Flynn Nightsider and the Edge of Evil Page 7

  “I don’t think we have the know-how to pull this off,” Brax muttered. “Still, there’s something familiar about this list of ingredients…”

  Before Flynn could ask what, a boy’s voice startled him.

  “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  Flynn whirled. Connor Salvator, the Gold Triumvir’s youngest son, stood at the end of the aisle with a brown schoolbag slung over his shoulder and a golden-brown wand in his hand. As usual, his face had “pretty boy” written all over it—perfectly arched eyebrows, long-lashed dark-blue eyes, reddish-brown hair that fell onto his forehead in impeccably swept waves. He resembled his famously beautiful mother—the Gold Triumvir’s most recent wife—a little too much. Unlike Kylie, he definitely dyed his hair—and his eyes, for that matter. Rumor had it that the guy used to look a lot more like his dad five years ago, when he’d shared the Gold Triumvir’s dark hair and eyes. Looking at him at present, you’d never guess he was a quarter Chinese.

  Flynn swore. He and Brax had been caught red-handed going through texts they weren’t supposed to touch, and Connor, being the Triumvirate’s little prince, would surely report them. Trying to look casual, he nodded at the abandoned janitorial cart. “We’re on cleaning duty. And doing an extra-thorough job by dusting the books while we’re at it.” A flimsy excuse, but worth a shot.

  Connor pushed his eyebrows together in an annoyed look. “You should put that away. I couldn’t care less, but if the faculty catches you snooping through the Scholars’ texts, you’ll get in a lot of trouble.”

  Flynn blinked, surprised that Connor hadn’t run off to tell a teacher or ranted about how Norms were banned from reading books meant for those with magic. Apparently ignoring Flynn and Brax, Connor pulled a slim volume from his schoolbag. As soon as he placed it in the empty spot on the shelf, the book grew about five inches in width. He walked off without another word.

  Flynn exhaled. He’d always assumed that the Gold Triumvir’s son would be as supercilious about magic as his father, but maybe he’d been too quick to judge a guy he knew only by name. “That was close.”

  “You can say that again.” Brax watched Connor’s retreating form, and his eyes lit up. “I just realized something. All those ingredients? I know where I’ve seen them before: in the Advanced Potions classroom. Connor’s in that class. Last time I was scrubbing up the place, I overheard him talking to the teacher about essences… I think we might have lucked out. I think he’s making exactly the potion we need.”

  “No… We can’t be that lucky.” Hoping the book Connor had returned might tell him if Brax was right, Flynn grabbed it and flipped to its table of contents. Sure enough, there was a chapter on essence-borrowing potions. He widened his eyes. “You’re right. The stars are aligned or something.”

  Brax grinned. “Hey, if you can’t beat ’em, cheat. We don’t have to make the potion ourselves. We just have to steal Connor’s homework.”

  Excitement rushed through Flynn. This might actually work. An idea hit him. “As long as we’re stealing things from Connor, we should filch some treasure of his and borrow his essence instead of Everett’s. He’s the Gold Triumvir’s son—he has access to everything. And it’d be easier to steal something from his dorm than to pickpocket the principal.” He grinned at Brax. “Maybe using both his potion and his possession will make things extra magic.”

  “Good idea. If—Look out!” Brax pointed at the ceiling.

  Flynn looked up in time to see one of the library’s floating lanterns crash down. Shocked, he jumped out of the way. It smashed onto the table in front of him, spilling shards across the marble surface. The sound of glass shattering filled the air as more lights fell, until shadows swallowed the library. “What the hell?”

  A hideous, otherworldly cackle echoed through the dark library, reverberating against the bookshelves. Flynn swallowed hard. It had to be another specter. Only specters had those creepy, unearthly voices. Worse, it seemed to have undone the magic keeping the lanterns suspended. But was it an escaped classroom spirit this time? Or another anarchist attack?

  Either way, he had to get out before the specter found him. He glanced at Brax, who was vaguely visible in the pale moonlight shining through the window. Before he could say anything, the table flew up from the ground. It crashed through the window, but the shards remained suspended in the air. Flynn stared, cold sweat breaking out on his brow. The glass’s knife-sharp points floated toward him and hovered dangerously close to his face.

  Now he was certain this wasn’t one of the mild-mannered specters Williams usually summoned for demos. This was a full-blown malevolent spirit, the kind that fed on terror, craved human screams, and delighted in the warmth of fresh blood. This meant that either the anarchists were attacking again, or the specter—like the wraiths from the previous night—had grown more powerful than the perimeter.

  Whatever the case, he was done for. The specter would send those shards tearing through his body, and that hideous cackle would be the last thing he’d hear before falling into the Netherworld. Flynn clenched his jaw, doing his best to shove down his fear. Fear only made specters stronger, and he wasn’t about to give it one more advantage. There had to be a way out of this. He wished he could run, but the specter was near, invisible but watching, and a single movement could cause it to strike.

  The shards vibrated as they drew back like a hundred glass arrows poised to fly from taut strings. Flynn stared back at them, and a powerful sense of defiance outshone his fear. Come get me, then.

  “Apucolare!”

  A whiplike beam of red light cut through the air. The broken glass fell, clinking as it landed on the stone floor. Flynn spun.

  Connor stood a few yards away, holding his wand—which glowed red from an enchantment—out in front of him. “Run!” he yelled.

  Flynn bolted through the darkness. Brax and Connor ran beside him. The latter repeated his spell and hurled a red blast over his shoulder, apparently trying to ward off the malevolent spirit. For a moment, Flynn wondered why Connor hadn’t goldlighted away then recalled that Scholars didn’t learn that skill until their final year. A good thing too—Connor’s spells were the only things keeping that specter back.

  Ghostly laughter bounced through the air, following as Flynn and the others sprinted through the library’s aisles. The shelves quaked, flinging books across the room, and he nearly slipped on the broken glass from the fallen lanterns.

  Walls meant nothing to specters, but Flynn clung to the hope that if they could make it out of the possessed library, they’d be fine. From the dim red light of Connor’s wand, he could see the outlines of the tall, arched door ahead. He raced toward it, focusing on his target and doing his best to ignore the specter’s haunting laughter.

  He made it across the threshold and stumbled to a halt, his lungs burning from the effort. Broken lanterns lay scattered on the floor, and the only light came from the eerie, bluish moonlight spilling through the windows. He turned back in search of the others. Brax approached at a sprint, but the red glow of Connor’s wand was gone.

  “Where’s Connor?”

  Brax stopped and whirled. “He was right behind me.”

  Flynn watched the door, hoping to see Connor’s wand glowing through the blackness. But as the seconds ticked by and nothing appeared, he grew uneasy. For all Flynn knew, Connor had been knocked unconscious and was lying helpless at the mercy of a specter. I can’t leave him in there.

  He ran back toward the doorway.

  Brax grabbed his arm. “What’re you doing?”

  “Go sound the alarm. I’m gonna look for Connor.”

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Sound the alarm.” Flynn twisted out of his friend’s grip and rushed through the doorway. Behind him, Brax’s running footsteps pounded down the corridor.

  Flynn wound through the shelves, scanning the dark library for any sign of Conno
r. But what would he do once he found him? The specter was still around, and Flynn had nothing to fight it with.

  All supernatural creatures are vulnerable to silver, right? Flynn recalled the silver pellets the Defenders had shot at the wraiths and looked around for anything he could use. Catching a glint in the corner of his eye, he spun. Something on the wall reflected the moonlight, and the memory of a silver-framed picture flashed through his mind. It wasn’t exactly a weapon, but it was better than nothing. He ran and grabbed its edges, which were covered in ornate etchings. With a single yank, he tore it down.

  The sound of something snapping crackled above him. A book flew toward him, and he held up the picture as a shield. The walls shook, and a low rumbling filled his ears. A stack fell toward him, and he dodged just in time. He wove around the trembling bookshelves, dodging flying tomes. He had to find Connor and get him out of this cursed place before something terrible happened.

  “Apucolare!” Connor’s voice sounded through the chaos.

  Flynn veered toward the sound and glimpsed a hazy hint of red from the other side of the library. That had to be the light from Connor’s wand. At least the guy was still up and fighting.

  Flynn dashed toward the light. It came from the entrance of one of the library’s classrooms. He swung through the doorway before he had a chance to see what was inside then stopped short as he found himself faced with the translucent gray form of a specter. His breath froze. Even a trained Defender couldn’t banish a specter—only repel it. How the hell was he supposed to fight it with only a picture frame?

  Faced with a supernatural, Flynn’s lack of magic suddenly felt like a handicap. His gaze fell on Connor, who crouched in the corner, trembling as he clutched a gold-covered notebook in one hand and used the other to throw spells at the specter. A ribbon of blood ran down the side of his face, and his spells seemed to have no effect on the evil spirit, whose cackles rose in an ominous crescendo. It grew denser, taking up more space in the room. Flynn had learned enough to know that that meant it was gaining strength. Whatever Connor was doing, it wasn’t working.

  A chill ran down Flynn’s spine. Sometimes, even magic couldn’t save you. Part of him demanded that he get the hell out, but instead, he chose to listen to whatever stupid instinct had sent him tearing back into harm’s way right when he’d reached safety. He’d come to help someone, and he couldn’t leave now.

  “Hey! Specter!” He held the silver frame in front of his face and ran at the specter. Launching himself off the floor, he raised the picture over his head and slashed down through its shadowy form.

  A wave of cold enveloped his entire body, nearly paralyzing in its power. As Flynn passed through the specter, an earsplitting scream ripped through the darkness. Heart racing, he landed on both feet and spun in time to see the specter explode into a million ragged pieces. But the ground continued shaking, and books continued flying, crashing into walls and knocking over shelves. The spirit was still around and could rematerialize any moment.

  “What the hell, Flynn?” Connor jumped up, clutching the gold-covered notebook. “I told you to run!”

  Flynn blinked, surprised that the Gold Triumvir’s son knew his name. “Good thing I didn’t, or you’d be a pile of gore! C’mon!”

  He turned to the door then jumped back as the specter reappeared, blocking him. Its face must have been human once, but it had been ripped and twisted so thoroughly that it looked like a gruesome, distorted mask. Two black holes gaped in its translucent gray face in place of eyes, and its scarred gray lips curled into a malicious grin as it reached out with spidery hands. Unlike a wraith, its body was fully visible, though Flynn wished it weren’t. Decayed clothing hung off a shredded body held together only by the pale bones visible beneath torn flesh.

  An ominous rumble filled the air, followed by a series of sharp cracks. Flynn’s gaze flew to the ceiling, where a black crevice snaked along, threatening to split the room in half and send the stones crashing down. A chill shot through him, and he tightened his grip on the silver frame, ready to run at the specter again.

  Before he could move, Connor stepped in front of him and threw a beam of red light at the specter with a shouted spell. The creature opened its mouth and swallowed the magic as if it were a stream of water.

  A cold wind blew past Flynn, and the specter raised his arms, growling, “This is for the Lord.”

  Calm. Panicking would only bring about his doom faster. Flynn bent his knees, preparing to hurl himself at the thing. At least he’d go down swinging. The frame’s edges dug into his palms as a fierce energy coursed through his blood.

  “Spiritus evanescat!”

  A man’s voice boomed through the air, and a blinding light inundated the library. Flynn squeezed his eyes against the glare. Several sharp stings impacted his shoulder. An earth-shattering shriek filled the air, so loud he was sure his head would explode from the sound.

  He didn’t open his eyes until the last echo faded away, unsure of what he would find. To his relief, the pieces of wall had returned to their original places. Professor Williams stood in the specter’s place, his face twisted with anger. A ball of white light shone from his dark-red wand, bright enough to illuminate the room. Brax stood beside him, holding a short gun with a wide barrel. Recognizing it as the kind of silver-loaded pellet gun that Defenders used against spirits, Flynn realized the stinging in his shoulder had been from getting sprayed by the tiny projectiles.

  “Connor!” Williams strode into the classroom. “Are you all right?”

  Brax approached Flynn with a lopsided grin that did little to disguise the fear still shading his eyes. “Hello, Sir Heroic Idiot. I like your weapon of choice. Real pretty.”

  Confused, Flynn glanced at the silver frame he clung to. Tiny etched rosebuds ran along its sides, and the painting featured a pair of delicate pink slippers. It was the girliest thing he’d ever seen, and he tossed it away as though it had turned red-hot.

  “You fail,” he retorted. “I didn’t hear the alarm go off.”

  “Ran into Williams first.” Brax looked around, as though expecting the specter to reappear. The tension in his voice belied his attempt to sound casual. “The old man’s pretty cool. As soon as I told him what was happening, he summoned this gun out of thin air, gave it to me, then goldlighted us here.”

  Williams gave Brax a sharp look. “That never happened. Understand?” He waved his wand, muttering a word in Latin, and the gun disappeared. After obtaining a nod of assent from Brax, the professor turned his stern expression toward Flynn.

  “Didn’t see a thing,” Flynn said, understanding. By giving Brax a weapon reserved for Defenders, Williams had broken the law. Flynn suddenly saw the professor, whom he’d always assumed to be a law-abiding citizen of the Triumvirate, in a new light.

  “Williams!” Everett’s voice exploded from the direction of the door.

  Flynn looked past the professor. The principal strode through the library, followed by five Defenders and two Sentinels. Each held a wand with a ball of light, similar to the one glowing at the end of Williams’s.

  Flynn raised his eyebrows. “Looks like the cavalry’s arrived.”

  Williams turned to face Everett. “Connor’s injured, but it’s not bad. He got lucky. If I’d arrived a moment later, we’d all be at the mercy of the Gold Triumvir. We’ll be begging for forgiveness as it is for allowing such danger to come to his son.”

  Everett approached Connor with concern. “My dear boy, are—”

  “I got hit by some glass. That’s all.” Connor shrugged, sounding irritated.

  Everett turned back to Williams. “What happened?”

  “Specters, three of them,” Williams replied. “From what I can tell, a Class B arrived first, followed by two Class As.”

  There were three specters? Flynn ran through those last few chaotic moments in his mind, wondering how he’d mi
ssed the other two, though the presence of multiple specters would explain why the entire library had been possessed. Still, he’d heard plenty of horror stories about entire buildings full of people being slaughtered by a single malevolent spirit. How the hell had he survived an attack by three?

  One of the Sentinels approached Everett with a look of concern. “None of the alarms went off. Could—”

  Everett held up one hand to silence the man then glared at Flynn and Brax. “Go home, Secondstringers.”

  “Yes, sir!” Brax said with mock enthusiasm. He jerked his head toward the door. “Flynn, let’s go.”

  Flynn followed him out but stole a quick glance over his shoulder and found his attention drawn to Connor, who still clutched that gold-covered notebook. The way he kept shifting his eyes betrayed his nervousness. Now that the danger seemed to be gone, Flynn’s mind went back to what he’d been doing before the specter attack. The more precious something is to a person, the stronger his essence is with it, and the more easily that essence is borrowed…

  He nudged Brax. “Did you see that notebook Connor was holding? He went back into the library to save it.”

  “He must have the mother of all tests coming up,” Brax said sarcastically. His face lit up with realization. “I see. His essence must be really strong with it.”

  “Would’ve gotten himself killed over it if I hadn’t shown up.” Flynn couldn’t resist the opportunity to boast a little.

  “All hail the conquering hero.” Brax spoke with his usual sardonic tone, but real admiration shone behind his smirk. “Just wait until the school hears about how you saved the Gold Triumvir’s son with a picture frame. They’ll say you’re the next Firedragon.”

  “As if,” Flynn scoffed. “Everett will cover it up with a lie that makes him sound like the hero. But that doesn’t matter. The notebook does… Brax, it’s what we need to make this essence plot work.”