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7-2-6-7-6-6 = SAMSON. Nothing. 2-3-7-6-2-7-3 = BERNARD. Nothing. What was the name of the dog in the picture? I punched in 9-6-5-3 (WOLF) on a hunch.
Nothing happened.
I sighed and looked at my watch. Uncle Farrell had been gone for five minutes. He had said being smart didn’t matter so much, but right then it sure would have helped. More out of desperation than anything else, I punched in the first thing that popped into my head: 2-5-3-7-3-3.
From beneath my feet came a whining sound, like a motor revving up, and the floor began to shake. I pushed back from the desk with a little yelp as the desk itself began to rise, like an invisible magician was levitating it.
A huge silver metal pole rose slowly from the carpeting, until the top of the desk was about two inches from the ceiling.
The pole had an opening on the side facing me, and inside the hollow space, hung on two silver spikes, blade facing down, was the sword.
I had brought the picture, just to make sure I got the right sword, but I didn’t need the picture to know this was the one. In the bluish glow from the city lights outside the window, it seemed to shimmer, like the surface of a lake on a cloudy day.
I took a deep breath and grasped the sword handle. It practically flew out of the column; I didn’t expect it to feel so light. I thought it would weigh a ton, but it felt no heavier than a ballpoint pen. It sounds funny, but right away it felt like a part of me, a five-foot extension of my right arm. Grinning like a kid playing pirate, I swung it around a few times. It hissed as it cut the empty air. I held it up to the streetlights, turning it so the ambient light glittered off the edges.
I ran my left thumb along the blade. Immediately, a thin line of blood began to seep out of the wound. I hadn’t even felt it. The blood brought me to my senses, though. I stuffed the sword into the duffel bag. Then I stuck my thumb in my mouth: I didn’t want to drip my DNA all over Mr. Samson’s office during my getaway.
I trotted to the door and stopped—what if the cops demanded to see Mr. Samson’s office for some reason? Should I hide somewhere till Uncle Farrell came back up? I hesitated in the doorway, hugging the duffel against my chest while I sucked nervously on my thumb, the taste of blood in my mouth. I didn’t know how to lower the desk, so I left it and stepped out into the hallway.
I closed the door, checked the lock, and headed straight for the elevator to wait for Uncle Farrell.
I leaned against the wall, my heart still pounding hard, sweat trickling down the middle of my back and my chest. The duffel bag felt very heavy all of a sudden. I pulled my thumb out of my mouth. The bleeding had stopped, but my thumb tingled, like it had fallen asleep. I panicked for a second, thinking maybe the blade was poisoned and I would die in this semidark hallway.
Then I heard the elevator coming. It must have taken a long time for Uncle Farrell to get rid of the cops, I thought as I pushed myself away from the wall. I still felt a little dizzy, but the duffel didn’t feel as heavy.
The doors slid open and I was saying, “What took so long, Uncle Farrell?” when two big brown shapes stepped out. I backed down the hall, toward the emergency exit door that opened onto the stairwell. Two big men dressed in flowing brown robes, like monks, stepped out of the elevator, their hoods pulled low to cover their faces.
One stepped ahead of the other and said softly, so softly, I could barely hear him, “We don’t want to hurt you. We just want the sword.” He held out his hand.
His tone was so nice and reasonable, I almost handed him the sword. I might have too, but at that moment, the one behind him made a snarling sound and rushed me, his right hand coming out of the folds of his robe, and in that hand was a long saber, thin as a pool cue, black and double-bladed.
The first monk made a move to hold him back, but he was too late. Before I even had a chance to think, I jammed my hand into the duffel bag and whipped out the sword. My attacker hesitated, but only for a split second. He was nearly on top of me when I felt the sword in my hand whistle over my head—I don’t even remember lifting my arm—and then I watched as my arm brought it down, aimed right at the guy’s forehead.
He cried out and brought his sword up at the last second. The sound of the swords smashing into each other reverberated like thunder in the tiny hallway. He fell back a little, stunned by the blow.
The tingling in my thumb had spread to my arm, and I brought the sword around again as the first monk gave up trying to negotiate and rushed me.
His partner fell back, gripping the wrist of his blade hand. I fell back too. This taller monk moved more slowly than his buddy, but it was a thoughtful kind of slowness. I backpedaled until I bumped the stairwell door.
“Surrender the sword,” came the voice beneath the brown hood. A pale hand reached for me as another raised the black tapered blade.
I reached for the handle of the door with my left hand, shoved it down, then kicked at it with my foot. At the same time, my sword was whistling toward his left ear. He blocked the swing with the black-bladed sword. I grabbed his left wrist and yanked hard, stepping to my right at the same instant, and that sent him flying past me into the stairwell. I heard him cry out in pain as he tumbled down the stairs.
The smaller monk had recovered and now he rushed me, swinging his weapon so fast, it was just a dark blur in front of my eyes—but my sword was blocking every thrust, parrying every blow, like it had a mind of its own. I didn’t know how I was fighting this guy, who obviously knew what he was doing when it came to swordplay.
The sword in my hand seemed to weigh nothing at all, and everything started to slow down to a dreamlike dance: I could see his sword coming from a mile away.
He made one more desperate lunge at me. I turned his blade easily and brought my left fist down hard against the side of his head. He sank to his knees.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. I’m just trying to help my uncle so he won’t send me to a foster home. Who are you?”
Before he could answer, a hand grabbed me from behind and yanked me into the stairwell. It was the bigger man, the one who had first spoken. He swung me around and slammed his body hard into mine, forcing me back against the wall. He clutched my right wrist and held it against the concrete; the blade of my sword clinked against it. He took the tip of that black-bladed sword and pressed it against my Adam’s apple.
“Drop the sword if you want to live,” he whispered.
“Okay.”
I dropped the sword. For a second neither one of us moved; I think we were both surprised I dropped it. Then, without even thinking about it, I brought my knee up as hard as I could into his crotch. He fell straight down and didn’t move.
