assure you this is no work of fiction."
"None of the places mentioned in there ever existed," Magnus objected, "and none of what it says ever happened...anywhere. The whole thing reads like some surreal piece of fantasy."
After a despairing pause, Cecil replied. "I wish I could tell you that every word of this book was purely fabricated," he said, "that this is no more than a tale of fantasy. But if that were so, I'm afraid I would not have come to alert you to the danger we face."
Magnus pulled a bewildered frown and turned to Drake in consultation. His brother's face was full of terror. "What happened?" Drake exclaimed, buckling over to clutch the edge of the table.
"They found us, Drake," Cecil said at the end of his breath. "Last night, my house was attacked."
"Attacked!" Magnus nearly sprang upright. "Attacked by whom?"
But Cecil's attention remained fixed on Drake, who descended, trembling, into the third of the four chairs around the dining table. "By whom, Cecil?" Drake repeated Magnus' question with more sobriety.
Cecil slumped back into his seat, sighing through gritted teeth. "It was shortly after 2 a.m.," he began. "I was woken by an alarm, specifically one by my bedside that's triggered when my home security system is deactivated. The house was pitch-dark and none of the lights worked. By the looks of it, the area's power had gone out. I couldn't see much out of my window...until I looked up." He turned away to the floor with a grimace. "I'd recognize those ghastly clouds anywhere. An entire shade horde had gathered above the house."
"A what?" Magnus interjected, but was promptly silenced by his brother: "Please, Magnus," Drake quavered.
"I grabbed a flashlight, a change of clothes, and my coat, and made for the garage," Cecil continued. "I managed to get in my car just in time. As I sped out and down the driveway, someone assaulted me from the dark, but I was moving too fast for them to land a hit.
"I escaped unscathed, thank heavens. I was forced to take a cumbersome detour because the road was blocked by a collapsed electrical pole—clearly the cause of the blackout and the doing of the people who attacked me. I headed for a cul-de-sac that overlooks Northvalley; from there, I was able to survey my house with a pair of binoculars I store in my pickup. There were at least two people inside; their flashlights were visible through the windows. But they vanished after barely an hour. I can only assume that they found what they came for, else they wouldn't have fled so quickly.
"Whatever they found, of course, you'd be their obvious next targets. I stopped for supplies and made it here as fast as I could. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but...I suppose we knew this day would come."
"What is all this?" Magnus asked again in a more demanding volume. "Who attacked you? What were they after? None of what you're saying makes any sense until you explain!"
"I'll explain later, Magnus!" Drake pleaded, but his brother remained unconvinced.
"And why would they want us next?" Magnus persisted. "If we're being hounded by a bunch of book thieves, then we'll just call the police!"
"Book thieves! I wish!" Cecil scoffed grimly. He pinned wide eyes on the boy. "There is nothing the police can do. There is nothing we can do. We must flee from here by sundown or risk being slaughtered in our beds!"
"No!" Magnus snapped. "Not until one of you explains to me what any of this means! It's enough that I've had to wait a week just to ask why my own father's book was kept hidden from me; now we're blindly running away from something, and I don't even know what!"
"Now is not the time, Magnus!" Cecil gripped Magnus' shoulders with shaking hands. "I promise you, soon all will be explained, but for now we must leave! Leave! We are in danger, and that is all that matters!"
Magnus said nothing in reply. He made his frustration clear by his scowl.
"I'm sorry, Magnus." Cecil sighed, mellowing. "We'll talk as soon as we're out of here and on the road."
"Where will we go?" Drake pulled a bleak frown.
"I believe the shelter outside Markwell would serve us best," Cecil answered the older brother, who gave an understanding nod. "It will, of course, take us most of the day to reach it. Assuming that Recett won't pull off another attack until dusk, we have plenty of time to pack and head out. Still, we'd be wise to leave soon and reach our destination before dark. Night will blind us by the time we reach the countryside if we leave here too late."
Drake propped his forehead in his palm. "Magnus," he muttered without lifting an eye to his brother. "Go and pack any of your things you'll need for at least a week. We may be gone for quite a while."
"Pack a couple of sleeping bags also, if you have them," Cecil added. "In the place we're heading, I don't have much to offer in the way of a bed."
Magnus shook Cecil's grasp off his shoulders as he rose from his seat. With only a wordless scowl to each of his companions, he swiped MorningStar off the table and briskly exited the kitchen. After a despondent pause, Drake turned to his former guardian in an invitation to break the silence.
"Does he know...?" Cecil said, barely above a whisper.
"Nothing more besides what he read," Drake answered.
"How did he discover the book to begin with?"
"He found it in the storeroom chamber. Somehow he stumbled upon the trapdoor while I was out."
Cecil's stare hung over Magnus' empty chair. "Rather ironic, isn't it," he murmured, "how that book came to surface only a week before this whole mess started up again."
Drake nodded ponderously, lowering his head into his hands. "I was naïve to think I could bury our entire past under the floorboards. It would have been better if he'd found that book long ago. Maybe then we could have done something to prevent this."
"That isn't something you can regret," said Cecil. "We could have done nothing. It seems no matter where we would have fled, we would only have been delaying the inevitable."
"Does this always have to be about fleeing?" Drake replied irritably. "Of course, nothing will ever change if all we do is run from one hiding place to another!"
"Can we do anything else?" Cecil gave a dismal shrug. "Last night was a vivid reminder of the enemy we face. It is an enemy we are powerless against, and one that will stop at nothing to achieve its goals. We cannot fight it, and that is why we run from it."
Despair settled over Drake's face. He hauled himself up from his seat and plodded past the table, halting in the doorway of the kitchen. "You're right," he conceded. "We should start packing. We'll want to leave here by noon."
"We ought to take along any books that require safekeeping," Cecil suggested, rising to draw beside the older Wingheart. "Specifically those under the storeroom. I can load them on the back of my truck."
"Not many—only those of significant use or value." Drake turned suddenly to his former guardian. "And my father's satchel as well. The stone and the notebook should still be in it."
"Of course." Cecil gave a mindful nod. "We wouldn't want to leave behind the things we're being hunted for to begin with."
* * *
Magnus found himself growing less and less attentive of the situation at hand. As he abstractedly fed the contents of his dresser into his travel bag, his thoughts were carried further off along tides of aggravation and confusion. Never in his life had he felt so lonesome—as if he hardly knew his own brother. The discovery of his father's book had already put into question much of what he'd been told about his past, but Cecil's bewildering warning seemed to suggest that far more had been kept from him.
Reviewing the lot of his belongings, Magnus shut the dresser vigorously and sealed the full bag. His gaze drifted to the ceiling as he slumped against the side of his bed. "I wish I could tell you that every word of this book was purely fabricated," Cecil's voice throbbed in Magnus' mind, "that this is no more than a tale of fantasy. But if that were so, I'm afraid I would not have come to alert you to the danger we face."
Magnus turned to retrieve MorningStar from where he had earlier left it on his bed. His hands embraced the vintage texture of the book's fabric binding. Why should the reality of my father's stories be tied to Cecil's attack? he mused to himself. He sought answers in the pages of the book, which he thumbed through vigilantly.
"...Council of MorningStar . . ." fragmented phrases flitted past Magnus' eyes, ". . . armored troops to the Serenian Border...swayed by councillor Larke's harangue..." The words that had perplexed him over the course of last week were made no clearer after Cecil's arrival. This was a telling of a history that never took place, yet it was, according to his former guardian, nothing less than fact.
"...that Recett's forces had reached the outskirts of Nayr." Magnus was jarred by a single sentence that entered into his vision. Recett—it was as if the name were haunting him. The book was riddled with mentions of this supposedly powerful person; just earlier, even Cecil had uttered the name: "Assuming that Recett won't pull off another attack until dusk..." he had said.
Eras Recett, Magnus recalled the man's full name as he had read it in his father's book. Who is he? The book seemed to portray him as a councilman who became a cult leader and warlord—a general whose commanding might resided in his vast army of devotees and mercenaries. According to Brendan, Eras had seized one of the largest cities within a land known as Serenia, only to suffer a narrow defeat to the Guard of the capital city of MorningStar.
But even the absurdity of that story paled in comparison to the book's offhand references to sword fighting, crossbows, and magical conjuring. Whatever sort of tale this was, it certainly wasn't factual—though Cecil had insisted otherwise. Then what is it? Magnus repeated a question that had plagued him from the moment he'd first picked up the book. The back cover offered nothing save for a silvery stamp that read "Elkridge Press." The first pages of the book contained what he assumed to be publishing details, but even these were maddeningly obscure.
"Have you finished packing, Magnus?" Drake's call from the living room jolted the boy from his ruminations.
Magnus hastily stuffed the book into a pocket of his bag and slung the load crosswise over his shoulder. "Coming," he answered barely loud enough for his brother to hear.
He exited his bedroom with a melancholy gait and proceeded down the short hall back into the living room. Drake stood there alone, saddled with a pair of swollen travel bags. He motioned to a third piece of luggage slumped at his feet. "Take your sleeping bag," he said. "We're ready to go."
Magnus hauled the last bag over his free shoulder. "Where's Cecil?"
"Outside, loading the pickup," Drake replied. His attention clung to empty space. "We're taking along some of the books from...that room under the basement." He slanted an eye at the boy. "Did you take MorningStar?"
Magnus nodded, feeling for the bulk of the book along the side of his bag. As the brothers retrieved their jackets off the coat stand by the entranceway, Drake heaved a sigh and trudged on down the staircase. Magnus followed him.
Each step of his descent, Magnus felt as if he were fading further from his life of normality and everything that he had ever known to be true and sound. Even if he were to return here soon, it did not seem likely that anything would be the same as it had been before he discovered his father's book.
Drake swept open the apartment door, drawing the autumn wind inside the vestibule. Cecil's pickup was parked across from the bookshop, loaded neatly with cardboard boxes. Enfolded in his trench coat, Cecil stood by the driver's door of the vehicle like the brothers' dutiful chauffeur in wait to depart.
As Magnus shut the door behind him, following Drake toward the pickup, he savored the sight of the bookshop's homely storefront. It was hard not to be gripped by the fear of uncertainty—whether or not he would ever return to see this place again. You will, a wary inner voice promised him. Once this is all over with, you'll make it back here as if nothing ever happened. But still, the prospect seemed doubtful.
Magnus turned away mournfully and found himself standing next to his brother. Drake's gaze was similarly fixed on the shop. He did not appear to hold any more confidence than Magnus, nor any less fear about their safe return. His eyes shifted to lock with his brother's, but it seemed as if he could not bear to look for long. He shuddered and whipped around, hastening to the vehicle that awaited them.