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The red liquid ever so slowly trickled down Jason’s forehead as he stared down his captors. Blood had begun to blind his vision, but he shook his head to get it out of his eyes. Red droplets cascaded down to the stone floor around him. His captors watched his vain attempts to get loose from the chains that bound him to the wall. The woman stepped up to him, eyeing him with quiet contempt. She said nothing, but brushed her fingers along his cheekbone. He involuntarily sucked in a breath at her touch, but not because it enticed him. “Boy,” she started, almost a whisper, “if the Keyowner comes to your aid, she will die along with you. It doesn’t need to be like that, if you choose to… cooperate with us.” She said, smiling slyly.
He sneered and simply spat, “You keep forgetting about her abilities. She’s going to destroy you when she finally gets here.” The woman pulled back from him and stared at him as if he’d just spoken nonsense. A quick blow to his cheek was swiftly delivered by her hand, forcing him to look the other way. He forced himself not to grimace from the pain. She turned to the man behind her, who was brandishing a bloodied weapon in each of his hands. A club was held in his left hand and a knife was held in his right hand, respectfully.
“Keep trying for information, I suspect that she’ll be here by sundown.” The man nodded at her command but remained in place. She looked back at Jason with scorn, her lips pulling back just enough to show long canine teeth. “I suggest you start praying to whatever God you love that the Keyowner does come for you. Because if she’s doesn’t, you’re going to be adorning the dining hall.”
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Prologue
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As the tale goes, the Key of Endril was forged in a small village in England during one of England’s darkest times. Rumors had started to surround the Key that told of riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams that would lead to fame; maybe even more. Most of those rumors were just wives’ tales though. It was eventually stolen from the blacksmith that made it and it made its way through many generations. People would steal the Key without knowing its true worth.
Those that did would kill for it. It had been pointed out by historians that whoever held the Key did not often hold onto it for very long. Through the centuries, it had been all around the globe, most recent it had found its way to North America. It was now to be found in a pawn shop in Portland, Oregon, which is where we begin…
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“Hm… What should I get?” A young woman wondered. She looked to be about sixteen years old, though her height at five feet, eight inches often led people to believe otherwise. Her light brown hair was draped lazily over her shoulders as she hovered over a glass case of items. The excess of her hair rested in the hood of a sapphire blue jacket. An ebony black shirt was noticeable underneath as the jacket was not zipped to full length. Her shoes were just barely visible under the denim cuffs of her jeans, though what was visible was a dirtied white canvas. She moved gracefully towards one of the shelves and lifted a jar with slender fingers, taking great care to not drop it. Her crystal clear aqua eyes scanned the hand-painting done on the jar, taking in all of the details. Not a moment later, she set it back down, having grown disinterested with it.
Turning a complete, full circle she was now facing the front counter. She went over to the counter and scanned the items for anything of interest. A lone key caught her eye, it almost demanded her attention. She stared at it for several minutes before she pulled her eyes from it. She looked over to the middle-aged man that was minding the shop. He was unkempt, a stark contrast to herself. He had stubble on his jaw and upper lip and his black hair looked rather greasy. Maybe he had put too much gel in his hair or maybe he hadn’t showered for a few days. For his age he looked to be unusually strong. The muscles in his arms were well-developed; she figured he might have been in a past job that required heavy lifting on his part. He wore a faded navy blue t-shirt that did nothing to hide his muscular chest and arms. He had a rather plain looking belt that accented some dark-wash jeans he also wore.
“Hey, mister,” the teenager asked, “Could I take a look at that?” He looked over to her for clarification. As she pointed to the key, he went to the case and withdrew it; lastly holding it out for her to grasp.
As she lifted it up, the cold touch of steel sent a shiver through her arm. Just what was that? She shook it off as nothing and examined the key more closely. The metal didn’t look like it had aged a day as it kept the look of newly pressed metal. But for a key to be in a pawn shop, she knew it must have been older than that. The design of the key itself had three nickel-sized circles on the handle of the key and two teeth at the end of it. The length of the key, she guessed, was about five inches and it was small enough in width that she could close her fingers around it comfortably.
What a strange design for a key. Keys surely weren’t made like this anymore; that was for certain. Turning it over in her hands, she saw that the teeth of the key had gold painted on one of the tooth ends and black on the other. That was even stranger. She looked back at the shop owner, who was watching her now, before turning her attention to the key again.
“Do you know how much this is? I want to buy it, if I can.” She asked, looking back at him as she did. The older man watched her, summing her up for himself before he nodded.
“It’s only two dollars; it was brought in about a year ago by a woman who said she needed some extra cash. No one’s even batted an eye at it besides you, little miss.” The man said in a gruff tone. It sounded as if he had smoked his entire life, though the shop didn’t carry the familiar scent that came with it. The teenager took out a wallet from her back pocket and pulled out two dollars, setting it on the counter. He took it without a word and put it into the register.
He turned back to her to say his usual pitch of, ‘Thank you for doing business with us,’ but she was half way to the door. He had started to call something after her; however she had already fled down the street. He shook his head to himself and went to the back, as there had been no other customers in the store.
Her feet carried her down the street swiftly as she turned the key over and over again in her hands. So many thoughts about the strange key raced through her mind. What was it used for? Could it be just an ordinary key? She grinned at the thought of her mother’s surprise when she was to bring this back home, not to mention the questions she’d ask. ‘Erika Wyatt, why did you bring a key home? We don’t need one.’ Erika smirked slyly and put the key into safekeeping in her jean pocket. When she turned the corner of 82nd and Powell, she noticed a small rock. Since she was a child, she had loved to kick a rock along the street as she walked, it had always entertained her.
Reliving the need to do so again, she kicked it down the street, and kicked it again when she reached it. Instead, when she had kicked it, the rock went flying into the hood of an SUV. As the rock impacted, the sound of metal being crushed could be heard. She stared at the hood of the car; her eyes grew large at the sight. The rock had left a very large and very noticeable dent in the hood of the car. It was almost as if a baseball bat had been swung into the hood. The alarm started to whine loudly, alerting its owner that damage had been caused. Erika stared on in shock and dismay; she knew she was the one that had caused it. What had even happened anyway? There was no possible way that a rock, that was smaller than her fist, could have done that much damage to an SUV.
Police cars drew ever closer, their sirens were blazing loud and clear. As soon as she came to realize this, she took off as fast as she could, reaching 52nd and Powell in a matter of minutes. She quickly turned onto 52nd avenue and ducked into a nearby bookstore, forcing herself to act as if nothing had happened.
Erika waited at least a half an hour for the shock and the police to leave. She had bought a book that she hadn’t needed, which was ironically about cars, before she left. She went down Powell Boulevard now, having tossed the book next to a trash can for some lucky soul to find. She was going to catch one of the buses back home; maybe when she was calmer, she could sort through what had happened back there to that car.
If there actually was an explanation for something like that.
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