Curse of the Spider King (7 page)

“Why would they do this?” Brynn asked.

“They are taunting us,” Grimwarden answered.

“Grimwarden!” one of the Elven knights called as he stumbled up the stairs to the dais. “We've found one of the Sentinels, and . . . she's alive!”

Tommy closed the book and found his mom standing in his doorway and smiling strangely. “How long you been standing there, Mom?”

“I'm not sure,” she replied. “I don't think I've ever seen you read like that before.”

“Read like what?”

“Well, you were so focused, that's all. I actually made faces at you, and you never looked up. It was like you weren't even here.”

Like I wasn't even here. . . .
Tommy wondered.

“Anyway,” she said, “you should get some sleep. It'll be morning before you know it. And tomorrow is your last practice before Falcon Day.”

“Okay, Mom, thanks.” But in his mind, he thought,
Sleep. Yeah,
right.

7

Curious Customers

WHEN THEY heard about the bookstore reopening on Market Street, in Depauville, New York, Johnny and Autumn Briarman were far from impressed. Although they didn't live far away, bookstores were about as useful to them as washing machines. Why wash a perfectly good pair of jeans when you could wear them all week? No, reading was something they had to do, but never something they did—even in school—if they could avoid it. They were alike in that way.

But on the bus ride home from school, Johnny and Autumn saw that the plain, little store had been repainted. Now it looked a bit like a gingerbread house, and its old sign had been replaced with a thick, wooden placard that hung over the sidewalk: A Likely Story Book Shoppe.

Johnny shrugged and turned around.

Autumn looked a little closer. There was a handmade sign in the window: TODAY ONLY! A PRIZE FOR EVERYONE WHO COMES IN!

Autumn tapped her brother on the shoulder repeatedly. “Johnny, did you see that?”

“'S a bookstore, Sis,” he said. “So what.”

“But there was a little sign. Said anyone who comes in gets a prize.”

“Yawn,” he replied, patting a hand over his mouth. “Big deal. Probably just some book. What's a guy need a book for?”

“I dunno. Maybe to learn how to use all those power tools?”

Johnny chuckled.

“I think we should go check it out,” said Autumn.

“You can.”

“You know, . . .” said Autumn, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, “the prize could be candy.”

Johnny scratched his chin. “I guess . . . it wouldn't hurt to go in, just this once.”

“Where are you both going in such a hurry?” called Mrs. Briarman as two blond streaks whooshed out of the house and the screen door slammed shut.

“We'll be back before dinner!” Johnny yelled.

“I know,” she replied, stepping to the door. “But where are you—? ”

“To the new bookstore,” was all Johnny said as they peeled out of the driveway on their bikes.

Bookstore?
thought Mrs. Briarman.
Well, that can't be a bad thing.
Can it?

Johnny would never admit it, but he was a bit nervous as they approached the entrance to A Likely Story Book Shoppe, although he didn't really know why. The door was propped open to welcome the mild afternoon air, as well as any passersby who might wander in. Johnny folded his hands once or twice—bike-chain grease from a little repair on the way and sweat making his hands slippery.

Johnny stopped a pace in front of her.

“What is it?” Autumn whispered.

Johnny jerked around. “Why are you whispering?”

“Why are you stopping?”

Johnny shrugged his shoulders, and Autumn nudged him on. “Just go, would ya!”

“What's the hurry?” he asked.

“Oh, brother,” she said, blowing an S-shaped strand of blond hair out of her mouth and shouldering past him into the store.

Johnny was broad and muscular for his age. Though his own lack of courage made him feel anything but strong, he frightened some of the smaller kids at school and was even thought of as a bully. But he dutifully followed her into the store.

Once inside, the two squinted in the low light and found themselves enveloped in scents, a strange combination of musty old house, fresh-cut flowers, and warm sugar cookies. There were couches and easy chairs. And, of course, books. Books everywhere: books filling shelves, book towers climbing haphazardly from tabletop to the ceiling, books spilling off reading desks, books in stacks on the floor. The crazy organization reminded Johnny of his room at home . . . minus the books, of course.

Brother and sister walked down the first aisle and scanned row after row of bound editions and paperbacks. They didn't see too many titles they recognized. A lot of the books looked really old.

“Can I help you find something?”

Johnny and Autumn spun around. A woman smiled at them. The woman had red hair, freckles, and the most wonderful green eyes. She wore a white and yellow sundress and a white ribbon in her hair.

“We're just . . .” Autumn couldn't think what to say.

“Reading,” said Johnny. “Err, looking.”

“I see. Well, you've come to the right place for that.”

Autumn stared at the floor. Johnny let his eyes trace along the tangled path of books as if it were a maze.

“Oh, I see,” said the woman. “You don't really like to read much, do you?”

“We did come to the old store a couple of years back,” Johnny jumped in, saving them both embarrassment. He thought the bookstore lady was pretty, in an older-person sort of way. “It used to look kinda . . . uh, lame, but now I almost feel like I like the place.”

“Almost feel like you like the bookstore?” the lady replied. For a moment she had a misty, faraway look in her eyes and wore an odd smile. “That's good,” she said. “That's uncommonly kind of you.”

Autumn asked, “So do you own this place, Mrs. . . . um?”

“Annelle Brookeheart is my name. But call me Nelly,” she said. “Look after it, I suppose you could say. I just watch and make sure customers find what they need.”

“A fine thing for a business owner to say,” Johnny said, trying to sound older.

“Why, thank you,” replied Nelly with a chuckle. “But ‘owning' is such a misunderstood term. I'm more like a guardian or . . . or a steward. Yes, a steward, that's it.” She paused. “I like to think I introduce people to their dreams.”

Something about the way she spoke these last words made Johnny and Autumn feel odd. Not threatened or even uncomfortable, just different. It was as if Nelly had some unique authority, a peculiar confidence, or perhaps a secret that only she knew.

“And only young adult fiction, to be exact. No grown-up novels here.”

Just then three kids came bounding in through the front door.

“Would you excuse me?” Nelly asked, and then turned to greet the other children. “How was school, Sam?”

Listening enthusiastically to their school-day tales, Nelly went to work helping the new kids find a few books, making her own suggestions of course, and answering questions. The most urgent one seemed to be: “Do we get a prize again today, Miss Nelly?”

She smiled, went back behind the counter, and bent down. Johnny and Autumn couldn't see what she was doing, but they heard a muted thump. In a few heartbeats, Nelly returned with several ice-cream cones. She doled them out, each child happily getting his or her favorite. Then Nelly turned back to Johnny and Autumn.

Autumn raised an eyebrow. “Have they gotten prizes before?”

Nelly put a hand to her lips. “That's kind of an inside joke here. The sign says, ‘Today Only,' but every day is kind of a prize day.”

“It's a good day for ice cream,” said Johnny.

“Indeed it is,” she said, going back behind the counter. “So, what can I get for the two of you?”

Looking through the choices, Autumn said, “Cookie dough would be nice.”

“Chocolate-chip cookie dough in a waffle cone. Mmm . . . good choice.” Nelly wrinkled her nose. “But . . . are you sure that's all you want, Autumn? A bit of sugar and frozen milk, melted and gone in moments? I might have something much better.”

“Really? Hey . . . wait a second—how did you know her name?” Johnny asked. The two kids looked at her, confused.

“Come with me,” replied Nelly, looking first to Johnny and then to Autumn. “You may find I know many things about you and your . . . brother.”

8

Geographical Anomaly

NELLY LED them behind the counter, through a door, and into a round sunlit parlor. Overflowing bookcases leaned against the walls that didn't have windows. Dust particles whirled and danced in the sunbeams, giving the room a strange quality.

Nelly motioned for Johnny and Autumn to have a seat on one of the dark wood benches by the windows. She walked over to a large chest on the other side of the room.

“Autumn, look at that picture!” Johnny pointed to a large oil painting hung in a thick gilded frame just above the chest. It depicted a spectacular red bird perched upon a tall castle turret. It was not red like a cardinal, but a richer, deeper red. And it was not a common yard bird but an extremely large bird of prey.

“Pretty,” said Autumn.

“Pretty?” Johnny shook his head. “You ever seen a red eagle before?”

“It's not red. It's burgundy.”

“'S a type of red, Autumn.” Johnny grunted. “You ever seen a bird like that? A hawk? Falcon?”

“No.”

“It's a scarlet raptor,” said Nelly, closing the chest, turning, and sliding something the kids couldn't see behind her back. “Very rare. You don't find them at all in this country.”

“Cool,” said Johnny.

“You like unusual creatures, do you, Johnny?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Hmmm,” Nelly replied. “That's good to know. This is my private reading room. After closing up for the night, I come here and read for hours and hours.” As she spoke, she seemed to be searching for something.

“Something wrong?” asked Autumn.

“No . . . no,” said Nelly. “All's . . . well. Now, are you two ready for your prize?”

The siblings nodded and leaned forward. They hadn't seen what Nelly took out of the chest—but, if it was better than ice cream, it had to be good.

Nelly hesitated a moment more, and then took the hidden item from behind her back. She held out a very old book bound in dark leather.

“A book?” asked Autumn.

“I told you,” said Johnny. He huffed and leaned back, putting his hand behind the bench. “Whoa!!” He jerked his hand back out. At the same moment, and from the same general direction Johnny had put his hand, there came an odd, trilling squeal.

“
Eww
. What is it?” Autumn stood up and backed away from the bench.

“A mouse, a rat? I don't know.” In an instant, his face morphed from surprise to curiosity. “It was furry and really warm. And it squeaked.”