"Sorry chapperoo," she growled, burying the end of one of her cigarettes into the table. "Intoxicating beverages ended five minutes ago. Have to get water if you’re thirsty."
Sewey was about to protest, but the woman just shrugged.
"Or motor oil," she sneered. "It’s on special today."
Sewey gulped and settled with the clearer of liquids. She lit up another cigarette and went for the kitchen. The three men behind Bran started to talk in soft whispers, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying because Sewey kept scratching himself. They waited for a long while, and Sewey started to fidget with the salt shaker and ended up spilling it all over the table. He started to draw in it with his finger.
"I wish they’d hurry up!" he said. "What could possibly be taking so long?"
"Maybe you should go check?" Bran said.
Sewey brushed the salt to the floor with disgust. "Maybe I shall," he retorted, and he started for the counter, kicking the pile of salt with his slippers as he passed. Bran was left alone— and for that, he was grateful. He rubbed his forehead. Getting up early and sleeping hardly any hours were beginning to take its toll on him.
He remembered what Astara had told him, as much as he tried to forget it. Her words were like a foul taste in the back of his mouth. He didn’t even know why he had been fooled into going there in the first place. It only made him feel doubtful, and he wasn’t going to let himself believe any of the nonsense she had made up.
Still, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, and slowly drew out the white envelope she had given him. It was worn and dirty and old. He studied it closely, running his fingers along the torn edges and turning it over, taped in half so it formed a square package. There was something hard and bulky inside. He couldn’t tell what it was because it was a very odd shape. She had obviously gone through a lot of trouble to give it to him.
Don’t open this until you get home…
he remembered her words. Why couldn’t he? He didn’t have any idea why she would say that. He held it to the light and tried to see through, but couldn’t make out what it was, so he shrugged and set it back on the table between his hands.
He listened to the sounds of the people around him and to the fans, trying to distract his mind from Astara. He fell into a half sleep leaning against the wall. The whispers of the men behind him gradually grew clearer, until he could faintly make out their words. He didn’t have anything else to do, so he concentrated on listening.
"Aye, that’s right," one of the men whispered, and his scratchy voice sounded like it came from the stouter one. "You’ve got no business going about town looking for him: ’tis not safe."
"Take it from a local," the thin man said, and his voice half-drunk. "Best if you leave, Joris, and give up while you can, before somebody tries to toss you into the jails."
"It’s the boy I want, not the runaround you’re giving me," Bran heard another man’s voice, and it was filled with a commanding air about it.
"I want to know anything and everything either of you can
tell me about him," he said. "Cooperate with me on this now, or both of you will turn up dead before next week."
Bran gasped softly, and he heard the two men shift uncomfortably. The strong whisper that the man had used felt like a knife, as if he could kill them right there in the tavern.
"Aye, sir, you don’t needin’ be threatening us now," the stout man said. "What me and Larry’s got to know is why you’ve been movin’ about in these parts, lookin’ for him here?"
Bran was very still because he was listening hard. His breath had slowed down until he could barely hear it going in and out of him, and the man’s voice lowered even further.
"I hunt the boy Bran Hambric," he said. "That is all you need to know."
Bran froze in the chair. For a moment, he didn’t believe he had heard right.
"Aye," the stout man said. "We’ve heard some of Bran before."
"What do you know?" the man asked. They were quiet for a while, debating on telling him.
"Heard he was living in town," the stout man finally said, "with the Wilomas family of Bolton Road. Ain’t his real parents: found him, in a vault, couldn’t leave ’im after that. Still keeps the name Hambric, I think, ’cause of the paper they found with him."
The man sipped from his drink. Bran was listening so intently, all the sounds of the tavern faded away—but then he heard something above him and shifted his gaze up. It was the black raven, perched on the light, its head turned down to watch him. It gave a loud sound again, and Bran sank lower into the booth, fearful the men might hear the noise and turn around.
"There was that truck too," the stout man was continuing. "People say he was at the park on Sunday and stopped a truck with his bare hands."
"Doesn’t go to school either," Larry said. "They’ve got some cousin teaching him with textbooks. No one sees much of him."
The bird rocked back and forth, looking down at Bran intently. It opened its beak and flapped its wings, as if catching its balance, tilting its head at him.
"No…" Bran hissed through his teeth, though he didn’t dare let his voice be heard. The bird cawed again. Bran heard one of the men slurp something from his cup. The bird rocked forward, as if he was about to jump and take flight.
"No, don’t!" Bran whispered strongly. The bird gave a loud sound and leapt off the light, but instead of flying off, it gave a sudden dive in Bran’s direction.
Bran heard its wings flapping down; it landed on the table next to his arm. Bran froze and the bird tilted its head, looking at Bran closely. It had a thin line of feathers down its back that were bleached white in a strange manner. It tilted its head at the envelope, almost as if it wanted it.
"Shhh…" Bran tried to quiet it, being very still so he didn’t draw attention, but in the next second, the raven moved.
With an enormous shriek, it leapt into the air in a sudden flurry, diving at Bran with its sharp beak. Bran shouted as he felt it dig into his shoulder, driving like a nail into his arm and screeching wildly in his ear. He slung his hand around and caught the raven once, but it only slid across the table and leapt up again, diving at his face and knocking him backward.
Bran fell out of the booth, hitting the floor and hearing the wings of the bird in his ear.
He rolled over and caught the bird with the back of his hand, sending it under a table. He leapt to his feet, and the bird fluttered about, shooting toward him again. Bran held his hands up to block his face, and the raven slammed into his arm, scratching at him with his claws and screaming into his ear. Bran swung his fist into the bird once more. It fell again and was still.
Bran gasped for breath and held the side of his arm, looking at the raven; and it was then that he realized that the entire tavern had gone completely silent. Slowly, he looked up, and saw that everyone was staring at him with wide eyes. The waitress was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her face filled with shock.
"Th-the bird, it dove at my face," Bran said, shakily pointing down toward its body on the floor. The waitress looked where he was pointing.
"What bird?" she asked, disbelievingly.
"The bird, right there," Bran said, looking back to where it was laying. Then he stopped. It was gone. The raven had disappeared into nothing, as if it had never been there at all.
"No, really," Bran said, looking back up at her quickly. "It attacked me!"
The men at the tables slowly turned back to their conversations. The waitress shook her head.
"A raven of all things, in the Flob Hopkin’s!" she hissed. "Should take a strap to you!"
Bran blinked and he looked back under the table, where the bird’s body had been.
"But I’m sure it was there…" Bran insisted, and he reached up to wipe the blood from his arm. His fingers stopped, and he looked at his arm.
"The cut…" he said with disbelief. The gash that had been on his arm had completely disappeared as well, as if it had never been there at all.
"It’s gone!" he whispered, not believing what his own eyes told him. There wasn’t even a trace of blood on his fingers. It was as if he had imagined everything that had happened.
"But it did," Bran told himself. He could only shake his head, as not even he could see any evidence of the bird. He began to turn around back to the table, when all of a sudden a shadow fell over him, and he was face to face with Joris.
Chapter 15
The Name on the Necklace
Bran gasped and stepped backward. Joris didn’t move. "What’s a boy doing at a place like this?" he said, his words like fire. "I-I’m here with somebody," Bran stammered, unable to break his gaze.
"Oh?" Joris said with disbelief. He lifted his hand, and Bran almost jumped. "Here," Bran heard him say, and he reached out with something. "I think you dropped this."
Joris held out his hand, and in it was the envelope from Astara.
Bran hesitated, but slowly reached forward to take it from Joris.
"Thank you," Bran said slowly, and Joris watched his movements, almost as if he could recognize something. Then, his gaze lifted up, scanning the room once, before shifting back. "Harley, Larry," the man finally said. "I’ll talk to both of you tomorrow."
His eyes did not leave Bran’s as he spoke, until he stepped forward and passed Bran for the door. Bran was still and felt the man’s shadow as he passed. The two men who had been with him rose unsteadily from the booth, mumbling among themselves, and Bran hid his face as they passed, though they were too drunk to notice him anyway.
"Joris." He said the name to himself. He tightened his hand around the envelope, remembering the way he had looked at him. It was as if Joris had recognized him as the boy he was looking for: but for some reason, he had done nothing.
Bran turned to look at the table where the men had been sitting, and suddenly, his eyes locked on something out of place. It was on the edge, sitting alone, softly reflecting the light of the lamp:
Joris’s silver cell phone.
Bran froze when he saw it. Joris had forgotten it on the table.
That’ll have the answers I need,
Bran thought instantly. He hesitated: what if someone saw him, or Joris came back looking for it? He didn’t want to be seen touching the phone, but on second thought, it might hold the only clues he could work with to find out who this man was. He checked the door: Joris was gone. Quickly, Bran stepped to the table, sweeping his hand across and sliding the phone out of view, slipping it into his pocket before anyone could see.
"
Don’t ring,
" he hissed, his fingers clutching it so tightly his palms became hot against the metal. He felt in an instant that everyone in the tavern could see it burning through his pocket, telling the world that he had it, and he knew he couldn’t even take a glance at it until he got home for fear someone might see. His heart beat quicker as he realized what he had done.
All of a sudden, he heard loud shoes coming up behind him, and some things crashing in the kitchen. He spun around, and there was Sewey, his slippers flopping on the floor, and over his clothes was a white apron, as if he worked at the tavern.
"Forget the blasted drinks!" he said, tearing the apron off. "We’re leaving!"
He tossed the apron into the booth, grabbed Bran’s arm, and started to pull him to the door.
"Stop gawking like that," Sewey ordered. "What a waste of time this whole trip was! I wish you never would have suggested the pub in the first place!"
Sewey pushed through the doors. As Bran stepped out, he glanced down the street to make sure the man wasn’t watching for him. What he saw almost made him stop: a black van, driving toward the end of the road, the same as had followed them on Sunday, and the same as had been sitting at the end of Bolton Road the day before.
Bran’s eyes didn’t leave its form, even as it reached the corner. His grip on the cell phone tightened as he watched the van disappear down the street.
When Sewey and Bran got home, everyone else was asleep. Bran started up the stairs, and when he got up to his room he didn’t dare turn on a light for fear that Sewey would see it and get suspicious. He moved for his bed and drew the cell phone out of his pocket. It took hold of the moonlight from his window and reflected it like a mirror, the surface polished and smooth, now showing fingerprints from where Bran had been gripping it.
"Let’s see what you can tell me," he whispered to it, lying back on his bed. He held it in front of his eyes, all the while feeling his heartbeat beginning to quicken. It felt strange to be holding something that not half an hour before had been in the hands of a man who was hunting him.
He flipped it open. The inside was arranged like most phones, with shiny black buttons like glass and a color screen playing light across Bran’s face. It seemed to be a sleek and expensive model, every detail sharp and crisp, and the front screen showed the time and date. Bran pressed a button at the top of the keypad and pulled up the menu. There was a list of options on the screen, and he began to navigate through them, down to one labeled Recent Calls.
I wonder who’s been calling Joris,
he thought, selecting it. A list of numbers popped up, going down the screen. Bran looked at the top: it was marked in large letters PRIVATE NUMBER, and next to it was the date from the day before. Bran scrolled to the next one, and it read the same, but dated one day earlier. Bran continued to scroll down, but each call Joris had received seemed to be from the same person, calling almost every evening at the same time.
This is odd,
Bran thought, but as he scrolled, the name changed. There was a different record on the screen, labeled simply with a single letter: T. The letter was all alone, as if a name should have followed it, but there was nothing next to it but a date,
April ninth.
Two days before we heard Shambles at the door,
Bran thought. It struck him as very odd. He paused, his fingers poised over the buttons, and finally navigated the phone back to the main screen and tried for the address book. He clicked it, but suddenly, before it showed the records, a red screen popped up: ENTER PASSWORD.