Darkborn (8 page)

“Damn. Okay. Tell me what to do.”

Kiff pointed to the small door that led off the living room.

Is there fate? Will wondered. Or is it just my dumb luck that I ended up here, doing this?

Or was it in the cards all along?

Because this morning I sure as hell wouldn’t have guessed that this is where I’d be at five o’clock.

He moved into Scott’s bedroom.

And now he felt the creepiest. It was one thing to break into someone’s house, to walk through their kitchen, their living room.

But their bedroom?

God, he could even smell Scott, the heavy cloistered smell of sheets that needed changing. A wineglass sitting on the end table, probably lined with a dry, reddish crust. There were no windows in this room. No light. Just the pitiful glow . from the living room.

Kiff had said he couldn’t turn on any lights.

Which means that I won’t see shit, Will observed.

Everything was marked with shades of blackness.

It felt like a tomb.

Will rubbed his cheek. He looked around for the closet.

He heard something moving. But this time he didn’t jump.

Old Scott needs a cat, a good mouser to clean up his apartment.

The mouse was there, out on the floor somewhere. Will heard the squeak.

“Okay,” Will whispered to himself. “Where’s the closet …”

He turned around.

And there it was, behind him.

As if it were waiting for him.

He almost laughed.

He went to the closet door, turned the handle, and pulled it open. The door squeaked and he stopped.

He had arranged a signal with Kiff. If Kiff saw anything, if they had to get their ass in gear and get the hell out of there, Kiff would whistle once.

But if Kiff whistled twice, it meant that something had happened, that it was already too late. Everyman for himself. Women and children overboard. Rich stockbrokers into the dinghies, and fuck the
Titanic
.

Will listened. But beyond the door’s noisy sound, there was nothing.

He pulled the closet door open.

And the rows of wine bottles caught the small bit of gray light. Will could barely see the bottles, black, looking like rows of battleship guns, ready to fire.

He reached out and touched the bottles. He felt the dust gather at his fingers.

And the secret compartment, boys and girl — -he thought — is right behind the bottles.

Somehow.

He let his fingers trail all around, looking for a way to move the wine cellar out of the way and expose the hidden treasure.

“Shit, Kiff,” Will said at last, hissing loudly. “I can’t see anything. And I sure as hell don’t see how to get at your secret door. Are you sure you weren’t imagining all that shit?”

He heard Kiff run back to him.

“Damn, Will. Can’t you — ?” Kiff ran his hands through the rows of bottles, feeling the edges, looking for some kind of latch or something.

Will stood back.

Time to make an exit, he thought.

“Where the hell — ?” Kiff said. And then Will heard a rattle. And the rack of bottles moved, swinging out toward him. “There,” Kiff said. “I’ve got to get back and watch. Just get the book!”

Kiff vanished.

It occurred to Will that the secret door was pretty well hidden. It wasn’t, he thought, something that you could just
stumble
upon.

It was as if Scott had left it open that afternoon Kiff was with him.

And forgot to shut it.

Will pulled open the wine rack a bit more. The bottles rattled against their berths. Now there was a narrow entrance into the closet, with just enough room for him to squeeze in. He took a step.

Thinking: There’s got to be a light in here.

And: Fuck Kiff. Fuck him. I’m turning it on.

He felt the wall, searching for a switch. He reached over his head. There was no string. But then, as his hand flailed at the air, he felt the beaded pull chain of a ceiling light.

He turned it on.

The bulb was brilliant, blinding.

“Will,” Kiff hissed from outside. “Will, what the hell — ?”

Screw you, Will thought.

Now he looked ahead. At the shelves, at the books in front of him. He reached out and touched them.

And he knew they were the oldest things he’d ever felt. Some of the titles were so worn away that the raised letters were lost in the splintery leather bindings. A few books were encased in thick plastic, hermetically sealed against any more destruction.

It’s just his collection, Will thought. A bachelor teacher’s passion. Old books.

But then Will tilted his head and read some of the titles.

“Will! Shut the damn light off!” Kiff said.

Le Mystere des Cathedrales .
 
.
 
. De Occultus Philosophia .
 
.
 
. Gate of Remembrance.

Well, sure. enough he’s got all the classics here, Will thought. Where’s
Ivanhoe
.
 
.
 
.

He saw a book called
Experiments in Time
. He noticed the author’s name. T. W. Dunne.

Close to my name, he thought. Close to Dunnigan .
 
.
 
.

He pulled the book out.

And moving the book, pulling it from its place on the shelf, seemed to stir up the odors, the ancient smells of the books.

For a second Will didn’t think he could breathe.

The smell was feral, the way an animal might smell.

After it has been sealed up in your closet for a decade or two.

But he kept pulling out the book. He opened it.

The pages were tissue thin. One page was filled with Greek. Another with Latin. A third with what looked like hieroglyphics .
 
.
 
. at least, he saw the telltale oblong circles of cartouches.

He turned the page and he heard it tear, a gentle sound, the paper was so thin .
 
.
 
. sere. And this page was in English.

“On the Manner of Displacements,” the section was called.

He read a few words, forgetting for a moment his fear. This was amazing stuff, he thought. These books were strange, incredible.

And he wondered: How much damage did I just do by ripping that page? Is the book worth less now?

He read the first paragraph. It read like some long-winded preamble, something Thomas Paine might have written, working his way up to
Common Sense
.

Then, in the second paragraph, Will read an amazing statement.

“This work is constructed to aid the alchemist in his pursuit of that which the Lord of Light would deny us. For when the paths of time are open to us, there will be no gods.”

Right, thought Will. Exactly my sentiments.

“Will!” Kiff hissed again.

Will started. Had Kiff whistled? Was someone coming? And then his fear was back. He felt surrounded by the bottles, the books, the twisted bed sheets of Scott, the smell of worn clothes strewn on the floor.

He closed the book and put it back.

He ran through the other titles until he came to a large black book. He found it on the bottom shelf.

Yeah, Kiff had called it
The Book of Enoch
. The Black Bible.

It wasn’t nearly as ancient as some of the other books.

Will grabbed it, and he squirmed out of the narrow closet, shutting the light off as he left. He ran out to Kiff.

“Got it,” he whispered.

Kiff was at the window, pushing the blinds out, leaning close to the pane.

“What the fuck were you doing in there?”

“It was interesting. He’s got some really weird books —”

“Okay-you come here, watch through the window. I’ll find the right page.” Kiff turned to Will, and Will saw that he wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was grim, worried.

It wasn’t fun for Jim Kiff anymore. This was serious stuff now.

Will handed him the book and went to the window.

Kiff squatted on the floor. Will glanced at him and saw him take a piece of paper and pencil out of his pocket. Then Will went back to looking out the window.

He saw an old lady coming up the block dragging a small wagon filled with groceries.

Will paid no attention until she stopped and started coming up the steps to the stone house, to Scott’s building.

“Someone’s coming!”

Kiff got up and went beside Will. “It’s probably just the old lady who lives upstairs,” Kiff said. They both watched her drag her cart up the stone steps, slowly, struggling for every step. And then she disappeared, into the foyer. But they heard her now above them. The wheels of her cart squeaking, the sound of her feet moving on the wood floor.

Kiff put a finger to his lips.

They waited, listening to the rhythmic tattoo of the woman pulling her heavy load up the stairs.

“Okay,” Kiff said.

He went back to his sketch. Will took a quick look at it.

He saw a star surrounded by a circle. And squiggly symbols outside and in the points. But he quickly looked back outside.

And saw someone else walking up the block.

A man, dressed in a raincoat, holding an umbrella. He wore a hat pulled down low.

Will couldn’t be sure.

But .
 
.
 
.

The man came closer.

And then, shit, the man looked up a bit .
 
.
 
. nearing his house. His home, and —

Will knew it was Scott.

“It’s Scott!” he said, not whispering. Will let the bent blind slap shut. “Oh, shit,” he said.

But Kiff didn’t move.

“Almost done, Will. Hang on .
 
.
 
. almost —”

Will danced away from the window. Jeez, he thought he’d piss, he was so scared.

He imagined where Scott was. On the bottom steps, right now! Maybe digging out his keys, walking down to the basement door. Getting close to the door.

“C’mon, Kiff, get the fucking book back. Get it back!”

Closing the umbrella. Opening the door to his apartment.

Screw it, Will thought. He turned to run.

And then, suddenly, Kiff, all gangly arms and legs, was up, his face still deadly serious.

This is all real for him Will saw. This is a real fucking thing for him.

Will backed into the kitchen. Thinking: I can get away. But if he gets Kiff and Kiff talks and —

I should have heard the front door open by now, he thought.

Kiff shot up.

“Got it,” Kiff whispered, running into the bedroom to put the book back.

The front door should have opened, Will thought, reaching for the back door. Sure, because —

And then he knew that Scott wasn’t coming in through the front door.

No.

He was coming around the back.

And I nearly went out there. I nearly ran right into him. Kiff was out of the bedroom, running into the kitchen.

“No,” Will said, pulling Kiff away. “He’s coming this way.”

And now they both ran, as fast as they could, to the front door.

Kiff turned the handle. He yanked the door open. But a chain slapped it shut again.

Will reached up and undid the chain. And then it flew open.

He heard the back door open. He and Kiff slipped out the door.

Then — oh so gently — Kiff closed it behind them.

They stood there, listening a moment, as if to run outside would only get Scott’s attention.

But then Kiff went out the front door of the brownstone building. He pulled up the collar of his trench coat.

Will did the same thing.

They went out, and up the steps from the basement apartment, running as fast as they could.

And with each giant step Will felt as if he were getting younger, regressing back to ten, then nine, then eight years old, when he and his friends would ring people’s doorbells and then run away, laughing hysterically. As if that were the funniest thing in the world.

And this time, he did the same thing, laughing, and gasping for air, following Kiff, who was yelping, spinning around in the rain, screaming .
 
.
 
. now that they were a good block away.