The Legend of Sam Miracle

  His watches rose in the air around him.

  Sam wanted to cry. He wanted to sleep. He wanted Cindy to stop pulling at the pain in his shoulder. He wanted to hoe a garden with his sister in West Virginia and hear her laugh while they chased fireflies, finally unafraid. But most of all, he wanted the storm of evil that had swept them both up to stop its swirling and set them down. Anywhere. Anytime. Alive. Together.

  “Kill him, Speck,” Sam whispered. His throat felt smaller than a straw. “Please.”

  Speck fired again and a gold watch chain jumped, broken almost completely through.

  William Sharon spun around, ran for the shattered windows, and leapt out into the hissing wind. The watches snapped up around him like wings, slowing the moment as he hung in the air. Twisting around, the outlaw pulled his remaining gun.

  Glory grabbed Sam and rolled them both behind the massive bed. Six quick bullets kicked clouds of feathers from the mattress. As the echoes died, Sam struggled to his feet, clenching his jaw against the pain, and then staggered to the window, pointing Speck out and down. He had to finish this. The stories, the memories, the chaos in his mind had to end.

  The Vulture was gone.

  “Your shoulder,” Glory said. “You need a doctor.”

  “I’m fine,” Sam grunted. “I have Cindy.”

  “Sam,” Millie said from the floor. Her eyes were wide with horror. “Your hands . . .”

  “Fast, right?” Glory said quickly. She was trembling, and her voice shook. “I love you, by the way. In the book. Supercool to meet you.”

  Sam holstered his weapons and dropped down beside his sister. She winced with sympathy, touching his bleeding shoulder. Together, brother and sister stood. Then Millie traced the two scaled heads on the backs of Sam’s hands. She said nothing. Not until she slid her arms gently around her brother’s neck, avoiding his left shoulder.

  “After the train,” Millie said. “I just . . .” She let him go and looked at him. “It feels like I’ve been having nightmares for years and years. I was sure you were dead.”

  Sam nodded. “I know what you mean.” He tried to smile and then wiped his eyes quickly. It wasn’t over. He knew it wasn’t. But his sister was alive.

  “Your hands,” Millie said again. She lifted them both up and looked from Speck’s eyes to Cindy’s.

  “Best thing that could have happened to me,” Sam said. “I promise. Ask Glory. She saw my arms before.”

  “This is another dream, isn’t it?” Millie finally faced Glory.

  Cindy began to rattle. Or she tried. Sam could feel her quivering, but there was no noise.

  “Not another dream,” Sam said. “This is what all those other dreams were about. They were like . . . practice.”

  Millie nodded. “Real practice,” she said. “I saw this graveyard, Sam . . . I don’t know how much you remember.” She shivered. While Millie’s eyes nervously followed his hands, Sam Miracle winced and cautiously hugged his sister with twisting arms.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Dad would be proud.”

  Sam blinked and pulled away, almost smiling. He looked around the room.

  “How do we get out of here?”

  “He took me all around in an elevator,” Millie said. “But I have no idea how it’s controlled.”

  Glory picked up something bloody off the floor and held it out to Sam.

  “You’re forgetting something,” she said. “Shot off.”

  She had the tip of Cindy’s tail and her knobby old rattle pinched between her fingers.

  If the Vulture had been killed, Sam would have laughed, even with the throbbing agony in his shoulder. But what Sam was feeling was far from joy.

  Millie was safe.

  But so was El Buitre.

  For now.

  THE THREE OF THEM LEFT THE VULTURE’S TOWER IN DISARRAY and filed into the elevator with the brass cage door. Millie slid it shut and latched it. There were little levers and a crank on the side. She asked Glory for help, but Glory shrugged.

  “I only know buttons.”

  Millie flipped two levers and nothing happened. She spun the crank, and the cage began to descend.

  “Mill,” Sam said, and the nickname surprised him. He had forgotten it until after it was out of his mouth.

  His sister looked at him, eyes still darting to his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “For all the times I didn’t come for you.” The pain in his shoulder and his anger at the Vulture’s escape and his relief at saving his sister were all making a real mess of how he felt. “And I’m sorry for failing again.”

  Glory bit her lip and pressed herself back in the elevator.

  “What do you mean?” Millie blinked quickly, and then shook her head, surprised. “I’m . . . I . . . Sam, you didn’t fail.”

  “It’s okay,” Sam said. “I’ll figure it out. I won’t give up.”

  Millie focused on Glory. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  “The Vulture,” Glory said. “Until the Vulture is dead, you aren’t really safe. No one is.”

  The cage rattled to a stop. For a moment, the three of them stared at the door.

  And then Millie threw it open.

  Green light poured in. Sam stepped out into a hotel lobby completely overgrown with trees and brush. The massive skylight several floors up was missing most of its glass.

  “Stay here for a second,” Sam said. Cradling Cindy against his stomach to take the weight of his arm off his wounded shoulder, he jogged across the lobby and out the front doors into what had once been a busy crossroad.

  The hilltop hotel was now perched on an island. The streets dove away from Sam’s feet and ended in water a few hundred yards away in both directions. Thick cedar trees had grown up in between ruined buildings, toppling walls with their branches and tearing up cobblestones with their roots.

  Crusty foam lines in the street marked how high the tide could come.

  The hotel wasn’t the only island. It was one among hundreds. Only the hilltops of San Francisco were now above water, crowned with trees and the bones of buildings.

  Sam saw no one, but the glint of gold caught his eye. A pocket watch with a broken chain and a cracked face lay on a bed of green moss between two stones in the road.

  Sam picked it up and listened. It still ticked. He turned in a slow circle but saw no other sign of his enemy.

  Quietly and quickly, he reloaded Speck’s gun, and then handed it to Cindy.

  The Vulture couldn’t be far. Sam didn’t have to fail. He could end everything right now. Or he could walk into an ambush and be killed. How long would Glory and Millie wait for him before they gave up? Would they be kidnapped or would they be killed straightaway? Or maybe they would find themselves trapped forever in the wrong time.

  Sam picked his direction and began to walk, both hands out, letting them scan the shadows, still trusting Cindy with the gun.

  A sharp whistle darted off a rooftop and Sam froze. Cindy began to shake Sam’s wound as fast as she could while Speck buzzed his rattle. Two of the nearest cedar trees bent and shook as a pair of massive hairy shapes pushed past their trunks and lumbered into the street.

  Sam stumbled backward as the animals rose slowly up onto their hind legs, taller than twin houses, with claws as long as Sam’s legs and huge slobbering tongues. They weren’t bears. They were something Sam had never even dreamed before, and both of them were rumbling drumbeat growls inside chests the size of cars.

  “If you’re hunting that dirty time-stopper, he’s gone! Stole my bird, too.” The voice was a man’s and it came from above the street. “Now I have to ask you to drop your guns and set down that gold trinket you found in the street before I let Earl and Wayne here have a little taste of fresh meat.”

  Sam didn’t wait. He spun around, ducking, expecting gunfire from above, and he ran for the hotel. The drumbeat growls erupted into thunder and the ground shook as the animals slammed back down onto all fours.


  But from above, there came only laughter.

  Sliding back inside the hotel, Sam sprinted to the elevator, slammed the cage door shut, and began slapping levers. When the elevator jerked upward, he slumped against the back and let himself breathe.

  “No good,” he panted. “He’s gone and we have to get out of here.”

  “Where?” Millie asked.

  “Back to the garden,” Sam said. “Hopefully in this elevator, but through the darkness if we have to.”

  “When was it out there?” Glory asked. She reached up and touched the bloody patch on Sam’s shoulder.

  “I have no idea,” said Sam. “But a long while after something awful.”

  13

  Pizza

  PETER TIEMPO SAT ON A TRIUMPH MOTORCYCLE IN THE grass, watching two huge trees sway above high stone walls like wings. Their lowest branches gripped the stone like roots. The moon was up, but weak. Peter kept his headlight pointed at the walls.

  Nineteen fifty-four had been a complete waste. He had met the boys on the road, but when they’d arrived, they hadn’t been able to draw out any kind of opposition.

  It had been hard for him—given how unrefined his abilities still were—but he had finally been able to move the bus full of boys to the right afternoon in 1969. He was still sweating from the effort. There hadn’t been any mass deaths close enough, and he still wasn’t comfortable using that kind of opportunity even if there had been. He would get comfortable with it eventually. He knew that. Just like he would get comfortable with people calling him Father. Right now, that just seemed ridiculous.

  It was annoying how other people got to talk to his older self, but he never could. He knew that much already. Run into yourself and one of you had to drop dead.

  Sam and Glory had made it to the garden, because they had left the motorcycle. But they were already gone, the biggest of the day’s shocks hadn’t even rolled in yet. The walls were still standing.

  “What happened, Sam?” he said out loud.

  The ground shivered under his feet.

  He whooped loudly, and ten boys jogged back through the shadows from around the walls toward the white bus behind the motorcycle.

  “See?” Peter said. “Earthquake. Right on time.”

  Drew nodded.

  The earth heaved. The motorcycle bounced. The bus bucked and the trees shook and hopped, suddenly weak. The boys ran. The continent groaned, grinding its teeth miles deep. The forest stampeded in place. And then both of the big trees fell straight out—doomed, slow, moaning giants. Their branches pulled the walls down. Their roots flung Miracle headstones high in the air.

  Pooled time flooded out, pouring across the meadow grass.

  And then, apart from a few shivers in the ground, the grove was still.

  On the other side of the toppled garden walls, two shapes slowly stood up in the light from the motorcycle. A third was curled up on the ground.

  “Hey!” Glory yelled. “I’m glad you guys are finally here. Sam’s pretty much passed out, he needs stitches, and we all really need something to eat.”

  Laughing, Peter throttled the motorcycle forward between the fallen trees.

  SAM MIRACLE LOOKED DOWN THE LONG TABLE, ACROSS THE steaming pizzas to where Peter Tiempo sat at the foot of the table in front of the old-fashioned arcade games. Peter was still pale and sweating from the effort of moving everyone again, but he was eating like a funnel cloud and the waitress couldn’t replace his Cokes fast enough. On Sam’s right, Millie nibbled at her pizza, unsure of what it was, but clearly happy and a little nervous. She caught Sam’s eye and smiled. He understood the confusion she was feeling. The fog of uncertainty about what might be real, and what would turn out to be imagination. Or memory. Or nightmare. She wouldn’t be herself for a little while. If ever.

  He hoped that the world would be better off with her alive. That he hadn’t ruined everything.

  Glory sat on Sam’s left, and she had taken it upon herself to explain every single thing about the modern world to Millie.

  And then there were the boys. Sam’s Ranch Brothers. The ones who had kept him alive. The ones who had been willing to leave their own lives behind to help Sam live his. Sam wondered if he would ever be half as generous to anyone as all of them had been to him. Even biscuit-faced Matt Cat.

  “You know,” Glory said, leaning toward Sam. “When you’re stuck hungry in 1969, it helps to have a friend like Peter who can get your whole bus to a pizza place in 2016.” She smiled. “Even if he does grow up into a crazy priest who totally ruins your life.”

  “He saved it, too,” Sam said. “Just not as often.”

  At the far end of the table, Peter raised a glass bottle of Coke and whistled for everyone’s attention.

  “To Sam,” Peter said. “Who’s only just getting started!”

  Sam didn’t like how that sounded, but he forced a smile as everyone else raised their drinks, because he was alive, and so was his sister, and he had friends. Real ones. As real as they come.

  Which was a lot better than nothing. But maybe not enough.

  Sam pushed back from the table and stood, wincing at the freshly stitched pain in his shoulder. It was bad enough that he didn’t even feel the bullet burn on his neck.

  He waved off assistance and acted like he was heading for the bathroom. Instead, he pushed out the swinging glass door and moved out into the potholed parking lot.

  The white bus and the white moon were keeping each other company.

  Dew hung in the cool air, and even under his poncho, Sam shivered.

  Speck and Cindy were both at full alert, creeping out from Sam’s sides, tasting the air.

  Father Tiempo, older than Sam had ever seen him, hobbled out from behind the bus and approached Sam, leaning on a cane.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. And he was. More than he could say. Not that he had changed the priest’s plan. Not that he had saved his sister. He was sorry for the next Tombstone. And the one after that. He was sorry that his sister might not stay saved. He was sorry that he still felt fear and the fear made him sick and the sickness made him angry. He was sorry Father Tiempo had spent himself on him. Looking at the priest, Sam knew the time-wandering old man already knew every bit of that and more.

  “That is how you feel,” Father Tiempo said, and his voice wasn’t much more than a ghost. He was stooped and skeletal, but the skin on his face was smooth, stretched tight around his high wide cheekbones, and his eyes outshone the starlight.

  “But how you feel means nothing,” the priest said. “What will you do?”

  “I’ll find him again,” Sam said, and his arms both tightened, scales tickling his skin. He didn’t want to say anything else, but the heat he felt in his chest needed more words. “I’ll do what I’m meant to do. I’ll be what I’m meant to be. I’ll end him. And I won’t stop trying until I do.”

  The priest nodded. “If you destroy every garden, he will be trapped. Perhaps in this world, where he will still need finishing. But preferably in the darkness.” He studied Sam’s face. “You will not see me again. Not like this. My sand has been spent to the earliest grains. But my youth will be with you. For a time.”

  Sam swallowed hard, unsure of any words.

  The glass door squeaked behind Sam, and Glory walked out into the parking lot, rubbing her arms.

  “Father Tiempo!” She hurried over to the old man and kissed his smooth cheek. The priest smiled.

  “You keep him on track, Gloria Spalding. You’ve done better than I ever did. Keep him sharp.” Father Tiempo reached into his black robe and pulled out a handblown, open-ended hourglass. He smiled and placed it in her hands.

  “For the only Glory in the story.”

  Glory laughed and hugged him, and the priest shut his eyes and laughed with her. When Glory pulled away, he faced Sam.

  “For you, Samuel Miracle, I have only words, but they are some of the first ever spoken.” He reached out and put his old hand on Sam’s head. He spoke, and
the sound was like running water and tumbling stones. Like joyful storms and dreams without pain. Peace flowed through Sam like an electrical current. The pain in his shoulder softened and both of his arms relaxed.

  When the priest had finished, he sighed, dropped his hand to Sam’s undamaged shoulder, and placed his other on Glory’s.

  “Fear no evil,” he said quietly. “And may evil fear you.”

  While Sam and Glory stood side by side, the priest fell away into wind and sand.

  Glory sniffed. After a moment, she reached for Sam’s right hand, and she squeezed it tight, her fingers unflinching from Speck’s scaled head.

  Her hand was warm. Sam squeezed back.

  Cindy slid slowly into Sam’s hip pocket, and closed his fingers tight around the golden watch on its broken chain.

  The metal was colder than it should have been.

  Sam could feel the ticking in his palm.

  Gratitude

  Katherine, Claudia, and Alex for making me find Glory (and so much more)

  Heather Linn for sharing the first sweaty dream

  Rory, Lucia, Ameera, Seamus, and Marisol for loving Speck and Cindy before they were real

  Aaron Rench for battles past, present, and future perfect

  Jim Thomas for betting

  About the Author

  Photo by Mark Lamoreaux

  N. D. WILSON lives and writes in the top of a tall, skinny house only one block from where he was born. But his bestselling novels have traveled far and wide, disguising themselves in many strange languages in dozens of distant and mysterious lands. He is the author of nine novels, including the Ashtown Burials series and the 100 Cupboards trilogy. He and his wife have five young storytellers of their own, along with an unreasonable number of pets.

  www.ndwilson.com

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  Credits

  Cover art © 2016 by Forrest Dickison

  Hand lettering © 2016 by David Coulson

  Cover design by Amy Ryan