Amulet of Doom (19 page)

“That's enough,” said a voice behind them.

The demon turned around, then began to scream.

Marilyn looked up in astonishment.

Among the litter of demons, looking down at them, stood Suleiman, father of Guptas.

“Give me the amulet,” he said. His voice was quiet, strong, gentle, ancient, filled with sorrow. He extended his arm. Marilyn reached up and laid the amulet in his palm. It seemed oddly tiny in his great hand.

“No!” screamed the old demon. “Great king, do not do this. No! No! No!”

“Silence!” said Suleiman.

Closing his massive fingers over the amulet, he spoke softly, in some ancient language. A great crack of something like thunder reverberated through the chamber.

The old demon vanished.

Smoke curled from between the king's fingers. He opened his hand, gazed at the amulet for a moment, then tossed it into the forge.

The explosion knocked Marilyn to her knees.

The flames returned to normal. By their flickering light she watched as the king knelt to gather his battered son into his arms.

Guptas stirred in his grasp. “Father,” he whispered.

“I should have loved you better,” said the king sadly as he cradled Guptas against his chest.

After a moment the king lifted his head to look at Marilyn. Tears shimmered at the corners of his eyes. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Without your trust, my son would have been doomed forever.”

He looked around the room and spotted Kyle, who was quietly trying to bear the agony of his many wounds.

“Tell your friend to come before me,” said Suleiman. The shadow of a smile flickered over his face. “And bring me your cat, as well.”

Mystified, Marilyn gestured to Kyle, who had forced himself to his knees.

“I can't,” he whispered. “I can't move.”

“I'll help,” she said. “Just wait.”

She limped to the wall where Brick lay and lifted him gently from the floor. He was still breathing, but his body was badly broken. He opened one eye and tried to yowl in protest. The sound was pathetically weak.

“Poor baby,” whispered Marilyn. Cradling the cat gently in her arms, she went to Kyle. “Put your arm on my shoulder,” she said, kneeling beside him.

He struggled to his feet.

Together they crossed to the king.

Suleiman knelt and laid Guptas gently down beside him. “This much I can do for you,” he said softly to Marilyn. He took Brick from her arms and held the cat cupped in his enormous hands. He closed his eyes. Brick stiffened for a moment, yowled almost in anger, then sat up, blinking, absurdly small on the king's palm.

He looked up, yowled this time in fright, and jumped back into Marilyn's arms.

Suleiman smiled. “Now you,” he said to Kyle.

Kyle stepped forward. The king took him in his great arms. Like Brick, Kyle yelled out. And, like Brick, his wounds were healed. He touched himself in amazement. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly.

Suleiman held Marilyn and healed her, too; healed the burns, the slash of the ax, the bruises that covered her body. And, a little, he healed the wounds of her spirit, the fear that lingered within.

After he set her down, he gathered Guptas into his arms once more. The demon stirred, then opened his eyes. With an effort that was clearly painful, he reached out his hand to Marilyn.

She stepped forward and took it. The scaly flesh was warm and dry, surprisingly pleasant to the touch.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Marilyn squeezed his hand. “What will happen to him now?” she asked, looking up at the king.

“He will come to be with me.” Suleiman looked around the room. “As for you, you should all go home now. Some of you have a lot to learn,” he added, looking pointedly at Eldred Cooley.

“I'd love to go home,” said Marilyn. “But how do we get there without Guptas?”

The king looked at her in astonishment. “What do you have a cat for?” he asked.

And then he was gone, taking his son with him.

Epilogue

Marilyn sat between Kyle and Alicia at the funeral home, listening to the preacher talk about Zenobia. She looked around. She still couldn't believe she and Kyle were in one piece, much less that they had managed to get this place back in shape in time to get out while it was still dark last night.

Getting Zenobia's body back into her coffin had been the worst part, of course. Once they had managed that, Marilyn had tried to arrange the flowers so no one would notice that the amulet was missing.

Marilyn looked up and suppressed a smile. Zenobia was sitting on the end of her coffin, looking at the minister as if she couldn't believe her ears.

“They always spout such nonsense,” she had said to Marilyn on the way home last night. “I can't wait to hear what he has to say about me.”

Now, seeing that Marilyn was looking at her, Zenobia mouthed a single word: “Baloney!”

Marilyn snorted, then tried to turn the sound into a sob.

Alicia dug her in the ribs. Kyle squeezed her hand.

They all stood for the hymn.

Twelve hours later Marilyn was sitting in her bed, telling Brick what a great cat he was for getting them all back, when Zenobia walked through her closed door.

Marilyn smiled. “I was hoping you would come.”

“It's just to say good-bye.”

Marilyn frowned. “Do you have to go?”

Zenobia nodded. “Afraid so. There's so much to do. I can't tell you all about it. But trust me, it's exciting.”

“The last adventure?” asked Marilyn, trying to smile.

“The biggest,” said Zenobia. “If they would just let me have a cigar, I'd be in Heaven.”

A Personal History by Bruce Coville

I arrived in the world on May 16, 1950. Though I was born in the city of Syracuse, New York, I grew up as a country boy. This was because my family lived about twenty miles outside the city, and even three miles outside the little village of Phoenix, where I went to school from kindergarten through twelfth grade.

Our house was around the corner from my grandparents' dairy farm, where I spent a great deal of time playing when I was young, then helping with chores when I was older. Yep, I was a tractor-ridin', hay-bale-haulin', garden-weedin' kid.

I was also a reader.

It started with my parents, who read to me (which is the best way to make a reader)—a gift for which I am eternally grateful. In particular it was my father reading me
Tom Swift in the City of Gold
that turned me on to “big” books. I was particularly a fan of the Doctor Dolittle books, and I can remember getting up ahead of everyone else in the family so that I could huddle in a chair and read
The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle
.

I also read lots of things that people consider junk: Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and zillions of comic books. In regard to the comics, I had a great deal going for me. My uncle ran a country store just up the road, and one of the things he sold was coverless comic books. (The covers had been stripped off and sent back to the publishers for credit. After that, the coverless books were sent to little country stores, where they were sold for a nickel apiece.) I was allowed to borrow them in stacks of thirty, read them, buy the ones I wanted to keep, and put the rest back in the bins for someone else to buy. It was heaven for a ten-year-old!

My only real regret from those years is the time I spent watching television, when I could have been reading instead. After all, the mind is a terrible thing to waste!

The first time I can remember thinking that I would like to be a writer came in sixth grade, when our teacher, Mrs. Crandall, gave us an extended period of time to write a long story. I had been doing poorly at writing all year long because we always had to write on a topic Mrs. Crandall chose. But this time, when I was free to write whatever I wanted, I loved doing it.

Of course, you think about doing many different things when you're a kid, but I kept coming back to the thought of being a writer. For a long time my dream job was to write for Marvel Comics.

I began working seriously at writing when I was seventeen and started what became my first novel. It was a terrible book, but I had a good time writing it and learned a great deal in the process.

In 1969, when I was nineteen, I married Katherine Dietz, who lived around the corner from me. Kathy was (and is) a wonderful artist, and we began trying to create books together, me writing and Kathy doing the art.

Like most people, I was not able to start selling my stories right away. So I had many other jobs along the way, including toymaker, gravedigger, cookware salesman, and assembly line worker. Eventually I became an elementary school teacher and worked with second and fourth graders, which I loved.

It was not until 1977 that Kathy and I sold our first work, a picture book called
The Foolish Giant
. We have done many books together since, including
Goblins in the Castle
,
Aliens Ate My Homework
, and
The World's Worst Fairy Godmother
, all novels for which Kathy provided illustrations.

Along the way we also managed to have three children: a son, Orion, born in 1970; a daughter, Cara, born in 1975; and another son, Adam, born in 1981. They are all grown and on their own now, leaving us to share the house with a varying assortment of cats.

A surprising side effect of becoming a successful writer was that I began to be called on to make presentations at schools and conferences. Though I had no intention of becoming a public speaker, I now spend a few months out of every year traveling to make speeches and have presented in almost every state, as well as such far-flung places as Brazil, China, Ethiopia, and Bangladesh.

Having discovered that I love performing and also that I love audiobooks, in 1990 I started my own audiobook company, Full Cast Audio, where we record books using multiple actors (sometimes as many as fifty in one book!) rather than a single voice artist. We have recorded over one hundred books, by such notable authors as Tamora Pierce, Shannon Hale, and James Howe. In addition to being the producer, I often direct and usually perform in the recordings.

So there you go. I consider myself a very lucky person. From the time I was young, I had a dream of becoming a writer. With a lot of hard work, that dream has come true, and I am blessed to be able to make my living doing something that I really love.

Hey, baby! You looking at me? I was born on May 16, 1950, in Syracuse, New York. In this picture I'm one year old.

As a farm boy, I learned to drive a tractor when I was quite young.

Reading was always important to me—anytime, anywhere.

I planned to be a cowboy …