Magickeepers: The Eternal Hourglass (4 page)

N
ICK WOKE UP ON A BROCADE-COVERED COUCH IN AN immense library, a luxuriously soft blanket covering him. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened. Instinctively, he put his hand to his mother's necklace and the key—it was still there.

Nick remembered Grandpa taking him to the magic shop. His father's off-key singing. The leather box with the strange golden crest. The golden key. And then? Damian? None of it made sense.

He sat up. The room was cavernous, the ceiling so high he could barely make out the fanciful paintings that spanned across it like pictures of the Sistine Chapel ceiling he once saw in a book. Clouds and stars and fanciful palaces with flying people loomed over him, far away. He craned his neck.
He thought the clouds were moving. Blinking several times, he realized that they were! The clouds floated ever so slowly, as if a soft breeze was blowing them on a summer day. The stars twinkled. And occasionally, the flying people blinked. He had never seen anything like it.

The walls were lined with books. He stood and walked over to the shelves. Running his fingers along the spines, he noticed they were all thick, leather, and very old-looking. He blew at the spines and dust flew off, allowing him to read their print. Some were in foreign languages and different alphabets, or even just symbols. The ones he could read had names like
Book of Spells of the Ancient Egyptians, Magical Talismans of the Druids, Arbatel of Magick, Key of Solomon, Sword of Moses, Morgana's Spells of Fate.
He had no idea who the Druids or Morgana even were, but every book on every shelf, as far as he could see, was about magic.

He pulled one down and opened it, but it was written in a script he didn’t understand.

“You’ll learn to read that someday,” a voice said.

Nick whirled around. “Damian!”

“In the flesh. No magical trick. Look.” He stepped toward Nick and held out his hand. “Go ahead, pinch me.”

Nick did. As hard as he could.

“Ouch! I said pinch me, not
maim
me.”

“Take me home!” Nick shouted, backing up a step.

“Come on, you don’t really want to go home. Not yet. Not until you find out what this,” Damian waved his hand toward the room, “is all about. Not until you know why you could gaze into the crystal ball.” He looked at Nick smugly.

Nick blinked. “You’ve kidnapped me! My dad has probably called the police. I bet my face is on TV right now. You won’t get away with this.”

Damian turned his back to him and walked over to a desk. “That doesn’t concern me,” he said arrogantly as he rifled through some papers.

Nick charged at him. “Doesn’t concern you?” He swept a stack of papers onto the floor.

“Stop that! I heard you were a bit unruly…
a skateboarder.”
He shuddered. “And those report cards. But no, it doesn’t concern me. Your grandfather is, at this very moment, explaining the whole thing to your father so he doesn’t fret. Now, we have a lot of work to do, so come along.”

Nick's head swam. This was more confusing than math class, which he’d flunked. “My grandfather? He
knew
you were going to take me? That's really strange—even for him. I don’t believe you.”

Damian sighed, his green eyes flashing impatience. “But it's true, Kolya.”

“How do you know me? And how do you know that's my father's nickname for me?”

“Because your mother was the one to give it to you.”

“How do you know my mother? She's dead. She's been dead a really long time.”

Damian walked over to his huge desk, which overflowed with papers, books, and, in one corner, a little white mouse in a golden cage.

“Here,” he said, moving some papers out of the way and revealing a book so big Nick couldn’t imagine how it ever could be moved. It was practically the size of the desk itself and looked as though it must weigh hundreds of pounds. Its leather was old and weathered, and Nick couldn’t see a title written anywhere on it.

Damian opened it to the middle page, the paper thick and gilded on the edges but completely blank.

“This is the Tree.”

Nick walked closer and peered at the page. He started to wonder if Damian was crazy like Madame B. or Grandpa. At first, nothing happened, but as Nick continued to watch, the pages stirred where they met in the binding. When the movement ceased there was a tiny plant, only an inch tall or so, sprouting directly from the page. Nick looked over to Damian with an expression begging for an explanation.

“I told you, skater boy. The Tree.”

The tree grew—in miniature—its trunk twisting and turning, leaves sprouting, branches extending, vines curling
around them. Roots grew and unfurled, swirling around the legs of the desk, until the tree stood about five feet tall rising from the middle of the book.

“You are…here.” Damian pointed, and moved a few leaves. They rustled like real tree leaves.

Nick stared. He
was
there. A miniature head hung from the topmost branch like an apple. His own face. Its pale eyes blinked. Its mouth smiled.

“How did you do that? What is it? A hologram? Computer effects?”

Damian pursed his lips in a look of disgust. “Mirrors, computer effects. Those are for fakes and amateurs. They are for illusionists. Do you understand the difference between an illusionist and a magician?”

Nick shook his head, still mesmerized by the Tree.

“Illusion is smoke and mirrors. It's what those other magic acts do. It's how they fool the audience. How they deceive people into seeing things that aren’t really there. This is different. What we do is something else entirely. It's magic.”

“It looks so real… I can’t believe it. And there's my mother!” Nick's throat tightened until it hurt. He swallowed hard and then whispered, “And my grandfather.”

He leaned in so close that the leaves brushed his face. They smelled like a damp forest, like moss after a heavy rain. He
stared at his mother's face. He had never seen his mother in anything but a flat photograph. “Can they talk?”

“Sometimes. If they’re angry with me and have something to say, they let me know it, unfortunately.”

“But I still don’t understand.”

Damian said, “They’re our ancestors.”

“Our?”

“You, as I said, are here.” He pointed to the dangling Nick on the Tree. “We’re third cousins.”

“Cousins?”

Damian nodded and parted branches, revealing himself, hanging like a piece of fruit.

“Yes. Once removed, actually. Now come around here.”

Nick walked with Damian to the other side of the desk. The tree was black on its other side. No fruit hung. No leaves. It was charred. Nick leaned in closer and smelled burned wood, acrid and pungent. “What happened here?”

“This is where our family tree split.”

“Split?” He looked up at his newfound cousin, still marveling that he was related to Damian—
the
Damian. That a tree had grown from a book. And that the ceiling had clouds that moved.

“Yes. Magic, dear cousin, can be used for good. Or it can be used for evil. And here is where our lineage split. Rasputin… he is from this side.”

“Who's he?”

“A history lesson is in order. I’ve heard about your social-studies grade.”

Nick rolled his eyes. It was summer break. He was supposed to be free from history lessons. But Damian waved his hand and this time, in the midst of the charred tree, a man appeared.

“He's really creepy looking.” Nick said, staring at the shadowy man, his eyes the same color as Nick's, his face swarthy and covered with a ragged beard.

“He wasn’t always. But that look in his eyes? He became enamored of power. Consumed by it until he was insane. Worst of all, he told the mother of a very sick boy that he could cure him.”

“Could he?”

“No. Magicians have many gifts, but that isn’t one of them. But Rasputin told the Tsarina he could cure her son.”

“Tsarina?” Madame B. had said that she read the crystal ball for the Tsarina.

“That is what the people of Russia called their king and queen, their emperor and empress, a long, long time ago—the Tsar and Tsarina. The last of the Tsars had a very sick son. And this man— Rasputin—he deceived the family. Eventually, he put his league in with this side of the tree, with darkness, and everything that dark magic entails. He left our family. He was banished.”

Nick looked at the charred and ruined tree. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“This side is looking for you. The Shadowkeepers.”

Nick stared at the fire-ravaged branches and scarred trunk. Whoever did that to the Tree was not someone Nick wanted to meet. “Why?”

“Because you represent the strongest lineage on our side, the Magickeepers side. Your grandmother and great-grandmother on your mother's side were very powerful, with rare and special skills. Our side has been searching for you. And we found you. And if we can find you, they can, too.”

“And what happens if they find me?”

“We won’t speak of that.” Damian knocked on his desk three times and then spat over his left shoulder three times.

“Gross. Why did you just spit?”

“Russian custom. When you speak of something evil, you spit. Now we speak of good. You are to come with me, to live among us. Your clan. Your people. From your mother's side. You will be a part of my show.”

Nick had passed Damian's billboard and fantastical hotel and casino thousands of times, always wondering how he did some of his famous illusions. But this was all far stranger than anything he could have imagined.

“Your show? But…”

“It's done. You will apprentice with me this summer. We can protect you. It will give us a chance to lure the Shadowkeepers into the light of day, where we can defeat them. Las Vegas is a
city of nighttime. The Shadowkeepers thrive here. But we will root them out. Only then will you be safe.”

Nick again looked at the Tree's destruction. This time he shuddered.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Damian said.

“What?”

He handed Nick a crystal ball the size of a baseball. “Happy birthday, little cousin.”

Just like at Madame B.'s, Nick couldn’t see anything at first. He took a deep breath and tried to see with his mind like the old woman had taught him. When he gazed again, he saw his mother and father singing “Happy Birthday” to him. One candle was on the cake—a baby sat in a high chair.
Nick
was that baby. It was like watching a home movie.

Nick swallowed hard. “Thank you,” he whispered. He turned, but Damian was gone. Turning to look at the desk, the Tree had disappeared and the book now sat closed, no indication remaining of the wonder it contained except for the faint smell of charred wood.

Nick shook his head. “This,” he said to the little mouse on the desk, who stared at him with beady pink eyes, “has been the strangest birthday ever.”

N
ICK SPENT THE NIGHT ON THE COUCH IN THE LIBRARY, staring up at the ceiling, which twinkled like the real Milky Way. He found the stars strangely comforting, yet also loneliness-inducing. Though he was tired, it was impossible to settle down. His mind raced with a million questions. Nothing that happened on his thirteenth birthday made any sense at all. Sometime in the night, though, exhaustion overtook him, and he dozed fitfully.

When Nick awoke, Damian stared down at him, glancing periodically at his gold pocket watch and impatiently tapping his foot.

“No sleeping in.”

“But it's summer.”

“Meaningless. Let's go.”

Nick rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, sat up, and stretched. “What is
that stench?”
Nick wrinkled up his nose.

Damian ignored the question. “Come along, cousin.” He turned, walked across the room, and opened the door. Nick threw aside the blanket and ran after him. When Nick poked his head through the doorway, he discovered he was actually in one of the most mysterious and most written about places in the world: on one of the top three floors of the Winter Palace Hotel and Casino, where, according to newspapers and magazines, Damian and members of his show lived full-time.

Nick trailed after Damian. “What is that? It's disgusting! Don’t you smell it?”

“We prefer food from our homeland. That
stench
you’re referring to is going to be
your
breakfast. Crepes.”

“I love crepes.” In fact, he had eaten crepes at many all-you-can-eat brunches with Grandpa. “But that sure doesn’t smell like any I’ve eaten before.”

“These are stuffed with sour cream and caviar.”

“Caviar? As in those little fish eggs?” Nick's stomach flip-flopped.

“Of course! From the finest sturgeon. Come along. You’ve eaten your last cheeseburger. Time to eat the food you were
destined
to eat.”

“For breakfast?” All he wanted was a bowl of cold cereal
and milk. Pancakes smothered in syrup. He’d even take one of his dad's soggy waffles. But fish eggs?

Nick walked down the very long hallway with carpeting so thick that his sneakers sank down into it. To his right was a bank of windows, and it was snowing outside. That was one of the mysteries of Las Vegas. Clouds hung around the Winter Palace, and from the clouds, a steady snow fell as thick as a blizzard—even on the hottest days of summer. It melted before it touched the sidewalk below, but nonetheless, when hotel guests looked out their windows, they saw pristine snow drifting from the sky. The hotel carefully guarded the manner in which the snow was made. Now was Nick's chance to find out.