Bad Apple (The Warner Grimoire) by Clay Held

Winters to excuse himself from the table. Simon looked with the rest of the crew, but a moment later they all fell back into their conversations without a second thought.
    “What’s going on in there?” Simon whispered to the man in the gray suit, who had lifted his head
    “Meal might be ready, sounds like,” he said, before dropping his head back on the table with a dense thud. “Wake me when it’s time.” A moment later he was snoring again, his chest lifting and falling in short, quick breaths.
    “We won’t wait for Cookie to finish the meal,” Nathan said, settling down next to Simon and fishing in his pocket. He pulled out the brown paper bag from the firehouse and handed it to Simon. “Here. Should hold you over for now.”
    Simon peered in the bag, finding a small green apple and a sandwich inside. Grateful, he rewrapped the apple and placed it on the table and began on the sandwich quietly. “Thanks,” he said. The food did not help the nervousness in his stomach. Between bites he debated the best way to ask what was rattling around in his head. Finally he took a deep breath and swallowed. “What’s in St. Louis?” He tried his hardest to sound casual, like it was no big deal, but he knew he sounded scared.
    “The Gate,” Nathan said. “We’ll be able to make it the rest of the way by ourselves from there. It’s too risky to travel by land.” He looked out one of the large windows, staring into the night for a moment. “Best for us to travel by water. Not entirely safe, but safer.”
    Simon finished the sandwich. “So why can’t Boeman follow us by water?”
    Chatter in the room choked and died off at the mention of Boeman. All eyes were definitely on Simon this time.
    “What?” Simon looked from face to startled face. “Can Boeman--”
    A startled cry rose from the older gentlemen at the end of the table. “Wait my boy, wait! Have you got no sense rolling around in that dull head? That name is a blight!” The old man closed his eyes and rolled his head. “Oh, oh this boy will be the end of this crew and this ship! Letting every loose thought drop out of his head like a squirrel losing his acorns!”
    “Quiet, Hannibal,” said Mr. Winters, returning from the galley. He voice was deep and quiet. “Boy don’t know ‘bout the boogeyman. He thinks it’s just a bedtime tale, so cut him some slack.” Hannibal started to speak again, but Mr. Winters locked him down with a piercing glare, and the room fell silent again.
    “I’m sorry,” Simon said, almost a whisper. “I didn’t know--”
    “There is nothing to worry about,” said Mr. Winters. “Just be mindful of names while on board The Idlewild .”
    “I don’t follow,” Simon said. “It’s just a name.”
    “Your name is you, my boy!” shouted Hannibal. “You bandy it about like that and things won’t stay quiet for you for long! You speak a curse like you did and you call out to it, call out to that curse, and you bring it here. You bring it down on us all!” The old man raised his arms, his great white mustache fluttering violently while he spoke. “We can’t have a curse on board! A curse like that is a blight to end all other blights! A wickedness to rattle the very gates of Thule!” He leveled his darkening eyes on Simon. “Even now, I feel if, it follows us, always behind us, ever waiting. You, boy, may have given it just the opening it needed, the opportunity to strike!” The crew began to murmur to one another worriedly, casting several looks between themselves and Simon.
    “Ridiculous!” Mr. Winters slammed a fist on the table. “Superstitious nonsense,” he said. “Now be quiet,” he said to Hannibal, who fumed silently. The crew continued to whisper to one another. “All of you,” Mr. Winters said, his voice a growl. The crew settled down again almost instantly.
    “Never a dull moment,” Nathan whispered to Simon. “The river types fancy their stories. Never mind Mr. Mustache up there,” he