The Specter Key (9 page)

The Man Called T

The word caused Bran to shrink back, as if the man had reached forward and slapped him. But recognition struck him in that same instant. Though their eyes were different colors—Thomas’s a slate gray—and there were no deep physical similarities between them, there was something to his voice, something Bran hadn’t perceived before but was clear as day to him now. The revelation drew no reaction from Thomas, and though Bran deeply wished to deny it, he knew that the man’s words had been the truth.

“M-my father?” Bran stammered.

Thomas didn’t nod, didn’t even turn to look at him. He just picked up his bag and the sack beside it and the music box and turned to the door.

“Wait!” Bran said. His voice cracked. The man continued out of the apartment, and Bran rushed after him. “If you’re my father, why haven’t you come? Why did you leave me there and watch me work in that house for years and then tell those men and Shambles where I was?”

Inside, a part of him was weeping, but at the same moment he was angry, knowing that his own father had done this and was now walking away yet again. His mind did not know how to react. He felt he was in a nightmare but couldn’t break free. He had waited all his life to find someone—anyone—who was actually a part of him. But this stranger had called Bran his son just as he might have called him his neighbor or his dog.

“Bran, there are higher things at stake here than you, I’m afraid,” Thomas said, not looking at him as he locked the door to Ten. “Much higher things.”

“But…you’ve been here,” Bran said, trying to restrain the emotions that were hitting him at once. “I’ve thought you were dead all this time.”

“No, you haven’t,” Thomas replied, starting down the hall with Bran close behind. “You haven’t really thought about me too much, I don’t think. You’ve been far too concerned with Emry.”

“I have,” Bran countered. “But she left me with a note—and you left me with nothing. Now you come out of nowhere with no answers, and you expect to just disappear again?”

“There are higher things at stake here,” the man said again.

“Enough to put my life on the line?” Bran said.

“Possibly,” Thomas replied. “And it worked. You drew Joris and Elspeth out of hiding.”

“So I was the bait,” Bran said sharply. “You set me up because you knew they would come to get me, and then you’d know where they were.”

“Precisely,” the man said. “But don’t worry, they’ll be dead soon enough.”

“Dead?” Bran demanded, coming around the corner. “Whose side are you on?”

“No one’s side but my own,” Thomas said, looking straight ahead with a half smile. Bran followed, hearing sirens in the distance. Instead of going for the front, Thomas took a sharp turn toward the back of the building. At the end, Bran saw another door that led outside.

“So you’re just going to leave again?” Bran asked as Thomas pushed outside. Everything there was rocky gravel, with an open view of the streets on both sides. Thomas moved for a dark gray car parked near the back entrance.

“Are you?” Bran pressed. “Just leave and take Nim with you?”

“Perhaps,” was all his father would say, opening the door and dropping his things in as the police sirens got closer. Thomas turned the sack over and dumped all the money out into the music box, taking no care to avoid smothering Nim. He then dug around and scooped out a handful of the money and stuffed it back into the sack.

“Hold this please,” Thomas said calmly, shoving the sack at Bran. He slammed the door and brought the music box to the front with him. “I am leaving this place. And if I was you, I’d leave quickly as well.”

He reached for the driver’s side door handle.

Bran shook his head. “Then I wish I hadn’t even met you. You’re a horrible father.”

Thomas’s hand stopped, the door pulled halfway. Bran could see the reflection of his father’s face in the window.

“I was called that once,” Thomas finally said. “By your mother.”

“And now she’s dead,” Bran said.

For the slightest of an instant, the hardness behind Thomas’s eyes seemed to shift in the reflection, as if his features fell for just a split second, before stiffening once again.

“So she is,” he replied. “And soon there will be a few more dead because of it.” He yanked on the door handle, his heart a brick wall once more.

The engine roared throughout the lot, and Bran stepped back. Thomas pulled the car out and onto the gravel, the wheels throwing up some of the rocks as he drove away, spraying hot pebbles and a cloud of dust upon his son.

Bran kicked the rocks with anger he couldn’t hold in any longer, but a flash and loud noise jarred him. He spun and saw two police cars coming around the other end of the lot, their sirens blaring and their lights spinning. His first reflex was to point the police in the wrong direction so that Thomas could get away. The reaction shocked him, that he would even consider helping this man.

“He went that way!” Bran forced himself to shout, contrary to everything his confusing heart told him but obeying what his mind demanded. He pointed down the road, trying to get them in the right direction. It was at that moment he realized that in his right hand he was clutching a sack of money.

“Oh no…” he said, as he realized what was happening, and looked up and saw that the cars were coming straight for him. A deeply fearful thought came upon him: what if they tested him for magic somehow at the station? They would know he was a mage.

In a flash he spun around, dashing off before they could get a good glimpse of his form, dropping the bag as he did. He heard their engines roar, but he already had a head start, shooting around the corner and down the side street.

The cars weren’t far behind, their tires scratching and sliding on the rocks. He felt his heart pounding as he ran, heat rising up and causing him to sweat. He could hear the sirens bearing down, and he leapt through a grove of bushes, falling and rolling into the yard of a small white house.

He hadn’t lost them yet. The cars screeched to a halt, and he heard the lumbering officers dash out in pursuit. The bushes provided him with hardly any cover. He ran even faster around the side of the house.
Great, running from the police now,
he thought, panting for breath.
Can things get any lower?

Just then Bran slammed into a tall wooden fence. It knocked the breath out of him for a second, but there wasn’t any time to lose. He grabbed the top, pressing his shoes against the gate’s handle and flinging himself over.

“Come back here!” the officers roared, but he was already running again through the yard. There were a swimming pool and a swing set but thankfully no people. The opposite end was gated as well, and Bran pushed through it, dashing out onto the next street. The officers were still shouting, trying to find a way past the fence.

There was a large wooded area just across the next street, and he headed for it, turning back toward the main road before he lost his bearings. He was nearly out of breath, but he managed to get deep enough into the trees and brush that he couldn’t be seen from the road. He fell to the ground that was covered in a bed of pine leaves and sticks, and sat there bent over, trying to catch his breath.

Cars rumbled by on the road, and he stayed still even though he was hidden well. It had been such a close call that it was hard to slow his speeding heart. He heard the police sirens getting closer and getting louder. He was very still until he heard them pass, and slowly he was able to calm himself.

He knew he was in one of the parks but not one that had many visitors. He could see the shapes of houses through the trees and across the street, and the roof of the Nigels poking above the gates and rooftops. Already, there were ambulances and fire trucks gathered outside: at least he knew the man at the counter was getting help.

When he finally thought it was safe, he stood up but found that in his frightful run, much of his strength had been spent. He stumbled and had to catch one of the trees for balance, getting golden sap on his palms. He didn’t care; somehow, he had escaped.

He made his way through the trees carefully, creeping along the edge of the road until he reached a corner far from the Nigels, and made a quick exit onto the sidewalk. He tried to look casual as he did it, though no one was around to see him anyway. Everyone must have scurried home for the Fridd’s Day parties already.

It reminded him of why he had come that far in the first place and only made him feel worse about the condition he was in. He tried to brush the sticks from his clothes but ended up smearing his shirt with tree sap. Still, he felt it was best to get as far away from the Nigels as he could, so he headed for the road and caught the first bus that arrived. Thankfully, he had the money that was meant for the Friddsbread. The driver eyed his clothes but drove on. Bran didn’t even know where he was going. He just didn’t want to go home and be interrogated by Sewey.

So he sat there, facing out the window on the bus, as its tires squealed at each stop. People filed on and off, carrying groceries or pulling along children. The city became a blur as it passed, and Bran continued to stare out the windows, glimpsing the tiny form of his reflection in the windows of the shops that were closing early for the celebration.

How did I end up here?
Bran thought, too bitter inside to offer himself any answers. Anger was mixed in with sadness and fear for what might happen—but mostly betrayal. It was his father’s fault Bran was running from the police. His father had planned it all along; he simply didn’t care what happened to Bran.

Knowing his father was alive and cared nothing for him hurt worse than thinking he was dead. Part of Bran wished he had never met his father—if Thomas Hambric even deserved to be called that.

The rumble of the engine continued to lull his thoughts until the exhaustion set in and he fell asleep leaning against the side of the bus.

***

When evening fell on the thirteenth house on the right side of Bolton Road, Sewey was peering out the windows. Bran still hadn’t turned up. And this meant there was no Friddsbread.

“His head,” Sewey muttered between clenched teeth. “Off with it. Off with it
now!
”

As all the stores in town had closed, Sewey was left with no choice but to accept his fate and hope the guests forgot about the Friddsbread. It was a slim chance, like forgetting candy on Halloween or torches at a book burning.

He was forced to hang up the decorations himself and ended up tying himself in knots of streamers and having to be unwrapped by Baldretta. Mabel threw the food out onto the tables downstairs. The house very quickly became one big, yellow madhouse.

Bran still did not show. The hour grew later, and then the telephone rang.

“Shush, everyone!” Sewey hissed. “It’s the rich people calling!”

He went for the telephone in his office. They had recently purchased a new one with a big caller ID display on the front. It was one of those fancy gizmos Sewey had no care for, but the picture on the front of the package showed a banker, and he looked like he had gobs and gobs of money, so Sewey bought it. He hummed to himself, hoping it would make him sound cheerful and obliging, as he slid his glasses on his nose to read the caller ID screen.

Dunce Cops

Sewey gasped.

“What the rot?” he said fearfully. “What have I done now?”

It rang again.

“If I don’t answer it, maybe they’ll go away,” he whimpered.

It rang.

“I’ll get it then!” Mabel screamed from upstairs.

Sewey was seized with a terror. “No, Mabel!” he roared, grabbing the phone off the hook and then immediately dropping it again to hang it up. He fell back in the chair, wiping his brow.

“That was close,” he said. But then the phone started again.

“Dah!” he shouted, leaping up.

It was the police again.

“
Don’t answer it!
” he boomed, and he pulled the plug on the phone and then dashed to the one in the kitchen, pulling its cord out also. He went all throughout the house, disconnecting every phone there was.

“No police officers are ruining this Fridd’s Day party!” Sewey huffed.

***

When Bran awoke, he didn’t know where he was. The bus hit a bump, jolting away the grogginess. He looked around only to discover that the sun had all but set. Everyone else had gotten off the bus except for one other person, who was sitting across from Bran and staring at him in an odd manner. The man’s thin figure was like a human pencil broken into a sitting position, and his small head was nearly eclipsed by an enormous puff of sandy hair. It stood out in all directions, as if the bus walls buzzed with static electricity.

Bran blinked, but the man did not. He just went on staring. His face spelled confusion so much it might very well have been written there.

“Hello,” Bran said, his voice echoing.

“Aye,” the man replied with a quick nod.

“Where are you headed?” Bran asked, digging for anything to say. He felt that if he kept this man talking, he might not think about leaping at him with a hatchet—or whatever else he had planned.

“Out of here,” the man said. “Just got released from the Dunce Jails.”

“Ah,” Bran said, nodding slowly. His gaze darted to the bus driver—a scrawny, college-aged boy who looked as if he could barely lift a pillow, much less fight off an escaped lunatic.

“I was innocent,” the man went on. “Got me on indecency. I was masquerading as a man who was masquerading as a man who sold…things.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Bran said. “What’d you sell?”

“Papers,” he replied.

Bran lifted his eyebrows incredulously. “Well, then,” he said. “I’ll remember that next time I scribble on a notepad.”

The man shook his head.

“Not just any normal papers, no siree.” He looked around, and then put a hand up to the side of his mouth. “Magic papers.”

Bran coughed. He’d heard that before.

“The name’s Rat,” the man went on. “Mr. Rat.”

Bran coughed into his hand again at the name, blinking. “Mr. Rat?”