The Edgewater Chronicles - The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3): The Edgewater Chronicles

By Greg Cmiel

An ancient curse and dark secrets revealed.

 

The Dark Rises

Nikola stood beside an open grave. His grandma was dead and gone. With her death a door was kicked open, and an ancestral curse—a mark on Nikola's bloodline and rooted in the very bones of the earth—lay revealed. Change is hard. Nikola must unravel the mystery of his supernatural lineage and bring the fight to the enemy, or face a lifetime of running.

 

The Dark Reign

Can Nikola and Lizzy face down a murderous new threat without the wisdom of a fallen ally? With little time to mourn and put their lives back together, they must conceive a strategy to defeat the Dark Queen. Can the Legion of Sorrow arrive in time? Will the prophecies that intertwine Nikola and Lizzy be proven true, and will confiding in family be enough to challenge this monstrous evil?

 

The Dark Realm

In a dizzying sprint halfway across the world, Nikola and Lizzy prepare to face a vastly more dangerous foe—a triple threat not born of this world. Sailing into the Bay of Kotor under the cover of night, they find themselves attacked by ancient magic before even setting foot on the rocky shore. The lives of Lizzy's family hang in the balance as the last clash against the Ancient Ones unfolds. Can Nikola and Lizzy unlock the puzzle of their destiny before it's too late? 

 

What readers are saying:

" … My son couldn't put this book down and is eagerly anticipating the second book." 5 stars

" … a story that is compelling and relatable for all ages." *****

" … quickly absorbed into Nikola and Lizzy's journey. Their friendship was sweet and believable and I can't wait to dive into the next book!" *****

 

If you are a fan of Neil Gaiman, J.K. Rowling, and C.S. Lewis, you will enjoy The Edgewater Chronicles series, beginning with The Dark Rises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Murmuration Publication
• Release date: Nov 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393876892

Book preview

The Edgewater Chronicles

The Edgewater Chronicles

Greg Cmiel

A Murmuration Publication

Contents

The Dark Rises

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

A WORD FROM GREG

About the Author

Also by Greg Cmiel

The Sunless Hours of Forever

Rabbit Punch

The Dark Reign

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

A Word From Greg

About the Author

Also by Greg Cmiel

The Sunless Hours of Forever

Rabbit Punch

The Dark Realm

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

A Word From Greg

About the Author

Also by Greg Cmiel

The Sunless Hours of Forever

Rabbit Punch

The Dark Rises

Copyright © 2020 by Greg Cmiel

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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To my family: For their love, support, and understanding as I toiled away—chained to my desk while the sun shined and the gentle waves beckoned.

IN THE SHADOWS

A man stood waist deep in icy water

and faced the oncoming storm,

tattooed arms raised—

his left hand wove a tapestry 

across the raven sky.

G.F. Baltus

1

Infinity of Midnight

The wake for Grandma had been going on for hours.

Nikola needed a break from the boisterous crowd in the small chapel. Before heading outside, he took one last look at his grandmother. She lay in her coffin, her eyes were closed; a gold cross hung around her neck, clutched tight in ashen fingers folded against her chest. Her pale cheeks were colored an unnatural, rosy pink, in stark contrast to her bloodless hands. Nikola's lower lip began to quiver as he looked around at the sea of faces. Time slowed. The walls were closing in. He fled.

Thunder rumbled softly, somewhere in the distance. A long line of silhouetted tree branches held up the leaden sky. Nikola stood silently in front of an open grave, with an infinity of midnight laid out before him. A pile of black dirt beside the opening smelled of earth, clay, and decay.

Nikola's eyes fluttered, and he struggled to stay awake—but the smell of the soil, the misty rain, and the darkness conspired against him. He just wanted to lie down and rest. He imagined Grandma's face as he drifted in and out of wakefulness. She was speaking to him, but there was no sound. Danger, he thought he heard her whisper. She was warning him of something.

The black grave seemed to expand. It filled his vision and forced Grandma away. Nikola cried out as his knees buckled under him. The midnight welcomed him in. To sleep. To sleep.

Nikola! Uncle Marko's voice rang out like a thunderclap. He caught Nikola before he could fall face first into the open grave.

Uncle Marko hauled Nikola back by his shirt and spun him around.

What are you doing out here? Uncle Marko asked Nikola.

Nikola stared at his uncle, wide-eyed and confused.

Needed some air, Nikola said. Tired of that. He pointed in the direction of the wake.

Uncle Marko nodded once. Me too, he said. Is almost over. His voice rumbled deep in his chest. He put an arm around his nephew, and together they made their way back to the gathering.

After a while, the crowd of mourners inside the church began to thin out until there was no one left but Nikola, his papa Alek, and Uncle Marko. They stood there awkwardly in their ill-fitting suits. Nikola's pants were a good three inches short of his battered Vans. Papa's suit had already been out of fashion the last time he wore it—at another funeral, eight long years ago.

They walked outside. Uncle Marko gave Nikola and Papa great bear hugs and waved goodbye as they slid inside the old pickup. Papa turned the key. The engine sputtered a few times and then roared to life; the old Ford ran rough, but it ran. Papa dropped the truck into gear, and off they went. No words were spoken on the drive home. Nikola leaned his head against the window as fatigue courted once again. He thought about his grandma, lying so still in her casket.

She had died unexpectedly—victim of a massive stroke. Papa was stoic, as usual. The wake and the funeral were delayed a week to allow for distant relatives to arrive—Grandma had a big family, but many lived outside the United States. A handful of relatives made the trip from Montenegro. Nikola remembered how Papa had huddled with his many bratic, (cousins), teta (aunts), and ujak, (uncles), drinking Serbian brandy that a cunning cousin had snuck into the church. The cousin poured the brandy into coffee cups from a sheepskin flask decorated with a horse and some strange Cyrillic lettering on the side.

The brandy was shared, and all the songs had been sung.

Nikola felt a hand on his shoulder.

We are home, Papa said, as he took the key from the ignition.

Nikola removed his suit coat and hung it over the chair in the dining room. He brushed his teeth in the hallway outside the bathroom. As he brushed, Nikola stared at himself in the full-length mirror attached to the door of the linen closet. For the first time, he really took note of the too-short pants he wore. He scoffed. I look ridiculous, he thought. As he brushed, Nikola tilted his head, wondering if he looked more like his papa or his mama. He leaned in very close, and realized with a start that he couldn't picture his mother’s face. Nikola tried again. Nothing. With false bravado, he shrugged and closed the closet door.

It was Nikola’s birthday. He didn't bother to remind Papa, even though they had planned to go to the movies—maybe even stop for pizza on the way. It was his golden birthday, but it suddenly seemed unimportant. Instead, he ended up going to bed.

They buried Grandma the next morning. A soft drizzle began during the ceremony. Nikola was transfixed by the prayers in Latin; the Orthodox liturgy; the incense, and the rotund, bearded priest. It was a smaller crowd than the night before, somber and dark. An old man, slight and bent with age, stood under a tree far away from the other mourners. Nikola wondered who he was. The old man had his chin tucked in tight. His collar was flipped against the wind, and he wore a black fedora pulled down low over his face. Only his nose, which jutted out like a rudder, was visible. Nikola was sure he had seen him before … but where?

They lowered Grandma's casket down into the grave. Uncle Marko and Papa each took a shovelful of dirt and dropped it on top of the coffin with a small thump. A crow, startled by the sound, swooped in low. Nikola flinched as the bird soared over the mourners. Papa drove the shovel into the ground. A frown creased his face as he leaned onto the handle, staring at the man beneath the tree.

The priest cleared his throat, and spoke a few words. And that was that.

The old man under the tree tipped his hat toward Grandma in her grave, then wandered away across the cemetery.

The heartbroken crowd gathered around the brothers; hands were shook, and hugs exchanged. The rain began in earnest as the mourners began to disperse, scurrying toward parked cars along the winding road that circled the cemetery. The priest nodded solemnly at the departing friends and relatives, his hands hidden inside the folds of his voluminous robe. One of the altar boys that stood behind the priest stepped forward, black umbrella in hand. He struggled to work the opening mechanism. The priest snatched it from his hand and popped it open. He passed it back to the boy, who held it high above his head as they made their way back to the church.

2

A Powerful Talisman

It’s happening again. Papa sighed.

The appearance of the old man at Mama’s funeral kept Papa up most of the night. The old man had been absent for so long, Papa had begun to wonder if maybe he had died. He wished it were true.

As he lay in bed, Papa squeezed a silver cross, the chain threaded through his fingers. His mama had given the cross to him at Aleksandra’s funeral. She had stood behind him and wrapped it round his neck, fixing the clasp with her shaking hands. She had told him then that it was a reliquary cross, made by his father long ago—and that it held a powerful talisman against the evil eye. The cross opened like a tiny book, but it had been soldered shut to protect the ancient relic inside.

Papa drew his thumb across the rounded edges. Even though his eyes were closed, he could still picture the illustrated and inscribed cover to the cross. Papa traced the odd lettering that wrapped the twisting branches of the tree top, then followed the trunk down to the ground. He had never asked Mama the meaning of the words on the cross. He feared them.

Papa closed his hands over the cross and imagined the old man from his village—the one whispered about in the dark, quiet places. They called him Bagrem carobnjak—the Black Wizard—because they had forgotten his true name.

For as long as he could recall, the appearances by the old man had followed in the wake of personal tragedy and loss.

A shepherd boy had gone missing. The boy went out to tend his father’s small flock and never returned. Nothing was found but his shepherds staff and the shapeless cap he wore to ward against the cold mountain air. Papa sighed, remembering another loss—a young woman from their village who had also disappeared. She was last seen near a small lake at the foothills of the Black Mountains. No evidence of the woman was ever recovered. Wolves, they said.

Papa unwound the cross from his hand, placed it carefully under his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. The glow from the streetlight passing through windswept branches created flickering shadows that stalked across the ceiling. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of wolves hunting the accursed through dark mountain passes.

3

A Shadow-Filled Doorway

Nikola didn't sleep well that night—the rolling thunder and the patter of rain against the window kept him up. When dawn finally arrived, he dragged himself out of bed and padded down the hallway. Papa was seated at the dining room table. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled. He had a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs before him, and a laptop opened up to a jobs board.

Papa nodded at Nikola over the top of his coffee cup, then went back to his search.

Nikola headed into the kitchen. Another plate piled with cold, scrambled eggs sat on the counter. He wrinkled his nose at it. No way was he gonna even try and eat that—the smell made him gag. He quietly scraped the eggs into the trash can and covered the evidence with a paper towel. Nikola grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter instead and turned back toward Papa.

I'm gonna go out for a while, Nikola said.

With his mouth full, Papa mumbled a reply that Nikola took to mean: don't go far.

Nikola remembered that Papa had several job interviews and would probably be dragging him along. With Grandma gone, there was no one to watch him. Nikola's mother, Aleksandra, had died when he was just four years old. Something terrible had happened to her, he knew, but Papa wouldn’t talk about it.

Nikola brought his mother’s death up every now and again, but Papa just looked away. Car accident, he would mutter. Nikola suspected Papa had never told him the true story.

Papa. Nikola cleared his throat. Is it okay if I stay home today? I am twelve.

Papa raised his eyes from the computer screen, gazing over the top of his reading glasses.

I'm sorry, Nikola, Papa sighed. Your birthday.

Nikola just shrugged.

I will be going for long time today, Papa told him in his mixed up Serbian/English accent. For once, Nikola didn't correct him. Nobody to make lunch. You won't starve, will you?

Nikola swallowed hard at the mention of lunch; Grandma would normally make him his favorite sandwich for lunch. He showed Papa the apple behind his back.

Papa nodded. "Be good, dijete," he said from behind the screen.

Before Papa could change his mind, Nikola jammed his phone into his back pocket, snatched the spare key off the hook by the door, and burst outside.

The storm door slammed behind him as he headed toward the street. Nikola cut across the front yard; the grass was wet and the air heavy. A foggy mist enveloped the whole block. The morning sun peeked through thickening clouds, promising muggy heat before more storms. He grabbed his skateboard and skimmed down the sidewalk.

Nikola pushed slowly along past Dewey's house. Dewey had moved to South Dakota years ago, and Nikola often wondered if he would ever see him again. Though it had been a long time since they had lost touch, he blinked away fresh tears at the loss of his only friend.

Nikola headed to the small wooded area behind the gas station, where he and Dewey had built a fort there a few summers back. It was really just a few old boards across some low-lying branches—but they had a secret cache of comics hidden in an old ammo box covered by a dried up piece of sod. Both Dewey and Nikola loved comics, and they’d spent a lot of time together reading and discussing them. Nikola climbed onto the rough boards and settled in with the opened ammo box by his side.

After several hours, the sun centered itself in the sky above Nikola. His stomach rumbled. Time for some lunch, Nikola thought. He dug around in the ammo box and came up with a crumpled five dollar bill, two ones, and a handful of coins. Plenty of money to stock up on some snacks.

Nikola pictured Dewey beside him and raised his hand. High-five. He jammed the money into his pocket, stashed the comics in the metal box, and placed it back under the sod. With a grimace, he shook the coins from his pocket into his palm and poked around until he found the right one. Nikola held it up. It was Dewey's coin.

The coin glinted in the sun. On one side there was a miner drilling for gold. On the other side was a street scene of Deadwood. Dewey said he’d found the coin on Main Street in Deadwood. Solid gold, Dewey had said. He had mailed it to Nikola and made him promise to keep it safe and hold onto it until he moved back. It’ll be worth a fortune some day, Dewey wrote. He’d told Nikola he would split that fortune with him and they'd both be rich. Nikola made a fist around the coin, and with a lump in his throat, he shoved it deep into his pocket. He was gonna keep that promise.

Nikola ambled over the hilly field toward the Superette, a dingy little convenience store that stocked mostly junk food. The man at the counter watched him intently as he wandered the aisles of the store. Nikola grabbed a bag of Hot Cheetos, two Snickers bars, and a can of Pepsi. As the clerk rang up each item and dropped them in a plastic bag, he peered at Nikola through thick glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Back at the fort, Nikola dove into his bag of snacks and reread the stack of comics. The afternoon passed slowly, and the sun continued its inevitable downward slide into the western sky. He decided it was time to head back home so he repacked his comics and grabbed his skateboard.

Nikola kicked the board along the sidewalk, dodging imaginary orange cones along the way. He came to a stop at the bottom of the driveway, picked up his skateboard, and walked to the garage. Nikola pulled the key from his pocket and let himself in. After a quick trip to the bathroom, he rummaged around the kitchen looking for anything that could pass for dinner. He dug around in the freezer and, under a half empty bag of ice cubes, found a frozen pizza. Score. He turned on the oven, put the pizza in, and sauntered to the living room.

Papa returned just as Nikola sat down on the couch. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw clenched. A five o'clock shadow added to his dark expression. Nikola didn't ask about the job interviews.

They sat in silence as the pizza heated in the oven. Papa pretended to read the daily news, with the laptop perched across his legs. Nikola gazed out the window, watching dust motes float in the sunshine. He turned his eyes to a framed photograph of Grandma and Mama that hung on the wall. The photo had been taken long before Nikola was born. The grainy image depicted a street scene back in the old-country, just outside a cafe. Grandma and Mama were dressed formally. Nikola had always thought they seemed melancholy in the photo—he had never bothered to ask why.

There was a shadow-filled doorway in the background of the photograph. A man leaned against the doorframe, partially obscured by the darkness. He wore a black suit, topped off by a fedora. Nikola gasped. It looked like the old man at the funeral—the one that had been beneath the tree.

Smoke billowed into the living room. Nikola! Papa cried. He lurched up, lowering the laptop to the coffee table.

Nikola was faster. He dashed to the kitchen and threw open the oven door. More smoke.

Papa grabbed a towel and removed the charred pizza. He dropped it to the stovetop with a sigh and went back to the living room.

The summer dragged on, and Papa continued his job search. When not skateboarding up and down the block, Nikola spent his time reading and drawing. He finished an epic picture that he and Dewey had started—one that combined all their favorite Marvel characters in one massive collage. Nikola did all the actual drawing; Dewey couldn't draw worth beans, but he was okay at coloring the costumes and mostly stayed within the lines. Nikola tacked the picture up on the wall above his bed. It looked pretty good.

The next day, Nikola came home at lunchtime to find Papa there. Papa was smiling this time, just a little. He’d found a job through a friend of Uncle Marko's. It wasn't the kind of job he wanted; it was day labor on a construction site—but, he said, he would have to make do. Papa would start work the following Monday.

Saturday morning came—and, like every Saturday, Nikola and Papa went to the grocery store. The shopping trip took forever because Papa checked the price on everything, adding it up in his head. He rearranged things in the cart, stacking them and then re-stacking them to make the cart seem fuller. It didn't work. They wobble-wheeled the half empty cart to the cash register. Nikola felt sick as he watched Papa hand over some cash, leaving just a few dollars in his wallet.

Papa loaded the few grocery bags in the bed of the pickup and slid into the cab next to Nikola. He cleared his throat and started the engine, which sputtered to life. Papa switched on the radio and hummed tunelessly.

Nikola knew something was up. He squinted at Papa as they exited the parking lot. After merging into traffic, Papa reached across the seat and gently squeezed Nikola’s shoulder.

We have to sell house, Papa told him. "With my new job, we need something that cost less. A cheapy. I call a realtor. He will come by Monday, after work."

But, your old job, Nikola said with a gulp. Maybe they will call you back?

Papa shook his head. Tomorrow, we go look at some rentals.

Nikola chewed his lip and said nothing as he watched the traffic whiz past.

All of the places that Nikola liked were either too expensive or too far away from Papa's new job; the old pickup was not that reliable. The places that Papa found acceptable made Nikola hold his nose and shake his head, muttering no thanks.

The next day, Papa came home from work and found Nikola curled up on the couch watching television. He grabbed the remote and turned it off.

Hey! Nikola said. What are you doing?

I find a place for us to live, Papa said.

Nikola folded his arms across his chest.

Okay, okay. Sorry I turn show off. Papa reached over and tousled Nikola's hair. Nikola hated that. I think you are gonna really like it, Papa told him. Place is close to lake. Nikola narrowed his eyes as Papa continued: There is school nearby, no more buses. And, of course, is closer to new job.

Nikola frowned as the prospect of moving really sank in. He frowned because he still missed Dewey. He frowned because he missed his Grandma. Nikola frowned because he would be starting at a new school. Suddenly, he found himself crying. Nikola never cried. He tried to explain to Papa, but the words didn't come out right. Papa looked away, and his eyes also filled with tears. He put an arm around Nikola's shoulder.

I'm sorry, he whispered over and over, until Nikola's sobbing subsided.

4

So it Begins

Uncle Marko arrived just around lunchtime. His pickup towed something that could only charitably be called a trailer. The contraption attached to his truck had a regular trailer as a starting point, maybe—it was flat, and had wheels and such. But now, all of that lay buried deep beneath the results of Uncle Marko’s imagination.

Several summers ago, Uncle Marko began the process he called modifa-zation. The contraption’s sides were built up with sheets of mismatched plywood, painted in garish colors. Assorted pieces of wrought iron, taken from some scrap heap somewhere, were attached to the top of the plywood; more plywood was bolted to the sides in a crude attempt at wings. An elaborate system of hinges and pulleys could pull closed the back lift-gate and the canvas canopy in case it ever rained. All of this was controlled from the cab of the pickup.

It had to be seen to be believed.

Uncle Marko blew three toots on a rusty horn bolted to the side of the truck. Loud blasts, like a foghorn on stormy Lake Superior—which is where he’d said he’d found the thing.

Nikola was sitting on the couch and peered out the front window. He sank deep into the couch cushions, imagining the neighbors gawking around their curtains as this bellowing driveway barge ground to a halt.

There was a loud banging at the door—and without waiting for an answer, Uncle Marko burst inside. He was a huge man, barely able to squeeze through the opening. His wild mane of black hair, flecked with gray, swept just beneath the door frame. He had a thick beard, bushy and unkempt, and piercing gray eyes that flashed like lightning when his gaze fell upon Nikola.

You! Uncle Marko bellowed with mock anger. Come over and give your uncle big hug!

Nikola slid off the couch and took a few steps toward Uncle Marko, who swept him into his embrace and scooped him off the floor like a rag doll. His uncle's giant bear hug crushed the air from his lungs. His beard was like a stiff iron brush against Nikola’s cheeks. Papa stood in the hallway, with his hands on his hips.

Nikola’s eyes bulged from the hug. He stared at his papa and tried to imagine how this giant and he could be brothers. There were similarities, but at some point they diverged in more than just size. Uncle Marko had a wild outer appearance, though he was really a big teddy bear on the inside; but Papa, clean-cut and mild, turned his wildness inward, projecting an aura of normalcy for the world to see. Nikola knew the truth, though—his papa churned away on the inside.

Uncle Marko set Nikola back on the floor and placed a giant mitt of a hand on the top of his nephew’s head. He drew a horizontal line across to his sternum.

Soon, Uncle Marko growled, you will be as tall as your uncle!

Not likely, Papa said. More like his mama and me.

Uncle Marko winked.

Time to work! Papa said as he turned away and walked back to the bedroom.

Uncle Marko threw a mock salute in his brother's direction. He bent to pick up two heavy boxes, both marked ‘Books', easily carrying one under each arm. Nikola held the door for his uncle, then grabbed a smaller box and followed along behind.

It didn't take long to load up the trailer. Nikola was surprised by how small his life looked, all packed away in boxes and stowed on a trailer. Papa’s truck wouldn't start, so they rode together, squished side-by-side in the cab of Uncle Marko’s pickup. Papa sat in the middle. He glanced over at Nikola and grinned. Nikola didn't return the smile.

The pickup trundled down narrow city blocks. At each corner, Nikola imagined the sound of doors slamming shut, as the familiar neighborhoods closed themselves off from him, one by one. Kids Nikola had known his whole life rode their bikes along cracked sidewalks; mothers pushed crying babies in strollers; dogs strained against too-short leashes. The road ended, and the sidewalk, too. Uncle Marko swung the pickup wide onto a major roadway and stomped on the gas. Nikola took one last look through the rear window and slammed the last door to his old life.

They drove through an industrial park—past some run down apartments, then through an overgrown wooded area—to finally emerge on a wide boulevard that looked promising. Nikola sat up and gaped as the unfamiliar scene swept past.

We are almost there, Papa said. I think it's gonna be good thing. You will see. There are lots of children in neighborhood. I see them play football in the street. American football.

Nikola rolled his eyes.

The newly-paved boulevard ended, replaced by a pothole-strewn street that led through a sprawling neighborhood of sad, little houses. The road led them near a lake. Every now and then, sparkly blue-green water blinked in the distance. They neared the beach that Papa had mentioned earlier. The beach was set close to the road. It was nearly deserted, just a few scattered sunbathers and nobody in the water. A short t-shaped dock jutted out from the sand about one hundred feet into the dark water, separating the swimming area from the boat landing zone. Another hundred feet past the end of the t-dock was a floating pontoon dock. Nikola wondered at the lack of bodies in the water. It was a hot summer day, but everybody was on shore.

Uncle Marko stopped the truck near the beach entrance to allow two young boys to cross the street on their bicycles. After they had passed, he revved the engine to get the load moving again. Nikola peered out the side window as they picked up speed, unable to wrench his eyes from the odd little beach. Something about it was wrong.

Uncle Marko switched on the radio and tuned it to a classic rock station just as the song Baba'O Riley began. He loved rock and roll—especially The Who, who were, according to him, the greatest rock band in history. Uncle Marko cranked up the tune and sang along.

Out here in the fields.

I fight for my meals

I get my back into my living

I don't need to fight

To prove I'm right

I don't need to be forgiven

Don't cry

Don't raise your eye

It's only teenage wasteland ...

Something about that last line twisted the meaning of the song one-hundred and eighty degrees—suddenly, it felt dark and foreboding. Out the back window, Nikola took a last glimpse at the lake before it disappeared into the distance. He saw something. The water was smooth as black obsidian—and then, unexpectedly, it was not. There was a sudden movement near the center, something big. Nikola coughed out a what was that sort of sound—then, he saw it again. A black shape in the water. A moving black shape in the water that created a few deep ripples that spread rapidly outward in concentric circles. Nikola's heart pounded.

P-papa … did … did you see? Nikola whispered. Papa said nothing. Nikola wanted to cry out—but he was half afraid that what he saw was a figment of his imagination, and half afraid that what he saw was real.

As they cruised past the lake, Nikola didn't feel right—there was something heavy in his stomach, edging him toward panic. He struggled for a deep breath that wouldn't come. Nikola turned back toward the lake and saw hazy waves—like those above a hot fire, but bigger and moving in all directions. The waves came from the lake, pushing through the air.

Impossible, Nikola thought.

The sunbathers had gathered up their things in a sudden panic. The hazy waves raced toward the truck, even as it sped away. The sense of dread enveloped the pickup.

Uncle Marko stomped on the gas pedal. They lurched forward. The trailer shimmied in an out-of-control samba. The radio was blasting. The truck was going too fast.

Sally take my hand

Travel south cross land

Put out the fire

Don't look past my shoulder

The exodus is here.

The music abruptly stopped. With a grunt, Uncle Marko took his foot off the pedal.

What the? Uncle Marko slapped the dashboard a few times as the truck slowed.

Dead air. He shook his enormous head and slapped the dashboard again. The radio sputtered with a bit of static—then nothing.

Stupid radio, Uncle Marko grumbled. Just getting to the best part.

He looked over at Nikola and Papa with a forced smile. Nikola felt bug-eyed and jangly; Papa's eyes were closed. He seemed to be asleep, but his body was rigid and stiff. Uncle Marko stopped the truck on the shoulder and shook Papa good and hard. It took several long seconds before he opened his eyes. Papa seemed lost in thought, his eyes unfocused.

What happened? Papa spoke in a dazed voice as he turned and looked back toward the lake. A line of willow trees swayed in the breeze, hissing like a thousand snakes. He reached across Nikola to lower the window, then sniffed the warm air.

The lake, Papa muttered to no one.

To Nikola, it sounded like a warning.

The radio sputtered back to life. Static transformed into a Bob Dylan song Nikola recognized, but couldn't name. Uncle Marko shifted the truck back into gear and off they went without another word.

They drove about a half-mile and turned onto Edgewater Avenue. Big elm trees lined the block and formed a dark canopy over the small, run-down ramblers. The truck squeaked and rattled as they rumbled along—Uncle Marko turned off the radio and slowed as they neared a group of boys playing in the street. They stopped their game and stared at the approach of his outrageous contraption. At a toot of the horn, the boys scooted off the road and out of the way—all except for one. He was quite a bit older than the others—a teenager, tall and lanky. He stood there grinning, with his hands on his hips.

The house is there, Papa said. He pointed to a driveway just beyond the front of the pickup.

Uncle Marko rolled forward a few more feet, then halted the truck in front of the teen. He gave another, longer toot of the horn. The boy's grin faded, but he didn't flinch. He was wearing a green-and-yellow striped headband with matching wristbands. A toothpick dangled from the corner of his sneering lips. Uncle Marko squeezed the steering wheel and glared at the teen. The teen blew the toothpick to the ground and crossed his arms over his chest. Fed up, Uncle Marko reached over and gave a blast from the ship horn. AWOOOOOOOOO ...

The boy shrugged, jutted his chin in defiance, and swaggered out of the path of the pickup. He strolled past the open window and locked eyes with Nikola. Uncle Marko let off on the brake and eased the pickup onto the narrow driveway.

The teen cracked a gap-toothed grin and laughed at the passing vehicle.

Nikola slid down in the seat as low as he could go. Great. Day one, and already someone to avoid.

The pickup ground to a halt. Nikola slid off the bench seat and slipped out the door.

Nikola wandered through the overgrown front lawn on his way to the backyard. The yard had a thick hedge of lilacs that created a living fence around the perimeter. Nikola dropped down with a sigh onto a rusty lawn chair left behind by the previous tenants. He hated it here already.

It crossed Nikola's mind to sit and mope the rest of the day—but he knew darn well that the timer in his papa's head had already started. He would give Nikola about five minutes to sulk, and then he'd come find him. Then he’d just give him the look. Yeah, that one.

The yard was quiet—a cloud of gnats hovered in the hazy sunshine. With each beat of his heart, Nikola felt a little bit more of his anger fade. He glanced at his watch—a prized possession, given to him by Grandma on his birthday. The wrapped gift had been found at her home after the funeral.

Nikola figured his five minutes were about up, and he decided he'd better go and help with the unloading. With a start, he noticed he was not alone.

An old man stood beside the lilacs.

Nikola let out a yip—something between a hiccup and a greeting. The man across the yard did not seem to notice.

He was old. Not old like Papa and Uncle Marko; not even old like Grandma. Older. Well past ninety. Maybe even past one hundred. The man wore a dark suit that would have been old four decades ago. He seemed to disappear within the fabric. The old man's nose was hawk-like, and his gray hair fluttered across his brow with the sudden breeze.

A patch of thick clouds passed in front of the sun, and the shadows deepened across the yard. Nikola melted into the chair, hoping the old man wouldn't see him in the general gloominess. No such luck. The old man flicked his bright eyes at Nikola. The eyes pinned him down like a Monarch on a cork-board.

The man jabbed a bony finger at him. Nikola squirmed. His feet turned to ice. Suddenly, he couldn't seem to move a muscle. A long, black staff materialized in the old man’s hands. Nikola gaped in disbelief.

Good, Nikola, said the old man. So, it begins. The old man smiled through pressed lips.

The words hung in the air a moment as Nikola tried to locate his own voice. Nothing. He couldn't even clear his throat.

Thunder rolled in the distance. The old man's sharp gaze arced across the sky. The West was pitch dark. A late summer thunderstorm loomed.

They like the storms, the old man said. "It's the dark, you know. Best for them to do their evil. No one around to see."

The old man dropped his eyes from the sky and began to hum. The melody seemed familiar to Nikola, but he couldn't place it. The humming morphed into a strange singsong, the language odd and unfamiliar. The old man smiled faintly at some thought in his head. With a deep sigh, he finished his song. He returned his gaze to Nikola.

Nikola found his voice. Grandma’s funeral, he said. You were there.

The old man said nothing.

Nikola heard his papa calling. He watched as the old man released the staff from his grasp; somehow, it remained suspended in the air beside him. The old man clapped once, and it disappeared from view. The old man faded as well.

Papa leaned across the gate, and into the back yard.

Come on, Nikola, he said. We must finish before rain comes.

Nikola flinched at the words. Somehow, they released him from the spell he’d been under. Nikola leaped up and made a mad dash to the gate. He pushed through and tried to close it with shaking hands. Finally, he got the latch fastened. He tried not to look back to the spot where the old man had last stood, but he couldn’t help it—he looked anyway.

The yard was empty.

Papa called out again. Nikola rushed toward the driveway just in time to grab the corner of a small table Uncle Marko had lifted from the trailer. Nikola walked backward, holding his side of the table as they made their way to the front door. He stared up at his uncle's face.

"What is wrong, dijete? Uncle Marko asked. You look like you have seen ghost."

5

The Last Days of Summer

Nikola shook his head and tried to smile. He stumbled a bit at the front stoop. Uncle Marko frowned, but said nothing.

They finished unloading the trailer just as the first few drops of rain spattered the driveway. Uncle Marko worked his levers and pulleys, fussing and pulling until he’d secured the canvas top of his trailer.

The rain became heavier, and they all rushed into the house. It was dim inside, with only the kitchen light switched on. Papa plugged in a small lamp and set it on the table; then they gathered around and ate sandwiches that Uncle Marko produced from his small cooler—thick slices of Uncle’s famous homemade bread with some deli ham, onions, and spicy mustard. Uncle Marko downed two sandwiches before Nikola could finish even half of one. Uncle Marko fished bottles of soda from the cooler; then, he downed a root beer in one long draw. He exhaled contentedly, ending with a massive belch.

After Uncle Marko opened another bottle of root beer, he regaled them with a tale from his recent trip to Colorado. He tried to scare Nikola with a story about how he’d gotten up to answer nature's call and come face-to-face with a bear outside his tent. Nikola had to smile as he tried to imagine who was more startled—his uncle or the bear? Papa had his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed as he listened. Uncle Marko wrapped up the story by raising his arms and reenacting the moment he growled at the bear.

Nikola laughed as his uncle reached across the table and jabbed Papa in the chest. I go, Uncle Marko said. You need anything?

Papa opened his eyes and yawned, stretching his legs out under the table. No. Thanks for help.

Uncle Marko stood and mussed Nikola's hair. He twirled his keys around his finger, then squeezed past a stack of boxes—and out the kitchen door he went.

Nikola and Papa spent the next hour setting up their beds in the two small rooms off the main living area. The storm redeveloped as they worked.

Later, Nikola sat on the edge of his bed and thought about the old man he’d seen in the backyard. He’d wanted to tell Papa and Uncle Marko about the man … but somehow, the words had seemed to get lost between his brain and his tongue. Maybe the old man had put a spell on him?

Nikola shook his head, and reached over to switch off his lamp.

Nikola tossed and turned most of the night, troubled by the sound of distant thunder, and by dreams of the old man. In the dream, the old man followed Nikola across a dark, grassy field. Black shadowy figures appeared in the distance, circling the two of them like carrion birds.

Just as Nikola was able to escape and leave the old man behind, he found himself back in the backyard. The old man stood across from him. He held his staff outward and spoke words that Nikola could not understand. The black shapes returned, their circle drawing in ever-tighter. The old man stood before Nikola and spoke more gibberish.

Nikola thrashed as the dream twisted into knots of repeated images.

He woke in a cold sweat, as bright flashes of lightning washed the walls of his room. Heavy rain pounded on the roof. Nikola covered his head with his pillow and drifted back into an uneasy slumber.

Bright sunshine streamed in through the window. Nikola squinted as he got dressed. He tiptoed past Papa's room, pulling the door closed along the way. In the kitchen, he opened a big box marked ‘pantry’ and found a box of cereal. He opened the refrigerator and found it nearly empty. Papa forgot to buy milk. Nikola sighed at his papa’s forgetfulness and crunched his way through a bowl of dry corn flakes.

When he was done, Nikola put his bowl on the kitchen counter, and brushed aside the curtain covering the window above the sink. He stood on his tiptoes and peered into the backyard.

The old man was there.

His eyes were close, and he leaned heavily upon the staff. Suddenly, the old man’s eyes popped open. Nikola dropped the curtain and backed right into Papa. He caught his breath, spun, and scurried back.

What is wrong? Papa asked.

Nothing, Nikola stammered. You just startled me, is all.

Once again, Nikola wanted to explain about the old man—but it was like his lips had been zipped shut by magic. Nikola thought about Grandma’s funeral, and the drive to the new place. Something was happening. He had to tell somebody.

Not yet, a familiar voice whispered.

Grandma?

Nikola’s eyes darted away from Papa, and back toward the window.

Papa furrowed his brow. Are you sure you are okay?

Nikola nodded.

Papa dug through a box labelled ‘kitchen’ and pulled out an old frying pan, followed by a couple of chipped plates and some silverware wrapped in newspaper. He popped open the refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs and a stick of butter.

Nikola slipped on a pair of socks and his tennis shoes.

No breakfast? Papa asked over his shoulder. He cracked eggs into the sizzling butter.

I already ate, Nikola replied, as he headed for the door.

What will you do all day? Papa asked him.

Nikola shrugged. Just hang out, I guess.

Okay, Papa said. Make friends with the boys we saw yesterday? Tomorrow is first school day. Remember? Papa said.

I remember, Nikola said.

Papa saluted him with his flipper as Nikola stepped out into the sunshine.

Cicadas buzzed, and birds chirped from every treetop. Last night, Papa had rattled off the route to his new school. Nikola figured he’d try walking to school once, to get a feel for the area. He turned his gaze away from the house and began to walk.

Two boys watched Nikola from across the street—part of yesterday’s welcoming committee. They both waved and ran toward him. They seemed about eight years old—twins, Nikola guessed. Both wore matching outfits and had sandy-colored hair.

Hey, they said in unison, as both looked Nikola up and down.

What's your name? one of the boys asked.

Nikola nodded. Hey, yourself, he said. The name is Nikola.

The boys’ eyebrows shot up.

Kinda like Nick, Nikola added. He chewed his lip as he tried to explain. "But, uh … well, it's pronounced nee-ko-la. Like that. It’s a little different."

Oh, Nee-kola, The other boy grinned. Well, we like different.

And your names? Nikola asked.

Jimmy, said one.

Tony, said the other one.

Nikola tried to make a mental note of which was which, but he shrugged—they were too alike.

How old … Jimmy began.

… are you? Tony finished.

Twelve, Nikola answered.

We're eight, Jimmy said with a grin. He was missing a front tooth. We start third grade tomorrow. They always split us up.

Where’s your buddy? Nikola asked. The older kid from yesterday?

Dunno, Jimmy said. He licked his lips nervously.

Tony raised his shoulders and peeked down the block. He’s not our buddy, he said.

They walked together in the direction of the school. Nikola spotted it from the top of the street; the building sat directly across from a ball field.

See ya later! Jimmy said. He and his brother took off toward the field where a group of kids were playing.

Nikola wandered across the thick grass toward the building. The sky above was hazy,