The Specter Key (24 page)

The lid was locked, but the metal lever stood from the side, as if beckoning him once again to play the song he had heard but a few times and had already memorized. His heartbeat quickened, and Astara could say nothing in her shock, even as they both stared at it.

“Did he really…” Bran whispered. But he could say no more and only began to turn the wheel. The lament started to play.

The sound was far more beautiful than any of the other times he had heard it, the notes ringing softly so that its mourning seemed to have surrendered to its origin: the lullaby that Gary had written for Emry. Bran could no longer hear the sadness or the pain that the song had come to represent but only the love with which it had first been written.

The song was over long before Bran wished for it to be, but the lock on the lid gave a click, and he slowly lifted it and peered inside. As if she had been waiting for him all the time, Nim leapt out and swirled around his head with happiness.

“Nim!” Bran said. Nim flew around and around and never seemed to want to stop, and Bran realized that she was truly there with him and would not be forced to leave again.

“Nim,” she said to him in reply, finally clinging to his shirt and rubbing her head against it. The two circles on her wings glowed in the dark, as if powered by her happiness.

“I can’t believe he let her go,” Astara said. “It doesn’t seem at all like him.”

“No,” Bran said, shaking his head. “It isn’t. But I’ve learned to never expect anything when it comes to my father.”

And Bran couldn’t think of anything else to say about it. So they sat there as the night grew darker and the crowd grew larger. Lights continued to be hung from the trees and the tables, and the lanterns were lit until the whole street was aglow.

“You don’t remember anything from being with the Specters?” Bran asked Astara after a while. It was the third time the question had come up since he had found her, and she had already given him the same answer each time.

“I just can’t,” she said. “It was there a little, but it seems to be fading away. I can’t really place my finger on any of it.”

“It’s probably for the better,” Bran said with a sigh. “At least they’re free now. The Key is gone. And you’re back.”

He grinned at her, and she punched his arm.

“Look, I thought you were dead,” Bran told her with mock disgust.

“It’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me,” she said slyly.

“You say that as if you were able to save yourself,” Bran replied. Astara laughed.

“I just can’t believe you’d go all that way when you didn’t even know there was a chance of me being alive,” Astara said.

“Well, I wasn’t about to just let you go,” Bran said. “It’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me.”

Astara laughed when she heard her own words used against her, and she leaned back so that she could look at the sky and lie against the rooftop. Her hair spread around her head on the roof like a halo, and the gentle wind pushed it about.

“It was still very brave of you,” she finally whispered. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’ve got to thank you for saving my life, as plain as that sounds.”

“Nope, don’t mind hearing that at all,” Bran said with a cough. “Saving the lives of girls abducted by spirits—do it all the time.”

She punched him hard in the side, and it hurt so badly that he doubled over in pain. He winced as he caught his breath, but she only grinned toward the sky.

“Don’t think you’re getting thanks a second time, Bran,” she said to him, as he slowly managed to start breathing again.

“Next time I might just leave you there,” Bran croaked.

“No you won’t,” Astara replied, and Bran could not argue. He blew down in her face and dodged her fist another time, then saw a car turning onto Bolton Road. The crowd below started to cheer and wave flags. Astara sat up quickly and looked over the edge.

“You think we’ll even get to say hello to them?” she said as the crowds of eager neighbors bustled forward, forcing the car to stop. The doors were pried open, and though he strained to look, Bran could hardly see Rosie or Bartley as the people pulled them out and blew party horns and miniature trumpets. He wanted to see Rosie so much, but he knew that his reunion with her would be tarnished if he went down now into the frenzy.

“Probably not for little bit,” Bran replied, settling back reluctantly. “They’ll all have their party and look respectable and then be on their way.”

“Leaving Sewey and Mabel to clean up the mess,” Astara finished for him.

“More likely leaving me to clean up the mess,” Bran laughed. Astara grinned at that.

“Maybe we should stay up here for a little while longer then,” she said, nudging him against the chimney. He pushed her back.

“That’s probably a good idea,” he agreed. “We both know what happened at the last party here.”

“Ah, it didn’t turn out quite so bad,” Astara countered.

“For you,” Bran replied. “Next time, it’s your turn to save me.”

“I’ve saved your life more than once,” she said with a laugh. “But all right. I owe you a favor.”

“It’s a deal,” Bran said, and he settled back against the chimney, with Astara at his side, as they watched the people. The lights from below reflected in Nim’s green eyes, and the glowing circles on her wings lit up as she flew around their heads and slowly climbed up toward the night sky.

Mr. Rat lazily pushed his mop across the cold concrete of the subway tunnel maintenance passage, his earbud headphones playing snappy show tunes that masked the swishing noises as he cleaned. He was dressed in a dreary gray jumpsuit and had on black boots that squished across the floor, leaving tracks behind him as he mopped ahead. He was not accustomed to janitorial work. But thanks to the Ex-Prisoner Exchange Program, otherwise known as EP-EP, it was his way out of the Dunce jails.

He hummed to the tunes on his cassette player as he pushed the mop. It was late. The passages were narrow and only lit by fluorescent bulbs, many of which needed to be replaced. He wasn’t the light replacer though. Davey was the light replacer, and Mr. Rat did not like Davey at all, so as he walked he made sure to punch some of the bulbs out with the wooden end of his mop, littering glass all across the floors he had just cleaned.

He tugged the mop bucket, but it had become stuck on some pipes in the corner. He struggled to pull the bucket free but slipped on the wet floor and fell flat on his back, spilling the contents of the mop bucket everywhere.

“
Greatness!
” he squeaked, flipping and flopping all over as he tried to stand. He scrambled up and then slammed against the wall, which shattered on impact, sending him and the bucket flying through.

Mr. Rat shouted, though no one heard as he fell into the darkness beyond. He rolled down a set of stairs and was hit at the bottom by the bucket, which tumbled after him.

“Aye, can’t a man have a bit of mercy now?” he said to the air around him, shaking like a dog in an attempt to get some of the water off. He looked up then and saw that the stairs went up to a door that had been covered up with a fake wall.

“Now what idiot puts a door out ’ere?” he grumbled to himself, kicking the mop bucket with disgust. It was much harder plastic than he had thought, and he hopped around cradling his foot as it throbbed with pain. As he turned around, he realized that he had stumbled on an abandoned subway stop.

He fell back against the wall in surprise at all the open space before him, for he hadn’t realized he was in such a large room. There were sets of tracks far ahead of him and abandoned benches and things against the walls but no people and very little sign that anyone had been there, besides some tracks across the dusty floor.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be cleanin’ this now, do ye?” he said aloud, punching the air. “Just walk along back up them stairs, Rat. No one’ll notice it ain’t been mopped.”

Still, his curiosity got the better of him, and he walked forward, wanting to look down the tunnel. He knew that the subway had many abandoned stops, closed down for financial reasons. He reached the edge of the concrete and looked down and then started hollering to hear his voice echo around the corners.

“Your mother’s a pig!” he shouted, and he heard it echo back, up and down the tunnels. He started to shout again, when he saw something flash down the tunnel. It was in the middle of the tracks and glimmered suddenly, as if beckoning him with a flashlight. At first he thought it might have been the eye of a rat, because it was green, but as many of his closest companions were rats themselves, it only made him wish to introduce himself and perhaps invite the rat and its family to dinner and scones. So he leapt off the edge and started toward it, listening intently for any trains that might come to squash him.

He had a flashlight on his belt, which he pulled out and waved in front of him as he walked. The faraway object flashed green every time the light passed over it, which only caused Mr. Rat’s pace to quicken, until he was practically dashing to it.

He finally reached the spot and bent down and saw a solid green, shining gem, entirely unblemished and larger than any he had seen before, even in all the houses he had burglarized.

“What’s this now?” he said aloud, crouching down to wipe away some shards of metal and seize the gem. He held it above his head, letting the flashlight reflect off the gem onto the walls of the tunnel in a dazzling green display.

“This is bound to be worth a thousan’ sib, maybe two!” he said with a maniacal laugh. He wondered how it had gotten there on the tracks but figured perhaps some rich fiend had tossed it out the train window or one of the tunnel rats had been bored and left it behind.

“Well, isn’t this grand?” he said, chuckling. Mr. Rat took another quick glance around the tunnel and then grinned to himself as he pushed the gem into his pocket, feeling that today had truly been his lucky day.

Without these people, this book would not have been possible:

Daniel Ehrenhaft: for your editing magic that made everything shine.

My agent Richard Curtis: without whom my writing would have remained a stack of papers.

Brendan Forsling: for remaining my friend even when I got the manuscript to you two years after I promised it.

Catherine, Anna, and the rest of the Biewers: for knowing all my book secrets years before anyone cared…and keeping said secrets.

Lauren Suero: for going with me on the first stops of the book tour, armed with blue pens and mints.

Rachul Gensburg: for her salty, salty lies, and talking crows.

Jaden, Kim, Becka, Gum, Nicoleface, Zane, and the rest of the FTW Crew: for late night Skype calls that kept me alive through far too many days spent indoors, acting like a serious business adult.

And the BranFans: for your general awesomeness.

As a child, Kaleb Nation was forced to write one page a week in creative writing. But after he finished his first story, no one could make him stop. At age twelve, he telephoned the editor of a major publisher to pitch his book but got to talk with security instead. Years later, his books are being produced by publishers worldwide…including the one that first turned him down. Aside from writing, Kaleb is a blogger and a former radio host. He turned twenty-one in 2009 and currently lives in California.

Visit Kaleb online at www.kalebnation.com.