The Cursed Codex Page 2

  Keith traced his finger back and forth over the blue book with the dragonscale cover. It looked so 3D he expected to feel the scales, but the surface had a glassy smoothness. Merely a picture. Something made him want to jump headfirst into its secrets, but a missing-probably-dead girl once owned it. Taking it felt like grave robbing. “I dunno. Are you sure? It’s making you sad to think about selling it.”

  “Sarah really did love that stuff. I tried to give it to her friends, but they didn’t want it. Too sad I guess—it made them think of her.” Mrs. Norris heaved a heavy sigh. “Why don’t you take it?”

  The more he looked at the cover, the more intrigued he became. “How much?” He stuffed his hand in his pocket.

  “It’s all right. I’ve put it out every two or three years whenever I get the itch to do this, and no one ever wants it. Honestly, I didn’t expect kids to care about anything that doesn’t buzz, blink, or beep anymore. You look like you’d get some fun out if it.”

  Keith gazed into the red dragon’s eye on the cover. As silly as it seemed, the book felt like it wanted a new home. He reached out and picked it up. The instant he made contact, a soft breeze stirred the leaves of the giant sycamore overhead. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, but he dismissed it as the work of the wind.

  “Mrs. Norris, that’s really kind of you, but I can’t just take it.” He looked at the model airplanes. “This stuff’s from her room? How about I trade you for it? I’ll rake your leaves and mow. Clean up your whole yard, and you can give me this stuff instead of paying?”

  She stared down, her expression as though she’d been forced to give up a beloved pet for adoption.

  “If you change your mind and want this stuff back, I’ll return it.” He held out a hand. “I promise.”

  Mrs. Norris glanced at his hand.

  He whispered, “I’m only asking for the planes so no one else buys them and you can get them back if you regret selling them. I live right around the corner.”

  “All right.” She shook his hand. “You have a deal, young man.”

  He smiled. “I’m Keith.”

  2

  Next Saturday

  After dinner that night plus homework, Keith changed into his pajama pants and sat cross-legged on his bed. His room’s powder-blue walls peeked out here and there between Final Fantasy posters, another of an F-22 Raptor, and a pair of Metallica ones. He agreed with his dad and liked the Black Album (and earlier) stuff more.

  His arms ached from spending the whole day at Mrs. Norris’ raking up leaves. As soon as she accepted his offer, he’d rushed home to get his bike trailer so he could cart the box and the model planes back to his room. After, he returned with a rake and a bundle of giant plastic bags. The property had to be double (or bigger) than the biggest yard he’d ever dealt with for his ‘business venture.’ Keith had managed to get the leaves bagged before it became too dark to work. He planned to go back there tomorrow—after packing the models away safely—to deal with the mowing.

  A promise was a promise.

  And hey, bonus points with his parents. He’d told them he’d be at Mrs. Norris’ house, cleaning up the yard of an old woman for basically free. They’d been so proud of him, the dreaded conversation about the almost-black eye didn’t last long.

  But that would be tomorrow.

  Keith set the Crypts and Creepers book in his lap. He had about an hour before the parents would order lights out. As much as he wanted to admire the cover, that would waste time. The book made a faint, papery creak when he pulled it open. Curly handwriting in silver ink decorated the dark blue lining inside the front cover. It still even smelled a bit like a permanent marker. A few sheets of paper, which he hadn’t noticed before, slipped out from the back of the book.

  “Whoa.”

  The writing definitely came from a girl—boys didn’t write that neat. Though, she didn’t do that cute thing of dotting her I’s with little hearts or anything. He thought the writing ‘precise,’ but pretty. Keith touched it, though the shiny silver ink didn’t feel like anything more than paper. He stared at the letters, wondering if the girl who’d written this so long ago had died before he’d been born. It didn’t quite fit into his brain to think of her as an adult, even though, according to her grandmother, she’d be like forty-something years old now. The notebooks, the toys, the models, all of it gathered in his brain and made him feel like she stopped existing at fourteen—or as Mrs. Norris believed, she would forever be fourteen.

  A wave of sadness and anger washed over him and faded as fast as it came on. Someone did something to that girl, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Well, nothing except be nice to her grandmother. Things like that—disappearing kids—never happened in Meadow Grove as far as he knew, but Mrs. Norris couldn’t believe she ran away.

  “Sarah…” He sighed, again tracing his fingertips over the writing. “I hope you didn’t get killed.”

  A glint swept over the silver writing. He looked up for the source of the light that reflected, but no one had snuck up behind him with a flashlight. Squinting, he tilted the book back and forth in the glare from the overhead lamp, but the silver ink didn’t gleam again.

  “Huh. Weird. Guess I’m tired.”

  The writing surrounded a ‘From the library of Sarah Norris’ sticker, and had a lot of math-looking stuff like 5d6 or 3d12. It appeared to be notes for traps, custom spells, and a weapon called ‘Silverthorn.’ Under a small paragraph describing an ornate shortsword with a handle carved to resemble leaves, a line read: +3 enchantment, haste on critical (19-20).

  “Whatever that means.”

  He flipped in a couple pages and read about campaigns and rules. By the time his mother poked her head in and gave him the ‘you’re not asleep yet’ eyebrow, he understood the mathy stuff to be references to dice. 5d6 meant someone would roll five six-sided dice and add them together.

  “Okay, Mom.” He set the book on his nightstand and hurried to the bathroom.

  Tuesday morning, Keith glided up to the bike rack at school and almost flew over the handlebars when the front tire hit it. He caught himself on tiptoe, barely managing to save his crotch from ramming into the frame. His effort in Mrs. Norris’ yard had left every muscle in his arms, legs, and back sore, almost too stiff to ride.

  For the first time in years, he grumbled at having to go to school. He couldn’t stop thinking about the game manual, and to a lesser extent, the model planes. The old fighter jets were delicate, certainly not toys meant to be played with, so as soon as he made it home today, he planned on packing them in styrofoam peanuts and asking his dad to put them in the attic. He didn’t understand why he developed this sudden need to protect them. In fact, when he’d first looked them over, he hadn’t felt the tiniest shred of interest in them. But by the end of his conversation with Mrs. Norris, he couldn’t let any old random person come by and take them away from her. The odd possessiveness made him feel like he’d owned them for a long time, even painted them himself.

  He didn’t mind the idea of going back there this afternoon. At least mowing wouldn’t bust his back like raking had, even if that strip of grass probably qualified as ‘jungle.’

  After locking up his bike, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and trudged along the sidewalk toward the doors of Travis E. Hartford Middle School. No one even seemed to know who the guy had been or why he had a school named after him, but it had been an eighth grade tradition forever to do something to the huge bronze plaque of him in the lobby. It looked like an enormous penny, only with this guy instead of Lincoln on it. Every year, kids pranked it. Sharpie marker mustache, googly eyes… whatever. He figured one of the athletes or the troublemakers would do it, as usual, not an invisible kid like him.

  “Leave me alone,” wailed a young girl some distance away from the front doors on the grassy hill between the building and the athletic fields.

  Dammit. Not again. Stupid buttheads!

  He lifted his head, peering past his sand
y-brown bangs.

  The usual three idiots, Kurt Heller, Henry Ames, and William Beattie—all thirteen except for Kurt who trailed by one year despite being the biggest—towered over a super-skinny little girl with long, thick, black hair and brown skin. William had two fistfuls of her pink sweater, and she’d already lost one of her ballet flats trying to kick at him.

  “Get off me!” shouted Tira Zuabi, nine-year-old sister of his best friend Ashur.

  Kurt grabbed her other arm and the boys upended her headfirst into an outdoor trashcan while she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “Terrorist goes into the trash,” yelled Henry.

  “Hey!” shouted Keith. He let his backpack slide off his shoulder and forced his aching body up to a run. “Leave her alone!”

  Kurt spun to face him. “Oh, look who it is. Guess you want the other eye painted black, huh Croft?”

  Henry seized Tira’s kicking legs by the ankles, holding her while William tilted the giant garbage can on its side so they could roll it down the hill. She screamed and fought, but had no hope of overpowering the boys. Keith feigned a lunge at Kurt, making him defend high left. He ducked around him to the right and charged. Henry never saw him coming.

  Keith plowed into Henry’s back, tackling him face first into the grass. The instant they stopped sliding, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees and grabbed a fistful of Henry’s bright red hair. “Tira’s not a terrorist!”

  Before he could pound Henry in the face, William—who had more than a few extra pounds—dove on top of both of them. Keith groaned while Henry let off a noise like a kicked goose. Keith squirmed in an attempt to roll away, but William wrapped him in a bear hug and rolled to the side, off Henry.

  Tira wriggled out of the trashcan, wide eyed and sniffling, wiping at a blot of mustard from her jeans.

  Growling, Keith rammed his elbow into William’s belly. The bigger kid belched and let go, allowing him to scramble back to his feet. Kurt stomped over, his fist poised to repeat the black eye from yesterday, but this time, Keith ducked. The bigger kid threw two more punches, forcing him to back up while dodging. After avoiding the third attack, Keith darted in and slugged the taller boy in the stomach.

  Despite being twelve, Kurt shaved, played football, and had a few inches’ height advantage. Still, the gut punch stunned him.

  Other kids erupted in a repetitive chant of ‘fight’ and circled around them, forming an audience.

  Tira scurried away, one shoe still missing, and shouted for help.

  Roaring, Henry pounced on Keith in an ungainly tackle that brought both boys to the grass. William rose to his feet, appearing on the verge of throwing up from the elbow to the belly, and staggered over. Henry pinned Keith, holding his arms back. William took the opportunity, punching him again and again in the stomach like a living heavy bag. Keith kicked and squirmed, but couldn’t break free.

  His friend Elliot came flying into view out of nowhere, completely off the ground like Superman and screaming a loud war cry. A flash of bright yellow swept William off to the left. The body block flattened William, who lay stunned after Elliot rolled off him, staring into space like he couldn’t remember his own name.

  Kids tended to pick on Elliot for being tubby, but when the boy sprouted wings, he did serious damage. For a big kid, he had a surprising amount of agility. He recovered to a three-point stance and eyed Henry like a bull about to charge. Elliot would’ve been intimidating if not for his black ringlet-curls that always looked wet and puffy cherub-cheeks.

  Keith flailed, trying to get out of Henry’s grip. He stomped on Henry’s foot, but sneaker didn’t do much to boot. The pounding his stomach suffered on top of yardwork-sore muscles left him feeling far more helpless than he liked. Tira kept screaming for a teacher, but her voice drowned under the continuous chorus of, “Fight, fight, fight,” coming from other kids.

  Another of Keith’s friends, Carlos, forced his way past the spectators. He grabbed Henry and Keith both by the jackets and hauled them apart like a teacher breaking up a fight. Carlos had a half-inch of height even on Kurt, plus a freakish amount of muscle for a thirteen-year-old.

  Henry took one look at Carlos and held his hands up in a gesture of ‘fight over.’

  Three teachers shooed away the crowd of spectating kids, sending them off to their respective classes. Mr. Benson, a barrel-chested, bald gym teacher with a beard, corralled Kurt, Henry, and William, while Mr. Sloan, a bookish, forty-something math teacher and Mr. Porter, a thick-bodied social studies teacher, collected Keith, Elliot, and Carlos.

  “What happened here?” asked Mr. Sloan, hands on his hips. “That’s the second time in two days for you, isn’t it Croft?”

  Keith bowed his head, holding his gut. “Sorry, Mr. Sloan. Those three called Tira a terrorist and stuffed her in a trashcan. They were gonna roll her down the hill. She’s only nine. She could’ve been really hurt.”

  “That’s no excuse for fighting.” Mr. Sloan folded his arms.

  Tira gestured at Keith while muttering to Mr. Benson, too far away to hear, but the giant tears rolling down her cheeks pretty much said she pleaded for him not to get in trouble.

  “Soooo”—Carlos raised both eyebrows at Mr. Sloan—“you’re saying he should’ve let them commit a hate crime and hurt some little kid? What’s the school doing to protect her? Yesterday too, my man Croft here only got into a fight ’cause those same three guys harassed her for being brown. You’re lucky her parents aren’t suing the crap out of this whole school.”

  Elliot, still out of breath, wheezed, “And why are those guys pickin’ on a third-grader?”

  “’Cause they got a bloody nose when they tried stuffin’ Ashur in a locker,” muttered Keith.

  Mr. Sloan fidgeted at his lip, avoiding eye contact with any of them.

  “Where is he anyway?” whispered Keith.

  Elliot held up a hand while catching his breath. “Doing something for Mrs. Pomeroy.”

  “Are any of you boys hurt?” asked Mr. Porter.

  “No.” Keith shook his head. “Just sore.”

  Elliot swatted some grass off his bright yellow shirt. “Nope.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Porter,” said Carlos.

  “Rivera only broke it up.” Mr. Sloan waved at Carlos with a ‘you can go’ gesture. “I saw him pull the boys apart.”

  Keith glanced sideways at Tira. She clutched her lost shoe to her chest, her head bowed in shame. Mr. Benson’s face had gone red, though he hadn’t started shouting yet. Kurt, Henry, and William shrank away from the huge teacher and marched off in front of him, likely to the principal’s office.

  “All right,” said Mr. Sloan after a brief murmured conference with Porter. “You boys hurry and get to class.” He pointed at Keith. “Don’t make a habit of this. I’m in a good mood this morning. One more time before at least a month goes by, and you’re looking at an automatic three-day suspension.”

  So much for being invisible. Keith sighed. He almost said he’d stop fighting if those kids left Tira alone, but being sarcastic would probably earn him detention. He had a lawn to mow, and that book demanded to be read more deeply. One hour before bed hadn’t been nearly enough to absorb all the rules.

  As soon as the teachers walked off, Carlos muttered, “They’re afraid of getting sued.”

  “Someone ought’a do something.” Elliot shook his head.

  “Damn, man.” Keith squinted at him, raising a hand to shield his eyes. “That shirt is brighter than the sun.”

  Elliot laughed.

  They made their way inside to the cafeteria, where most kids hung out before the first bell. Ashur already sat at their usual spot. His complexion had initially attracted the three morons, but for a skinny kid, he scrapped like a badger. The fights didn’t end well for him, but he lashed out hard enough that the three jerks went to seek easier prey.

  As soon as Ashur looked up, his mouth hung open.

  Keith, Elliot, and Carlos sat nearby in a clamor
of rustling backpacks and squeaking sneakers.

  “What happened?” asked Ashur. “Not again?”

  Elliot, who had seen most of it, explained, slipping in an apology for taking so long to run across the field to help.

  “No worries, man. Inertia,” said Carlos. “Takes a while to get a planet moving.”

  Elliot patted his belly. “But Galactus was victorious.”

  Keith laughed. “Yeah. William’s gonna be feeling that for a week. Did you see the look on his face?”

  “Heh, yeah.” Elliot grinned with pride.

  “I hate those guys.” Ashur scowled. “Why isn’t the school doing anything to protect Tira?”

  “Don’t worry.” Carlos play-punched Keith in the shoulder. “She’s got Keith to protect her.”

  Elliot cackled. “Yeah, she’s probably gonna go all Ginny Weasley on him.”

  “Dude.” Keith stared at him. “She’s like nine. Ash’s sister does not have a crush on me.”

  “Good. I’d have to kick your ass,” said Ashur, grinning. “Besides, Carlos has three sisters. Take one of them.”

  Carlos rolled his eyes. “Don’t do it man. They’ll drive you insane. They never stop talking.”

  “Oh hey, guys. I got this new game.” Keith looked back and forth among his friends. “You gotta come over so we can play it.”

  “Cool.” Elliot squeezed a one-serving bag of potato chips until it popped open. “It support LAN play?”

  Keith shook his head. “No, dude. Not that kind of game.”

  “What system should I bring? I got a PS2, PS3, PS4, Wii, Xbox…” Elliot tossed a chip in his mouth.

  “It’s not a computer game. It’s a book.”

  Keith’s excitement clearly didn’t reverberate with the others. They stared at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

  “I got a Crypts and Creepers manual from a yard sale. It’s like a whole game world and you do stuff with magic and dragons and swords and stuff.”

  “Oh,” said Carlos. “Yeah I think I know what you’re talking about. Diego used to play something like that.”