Talisman of El Read online

  BOOK ONE

  TALISMAN OF EL TRILOGY

  TALISMAN

  OF

  EL

  ALECIA STONE

  CENTRINIAN

  CENTRINIAN

  Centrinian Publishing Ltd

  First published in the UK in 2012 by Centrinian Publishing Ltd Winnington House, 2 Woodberry Grove London, N12 0DR

  Text copyright © 2012 Alecia Stone Cover illustration © 2012 Jason Russell

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing from its publisher, nor be otherwise circular in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Printed and bound in the UK by Lightning Source UK Ltd, Milton Keynes MK11 3LW

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data: a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 978-0-9570019-3-0 Kindle ISBN 978-0-9570019-2-3

  www.centrinian.com www.aleciastone.com

  For my mother, Pauline, the first to hear the story.

  Thanks for all your wonderfully weird tales.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  Manhattan, New York January 25, 2013, 11:15 P.M.

  DERKEIN ODESSA SAUNTERED INTO a study lined with bookshelves and a high ceiling of gold leaf and bas-relief sculptures. He stopped when he saw his father standing behind the large mahogany desk at the back of the room, rifling through the wall safe. A muscle in his jaw ticked. ‘You’re alive then,’ he said.

  ‘Not now, Derkein.’ His father closed the safe, covering it with a portrait of his wife.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Derkein advanced on him, his footsteps echoing off the hardwood floor. ‘Not now.’ He chuckled without humour. ‘Well, why don’t you give me your card, and I’ll book an appointment.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I can’t talk right now. I have a flight to catch.’

  When his father turned round, Derkein stopped, his eyes widening. A blood-soaked plaster covered the right side of his father’s neck, red stains on the collar of his white shirt. Derkein hurried over to him. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just a scratch.’

  ‘You don’t look fine. Where have you been …?’ Derkein paused, the strong smell of tobacco assailing his nose. He scrutinised his father – the purple bags under his eyes, scratch marks on his chin. ‘You’re still searching for it, aren’t you?’ He sighed, raking a hand through his shoulder-length black hair as he lifted his head back. ‘You gave me your word.’

  ‘I know you disagree with my decision, but you have to understand –’

  ‘Understand what? Dad, this is not normal.’ Derkein grabbed the bag at his father’s feet, lifted it onto the desk, and tipped it onto its side, scattering the surface with a collection of daggers and guns. He picked up a black leather sheath and pulled out a knife, its broad, stainless blade honed until the cutting edge was almost invisible. He dropped the knife and sheath among the other weapons. ‘You have to stop this.’

  ‘Luther’s dead.’

  Derkein’s heart skipped a beat. ‘What … What happened?’

  ‘Natural causes. Apparently, his heart gave out.’

  ‘What do you mean “apparently”?’

  With a hesitant glance at Derkein, his father opened the front pocket of the bag and pulled out a talisman, burnished in copper with an engraved steel band and a circular dip in the centre. ‘Luther and I dug this up in the Roncador Mountains in Mato Grosso, Brazil. The earthquake that hit South America two months ago ... We caused it when we removed this from the earth.’ He looked down at the talisman then back at Derkein, distress clouding his features. ‘The moment the earthquake struck, we passed out. Two hours later, we woke up on Manhattan Bridge.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘We didn’t fly to New York.’

  ‘Then how did you get here?’

  His father started packing the weapons back inside the bag. ‘I don’t know. Three weeks ago, Luther called me and told me that someone was following him. I think whoever was after him wanted the talisman, and when they didn’t find it, they killed him. Now they’re after me.’

  ‘So give it to them. Dad, this isn’t worth your life.’

  ‘I can’t. This is my only connection to Arcadia.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘England,’ his father replied. ‘Thomas might be able to help me. If what he told me about these beings is true, I can’t be around you. They got to Luther. I won’t lose you, too.’ He turned round and stared at the portrait covering the safe.

  ‘I miss mum, too, but it’s been five years. Give up before you end up killing yourself. Arcadia doesn’t exist.’

  His father looked at him. ‘It’s out there. I’m going to find it. I will bring her back.’

  ‘Mum’s dead,’ Derkein snapped. ‘When are you going to get that?’

  ‘I have to go,’ his father said in a calm voice. ‘I’ll call you when I get there.’

  ‘Dad –’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I always am.’

  ‘Dad, please –’

  An ear-piercing scream ripped through the building. Derkein froze, his eyes the only things that moved. His gaze fixed on his father, who was rummaging through his bag. He took out a black pistol and turned to Derkein, a tortured expression on his face as he placed the weapon in his son’s trembling hand.

  ‘Shoot anything that moves,’ his father instructed. He placed the talisman around Derkein’s neck, tucking it inside his shirt. ‘Don’t let it out of your sight.’ Cupping Derkein’s face in his hands, he made him meet his gaze. ‘I’m so sorry I got you involved in this.’ He grabbed another gun from the bag.

  ‘What exactly have you got yourself into, Dad?’

  His father looked at him with a solemn expression. ‘If anything happens to me, you find Thomas. Tell him … Tell him he was right.’ He headed towards the door.

  ‘Dad, wait.’ Derkein went after him. ‘Dad –’

  The double doors burst open with a bang.

  His father opened fire. ‘Derkein, shoot!’ he yelled.

  Derkein glanced around the room in panic and confusion. He saw no one but his father. Then he felt a sharp pain in his arm, heard his shirt tear, and cried out. Something warm dribbled down his arm. When he placed his hand on it and drew it back, he saw blood. His father screamed, and he
looked up and saw him flying across the room, crashing into a bookshelf that collapsed under him.

  ‘Dad!’ Derkein sprinted towards him but felt a powerful blow across his chest that sent him flying backwards, and he landed hard on the floor, his gun falling out of his hand. Staggering to his feet, he glanced around for whatever had attacked him but saw nothing. His gaze landed on his father, who was groaning … and then he was gone. There were no bright lights or loud noise. He had just vanished.

  As Derkein stared wide-eyed at the spot where his father had been lying only moments before, something like a blast of electricity stunned him, and he felt an intense burning inside his chest. He let out a cry as his body lifted off the ground and hung in midair. Seconds later, he came crashing down …

  CHAPTER ONE

  Substitute

  THREE THOUSAND MILES AWAY, Charlie Blake jolted awake. He clutched at his chest as he tried to catch his breath. His heart was racing, his body trembling. He looked up at the bearded, heavy-set man standing over him, and it was then he realised he was on the floor.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said his guardian, Jacob Willoughby, as he helped Charlie onto the bed. ‘I’m going to call the doctor.’

  ‘No,’ Charlie protested. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Charlie nodded.

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ Jacob said, and he left the room.

  Running a hand through his unkempt black hair, Charlie pulled it back from his face and looked at the clock hanging on the cream wall above the dresser opposite him. It had just gone three thirty in the morning. Taking hold of the chain around his neck, he looked down at the two silver rings attached to it, clenching his fist around them. A feeling of despair overwhelmed him, and he took a deep breath. He’d had nightmares before, but only once had he woken up feeling this way. That was four years ago – the day before his tenth birthday. The day before his dad died.

  Jacob returned to the room. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing Charlie a glass of water.

  ‘Thanks.’ Charlie took a sip and rested the glass on his bedside table.

  Jacob stood with his arms crossed, his paunch hanging over his belt, his short brown hair damp, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. ‘Feeling better?’

  Charlie nodded, forcing a smile. It had only been a week since he moved into the three-bed cottage, yet he was already waking the man up at the most inconvenient time. If he was planning on this adoption succeeding, he was going about it the wrong way. ‘Sorry I woke you.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise.’ Jacob’s face assumed an amiable expression. ‘Do you need me to get you anything?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  ‘If you do need anything, I’m right across the hallway.’ Jacob smiled and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Charlie waited until the light under the door vanished before getting up and splashing the glass of water on his face. He opened the window, which looked out over the back garden and the stretch of woods that lay beyond the fence, and cold air poured into the room, carrying with it a rich, wet, earthy scent.

  Daylight came sooner than expected. The sun shone with brilliance through the wafting curtains. Charlie was sitting in bed rifling through a black box with metal embellishments, a tenth birthday gift from his mother. Inside the box, he kept letters his mother had written to him before she died.

  He shivered, his pyjamas like ice against his skin, but he didn’t mind the cold; it had a way of calming his nerves. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he looked up at the clock nestled between two pictures – a bucket of daffodils and swans in a lake. It was almost eight – four hours since the nightmare – and he hadn’t slept a wink. Replacing the letters inside the box, he got up and walked over to the walnut dresser, setting the box on top of it, and then headed across the room.

  He opened the door and paused, glancing back to survey the small room, as he had done every morning since he arrived at Spring Drive. A tingle of anticipation rippled through him as he thought about how far away he was from Alpha Children’s Home. His gaze shifted to the TV and game console beside the dresser, and he smiled.

  As soon as Charlie entered the bright, yellow farmhouse kitchen, the flagstone floor cold under his bare feet, the smell of bacon grease hit him, and his stomach turned. As always, neither the windows nor the door to the back garden were open.

  A shrill whistle filled the air, and he glanced to his left at the kettle on the range cooker behind the oak table where he spotted Jacob sitting down reading the West Sussex Gazette. ‘Hi,’ Charlie greeted him.

  ‘Morning,’ Jacob replied. His gaze shifted to the kettle, and he set the newspaper down on the table, got up, and went over to the cooker. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Good,’ Charlie said, as he approached the chair in front of him. Sitting down, he grabbed a saucer from the stack in the centre of the table and two slices of toast from the rack.

  Jacob returned to his seat with a steaming cup of coffee. ‘You look tired. Did you get any sleep?’

  Charlie paused in the middle of buttering his toast. ‘Yep.’

  Jacob’s beady brown eyes studied him a moment. ‘Marz mentioned that you have trouble sleeping.’

  Oh great, Charlie thought. He thinks I’m disturbed.

  ‘Are these nightmares regular?’ Jacob asked.

  Here we go again. ‘No. Just your average nightmare. Who doesn’t have them, right? It’s no big deal.’ Charlie clenched his jaw and looked down at his plate.

  ‘All that city noise, I bet. Maybe you just needed a change of scenery.’ Jacob took a bite of his bacon sandwich. ‘I thought we had a break-in with all that screaming last night. Gave me a right fright, you did. That must have been a terrifying dream you were having. What was it about?’

  Charlie looked at him, apprehensive. ‘I … uh … I can’t remember.’ His weary voice broke at the end.

  A speculative look came into Jacob’s eyes, and his lips parted, as if he were about to say something; instead, he took another bite of his sandwich. ‘Are you looking forward to school on Monday?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Well, you have nothing to worry about. The kids here are great. Besides, Oakwood is a lot smaller than your last school, so you’ll make friends in no time.’ He gave Charlie an encouraging smile.

  Charlie bit into his cold toast and leaned back against the hard chair. According to the Oakwood High School website, the total enrolment was exactly four hundred and seventy-five – about one-third of the total population at his last school – who most likely knew everything about one another. Being the new kid was a certified way of attracting attention, but being an outsider and an orphan, well, he’d be a headliner.

  Charlie felt a swirling sensation inside his chest as he pondered that thought. Tasting something sour in his mouth, he set the toast down on the saucer. ‘Is Oakwood really the only secondary school in Capeton?’ he asked.

  Jacob nodded. ‘It’s a small town, but that’s why I moved here. It’s quiet. People respect your privacy. You’ll settle in soon enough. Just think of it this way. You’ll have all your friends under one roof. Just promise me you won’t throw any house parties while I’m at work.’

  Charlie smiled and took a deep breath, relaxing a little.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Jacob went on. ‘I have to pop into work this morning. You don’t mind having the house to yourself for a few hours, do you?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Good. I have a wake I need to organise.’

  ‘A wake?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a gathering of family and friends, a way of showing respect for the deceased.’

  So that’s what you call it, Charlie thought. When he had attended his dad’s wake, he had thought it had been a surprise party for him, believing that his dad had played a terrible trick on him. It had taken him almost a year to realise he wasn’t coming back. ‘Did you have a wake for your wife?’

  Jacob’s shoulders stiffened. ‘I d
id,’ he answered, his voice choked.

  ‘What was she like?’

  Jacob looked at his watch. ‘You know, I should get going. I have so much to do. You have my work number.’ He got up and rushed out of the kitchen far faster than he looked capable of moving. Charlie heard him say goodbye, but the door slammed before he could respond. He hadn’t given much thought to it before, but he realised then that he and Jacob had a shared understanding: neither of them liked to talk about their loved ones, because it was as if they no longer existed. He was surprised that Jacob hadn’t quit his job as a funeral director, considering he had to deal with death all the time.

  Charlie paced back and forth across the road from Spring Drive, a twisting dirt lane bordered by a stone wall and trees on either side. Perhaps it was the thick maroon blazer and black coat he had on, or that he wouldn’t keep still, but even in the biting January air, he felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

  Hearing a low rumbling noise, he stopped pacing and turned round. When he saw the yellow, single-decker bus approaching, his heart skipped a beat. High at the top of the flat-faced vehicle were the words “School Bus” in bold, black letters.

  The bus pulled up in front of him, and the folding door opened. Behind the wheel sat a frighteningly gaunt black man. Charlie took a deep breath and entered.

  ‘Noo ’ere’s a new face,’ the driver said in a strong northern accent. ‘W’s yer name, son?’

  ‘Charlie,’ he replied.

  ‘Great ter ’ave yeh on board, Charlie. The name’s Ernie. Grab yerself a seat.’

  Charlie glanced around the half-full bus and then hurried along the aisle, keeping his head down. Finding an empty seat halfway down the bus, he settled into it. Two girls in front of him looked back and giggled. He felt his cheeks heat up when one of the girls chanted, ‘Carla likes the new boy.’