Curse of the Spider King (34 page)

“I'm going to Allyra?” Tommy took a step sideways and leaned on a metal rack full of DVD players and electronics.

“You must take your part in the rebellion against the Spider King. For eight hundred years the Elves in exile have hoped you and the others were alive. Searching for you has kept them going . . . has kept
me
going.”

Tommy flinched and jerked his elbow off the metal shelf. “Spider!” he said, flapping his arm like a chicken's wing. A black thing fell to the floor and began to skitter away. “It was on my arm.
Bah
, I hate spiders.”

“Move!” Mrs. Galdarro commanded. As soon as Tommy was clear, she pulled something out of her pocket and expertly threw it at the spider. It struck the floor a few inches from the spider, exploded like a dirt clog, and showered the spider in white powder. Instantly, the spider trembled and dissolved. There was nothing left on the floor but a brown smudge.

“Whoa,” said Tommy. Then he made a face. “
Phew!
What's that smell?”

Mrs. Galdarro grimaced. “Nothing smells worse to Elves than burnt spiders.”

“You, you vaporized it!”

“I had to. Spiders are his spies, the Spider King's eyes in this world. He and his Drefids can communicate with them.”

Tommy looked again at the brown smudge on the floor. He thought about spiders . . . and the Spider King. Then his eyes widened. “Then he knows, doesn't he? The Spider King knows we're here!”

Mrs. Galdarro put her slender hand on Tommy's shoulder. “Yes, Tommy. He has sent an army of Drefids and worse things into this world to find you.”

“But the curse . . . they won't kill us because of the curse, right?”

She shook her head slowly. “The curse protects you only until your thirteenth year, the Age of Reckoning.”

“But I don't turn thirteen for another month. I'm safe.”

“Your earthly date of birth is not accurate. Your archery exhibition on Falcon Day revealed to me and to the Drefid in the crowd that your lordly gifts have begun to develop. There can be no doubt: you have reached the Age of Reckoning. That means there is nothing to stop the Spider King or his Drefid assassins from killing you.”

“Here at school? They won't . . . they won't try—”

“No, I do not think they will attack you here. Too ullic. And Charlie is here.”

“Mr. Charlie?”

Mrs. Galdarro nodded and replied, “Charlie is far more than a custodian. No, the Drefids will come at night . . . to your home. They have already tried once.”

“What? When?”

“Last night, they took Aaron Worthington . . . they thought he was you, Tommy. Thankfully, they realized their error and spit him back out.”

“Spit him out?” Tommy found himself breathing hard. “They eat people?”

“Not the Drefids. But as I said, the Drefids did not come alone. They have brought with them the black trees of Vesper Crag. Perilous and alive, the Cragon trees tore into the side of Aaron's house. Tommy, they now know exactly where you live. You cannot stay another night in your home. If not for your sake, for the sake of your parents.”

“What do I do?”

Mrs. Galdarro strode to her desk and picked up the scroll she had sealed earlier. She handed it to Tommy and said, “Put this in your backpack. Do NOT open it. I will call your parents in an hour and let them know that I will be picking you up for another meeting at 4:30. I want you to pack a change of clothing—only 100 percent cotton, do you understand? Put the scroll on the pillow just before you leave.”

Tommy nodded repeatedly. He had only one question. “Mrs. Galdarro . . . will I ever see my parents again?”

The librarian clutched her book to her chest. “I hope so, Tommy . . . but I can make no guarantees.”

31

Gravity

AFTER SCHOOL, Tommy placed the scroll on his bed and zipped up his backpack. He put on a 100–percent cotton pair of jeans and 100–percent cotton long-sleeved T-shirt. He hadn't bothered to ask Mrs. Galdarro why the cotton.
Maybe Elves are allergic to polyester?
Tommy didn't know. And he had far more important things on his mind.

He felt heavy, like God had turned up the gravity. Year after year of memories poured out from every corner of his room. The mural he and his mother had spent the summer painting when he was ten, trophies from soccer and karate standing like a little golden army on his dresser, and of course Smores, his pet guinea pig—they weighed on Tommy's heart. A fur ball of tan, black, and white, Smores stood up on his hind legs and leaned on the rim of the aquarium. He gave Tommy his “red alert, I'm hungry” squeal.

Tommy lifted off the cover and poured a cup of multicolored pellets into Smores's feeding dish. The guinea pig emitted a happy trill as Tommy combed the hair on its lower back with his fingers.

Two sharp beeps outside.

Mrs. Galdarro.

“Bye, Smores,” Tommy whispered. He hoisted his backpack and left his room.

His mother stood in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “I don't think this microwave is working right,” she said as Tommy entered the kitchen. “Tommy, you didn't put any metal in there, did you?”

Tommy didn't answer. He grabbed his mom around the waist and hugged her. He hugged her the way he did when he was seven. He smelled the cotton in her shirt, smelled her lilac perfume, and felt the warmth of her shoulder on his chin.

“Oh . . . oh,” Mrs. Bowman replied, and at first she didn't seem to know quite what to do with her arms. But then she wrapped them around him and forgot all about the microwave.

When they separated, she asked, “What was that for?”

“I just love you,” Tommy said. “That's all.” He turned around so she wouldn't see him tearing up. “Where's Dad?”

“In the basement, playing bridge on the computer, I imagine.” As Tommy went to the basement door, she said, “That backpack looks a little full for just a meeting.”

Tommy froze in mid step. He wouldn't lie to her. If she opened the backpack, found all the food, the photo album, the clothes. . . .

Honk! Honk!
Mrs. Galdarro saved the day.

“I've gotta go, Mom, but I want to say goodbye to Dad,” Tommy said.

He ran down the stairs and found his father in front of the wide monitor, the blue light reflecting strangely off his father's glasses. “Hey, Dad . . . uh, I've got to go, so I just wanted to—”

“Just a second, Son,” he replied, clicking the mouse. “I have a six-no-trump bid going here. Can you wait till I'm the dummy?”

“Mrs. Galdarro's waiting outside,” Tommy replied. Not knowing what else to do, Tommy threw his arms around his father's neck and hugged him, too.

“Careful, Son, you knocked my glasses off.”

“Sorry,” Tommy said as he released his dad. “I'm in kind of a hurry.”

“Oh, okay,” his father replied as he slid his glasses back onto his nose. “Haven't had such a hug in a while. Thank you, Son.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, Dad,” Tommy replied. He turned back to the stairs.
Say it. Go on, Tommy. Say it. Why is this so hard?
At last, Tommy pushed out the words, “Love you, Dad.”

Tommy was halfway up the basement stairs when he heard his father's words, tentative but warm, “I love you, Son. Be safe.”

“That was hard,” Tommy said after they'd been driving for a while.

“I am sorry, Tommy. But it's for the best. With you in that house, none of you would be safe.”

“But what if the . . . the Drefids and those trees attack anyway? They don't know you've taken me.”

“Yes, they do. You may not have noticed several new trees in the woods across the street from your home. They were watching, Tommy. I made sure they saw me clearly before you came out. Even now, I suspect the trees are getting word to the Drefids that we are gone. That is well for your parents, though likely more unpleasant for us.”

Scenery went by the windows in a blur. Tommy caught glimpses of familiar places: streets where friends lived, community pools where he liked to swim, favorite restaurants and the like. It was strange not to know if he'd ever see any of these places again. Even stranger to know that Seabrook, Maryland, was not his real home. But in spite of such uncertainty, Tommy felt something deep inside, a kind of peace with all that was happening. He trusted Mrs. Galdarro. And bubbling away in some distant corner of his mind was a thrilling sense of anticipation, similar to thinking of an upcoming vacation . . . only better.

Mrs. Galdarro brought her silver SUV to a stop in front of the school. The back hatch opened, and Mr. Charlie threw a large black satchel inside. It reminded Tommy of the bag Mr. Phitzsinger used for all the lacrosse sticks.

Tommy went to get out of the front seat so that Mr. Charlie could sit down. “No, sir,” said Mr. Charlie, holding the door from opening farther. “You are the guest of honor. Now, just sit yourself on down.” Mr. Charlie jumped into the backseat and shut the door. Reluctantly, Tommy closed his door.

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Charlie continued. “I'ze been waitin' fer this day, a long, long time.”

“You know, Merrick,” said Mrs. Galdarro as she drove away, “you don't need to use that dialect any longer. We're all Elves here.”

“Awww, shucks, Elle,” Mr. Charlie replied, and then his voice changed. “Certainly I do not need to maintain colloquial speech for camouflage, but really, it's such a beautiful dialect . . . full of hospitality, comfort, and grace. I'ze might jest keep usin' it fer a while. Fact is, I've grown right attached to the name Charlie, too, if you don't mind.”

“If it pleases you,” said Mrs. Galdarro with a curious smile.

Tommy looked into the backseat at the man he'd always thought was the school's custodian. Since Mr. Charlie wasn't wearing his glasses, Tommy could see the depth of his eye color. “You know,” said Tommy, “you don't see too many people with purple eyes.”

“True 'nuff,” he replied. He laughed deeply and winked at Tommy. “Not 'round here, that is.” Then he began to whistle.

Tommy looked over Mr. Charlie's shoulder at the big duffel in the back. Then he turned to Mrs. Galdarro. “What's in the bag Mr. Charlie brought?”

“Tools,” she replied.

“What kind of tools?”

“The just-in-case kind.”

32

In the Shadow of Madness

SINCE THEY'D left the main highway, Tommy had gotten lost in the twists and turns. But finally, Mrs. Galdarro turned down a leaf-covered road and parked the SUV in the gravel on the side. A steep hill rose up to the left of the road, and a wall of tall trees towered above them. More dead leaves spiraled down from the heights and joined the others. They all got out of the SUV.

Shivering as chill air found its way under his jacket, Tommy said, “
Brr
, where are we?”

“Saint Elizabeth's Hospital for the Criminally Insane,” Mrs. Galdarro replied. She'd said it as casually as if she were talking about a local grocery store.

A fleeting terror blew through Tommy.
How could I have been so foolish
as to go with these strangers?
“What? Criminally insane?”

“Don't worry, Tommy. The hospital's been abandoned for more than twenty years. Besides,” she said, gesturing, “Mr. Charlie brought his tools.”

Mr. Charlie slammed shut the hatch and slung the big, black duffel over his shoulder. He unzipped the bag a little to show Tommy the contents. Tommy's eyebrows shot up. “Whoa!”

Mr. Charlie zippered the bag. “Just the thing in case old Mobius and his crew come to call.” Laughing deeply, Mr. Charlie took to the hill. Even with the heavy duffel, up he went, one powerful bound after another, until he stood at the top. “C'mon, y'all.”

Tommy felt it was weird to be hearing Mobius's name used . . . the same character from an ancient book . . . alive, and hunting
him
.

Mrs. Galdarro patted Tommy on the shoulder. “Merrick—er, Charlie is one of the Lyrian Elves,” she said as she and Tommy climbed the hill. “Very strong. That and his Dreadnaught training have made him a formidable warrior . . . as you can no doubt imagine from his display of strength.”

“Dreadnaught?”

“Among the races of Elves, few are selected for Dreadnaught training. Strongest of body and of mind, the Dreadnaughts learn a terribly difficult and profoundly effective form of combat called
Vexbane
. And, as their name implies, they fear nothing.”

When all had reached the top, they traveled in silence between the hulking trunks of the tall oaks and elms and forced their way through a barricade of fat pines. They emerged to find the hilly campus and deserted buildings of Saint Elizabeth's Hospital.

A massive building of faded red and gray bricks was flanked on either side by smaller, colonial-looking brick buildings attached to the main by stone ports and fenced-in widow's walks. Few windows were left unbroken, and debris lay all around the perimeter as if an explosion had blown out the innards of the building but left its stone skeleton intact. And it seemed as if the landscape were intent on reclaiming the man-made structure, for leafless climbing vines practically engulfed the lower half of each eerie building.