The Shadowed Manse Read online

  “Then don't give me anything for the next three Christmases!” he had replied.

  If Grandma Nelson was anything, she was true to her word. The next three years after that, she gave him a lame “Seasons Greetings” card, a single candy cane, and a $2 bill. But as promised, he got his telescope when he was eleven. It wasn't top of the line, even for a small reflector, but it was four Grandma-Nelson-Christmases worth, adjusted according to inflation. When he told people about the inflation adjustment part, they never believed him — unless they knew his grandma.

  Arthur spent this Friday night sketching the rings of Saturn and the Andromeda Galaxy. He had hoped to get a peek at the brochure when his grandma tucked in for the night, but unfortunately, she took her crocheting back to the bedroom with her. Unable to sleep, he spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling. His grandma, his teachers … everyone was always talking about how he needed discipline. But they were wrong. They didn’t understand. What he needed was a purpose, and the space to become … well, whatever it was he felt so sure he was supposed to become.

  On Saturday, he searched for the bag in her bedroom, without success, and then all through the house, skulking around when his grandma was in the bathroom, cooking in the kitchen, or taking a nap. But he couldn’t find it anywhere. Surely he hadn’t imagined it.

  But then, when Grandma Nelson settled into her cozy chair to watch TV after dinner, she said to him, “Arthur, could you bring me my crocheting bag?”

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  “In the car. I had it with me when I ran to the Post Office this morning.”

  “You went to the Post Office?”

  “Not all of us sleep in till nearly noon. Not those of us who don’t do the Devil’s work, anyway.”

  Arthur fetched the bag for her, then she gave him the scurry-off-and-leave-me-be look. Patiently, he waited in his room, and when Grandma Nelson fell asleep watching Saturday Night Live, something she'd never admit to having watched, he sneaked back in. He figured the blaring of the TV would cover the sounds he made.

  He drew the pamphlet out of her bag.

  Arthur’s mouth fell open in horror as he scanned it.

  THE RUGER ACADEMY FOR THE HOPELESS

  We'll turn your little has-been-to-be into a winner. Discipline, smarts, muscle, and a future — guaranteed! Our year-round boot camp training will iron out the worst problem cases, from drugs to plain old bad attitudes. Standard academics also provided by qualified teachers.

  Inside were pictures of a spartan barracks, classrooms that used picnic tables instead of desks, a slimy lake, an unattractive stretch of woodland webbed with dirt roads, and an extensive obstacle course. Worst of all was the picture of the former drill sergeant and P.E. teacher who ran it.

  “Coach Connors?!” he hissed. “No!”

  His grandma stirred. Arthur replaced the pamphlet, and rushed back out to his telescope. For an hour, he targeted random stars and stared at them mindlessly. The thought of his grandma looking at military schools was gut-wrenching. Arthur tried to block it all out, but every few minutes, the thought would hit him again, full on, so hard he’d feel like throwing up.

  An image of Coach Connors — scowling, red-faced, veins bulging on his neck — flashed into his mind. Arthur shivered. Just thinking about spending a year with that demon made him want to throw up. Connors had been his P.E. teacher in fourth and fifth grade. That hulking brute of a man had loved intimidating little kids till they tripped over their own feet and messed up the simplest games. Then he would rant about how all his students were soft pansies who didn’t appreciate how good they had it. Arthur had been his favorite target. While Arthur climbed the rope, Coach Connors stood at the bottom yelling about how Arthur was a disgrace to all the brave heroes who had died so that he was free to be an arrogant little jerk. Once, he had gotten right up in Arthur’s face and told him he was a bad egg and he’d never amount to anything. Veins bulging, Connors had screamed that if — and he made it clear that was a big if — Arthur made it to eighteen, he didn’t know if even the military could straighten him out, because he was rotten to the core.

  “Paladin,” he’d told him on their last day together, “you'll never amount to anything that doesn't involve prison or lying dead in a ditch.”

  Arthur had told his other teachers and his grandma about how Connors treated him, but no one had believed him. Everyone thought Arthur was just trying to get out of having to exercise. He wished his grandpa had still been alive; he would’ve believed Arthur and done something about it.

  Arthur had to find some way out of this. If his grandma decided to go through with it, maybe he could make some sort of deal with her, or pick out a school on his own, or … or run away, if he had to.

  It was getting cold, and he didn’t have any answers. He wasn’t even sure yet what Grandma Nelson would do. So Arthur went inside, put away his telescope, and curled up in bed under his secondhand, 1980’s Star Wars blanket. Nervously, out of habit, he ran his fingers across the ridges of the device over his heart: a disc as big as his hand with a bulge in the center and ridges along the edges — like a gear out of a giant pocket watch sitting just under his skin.

  Arthur didn't remember getting the device. He'd had it as long as he could remember. Grandpa Nelson was the only one who had ever talked about it. If he mentioned it to his grandma or anyone else, they'd just stare at him like he was an idiot babbling nonsense. Even his doctor would blankly say, “Oh, that's going to be just fine. Don't you worry about it.”

  Arthur had asked his grandpa once, “Is it okay for me to be outside playing? Is there something wrong with my heart?”

  “Your heart's as fine as any, my boy,” his grandpa had told him, running his hand through his thick, gray beard. “You can do anything anyone else can. More even.”

  “If my heart's fine, then what's the device for?”

  “To keep you safe, Arthur. To keep you alive.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “I know. I'll explain it one day … when you're older. For now, don't you worry about it. Just pretend it's not there.”

  But Grandpa Nelson had died of a heart attack when Arthur was nine, six years after he moved in with his grandparents. And now there was no one to explain about the device … or to stand up for him.

  Arthur looked at the two pictures on his nightstand. One was of his mother holding him on her shoulder. He was just a toddler. They were standing in front of a giant fireplace, and there was a shield with a flaring sunburst on it, hanging over the mantle. The other picture was of Grandpa Nelson in a karate uniform, his scraggly grey beard cascading all the way to his bellybutton.

  Wish you were here now, Grandpa.

  Arthur lay awake long into the night, unable to sleep. Visions of Connors, endless push-ups, and learning how to divide fractions at a picnic table out in the woods raced through his mind. He didn’t think about the next day. For once, he wasn't worrying about the usual, torturous Sunday afternoon he'd have to spend with his aunt and his cousin …

  But he should have been.

  Chapter Two

  Slinging Pork Roasts and Cousins

  “I'm doing all I can with the boy.”

  Grandma Nelson wasn't good at whispering. Arthur was standing on the other side of the closed kitchen door, and he could hear her just fine.

  “I know,” Arthur's Aunt Carolyn replied quietly.

  The only reason he could hear Aunt Carolyn’s whisper was because she was standing just beyond the door, likely with one hand poised on a hip while the other fidgeted with a pack of ultra-stinky cigarettes.

  With a tut-tut, Aunt Carolyn added, “It's a wonder Arthur's not worse off. Just like his father, that one.”

  “I stay on him, dear,” his grandma whispered sternly. “I really do … takes all my energy. He’s in detention most every day for something or other. Barely getting by. They say he's bored and restless — that he lacks discipline and maturity — that he's quite s
mart. You can't tell it by his grades, though.”

  “Well, you can't tell it anyhow, can you? Derek's scores were perfect last time, because he’s a good boy and he’s driven to succeed. You know, if you'd just consider sending Arthur to …”

  Aunt Carolyn's voice faded out as she walked away. Arthur put his ear against the door, but he couldn't make out her words. Whatever she was saying was important. His grandma wasn't raising him out of love. She was raising him because she felt it was her God-given duty. If she ever changed her mind … well, he didn't have anywhere else to go.

  “Boarding schools cost way more than I can afford,” his grandma replied in her loud whisper. “And they'd only end up sending him back; they don't have to put up with him like a public school does.”

  Aunt Carolyn started talking again, but he still couldn't make sense of what she was saying.

  “He does need discipline,” his grandma said. “But I just don't think I could send him to that military school. Seems too harsh.”

  That wasn't her I'm-certain-as-the-Bible's-right voice, which she used for most everything she said. Grandma Nelson almost always had a firm opinion.

  More mutterings from Aunt Carolyn that he couldn't hear followed, then his grandma continued.

  “You're right, dear. You're right. He does wear me out. I'm not as young as I used to be, and he's getting more rebellious by the day. I thought by now he'd have started living up to the standards I've set, but there he goes misbehaving anyhow — happy as you please while sliding away backward.”

  Arthur didn't think he could ever really live up to Grandma Nelson's standards, no matter how hard he tried. As for Aunt Carolyn, he stood absolutely zero chance of ever satisfying her … unless maybe he just disappeared like his dad, Quintus Paladin, had done ten years ago. That was when he'd abandoned Arthur to live with his grandparents, a month after Arthur's mother had died.

  Aunt Carolyn moved closer to the door; he could hear what she was saying again.

  “At least look at the pamphlets, Mom, and think about it. The Ruger Academy is a good place … an old boyfriend of mine runs it.”

  Arthur slapped his forehead. Coach Connors and Aunt Carolyn? It was a wonder those two didn't get married. Wow, Derek could've turned out even worse.

  “If he's this bad at fourteen, Mom, imagine how bad he'll be once he hits sixteen.”

  “I'll look at them, dear, but it costs so much. If your sister had left the boy so much as a dime …”

  “I keep praying his dad’ll show up and take him back. He ought to be raising his own son. At the very least, he should contribute a few bucks to his upbringing.”

  Aunt Carolyn hated Quintus; she blamed him for Amelia’s death. Amelia was her sister and Arthur’s mother. Unfortunately, his aunt’s hatred of his dad extended to Arthur.

  “I know you keep hoping he'll show up and help,” said Grandma Nelson, “but God only knows if that man's even alive.” Though he couldn’t see her, he knew Grandma Nelson was shaking her head; she always shook her head when she mentioned his dad. “I loved your sister, Carolyn, but I don't know what went wrong with that girl.”

  “Quintus Paladin!” Aunt Carolyn vented. “She never was the same after she met him … traveling all over the world to God-knows-where with him … only to end up getting killed in a rock-climbing accident. What was she doing rock-climbing in the first place, anyway? And then he left that son of his here so he could go dig up Indian artifacts in the desert. I bet you anything he didn't die out in that desert like Dad thought. Probably went to Vegas and met some floozy. It's no wonder Arthur turned out like this. And poor Amelia … I'll just never forgive that man.”

  Arthur had heard this exact same speech so many times that he suspected Aunt Carolyn rehearsed it when she was bored. Grandma Nelson and Aunt Carolyn would speculate for hours about whether Quintus was actually dead, or where he had gone off to if he wasn’t. Since no one could get in touch with him, there was no way to be sure. But Arthur felt like his dad was still alive and out there somewhere, even if his grandpa had thought otherwise.

  Pots clanged; plates clattered. It was nearly lunchtime. They always ate a late Sunday lunch here at Aunt Carolyn's house, after over an hour of fire-and-brimstone at church. This was his least favorite time of the week. He would rather have been in school — it was that bad.

  “I suppose you're right,” his grandma said. “Here's the pot holder, dear.”

  “I tried to warn her about him.”

  “We all tried, Carolyn.”

  Footsteps! They were heading toward the dining room — where Arthur was standing — he started to back away from the —

  “Hey, what're you doing?” said a deep voice that had a tendency to squawk randomly.

  Arthur spun around to face his first cousin, Derek Grimes — Aunt Carolyn's precious fifteen-year-old boy. Derek was a year older, taller, and much stronger, and he excelled at finding ways to make Arthur's life miserable. They lived across town from one another, but they saw each other every Sunday, took karate lessons together on Tuesday nights, and went to the same school, though thankfully, two grades separated them.

  Arthur was actually Derek's equal in karate skill, just not in strength or speed; he’d gotten plenty of bruises to prove that. Grandpa Nelson had taught them karate until he’d died, and because of that, Grandma Nelson had insisted her two grandchildren keep on learning it. Those lessons were the one thing she didn’t mind spending money on. Plus, it was supposed to be helping Arthur learn discipline. Karate was the only thing Arthur enjoyed learning. He threw himself into it, and always behaved perfectly during the lessons. Sensei Lewis was the only teacher he’d ever liked and gotten along with. Unfortunately, the effect didn't bleed over into other areas of his life.

  “Sniveling little spy,” Derek said. He lunged forward, knocked Arthur into the door, and sprinted away. The door swung back as Arthur fell through — right into Aunt Carolyn, who was carrying her latest foul-smelling, cheese-and-who-knows-what-else-slimy-and-green casserole.

  The casserole flew over Aunt Carolyn, and shattered at Grandma Nelson’s feet, slinging gooey vegetables everywhere. Grandma Nelson hopped back in surprise, and the simmering pork roast she was carrying slid off the plate and zoomed across the hospital-green kitchen tiles, leaving a trail of grease in its wake.

  Aunt Carolyn sat up and slurred out a string of curse words and insults punctuated by Arthur's name. Grandma Nelson stood statue-still, gazing at her pork roast with her mouth agape. Splattered with cheese and grease and what seemed to be mushy peas, he tried to help Aunt Carolyn to her feet, but she pushed him away.

  “I'm sorry — I didn't mean to — Derek pushed me.”

  “Oh sure, blame poor Derek like you always do, you little jerk. But you were the one running through the door.”

  “He pushed me!”

  Aunt Carolyn turned to Grandma Nelson, “You see, Mother? The boy's a troublemaker — a disaster waiting to happen.”

  “Grandma, I didn't do anything!”

  Speaking to her was a mistake. She looked away from her pork roast at last, gazed around at the mess, and then locked her eyes — her narrowing, seething, you-will-pay-for-this-Arthur-Primus-Paladin eyes — onto him.

  She was angry, super angry. Even bad grades and detentions didn't twist her face up like that. He wasn't getting out of this one, no matter what he said.

  He'd be punished … probably sent off to military school … or worse.

  This wasn't his fault! He hadn’t done anything wrong. This wasn’t fair. Nothing in his life was fair. He didn’t want to be with these people; he didn’t want to be here. He was supposed to be … somewhere else … doing … something else. He hadn’t asked for his dad to abandon him here, with a jerk of a cousin, an aunt that hated him, and a school that stifled him.

  A cold, heartless anger suddenly erupted within him.

  Arthur had been angry loads of times. He practically stayed angry. But he’d never been angry like thi
s before. Nothing in the world mattered anymore, except revenge. The world turned into a tunnel of shadows, and at the end of that tunnel was Derek.

  Arthur stormed back into the tidy dining room with its designer wallpaper and delicate, just-so furnishings. Derek was sitting casually in his usual seat, feet propped up on the table, perfectly relaxed, playing a game on his phone. The smug grin on his flat, ugly face sent Arthur into an even deeper rage.

  Everything — the whole world that he could see and feel and taste and smell — went dark.

  He grabbed Derek by the shirt, and dragged him from the chair.

  “Hands off, creep!” Derek shouted in surprise.

  A wide, sliding glass door led from the dining room onto the back porch of the house. Before Derek could react and use his greater size and strength, Arthur twisted his body and slung Derek into the glass door.

  Chapter Three

  The Angel and the Shadow Men

  The safety glass in the sliding door shattered into a thousand tiny fragments — a downpour of crystal cornflakes. Having used all his weight to toss Derek, Arthur fell through after him, snarling like a mad dog.

  CRUNCH!

  Arthur landed on his back. Glass fragments tore through his shirt and pricked the skin all over his back. He rolled over, and scrambled to his feet — getting more shallow cuts on his hands and forearms as he did — cuts he didn’t care about. The pain was nothing compared to the anger surging through him.

  Derek stood and gritted his teeth. Blood dripped from cuts on Derek’s cheek and hands. Arthur grinned. He was ready to fight; he wasn't running away this time. Nothing was going to keep him from beating the crap out of Derek. Sure, he'd never bested him before, but there had to be a first time, and this was going to be it.

  Derek tensed his muscles and prepared to throw a punch, but then he spotted his iPhone lying on the deck — screen cracked — metal casing bent. Derek’s eyes boiled.