Septimus Heap, Book One_ Magyk - Angie Sage [181]
The Thing duly noted Simon’s reluctance and spat a blackened nail onto the floor. A brief thought of what Lucy would say if she found that on the floor ran through Simon’s mind, and the thought of Lucy made him just about brave enough to speak.
“Wher—what do you want?” he whispered.
“You,” came the hollow voice of the Thing.
“M—me?”
The Thing regarded Simon with disdain. “Y—you,” it sneered.
“Why?”
“I have come to Fetch you. As per your contract.”
“Contract . . . what contract?”
“The one you made with our late Master. You are still Bound.”
“What? But . . . but he’s dead. DomDaniel is dead.”
“The Possessor of the Two-Faced Ring is not dead,” intoned the Thing.
Simon, assuming—as the Thing intended—that the Possessor of the Two-Faced Ring could only be DomDaniel, was horrified. “DomDaniel’s not dead?”
The Thing did not answer Simon’s question; it merely repeated its instruction. “The Possessor of the Two-Faced Ring requires your presence. You will attend immediately.”
Simon was too shocked to move. All his attempts to put the Darke behind him and make a new life with Lucy suddenly seemed futile. He put his head in his hands, wondering how he could have been so foolish as to think that he could escape the Darke. A creak in a floorboard made him look up. Simon saw the Thing advancing toward him, its bony hands outstretched.
Simon leaped to his feet. He didn’t care what happened but he was not going back to the Darke. He raced to the door and pulled at the bolt but it would not shift. The Thing was close behind him now, so close that Simon could smell the decay and taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. He glanced at the window. It was a long way down.
His mind racing, Simon backed away, toward the window. Maybe if he jumped he would land on the balcony two floors down. Maybe he could grab the drainpipe. Or haul himself up onto the roof.
The Thing regarded him with displeasure. “Apprentice, you will come with me. Or do I have to Fetch you?” Its voice filled the low-ceilinged room with threat.
Simon decided to go for the drainpipe. He threw open the window, half clambered out and seized the thick black pipe that ran down the rear wall of the Customs House. A howl of anger came after him and, as Simon tried to swing his feet off the window ledge, he felt an irresistible force dragging him back into the room—the Thing had put a Fetch on him.
Even though Simon knew that there was no resisting a Fetch, he clung desperately onto the pipe while his feet were being pulled so hard that he felt like the rope in a tug-of-war. Suddenly the rusty metal lurking below the drainpipe’s thick black paint came away in his hands, and Simon shot back into the room, pipe and all. He slammed into the bony—yet disgustingly soft—body of the Thing and fell to the floor. Unable to move, Simon lay looking up.
The Thing smirked down at him. “You will follow me,” it intoned.
Like a broken puppet, Simon was dragged to his feet. He staggered out of his room and lurched like an automaton down the long, narrow stairs. In front of him glided the Thing. As they emerged onto the quayside, the Thing became no more than an indistinct shadow, so that when Maureen from the Harbor and Dock Pie Shop glanced up from opening the shutters, all she saw was Simon walking stiffly across the quay, heading toward the shadows of Fore Street. Maureen wiped her hand across her eyes. Some dust must have got in them, she thought—everything around Simon looked strangely fuzzy. Maureen waved cheerily but Simon did not respond. She smiled and fastened open the last shutter. He was an odd one, that Simon. Always had his head in some Magyk book or chanting a spell.
“Pies ready in ten minutes. I’ll save you a veg and bacon one!” she called out, but Simon had vanished into the side streets, and Maureen could once more see clearly across the empty quayside.
When a person is Fetched, there is no stopping, no rest, no respite, until