Birthright - Book 2 of the Legacy Series (An Urban Fantasy Novel) (17 page)

As I bent down to pry my knife inside I noticed it was a modern mechanical lock. The keyhole was so small that not even a hairpin could fit inside, let alone a blade. I stood up and paced around for a moment, frustration and panic beginning to settle in. That guard might come back anytime. I thumbed the metal door handle, hoping for inspiration. Maybe if I begged it hard enough, the door would just snap open of its own free will. No such luck.

What could I do? I had taken down a series of magical locks, but some dumb mechanical bolt was stumping me? Just my luck.

And then, I remembered the bike. That bike I rusted somehow and whose owner beat me up on the same day my father divulged the truth to us. Maybe I could pull off the same stunt again. Heck, I had destroyed enough weapons just by pouring magic through them. Why should a lock be different?

I grasped the handle tightly and channeled my magic through it. The effect was instantaneous. There was a loud crack, and the handle snapped off. It crumbled into iron filings inside my hand as the door swung open. The lock was cracked and shattered beyond recognition, and a small patch of rust had formed where the bolt held tightly to the frame. I quickly got in and shut the door behind me. I groped around the shelves until I felt a large volume and extracted it. Holding it in place behind the door, I hoped the guard wouldn’t return and decide to lean against it.

Once inside, I looked around. The familiar couches sat next to a fireplace that was now extinguished. I remembered those statues on the mantelpiece, little trinkets that had absolutely no significance before. Now, I recognized a were-tiger fang and a claw as long as a dagger which, according to Mephisto, belonged to a dangerous breed of demon known as asmodaii. I’d never heard anything official about them – maybe the asshole was just making stuff up to scare me.

The right side of the room was veiled in darkness. I remembered the half-empty bookshelves and a single bench with a few ingredients, but if memory served me well, it was mostly barren. So, why did I feel an urge to inch closer and closer?

I walked toward the darkened corner, deviating from my path only to find a switch and flick it. Dim lights came on, shedding the darkness, and there I saw a black lacquered coffin, emblazoned with sigils. The coffin I saw in my vision.

I stared at it, my heart thumping so hard it hammered against my throat. My mother’s coffin. Was she inside?

I traced the lid of the coffin, looking for something to hold onto and pry it open with. I dug my fingers into it and lifted. The coffin didn’t budge an inch. I found another place and tried again.

No result.

I kept circling around, throwing all of my strength into it, magically enhanced or not, but the coffin seemed to weigh a ton. Flustered, I let go, puffing hard and taking a few steps backward. I felt something against my hip, and heard the telltale sounds of something toppling over and hitting the ground. There was no crash, only the ruffling of pages and a small
thunk
of wood hitting wooden floors. I thought I had knocked over one of the many books and candleholders lying around the place, when I heard someone yell out.

“Hey, dumbass, watch where you’re going. I was just getting to the good part.”

The knife was in my hands in seconds, and for a tense moment, all I heard was the flick of the blade snapping in place and my heartbeat drumming against my ears.

“Who’s there?” I whispered hoarsely, immediately going into a fighting stance with the knife close to me for defense.

“Over here,” said the voice.

I looked in the direction where I thought the voice came from. The coffin was now behind me, and I stared at a corner where one half-stocked bookshelf met another. On the ground were a few books, one of which I recognized as
Romeo and Juliet
. A wide barstool rolled lazily against the wooden floor. Beside it were two candle holders with pieces of blackened wax adhering to them and a life-sized wooden statue of a cat, now lying on its side.

“Down here, dumbass.”

I inched closer to the bookshelves and crouched down. Maybe there was one of those fairytale imps or pixies in here, even though Mephisto said that those were just imaginary creatures. And after facing real monsters, the supernatural stops being an Enid Blyton short story and becomes more Lovecraftian.

Or maybe the voice was coming from the books. But books couldn’t talk, could they?

“Oh, man, you blind or something? Down here,” said the voice, irritated. I scanned the floor and lightly poked the statue of the cat.

“Erm, hi?” I lifted the statue upright.

“Took you long enough,” it said.

I nearly dropped it.

“Jeez, man, get a grip,” it said. “You play around with a coffin all night, but when the cat talks, it’s freaky? The hell you doing in here anyway?”

“What are you?” I asked, holding the statue at arm’s length.

“You must be one of them slow kids, right? I’m a talking statue of a cat. Get over it.”

“What are you doing in my Dad’s office?”

“That crazy son of a bitch is your old man? Dude, I am so sorry for you.”

I stood and placed the cat on the barstool I picked up. “What do you know about Dad?”

“He’s your father, ain’t he? Ask him.”

“We’re more what you call a dysfunctional family.”

“Oh, man, I feel you. I got three assholes for brothers and none of ‘em are animal statues. I think.”

“What are you?” I asked again. This statue was seriously freaking me out, but I just couldn’t get enough of it. I’ve seen some weird stuff in my life, but bonding over family matters with a wooden carving certainly takes the cake.

“Better you don’t know, kid. Not that I could tell you anyway. But I will tell you this — your old man is insane,” it said.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered.

“No, kid, you ain’t hearin’ me. I mean, really insane. Talking all the time about hidden gods and power sources and sacrificing children. Oh, wait, if you’re his child that means he wants to sacrifice you.” The statue paused. “Nice meetin’ ya kid.”

“Not gonna happen,” I growled.

“Well, you got spirit. But he’s out of his damn mind. I mean, he’s even got some poor chick trapped inside that coffin.”

I snapped my head back. Trapped? Did that mean she could be still alive?

Was my mother alive?

“How do I get the coffin open?” I snapped at the cat.

“Dude, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She ain’t pretty. All dead and stuff.”

A part of me died when he said she was dead. I let my hopes rise to fast. But still, she deserved a proper burial, at least.

“She’s my mother.” The words rolled heavily off my lips.

“Ah, man, you mean to tell me he’s got his own lover in there and plans to kill his kids? That SOB is all kinds of evil.”

“Just tell me how to open the coffin,” I said savagely as I grabbed the statue and stood.

“Hey, man, calm your ass down,” replied the cat. “You see that on top of the coffin?”

I looked at the coffin. A strange blade pierced was embedded deeply inside of it and only a ring-shaped cross-guard and the handle were visible. I recognized that design — it was the sword my father used to stab Gil and me.

“You gotta get that thing outta the coffin,” continued the cat.

“How do I do that?”

“Are you really dumb, man? You’ve never watched any of that King Arthur shit? Same way you pull any sword, man: grab the handle and yank it. I mean, how old are you, fourteen, fifteen? I really shouldn’t be explaining the whole yanking process to you.”

I placed the cat down.

“Wait, wait,” I heard it call. “There’s something inside the sword, so you gotta battle it. In your head, I mean. You gotta mentally whip it.”

“Anything else?” I inched closer and closer to the sword handle.

“Yeah. Could you put
Romeo and Juliet
back under me? I was getting to the hot part.”

The handle was warm. I sat awkwardly on top of the coffin, crouched around the protruding weapon. I wrapped my fingers around the sword and used my legs to pull it free. The weapon budged slightly before something pulled it back in place. I redoubled my efforts and again it felt like I was playing tug of war on top of my mother’s coffin.

“Why isn’t it moving?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“Probably ‘cause of the Jinn in there,” I heard the cat say nonchalantly behind me.

“Jinn?”

“You’ll see,” it replied dismissively.

Before I could ask any more questions, something cold pierced my head and I went blind. I yelled for help, but I couldn’t hear my own voice. I was in darkness, and the only thing I could perceive was the handle of a blade, which was embedded in a black surface inside a black room. In front of me, I saw something blue shimmering to life, like wisps of smoke converging. A long tendril of azure adhered to the pommel of the sword, and elongated to form a cloud of swirling blue smoke.

”Your fault.” The voice boomed from all directions. It wasn’t a sound as much as a sensation, as if my very heart was able to speak. The voice came with images. I saw my sister and my mother in brief flashes, before I felt something hard pressing against my chest.

“Your fault,” the voice said again. The blob of azure had formed into a humanoid torso, complete with thin, wispy arms and a head with no features whatsoever.

“What is?” I managed to say.

The creature hovered closer, still attached to the handle by a thin wisp of blue smoke. It had no hips or legs. Instead, its torso just narrowed down into a strand of smoke attached to the pommel.
A genie
, I thought.
Just like in Aladdin
. Except this one seemed less likely to grant me three wishes and be a cartoon voiced by a comedian.

“Death, suffering, misery,” it echoed from inside me. I saw flashes of Gil running from fire and screaming as her arms blistered and burned. I saw her run away from a Baku as she tried not to pass out from magic overuse.

“You cause pain.” I felt my arms burn and sear. I felt all the exhaustion in the world, and panic overtook my senses. I felt what Gil had felt, all those times I had been knocked out.

“You break the rules, so she suffers. You are too weak, so she suffers.”

I saw Crowley’s image flash before me and Gil’s expression the first time I tried to attack him. I felt her concerns and worry when I attacked the Baku mercilessly, mutilating it as I screamed for our mother.

“You killed her, Erik Ashendale. You killed your mother.”

I saw my mother lying on a hospital bed, her belly round and swollen as she struggled to give birth to her firstborn – me. I saw her life force in tendrils of magic and color, each of them disappearing into nothingness as she slowly died from exhaustion. I heard the nurses encourage her to push and her screams of effort and pain. I heard the cry of a newborn and her gasp that was also her final breath. I saw the mother and child make eye contact before the mother screamed again and tried to birth the second child.

I knew how this story ended – she would die before the second child came out. They had to cut her open and scoop out my sister.

And it was all because of me. I knew it was the Jinn’s influence, but the guilt, the pain, the emotion, it was all so real. I was born and she died. I was alive, and she lay dead in a coffin. I knew it was silly, that it wasn’t my fault, that shit happens in life, but the only thing that made sense was the parallel my mind was running.

I had robbed my mother of her life.

I had no idea when my knees buckled. All I knew was that the sword handle was at eye level and my head pressed against the pommel. My fingers were white around the handle, and the azure gas swam around my face. I felt tears running down my cheeks and heard myself crying out.

“Please, stop it. Please. Please, just stop. No more.”

I looked up for a response and found the Jinn staring back at me with its blue blob of a head. It extended one arm and pointed at me with its index finger.

“You will cause innumerable sufferings to those around you. To those who love you.”

I saw two women fighting in a parking lot, back to back. One, I recognized as Gil. Her long, white hair was a dead giveaway. She spun with the grace of a swan and waved a length of wood about three feet long. Her figure was surrounded with a white aura as one spell after the other shot out from the stick, catching monsters dead-on. The attackers were identical monsters, with slim bodies and long arms. Some had blades instead of hands, others had long, curved claws. When they moved on their reverse-jointed legs, their long, prehensile tails waved gracefully.

The other girl was a dark figure, shrouded in a darkness darker than black. She fought more ferociously than Gil, swinging a staff about seven feet tall and literally throwing monsters away with every swing. Unlike the graceful and cautious Gil, she was a blur of savagery — a ferocious void, save a red tinge around her head and the golden flash of her weapon.

I saw an aircraft fly above them, its shadow covering the women. When it passed, the monsters had gone, and on the ground lay a man with a long leather coat. His body was a gruesome mess of ripped organs and jutting bones. The women surrounded him, each trying to heal him. They yelled something inaudible, and I saw the obscure woman hit the man on the chest, trying desperately to revive him. I didn’t need to hear her screams of despair — I could feel every ounce of her agony inside my chest. It burned like hot lead. It felt as if my heart had been crushed and all I had left in the world was to wallow in sadness and despair before I simply died.

“And you will suffer, Erik Ashendale. Because of your guilt. Because it is all your fault.”

I saw a man sitting on the floor. He wore the same black trench coat I saw on the guy in the previous vision. This man looked like he had been through hell. His graying hair matched his thick beard, and he looked like he hadn’t showered in months. His skin was a sickly yellow, and veins popped as he lifted a whiskey bottle to drain its remains. He looked me dead in the eyes. They were green, just like mine. They were, in fact,
my
eyes.