“That’s the idea,” said a deep, thrumming voice. It was the voice of evil, of all things unholy. “Surrender it. Surrender the box. Give it up, and maybe there’s a chance that you and your loved ones will walk away unscathed.”
“Yeah, sure, buddy,” Maria said.
The putrid stink of death wheezed out from the hole, which seemed to be torn in the very fabric of existence.
Maria’s knees went weak. She wanted nothing more than to run. Run back to her grandfather, to Sherlock, to hide in the safety of her bedroom.
But the village, the village your mom died protecting, the village your grandfather swore an oath to. That’s your village, too, Maria. Those are your people. And even if they weren’t, you wouldn’t roll over and let evil win. Ignatius Apple didn’t raise you like that.
“Malakai comes, and he will not let you go without pain, Maria Apple. Know that. Know that if you fight, you die. You waste all of our time,” the dark figure said.
“Good luck,” Maria said. She closed her eyes.
The sound of thousands of lost souls screamed out to her. She thought she felt the bristles of a spider leg brush her face, but she didn’t waver. She stood her ground, just like her grandfather had taught her.
When she opened her eyes, the darkness was gone, and she was back in the aerobic room, Metallica played softly from the stereo. Nothing had changed; meatheads lifted weights, meatheads flexed.
“Duke?” Maria probed.
But Duke was gone.
It was just Maria and the music box now, and she thought that was how it would have to be.
She gathered up her stuff, putting the music box in her gym bag, and rushed out, not stopping to say bye to Gus or any of the other regulars.
She’d had her first encounter with the Widow and, though it hadn’t yet, it would leave her scarred.
Her workout didn’t stop when she left the gym. She ran home. She got there in about five minutes—record time.
“Gramps?” she said as she opened the door. “Gramps, I think whatever’s happening to me is more urgent than we really thought.”
From upstairs, she heard the clanking and clacking of objects.
He was back from Salem’s.
“Oh, no,” she groaned. Whenever Gramps was upstairs, that usually meant trouble. His oddness had been explained to Maria with the arrival of her magical capabilities, but that didn’t mean the things that Ignatius Apple built were any less dangerous.
Wouldn’t go up there if I were you, Sherlock warned. He lay at the foot of the stairs, his large, furry belly rising and falling with his ragged breath. Maria thought he might’ve put on an extra few pounds in a matter of hours. No more cookies and cake for him, she thought.
“What’s he doing?”
You know what he’s doing.
“Oh, God, not another lava experiment.”
Worse.
Maria’s heart fluttered.
“Gramps!”
“Dangnabit!” floated down from upstairs. “Where the golan are they!?”
“He’s looking for something?”
Travel gear, Sherlock said. Then he lifted his head up from the carpet and nodded, floppy cheeks dripping drool with the motion.
“Where could he be going? Only place he goes is that damn ice cream shop—Oh, GOD!”
She bounced up the stairs, vaulting over Sherlock and taking the steps two and three at a time. She reached the top and saw the upstairs hallway was littered with junk. Gramps had cleared out closets and desks and dresser drawers.
He was currently in the guest bedroom. The comforter, paisley-patterned, was strewn over him, making him look like a flamboyant ghost. Everything in the closet had been pulled out and thrown on the floor. Maria had to walk gingerly over extra piles of sheets and clothes hangers and grandpa’s old shoes.
“Gramps?” Maria said.
“Oh, hullo, Maria!”
“What are you looking for?”
Gramps flipped the comforter off of him. He wore checkered pants and a shirt with no suspenders. To Maria, he looked thinner, like he hadn’t actually been eating any ice cream down at the ice cream shop. Stress, she thought, that’s what’s doing it. Stress makes Sherlock gain an extra five pounds, and Gramps shed a few.
An odd look passed across his face. It was a look of guilt. Maria could tell he was about to lie to her. She didn’t know how or why—maybe it was the magic—but she could.
“Well, I seem to have misplaced my good pair of underpants. You know, the pair with the Christmas trees on them? They’re my favorite pair. Perfectly comfortable.” He moved awkwardly and adjusted the waist of his pants. “These, they’re too…snug.”
“Grandpa,” Maria said, crossing her arms.
“Okay, fine! I’m looking for my damn galoshes. My rainboots!”
Maria glanced out the window, noted the yellow sunshine and pale blue, cloudless skies. “Doesn’t look like rain, today, Gramps.” In fact, she’d seen the forecast that morning in the paper. The week ahead was looking to be beautiful. “Or any rain for awhile. What are you really doing?”
He threw his arms up in exasperation. “That’s it! I give up! Come, Maria, you must accompany me to Walmart.”
“Walmart? Gramps, you know what happened the last time you went to a Walmart. They have your picture in every single one within a fifty-mile radius; they’re pretty serious about keeping you out. And you’re lucky that’s all they did.”
“Oh, phooey!” Gramps said.
Maria smiled. ‘Phooey’ was one of her grandfather’s many catchphrases, and it never ceased to make her smile whenever he said it; along with ‘cripes,’ ‘golan,’ and a few others.
“Gramps, I need to talk to you.”
“Talk on the way,” Gramps answered. “Bring Sherlock. He’ll be able to smell any spiders a mile away.”
Gramps walked past her, out into the hallway, kicking away the piled clothes and shoes and books that he’d pulled out in his haste to find his…galoshes.
“Come, come!”
Maria needed to talk to him, so she had no choice but to follow.
He went down the steps and out to the garage, where under a sheet was the 1968 Pontiac Firebird her grandfather never drove but kept in case of emergencies. As Maria stepped over Sherlock, he
