The Specter Key (5 page)

“It’s not?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Cringan said, slapping some books onto a crate. “Where’d you get an idea like that?”

Bran blinked at him, and then he glanced at the note paper. “I just…found it.”

“No, no,” Mr. Cringan said, coming forward and wiping his hands. “The Nigels are a set of apartments that were owned by millionaire Nigel Stoffolis over by the docks. They were converted out of a mansion, and the rooms are rented out by the year to sailors and travelers and whatnot. There’s about sixty rooms I’m guessing, all in the manor.”

“So Nigel Ten isn’t a person at all,” Bran stammered.

“No,” Mr. Cringan spread his hands apart. “Nigel Ten is a room.”

Finding Nigel Ten

The idea had never once occurred to Bran, and now he felt as if he was hotly onto something. Mr. Cringan saw that it was important and turned to the wall, where a calendar and a big, tattered map were pasted.

“Look, it’s over this way, not too far,” he said. “Don’t see why you’re interested in going to the Nigels, though.”

“It’s not really that important, I guess,” Bran said, though he knew his face told the opposite because Mr. Cringan lifted his eyebrows. There was no fooling him. But he was the type of person who wouldn’t meddle into anybody’s business unless they asked for it, and so he finally relented and traced his finger along the road.

“But if it ever does in the future become of any importance,” he said pointedly, “the best route is to follow along this way here, by the marina.”

“Good thinking,” Bran said. He knew he was already caught, even as Mr. Cringan turned again and walked off. Bran looked at Astara. Neither of them spoke.

“I’m going there,” Bran finally said.

“I’m coming,” Astara added, not leaving any room for him to refuse. It was close enough to lunch that she had an excuse to leave for a while, even though Bran could see that Mr. Cringan had his suspicions. Astara had a bike that was just about as cheap as Bran’s own, black with parts of the paint worn off, but he was so used to cheap things he didn’t really notice. It was a warm trip that was mostly flat ground and easy riding, until it got to a few more hills as they got closer to the docks.

Bran had gotten down this way before but usually only came to this side of town when he had to get something special for Mabel at Larak’s Bakery. There were tall hills around with mansions dug into the sides, overlooking the river like bird nests. He knew the streets well and found the one Mr. Cringan had pointed out, biking down halfway and then skidding to a stop.

“Here we are,” Bran said, catching his breath. Both of them paused on their bikes for a moment. Off to their right and ahead a way, the road had a sharp drop-off. A steep hill bordered the harbor, with boats parked in docks and people all about. That was Lake Norton, which flowed downstream until it reached the ocean many miles away. There was a muddy beach somewhere down there, though it wasn’t close enough to see.

Off to their left, however, between a bunch of fancy seafood restaurants and buildings lining the busy street, stood a large, white mansion with tall columns in the front. It was significantly worn and old, parts of the roof sagged, and bits of the steps were broken in places. It looked as if at one time it had been something breathtaking but had aged in recent years. There was a wide wooden sign sticking out of the ground in front that read simply:
The Nigels.

“There it is,” Bran said.

“It’s an ugly old thing,” Astara noted.

“But why this place?” Bran asked aloud. She shrugged.

“No one would suspect anything strange here, I guess,” she offered. It was the perfect place to hide something.

They crossed the street and leaned their bikes against the side of the building. The steps creaked as they went up, and Bran pulled the door open. A chilly artificial air blew out, wafting with the sounds of an old record playing inside.

“Close it, please,” an old man’s tired voice commanded. He was sitting at a desk to the left and didn’t look up from his crossword puzzles. Bells around the handle jangled about as the door closed, mixing with the sounds of oldies music from the phonograph on the desk. Bran rubbed his arms in the cold.

“Good morning, sir,” Bran said, looking about. The inside was all wood of an old design, with intricate carvings on the ceiling and cluttered with antique furniture. Hallways branched out in all directions, and stairs on either side of the room led to more. The creaking floorboards made the room echo as Bran turned slowly, taking it all in. A large stained-glass window on the front wall threw colors across the room.

“Morning,” the old man replied, still not looking up. He found a word and penciled it in.

“How’s business today?” Bran asked, searching for anything to say.

“Usual,” the man said.

“Should be more travelers with weather like this,” Bran mused.

“Perhaps.” He erased a word and replaced it with another. Bran took a glance around the corner and saw that there were rows of doors on each side with numbers on the front.

“We’re looking for a room here,” Bran said.

“I’ve got plenty of ’em,” the old man replied.

“Which ones are open?” Astara tried. The man looked up. His face was pale and bony with bits of gray hair poking out on his dirty chin. He was mostly bald, and his eyes narrowed as he looked them over for the first time.

“Aye,” he said. “You want a room? We only sell rooms to folks old enough to have driver’s licenses. Go get your parents.”

“Oh, this,” Bran stammered, “is my…sister. We’re…apartment hunting, for our parents.”

The man blinked and didn’t look as if he was entirely convinced. Bran grinned stupidly, hoping he looked brother-like, and finally the man relented and started to look for his ledger book. He coughed roughly.

“Twenty-three’s popular,” the man said. “But it’s filled. Forty-five’s filled too.”

“What about ten?” Bran asked. The man flipped through the book.

“Taken,” he said. Bran’s shoulders fell a bit. Taken? He hadn’t been prepared for that.

“Who’s got it?” Astara spoke up.

“Can’t say that.” The man shook his head.

“Come on,” Bran said. “It’s just a name.”

“No, honestly, I can’t,” he said, squinting at the paper. “This bloody ledger’s all smudged out for some reason. It’s been there a long while, too, that’s why. Whoever-it-is paid in advance.”

“When will they be leaving?” Bran tried.

“Hmmm,” the man looked in the book. “Oh, they’ve got that one booked for the next two years, it looks.”

“Two years!” Bran gasped.

“On for longer than that, too,” the man went on. “Ten’s been taken for the past nine years at least. Probably some sailor who thought it’d be his home.”

“Do you ever see anybody going in there?” Astara pressed.

He shrugged. “Never look,” he said. “There’s so many rooms I can’t keep up with them. If they pay, they stay; it’s been paid, so I don’t care if they live there or not.”

“You don’t check on the tenants?” Astara asked.

The man furrowed his brow. “What they keep in their room’s their business,” the man declared. “There’s rooms in this place I haven’t been in since I started working here nineteen years past.”

He nodded strongly. “But eleven’s open, if it’s any recourse.”

“Great,” Bran said. “Let’s have a look at it.”

He thought instantly that if they could get into eleven they’d at least be closer to the room than they were now. If anything, they could find a way to glance inside. The old man dug about for a key in one of the drawers, pulling out an intricate one with a metal number 11 welded into the handle.

“Second floor, right this way,” the man said. He started to stand up but began to cough again and had to sit back down, raising a handkerchief to his face. Astara suddenly slid closer to Bran, dropping her voice to a strong whisper in his ear.

“He can’t come,” she hissed. “He’ll take us there, and we’ll never get to ten.”

“What do you want me to do?” Bran whispered, as the man hacked into the handkerchief.

“Make him stay here,” she said. Bran instantly knew what she meant by her tone: she wanted him to use magic on the man and convince him to stay behind. The man stopped coughing and shook his head, blinking to clear it from his sinuses. Bran was still hesitant, though, and Astara let out a breath and turned.

“How about you stay back here?” she suggested. “We can show ourselves up.”

“No, no need,” the man said, trying to stand. “I’ll go up there and open it for ye.”

“No, I insist,” Astara said. “We can show ourselves up just fine.”

“No, I’m all right,” he said adamantly. Astara was getting nowhere, and Bran knew she was right. If the man went with them, their chances of getting to Ten were slim.

“Come on, just sit down,” Astara insisted. “It’ll be much easier, and you can rest.”

“Thank you but no,” the man said. “I’m not too old to walk up a—”

“Maybe you should listen to her,” Bran broke in, and he slid command into his voice: it was something he had not done before with magic, but he knew that in his powers he also held the mental abilities of the Comsar: to communicate, to read minds, and perhaps to alter thoughts. The crossword puzzles in the
Daily Duncelander
obviously didn’t do the man’s mind much good because it took hardly any effort, and his eyes went blank.

“On second thought,” the man lifted a finger, “perhaps she is right.”

The man slid down back into his chair, his face confused. Bran pushed harder on the magic with his mind, feeling as if he connected with the man’s thoughts, suggesting for him to stay behind, until he had fought down the man’s mental barriers.

“We’ll be back soon,” Bran said, starting to pull Astara toward the stairs. “Why don’t you have some fun with more crossword puzzles?”

“Yes, yes,” the man nodded, taking his newspaper up again and looking at it. Bran and Astara hurried up, the steps creaking under their feet. Bran felt it was a wonder the balcony even held up, and the whole place seemed like it could fall apart at any moment.

The hall was lit by a window at the end and some old light bulbs, so it wasn’t particularly creepy or dark. The floor was covered with a thin red carpet, and there were doors on each side with numbers, none of them Ten. At the end, it went in both directions, almost like a miniature maze.

“Your sister?” Astara finally said. “Couldn’t have come up with anything better?”

“It’s the first thing that came to mind,” Bran defended, though he saw she was actually trying to hide a smile while they searched. They turned the corner at the end, staying close together, although no one seemed to be up there who might notice. The halls were very wide and quiet except for their shoes against the wood, and the hallway at the end was lined with windows that showed the marina and the lake quite fabulously. They had to turn again, going down another passage until they finally found it.

“Ten, right here,” Bran said. The door was closed. For a moment Bran looked at it, up and down, and listened for anyone beyond it. When he heard nothing, he pressed his ear against the door.

“Hear anything?” Astara whispered.

He shook his head and glanced both ways. “Let’s go in.”

“Let me get the lock,” Astara insisted. “It’ll make me feel better after not getting that stupid box to open.”

Bran obliged, and she stepped to the door, placing her fingers around the lock, as if to feel its inner workings. Bran listened closely for anyone who might be coming.

“
Onpe likoca
,” Astara whispered. She obviously had the spell down, because the lock clicked on command.

“See, you can do it,” Bran said encouragingly. “As long as the lock is old and feeble and easy, of course.”

“Don’t even start,” Astara hissed at him, and she took the handle and pushed the door open.

The room was dark save for the long lines of sunlight poking through broken slats in the wooden blinds. There was furniture all about, couches and chairs and tables, all made of wood and expensive upholstery, the seats of many covered with dirty white sheets. Littered across the floor were various scraps and notes, and, stepping inside, Bran’s foot brushed against a piece of paper, the sound of which made them both jump.

“Sorry,” he said in a whisper. The floor was dusty, the walls decorated with drab paintings that seemed like the artificial pieces of art found in dentist offices—and banks. On some of the tables sat sad looking vases, each holding a single, nearly dead flower drooping over the side. If the room had been a person, it was now a corpse.

“What is this place?” Astara whispered, her eyes sweeping the mess. Bran slowly pushed the door closed behind them, so that only a crack was left for them to hear if anyone was coming. He surveyed it all.

“I have absolutely no clue,” he finally said. “It’s all strange. More like a storage room than an apartment.”

“Maybe your mother left something here, years ago?” Astara said. Bran wasn’t sure. He still hadn’t seen any evidence that anyone might be living there, so he started to step farther from the door. He came to one of the couches that didn’t have a sheet over it, and he saw that there was something sitting on the cushion. It was a copy of the
Daily Duncelander
, opened to a certain page. “Astara,” Bran said lowly. “Come look at this.”

He gently picked the newspaper up so she could see.

“A newspaper?” she said.

“Look at the date.”

“This week,” she whispered. “Someone has been here recently.”

Bran nodded, letting his eyes dart around the room, into the corners he had not checked before. He noticed something then: a long table on which were scattered papers and pens and discs. There was a television screen as well, next to a bed with tattered sheets, but Bran’s attention had been caught by something else—

He dropped the newspaper into Astara’s hands and started to it.

“There’s no way…” Bran said in a low voice, hardly believing it.

The pile of papers was a mixture of colors and shapes, some torn and others bound by staples. There were charts and maps, ink markings and notes spread across them all, pressed down in places by strange mechanical devices and tiny surveillance camera lenses used as paperweights. There were many photographs in the pile as well, but the one that caught Bran’s attention was sitting on the top.

The face in the picture was his own.