The Grimm Chronicles

Vol. 2

By Isabella Fontaine

-and-

Ken Brosky

Cover art by Chris Smith. Edited by Dagny Holt.

Published 2012 by Brew City Press.

Table of Contents

(For easy navigation, duh!)

Book 4: The Orphanage of Doom

The Lost Journal part one

Book 5: Blood and Thunder

The Lost Journal part two

Book 6: The Order of the Golden Dragon

Legacy of Red (EXTRA)

Introduction!

Well, here we are again. Another three books “in the books,” so to speak. No, wait. That sounds awful. We should be able to come up with a better metaphor than that.

Um …

OK, forget it. We’re tired. The truth is, this series is becoming so much bigger than anticipated. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. It’s good because people are reading it, and reviewers are enjoying it. That obviously makes us very happy. It’s also a bad thing, because now we’ve become so invested in the series that every time we put out a new episode, we get stress pimples from anticipating the reaction. What if there’s a formatting error? What if there’s a misspelled word? WHAT IF …?

“Relax,” you tell us. That’s all well and good for you, Dear Reader. But not for us. Because, you see, we truly feel blessed to have so many readers enjoying this series. We are in your debt. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

(We also apologize for the minor formatting issues with Vol. 1, which are now fixed and must never be spoken of again.)

And we hope this series means something more than just entertainment. That’s our goal now. It started as just a story, but it’s become so much more. Alice isn’t a superhero … she’s a hero. She’s a human being with flaws who’s on the verge of going through some very difficult, trying times. Situations that you, Dear Reader, may just be able to relate to.

Oh, sure, you’ve probably never done battle with a cursed sea captain aboard a whaling vessel while a giant Corrupted fish attacks the ship … but perhaps you’ve seen a friend make some bad decisions. And we haven’t all had the pleasure of trying to stop an insane rock band dedicated to eradicating music from the world … but we have at one point or another all found ourselves tempted by some dangerous habits.

We hope that you see something in Alice, something admirable that you can bring into your own life. And we hope you join us for the 6 remaining books.

Because it only gets crazier from here …

Book 4: The Orphanage of Doom

Chapter 1

I held my foil in front of me, watching my opponent through the mesh faceguard. My teeth closed on the wad of peppermint gum I’d put in just minutes ago. The smell made the stifling air inside the mask feel cool. I shuffled forward, reaching out and stabbing quickly. My opponent stepped back, letting the tip of the blade graze off his arm. He was a full head taller than me, with broad shoulders. His free hand clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched.

Suddenly he stepped forward. Our foils clanged together. I stepped back, desperately parrying each blow. He stepped in closer and our foils crossed; we were so close now that our masks bumped into each other and I could see his face through the dark mesh. What was he thinking?

I figured it out a breath later, when I felt the tip of his foil stab into my shoulder.

“Point for Jeffrey.”

We stepped back. I fought frantically to suck in enough oxygen; the mask felt stifling. I’d lost. How had he untangled his foil?

“That’s fifteen points for Jeffrey and … three for Alice,” Mr. Whitmann announced.

I tore off my mask, handing it to one of the other boys on the team. “I wasn’t out of bounds on that fifth point, Mr. Whitmann.”

Mr. Whitmann’s bushy eyebrows raised up. “Oh really? You questioning my eyes, Goodenough?”

I lowered my head, sighing. “No, sir.”

“Next two up,” Mr. Whitmann called out. He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a killer swordswoman, Alice, but this isn’t junior-year fencing class anymore. This is a team. We’re going to be competing, and that means you need to be able to follow all of the rules. You can’t step out of bounds or they’ll kill you in tournaments.”

Great, I thought. My very first day of senior year and already I was falling behind.

Let me get you caught up quick. I’m the hero, I have a magic pen, blah blah blah blah. Over the summer I killed a bunch of really weird people from Grimms’ Fairy Tales and made a deal with a dwarf who managed to gain the upper hand and buy himself some extra time on this planet.

I’ll get him. Somehow.

But with school starting up again, I had bigger fish to fry. Those fish came in four distinct flavors: U.S. History, 21st Century Literature, Genetics, and Geometry. Fencing took up another hour. When my classes were over for the day, I had “work-based learning,” which meant I went right to the library to volunteer there for a couple hours. It would have been nice to get to do something related to nursing, which is what I wanted to do if I ever got out of the hero business, but then again the prospect of living long enough to get through college seemed improbable at best.

Tricia and Seth didn’t have “work-based learning.” Tricia had Algebra and World History in the afternoon. Seth had Programming, Study Hall, and Physics. Both of them had to play catch-up so they would be ready for college. Video games and texting took precedence too often for them to stay on top of their studies.

And Briar … hmmm. Well, in addition to keeping me on a pretty rigorous training regimen, Briar was doing his very best to find more Corrupted for me to kill. I’d been having nightmares for the past three weeks, but we couldn’t make any sense of them just yet. They were too clouded. Too vague. In every single dream, I could hear kids laughing, but I couldn’t see them. All I could see were dark tunnels. Sometimes, the tunnels turned into old rooms with glossy ancient dark wood paneling and aged furniture that looked like something right out of a Charles Dickens novel.

Then the children would start crying. I moved through each of the rooms, searching, but I never saw anything more than little shadows on the wall that quickly disappeared.

In other words: I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.

Add to that the stress of starting up school again, and it was no wonder Briar had chosen to conduct his research in a slightly less tense environment. I’m not sure exactly where he went during the day, but I have to admit I was glad to see him in my room after the first day of school was over.

Obviously, he was updating his Facebook status.

“Back from vacation?” I asked, giving him a start. I shut the door. My parents were both working late. They’d been putting in more hours because election season was coming up; all the ad agencies in town were busy putting together those awful political ads always on TV.

Briar’s ears perked up. “Hello to you, too. I trust your first day went well?”

“Oh, just great.” I plopped onto the bed. “My History teacher assigned a full chapter. I have no idea how Genetics works, like, at all … oh, and it turns out I’m not that good of a fencer.”

“Hmmm.” Briar rubbed his chin with one paw. “I think you’re all right. Your form could use some work, though …”

“I lost my first match!” I exclaimed, clawing at the air for melodramatic emphasis. “And there are only two other girls on the team. Unless more join, I won’t even be able to compete in tournaments. You need a full team.”

“Ask Trish.”

“Trish.” I snorted. “She has a full plate of classes as it is. I can only imagine how much homework she has already. And you know what the worst part is? I only have lunch period with her twice a week! What am I going to do the other days? Today I just skipped lunch entirely.”

“Well that’s no good.” The rabbit pointed to the door to my bedroom. “Go get yourself a snack right now. And I wouldn’t say no to a handful of chocolate chip cookies. And some carrots. And a glass of milk.”

I got up from the bed. “Anything else, your majesty?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. But it has nothing else to do with food. Let’s keep our priorities in order, shall we?”

“Right,” I murmured, dragging myself downstairs and into the kitchen. No one had done the dishes from the night before, so there were plates and pans of spaghetti sauce sitting in the sink. I gave each one a quick rinse, then put them in the dishwasher and turned it on. There. “Good daughter” chore of the day finished. Maybe I could even make my parents something for dinner.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Alice.” I grabbed a paper plate and began searching the cupboards for Briar’s favorite type of cookie. It wasn’t really a chocolate chip cookie. It was more of a cookie sandwich: two chocolate chip cookies glued together with vanilla icing. Being a fictional character brought to life had one advantage: no need to count calories.

I added carrots, a few slices of turkey, a few slices of Swiss cheese, and some raw broccoli around a little dip of blue cheese. Raw broccoli had quickly become a favorite of mine over the summer. It wasn’t good for replenishing calories, though, and so for the sake of keeping my energy up before our nightly training session, I also grabbed two slices of sourdough bread.

Back in my room, Briar had delved deep into the digital archives of various Midwestern newspapers. He also had one of my playlists up and running and Fiona Apple’s amazing voice was coming through the speakers. I set the big plate of food on my desk and sat on the bed, checking my phone messages.

“Two from Trish,” I said. “Oh gawd … she’s going to another party. On a Wednesday! At … Joey Harrington’s house? That can’t be right.”

“Why?” Briar asked, suddenly interested. “Is he sketchy? Is he devious? Is there perhaps some nefarious side to him that must be investigated?”

“No. It’s just that he’s the school bully. He picks on everyone.” I stared at the text message again before responding with a prompt NO. “I can’t believe Trish would want to go there. Joey’s picked on Seth a dozen times at least.”

“Such a nice fellow.” Briar crossed his legs, nibbling on a cookie sandwich. Crumbs landed on his lap and he brushed them onto the floor.

“Oh. Thanks. I really wanted to vacuum my room today.”

He gave me a curious look. “Is that a threat? Because you shouldn’t joke about vacuums.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Anything new on the dreams?”

I groaned. “Let’s see … I was moving through a big, big house with lots of old antique furniture and a big old fireplace and—”

“More details, if you please.”

“Huh?”

Briar tapped his foot impatiently. “I need more details. Details are the key to understanding your dreams.”

“Oh.” I thought back, searching my memory for something more specific. “Well, the room with the giant fireplace, there were two easy chairs. Both of them were red. There was a rug on the floor that looked Persian, I think. It had lots of blue and white. The fireplace … it had a huge carved stone mantel with a wrought iron grate.”

“Good. Good. Now tell me more.”

I closed my eyes. I could almost see the house. “The hallway was really narrow. There was a marble staircase with a dark polished wood banister. The ceilings are really tall. The walls are lined with old gas lamps, but there are also some electric lights, too.”

“Good! More.”

“Gee, I dunno. The lamps are all shaped like urns. Big, white urns with lampshades on the top. Some of them are off. They’re ugly. The hallway is dark. Lots of the rooms are dark. Every time I hear children laughing, they’re upstairs. But when I hear them crying, they’re … somewhere else. Maybe downstairs.”

“Good!” Briar spun in his chair, opening up a new web page. “So we have a big house with at least two floors and a basement.”

“At least four rooms on the first floor, too,” I said. “So it was a big house.”

The rabbit’s paws tapped on the keyboard. “All right. In the general area, there are only … fifteen thousand houses that meet those specifications.” His ears dropped. “Oh dear.”

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed. Briar was still curled up on the floor beside the desk. It was cute, in its own way. And good for him, too—he didn’t like to talk about it, but he obviously had a bit of a fear of turning visible to human beings on accident. I wasn’t sure where it came from, but it was obviously bugging him in recent weeks.

I went downstairs and poured myself a big bowl of cereal, then cut a banana into it. My mom was up, hogging the bathroom upstairs. Before the first day of school, I’d taken all of my makeup and the old spare hairdryer and brought all of it down to the cramped first-floor basement. The shower was tiny. The shower curtain was gross and had pictures of ducks. The old porcelain sink was barely big enough for me to balance my bin of toiletries on it.

Not ideal conditions. Basically, I was getting ready for school every morning in a bathroom that was only slightly more accommodating than a portable toilet.

So between the tiny bathroom and my need to get as much sleep as possible, I decided senior year was going to be “dress casual.” A little mascara, some tinted moisturizer, and no lipstick. I’d dyed my hair back to its usual black, but getting it to do anything now was impossible. The chemicals in the dye had turned my hair into a batch of straw, so for a little while at least I would have to stick with a ponytail.

The second day of school was a lot like the first: everyone excited about their new notebooks and supplies, but no one using them. My teacher in U.S. History, Mr. Feinman, was making a good first impression on all of us. There was no note-taking in his class. Instead, Mr. Feinman got us into groups on the very first day and had us teach him about the chapter we read! Then, on the second day, he got us together and had us put ourselves in the shoes of colonists during the American Revolution. Would we join, or would we stay loyal to the crown? They both had their advantages … and dangers.

I wish I could say Geometry was as good. But by just the second day, I already felt like I was two years ahead of everyone else and could barely stay focused. I wasn’t so lucky with Genetics, though. The second day in, it was clear that Y chromosomes would be the death of me and … you know what? I’m not writing about Genetics. Ever.

In fact, the only really noteworthy thing to happen on the second day came during lunch. I’d made my way hesitantly to the cafeteria in the basement, knowing full well that Seth and Trish both had a different lunch period. I would be alone, unless a casual classmate happened to be there as well.

As it was, I had a little luck on my side: Tina was there, sitting with a guy who only looked vaguely familiar. He had long blond hair, a narrow chin, and freckled cheeks. He had sunglasses on, too, and wore a jean jacket over a black t-shirt. He seemed like the kind of guy Seth would like. They could talk about heavy metal and bizarre video games and then laugh at their boogers in typical “boy” fashion.

“Hi, Tina,” I said after grabbing a grilled cheese sandwich and baked chips from the lunch counter. The entire cafeteria smelled like French fries. Based on my four years of experience, it was a permanent smell in our cafeteria. “Can I sit with you guys?”

“Sure,” Tina said with a shrug.

I sat down across from her, next to the boy with sunglasses, who was either looking at me or at the emergency exit to my right. We were at the far back of the large cafeteria, next to one of the big white pillars that seemed to hold up the entire school. Two tables away were the skater kids. The next row of tables was occupied by a mishmash of students who didn’t belong to any specific clique. Two more rows down were some of the athletes, excluding the football players. The football players and their friends all sat on the other side of the cafeteria and had pushed their tables closer together so they were away from all the other students.

Like they needed extra space or something.

“My name’s not Tina anymore, by the way,” she said.

“Oh. Well, what is it?” I asked.

“Rachel,” Tina—Rachel—said. She shrugged again, tugging at the loose neckline of her faded black blouse. “It’s my middle name.”

“And it doesn’t rhyme with hyena,” added the boy with sunglasses. “Man, what a dumb nickname.”

“Joey Harrington came up with it,” Rachel explained. “Tina Hyena. The first day of classes.”

“Right in front of physics class, too,” said the boy with sunglasses. He shook his head. “Man, that’s some roughness right there. Man!”

“I take it the teacher didn’t do anything,” I muttered. If last year was any indication, the teachers had mostly given up on disciplining Joey Harrington. Sometimes, if he got into a fight, he went down to the principal’s office. Sometimes he got detention. But Joey Harrington was still here. And apparently his senior year was going to be just like every other year.

“The teacher scolded him,” Rachel said. She tugged on her blouse again. She looked uncomfortable. The top definitely didn’t go well with her faded blue jeans and chain hanging from the belt loop. Rachel—formerly Tina—liked dark t-shirts, not blouses. So who was she trying to fool? Was she trying to fit in a little better?

That was going to be hard if she was already one of Joey Harrington’s targets. Joey was a tall guy, and athletic, too. He looked sort of like a Neanderthal: big, sloping brow and a nose that had been broken either during a hockey or football match—I couldn’t remember which. He had short blond hair and always wore polo shirts. He had one earring in his left ear, a big shiny fake diamond that glowed under the school’s fluorescent lights.

“I like the new name,” I said.

“Yeah, man,” said the boy with sunglasses. “It’s like … I dunno.”

We waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I asked, “So what’s your name?”

“Clyde,” he said. “With a Y.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Alice.” I held out a hand. He slapped it in a high-five sort of way, then smiled.

“Radical,” he said. “Just totally radical. What’s your opinion on sharing chips?”

I looked down at my plate. “I guess …”

“Radical,” Clyde said, grabbing a couple of the chips. He stuffed them all in his mouth, smiling. “These are where it’s at.”

Rachel shook her head. “Apparently radical is his new favorite word. So what are you doing over here, anyway? I thought you bounced around the lunchroom with your boyfriend.”

A bite of grilled cheese got stuck in my throat. She was right: the very fact that I’d decided to sit here instead of with the track and soccer players near the front of the cafeteria was popularity suicide! I very casually glanced over my shoulder. Yup, a couple of them were definitely looking at me. But guess what? I couldn’t even remember half of their names. I wasn’t friends with them. Edward had been friends with them.

And Edward was dead.

Or, rather, he’d “moved away.” That was the official rumor going around. And no doubt that devious dwarf Sam Grayle had helped spread the rumor to keep prying eyes away from his acquisition of Edward’s mansion and treasures inside.

“Well, Edward and I broke up,” I said. “And quite frankly, I’d rather hang out with you guys.”

Clyde smiled and reached into his pocket. “Here,” he said. “Have some gum.”

“Oh. Uh, OK. Thanks.” I took the piece of gum. Spearmint—not my favorite. Well … at least he was nice. Strange, but nice.

“So … we usually talk about Robot Attack during lunch,” said Rachel. “Do you know what that is?”

I shrugged. “Can I learn?”

Rachel exhaled a long sigh. “Well, let’s see … way in the future, people build these giant robots called Automatons and go to war with each other. Some of the Automatons have lasers and some have missiles and some have big guns. They just …”

She stopped. There was clapping at the front of the cafeteria. I turned around, straining to see over the tables of students. Someone in a wheelchair was coming through the doors.

“Is that Chase Anderson?” I asked.

“Yeah, man,” said Clyde.

Chase wheeled his way past the cash registers. Even the old cashiers were clapping. Some of Chase’s teammates on the baseball team were standing and hooting at the top of their lungs. Chase had let his brown hair grow a little longer and he’d combed it up and back into a low pompadour reminiscent of a young Elvis or James Dean. It was a total “Chase” move that only the star of the baseball team could pull off. Last year, he’d taken to wearing leather gauntlets to class. Our sophomore year, he’d shown up to the first day of school with the number .344 tattooed on his forearm. It was his batting average for his freshman year. I knew enough about baseball to understand how good that was.

Then the tattoo had started to fade because it was only temporary. But of course Chase had already fooled pretty much everyone by that point, which had been his intent all along.

He was mildly hunky, too. Not overly jock-y like the football players—just enough that you could see his muscles stretching his shirt. But as he wheeled toward the table full of his baseball teammates, he looked not just thinner but in a way almost … deflated. He was lanky and though slightly tanned, he was noticeably paler than his teammates who’d spent their summer playing on the city intramural league. He wore a faded blue Washington baseball tee and a pair of deep ink-blue jeans cuffed to reveal a pair of classic cap-toe sneakers. He had a sharp nose and bright green eyes and the hint of dark stubble on his jaw only served to further the old-Hollywood rebel vibe he seemed to be going for.

Wait. I studied him as he wheeled closer while the applause died down. No, his eyes … they weren’t quite so bright as I remembered them, either.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Drunk driver, man.” Clyde tsk-tsk’d with his tongue. “Caught him at an intersection. Wrecked his legs good. Lucky he got out of it alive.”

“It was all over the TV,” Rachel added. “Didn’t you see it on the news?”

“No.” The last time I’d seen the news, it had been a report of Grayle Bank’s generous decision to halt all foreclosures. Everyone was praising Sam Grayle, calling him the nicest guy in the world. Right. Real nice. If I hadn’t forced him to do it, if I hadn’t offered him an alternative source of revenue, he’d never have stopped. It made me sick just thinking about it.

One of the cute girls from my homeroom—Jenny Mills—went to the lunch counter and grabbed a burger and soda. The elderly cashier waved away her money with a knowing smile. Jenny returned to the baseball players’ table, handing the burger and soda to Chase. He smiled thinly, grabbed the food, and suddenly I realized there really was something different about him.

He looked defeated.

Chapter 2

Something weird happened over the course of the next two nights: two different dreams. They both came to me on each night, jockeying for my attention. First, I found myself in that same old house, wandering through the empty rooms. One of the rooms was a playroom, with little kids’ tables and brightly colored plastic toys and even an old wooden rocking horse tucked up against one corner. There were children’s books strewn about, too, but something was strange about them.

It looked staged. I know that sounds crazy, but after three months of putting away kids’ books in the library, I knew what to expect whenever a couple dozen kids were finished with their reading group. Books would be sitting on the table, sitting on the floor, resting against the wall, resting against shelves, put away improperly … you name it. Basically, it looked like a mini tornado had blown through.

But this room was different. It was as if someone had placed a book on the floor here, set another one over there by the rocking horse, set another one beside the large wooden bookshelf resting against the wall, set another one underneath the red curtains.

It all looked too careful. No books lying open. None of them damaged or ripped or bent. As if they wanted any visitors to think the kids were using these toys and books.

Then I heard the crying again. I felt pulled toward the sound, floating back into the hallway, to the far end of the house. One of the doors back here was different, and as I drifted closer I could see even with the dim lighting that this door was thicker. Older.

And then the dream changed. Happy country music kicked up. I could smell cigarette smoke. As the darkness gave way to light, I saw a bright jukebox sitting against a crusty-looking wall with chipped woodwork. In the far back, the floor was raised a couple feet into a little wooden stage. There was a pool table, too, with three balls—the four, the two and the sixteen—each sitting near a pocket. Three booths sat along the wall beside the pool table. They were all empty, the tables encrusted with old food and cigarette ashes.

“I’m not complaining,” came a voice. I felt myself slowly turning toward the other side of the room. There was a long wooden bar with old 1970’s horror movie posters—The Stepford Wives, Jaws, The Amityville Horror—spread out on the wall behind the bartender. The bartender was drying off glasses with a dirty rag, uninterested in the three guys slumped over on the barstools. Out of all of them, he was the only truly hideous one. He had a sour-looking wrinkled face and wild gray hair. He wore an apron that used to be white but was now smudged with black and red and dark yellow splotches. But mostly red. His bare arms were hairy—almost freakishly so—and his fingers were long and tapered like beer bottles.

“Then what are you doing?” asked one of the guys. They all looked like they’d spent a week camping. They had scraggly beards and wore stained t-shirts and dingy blue jeans. Their hands were encrusted with dirt.

All of them were glowing. Including the bartender.

“I’m just stating the truth,” said another guy. I drifted closer, getting a good look at his face. Underneath his beard was what had once been a handsome mug: square jaw, straight nose, dark brown eyes. But the eyes were sunken, and underneath the jaw hung a layer of fat. And his eyebrows? Well, they could have used a trim. “That guy is totally not right for her,” he continued. “I mean, she was a princess, for crying out loud. Now she’s dating an accountant? Have you ever met a handsome accountant?”

The other guys grumbled.

“She’s just going to eat him at some point anyway, right?” asked another man who was wearing a red baseball cap. He took a long drink from his glass. It looked like beer. The glass was sweating, just like the guys; I could feel the warm air in the bar. Dim lighting, no air conditioning, dirty tables … yeah, this probably was the sort of place only a bunch of Corrupted would want to hang out in.

“She doesn’t eat them,” said Eyebrows. His words slurred together. “Man, don’t you ever listen to me? She hasn’t turned that evil yet. She’s just a fledgling. I mean, yeah, sometimes she’ll eat a pigeon or maybe a cat, but who hasn’t?”

The man with the baseball cap finished his beer, tapping it on the bar a couple times to get the bartender’s attention. “I wish I just ate cats. You know what I did after I stumbled out of here last week? I ate a car. I kid you not. I was walking across the street and some guy hit me.”

“That’s bogus,” said another of the guys. He was resting his head on the bar, one finger digging in his large, freakish-looking ear. “You shoulda called the cops.”

The others looked at him.

“Anyway,” said the man with the baseball cap. “It wasn’t my fault. Maybe. I don’t remember all that well.” He grunted. “May have had a few too many. So then the guy got out of his car and asked me if I was all right. And of course I was. I had a few broken ribs, but they healed up pretty quickly. I got to my feet, and this weird hunger just … overtook me! And so I just started tearing apart his car and eating it.” He smiled dementedly. “It was pretty weird.”

“Wonderful,” mumbled the man with his head on the bar. His eyes were closed. He coughed something fierce, then licked the spittle off his lips. “So now you’re eating cars. I can’t wait to see what you’re doing in another hundred years.”

“I need to get Constance back,” said Eyebrows. He waited for the bartender to pour him another beer, then downed the entire thing before continuing. “For real this time. I should never have left her.”

“You left her seventy years ago!” exclaimed the man with the baseball cap. “Let it go already. It didn’t work out. You changed really fast and she didn’t.”

“It’s so unfair,” mumbled the half-asleep one.

There was a knock at the front door. The bartender stared at it for a moment, then glanced at the others. Eyebrows gave a sullen shrug. The bartender walked over and unlocked the door. A young man wearing a black t-shirt walked through. He looked around. “Isn’t there a rock show here tonight?”

The bartender smiled a yellow-toothed smile. “No show tonight. Tomorrow night. But why don’t you have a beer on the house so long as you’re here?”

“Sure,” said the young man. “I’ve never turned down a free beer!”

The bartender licked his lips. The scene darkened, but not before I saw the bartender shut the front door, locking it.

The next night’s dream was even stranger. And worse. First, I went through that very same mansion again. I saw shadows moving along the walls but every time I turned, I found only empty rooms. I was beginning to get scared, even though I knew I wasn’t actually there. It was almost as if someone was stalking me.

Or hiding from me.

In just moments, the dream changed back to the bar. Instead of country music playing this time, there was the sound of a beating drum. The pool table and the other tables were pulled back against the wall. A band was set up on the little stage. Tall black amplifiers stood on either side of the drummer. It was the guy with the baseball cap. The bassist was the formerly half-asleep one. The guitar player was Eyebrows himself, one hand held tightly around the neck of his sleek red guitar to mute the strings.

In front of them were a hundred screaming fans. Everyone was dressed in dark clothes. Most had piercings. They were all cheering as the drummer picked up the tempo, the thumping of the bass drum so loud that the half-empty glasses of beer sitting on the bar hopped with each thump.

And the bartender? Well, he couldn’t have cared less. He had bright yellow plugs in both his ears and was the only person in the room not nodding along to the drumbeat. He refilled a half-dozen cups with more beer, then stared out at the crowd.

He had the same sour look on his face as the previous night.

“Are you ready?” Eyebrows shouted into the microphone. His voice blared through the heavy black speakers. The crowd cheered. They were packed in tightly, hands raised high in the air.

“Then let’s rock!” And with that, Eyebrows played a heavy chord. The crunching, distortion-driven sound escaped the speakers, flooding the room. Eyebrows changed to a new chord, then another, and by the third chord everyone in the room was dancing and cheering.

His finger slipped and one chord came out all wrong and out of key. The crowd’s dancing stopped instantaneously. Some of the people looked around, confused.

Eyebrows moved his fingers a little bit on the fret board, fixing the note. The dancing started up again. It seemed like everyone loved these guys … who were they? If only Seth were here, I thought; he would recognize the music for sure. It was hard rock, with crunching guitars and heavy bass drums and a furious tempo.

So furious, in fact, that I was surprised the people kept dancing. For a moment, it looked like just another rock concert—albeit one more exciting than any I’d ever witnessed—but then I saw two people in the crowd look at each other, and I recognized the look immediately.

Fear.

Eyebrows let another chord ring out while he took a long swig from his beer. Then he picked up the tempo, quickly moving into a melodic solo. The crowd danced harder. They were cheering now—no, not cheering … crying out! They were in pain. They couldn’t stop. It wasn’t long before a handful of them collapsed in exhaustion, but still they writhed around on the floor. Some tried to escape, pushing each other over, unable to stop dancing.

The exit was locked. The bartender smiled his yellow smile. Some shouted at him, others cried out. The music got faster.

More people collapsed. Eyebrows slowed the tempo to a smooth groove, and the handful of brave fools who’d tried rushing the stage found themselves unable to move forward. They swayed left and right, almost as if hypnotized.

I felt a cold breeze rush past me. The lights above flickered. More people in the crowd dropped to the floor, their legs still dancing in the air. Something began to escape from their open mouths: a blue essence, like a wisp of smoke, traveling to the little stage.

Eyebrows opened his mouth, inhaling. Sucking up every last wisp.

I woke up sweaty, clutching my sheets tightly. “What the crap!”

“Huh? What?” Briar got up from his place on the floor, blinking a few times. He smacked his mouth. “What is it? Dogs? Wild dogs?”

“Two dreams,” I said, turning off my buzzing alarm. I squinted in the morning sunlight. “Two separate dreams for two straight nights. What the heck does it mean?”

“It means the Corrupted are jockeying for your affection.” He yawned, stretching his arms over his head. “What’s for breakfast?”

“I’ll leave you a bagel,” I muttered.

It was Thursday, which meant I got to eat lunch with Trish and Seth. I also had only one hour of chores at the library and the rest of the day would be mine. Thankfully! I had forty pages of reading to for my Lit class. We were starting Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver. Forty pages wasn’t that hard, but given the intensity of my dreams, I had a feeling I was going to need to set aside some time for serious butt kicking.

Oh, and fencing? Let’s not even talk about it. Suffice it to say I was coming along slowly, working with the more advanced students. Yeah, I know it seemed like I was pretty hot stuff for a while there. But the fact of the matter is Junior year’s class was just that: a class. This was the team now. This was serious. And if I wanted to compete, one of the things I would need to learn how to do was counter-riposte.

The lesson was drilled into me on Thursday. Again and again.

“Counter-riposte!” Mr. Whitmann shouted. “Counter, Alice! This ain’t class anymore. This is the real deal!”

“Don’t know what that means,” I muttered, hopping back to avoid my opponent’s foil. Underneath the mesh mask was Barry Jones, one of the boys’ team’s top fencers. He was brutal, unrelenting, pushing me back again and again. Every time I thought I had successfully parried his attacks, his blade seemed to snake around mine with a mind all its own.

The tip of the foil was dulled, and our protective clothing was thick … but that didn’t mean a good blow didn’t hurt if it snuck past the armor.

“All right,” Mr. Whitmann announced. He marked the score on his clipboard. “That’s fifteen to eight. Jones wins. Everyone shower up.”

I tore off my mask. I was momentarily surprised to see Chase sitting in his wheelchair next to the bench press machine on the far end of the fencing mats. He high-fived the other boy fencers, then glanced in my direction.

“Mr. Whitmann?” I said, spinning around. “You got a minute?”

The big old buffoon stopped and turned around, absently scratching a fleck of dry skin on his cheek. “Yeah?”

“You know, I’d do a lot better if you paired me up with one of the girls.”

Mr. Whitmann’s big bushy eyebrows rose. “I guess that’s true. What of it?”

“Well … I’m just saying …”

“You join this team to win, Goodenough?”

I nodded, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“Well, you fight Jasmine and Margaret, and you’re gonna whump ‘em. They’re young pups. I still gotta get the basics down with them before our first tournament. That’s if we even have a tournament because we’re still one girl short for the team. But if we do get one more girl, you better believe I want you leading the pack, and if you’re gonna lead the pack, I need you to be the best. And the only way you’re gonna be the best is if you can beat guys like Jones.”

“Oh.” I pulled my hair back behind my ears. “Um …”

“Hit the showers, Goodenough. And next time you attack one of the boys, you’d better have your footwork down. And I want to see a counter-riposte.”

“Counter-riposte,” I muttered after my shower. “Counter-riposte.”

“What does that even mean?” Margaret asked from the next locker. All three of us had to stick together in the large locker room so we could share makeup. The locker room was part of the oldest section of the school building, and all of the lockers were painted a dull green color. The old dusty fans didn’t suck up all the steam from the showers, either, making putting on makeup a nightmare.

“It’s a counter-parry,” I said. “So when you’re attacking the other person and they parry, you attack again.”

Margaret shook her head, applying dark lipstick. She puckered for the little mirror in her locker. “I really thought this was going to be more like Lord of the Rings.”

“Shut up, me too!” said Jasmine. “Not that I don’t like it. You know what they’re doing in gym this semester? Badminton and roller skating! So gross.”

I laughed. “Where are the gym teachers going to get thirty pairs of roller skates?”

Jasmine rolled her dark eyes. “Oh, they have plenty of old pairs lying around. Rusty ones with wobbly wheels that are probably going to break off and end up killing someone. Then we’ll have a real scandal here.”

“Do either of you know someone who would join the team?” I asked. “We need one more if we want to compete.”

Margaret laughed. “Alice, you’re the most popular out of the three of us. Neither of us belongs to a clique. I mean, geez, weren’t you dating that stud Edward last year? He had about a million friends you could ask.”

“I don’t belong to a clique either. I don’t really know those people.” I said defensively. “And I, uh, broke up with Edward.”

Jasmine looked surprised. “Are you nuts? Guys like Edward don’t come around very often.”

“No … they definitely don’t.” I sighed, tucking my hair back. There was no point in getting annoyed with Jasmine or Margaret—they didn’t know about Edward’s secret, and there’s no way I could possibly explain it. And they were both nice girls. Not very popular, and they sometimes texted during class, but friendly enough. Margaret ran with a crowd of dedicated video game fans and sometimes crossed paths with Seth. Jasmine stuck close to two other girls of Indian descent, all of them art majors who specialized in the abstract. Apparently they were darned good, but it kept them on the fourth floor most of the day. The art students were isolated and seemed to prefer it that way.

“Well, I guess I could try and get Rachel,” I said.

Jasmine’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Um … Tina. You know Tina.”

“Oh, right.” She nodded, giving Margaret a look. “Tina Hyena. The girl who wears the weird chain wallet.”

“She’s G-A-Y, you know,” Margaret said, spelling out the word. Her voice had lowered.

“Then I don’t know if I want her in the locker room with us,” Jasmine said. “It would be...”

I shut my locker a little harder than necessary. “It would be what? She’s nice. And a decent fencer. Who cares if she’s gay?”

Margaret held up her hands in mock defeat. “Ask her if you want. I don’t have a problem with it. But the boys might pick on her.”

“Not if I can help it,” I said quietly.

At lunch, I found Seth and Trish sitting near the front with some of the track kids and a couple of the football guys and their girlfriends. Trish was eating a salad, laughing at a story being told by one of the big sandy-haired jocks on the other side of the table. Seth ate one of his French fries covered in ketchup, looking on with a bored expression.

“Hey, butthead,” I said, plopping into the seat next to him.

He turned, eyeing my ham-and-cheese sandwich and milk box. “Nice lunch.”

“It’s healthier than a lake of ketchup. What’s up?”

He made a choking sound as the sandy-haired jock told another bad joke about his nether regions. “Save me.”

“Alice!” Trish said, leaning around Seth. She put her arm around him. “Alice, please tell Seth he can never wear this shirt again.”

I looked at his shirt. It was black—of course—with a terrifying image of some kind of mutant deer with multiple mouths staring back at me. “Yikes! What the heck is Mastodon?”

“It’s a heavy metal band,” Seth said defensively. “An awesome heavy metal band.”

“Can you believe I bought him a forty-dollar button-down shirt before school started and he still hasn’t worn it?” Trish asked with a sour face.

“Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he burned it,” I said with a smile.

Trish looked put off for a second. Then her face warmed again. “Alice! Alice, this is Ted.” She reached out, grabbing one of the track boys sitting at the table behind us. He nearly fell back, turning and sticking out a foot before he could slip out of his chair. He was a pretty cute guy: blonde spiky hair, narrow jaw, little nose, and a very respectable blue striped shirt with short sleeves to show off his muscles.

“Hi,” he said with a warm smile.

“Hi,” I said.

“You guys should totally go out,” Trish said. “Like, this weekend.”

My eyebrows shot up.

When the bell rang, I held Trish back, giving Ted a polite smile when he waved goodbye before joining his track buddies in the hustle to their next class.

“Careful!” Trish whined. “This is silk.” She nodded to her bright blue shirt. It was cute, with a ruffle trim and front button placket.

“Sorry,” I said, letting go of the soft fabric. “But seriously, what are you doing?”

“I’m getting you back in the game,” Trish said. She shrugged, smiling at a handful of football players walking by. They were all the same: big shoulders, no necks, and short haircuts that made them look especially mean. It seemed as if they had one big closet they all shared, switching out between blue striped shirts, jerseys, and t-shirts with pictures of skulls on them.

Yes I’m being a bit harsh here. No I don’t care.

“I don’t need to get back into the game,” I said.

“Yeah,” Seth piped up. “She’s got way more important things to do.”

I shot him a glare, satisfied when he shrank back a bit. We walked toward the front of the cafeteria, the last to leave.

“Listen,” Trish said in the same voice my mom used to scold me, “you’re quickly losing your popularity. Ditching Edward was tough, I totally understand that, but this is senior year we’re talking about, baby! You need a boyfriend who’s going to keep you in the right groups.”

“Unlike me,” Seth added.

“Awwww!” Trish wrapped her arm in his, giving his hand a squeeze. “You have me. I’m the popular one now. Look.” She stopped us, holding out one leg. On her back pocket was a gold embroidered B. “These are Berrywise jeans. The newest trend. Totally impossible to find, like, anywhere.”

“Ooooookay,” I said. “As much as I’d love to compare jeans, I need to get to History class.”

“Don’t forget!” Trish called out after me. “Your date is Friday night!”

I gave a wave, heading to the south stairwell. I hurried my way up to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time and feeling a good burn in my legs. As I slipped into room 245, I gave Mr. Feinman a nod, finding my place in the middle row. Mr. Feinman was standing at the podium in the front of the room, reading from our textbook as he always did before class. Some of the students thought Mr. Feinman was reading up because he didn’t know U.S. history very well. But given how much Mr. Feinman taught us that wasn’t in our textbooks, I had a sneaking suspicion my classmates were wrong.

The bell rang. The quiet conversations stopped.

“All right,” Mr. Feinman announced. He was a tall man with short dark red hair that was retreating from his forehead. He wore long-sleeve collar shirts—always some variation on the theme of plaid—and khakis. His boots were brown, tough, and made clomping noises on the tile floor as he stepped out from behind the podium.

The classroom itself didn’t look so much like a classroom as it did an art room. There were posters along the walls everywhere, even along the front of his old wooden desk in the corner of the room. They were posters drawn by students, which was one of his favorite class activities for some reason. Already after not quite a week of class, the unused blackboard in the back of the room was nearly full. What was this place going to look like at the end of the semester?

“Today, we’re going to learn about Thomas Jefferson,” Mr. Feinman said. “Specifically, his founding of the University of Virginia.”

“He was the president, though,” said one of the students in the back.

Mr. Feinman snapped his fingers, which seemed to be a quirk of his. “That he was, Bryce. That he was. But he also founded a university. Jefferson loved the idea of educating people on a variety of things—including science. He also let the students choose their own courses. It was a remarkable achievement that wasn’t easy to accomplish.”

“Why did he do it then?” asked Margaret, who was sitting near the front. It looked like she was taking a lot of notes, despite the fact that Mr. Feinman had said during the first day of class that it wasn’t necessary.

“Because he loved education!” Mr. Feinman exclaimed. “It was a passion of his. Let me read you this quote.” He closed his copy of the school history book and pulled out a much smaller book from underneath. He cleared his throat. “Health, time, labor, on what in the single life which nature has given us, can be better bestowed than on this immortal boon to our country? The exertions and the mortifications are temporary; the benefit eternal.”

I sighed. A dead president after my own heart.

Mr. Feinman looked up. The class was strangely silent. Even the couple of jocks in the back seemed temporarily focused. “After his friend in the Virginia Congress read those words, he said, ‘Well! That does it. We’ll get you the funds for this university. But you’d better stop asking us for money for a while!’ ”

The class laughed a bit, more at Mr. Feinman’s impression of a stuffy old man than the actual story.

Mr. Feinman continued, “You see, Jefferson believed that education was the best tool to fight tyranny. And he didn’t believe it should only be a privilege for the wealthy who could afford it. He wanted everyone to have the right to an education, even if they came from a poor family. Knowledge is power.”

Knowledge is power. Oh, you have no idea, Mr. Feinman.

After History, I left and took the bus to the library. Fran was working, and she gave me a mildly pleasant smile as I set my purse under the checkout desk. She still had her house. Sam Grayle was sticking to his end of the deal. Fran and Mary both seemed to have a newfound zest for the library, and now whenever I arrived I was just as likely to stay at the checkout desk as I was to put away books. Fran and Mary both wanted the extra exercise of wandering around putting away books because, in their words, they were “drinking a lot of lattes and mochas lately.”

“Fran, do we have any good books on Thomas Jefferson?” I asked.

Fran wrinkled her little nose. “This is a library, young lady. I should hope we have at least a handful of good books on Thomas Jefferson.”

“Right,” I said. “Of course. Do you want me to put away the returns?”

Fran smiled and shook her head. “This stack is mine. You can have the next one.”

And off she went, grabbing the stack of books and making her way upstairs. She was so much more full of life now that it was unreal.

I spent an hour cleaning off the area around the checkout desk. Both Fran and Mary had a tendency to leave empty soda bottles and candy wrappers sitting around the computer, not to mention any paperwork that needed to be done whenever there was spare time. I stacked the paperwork and threw away all the garbage, then grabbed the bottle of glass cleaner from the cabinet in their office and wiped everything down, including the computer’s keyboard.

“What’s up?”

I glanced up, surprised to see both Seth and Briar standing on the other side of the counter. I glanced around—the only people in the library were either down by the computer table or tucked away between the tall shelves.

“I’m cleaning the keyboard,” I said. “It’s a breeding ground for germs.”

“That’s gross,” Seth said. He glanced at Briar. “Do you have germs?”

The rabbit grabbed his vest in a defensive posture. “I think not. Even if I were—ahem!—real, I’m in pristine shape. Never been sick.”

“So lucky,” Seth said. “I’ve got, like, a dozen allergies. Trees, grass, cockroaches …”

I made a gagging noise. “OK, stop. What are you doing here? School’s not over yet.”

Seth shrugged. “My last period is study hall. No one even takes attendance. I’m trying to get into the Work Release program, too. I’d rather work an hour vacuuming carpets than sit in study hall.”

“A foolish choice,” Briar said in a concerned whisper. His eyes narrowed. “Your friend is no doubt insane to choose vacuums over anything.”

“Carpets?” I asked.

Seth smiled and nodded. “I got a part-time job cleaning up at a little software company downtown. It’s awesome. I don’t get to work on any projects, and I clean a lot of toilets, but it’s still really cool being around programmers. They’re nice. Incredibly weird, but nice.”

“Well congrats to you, my friend.” I glanced to the stairs to make sure Fran was still out of sight, then turned to Briar with a curious eye. “Why are you here?”

The rabbit’s mouth creased into a little smile. “Why, to say ‘hello.’ Of course.”

“Hello to you, too.” I smiled. “Did you guys carpool?”

The looked at each other. “Er, no,” said Briar. “I bumped into him outside the building and thought it would be polite to greet him.”

“He was visible,” Seth said.

The white fur on Briar’s cheeks puffed out. “It was intentional. I think. I hope.”

“So what’s the plan?” Seth asked, rubbing his hands together. “Any Corrupted that need killing?”

“OK, first off: lower your voice.” I leaned over the counter. “Secondly, you are not part of this insane secret battle for earth.”

Seth’s eyes widened. “You just made it sound so cool.”

“I must agree,” Briar added. “If I didn’t know any better, I would foolishly assume this ‘insane secret battle’ was actually fun.”

“You get my point,” I snapped. “You know what you guys could do if you’re bored? Go start looking stuff up on Thomas Jefferson. I have to write a report on him.”

Seth grimaced. “Meh. I think I’ll just read up on programming instead.”

Briar watched him walk toward the shelves on the other side of the library, then made to follow. I reached over and grabbed him by the vest.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said, adjusting his vest. “Never better. Why?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You were visible outside? Seth just happened to be able to see you?”

Briar’s ears lowered. “A slip-up and nothing more.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Fine. Any new research?”

“I’ve been looking up some fairy tales to try and pinpoint whom you’re up against,” he whispered. “I do believe I found a potential Corrupted that fits perfectly into your dream about the concert of rocks.”

“Rock concert, Briar. It was a rock concert.” I glanced over his shoulder at the staircase. Still empty. Fran was really taking her time, thankfully. “Who?” I asked.

“There is a fiddler in the story The Miser in the Bush who had a fiddle that caused everyone to dance when he played it.”

“That’s perfect!” I whispered. “That has to be him. Now we just need to find him.”

The rabbit clicked his tongue. “I think …”

I shook my head vigorously as Fran made her way down the stairs. Briar promptly disappeared.

“Alice,” Fran said in a quiet voice, “if you’d like to leave early today … you may do so.”

“Really? Yeah! Yeah I would. Thanks, Fran!” I hurried and got Seth, nearly knocking over Invisible Briar in the process.

Outside, it was cloudy and hot, and the air felt thick and heavy. It was the kind of weather that makes your clothes stick to your skin if you stay outside for too long. There was almost certainly a storm coming.

“Crap, I hate this weather,” Seth muttered, sticking out his tongue. He tugged on his black t-shirt a few times. “Freakin’ Wisconsin.”

I nodded. “The evening run tonight is going to be sticky and gross.”

“I find it rather enjoyable,” said Briar, glancing up at the sky. “This heat reminds me of Georgia, which is always close to my heart.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “You animals need a ride home or what?”

“No, they don’t.”

The sound of that voice sent a flood of adrenaline through my body. I turned toward the street where a black limo sat waiting at the curb, shiny as if it had just been washed and waxed. My hand reached for the fountain pen in my pocket.

Sam Grayle stood beside the limo.

Chapter 3

Then the miser said, “Bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake.” But the countryman seized his fiddle, and struck up a tune, and at the first note judge, clerks, and jailer were in motion; all began capering, and no one could hold the miser. At the second note the hangman let his prisoner go, and danced also, and by the time he had played the first bar of the tune, all were dancing together—judge, court, and miser, and all the people who had followed to look on.[i]

“I do hope you’ll relax,” Sam said once Briar and I were both seated across from him inside the spacious limo. I had one hand in the pocket of my jeans, the tips of my fingers clutching the fountain pen.

“Please enjoy a canned beverage,” he added in his most cordial voice, waving a hand toward the small fridge that sat below the TV. On the TV, financial numbers from the stock market were rolling quickly across the screen. The numbers were green if the stock’s value was up, and red if the stock’s value was down. There were a lot of greens.

“We don’t need your hospitality,” I said.

There was the unmistakable sound of a soda can being opened. I turned and saw Briar bring a can of cola to his mouth.

He shrugged. “I was thirsty. But I’ll have you know I shan’t thank him for it!”

Sam smiled. It seemed forced, unnatural on his hardened face. He was wearing a gray suit coat—like always—and a dark red tie.

“So what do you want?” I asked, unwilling to sit back in the comfortable seat. Beside me, Briar sipped his soda, clutching the can with both paws.

Sam crossed his legs. Between us was a small circular table cluttered with documents. He sighed, tapping on the documents a few times. “Away with the pleasantries, then. I have a tip for you.”

“A tip?” I glanced at Briar. His long ears perked up, bumping into the ceiling of the limo and folding over.

Sam nodded. “There is a … property that I have an intense desire to own. A mansion located downtown.”

“I thought you had Edward’s mansion.”

“No, young lady.” He rolled his dark eyes. “I sold that mansion as soon as I removed the skeletons. That money is sitting in my bank where it belongs. I want this new mansion to live in. But as of right now, it’s officially an orphanage.”

“Oh, so you just want me to kick some orphans out on the street,” I grumbled. “Great. That sounds like a ton of fun, Mr. Grayle. When I’m done, are there any puppies you’d like me to kill?”

He sighed. “This particular mansion is the very reason I moved Grayle Incorporated to Milwaukee in the first place. I’ve had my eye on it for nearly two decades, but its owner is a fickle one. To put it bluntly, she’s a wrinkled old prune. A dangerous one at that.”

Briar smacked his lips together. “Rather rude of you not to offer us something to eat.”

Sam waved a hand to the little pullout wooden drawer under our seat. Briar reached in, grabbing a handful of expensive-looking individually wrapped crackers with the product name written in glossy silver letters. A pile of crumbs quickly gathered in his lap.

“As I was saying,” the Corrupted dwarf continued, “I’ve been spending a good portion of my free time digging into the personal life of the old hag who runs the orphanage. It would be political suicide to publicly go after such a well-intentioned institution, so I thought perhaps a little blackmail would work better.”

“Classic Corrupted,” Briar scoffed. A mouthful of crumbs exited his mouth in the process.

Sam ignored him. “But I found little, if anything, on the woman’s history. I realized then and there that I was searching for the wrong information.” He reached out and grabbed one of the pieces of paper sitting on the table. He handed it to me.

“The Juniper-Tree,” I read. The next words were familiar enough: “By the Brothers Grimm.”

“I take it you can check your copy and see if any of the characters in this particular story have already been … ah, eliminated, so to speak.” He saw the surprised look on my face and frowned. “Oh come now. Of course I know about the book with the names crossed out. Do you think me a fool?”

“No,” I grumbled. I stared at the piece of paper. It was just one page of the story, but it was familiar enough: a horrible stepmother kills her husband’s first son, and of course chaos ensues. “Who do you think it is from this story?”

“No doubt the stepmother,” Sam said. “From what I know about the head of the orphanage,” he checked another piece of paper on the table, “Ms. Gwyneth York bears a striking resemblance to the stepmothers of the Grimms’ fairy tales: stern, cold, authoritative.”

I smiled. “So you could potentially be one as well?”

Briar coughed out bits of cracker, chuckling.

Sam Grayle’s face darkened. “Laugh it up, furball.”

I looked down at the paper again. “But the stepmother dies at the end. She’s crushed by a stone.”

“Ah, not quite,” Sam said with a raised finger. “She disappears, but she doesn’t die. I know this for a fact because I happened upon her in the year 1845. Back then, I was still mining for gold anywhere I could. The stepmother, who’d taken the name Fran Merkel, was hiring miners to dig into a pit.”

“Curious,” Briar said, narrowing one eye. “Why a pit?”

Sam shook his head. “It was never specified. But she was clearly looking for something. And when she didn’t find it, she moved west and started the process all over again. I don’t believe she knew I was a Corrupted, but I could smell it on her well enough. She had the nasty tendency to let her miners die rather than spend the extra money reinforcing the mine walls.” He smiled. “It would have been admirable had I not found myself on the wrong end of it so many times.”

I tapped the piece of paper, thinking. “The dreams I’ve had … it was in a big house. A mansion. I heard kids. This has to be the same house in my dreams.”

“Good,” said the dwarf. He leaned back. “Then I can trust you to complete this task in a reasonable amount of time.”

“Yes,” I said. “Definitely. But first, I need to go up to Minneapolis.”

The limo stopped. I glanced out the window: we were parked outside my house. Sam was staring at me. Glaring at me.

“Why, exactly, do you need to go to Minneapolis?”

“Because there’s a crazy Corrupted fiddler making people dance until they pass out and then sucking weird blue smoke from them.”

The dwarf didn’t say anything at first, probably expecting me to add a “Just kidding!” Finally, a low growl escaped his throat. “Very well. But I expect this to be completed soon. That was our agreement, Alice.”

“I’ll live up to it,” I said. “You’ll get your mansion, and you’ll get it soon.”

Sam said nothing at first, then leaned over and reached into his pocket. Briar immediately clutched my arm, spilling the last few unopened packages of crackers to the floor. I pulled out the fountain pen, ready to strike.

Sam raised an eyebrow, then withdrew a twenty-dollar bill. He held it out.

“What’s that?” I asked.

The dwarf smiled. “Gas money.”

“Well!” Briar said once the limo had driven off. “We certainly could have done without that. Such a gloomy end to a perfect day.”

“I guess.” I walked up the driveway with him, spinning the fountain pen around in my palm. “Still, that twenty bucks could have come in handy. Me and my scruples.”

“Scruples?” the rabbit asked, his whiskers twitching.

“Yeah. It means ethics or principles. I didn’t want to take the money because I didn’t want to … well, I just didn’t want to take money from someone like him.”

“Ah. Perfectly understandable. Um …” He tapped me on the shoulder before I could open the front door. “If you could, just check first to see if the coast is clear? The soda has made me feel out of sorts, and I fear I might accidentally turn visible.”

I went inside first to make sure the coast was clear, then shooed Briar upstairs.

“Alice?” my mom called out from the kitchen.

“Yeah, Mom.” I hung my purse on the coat rack beside the front door. My mom had done us all the favor of getting our autumn jackets from the basement in preparation for the cool weather to come. They were hanging from big (my dad’s dark leather jacket) to small (my violet windbreaker).

“We’re eating dinner in one hour. Can you please clean your room?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. Totally a teenager kind of question, I know! But sometimes I liked giving her a tough time.

“I mean pick up your bras and your undies,” Mom called out.

Even in the empty living room, my face reddened. “Geez, OK. Where’s Dad?”

“He’ll be home in half an hour.”

I went upstairs. Briar was already at the computer, checking his email. Yup, the rabbit had email now. And he had quite a few unread messages, too.

“Who are all those from?” I asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Professors, historians and the like,” he answered. His paw waved me away. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to get some work done.”

“You sound like my dad from when I was a kid,” I said, picking up all of the clothes littering my floor. I tossed them in the hamper in my closet. “Put on …”

“The Thinking playlist?” Briar suggested.

“Yes. Definitely. Let’s do some thinking.”

Pearl Jam played through the speakers. Next up would be Death Cab for Cutie and then Dessa and then some good old-fashioned Neil Young. It was the first mix Briar and I had compiled together. We’d titled it Thinking because we liked to believe it got our minds going. Music has that power, you know?

“We need to find more information about this orphanage,” Briar said. “We need to know what we’re up against.”

“We know already.” I tossed another armload of clothes into the hamper. “Mean stepmother who killed her husband’s kid. Totally evil. Probably killing the orphans or something else equally awful.” I groaned. “And then there’s the fiddler in Minneapolis who’s doing who-knows-what to his audiences.”

“Double dreams are incredibly rare,” said the rabbit, very casually updating his Facebook status to “Reading.” As if I wouldn’t notice.

I sat down on my bed, scrolling through the list of text messages. Three of them were from Trish, reminding me about my date. One was from Seth, reminding me about a monster movie playing on Channel 42 tonight.

“We will have to choose whom to confront first,” said Briar. “With any luck, your dream tonight will make things clearer. We …” He let out a cute little bunny groan. His paw went to his stomach. “Oh dear. I do believe that dastardly dwarf has poisoned me.”

“Are you OK?” I leaned forward, resting a hand on his furry forehead. “You don’t have a fever … I don’t think so, at least. I have no idea how to tell if you’re sick or not! What do I do? Should I call a vet?”

“Ung …” He groaned again, leaning back in my chair. “He’s poisoned me. I’m done for! This is how the story of Br’er Rabbit finally ends! A can of poisoned drink and now I’ll be pushing up daisies before dawn! I … I …”

His eyes crossed. His mouth opened. A loud burp escaped.

We both looked at each other. His ears raised a bit.

“I feel much better now.”

I shook my head. “You’re gassy. Geez, you had me worried, you big doofus. I’ll get you some milk after I eat. Until then, lie down.” The rabbit did was he was told. I smiled. “Good boy.”

Chapter 4

I woke the next morning drenched in sweat. Last night’s dream hadn’t been entirely clear, but I’d seen enough to have me more than a little frightened. It had been dark and I was outside of a bar called The Triangle. The street was wet and filled with big cracks and potholes, empty except for a few rusty old cars parked along the curb.

Then I saw it: a dark, hulking shadow that seemed at first to be painted to the brick wall of the old two-story building that housed The Triangle. But then the bar’s sign, hanging from a post above the door, began to swing back and forth. The shadow moved closer to me, no longer a shadow at all but something real, something three dimensional: a creature made of black smoke. It seemed to glide over the sidewalk, moving closer to me. It had eyes, and both eyes had that familiar golden Corrupted glow.

Arms appeared from the smoky cloud, then claws that reached down and clutched the concrete, tearing it like paper. It stalked closer. It made no sound and the street was silent. All I could hear was the hiss of tires on wet roads somewhere on the next block.

Above us, the streetlight flickered out. The smoke creature seemed to grow larger, moving closer toward me.

“He can’t see me, he can’t see me,” I kept whispering.

I floated backward, crossing to the other side of the street and under the comforting glow of the next streetlight. The creature crossed slowly, clawing at the ground and pulling up chunks of concrete in the process.

When it reached the curb, it stopped. The smoke seemed to lower, hugging the ground. I heard the sound of footsteps and slowly turned. The footsteps grew louder as a young woman wearing big white headphones turned the corner, heading straight for me. She looked ahead, humming some song to herself.

She walked closer. The black smoke warped into little finger-like curls, slinking along the curb, slipping along the concrete. As it passed over the grass of the boulevard, each blade wrinkled up, its color draining.

“I got to hide from you, baby,” the girl sang, walking closer. She had her hands in the pockets of her ripped jeans, her little mini-mp3 player hanging onto the collar of her tight yellow t-shirt.

The smoke slipped closer. I tried to follow it, but I had no control. I tried again, willing myself to run. Maybe I could reach her and somehow push her out of the way.

But it was too late. The smoke slipped up the girl’s legs, wrapping itself tightly around her torso and squeezing. Her eyes widened. She gasped, her headphones falling off her head. The smoke squeezed tighter, and when the girl opened her mouth a strange blue cloud escaped, rolling down her chin like drool and disappearing inside the smoke.

It pulled away, slinking along the curb. The girl blinked a few times, looked around, then picked up her headphones. I could hear the music playing through the speakers. The girl listened for a moment, then pulled them off again and tossed her mp3 player onto the ground before walking past me.

“I’m telling you, that was it,” I told Seth on the ride to school. Trish was already out sick on the very first Friday of the school year, so it was just us in his mom’s car.

“The Triangle,” Seth said thoughtfully, turning left at the next set of traffic lights. “What does the rabbit have to say about it?”

“Oh, he’s always ‘certain doom’ this and ‘certain doom’ that. He doesn’t know what it is.”

“Well, I can tell you what the lyrics are from.”

I turned to him. “Huh?”

“The lyrics that the girl was singing. They’re from a band called The Peasants. Good band. Hardly ever play live.” He shrugged. “Haven’t heard much from them lately. The music scene in Minneapolis seems like it just died this year.”

“Died …” I thought back to the girl. She hadn’t died. But after the little puff of smoke escaped her mouth, it had seemed as if the music had made her visibly annoyed.

“Yeah, I swear it’s like, a bunch of bands just stopped playing or something. It’s really weird. I always check out the concert venues up in Minneapolis and, like, nothing is selling out. Not even the big acts.”

“Hmmmm.” I glanced out the window, thinking. There had to be a connection to the fiddler. But why was the smoke creature stealing music? And why couldn’t anyone remember it happening?

During fencing, I got paired up with two more boys, both of whom refused to go easy on me.

“These boys are killers,” Mr. Whitmann announced, and the other boys growled ferociously. Even Chase, who sat in his wheelchair at the end of the row of folding chairs, made a bemused little growling noise.

I got closer this time, focusing on keeping myself inbounds as I danced back and forth on the mat. But once again, I found myself defeated at the end of class. Sweating. Angry. Frustrated.

“You want some free advice?”

I turned to Chase, who was wheeling himself around the soft floor mats. The space was tight, and for a moment his right wheel got caught on the corner of one of the bench press machines. He sighed, shaking his head. One of the other boys—Scott—moved to help but Chase waved him away, rolling the chair back a few inches and then pushing the wheels forward again. He still had his hair styled like Elvis from the 50’s, combed to the side as if he was a troublemaker from a black-and-white movie. And he was wearing a simple red t-shirt and dark jeans, too—no baseball jersey.

“Fine,” I said. “Let me have it. But just so you know, I’m in a bad mood. And I’m holding a sword.”

He smiled. “You’re letting your stance open up whenever you attack. It’s making you more vulnerable to counter-attacks.”

My mind reeled. Was he right? Was I screwing up my stance?

“I have another piece of advice, too.”

“Fine,” I said hurriedly. “Out with it.”

He shook his head. “How about a deal? You help me with my English paper and I’ll help you with your fencing.”

“English?” I frowned. “Is this a trick? Last English class I had with you, you spent two weeks laughing at a crude joke from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

He looked down at his legs, then up at me with a “what are you talking about” kind of expression. “My baseball career is on hold, if you haven’t noticed. Rehab could take a year or more. I need to finish senior year with good grades so I have all my options open.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I could help you … what’s your paper on?”

“I picked a book,” he said, wheeling beside me as we made our way out of the gym. “The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie. Now I have to write about it.”

I tried to hide my surprise. “I’ve read that book. I really liked it.”

He shrugged. “I know it’s technically Young Adult, but I’m a big fan of Native American books. And the story’s just really good. And stuff.”

I laughed. “And stuff.”

“So you’ll help me?”

“Sure. We could meet tonight—crap! We can’t. Ugh. I have a date tonight.”

Chase smiled. “Oh darn. You have such a rough life.”

“Hey! You don’t know. He might turn out to be a butthead.”

“True, true. Buttheads are no good.”

We wheeled/walked over to the cafeteria on the other side of the basement. The students had already been let in and were busily snatching hot sandwiches from the steel lunch counter. Both elderly cashiers looked a bit flustered as they rang in, took money, and handed out change while the hungry teenagers began impatiently devouring their food.

“Look at them,” Chase said, laughing. “Can’t you just tell who’s a freshman?”

I stared at the students, then laughed. “Yup! They’re like little kids. Did we look like that when we were freshmen?”

Chase opened his mouth to answer, then stopped when he saw Ted making his way through the crowd of students by the lunch counter. He gave us both a wave. “We’ve got some extra seats saved for you,” he said. “Hi, Alice.”

“Hi.” I gave him a smile, then glanced over his shoulder toward the back. “Um, I think I’m going to pass. I’ll see you tonight, though.” He gave me a strange, quizzical look. “I need to talk to Tina—I mean Rachel—about something.”

“Tina the hyena?” Ted asked. Beside him, Chase snickered.

“Yeah,” I said. My hands found my hips. I fought the urge to let him have it. Maybe he was just posturing. Trish vouched for him, after all. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I grabbed a ham-and-cheese sandwich and a side salad and milk and made my way to the back of the cafeteria, where Rachel and her friend Clyde were sitting.

“Hey, it’s that chick,” Clyde said as I sat down. He was still wearing his sunglasses. His outfit reminded me of some old-fashioned Nirvana fan: flannel shirt, old faded t-shirt, even a chain wallet just like the one Rachel wore. And of course the long hair that refused to stay tucked behind his little ears.

“Hi, Clyde.”

He smiled, dipping a French fry in what could only be mayonnaise. “Far out. What’s happening?”

“Oh, you know. Dreading the first weekend of homework.”

“Tell me about it,” Rachel muttered. “At least you don’t have gym class. We’re learning Cricket. I don’t even know what Cricket is! I don’t think our gym teacher even knows what it is!”

I smiled at the perfect opening. “You should join the fencing team,” I said as casually as I could.

“Oh yeah,” said Clyde. He grinned. “Swords, Rach. Swords!”

“Foils,” Rachel corrected. She shrugged. “Ugh. I dunno. Last year, it wasn’t very fun.”

“But you were getting better,” I told her. “You really were.”

She shook her head, stealing a few French fries from Clyde. “I’ll think about it.”

“Radical!” Clyde said, snapping his fingers. “We should celebrate with a game of Robot Attack.”

“I don’t know how to play,” I said.

Rachel reached into her black backpack, pulling out a pad of paper with some goofy pictures on it and lots of little circles. “We’ll just play the lite version. This is a picture of a giant robot with guns. You have to use those guns to shoot at my giant robot.”

“And mine!” Clyde added.

“OK,” I said, looking at the picture. It was a diagram of a giant Automaton with—yup—guns attached to its shoulders. One looked like a machine gun and the other looked like a rocket launcher. “So how do I use my guns?”

Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out two white dice. “With these. You roll them first. Then I roll them to defend the attack. If I roll a higher number, I defend your attack.”

“Your robot’s got a rocket launcher,” Clyde said. “You can totally use that and you can roll an extra die. But then you can’t attack next turn. Because, like, you gotta reload the rockets. I guess it’s pretty realistic.”

I chuckled.

“So when you score a hit, I’ll fill in these circles,” Rachel said, pointing with her chewed pencil to the circles inside my robot. There were fifty total. “Once all the circles are filled up, your robot is destroyed.”

“OK!” I was getting excited. Like, really, really excited. It was so simple. So old-fashioned! And yet it seemed incredibly fun.

Or, rather, it would have been had a half-eaten chicken sandwich not come flying in our direction.

It hit Rachel right in the shoulder, sending mayonnaise and hot grease spraying across her face. Raucous laughter erupted from three rows down. I turned, seeing a bunch of the track and football kids laughing. Even Chase was smiling, and that made me even angrier.

Then, of course, there was Joey Harrington. Sitting with his arms crossed and a smug look on his face. Ignoring the high-fives from his big gorilla football buddies and then, begrudgingly, holding out a hand so they could slap it.

“Man,” said Clyde, handing over his spare napkins. He shook his head as Rachel wiped the mayo off her face. Her black t-shirt was a mess, too; when she picked off a piece of wayward fried chicken skin, it left a half-moon grease stain.

“Give that to me,” I ordered, pointing to the piece of chicken sitting on the empty table beside Clyde.

“Oooh I wouldn’t eat it now,” Clyde said. “It’s probably pretty dirty, man.”

I grabbed it and stood up, walking around the row of tables. Joey and his friends had already gone back to their conversation. The joke was over. It had been hilarious and now they’d already forgotten it. But Rachel? Rachel would remember it. She’d remember the humiliation. She’d remember the laughs directed at her.

Chase saw me first, looking up from his cup of soda. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. By the time I was just one row of tables away, two of his buddies finally noticed me and turned in their chairs, curious. Oh, did I finally get your attention? Well, here’s how Alice Goodenough does things!

Joey Harrington turned to look at me just as I wound up and threw that piece of chicken with all my might. Joey reached out with his hands, partially deflecting it. But not before it grazed his ear, leaving a splotch of white mayo on the side of his head.

He stood up, chest puffing out. The entire cafeteria went silent.

“How do you like it!” I shouted at him.

“You’re not one of us,” Joey growled. “You’re not dating Edward anymore. So you’re not one of us.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“I can see why Edward dumped you,” he said with a sneer. There was an audible “ooooooh” from the cafeteria audience.

“Joey,” Chase said in a calming voice. I glanced at him, surprised. I’d expected Ted—tonight’s date—to try and calm Joey down. But Ted was just watching, enthralled by the entire scene.

Regardless, Joey wasn’t listening. His face had reddened. He took a step closer to me …

And then the lunchroom monitor was between us. Or, more specifically, his big belly was between us. “Both of you. Detention. This afternoon.” He turned to me. “Back to your table. Now.”

I took my sweet time walking back, glancing once over my shoulder. The monitor—Mr. Schultz—hadn’t moved from his place in the center aisle. He crossed his arms over his big stomach, glaring at Joey who was still standing, his fists clenched.

“Thanks,” Rachel said meekly. “But now you have detention.”

“Yeah.” I gulped. “Holy crap, I have detention.”

For the first time. Ever.

Chapter 5

An hour and a half inside a cramped, quiet classroom can really make you think. What had I done? I’d thrown a piece of chicken. I’d acted out.

Yeah, but Joey had done it first. I never would have retaliated if he’d just left Rachel alone.

Yeah, but still. Alice Goodenough isn’t a detention sort of student.

Right?

I wasn’t so sure now.

To help keep my mind from running in circles, I read through my tattered copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. Sure enough, the evil stepmother from “The Juniper-Tree” story wasn’t crossed out. Nor was the fiddler from “The Miser in the Bush,” who I believed had been the smoke creature from my dreams.

After an hour passed, I was very much looking forward to my date with Ted. It would be relaxing. A break from all of this stress. Maybe even fun.

As it turned out, detention would have been better.

“I’d rather be watching paint dry” about sums it up. I’ll spare all the details, but suffice it to say:

1.                   We went Dutch. I paid for my own meal, which was a total bummer because he took me to a restaurant that was waaaaay overpriced.

2.                  He talked about the track team nearly the entire time. I have no idea what the “triple jump” is and no amount of explaining it was going to make me care. But that didn’t stop him.

3.                  He had the nerve to tell me working at the library was a “nerd” thing.

OK. I can forgive number one (even though I don’t get paid at the library and my parents weren’t big on giving me money unless I did chores). Number two … well, maybe Trish told him I was interested in track for some reason. But number three? Come on!

“Maybe he’s right,” Briar offered later in the evening. “He is quite popular, after all.”

“Oh, so now you’re an expert on high school cliques?” I asked, brushing the snarls out of my wet hair. We’d just done a short run and I’d showered afterward, deftly avoiding my parents so they couldn’t pry more out of me about the date. I didn’t want to talk about it. Ted was so different from Edward and any other boyfriends I’d had early on in high school. Before Edward, boyfriends had been not-too-serious, just a step above “friend” where you went to the movies with a half-dozen people or spent the afternoon at a house playing video games or goofing off in the park. Then Edward got more serious, adding make-out sessions to the mix.

Now I had to figure out if Ted was “boyfriend material.” At least, this according to Trish’s five thousand texts she sent during the evening.

“I may not know much about the high school hierarchy,” Briar admitted, “but I do know a thing or two about orphanages, thanks to the Google.”

I set my brush on the desk. “Shoot.”

“Well, for starters, it’s technically called a foster agency.” Briar swiveled in the chair, kicking his legs in the air as he did so. “But the name is still Orwell Orphanage. And that dastardly dwarf was right about one thing: the details are scant on it, I’m afraid. Why, they don’t even have a website! Can you imagine, in this day and age?!”

“So what did you find out?”

“About Orwell Orphanage? Relatively little. But look at this.” He turned the laptop. It was a map. Always with the maps, this rabbit. There were ten red pins placed in a map of the U.S. The pin farthest east was in New York City. The farthest west?

Milwaukee.

“Those pins are orphanages,” I said. “And not just orphanages … fires.”

Briar’s whiskers twitched. “You are correct. How did you know?”

“Because.” The memory seemed to rush back like a flood. The sound of the children crying in my dreams … somewhere deep inside my subconscious, I’d known why they were crying. But I could never remember it when I woke up. Until now. “They were in my dreams. Deep down. I heard the flames, but I didn’t know what the sound was.”

“You must be more aware,” Briar urged. “If we had known about the fires days ago, we might perhaps have a better idea of what’s going on.”

“OK, OK.” I crossed my arms. “I’m still new at this, you know.”

The rabbit sighed, then nodded, letting his ears flop down. “You’re right. Just … tonight, please please please pay close attention. We need all the help we can get on this one, I’m afraid.”

That night, I tossed and turned, listening to Briar’s soft snoring coming from beside the bed. He’d become like a dog, I realized; a big, protective dog. No doubt he was dreaming about carrots and milk and his home in the briar patch. Me? I was dreading sleep now. The peaceful dreams were few and far between. All I could expect when I finally fell asleep tonight was darkness and evil.

My dream didn’t disappoint. I found myself once again making my way through the same corridor of the mansion, only this time before I could take inventory like Briar suggested, the scene rapidly changed once again.

I appeared on a dark street, moving beside a young lady. A beautiful young lady wearing a long flowing floral pattern dress, her brunette hair tied back into a braided ponytail. She had big hoop earrings and a silver bracelet that her other hand found and clutched as if she was afraid it might be taken away.

“Never,” she said sharply.

A man caught up to her, grabbing her hand and stopping her. “I won’t stop, then.”

She turned to him. I recognized him: the fiddler! The drunk guy from the bar with the funny eyebrows. He looked drunk again, his eyes half-open and his body swaying back and forth. He tried to steady himself, then gave up when the woman laughed.

“You’re a mess, Gerald! Ever since you started drinking a hundred years ago, you’ve been a mess.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, then burped.

The woman shook her head. “If you would just stop drinking …”

“No,” he said. “You don’t understand. I can’t—”

“You’ve done so much damage already, Gerald.” She ran her fingers across his rough cheek. “Release the music you’ve stolen. I’ll right this wrong. I’m not yet Corrupted.”

The man’s eyes darkened. With his next breath, a little trail of black smoke slipped out like a tongue, lapping at his chin. “I’ll take all the music from this city. And then, when I’m done with that, I’ll take all the music from the world. That which you love the most will be gone forever.”

“You can never take all of the music,” said the woman. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth, and from it came a beautiful single note. She held it, and the sound seemed to echo all around us.

Gerald’s eyes narrowed. He held one hand in front of her throat and clenched his fist. The woman’s singing stopped, cut off as if he were choking her.

“I’ll take it all,” he hissed.

She flinched, as if struck. Slowly, a trail of blue smoke escaped from between her ruby lips.

Gerald inhaled the smoke, then shut his mouth and smiled. The woman’s body seemed to slump. A tear ran down one cheek.

“All of the music,” he said, licking his lips. “Until it’s gone from this world.”

I woke with a start, surprised that it was still dark outside. I checked my clock. 6:18 a.m. Saturday. The rabbit was still sound asleep, snoring softly. The house was quiet.

I went downstairs and made myself a cup of tea. Fran had given me the tea. Earlier in the week, she’d been humming an old tune at the checkout desk in the library; I started humming it now as I sipped my tea. What did it feel like to lose music? What would the world be like if this Corrupted actually succeeded? The thought mortified me.

I went back upstairs, quietly dressing in a pair of shorts and a tank top. I grabbed my mp3 player and headphones and went outside, cranking up an ancient Tom Petty tune. Briar’s pick. I don’t know why, but the rabbit was a huge fan of Tom Petty and REO Speedwagon. I could imagine him sneaking into the attic at night, sifting through my parents’ old records and getting all excited.

I made my way north, jogging down the sidewalk and losing myself in the music. I know, I know … what if a Corrupted was hunting me? But I needed to hear music for a little while. To be honest, the dream I’d just had scared me to death. A world without music … and for what? Just so some Corrupted fiddler could get back at an old girlfriend? Didn’t he realize what he was doing?

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Corrupted didn’t know what they were doing. Maybe the Brothers Grimm hadn’t written that into their stories.

When I reached the park, I pulled off my headphones, picking up speed as I hit the gravel trail that snaked between tall maple trees. Something small scurried into one of the thick bushes running along the right side of the path. Far off to my left was an open clearing and beyond that a small pond. There were only a few lights inside the park, old streetlamps that lit up the path with dull orange bulbs. The world was quiet. Peaceful.

Silent.

Back home, I showered and dressed, then lay back on bed. Humming that same tune Fran had hummed.

I woke again to the sound of my phone ringing. I hadn’t dreamed at all, which was a welcome reprieve. Briar sat up, blinking hard at the sunlight coming in through the dark brown window shades.

“Hello,” I mumbled before my finger even found the green “Talk” button on my phone.

“Hey,” came Seth’s voice. “You up or what? It’s ten o’clock, for crying out loud.”

“I’m up.” I ran my tongue along my teeth. “My mouth tastes bad. I need to brush my teeth.”

“OK, totally gross. Thanks for that. Anywho, the reason I’m calling is because when I checked my email this morning, there was mention that The Peasants are putting on a farewell show tonight. They’re going to broadcast it on a website.”

“The Peasants …” I shook my head, forcing my brain to reboot. “The Peasants! Wait, what do you mean they’re doing a farewell show?”

“They’re done,” Seth said simply. “I dunno. Probably some fighting in the band or something stupid like that. So anywho, have a good Saturday.”

“Wait!” I said. It couldn’t be a coincidence. I knew. Something from my dream that I couldn’t quite remember convinced me there was a connection. “What are you doing today?”

He sighed. “Well, I was planning on sitting in my room and programming. Because I’m a nerd.”

“I have a better idea.”

“What?”

I smiled. “How about we save the world?”

Two hours later, we were in Seth’s car, driving northwest toward Minneapolis. Briar sat in the backseat beside a big cooler filled with sandwiches, canned orange juice, carrots, and cookies. There was also a bag of sweet potato chips and a bag of marshmallows sitting in the empty back seat. Briar had quickly discovered the marshmallows and declared them his new favorite food.

“OK, so your mom thinks you’re spending the night at my house,” Seth said. “Right?”

“Right.” I adjusted my bra under my top. I was wearing a sports bra and a faded brown Rolling Stones t-shirt that I hoped would help me blend into the crowd of rock fans. I didn’t have any jeans with holes in them, but I did have a pair of unattractive sweatpants that at least got the color right: black.

“And my parents don’t care where I am most of the time.” He laughed. “I guess we don’t have to worry about getting grounded over this. I still don’t know where we’re going to stay tonight.”

“We’re camping,” I said. “Right here in the car. It’s an adventure, Seth.”

“It’s going to be uncomfortable, Alice,” he said, mimicking my excitement. “At least tell me what’s going on. Please. I’m so clueless right now.”

“Briar, would you do the honors?”

Briar cleared his throat. “There is a Corrupted fiddler who was once married to a princess. They broke up, presumably because the fiddler’s heavy drinking caused problems. The princess loves music and so, in order to intentionally hurt her, the fiddler plans to steal all of the music from the planet.”

“Oh.” He pulled into the left lane, speeding up just a little bit. “So just your run-of-the-mill scorned ex-boyfriend, then.”

“Pretty much,” I said.

“Do you think he can really do it?”

I shrugged, watching corn crops pass by along the highway. “He’s going to try his best. He’s already stolen music from who knows how many people. I just hope we can get it back.”

“How would he pull it off?”

“My best guess,” said Briar, “is that his guitar—that is to say, his modified fiddle—will have the same power over anyone watching the farewell show. He is no doubt banking on the farewell show being passed around.”

Seth snapped his fingers. “Oh, right! So the video goes viral, and pretty soon everyone is losing their music.”

“And no one will remember it happening,” I added.

“Pretty devious. Holy crap, I’m totally freaked out now. We need to listen to some killer tunes stat.” His hand reached out for the volume dial on the radio. He turned it up just a little bit. “Dancing Queen” by Abba was playing on the radio. Seth started singing along.

Kinda.

“Seen that girl,” he sang out of tune, “watch her scream, kicking the dancing queen!”

I laughed. “Those aren’t the lyrics, you bonehead.”

“Sure they are.”

“No. Listen.” I turned up the music louder, then sang along to the chorus: “Sea of whirl, witching scene, within the dancing queen!”

Briar and Seth both started laughing. “That’s not even close!” Seth exclaimed. “Briar, you wanna give it a try?”

Briar waited for the next chorus. “I do believe they’re saying Sea that curls, within seas, tickle the dancing queen.”

We all laughed.

“OK, more,” Seth said, changing the radio. A classic song from The Killers came on. Seth started singing, “He doesn’t have to eat his Cheese Nips …”

Briar’s paw found the Seek button, changing it to an oldies station where Creedence Clearwater Revival was playing. “There’s a bathroom on the right!” he exclaimed with glee.

I switched over to a rock station playing the Rolling Stones. I recognized it and sang along, “I’ll never leave your feast ‘a burnin’!”

By the time we arrived in Minneapolis, it was dinner time and all of our voices were hoarse from singing. Minneapolis sat right beside the city of St. Paul, and together they were a sight to behold: two cities scrunched up together; tall skyscrapers, some of them with rounded tops and some of them with staircase-like corners; a beautiful river filled with white sailboats. We made our way into the city, guided in no small part by Briar’s intrepid map. We knew where the show was going to take place: The Triangle. We knew what was going to happen: certain doom.

What we needed next was a place to picnic. We found it after we got off the highway. In fact, you couldn’t miss it. We knew it was the best place to picnic because the park contained a giant cherry. To be more specific, inside the park was a sculpture of a giant spoon with a giant cherry, a sculpture so fantastic that Briar declared it “A great place to eat our sandwiches.” And while Briar wouldn’t be able to enjoy his meal in public, he’d solved that problem easily enough by nearly eating the entire bag of marshmallows on the trip up.

“This is a good sandwich,” Seth said. We were sitting on the fresh-cut grass using the cooler as a table. I’d packed a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich for myself and a turkey-ham-Swiss-mustard-onion sandwich for Seth. Somewhere during the car ride, when he’d taken a break from the marshmallows, Briar had eaten his ham-tomato-cookie sandwich.

“My sandwich could have used mustard,” I said. Over by the giant spoon, a handful of kids were running around like crazy, along with more than a few teenagers. They were playing tag. Not the kind of tag Briar and I played, where I was expected to pretend Briar was a Corrupted and had to tap him with a stick—no, these kids were just playing tag for fun. I envied them.

“How was your date?” Seth asked, breaking me from my daydream.

I shrugged. “He’s definitely a track guy.”

He raised an eyebrow. A snicker came from the invisible rabbit.

“I guess he might be OK,” I said. “I don’t want to judge too much from one date. And maybe he has a point about the library being kind of nerdy. I mean, I am a senior now. I should at least try to be cool, right?”

“Coolness is overrated,” Seth muttered, taking a monster bite of his sandwich. “You think Joey Harrington is going to be cool after he graduates? Pfft! More likely he’s gonna be in jail.”

I laughed. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Don’t settle,” Seth said. “And don’t make excuses for Ted.”

“OK.” I shook my head. “It’s so easy to forget that.”

“So do you like doing this?” Seth asked. “I mean, the whole saving the world thing?”

I shrugged, picking at the potato chips. “I’m pretty sure I have to, regardless.”

“Yeah but how long are you going to do it? Are you still going to college to be a nurse or whatever?”

“I’d like to be a nurse.” I took a bite of my sandwich, thinking. This wasn’t something that had been crossing my mind as much as it should. Everyone was talking about what they were going to do next year. Everyone in school was planning for tests and entrance exams and entrance essays.

“But how?” Seth asked. “I mean, these dreams just come out of nowhere, don’t they?”

“Yeah …”

He shook his head, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Well, you can always count on me to help. All I want in exchange is the opportunity to chase the giant rabbit with a vacuum cleaner.”

Beside us, there came the unmistakable sound of a snort.

Seth smiled. “I’m only kidding. No vacuums. Why is Briar invisible? Can’t he just, like, show himself to certain people?”

“Yes …”

“I would rather be safe than sorry,” came Briar’s voice. “Slip-ups in public can have disastrous and … peculiar consequences.”

I smiled. “Especially if you accidentally show yourself to a kid. You’d scar him for life.”

“Hey Briar, guess what?”

“What?”

“Chicken butt.” Seth smiled at me.

“I … er … um.”

“Guess why?”

“Why? I don’t even know—”

“Chicken thigh.”

“Alice, what is he talking about? Why is he mentioning parts of a chicken?”

Seth chuckled. “But seriously, I’ll help you guys whenever you need me. You know, maybe there aren’t that many Corrupted left anyway. Maybe you can stop them all and then you can still get your nursing degree.”

“Maybe.” I stared at my half-eaten sandwich, hardly convinced.

“Or maybe you and me and Trish can still go to college together and you can just fight some Corrupted on the weekend.”

I took a sip of my orange juice, trying not to get my hopes up. There were still so many names not crossed out in the Grimms’ Fairy Tales book. But maybe not every hero had crossed out the names. Maybe Seth was right.

Maybe.

Chapter 6

We parked a block away from The Triangle, biding our time with a very long game of “I Spy” and finishing off the bag of sweet potato chips. For a moment—just a moment—I forgot all about what was waiting in the bar and enjoyed myself. Here were my friends, I guess: a heavy metal nerd and a giant rabbit. All we needed was Trish and then it would be a party.

But if Trish were here, she and Seth would fight. And how would she handle all of this? Probably not too well.

By the time Seth and I finally guessed what Briar had spied—it was an empty bottle of soda sitting in the gutter at the end of the block—night had already fallen. Cars began parking along the curb on both sides of the street, and young men and women dressed in tight pants and expensive-looking shirts walked down the street to The Triangle.

“I guess I under-dressed,” I murmured, watching another couple get out of their car on the other side of the street. They looked very college: short, styled hair and outfits that looked like they came from Gap. One of the girls was wearing a pair of tight, dark blue jeans with a gold “B” embroidered on the butt. “I thought these guys were a rock band.”

“They play a lot of stuff,” Seth said. “Everyone likes them.”

All of the buildings on this side of the block were sketchy old things, warehouses mostly, but a few empty storefronts as well. Plenty of places for a trap. Keeping Briar’s teachings in mind, I tried to look beyond the basics, to the nitty-gritty details that would let me take firmer control of my surroundings. Let’s see … one of the empty storefront windows was cracked, there was a thick gutter drain hanging from the two-story building on the corner, and—oh yeah—of the three big green dumpsters in the alley, two were filled to overflowing …

“Man this is so insane,” Seth said. He tapped on the steering wheel a few times. “These Corrupted monster guys totally think they’re going to have the last laugh? Ha! He who laughs most laughs last.”

“I do believe the saying is he who laughs first … laughs the most,” Briar corrected.

Seth thought about it, then shook his head. “No, I think the person who’s laughing the most is going to be the one who laughs last.”

“Yes, but the person who starts laughing first is most likely the one who will laugh the most. By definition.”

“Yeah,” Seth said, “but whoever laughs last is the important part. Because it means the other person stopped laughing.”

“OK both of you knock it off,” I snapped. “I’m trying to focus.”

“I suspect there will be many people,” Briar said.

“Gee, ya think?” Seth asked. “Duh, rabbit. These guys are, like, total recluse geniuses. No one knows much of anything about them, except that their music is crazy. They didn’t even have a website before they planned this farewell concert.”

“He’s going to use that video feed to steal music from all over the world,” I mused, watching a couple scurry across the street. “We need to smash that fiddle.”

“We should have done this sooner,” Seth said. “Now there’s all these people and they’re totally gonna die.”

“No one’s going to die,” I told him. “And coming early wasn’t an option. They lock the doors between shows.”

“Ah!” Briar exclaimed. “An excellent detail remembered from your dream. No doubt a skill taught to you by a certain rabbit.”

I looked over my shoulder. “You ready?”

Briar nodded. He reached up and pulled his ears back. “As ready as I shall ever be, dear hero.”

I got out of the car and made my way across the street, watching Briar scurry between two of the rusty old warehouses.

“Watch the dumpsters!” I whispered to the dark shadow. Why hadn’t he turned invisible yet? No matter. The Corrupted could see him regardless. “You can climb up the gutter drain on the next building!”

“Use a gladius!” Seth called out from down the street.

I cringed, waving him away. He pulled out of his parking space, and immediately an old green Toyota took his place. Five hip-looking young people got out, hurrying across the street.

“Come on!” one of the hipsters called out to me. He adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. “They’re only letting a hundred people in!”

“Oh crap,” I said, hurrying with them. I hadn’t even expected not to get in. Cripes! This was the beginning of music’s doomsday, for crying out loud.

When we reached the door, I recognized the bouncer as the bartender. He was eyeing everyone’s clothing before he let them in. “No pictures,” he said to every single person he let in. “No pictures. No pictures. No pictures.” He got to me, eyeing me up and down. “You twenty-one?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He sighed, scratching at his monstrous right ear. “No drinking tonight. No pictures, either.”

“OK, I promise.”

He held me there a moment more, then raised his slightly glowing, overly hairy arm, letting me inside.

It was exactly like my dream, only the ceiling lights had been dimmed so that the handful of stage lights on the other end of the room bathed the empty drum set in a glow. The pool tables were pushed to one side of the room. Dozens and dozens of people stood in front of the stage, squeezing up against the booths, squeezing around the bar waiting for the bartender to return so he could make them drinks.

“This place is so crazy.”

I turned around. It was the hipster with the thick glasses again. He adjusted them, then licked his thin lips. “You want a drink? I don’t touch the stuff myself. Not anymore. But I could get you one if you want.”

“No thanks,” I said. I glanced around. “Although a bathroom …”

He nodded. “I got ya. Need to freshen up and the like.”

That, and maybe draw a sword in the wall. “Yes. I need to freshen up.”

“That’s a nice purse.”

“Hmmm? Oh. Thanks.” I looked down at my little gray handpurse. It really wasn’t a nice purse. It was old, another disposable bag that I could throw away without shedding a tear if the situation got out of hand. If this whole saving-the-world thing kept up, pretty soon I’d have the entire bottom section of my closet cleaned out.

To our left, the door shut. The bartender twisted the knob in a strange way, then walked over to the bar and started mixing drinks. The door was locked now. There was no escape. If Briar didn’t succeed with his part of the plan, there might be bloodshed.

“Whoops, too late,” said the man with glasses. “They’re going to go on any minute. Look.” He pointed to the right of the stage, where a little door stood next to an old cigarette machine no longer in use. “They’re gonna come out of that door. I’m so stoked. You wanna get closer?”

“I do,” I said. “But first I really need to use the restroom.”

I fought my way through the crowd to the other side of the bar, where the men’s and women’s restrooms were. I went into the women’s, patiently waiting for the stall on the far end. It looked as if the place hadn’t been cleaned in years, with dirty floor tiles and brown scum lining the cracked porcelain sinks, but none of the other women seemed to care. Not even the young girl reapplying dark lipstick in front of a mirror so streaked with grime that you could barely see your reflection.

When it was finally my turn, I shut the door behind me and pulled the fountain pen from my purse. I drew a sword in the brick wall, which had been painted white and then desecrated with a fair amount of obscene graffiti. I drew a gladius instead of a saber, hoping its short blade might give me an edge if I had to take on the entire band.

Best case scenario: Briar cuts the power, the crowd disperses, and all four of the Corrupted surrender without a fight.

Worst case scenario: me fighting the entire band while at the same time fighting off all of the terrified, rabid fans who have no idea what’s going on.

“This is going to be a disaster,” I groaned, drawing a small drawer at the bottom of the wall. I opened it and put the gladius inside, closing it and cutting off the handle. It blended into the brick wall well enough that it would be unlikely someone might notice it.

“Are you almost done?” asked a woman outside the stall.

I flushed, put the pen back in my purse, then opened the door, giving the woman a friendly smile. She pushed past me, shutting the door quickly.

I left the restroom, now fully aware that my plan wasn’t a plan at all. It was a recipe for insanity. I fumbled with my purse again, hoping Briar was in place. Hoping the rabbit could shut off the power.

The lights dimmed. The door beside the stage opened. The crowd went wild. I clapped gently, standing on my tiptoes so I could watch them walk in. I was half-expecting them all to look like the smoke monster, but as the drummer and the bassist stepped out, I could see they were as normal-looking as anyone else in the crowd. The drummer—who was still wearing the same baseball cap as in my dream—sat down and promptly tapped every single drum.

Everyone cheered louder. I held my breath. Don’t cut the power yet, I mentally told Briar. Wait until they’re all on stage.

The crowd started chanting. “Peasants! Peasants! Peasants!”

Still no fiddler.

The crowd chanted even louder, then started applauding again. My fingers tightened around my purse. Something was wrong. They know I’m here, I thought.

Then, he came out. Or, rather, he stumbled out, bumping into the old cigarette machine before tripping onto the stage with his guitar clutched in one hand. The crowd cheered for a few moments and the drummer hit his snare drum a few times to keep up the energy. The fiddler stood up, staring at the crowd with lazy eyes. He was sweating … why was he sweating? He looked like he was ready to puke.

The crowd’s cheers died down a bit. Everyone looked anxious, waiting for the first song. The fiddler stood straight, staring at the crowd again with glassy eyes.

“Anytime, Briar,” I whispered.

The fiddler’s left hand found the neck of his guitar. He ran his pick over the strings.

A hideous sound escaped from the amps. No one danced. The crowd quieted further.

The fiddler’s clumsy fingers adjusted. He looked, once again, like he might barf. He strummed the strings again. I felt my heart race. Where was Briar? I unzipped my purse, clutching the pen, ready to go to Plan B …

And then the fiddler fell over.

The crowd went silent. A few people near the back shouted, asking what the heck was happening. A few swore.

“That’s alcoholism for you.”

I turned. It was the guy with the thick glasses again. He shook his head as the bassist tried to help the fiddler up. More people were shouting angrily now. One guy demanded his money back even though it was a free show.

“I’m a recovered alcoholic myself,” he said. He was a tall guy with pale skin. Probably in his thirties. Kind of a creepozoid, really. “Alcohol … it’s a drug. You can’t just drink and not expect consequences. Otherwise you end up like him. You see, alcohol is a depressant …”

“OK. Got it. Drinking is bad.” I rolled my eyes. “Sheesh!”

The lights went out. Only the red EXIT sign over the door by the bar and the red EXIT sign over the door by the stage illuminated the small space. More people began shouting, and now there was an angry surge toward the back door. The bartender hurried over, swearing and apologizing as he fumbled with the lock.

“Why was it locked in the first place?” asked someone.

“Get out!” the bartender shouted over the din of voices. “All of you ungrateful slobs, get out!”

“Uh-oh,” said the guy with glasses. “I guess the show’s over. You know, abusing alcohol really is bad …”

“Yeah, that’s really true. Thanks for telling me over and over and over,” I muttered, spinning him around and pushing him toward the door. “Please leave now before you die.”

I spun and made my way through the crowd, back to the women’s restroom. In the darkness, I fumbled my way to the last stall, opening the door and then closing it behind me. I reached down, my fingers accidentally touching the disgusting floor a few times before I found my little makeshift drawer. I pulled it open at the loose corners, reaching in and grabbing the gladius.

I stepped on the toilet seat, pressing one hand against the wall for leverage. “Please remember to wash your hands,” I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath.

Here we go.

This wasn’t exactly how I’d expected things to happen … but then again, I didn’t think the fiddler would get drunk before he enacted his diabolical scheme.

But that’s what alcoholism does to you, in the words of the creepy hipster. If only I could make a poster with the fiddler’s face on it—now that would keep Trish from abusing alcohol: “Hey, this guy almost managed to steal all the music from the entire world … but his alcoholism got in the way! You can steal all the music in the world, but you can’t abuse alcohol at the same time.”

Now it was improv time. What was it Briar always told me when we were training?

“Expect the unexpected. Anticipate.” At this point, he would always raise one paw. “Plan ahead, then plan ahead again. And always have a sword ready.”

I heard the door open, temporarily bathing the bathroom in a dim red glow. My heart skipped a beat as the door shut. It was nearly pitch-black in the bathroom, save for a little sliver of red sneaking in under the door, reflecting off the dirty tiles. I held my breath, listening to the shuffling of feet on the floor.

“Hello?” came the bartender’s voice. “Anyone in here? We’re closed now.”

I heard his feet shuffle closer. The door of the first stall slammed open. The feet shuffled closer. The door to the second stall slammed open. I took another deep breath, ordering my eyes to adjust faster to the darkness.

Listen, Alice. Take in the details.

OK. The door was going to open inward. The bartender was obviously being careless—otherwise, he wouldn’t be pushing them open with such force. If I timed it right, I could jump out before he even realized what happened.

The feet shuffled in front of the door to my stall. I clutched my gladius. It was a short sword, the kind the ancient Romans preferred because it was easy to wield. The blade was only a little longer than my forearm, wide, sharp, made of iron with no hand guard and a short handle. Perfect for slicing and dicing in a cramped bathroom.

The bartender drew in a long, raspy breath. My legs tensed. I couldn’t see anything more than a shadow as the door opened quickly; I jumped forward, stabbing my sword at the dark figure.

Then I saw his eyes. Just a hint of glowing gold, as if they were powered by batteries that were low on juice. He took a step back, grabbing my arm and twisting it, pulling me out of the stall and shoving me against the wall.

“Oof!” I huffed. My reflexes kicked in quickly and I reached out with a leg, pushing us apart. I stepped back, keeping my gladius in front of me. There were only about four feet of space between the bathroom wall and the row of stalls. Not enough room for me to swing a foil, not enough room for the bartender to spread his arms … but plenty of room to swing a shorter gladius.

Good call, Seth.

“Hero,” the bartender hissed. “I thought I smelled something foul.”

I stabbed at his dark, imposing figure with my gladius. But the bartender dodged, swatting at the flat blade with one strong hand.

“I’ll pluck your eyeballs and eat them like grapes!”

I said nothing, trying to keep track of his dark figure in the blackness. I had no doubt those eyes of his were helping him see. The tiles between us were illuminated just a bit by the crack under the bathroom door. I could see the tips of his feet as he moved closer. His hairy, animal-like toes had torn through the shoes. A wet slurp echoed off the tiled walls as he swallowed drool that had gathered in his mouth. What was he, really? A wolf? Something worse?

Whatever he was, he seemed pretty confident.

“Please don’t hurt me,” I begged.

That was all it took. He carelessly lunged forward with a growl. I stabbed again with my gladius, aiming for the eyes. My blade connected with something hard, and then there was a groan. The room grew bright as the bartender’s body quickly burned away.

I used my shirt to wipe the sweat from the hilt of the short sword, then stepped out of the bathroom. My pupils were already so dilated that it was easy to scan the entire room. It looked empty, save for the three band members onstage. The illumination from the EXIT signs bathed the drummer and bassist in a sinister glow. They were hunched over the fiddler’s body; when they saw me, they stood up.

But not the fiddler. He was still lying on the ground, groaning.

“Who are you?” asked the bassist. He clutched his bass as if it was a battle-axe. He was taller than the drummer, more feral-like, his hands and arms a little too big for the rest of his body. The drummer was smaller, thinner, but he was glowing differently. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts, and on his bare skin were old scars, dozens of them, each one glowing brightly.

I stepped beside the bar, eyeing them. Sizing them up. To be honest, I was thankful neither of them were giant hedgehogs.

“She’s the hero, you idiot,” said the drummer. “She’s going to kill us.”

The bassist snarled. “She’s not killing me.”

“She’s probably going to kill you,” said the drummer. He kicked the fiddler a few times. “Hey, pull yourself together or we’re all going to die in this horrible bar!”

The fiddler stirred, mumbling something about his princess.

And then the bassist was off the stage, charging toward me with his bass held high over his head. I waited calmly for him, keeping the gladius low. He brought the bass down and I quickly stepped out of the way. The body of the bass crashed into the bar, tearing through the wooden surface. He tore his instrument free; there was no damage.

“That’s a pretty strong guitar,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the drummer wasn’t sneaking up on me. He wasn’t; instead, he kicked the fiddler again, trying to rouse him from his stupor.

“It’s a bass!” the bassist said, swinging it horizontally. I crouched low and it passed over my head. My feet propelled me forward and I swung in a wide, but hit only the neck of the bassist’s instrument. Instead of digging into the wood, the gladius simply bounced off the steel strings.

“Bass, guitar, whatever,” I said. “You’re obviously playing second fiddle.”

“You’re not funny.”

“What was your plan?” I asked, dodging another blow and trying my hand at another attack. This one was deflected again by the bass, but instead of stepping back I used my other hand to give the bassist a whap with my hand purse.

“You fool!” he snarled. “There never was a plan! Not a good one, anyway.” He swung again and I jumped back, nearer the bar now. “That stupid drunk just wanted to upset his ex-girlfriend. That’s all it ever is with him. Fifty long years of it!”

I chuckled, dodging another blow and positioning my feet into an narrow stance that would let me step closer with ease. I saw another opening, and then before I swung my gladius downward, I saw another one: he was getting tired. He was out of shape. He’d spent so many hours sitting on his butt drinking that he didn’t have the stamina to keep this up.

I stepped back, waiting for him to swing again. When he did, I jumped back, taking a deep breath and steadying the shakiness in my legs. The bassist was breathing hard as he closed the gap between us. I brought my sword up over my head and swung downward. He brought his bass up to deflect the blow with the neck. The gladius cut through the steel strings, bouncing off the hard wood. Before he could counter-attack, I swung the gladius around and swung quickly at his exposed torso.

“Urp,” he said, watching the burning cut expand and consume him. Black ashes fell to the ground.

I looked at my sword for a moment. How had I pulled that off?

“Wake up!” the drummer yelled again, kicking the fiddler harder. “She killed Gustav! We’re next, you bloody fool!”

I quickly closed the gap between us, fully intending to get rid of the drummer before he had any chance of attacking. If the bassist was going to swing his instrument around, I could only imagine the drummer had every intention of throwing his drums at me, and I wasn’t interested in seeing what kinds of bruises those might cause.

But then I stopped. The fiddler’s eyes had opened. He was looking at me, his face sweaty and his breathing raspy. Something cold and unfamiliar slipped around my right ankle. I looked down: the smoke was crawling over the sticky wooden floor, licking at my legs like a hesitant python ready to coil around its victim. In the red light, it looked as if it was breathing as it slipped out of the fiddler’s mouth.

I stepped back.

“All the music,” the fiddler said in a slurred voice. “I’ll steal all of it. Until my princess comes back to me.”

The drummer cackled. His face looked older now. Decayed, even, as if he’d been wearing makeup and now it was flaking off, exposing him for what he truly was. He reminded me of Edward on that last night we’d been together, only the drummer looked even more decayed, his flesh more rotten and scarred, as if all the years of drinking had sped up the aging process.

Well. If the Corrupted could age, I guess.

“You’re doomed now, little girl,” said the drummer. The dark smoke put pressure on my leg and I fell over, landing hard on the floor. The drummer laughed harder. “After we steal your music, I’m going to roast you over an open flame.”

“Rabbit,” I said, pulling myself to my feet.

The drummer cocked his head. “What’s that now?”

“Rabbit,” I said simply.

The drummer frowned, a little fleck of skin falling off his forehead. “I don’t …”

And then the dark shadow hopped out from behind the old cigarette machine, closing the distance so quick that I second-guessed whether it was Briar at all. Before the drummer could even turn his head at the sound, Briar was already airborne, twisting in the air so that his powerful feet were aimed right at the drummer’s body. When they connected, the drummer went flying across the room, landing in one of the booths and collapsing the table.

“What do we do now?!” Briar shouted, hopping away from the black smoke near his feet. It was pouring out of the fiddler’s mouth now, and as he brought himself to his knees, I saw an opening and jumped forward to deliver a killing blow.

The smoke pushed me back. I swung my gladius at it, succeeding only in dispersing it. The sound of a thousand songs seemed to fill the bar. There was no joy in any of them, even the songs I recognized. It was as if all the songs were flat, out of key; there was a sadness in each of them. They grew louder as more smoke poured from the fiddler’s mouth. He coughed once, then stood up, ignoring Briar and stepping off the stage. Briar gave him a kick for good measure, but it only succeeded in pushing him even closer to me.

“All the music,” the fiddler said. He lost his footing for a moment. “But first … a drink, perhaps.”

The smoke pushed me aside. He walked past me, toward the bar.

“Just a drink … for strength.”

“Alice!” Briar shouted. I turned. The rabbit was on the ground, grappling with the drummer. “Catch!” he said, kicking with both of his feet. The drummer went flying off the stage and I leaned forward, catching him with my sword. He burned away, leaving a smattering of ashes on my shirt and jeans.

“They were lousy bandmates anyway,” the fiddler mumbled, filling a glass from the tap. The sad music had grown louder. The smoke was now lining the floor of the bar like rolling black carpeting, swirling and clutching at my feet, making it difficult to move. I tried kicking it away but it felt thick, like wading through sand.

Then the door beside the bar opened. I saw her and blinked, sure I was seeing things. It was the woman from my dream, the one who’d had her music stolen from her by the fiddler. The princess.

“My prince,” she said.

The fiddler turned. His hard features softened. He stepped away from the bar, clutching his beer. “You’ve come back to me,” he whispered.

The woman shook her head. “I’ve come for the music. Your plan will never work.”

“It brought you here,” the fiddler said. I felt the smoke around my feet loosen. “That was always the plan.”

The dark mist swirled around her, stopping her. I slogged backward, closer to the booths, ready to charge the fiddler while he was distracted. But then a curious thing happened: the black mist retreated from the woman. She opened her mouth, took in a deep breath …

And sang. It was a beautiful tune, filled with agony and passion. There were no words, just a crescendo of notes that slowly pushed back the black smoke along the floor.

“Impossible!” the fiddler shouted, wincing in pain as the black smoke returned to him, wrapping around his legs as if afraid of the woman’s powerful voice. “I stole your music!”

The woman stopped singing. “You can’t steal my music, love. You can never steal my music.”

The fiddler stepped forward, and with a flick of his wrist, the black smoke lashed out. The woman opened her mouth and began singing again. The darkness stopped as if it had hit a wall. The fiddler fell to his knees in pain, clutching his ears.

The woman looked to me and gave a knowing nod.

I rushed forward, pushing through the weakened smoke, and reached out with my gladius. I felt the smoke push back, but it was too late to stop me. The fiddler’s eyes widened. He burned away, dropping the half-finished glass of beer in the process. It shattered on the floor, adding to the myriad stains already encrusted on the wood planks.

The woman stopped singing. The black smoke began to turn a bright blue. I turned back to her, my fingers nervously clutching my gladius. Behind her, Briar was sneaking up with a chair held over his head.

“I must restore the music,” said the woman. “All across this city, there are thousands who have lost their music because of that horrible man. I can restore it. I must restore it. People need music.”

I waved Briar off before he could attack. “That’s pretty noble for a Corrupted.”

She seemed to flinch at the word. She smiled, pulling back her curly hair. “I’ve not yet come that far. Some day. But not yet. My love of music has kept me from turning.”

“How can I trust you?” I asked. I’d already let one Corrupted go … letting another seemed like the start of a really bad trend.

“Come with me,” the woman said. She led us through the back room, which was nothing more than a large storage room filled with cardboard boxes. There were crates of alcohol locked up behind a steel cage. The floor was made of concrete, with a single drain in the center, stained a rusty brown.

The woman slipped her fingers through the holes in the cage protecting the alcohol. She pulled, ripping the door off. She tossed it on the floor with a clang, shrugging. “I’m not human, after all.”

“Quite the understatement,” the rabbit whispered. I elbowed him in the ribs.

The woman began moving crates of wine bottles. “My darling ex-love must have been surprised to see you here … no heroes of the past have ever sought him out.”

“He probably wasn’t a danger before tonight,” I said, remembering how vivid my dreams had grown.

“That is true. Reckless is a better word, I think. Still, your … gift, as it were, alerts you to the most dangerous among us. In the past, he’s always been more of a talker than a doer. But this time was different. That he’d seriously considered stealing music from the world is a terrifying prospect.” She set aside another box, blowing a strand of curly hair away from her face. She looked so … normal. Her face was flushed from lifting the boxes, and her soft blue dress looked like the kind of thing you might find on, well, a teacher or a lawyer. The most normal Corrupted I’ve seen yet.

She turned, smiling at Briar. “I take it you don’t recognize me.”

The rabbit tittered, clicking his tongue. “I confess I do not.”

“No matter.” She shrugged. “It was some time ago. A new wave of music was becoming very popular. I was singing much more back then, finding myself swept up in the wave before I even knew what hit me. I had a fan. Her name was Juliette.”

My heart skipped a beat. “The hero?”

The woman nodded. She set aside another box. “She didn’t know I was one of the Grimm brothers’ creations until she saw me in concert. Being the crafty person she is, she snuck backstage to meet me. I was the first of my kind she’d met who had not yet been consumed by the evil that afflicts us all. She was kind enough to let me live.”

“Did she …” I licked my lips, hoping. “Did she have any message for me?”

The woman stood straight, pursing her lips. “Mmmmm … no, I don’t believe so. But she was looking for something. Something that would aid a future hero in her travels. I promised her I would deliver the item to her successor should we cross paths. But before I could do that, I had to find my dear fiddler once again. I’d lost contact with him for so long. It wasn’t until the evil began to truly afflict him that he began to steal music. And even then it was another ten years before there were rumors that a strange affliction was causing people to be unable to hear music.”

“Ten years.” I tried to imagine my brain without music for ten years. I couldn’t. It was impossible. “There are people out there who have been without music for that long?”

The woman nodded. “Perhaps if my ex-love didn’t enjoy drowning himself in alcohol, he might have been a little more … productive. And perhaps a hero would have dreamt about him sooner.”

Briar made a “pfft” noise. “Always the hero’s fault.”

“Ah! Here it is.” She reached down between two old dusty boxes. “I hid it away right under my darling’s nose all these years.” She pulled out the object. I gasped.

A bow. Not a big one, not the kind a hunter might use, but rather a very small one no longer than my arm. It was curved, made of a dark wood, with a taut string.

“I do say.” Briar reached out, touching the bow with his paw as if it might be made of glass. “Is that the fabled bow from the fiddler’s story?”

The woman nodded. “It is said any arrow shot from this bow will stun any animal it hits. The fiddler once used this to win acclaim after his story had ended. Then, the alcohol began consuming him. He sold the bow to a hunter. He sold many of his possessions … and not to very good-natured people.”

“So he was a jerk,” I said.

The woman frowned, then nodded. “Juliette made me promise to repay her act of kindness. She said there would come a day when the bow would help another hero. She’d seen it in a dream.”

I let her set the bow in my hands. The wood felt smooth. Heavy. “Thank you for the gift. But how will you restore the music?”

“I can find the fiddler’s victims,” said the woman. “The music calls to me. It courses through me like a river. I will find everyone who has lost it and restore it to them. They’ll not know it even happened until they hear a song playing. Then they’ll remember. And when they understand what they’d lost, what they have regained, they will weep with joy.”

She turned to leave. “Wait!” I said. She turned her head. “If you haven’t changed yet, then what’s your secret?”

“There is none,” the princess said. “The Corruption takes us all at different times. But it does take us all.”

“I hope … I don’t see you soon.”

The woman smiled a warm smile. “At least not until the music is restored. Then who knows? Perhaps you’ll see me in your dreams … and I will see you.”

Chapter 7

“So let me get this clear,” Seth said. “You destroyed a guitar?”

I spread the sleeping bag over my legs. We were parked in a truck stop parking lot just east of the Minneapolis. On the other side of the street was a big hotel with comfy beds and mini fridges and a hot shower. Oh, to have a little extra money. Maybe I should have taken that twenty from Sam Grayle …

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” I said, reclining the passenger’s seat. From the back came a whimper from Briar. “Sorry.”

“Quite all right,” Briar said. “I’ve slept in more cramped quarters than this. Why, there was one time when I found myself in the unfortunate circumstance of sharing a bed of leaves with a squirrel who had the annoying habit of smacking his mouth …”

“I just can’t believe you smashed a guitar,” Seth said. He had his chair only reclined halfway, with a plush pillow resting against the driver’s door. An old brown blanket covered his body. It was the blanket that normally sat on the couch in his living room.

“It wasn’t just a guitar,” I said. “It was a magic guitar that, when played, forced people to dance.”

“OK, so you smashed the coolest guitar on the planet.” He scoffed, grabbing his can of soda from the beverage holder underneath the stereo. “And instead, you got an old bow that looks like it couldn’t shoot an arrow more than ten yards.”

I looked at the bow sitting beside the curled-up rabbit in the back. “Yeah, it does look a little dingy. But the woman promised …”

“Oh, right. The mysterious singing woman who promised to return everyone’s music. I’m sorry, but I’m with Briar on the one. You should ‘a killed her.”

“This isn’t a democracy!” I exclaimed. “And I’m not going to kill any Corrupted who are still good. Especially not if it means letting thousands of people spend the rest of their lives unable to hear music! I mean, who knows how many people the fiddler hurt?”

“But still,” Briar said, “there is always the possibility she will turn evil when you are incapacitated. She may kill. She may cause untold carnage.”

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“Alice, I must strongly disagree …”

I shook my head. I was done talking about it. I’d made a decision and that was final. I couldn’t constantly second-guess myself. It would drive me insane. And I couldn’t bring myself to kill a Corrupted who still had some good left in her. The closest I’d come to that had been Cinderella, and it hadn’t been easy even though she’d had some incredibly strange power over a bunch of terrifying rats.

“I can’t believe the fiddler was going to steal everyone’s music just to upset his ex-girlfriend,” Seth said, making a raspberry sound with his lips. “That’s a lot of work. A lot of work.”

“Revenge,” Briar said, “is a dish perhaps best not served at all. And given that Corruption has a tendency to magnify certain characteristics …”

“You’re missing the most important point,” I said. “Both of you. Briar, she told me she would see me. She told me she’d seen me last night. Have you ever heard of something like that happening? Because you said they couldn’t see me. You totally promised they couldn’t see me.”

“That is rather strange,” Briar admitted. “Conceivably, though, you should be able to control yourself in your dreams. It usually takes some time, which is why I’m loathe to tell heroes until … well …”

I turned in my seat, glaring at him. “Spit it out.”

The rabbit winced. “Well, until after the hero has survived a few encounters with Corrupted.”

“Oh, I totally get that.” Seth laughed maniacally. “Train ‘em slow. Let the weak ones die off right away. It’s like when we had trainees at the burger joint, and we wouldn’t teach them how to run the cash register until they’d worked for at least a couple weeks. Cuz so many quit right away, you know, it would just be a waste of time.”

“Give me some quarters,” I told the rabbit.

Briar dug in the pockets of his vest. “I do believe I have some nickels, but I fear larger currency is out of the question. Too many coins and my vest pocket puffs out and it simply doesn’t look right.”

I grabbed the change he had, then grabbed the change sitting in the empty beverage holder beside Seth’s soda.

“Where are you going?” Seth asked.

“I need to shower,” I said. “And brush my teeth.”

And think.

I went into the truck stop’s women’s restroom. There were only two shower stalls, and one of them was being used. I took the other one, inserting the necessary change to start it up, setting my hand purse on the little steel tray beside the shower. The first blast of water was cold and I adjusted it as quickly as I could. When it was steaming hot, I grabbed my little travel bottle of shampoo.

I don’t know about you, but in my opinion showers are always a good time for serious reflection. And this evening’s shower was a reflection festival. Music stolen. A mysterious orphanage. A deal with a dwarf.

The library.

The fencing team.

High school.

Joey Harrington.

Chase.

The incredibly short life span of the hero.

Where did it all end? How would it end? When the princess had mentioned Juliette, it had been a terrible reminder of the hero’s mortality. I’d hoped for another message from Juliette, something that might guide me. A few sentences to set everything right and make me calm again and maybe even tell me how to survive for a long, long time.

Or just a secret telling me how to get back my real life.

The shower turned off just as I finished getting the suds out of my hair. I used the complimentary towel to dry off, then zipped up my hand purse, double-checking to make sure the fountain pen was still there. My purse was in a sorry state. It contained, in no particular order: a pen, an empty bottle of shampoo, a travel toothbrush and travel toothpaste, a tube of lipstick, and a little disc of foundation.

I went back out to the half-full parking lot, hoping for a decent night’s sleep, one without any dreams of the orphanage or anything else. Normal dreams.

Inside the car again, I pressed my head against my soft pillow and listened to Briar nibble on the giant marshmallows. I wondered if he even needed to brush his teeth at all, or if dental hygiene came free of charge when you were created with magic. The green lights of the massive gas station sign at the end of the parking lot seemed incredibly bright, burning through my eyelids.

“Hey,” Seth said in a low voice. Outside, a big diesel truck rolled by. I fought the urge to open my eyes. It was just a truck. Not some terrible Corrupted growling and salivating as it looked in through the window. We were safe here. The doors were locked. The fountain pen was in my handbag next to my left leg.

“What is it,” I mumbled.

“Do you think Trish is going to turn out like that fiddler guy? I mean, like, if she doesn’t stop drinking and partying.”

“I defer to the rabbit.”

Briar, caught off-guard, finished a marshmallow and cleared his throat. “Well, I would certainly recommend she not, ah, imbibe any distilled spirits … at least until she is older and perhaps a little wiser, mmm? And perhaps even then it would be best to, ah, avoid making a habit of it. Alcohol is such a fickle beast. One must be ever so careful, and there are few eighteen-year-olds who are responsible enough …”

“Seventeen.”

“Pardon?”

“Seventeen,” Seth said sadly. “She doesn’t turn eighteen for another month.”

We were silent at that. It was easy to forget Trish was still seventeen. It seemed so much younger than eighteen. But what was “18” besides a number? Another birthday doesn’t make you any more mature. It’s your experiences and knowledge that do it. And for Trish, there were a lot of “experiences” but not much knowledge coming from them.

I opened my eyes, glancing left. Briar and Seth were fast asleep. Briar was clutching his half-empty bag of marshmallows. They looked so peaceful.

I closed my eyes again.

Screams.

No laughs this time. Only screams.

I tried to follow the sounds, but I found myself floating once again through the same mysterious hallway. I made my way into the living room, a large room filled with tall bookshelves and an old red velvet sofa with intricately carved wooden trim. There were two windows along the wall, each of them covered by heavy blood-red drapes.

Drapes that were moving. Breathing, almost, caught by a breeze no doubt coming in from outside. I could feel the cool breeze. I tried to move closer. This seemed important.

A shadow moved across the wall, followed by the sound of bare feet padding on the wooden floor. I turned slightly just in time to see him: a boy, no older than six or seven, hurrying his way toward the drapes. He had soft blond hair and chubby cheeks and was wearing a pair of blue overalls and a white long-sleeved shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in days. There were holes, too, near the cuffs, and before the boy passed me I noticed both his little hands were crumpled into fists.

From somewhere inside the house, there came a roar. The boy flinched, stopping a few feet from the drapes, one hand squeezing the wooden frame of the couch. He looked over his shoulder, his sweet little brown face scrunched into a look of pure terror. He turned back to the windows, pulling aside the curtains.

“No!” he gasped.

Bars. There were iron bars in front of the windows.

The boy grabbed them, pulling with every ounce of strength in his little body. But it wasn’t enough. He had little strength to begin with—that much was clear just by the outline of his bones underneath the shirt.

“Alex,” came a grisly female voice. The boy turned, and his thin face turned pale. His eyes widened.

Turn, I commanded. Turn! Nothing happened. I was stuck staring at the terrified boy, unsure of who—or what—was behind me. A shadow crept across the boy’s face, tall and ghoulish-looking as it spread over the drapes. It shrank as the woman stepped closer to the boy.

She was tall. That was the first thing I noticed. In addition to being tall, her dry, bristly gray hair was done up in a thick bun that made her even taller. She had a pointed nose and wrinkled skin that hung from her cheekbones like slabs of rotten meat. She was wearing a dark purple dress buttoned tightly up to her neck, with white frilly cuffs. Around her waist was a belt and from the belt hung a single keychain filled with skeleton keys.

“This room is off-limits. How did you get out?” the woman snapped.

“The door was unlocked,” said the boy named Alex.

The woman’s face darkened. Her upper lip curled just a bit. I tried to take a step back, willing myself to move. Nothing happened.

“You’re lying to me.” She reached out, grabbing Alex by the collar of his shirt. “Do you think you can escape this place? Do you think there is something out there for you?”

The boy stayed silent, not struggling with the woman’s iron grip. Her long, bony fingers dug easily through the worn fabric of his shirt.

“Answer me, boy!”

“I can’t work anymore,” the boy said. “My … my fingers hurt and my tummy is sore.”

I felt a pain of remorse at the word “tummy.” And anger, too. What was happening here? What was this Corrupted doing with the children?

“Do you think I care?” the woman barked, pulling on his tattered shirt. He fought back now, grabbing her hands and trying to pluck her short fat fingers from his shirt. She tightened her grip, lifting him off the ground. “Where did you get such strength?” she wondered, her voice gravelly. “Have you been eating your porridge?”

“Yes,” the boy choked out. The woman let him go, dropping him to the floor. Behind him, the curtains moved as the wind outside slipped in through the drafty windows. Just a horrible reminder of how close he was to freedom.

“Then you must eat more,” the woman commanded. “Come along. Come along now.”

She shooed the boy to the doorway leading back to the hall. I found myself following the golden trail left by the stepmother, down in the opposite direction I always went in my dream. In this direction, there were only two lamps hanging from the walls and one of them was out, making it difficult to see to the far end. I floated behind the Corrupted woman, watching her dress flow behind her.

From the heavy closed door to our right came the muffled scream of children.

Alex flinched, but the woman simply cocked her head, grunting to herself.

“Into the kitchen now,” she said. “Hurry, you little brat.”

“But I don’t want porridge,” said the boy. We made our way into the kitchen at the end of the hall. It was huge, like the kitchen for our school cafeteria, with big stainless steel refrigerators along one wall and rows and rows of bowls and plates and cooking equipment along the other wall. There were three massive stainless steel vats that looked like big pots sitting in a row behind a long wooden cutting table that looked as if it had been lazily wiped down, with long red streaks on its surface.

Blood?

“Everyone wants porridge,” said the woman, shoving him around the table to the vats. Two of them were still cooking, and as I moved closer I could see inside: thick, gray stew with little bits of boiling oats bouncing off of the rising bubbles. I could smell it: stale, wheaty, a hint of corn, and something else that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

The woman grabbed a bowl and handed it to the boy. She pushed him to the third vat, where a batch of the porridge looked to be cooling. There were no boiling bubbles, but it was still warm enough that steam was rising from the surface.

“Go on,” she said. “One good bowl and then we’ll head downstairs. A few hours of work and you’ll be ready for bed. We mustn’t stop now. We’re so close.” She cocked her head, mouth agape. “I can hear his song … kywitt … kywitt … what a beautiful bird am I …”

“But I never feel good after I eat the porridge.”

The woman leaned over, smiling. The loose skin on her cheeks wrinkled. “That’s because you’re not supposed to. The porridge keeps you working hard until bedtime. And that. Is all. I care about.”

The boy dipped the porcelain bowl in the stuff, looked down at it, then turned and flung it in the woman’s face! I silently cheered, feeling myself follow him toward the doorway as he ran into the hall.

But then the woman was following him, slipping past me in the blink of an eye. She walked slowly and yet her body seemed to carry her forward at an impossible speed. She caught up to the boy halfway down the dark hallway, grabbing him by the bib of his overalls and dragging him screaming back into the kitchen.

“You will eat!” the woman yelled. Warm porridge dripped down her face. Oat flakes had slipped into her wrinkles, lodging there and drying on her leathery skin.

“No!” the boy cried out, scrambling to wrench his hand free. But it was no use. The woman pulled the boy around the table to the third vat and lifted him off his feet. He kicked wildly, connecting one bare toe with the woman’s right armpit. She grunted, then released him.

Right into the porridge. I tried to reach out to save him, but I was helpless to keep him from slipping under. After a moment, he emerged to take a deep breath. He grabbed the edge, trying to pull himself out. The hideous woman very calmly placed a hand on his head, dunking him in the porridge again.

“Now eat,” she said when he surfaced. “Eat, or I promise you I’ll make this even more unpleasant.”

The boy, crying, opened his mouth, letting the porridge slip in.

Then he looked right at me.

Chapter 8

When I woke, Briar was staring at me from the back, nibbling on another marshmallow. His left ear was flopped over but the right ear was sticking straight up.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You were mumbling something about porridge.”

Seth stirred from the passenger’s seat. The sun was up, warming up the car a bit. I checked my phone and, seeing it was already ten in the morning, gave Seth a slap on the arm.

“Who now?” he asked, opening his eyes a few times. “Huh?”

“It’s already ten,” I said. “We need to get back on the road. The longer I’m gone, the more lies I’m going to have to tell my parents.”

Seth licked his lips. He sat up, letting his seat back tilt forward. “I need a soda. And a doughnut. You want anything?”

I looked in my purse, fumbling in the corners and pulling out a wrinkled dollar bill. “This is all I have left.”

“Give it to me,” he said.

I handed over the dollar. He got out of the car, hurrying across the now mostly empty truck parking lot and into the big gas station.

“What about porridge now?” Briar asked.

I shook my head, running my tongue around inside my mouth. It tasted horrible. I should have asked for a bottle of water.

“Alice?”

“Right. Well. There’s definitely a Corrupted stepmother in the orphanage. And there are definitely kids there, too. Human kids. One of them tried to escape. But she didn’t kill him. She wanted to put him to work, whatever that means.”

“Could you move? On your own?”

“I felt … I felt like I did, once.”

“Anything else?” The rabbit set the bag of marshmallows on the floor. “Think carefully. Any details at all?”

I closed my eyes. “Iron bars on the windows. A big kitchen with three vats. They were cooking porridge in the middle of the night. Maybe they were going to serve it in the morning.”

“Or maybe they were going to serve it at night.”

I turned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Briar shrugged. “If she was talking about putting the boy back to work, then it’s entirely possible this Corrupted has other children working in the middle of the night as well.”

“Gosh, I didn’t even think about that.”

Briar sat up straight, adjusting his vest. “That, young lady, is why I’m invaluable.”

“OK, OK. Don’t get your head in a knot, fur brain.”

Briar’s fur bristled. “I say!”

The driver’s door opened and Seth plopped himself in the seat. He had a bottle of soda, a chocolate iced doughnut and a cup of ice water for me.

“Hey, thanks!” I said. “How’d you know I wanted water?”

“I smelled your breath,” he muttered, starting the car.

I took a sip, then stopped when a thought hit me. “Wait, what did you do with my dollar?”

“Doughnut tax,” he said simply. His phone rang. He pulled it out and examined the screen, groaning. “Hello,” he said. “Yup. I’m … driving with Alice, actually. We went to a show in Minneapolis. You wouldn’t have liked it. No, seriously. You really wouldn’t have liked it. What? OK. OK.” He handed the phone to me.

“Hello?” I said, knowing full well who it was.

“What is going on?” Trish asked. “Why am I all of a sudden not invited on a super awesome road trip?”

I winced. “It wasn’t awesome. It was an awful band. I just went along with Seth because he didn’t want to go alone.”

“Right. Are you aware he didn’t even tell me about it?”

I glanced at him. He shook his head vigorously. “Uh … yeah. He feels bad. He just didn’t think you would want to come.”

“I’m so mad right now.” She didn’t have to tell me—I could hear it in her voice.

“Trish … I feel awful.” There was no response. “Trish? Trish?” I looked at the phone. The call was ended.

“Let her stew for a day or two,” Seth said, grabbing his phone. “She’ll be fine soon enough. Trust me on this—I’ve been on her bad side often enough.”

Yeah. But not me. Trish and I were always cool. And now for the first time we weren’t. And I’d lied to her, too.

We drove home listening to music. Briar entertained us with stories about his creator, the freed slave who lived in New York City. It was amazing to hear, and more than a little depressing, too. The man—Eugene Washington—had never been schooled. He’d had to learn to fend for himself as best he could, and pick up what he could whenever it was possible. It wasn’t possible very often. He’d been chosen to be the hero during the Civil War, although Briar wasn’t exactly sure how he’d been chosen. It all seemed to revolve around finding the fountain pen.

Eugene spent the Civil War in the South, running from slave masters while he delivered messages to Union sympathizers. He found the pen at some point, and then, just as the war was ending … he found the magic piece of paper.

“Where?” Seth asked. “I thought the Brothers Grimm lived in Germany.”

“They did,” Briar said with wide eyes. He grabbed our seat backs with his paws, clearly excited. “But the man he stole it from was a Hessian mercenary … from Germany. The mercenary traveled to America to fight in the war, selling himself to the highest bidder.”

“Did he know what he had?” I asked.

“It’s doubtful. Eugene found it tucked inside the Hessian’s old copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. It was one of a hundred or so books the mercenary had shipped over. He kept those books with him always, and when Eugene bumped into him, the Hessian attempted to enslave Eugene and give him over to a Confederate general. But Eugene knew a trick or two with the pen, and managed to give the Hessian the slip. And then, to make sure he wasn’t followed, he took a dozen of the Hessian’s books and hid them all over the countryside. The Hessian wanted his books back more than he wanted a new slave.”

“But Eugene kept the copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales.”

“Indeed,” said Briar. “And when he found the page, he must have written something on it. Perhaps it was a shopping list.” He laughed, slapping his knee. “Hoo-boy! Could you imagine that? The food must have just appeared! Well, he was wise enough to put two and two together. And he came up with an idea.”

“Create a rabbit,” Seth said, pulling into the right lane. The highway dipped into a low valley filled with pine trees that ran right up to the highway.

“Indeed,” said Briar. “Create a fantastic rabbit, to be more precise.”

Seth grunted. “He probably should have created some kind of super robot or something. No offense, dude, but you’re kinda wimpy.”

“I have wits,” Briar said. “And as for the wimpy remark … well, I have my moments.”

“He did knock over a Corrupted last night,” I admitted. “It was pretty cool.”

“I’m only kidding,” Seth said. He held out a hand. “Come here. Let me give you a good scratch behind the ears.”

Briar’s whiskers twitched. Then he leaned forward to accept the scratch.

Back home, my parents were waiting for me. I’d walked in through the front door talking to Briar, and when I saw them sitting on the couch with the TV turned low, I nearly jumped out of my socks.

“Oh, hey,” I said. “Why aren’t you golfing?”

“Where’ve you been,” Dad murmured, watching the football game on TV. Mom nudged him and I knew right there that it wasn’t good. He sat up straighter. “I mean, where have you been, young lady?”

“With Seth,” I said.

“We called his parents,” Mom said. “They said you weren’t there last night.”

I shrugged. I had to choose my words carefully. “We … went out.”

“Where?” Mom asked. She had her Mom face on: stern, slightly wide-eyed, shoulders square and stiff.

Nothing came to mind. Not a thing. There was no point telling a bad lie—it would just get me in more trouble at this point. “We went to a concert in Minneapolis.”

“Where did you sleep?” Mom asked.

“Seth’s car.”

Dad raised an eyebrow.

“Where?!” Mom asked, exasperated.

“In a truck stop parking lot.”

OK. Out loud it sounded pretty dangerous, I admit. But if they only knew what I’d been through already …

Mom simply shook her head. “You should have just told us. You’re eighteen years old, so we’re more than happy to give you some freedom. But you lied to us.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go!” I exclaimed. Beside me, I felt Invisible Briar bump into me as he slinked his way to the staircase. He reappeared at the top of the stairs, a little too close for comfort—luckily, my parents’ gaze was focused entirely on me.

“We would have talked about it,” Mom said. She turned to Dad for help.

Dad tagged in. “You’re grounded for a week. School and the library and nothing else.”

“What?!”

Mom nodded. “In the future, tell us where you’re going. We need to know. You could have been in danger and we would never have been able to help.”

“Understatement of the year!” I shouted, making my way for the stairs.

I slammed the bedroom door behind me. Briar, visible once again, spun in the desk chair, watching me plop on the bed.

“Grounded? Might you explain?”

“Oh, come on,” I muttered into my pillow. “Grounded. Stuck in my room. No leaving under any circumstances.”

“Hmmm. Well, this will throw a wrench in our plans, no doubt.”

“A big wrench.” I rolled onto my back. “Gawd, what a disaster.”

“At least you are, as they say, a social pariah.”

I chuckled, despite my anger. “I guess if I was more popular, this might be a bigger deal. Arrrgh! But what are we going to do about that orphanage?”

“The first thing you must do,” Briar said, raising one paw, “is try once again to control your dreams. We must know more about this house. If the windows are barred, then the door is probably locked. We need a way in.”

I sighed, glancing at my closed bedroom door. “We also need a way out.” I rolled over. “What the heck happened downstairs with you?”

“What do you mean,” Briar murmured, finding his way onto Facebook to update his status. “Researching,” it read. “P.S. Love marshmallows WOOTZ.”

“I mean you reappeared at the top of the stairs. If my parents would have glanced up, they’d have seen your furry feet.”

“It’s nothing,” he said hastily. “Just … I’ve not felt myself lately. My nerves are getting the better of me.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Briar turned and looked at me. He sighed. “My ability to turn invisible is … short-circuiting a bit. It happens when I get stressed out, all right? Can we please focus?”

“Yes. Fine. Focus.” I stared up at the ceiling. “Focus on the orphanage of doom.”

That night, following an incredibly awkward “family dinner,” I lay on my bed in the darkness until sleep overtook me. It was a long process, and it didn’t help that I had two bruises from where I’d been pushed around inside the bar. One was on my thigh, and the other was near my shoulder. Both of them wouldn’t stop throbbing, making just lying on the bed uncomfortable.

Ah, the life of the hero.

When I finally fell asleep again, I found myself in the mansion hallway. This time, the boy Alex was nowhere to be seen. No one was around, and the hallway looked different. A little brighter. Slightly newer looking wallpaper with dark blue stripes. Small little lights that hung from the ceiling.

And a staircase at the end of the hall. I was on the second floor of the giant mansion, floating toward the staircase.

“No, wait,” I called out. I tried to will myself to turn left or right. I wanted to see in these rooms. I needed to get Briar more information.

My body drifted closer to the staircase. OK, I thought, there has to be some way to do this. I tried to turn, but all I experienced was the same dreamy, floating feeling I always felt. Something had to trigger it. Some kind of control.

What would it feel like, I thought, to just reach out and touch the frame of the next open doorway?

I stopped. I could feel the hard grain of the wooden door frame in my hand, even though I couldn’t see my hand in front of me.

“Holy crap, I did it!” I said. My voice was still silent, thankfully.

I let go, feeling myself drifting once again toward the staircase.

OK. Maybe I’m drifting that way because I’m thinking about going down there, I thought. What if I wanted to look inside one of these rooms? What would I feel? I would feel the old rotten brown carpeting under my feet. I would have to pivot my right leg to turn.

I stopped, then slowly turned. I could feel the carpet underneath my feet now. I could move my feet, but only if I thought about it first. It was confusing, difficult to get the hang of, but as I reached out for the door again I realized I was succeeding enough to peer inside.

Bunk beds. Four of them inside the cramped little room. Thin white drapes were pulled back from the window, which had no iron bars. On the floor were a handful of plastic toys: a rocking horse, a box with different shaped holes, a few dolls with their eyelids frozen in a half-open position. All of them looked ancient, covered with dust and grime.

I moved slowly to the next room, losing my footing twice and feeling myself float like a helium balloon. When I reached the next open doorway, I grabbed the grainy wood again with an invisible hand and set my feet down, thinking about turning my body. The entire process felt disorienting, but as long as I imagined myself performing the actions, I could keep myself from simply floating.

I reached another room nearer the staircase, this one with six bunk beds, all of them lined up in one row. There were no toys on the floor. Nothing on the walls. I made my way to the window, pushing aside the drapes. There were no bars over it, but outside there was only a one-foot ledge and a fifteen-foot drop to the hard ground below.

The window was tall, double-paned, framed in old rotting wood with pieces of white paint flaking onto the floor. Outside, I could see a small factory across the street, all three of its tall smoke stacks billowing smoke. The building was made of old concrete, its second floor lined with old lights that gave off a pale glow. Some of the little square windows were broken.

I let my feet drift and floated upward. I could see the lock at the top of the lower window pane. I envisioned my hand reaching out, squeezing the little latch …

… And unlocked it.

I let go, letting myself float backwards. I drifted out into the hall, down the old staircase. I thought about putting my hand on the smooth wood of the banister and felt it happen even though I was invisible. I squeezed it, giving it a little tug. The rotted carved pillars moved a bit under the pressure.

At the bottom of the staircase, I found myself in a grand foyer, its walls lined with ancient oil paintings of knights and angels and royalty. The hardwood floor was partially covered by a long red-and-brown Turkish rug.

I stopped and turned toward the front door, examining it. Briar was right: there weren’t quite a hundred locks, but there were at least half a dozen, and each bolt looked at least an inch thick.

So they were prepared.

The sound of a door opening startled me enough that I lost control of my feet. They lifted from the ground, turning me once again into the floating phantasm. I drifted back to the foyer. At the far end, through the hallway, I could see kids slowly pouring out of the open door. The exact same heavy door where I’d heard the screams the night before.

The kids were all young, all short and thin and wearing either old pajamas decorated with toy trains or overalls and grimy undershirts. They walked toward me—shuffled, really, not able to walk very fast. They looked tired. Exhausted. As the first few got closer, I could see in the dim light of the foyer that their faces were encrusted in dirt. Their eyes looked bloodshot. They looked like little miniature coal miners.

“What are you doing down there?” I asked.

One of the children stopped at the base of the stairs. I recognized him immediately. Alex! He turned, looking right at me.

“We’re searching for the Juniper Tree,” he whispered.

“Hurry now!” called a woman from the other end of the hall. She herded the last of the kids to the staircase. She looked slightly younger than the Corrupted stepmother from last night’s dream, although she wore a two-piece brown dress that was just as old-fashioned as her accomplice’s. The skirt of the hideous dress reached her ankles, careful not to hide her heavy black shoes that looked as if they weighed more than bricks. Her skin was glowing a bit but her nails were downright radiant, bright enough that it felt as if they were burning my invisible ghost eyes.

“Everyone to bed,” she sang in a sweet voice. “Hurry up, you filthy little urchins. Hurry, or we’ll feed one of you to dear, sweet Gilda.”

The kids picked up their pace, scurrying up the stairs.

“Straight to bed,” the woman said, still with that same sweet voice. If the words coming out of her mouth hadn’t been so foul, I would have sworn she was an angel. “Perhaps we’ll feed one of you to Gilda anyway. You children can be oh so tasty with the right dash of cinnamon and pepper. Like a sweet treat you know you know you shouldn’t have.”

Her finger hooked the collar of the last child to reach the staircase. A little girl, no older than ten, with short blonde hair and soft cheeks. “Dear Jocelyn, I do believe you have kitchen duty, do you not?”

“But I’m so tired, ma’am,” said the girl. “Please. Please let me sleep.”

The woman smiled sweetly. It looked so innocent. So nice. “But then who will clean our bowls and pots and pans? Cinderella?” She laughed, pushing the girl back into the hallway toward the kitchen.

A noise caught my ear. I looked up to the top of the staircase. Alex was staring down, clutching the banister.

Watching me.

Chapter 9

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”[ii]

Seth picked me up for school in the morning no worse for wear. His dad had been at work all night and his mom had given him a light scolding for leaving during the night. The weird part? He totally seemed jealous that I got grounded.

“It’s not that he was jealous you got grounded,” Chase told me after fencing. “He’s jealous that your parents care enough to ground you. His parents totally suck.”

“They don’t suck!”

He shrugged, following me out of the weight room. At the entrance to the girls’ locker room, I turned and raised an eyebrow. “You showering with us or what?”

He smiled. “You’re funny. I’ll wait for you, though.”

I showered quick, borrowing lipstick from Margaret in exchange for some details on Ted. She was dismayed that I had few to provide.

“You haven’t kissed? You went on a date, right?” she asked, astonished.

“Yeah, but it …” I held my tongue. I didn’t want to give her too much.

Margaret must have sensed blood in the water, though. “But what? But what?”

“Oh, there just wasn’t a good time for it.”

She frowned, confused. “There’s always time for a kiss. Don’t be ridiculous. Boy, I thought you were one of the cool girls.”

Was I? As I made my way out, I noticed Chase had made his way over to the basketball hoops. The boys from the basketball team were letting him try a couple shots sitting under the basket. I leaned against the wall, watching. Chase missed the first, then hit the second. Everyone high-fived him.

“You could make the team,” said one. “You could be a secret weapon.”

“Just give me a few months,” Chase said. “I’ll be out of this chair in no time.” He gave them a wave and wheeled over to me, tossing back his hair.

“You need more gel,” I said.

He laughed, tossing his hair again just to be funny. He had a good sense of humor. “So we’re on for this afternoon?” he asked.

“Yup. But you have to meet me at the library. I’m grounded.”

“Grounded? You? What did you do, steal a book?”

A couple of freshmen heading to gym class pushed past us.

“Something like that,” I said. “Now, in exchange for this help with your book report, you promised me something, too …”

“You have to counter-riposte.”

I stomped my foot on the ground. “Chase! I need more than that. If that’s all I needed, I could just listen to Mr. Whitmann.”

He nodded, stopping a moment to rub his hands. He’d developed calluses from gripping the wheels. They looked painful—red and raw, like the ones I sometimes got when I broke in a new pair of flats.

“Do you want me to push you?” I asked.

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s fine. We’re almost there.”

We made our way into the lunchroom, splitting up after getting food. Chase went to be with his baseball buddies. I went to the back to be with Rachel and Clyde.

And Seth.

Later, at the library, I found myself wandering the bookcases, taking my time dusting all of the shelves. I couldn’t stop thinking about the kids in my dreams. What was going to happen to them? What would they become? They were caught up in all of this, and it wasn’t their fault.

It wasn’t my fault I was caught up in it, either. I know it sounds selfish to think about, but I couldn’t stop thinking why me? Why had I been picked for all of this? Why had the ex-slave, Eugene? Why had Juliette?

I turned, then did a double-take when I saw Ted walk by.

“Ted?” I whispered.

He popped his head around the end of the bookcase. “Oh. There you are. What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just … putting away some books.”

He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts. His eyes wandered around the shelves. “Lotta books.”

“Yeah.” I waited for him to say something more. He didn’t. This was kinda weird. “So … what’s up?”

He shrugged. “Not much. Wanna ditch this place and go get an ice cream cone? They got Grasshopper for the flavor today. A bunch of the track team’ll be there, too. We might go down to the beach and do some volleyball.”

“I can’t just leave!” I exclaimed in a quiet whisper.

“Sure you can. It’s volunteer thing, right? Let’s just get out. We could sneak out the back.”

“The emergency exit? Oh geez. I can’t …” A strange thought hit me: what if I did sneak out? I mean, I was the hero. I could be eaten alive by a Corrupted any day of the week. Shouldn’t I sneak out and have just a little fun?

Emphasis on “little.” Grasshopper ice cream was delicious and all, but I’d still be there with Ted, and it was hard to imagine hanging out with him and the track kids would be a blast.

Volleyball, though … now that might be a nice little diversion …

I tried to remember the last time I’d played volleyball. It had probably been two summers ago, with Trish and Seth and a couple other sophomores we’d made friends with during our Biology class. We’d spent an entire day at the beach. Lake Michigan’s water was warm enough to swim in and no one was even thinking about alcohol, which meant no one was hiding drinks or spiking Gatorade or acting stupid. It was fun.

Maybe it could be fun again.

“Wait.” I slapped my forehead. “I have to help Chase this afternoon. I can’t stand him up.”

Ted nodded slowly, his lips pursed. His eyes were narrowed. What, was he jealous or something? “All right,” he said finally. “If that’s how you want to be.” I didn’t have a response for him. What did he want me to say? Hey, maybe you’re right. I’ll just blow off the library and Chase and go get some ice cream! Finally, he rolled his eyes. “All right. See ya.”

And then he was gone. And with him went my only chance of playing volleyball.

Chase came through the doors of the library at 4 o’clock on the dot. The doors had a button for wheelchair access but he ignored it, instead pulling the doors open awkwardly and squeezing himself through. He looked frustrated, but once he got through it looked as if a weight had fallen off his shoulders.

His broad, muscular shoulders.

I went over to the empty table Chase had picked out. Right next to the Sexuality section. And the Romance novels. Geez, Chase. Couldn’t have picked a different table, eh? Couldn’t just skip the intoxicating cologne this afternoon, could ya?

“OK,” he said, pulling out his notebook. “I think I’m onto something here. Maybe. But I’m just having trouble putting it into words. Sherman Alexie’s book … it’s, um, about how hard it is for a Native American to fit in at a white school, right?”

I leaned back in my chair, shrugging. “Tell me more.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just tell me more.”

He flipped a page in his notebook. I was surprised at all the scribbles. He’d even written in the margins in blue ink, contrasting with the black ink he’d written on the lines. He had neat, crisp handwriting. “Well, the kid is obviously struggling, but he finds a way to fit in through sports, you know? I can totally relate to that. And the way they always picked on him? It just, um, really sucked.”

“OK.” I inhaled through my nose, catching the scent of his cologne once again. Just a hint of lemon notes. “Not bad. But what about the basketball games?”

“The basketball games …” Chase tapped his pen loudly on his notebook. I reached over and gently stopped him, putting one finger to my lips. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “So the main character plays on the basketball team, and that helps him become popular. I dunno. I sort of thought he lost his way there. He forgot that he was once a loser.”

“Loser?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Unpopular,” Chase corrected himself. “And so he gets more popular, but he kind of forgets about his old friend. That was a bummer. You don’t do that with your friends. I know the main character was a good guy and all, and I get the ending, but boy oh boy.” He leaned back, tapping his pen against his cheek. The sound echoed so I reached out again, stopping him and putting a finger to my lips. “Sorry,” he said with a smile. “I really liked the basketball scenes. I miss baseball practice so much. It’s like fencing. Do you ever feel a rush when you fence?”

“Sometimes,” I said nonchalantly. In truth it was an emphatic “Yes!” But I wanted to play it cool. Chase had enough of an ego, I bet.

“Like today, when you almost beat Rick,” he said, leaning forward. “That was awesome. You had such a good stance. You kept your foil low. Did you feel it? That rush of adrenaline? The heat of the moment?”

I nodded, unable to hide my smile. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s hard to control,” Chase said. “I don’t think the main character of this book always had it in control, either.”

“And so how much of this did you put in your essay?” I asked.

He looked down at his notebook. “Well, nothing.”

I flipped to a fresh page. “Start writing.”

When he was done, he had two pages. I had some notes of my own on Thomas Jefferson and his founding of the University of Virginia. For me, searching through the library and conducting research felt easy. But for Chase, it was a challenge. He’d spent years conditioning his body for sports and completely forgetting that his brain needed exercise, too. If he was serious about improving his grades, he was going to need to get back in mental shape.

“Let’s go find books for you,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked, pulling away from the table and following me toward the fiction section.

“Because if you liked Sherman Alexie, I bet you’re going to like a few other books, too.” And besides, I thought, his brain could use the exercise. “Here: a book by Louise Erdrich, another Native American author. Here: Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, a great science fiction tale. Here: The Belgariad, by David Eddings. One more: Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi.”

He hefted the last book in his hand. “This is a comic.”

“It’s a graphic novel.” I smiled. “Just trust me, OK?”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. Finally, he nodded. “What about this one? It looks weird.”

I grabbed The Belgariad from his hands and tapped on the cover. “You like sword and sorcery stuff. This is one of the best sword and sorcery series ever.”

“How do you know I like that stuff?”

“Because you wore gauntlets for an entire year. Gauntlets, Chase.”

His face reddened just a bit. He snatched the book from my hands. “Touché.”

We went outside to the grassy area in the rear of the library. It had recently been mown and the green smell of fresh-cut grass tickled my nostrils. Chase wheeled to a stop in front of me, sneezing twice.

“Are you allergic?” I asked.

“No. Of course not. A baseball player allergic to grass?” He scoffed. “Now, you gotta pretend I’m standing,” he said. “And holding a foil.”

“Right.”

“Now, come at me slowly with an attack.”

I came at him, imagining myself stabbing at his chest. He waved his fist up. “My instinct is to try and deflect your blade upward,” he said. He kept his fist held up. “So what would you do if I had my blade way up here?”

“Aim low,” I said, “near the bottom of the ribs.” I swung my invisible blade low.

Chase brought his arm down, deflecting the blow. He looked up at me, smiling. He had little dimples and little whiskers that grew in patches on his chin and cheeks. “Now, let’s do it again. Only this time don’t wait for me to gather my bearings after your first attack. You know what I’m going to do, so counter-attack right away.”

I stepped back, then stepped forward and stabbed high. As he parried upward, I swung my invisible blade around and struck low before he could protect himself.

Chase smiled wider. “A counter-riposte. And that is how you’re going to kick some serious ass.”

We tried it a dozen more times, doing a couple different moves. I tried to feel him out, to get used to his parries so that I could anticipate what he would do and react accordingly. He liked to parry high, probably because he was in a wheelchair. He said as much, and promised a more exciting match once he was standing on his own two feet again.

Before I knew it, it was six o’clock. His parents arrived to take him home in a special minivan with a little ramp. It surprised me—it seemed like a lot of money to install an automated ramp if Chase was going to recover anyway. But it wasn’t my business so I didn’t press. Instead, I gave him a wave, hurrying back home where my parents were once again waiting.

“Well?” Mom asked. She was standing in the kitchen over a boiling pot of noodles, her arms crossed.

“I was helping a classmate at the library,” I said. “Is that OK? Or do you want to ground me again?”

“I do,” Dad said from the couch. He turned down the TV and looked at me. “I’d like to ground you for two more weekends.”

“What?! Why?” I exclaimed.

“Because of that attitude,” Dad said. “Your mom doesn’t need that. She just wanted to know why you were late.”

“Couldn’t you just give me the benefit of the doubt?” I asked, exasperated.

Dad shook his head. “Not until you give us a reason to trust you.”

I went upstairs, angry and upset. Briar was waiting for me with a sympathetic look on his furry mug.

“It will be difficult to maintain our training regimen if you’re not allowed out of your room.”

“I’ll do jumping jacks,” I said, walking over to the window. Nope, no way down from up here. Not without a ladder or something. Even a hero couldn’t jump from the second floor without risking injury.

“I do hope you’re joking. Jumping jacks are so … introductory.” Briar shuddered. “The thought of training a hero to fight Corrupted by simply putting him or her on a jumping jacks routine sounds outright disastrous.”

“What do you have for me?” I asked, glancing at the computer.

“Ah yes.” Briar spun in the chair, minimizing the browser window where he’d been fooling around on Facebook. He pulled up a second window. “July 5, 1895. New York City. A fire destroys the Window Creek Orphanage. Twenty children die, another seven have severe burns. The mistresses get out alive. The fire is said to have been caused by a fire in the kitchen.”

“More.”

Briar pulled up another browser window. “September 3, 1914. Pittsburg. A fire destroys an orphanage, killing six children and wounding three citizens who tried to save them. The mistresses get out alive. Witnesses say the blaze was so hot that it was impossible to get near it. January 25, 1936. Columbus, Ohio. Another orphanage burnt to the ground, this time after mattresses caught fire. This time the mistresses escaped with minor burns but disappeared after being treated by doctors who’d set up a small emergency clinic in the shoe factory next door. Twelve children died in the fire.”

“And these are all connected.”

“These … and many more,” Briar said in a grim voice. “But here’s the important one: Chicago, Illinois. 1975. Another orphanage fire. All of the children in the orphanage died. The mistresses survived. Investigators tearing away the rubble experienced a cave-in. Two died. More rubble was cleared away. It was discovered—and here I quote the newspaper for posterity—‘… A vast, complex series of tunnels, most likely used during the twenties by bootleggers.’ End quote.”

“They’re looking for the Juniper Tree,” I said. “They have to be. But why are they using children? And why would the Juniper Tree be buried underground here in the middle of Milwaukee?”

“It gets worse.” Briar tapped on the keyboard with his paw. His ears perked up. “I emailed a handful of geneology experts to see if I could locate what happened to the children in the other orphanages. There is no record of any of them. So I went to the newspaper archives in the library, hoping my assumptions were wrong.”

“The kids were all missing,” I finished. “The ones who survived the fires. Disappeared.”

Briar nodded solemnly. “It was also found that many of the children in these orphanages had been … er, employed in various industries while living in the orphanages. This was common back then, of course. Children often worked in mines and garment shops and factories.”

“Gross!”

“Yes. Gross.” He scratched his head. “Always creative with your word choice. Did you have any success last night?”

“That and more. But what I need to do now is get to the basement. Something is happening down there. Gawd! Seriously, why do Corrupted love their basements so much?”

“Perhaps they enjoy the nefariously dank smell,” Briar suggested.

I looked at him, unable to contain a chuckle. Pretty soon, we were both laughing.

Chapter 10

In my dream, I found myself once again in the foyer at the stairs. There was a commotion coming from the basement—I could feel it the moment I willed my feet to touch the floor. Children crying out. Another loud roar of something inhuman. I had to see what was down there.

I moved closer.

Suddenly, the door to the basement flew open. The same boy—Alex—came rushing out. He ran down the hall, stopping when he saw me. He turned right, slipping into one of the other rooms. I walked through the dimly lit hall, hoping I might be able to will myself to speak aloud. He could see me. If he could see me, he could communicate with me.

From the doorway to the basement came the sweet-sounding voice from the previous night. “Oh, Alex!” she sang, stepping into the hallways and shutting the door behind her. It was the younger mistress all right. She looked left, then right. “Darling, you have so, so much more work left! Children who don’t meet their quota are boiled for stew, don’t forget!”

She turned toward me, but if she could see me she didn’t tip her hand. She walked past me and I turned, watching her walk up the steps. She hummed a high-pitched, pleasant tune, as if she belonged in a musical.

I turned back to the room Alex had slipped into, feeling myself lift off the ground as I became distracted, forgetting about thinking about my feet on the floor. I grabbed the frame of the doorway before I could float back down the hall, then regained my bearings and walked inside.

It was the living room. The one with the old dark drapes and the old couch. There was a bearskin run sitting on the floor in front of the couch—I hadn’t noticed it before but now I found myself stepping sideways to put space between myself and the bear’s terrifying head, frozen in a look of absolute hunger.

The boy was hiding behind the couch, peering around the edge and watching me walk over. In the delicate silence, I could hear the sound of my feet on the hardwood floor, muffled by my socks.

My socks. Last night, I’d taken off my socks before going to sleep. Tonight, I was wearing socks. Whatever ghostly creature I was, I was probably wearing exactly what I wore to bed.

Which meant the ghost standing before Alex was wearing an old teddy bear t-shirt and Hunger Games pajama bottoms. Oy. Some savior.

Thankfully, he didn’t look too disappointed. He was crouched over, his fingers clutching the couch so tightly his little knuckles had turned white. Above us, the ceiling creaked. A door opened, then slammed shut.

“She’ll come back down,” he said in a low voice. “I can’t fight back. I’m so tired. I think they put something in the porridge.”

Carbs, I thought. They loaded it with carbohydrates so the kids got a quick sugar rush. Then the rush wears off and they crash and go to bed. They start it all over again the next day. No protein or fat in their diets would make them groggy and unable to gain much strength to fight back.

Thank you, health class.

“Are you a ghost?”

I shook my head. I tried to talk again, but my voice was silent.

“Here,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his overalls. He pulled out a small chunk of coal. “Can you grab this?”

I could try. I reached out, but nothing happened.

Think about grabbing it, Alice!

I reached out again, imagining my invisible hand grabbing the coal. It floated in mid-air; the boy smiled.

“Cool.”

I moved the coal to the floor, writing a simple message:

What’s in the basement?

The boy nodded, understanding. “They have us digging for something. Well, they have us and something else digging for something. Some of us sew clothes, too, and the mistresses sell the clothes for money to keep buying more coal. Some of us have to keep the furnaces going. It’s really hot.”

“Why?” I wrote.

The boy shrugged. “Because the creature likes it hot.” He swallowed, taking a shaky breath. “The younger one is named Marleen.”

Marleen! Of course. It made sense: Marleen was the daughter in “The Juniper Tree.”

The sound of heavy shoes pounding on the stairs caused us both to flinch. I dropped the coal. The boy quickly used his hand to wipe away the words, putting the lump of coal back in his pocket.

“Will you save us?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Are you going to do it wearing pajamas?”

I smiled and shook my head.

A look of relief spread across his little face. “The creature …” he started to say, but then his big doe eyes glanced over the couch and a look of terror spread across his face. A pair of long, slender hands reached over and grabbed him by his overalls, pulling him over the couch.

“Come along now, my little darling,” said the sweet-sounding Marleen, tucking him under her arm as if he was a football. I tried to follow and felt my feet lift off the ground. I reached out, trying to grab Alex’s hand. But I was floating now, unable to control myself.

“Let go!” Alex shouted, pounding on her back.

Marleen laughed. “Such a strong little boy! Why, two extra hours shoveling coal will be a walk in the park! And if you collapse, all the better! I’m starving and I haven’t had a good leg of child in years.”

The boy screamed louder. I was falling behind, trailing them in the dim hallway.

“Oh, hush,” said Marleen. “I would never, never do such a thing to you. You remind me too much of my dear brother. It was all my fault, you know. I killed him. From that moment on, it was only a matter of time before Death returned to claim him.” She stifled a sob, reaching for the heavy door near the kitchen. “Oh my dear, dear brother. The guilt tears at me so. I fear it will consume me if we don’t find him again!”

I planted my invisible feet on the carpet and stepped quickly, losing my footing again and again. By the time I reached the door to the basement, it was already shut.

And locked.

“But I’m a ghost,” I said in a mute voice. I thought about moving through the door, closing my eyes as I drifted closer. When I opened them again, I found myself in a dark staircase leading down.

Behind me, the door was still shut.

From farther below came the unmistakable sound of Alex’s cries. I willed my feet to touch the steps and take them two at a time, down one landing and then another, where the wooden steps gave way to stones and the wooden walls of the staircase turned to rock. There was no basement, only another winding staircase leading deeper. The air cooled. The noxious scent of burning coal entered my nostrils.

Alex screamed again. I fought to catch up, tripping on the stone steps in the near-darkness. The only sources of light were three small lanterns hanging from the stone walls, and as I passed the last one I found myself surrounded by darkness, carefully plotting my footsteps on the wet stone floor as my invisible fingers followed the rocky wall. I turned right and suddenly, there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Literally.

I gasped. It was a cavern. A massive cavern with massive iron furnaces on either side with long exhaust pipes crawling up the walls and disappearing into the rocky ceiling. Children lurched from massive piles of black stuff over to the furnaces with heavy shovels full of coal. With every fresh load of coal, the fires inside each furnace belched in satisfaction. The wet rock walls glistened in the firelight.

More kids sat at tables spread out near the entrance to the tunnel, hunched over stacks of jeans, sewing as furiously as their little fingers would allow. Boys, girls, all of them incredibly young, all of them dirty and disheveled and tired-looking. Their eyes blinked furiously in the hot, dry air. On every pair of jeans was a gold “B.”

“Faster now!” said the older Corrupted woman with the gray hair. She was walking between the rows of tables. “Jeans mean money. And money means coal.”

But for what? I thought. Was it to build the furnaces? How long had it taken to build each one? Why were there so few farther down the cavern?

Five of the boys farther down the cavern, tossing another load of coal into the hot furnaces, and the entire cavern brightened.

There, on the other end of the cavern: a lizard. A massive lizard the size of a truck, clawing madly at the walls, tearing away chunks of rock.

I gasped.

The lizard turned, causing the kids to drop their shovels and run back toward the tables. The lizard had bright brown and black spots, like someone had splattered it with paint. It had a fat tail and a wide, spade-shaped head. Its long red tongue jutted out, tasting the air. One of its black eyelids blinked. More shovels full of coal fed the furnaces along the walls and in the brief moment when the fires grew brighter, I could see the creature’s pupil plain as day. A terrible realization crept over me.

It could see me.

Chapter 11

I woke in a cold sweat, blinking fiercely.

“It saw me,” I whispered. “It saw me.”

Briar, asleep on the floor beside the window, sat up and licked his chops. “What now? What’s going on?”

I looked around. It was still dark. My alarm clock read 11:45. Was it really that early?

“We need to go now,” I said. “The lizard saw me.”

“Lizard …” He blinked a few more times. Then it hit him. He hopped up, his fur poofing out. “Lizard?!”

“They’re going to burn down the house,” I said. “The stepmother and her daughter will move on and they’ll transport the lizard but first they’ll burn the kids. That’s what they do.”

Briar rubbed his chin. “They’re using the children for their own nefarious purposes. Diabolical, to say the least. All right, so how do we get out of here without walking past your parents’ room?”

I went over to my closet, grabbing my pair of fighting shoes and putting on a tight black t-shirt and jeans. “There’s no time to worry about that.”

“But what will they do if they catch you?” Briar asked, tapping his paws nervously together. “Unless you’re willing to abandon this life and embrace your role as the hero, I fear you must be careful not to incur their wrath.”

“We need to save those kids,” I whispered harshly.

A thump at the window caused both of us to jump. Briar ducked low, pressing himself against the wall beside my desk. I leaned down, fully ready to draw a razor-sharp saber in the wall.

But then how would I explain that to my parents? A sword-shaped hole is just the kind of thing my dad would consider “property damage.”

“Best to surprise him,” Briar whispered. “But don’t stab too quick. It might that wonderful Seth fellow.”

I gripped the pen like a knife, pressing myself against the wall and staring up at the window. Someone was climbing up the house. I took a breath and held it. The window opened slowly. OK. Maybe it was Seth. It would be incredibly weird, but the last thing I wanted to do was accidentally stab him. After all, I’d already hit him half a dozen times.

Still … best to be ready. I crouched closer, holding the pen low so that I could stab upward the moment I was sure. No second-guessing. Whatever it was could be just as dangerous as the lizard in my dreams. And what about the stepmother? She had walked as if something had carried her forward at an incredible speed. What other tricks did they have up their sleeves?

“I see something,” Briar whispered. “Oh dear.”

A head popped through the window. The nerves running through my body almost sent my hand upward, but the muscles in my arm clenched, preventing it.

“Ted?!” I whispered. “What are you doing here?”

He crawled through the window and plucked a wet leaf from his red shirt. “I heard from—”

I pressed a finger to my lips.

He lowered his voice. “Sorry. I heard from Chase that you were grounded. I thought I’d stop by and make a booty call.”

There came a distinct scoff from the direction of my desk. Ted turned. “Did you hear that?”

“It’s just the family cat,” I said. “Booty call?”

“Yeah.” He got up and sat at my desk, powering up my laptop. The room was bathed in a soft blue glow. “We’ll just make out and stuff. Is this your friends list?”

“It is.” I turned toward the door, wary. It was locked. My parents were on the other end of the hall. They weren’t exactly light sleepers, but Mom got up to pee pretty much every hour on the hour. If I was on the first floor, tossing Ted out would definitely have been an option.

“Yeah, so your Trish friend is totally crazy,” he said in a low voice. He was pointing and clicking, going through my Facebook page. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that at all. And I definitely didn’t like him saying stuff about Trish.

“OK. Got it. Listen, I really need to get some sleep. It’s a school night, after all, and …”

He shook his head. “Um, are you aware how many guy friends you have on here? It’s kinda unsettling.”

“Unsettling?” I repeated. I realized I was still clutching the fountain pen like a knife and put it in my pocket. Not without some hesitation, though.

Ted sighed, spinning in the chair to face me. In the darkness, with just the glow of the computer screen, he looked a lot older. “Look, if we’re going to date, I’d really appreciate it if you defriended some of these guys. You can keep Seth, ‘cause he’s your best friend. But this Briar guy? I mean, he looks thirty years old!”

I didn’t get it at first. Then I peered over his shoulder and saw the profile picture of “Briar.” It really was a thirty-year-old guy. With his shirt off. Looking like a total beefcake rock star. I had to suppress a laugh—Ted was jealous of a rabbit.

“I’m not defriending him,” I said in a low voice, standing up. “He’s my friend.”

Ted shrugged. “Then I don’t think we should see each other.”

“OK.”

He stared at me a moment, then flinched as if I’d thrown something at him in the darkness. “But we’ll break up.”

“Fine.”

“Huh.” He pursed his lips. “That usually works.”

I crossed my arms, glaring at him. I had to fight the urge to raise my voice. “You think you can threaten me to get rid of my friends? Are you insane?”

“Look, it’s just weird for you to have that many guy friends. Especially one this old who’s obviously a body-builder or something.”

“Lower your voice!” I whispered. Oh, I had such an urge to pull him off my chair. I didn’t want him near my computer anymore. I didn’t want him in my room, either. “And I’ll have you know that Briar is one of the nicest friends I’ve ever had.”

Ted shook his head. “OK. So we’re broken up.”

“Good. Great.” I jammed a finger in his direction. “I won’t change my life for you. I won’t change my friends for you. Even if you were Ryan Freaking Gosling, I wouldn’t ditch my friends just to satisfy your jealousy. Got it?”

He seemed taken aback. I guess his plan of propping a ladder against my window and sneaking in for a goodnight kiss wasn’t going all that well. Surprise, surprise.

“Um, this isn’t usually how girls react.”

“Then I pity your previous girlfriends,” I said in a wry tone. “Because no girl should have to ditch their friends just because her boyfriend says so. And I don’t even know if we were even dating, for crying out loud!” I was raising my voice. It was time for him to go. This night had enough complications without Ted. “Go home.”

He walked over to the window, glancing back at me. He looked confused, as if he wasn’t used to not getting his way.

“Go,” I said again. “And leave the ladder.”

He crawled awkwardly through the window, nearly losing his footing in the process.

When he was gone, Briar reappeared on the bed, his legs crossed. “Hmmm … that was the most uncomfortable moment I’ve been a part of in some time. Not since … oh, well, there was that time Juliette was propositioned by a male prostitute. Your boyfriend is a strange one indeed.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. We need to get down to that orphanage.” I paced back and forth beside the window. “Gawd! Ted came by and totally gave us a way out but we have no way to get downtown. I should have just defriended you and asked him to give us a ride.”

Briar’s whiskers twitched. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

We sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

“I could call Seth,” I offered. “But he hardly ever answers his cell phone.”

“Ah-ha!” Briar jumped over to the desk, running a paw over the laptop’s trackpad to turn it back on. “I have an even better idea.”

“What?”

He turned to me, just a hint of a smile on his face. “Let’s call a limo.”

Chapter 12

The limo arrived in just fifteen short minutes. An impossible task, given it came from downtown. But of course Sam Grayle wasn’t supposed to be possible in the first place.

“I hope you’re right about this,” I said to Briar, opening the back door. I immediately halted when I saw the figure sitting on the other side. As if on cue, the clouds along the horizon lit up in a bluish glow.

“Oh, I do not like lightning,” Briar murmured.

“Get in, get in,” Sam Grayle said. “You were quite clear that this was an urgent matter regarding my mansion.”

I hesitantly got in, setting my little bow and quiver of arrows on the seat between myself and Sam. For the first time, he wasn’t wearing a gray suit coat. Instead, his little body was covered by dark red silk pajamas with a button-down shirt. So human-looking, I thought.

He looked down at the bow, nodding approvingly. “I’m glad you came prepared.”

Briar squeezed in, bumping into me with his butt as the limo pulled out of the driveway. “Oh hello, Seth. Happy to see you!”

I turned. Seth was sitting on the opposite seat next to the little black fridge. I felt my body numb. My hand went for my pen. “What’s he doing here?”

“I thought you might need a little help,” Sam said with a snarling smile. “And given how helpful your little friend was when you invaded my home, it seems only reasonable that he could provide assistance again.”

“I was mad until I saw the fridge,” Seth said. He shrugged, popping open a green bottle.

“That,” said the dwarf, “is a very expensive bottle of imported sparkling water. I’d appreciate it if you limited yourself to one—”

Another pop. Sam turned to Briar, who had a bottle of the water squeezed deftly between his legs as his paws twisted off the cap. He looked at us. “I’m just so famished is all.”

Sam sighed. “Such a merry band of heroes. I do hope you have a plan.”

Briar snorted. “Fat chance of that.”

“Nice arrows,” Seth said, grabbing the leather quiver and pulling out one of the short arrows. “Where’d you get these?”

“I procured them,” said Briar, puffing his chest out. “Through trickery.”

Sam Grayle leaned back, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. I hated how comfortable he looked. He should have feared me. He should at the very least have had a guard or something. But he knew I wouldn’t harm him. Not with the threat of my family looming over the decision. He had all the power.

No. I had a little power. He really, really wanted that mansion. And once he got it, he would want something else. That was the corrupting power of greed. It was consuming him. I had to extract everything I could from this arrangement. Carefully.

“Are you tired?” Seth asked. He’d found the snack drawer and was fumbling with a bag of chocolate-frosted cookies. “Do you Corrupted dudes get tired?”

“I find sleep incredibly restful,” said the dwarf. “Sometimes I even have wonderful dreams where I’m swimming in a lake of gold coins.”

“Ha! Just like Scrooge McDuck!”

Briar snuck a cookie from the bag. “Who now?”

Sam ignored them. He opened his eyes and looked at me. “What about you, hero? What do dream about?”

“A stepmother,” I said. “And her guilt-ridden daughter. And one very big lizard.”

“Gross,” Seth said. “Count me out of this one.”

“Ah, mutations.” Sam smiled. “Just another gift from our creators. I wonder who this lizard started out as? No doubt it was a woman, given that the other two mistresses are of the female persuasion. Perhaps she was just a simple peasant girl, written into one of the Grimms’ stories as nothing more than a side-character. Perhaps she even found happiness for a time after her story was done. Settled down. Maybe even fell in love at some point.”

His eyes darkened as we reached the onramp for the freeway. With no streetlights along the ramp, only the soft track lighting above the limo doors illuminated his face. “Then her love grew old while she remained forever young. Or perhaps he ran away, seeing the first changes occur. Maybe it was just a few teeth at first. Maybe her tongue thinned out. Maybe a few scales here and there. Soon, she was no longer a maiden at all. She could only hide away, lost and alone.”

“That’s incredibly sad,” Seth said. “Is that real, Alice? Is that what happens?”

I had no answer. What was I supposed to say?

“All Corrupted turn evil,” Briar said. “It is, perhaps, unfortunate in some rare instances.”

Sam Grayle reached into the ice bucket by his feet, grabbing a bottle of red wine and pouring himself a glass with the kind of expert precision of someone who’s traveled in a limo for a long, long time. “Yes, perhaps the talking rabbit is right. No doubt the stepmother is quite evil. What is it she plans to do, dear hero?”

“Burn down the mansion.”

The glass of wine touched his lips, then stopped. “Now that is evil. Quite evil.”

“Arson?” Seth smiled, handing the bag of cookies over to Briar so he could wipe his hands on his shorts. “That seems tame compared with what we’ve been through.”

“They’re going to burn the children.”

“Oh holy crap!” Seth pounded on the dark window dividing the driver from us. “Faster, Jeeves! We got kids to save!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said the dwarf, sipping his wine. “Our driver is … not all that happy to be awake at this ungodly hour.”

I pointed a finger at Seth. “You’re not helping.” When he smiled, I felt my blood boil. “I’m serious, Seth! This is going to be dangerous.”

“It’s just funny,” Seth said. “I’m in a limo with a horrible dwarf and a giant talking rabbit and you’re lecturing me on safety because of a giant lizard.”

“Easy with the insults,” Sam muttered.

My hand fell to the seat, brushing against the bow. I grabbed it and tossed it to him. He caught it with both hands and a “Woah,” nearly dropping it. “You want something to do? You’re going to make sure no one escapes. Got it?”

He looked at the bow. “So what should I do, just shoot an arrow? I don’t really know how to do it.”

“It’s really quite easy,” said the dwarf. “Aim the pointy end at someone. Then shoot.”

“The cretin sums it up well,” Briar said. “No doubt I would be quite the crack shot … if only I had more dexterous fingers.”

“It’s that, or sit in here with him.” I jabbed a finger at the dwarf. Please say OK, I thought. I didn’t want Seth sitting alone with the dwarf. It would put me at a negotiating disadvantage if I did manage to kill all three of the Corrupted …

Because the truth of it was I had no intention of just tossing the orphans to the street.

“Alice? What are you thinking?” Briar asked. “We do have a plan, right?”

“Oh, sure.” I forced a smile. “We’re going to kick some butt and take some names and all that jazz.” I turned to Sam. “Do you have a smartphone, by chance?”

He sighed and leaned over, grabbing something much bigger from the sleeve on the door. “I have a datapad that I use for work. It has a satellite connection, if that helps.”

“Perfect.” I grabbed the datapad, sliding my finger across it to wake it up. I tapped on the little icon that took me to the Internet.

“What are you doing?” Seth asked.

“Studying,” I answered.

We reached the mansion’s gates ten minutes later. I took a breath, glancing at Sam. The dwarf looked anxious, unsettled. He had some stake in this too: the mansion. The kids burning alive? That I’m sure he wasn’t worried about.

“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing for the door. Briar put his bag of cookies and empty bottle of sparkling water in the little trash can beside the mini fridge. Seth followed with the bow and arrow quiver.

“Be careful with my house!” Sam called out after us.

“Yeah,” I murmured, shutting the door. “I’ll be sure to wipe my feet.”

“What will we do?” Briar asked.

I stepped up to the gate and pulled out the fountain pen. Carefully, I drew a horizontal cut across three steel bars. The bright gold line seemed to fade almost immediately.

“That’s strange.” I pulled one of the bars away before the glow disappeared.

“What is it?” Seth asked.

“My pen … I don’t know.” I drew another line, then quickly pulled on the bar. It didn’t budge. “It’s not working.”

Briar clicked his tongue. “A spell, no doubt. These two Corrupted are a dangerous lot. They expect trouble.” He leaned close as I drew another horizontal line. His ears perked up as the glow began to disappear. “Or perhaps they expected trouble a long time ago. This spell is old. It is expiring. Try again.”

I chose another spot on the gate, cutting at the bars and then pulling. This time the golden lines faded more slowly, and I managed to pull three bars away.

“Spells!” Seth exclaimed, following me through the hole in the gate. “What about security cameras?”

“Such technology is rarely employed by Corrupted,” Briar said, hopping beside us. “With the exception of the dwarfs, most Corrupted prefer to live as they did in their stories. No doubt an advantage we may exploit.”

Above us, the clouds lit up again. Long, growling thunder rolled across the sky.

Ahead, the mansion loomed on the top of a small hill, surrounded by maple trees and tall shrubs that stood in the yard. More tall, pillar-like shrubs lined the perimeter, partially hiding the brick wall from the outside.

Closer now, we stalked the last fifty feet to the front door. The house looked empty. There was a light on in only one of the many tall windows. The mansion looked old: it had four marble columns at the front propping up the stone pediment.

“Is the door locked?” Briar asked.

I nodded, examining the exterior. “Bars on the inside of the windows, too. All of them.” I used my pen draw a line on the door. The glow quickly disappeared.

“Ah, and so they are not quite as comfortable as we thought,” Briar said. “A much more powerful spell. I say, this isn’t exactly reassuring.”

I turned to Seth. “Go to that shrub and stay behind it. If any grown-ups come through this door, shoot them with the arrow.”

He looked down at his flimsy bow. “What if I miss?”

“Don’t miss.”

“What if it doesn’t kill them?” he asked. “Briar said you were the only one who could kill them.”

“This bow won’t kill them,” I said. “But it’ll stun them. Just like in the old Brothers Grimm story.”

His eyes widened. “I never read it! You told me about it, but I never read it! Oh crap, I should have just stayed in the limo.”

“OK, OK!” I waved my arms around frantically. We didn’t have time for this. “New plan. You just hide behind the bush and don’t do anything. Leave it all up to me.”

“Can do!” He got up and hurried behind the pair of egg-shaped shrubs sitting beside the driveway.

Briar was staring at the shrubs. “I might be of use there as well. That is, to protect him, you see …”

I gave him the stink eye. “Your abilities are needed.”

“Ah.” He tapped his paws together nervously. “Doomed by my usefulness once again. I acquiesce to your commands.”

“I don’t know what that means. Just put your foot here.” I locked my fingers together, creating a little step with my hands.

Briar looked down. “Um … what am I doing, exactly?”

“You’re jumping to the second floor,” I said simply. “There aren’t any bars on the windows on the second floor.”

“Are you sure?”

I smiled. “Yup. Remember when you were all like, ‘Look for the details in your dreams, Alice! Duh, we need details!’ Remember that?”

The rabbit’s fur stood on end. “I don’t recall using the word duh.”

“Hop up.”

He put one long foot on my hands. I nearly tossed him before he was ready, unprepared for the feeling of his soft padded sole, not to mention a handful of stray ankle hairs that tickled my wrists.

“One … two … three!” I pulled my arms upward as hard as I could and felt the rabbit jump off. He reached out with his paws for the second-floor pediment and grabbed on, deftly swinging himself onto the short stone ledge in front of the second-floor windows.

“Be careful!” I half-shouted, half-whispered.

And then he was gone. I heard the sound of a window being opened.

“That was crazy!” Seth whispered from the bushes.

I ignored him and bent down, drawing a saber in the concrete patio step. Here, at least, there was no magic spell preventing its use. I pulled the saber free, swinging it a few times to get a feel for it.

“Be careful!” Seth called out.

I smiled. Be careful? How do you do that in this instance? I was replaceable, after all … at some point, a new hero would emerge to take my place regardless. Somehow, she (or he) would get her (or his) hands on the fountain pen and Briar would begin the routine all over again.

The locks on the other side of the door clicked one after the other, drawing me out of my totally mental conflict. When the door opened, Briar whisked me inside quickly.

“Someone is upstairs,” he whispered. We were in the familiar foyer, with the grand staircase off to our right. The mansion was quiet, the lights in the foyer out so that only the lamps in the hallway ahead kept the place from complete darkness.

“Who?” I asked, wrinkling my nose. The mansion smelled like dust and mothballs.

The rabbit shrugged. “She was behind a closed door. She was … singing.”

Marleen. The one with the sweet voice. It had to be her. “We’ll finish her off first,” I said.

“Ah, divide and conquer.” The rabbit nodded approvingly. “An excellent strategy. No doubt gleaned from our training exercises.”

“Right. You stay here and keep an eye out.”

“I shall. Do be careful.”

I crept my way up the stairs, keeping the toes of my feet near the edge of each step to prevent the old wood underneath the carpet from creaking.

In the hallway upstairs, there were two lit lamps hanging on the walls between the doors where the children slept, giving me only a little light to see. I crept along the wall, following the sound of Marleen’s singing. My heart beat heavy in my ears. I could feel adrenaline running through my body. The saber switched hands so I could wipe the sweat on my pants.

She was singing, all right. As I crept closer to the room, her voice grew more clear:

“Flames to purify, flames to hide … flames to hide all of our lives …”

Definitely not a Top 40 hit.

She continued singing those words, and as I stalked closer, I had to fight the urge to barge through the door.

No.

Now I had to be patient. Let the situation present itself.

I could smell oil. I could hear it splashing onto the children’s beds. The floor. The walls.

“When children burn, they smell like bacon … oh dear tree, our love forsaken …”

The voice was getting closer to the door. I gripped the hilt of the saber, ready. My mind pictured Alex, caught in the flames. It was all I could do to keep myself steady.

The door opened. Marleen turned her head as she walked through the doorway; I saw her face and saw the glow beneath her fair skin. I stabbed but her eyes had already found me in my split second of hesitation. Her hand reached out, grabbing the blade. It cut deep into her hand and she cried out. Her hand began burning away.

“Oh you horrible little monster!” she said, her voice still sickly sweet. The burn was traveling slowly up her arm, and as I stabbed again she swatted the blade away with her good hand, then fell on top of me.

Her breath reeked of death. A hiss escaped her mouth. Her eyes were no longer soft and wide—they’d narrowed, her pupils slit the way a cat’s did in the noon hour.

“Get off!” I growled, pushing wildly. I could feel the heat traveling up her arm, slipping between my fingers and burning them hot enough that I had to release my grip. Marleen’s tongue lolled out, sharp as a nail, and cut across my cheek. Her other hand—her only hand at this point—clutched my wrist, making it impossible to strike at her with my saber.

“You’ll burn with me!” she sang as the bright orange flames licked at the skin around her neck. I felt an intense burning on my wrist—she was right! As the flame consumed her other hand and turned it black, I could feel the intense heat on my bare skin. I struggled with all my might, kicking wildly. Black ashes fell from the woman’s body, tickling my nose, irritating my eyes so that they began watering. More ashes fell onto my shirt, threatening to ignite it.

A black shadow slammed into the burning creature. With a poof, she burst apart.

I wiped the water from my eyes, sneezed twice, then sat up. Briar was sitting on the other end of the hall, brushing black ashes off his vest and pants. He shook his head like a dog shaking water.

“I didn’t expect quite so much ash,” he muttered. “I do hope we can have these clothes dry-cleaned at some point.”

“Count on it,” I said.

Briar’s whiskers twitched. He nodded over my shoulder. I turned. The boy—Alex—was standing at the top of the stairs.

“You’re the ghost girl,” he said.

I nodded, grabbing my saber and standing up. I sneezed more ashes out of my nose.

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, not wanting to step closer with my sword. He looked uneasy. Weak. Tired. “I need to rescue everyone downstairs. What can you tell me?”

He shrugged. “Who’s the rabbit?”

I turned to Briar. His ears drooped.

“Ah, heh heh. Just a minor invisibility malfunction.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, as long as he can see you, you might as well keep him safe.” I turned back to Alex. “How about that? Briar here is going to keep you safe.”

The boy nodded. He rubbed his eyes. “They have everyone feeding the furnaces now. Some are carting away rocks. The lizard is digging even faster than she usually does.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The tree.” Alex’s eyes widened. “She wants to find the tree. She wants to find her son.”

He pointed to my right. I turned, clutching my saber, expecting something terrible to be sneaking through one of the open doorways. But he was pointing to the wall, to the picture hanging there. A portrait. A portrait of a young boy dressed in a blue suit coat. He couldn’t have been much older than Alex.

“Her son …”

“The stepmother in the story of The Juniper Tree had a daughter and a stepson,” said Briar.

I turned back to Alex. “How will the Juniper Tree help the mistress find her son?”

He shrugged. “All she’s ever told us is that her son is gone. Taken by Death. She said once that her husband blamed her. He’d forgiven her once before. But the tree can take you to another place in another time. It can bring people back from Death’s embrace.”

A cold feeling crept through my body. “OK. You go with Briar now. Let him take care of you. I need to go save your brothers and sisters.”

Alex walked past me, giving me a satisfied nod. “I’m glad you’re not wearing your pajamas.”

“Me too,” I said with a smile.

“Come along,” Briar said as I made my way to the stairs. “We’re going to find the best possible hiding place in this entire mansion …”

Downstairs, I slipped down the hall to the heavy door near the kitchen, checking each room just to be safe. From somewhere below, I heard the same roar followed by children’s cries. The entire floor rumbled, shaking the glass lamps on the walls.

The basement stairs were just as I remembered them from my dreams: spiraling down, they changed from wooden planks to stone blocks after the first landing. The air grew colder. I could smell something burning. The deeper I went, the longer it took to come upon another lit lamp hanging from the stone wall. My eyes adjusted slowly. My body trembled. I didn’t like being in such a cramped space. I didn’t like the darkness.

The floor leveled out. I walked slowly, my ears picking up the sound of heavy clanging and the sharp voice of the head mistress as she shouted for everyone to shovel more, more, more. My free hand crept across the cold, slimy wall.

There. Just ahead, I could see firelight reflecting off the glossy wall where the tunnel made an abrupt turn right. Beyond that was the cavern.

And the children.

I took a deep breath, then stepped around the corner. The long rows of wooden crafting tables were empty, a stack of blue jeans sitting on one end. To my left was the giant coal pile, stacked high directly underneath a steel chute that had been built into the cavern walls.

Right where the garage was. Of course! That was how they were getting the coal inside. And the factory across the street … that was probably where the furnace pipes went. The factory was probably an empty building and nothing more. A cover.

Some of the kids shoveling coal stopped when they noticed me. Deeper in the cavern, where the furnaces lined the wall, the head mistress was using both hands to guide the children to the correct furnace.

“Keep them hot!” she shouted. “Faster now! This is our last night. Our last night of work! The furnaces at the far end are cooling. They must be kept hot!”

A grunt from deeper in the cavern, where the light of the furnaces seemed to be suffocated by the darkness. I could see the lizard’s thick tail well enough, though. Moments after the sound of its claws raking across the far end of the cavern hit my ears, a massive chunk of rock rolled toward us, nearly knocking the head mistress over.

“Well?” she asked the frightened kids standing beside her. “Get the pickaxes and break it apart! We must keep moving! Keep moving, children! Find the seed! Find the seed!”

“The seed,” I repeated.

Everyone stopped. The mistress slowly turned. In the light of the furnace flames I could see her lip curl into a snarl as her dark eyes landed on me. She raised her left hand, letting her fingers curl into a fist.

“Yes,” she said, her voice echoing in the cavern. “The Juniper seed.”

“Run,” I ordered. When the children didn’t move, I stomped one foot on the hard ground. “Run fast! Upstairs!”

The children dropped their shovels, pushing past the mistress and weaving their way around the wooden tables. The mistress watched them, her eyes narrowed.

“It has been a long time since I’ve seen a hero,” she said in a low voice. She was staring at me, her gaze so penetrating that I was having a hard time preventing myself from turning away. Behind her, beyond the farthest furnaces, there came a low bestial grunt.

“Why do you want the seed?” I asked.

The mistress cocked her head. A few strands of dry gray hair escaped from her tight bun, falling in front of her wrinkled face. “Why, don’t you know anything?” She laughed. “Oh, sweet little hero. All I want is to have my son back. Is that so much to ask for?”

“You hated your stepson,” I said. “Why would you want him back?”

The stepmother smiled wryly. “Can you not see that you stand before a tortured, grieving mother? I seek only my son. Nothing more.”

“And how many children are you willing to kill to get him back?” I asked.

“All of them!” she snapped. The last of the children scurried past me, making their way into the tunnel. The mistress’s voice continued echoing, as if trapped inside the cavern with no escape. I was beginning to feel the same way.

“These children have no families,” the mistress continued. “They have no parents. They are serving a greater purpose.”

“Not anymore. They’re going to be kids again from here on out.”

She glared at me, a look so sharp that I couldn’t stop myself from stepping back. That was all she needed—she stepped forward, then took another step, and with those two steps she’d already closed the distance between us, as if propelled forward by some magical wind. She grabbed one of the pairs of jeans as she passed the last table, and just as I brought down my saber, she wrapped the jeans around the blade, twisting me around.

“You dare to get between a mother and her child?” the mistress screamed, her voice stinging my ears. “Are you such a fool, hero?”

“You can’t stop me,” I said, using my free hand to try and pry the mistress’s hands from the pair of jeans. She had the denim wrapped tightly around the blade of the saber, her body weight pushing me backward with incredible force. I took another step back, then another, feeling the heel of my shoe rub up against the foot of the nearest wooden table.

From the darkness came another grunt. Then another massive jagged chunk of rock rolled out of the darkness, stopping beside us.

“Hilda!” the mistress called out. “Come eat this little fly!”

Another grunt. I felt my heart nearly thump its way through my rib cage, letting go of my saber so that I could maneuver myself away from the mistress. I stepped around the tables, feeling the mistress on my back.

Wham! We both went tumbling to the ground. I’d completely forgotten about her strange ability to move quickly. I realized then and there what was happening: she had the fiddler’s boots. The boots from his story that let him cover great distances in a short amount of time. Somewhere, over the course of two hundred years, those two had crossed paths and now the mistress was wearing the boots.

A handful of claws came at my face and I leaned back, feeling two fingers catch my hair and pull a few strands out. My eyes began to water from the pain. She was on top of me, her knees holding me in place. I risked a look left—the tail had disappeared deeper in the cavern, lost to the darkness. Either the lizard had run away … or it was turning around.

I had a feeling it was turning around.

“You could never understand!” the mistress screamed. Her mouth had spread across her face, wider now, stretching her papery skin. She swiped at me again and I clutched her wrist, keeping her sharp nails from digging into my face. “I lost my stepson twice! Once to my own schemes and then once to Death himself! And when I lost my stepson, I lost my husband!”

“Woe is you,” I said, squeezing her wrist tighter. She was strong. I would need to do something quick. Her other hand was holding mine tightly against my body, keeping me from gaining any leverage.

“I will get my son back!” the mistress said. Her eyes widened, almost comically so, her irises as black as her pupils and big as the chunks of coal sitting on the pile beside us. “I can find the Juniper seed and get him back and then I will get my husband back! And if he doesn’t return to me, then I’ll kill his son all over again! Right before his eyes!”

Another grunt deeper in the cave. The mistress cocked her head, pushing her claws closer to my face.

“Revenge is a dish best not served,” I said through gritted teeth. I used my other hand to reach for the pen in my pocket, pulling it out with the tips of my fingers. I pressed it to the mistress’s bare wrist.

She screamed out, releasing her grip. It was all I needed—with the flick of my thumb, the cap popped off and I swung the nib, raking her across the face. The cut grew a fiery orange, then slowly began burning her away. She cried out, pulling away.

“No!” she screamed. “I’m too close! I can hear his song so clearly! I can hear the boy’s song!”

I got to my feet, stepping back and watching the mistress tumble over the nearest table, knocking over the carefully folded jeans as the orange flame consumed her. I needed to speed things up so I lunged forward, pushing her with all my might. She tumbled backward …

Right into the nearest furnace. The flames crackled and grew a bright orange, thoroughly satisfied by the Corrupted treat.

Another grunt. I turned. My heart began to race. I could see the terrifying lizard’s face creeping out of the darkness as it stepped closer. The fire from the furnaces danced over its thick, reptilian skin. A tongue darted out, tasting the air. It stopped for a moment, cocking its head so that one giant black orb could study me.

It was thinking.

Well, guess what? So was I.

I bent down and grabbed one of the metal coal shovels, sliding it across the ground and scooping up a pile of soft dirt and pulverized rock.

“I know you,” I said, stepping closer to the nearest furnace. “Well, I don’t know you personally, but I know about you.”

The lizard stepped closer. It was only a hundred yards away. It took a slow step, then another, then as more of its body emerged from the darkness, I could see its chest rising and falling more quickly. It was using the heat. It needed the heat.

I tossed the first shovelful of dirt into the furnace, turning away as the hot coals hissed and burned the dirt. I could feel the air next to the furnace cool a bit, but not enough. The lizard took a few more steps, faster now. I needed to hurry.

Another shovelful and the coals were completely smothered. I hurried to the next one, my entire body screaming No! Don’t get closer to the lizard, for cryin’ out loud! I scooped another shovelful of dirt into the furnace. A hissing sound echoed across the room, joined by a low growl from the lizard. It stepped closer to me, its tongue darting out almost close enough to touch me.

“Careful,” I said, stepping back. “If you are a gila monster, you’re poisonous. You don’t want to kill me, right?”

The lizard stopped, cocking its head. It took another step, slower this time as it moved away from the nearest lit furnace, closer to the ones that were already put out. We were so deep down that the heat had already begun dissipating, replaced by a chill that cooled the sweat on my skin.

“Come on now,” I said, stepping back. The lizard stepped closer, its breathing slowing a bit as it approached the first extinguished furnace. I moved back quicker now, making my way around the wooden tables. My foot touched something. I risked a glance down, then did a double-take.

The boots. The boots the stepmother had been wearing.

I reached down and grabbed them, kicking off my shoes and stuffing my feet inside. They were a little big at first, but then a curious thing happened: I felt them tighten around my toes and heel!

The lizard growled, stepping closer to the tables. There was only one burning furnace on this side of the room, and it was off to my right. If I could just get over there and smother the coals, I could slow it down enough to make it a fair fight.

A massive shadow loomed over me, snapping me back to attention. I fell back and watched in terror as the lizard’s jaws snapped the nearby table in half. The wooden splinters flew into the air, followed by pairs of ripped jeans. The lizard spat out what remained, then stepped closer.

Close enough to smell its disgusting breath. Close enough to feel its breath on my cheeks. Warm, but not hot. Every movement was spent energy. It was cold-blooded. It needed the heat. But I wasn’t going to survive another quick attack like that. I looked up at it, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead.

“Man, I hope these boots work,” I said quietly.

The lizard’s head lifted up again. Its tongue darted out, testing the air between us. And then its mouth was open, coming toward me. I shifted my feet sideways, feeling myself float before my foot finally touched the ground again.

The lizard’s mouth closed around empty air. Its nostrils blew up clouds of dirt. I was nearly five feet away, an impossible distance to have covered without the boots.

There was no time to marvel at it. I reached down and grabbed another of the metal shovels, running toward the last furnace and feeling my body propelled forward with each step. I closed the gap so quickly that I had time to turn over my shoulder, time to stick out my tongue at the lizard who was still spitting out splinters of wood, and enough time left over to scoop dirt onto the burning coals.

They began to hiss. The lizard growled. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure it wasn’t sneaking up on me—it wasn’t. In fact, it was barely moving now, its legs picking up and hitting the floor as if it were on the verge of falling asleep.

I shoveled more dirt onto the hot coals, wrinkling my nose at the bitter stench of burnt dirt. With that finished, I hurried back to the nearest table, aware that the lizard was on the other side, trudging slowly around it, grunting loudly. I drew a new saber, pulling it from the table and stepping away just as the lizard’s mouth came down again, crashing through the wood, chomping at the splinters and spitting them out along with a healthy amount of poison drool.

“OK,” I said, taking another step back and feeling myself float for a moment before landing on the ground a good five feet from where I’d just been. “So you’re not slowing down that much.”

The lizard smacked its black lips. There were only two furnaces burning farther down the cavern, and their coals were already beginning to burn low, casting the giant creature in menacing shadows. The tan spots on its skin were the only thing letting my eyes get a good idea of the creature’s true size. Maybe if I could reach around its mouth and stab it with all my might …

“Yeah, and maybe it won’t snap me in half, too,” I murmured, clutching my saber hilt tighter in one sweaty hand. The creature moved closer. Slowly. Whatever energy it had left, it was saving for one final bite. It wouldn’t have to chew me up, either. If it really was a Gila monster, then its poison would do the trick.

The lizard took another step. Its tongue darted out, running across my leg before my saber could stab it. I could run around it. But if it got closer to the furnaces, it would regain its strength. It was my only hope, though. Fighting this thing face-to-face was a losing proposition. I needed to—

Something flew past my line of vision. The lizard’s head lifted up and its wide mouth opened, letting out a loud groan. I clutched my saber, half-expecting the mouth to snap at me once again. But instead, the lizard’s head simply dropped. Its legs followed, folding up so that its belly landed on the ground. Its big eyes blinked in surprise, watching me cautiously step to my left.

Then I saw it: an arrow, planted firmly in one of the tan spots near the creature’s tail.

“Holy crap.”

I turned toward the entrance. Seth was standing in the tunnel, staring at the little bow in his hand. He had the quiver sitting by his feet.

“Seth! You did it! The bow works!”

He laughed nervously. “Yeah. Except I was aiming for the thing’s head.”

I turned back to the lizard. The arrow, a good fifteen feet from its intended mark, was doing its job: the lizard couldn’t move. Its right leg was stretched out under its belly and I could see its tan foot: there was a chunk missing from the heel.

Cinderella’s stepsisters. They’d cut their feet to make the glass slipper fit. Was this one of them, changed by the Corruption?

“Holy crud!” Seth said. “That was the coolest thing ever. I’m a hero too! Kind of. OK. Not really. But I’m totally stoked about this. I should have a nickname. How about The Dark Archer? That sounds pretty sweet. Like, not too goofy, but also terrifying.”

I walked around the lizard, staring at its filed-down claws. Tunneling. Searching for a seed from a magical tree. What did it all mean? Hopefully, Briar would be able to find answers.

“Well?” Seth asked. “Aren’t you going to kill it?”

“No,” I said, grinning. “I’ve got a better idea.”

The Lost Journal of Eugene Washington: Part One

June 1, 1864

Never thought I’d keep a journal. Boy oh boy, just seeing my handwriting gives me chills! Five years ago, I was fifteen. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t do much of anything except serve the master drinks while he sat in his fat red chair and sweated something fierce.

Wasn’t my choice, of course. I was bought and paid for. Separated from my parents at the age of 12, sent to a farm in Georgia where I spent three years as a fetcher. I fetched everything. I fetched farming equipment, I fetched slaves from different parts of the cotton plantation, I fetched food from the storerooms for the cooks.

My parents told me that our family once belonged to the Oyo Empire in Africa. My grandparents were merchants who deplored the slave trade and refused to sell human beings to the European traders. Wasn’t long before they caused too much trouble and were sold themselves. When my mother was born, she was shipped down to Georgia. Arranged to marry my father, and boy if he wasn’t the happiest son of a gun on the whole plantation. She was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, or so he told me. I believed him. I remember my ma being pretty. Proud, too. Proud that her grandparents had refused to treat their brothers and sisters like animals.

Could have been worse. But that doesn’t mean much, now does it? No sir, no it absolutely does not. It was a horrible way to live. Horrible way to treat someone.

So why didn’t you run away sooner, Eugene? I’ll tell you why: 20 lashings from the whip, that’s why. I saw it happen. A man named Jebediah ran off, got caught not two hours later by the master and his men on horses.

20 lashings with a whip. You don’t need to know what it looks like, seeing a human being’s skin after something like that. No one in this beautiful world should ever have to know that.

June 5, 1864

Didn’t plan on making a big fuss about my life and all, but I might as well finish my story while the beans are cooking over the fire. I escaped, all right. I escaped but good, and now I’m risking my life to save more people.

My escape wasn’t quite an adventure by any means. And I nearly slept through it! The night in question, I was sleeping on the ground in a small wooden home I shared with six other kids, all of em much younger than me. Tough to sleep. My legs were sore from work. I heard a noise outside. It was chilly out and I took my blanket with me as I went out to investigate. Expected to see one of the adults, maybe a servant heading back from the mansion.

Instead, there at the edge of the cotton field are two of the adults—a man and woman—standing with a Negro man with short hair, wearing a beautiful dark suit. Not the kind of suit you’d want to wear through a cotton field after a good rain.

Don’t know why I walked over, but I did. And the moment they saw me, they went nearly as white as our master. I saw it plain as day thanks to the full moon. They debated what to do. The well-dressed man introduced himself as Mr. Still and said all of us was going to follow the old drinkin’ gourd.

Otherwise known as the Big Dipper.

“You’ll get caught,” said I. “You can’t run all the way north.”

Mr. Still just shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re right. That’s why we’re taking a train.”

Turns out, it wasn’t a real train. Not a choo-choo train. It was all in our heads, really, and the “stops” were homes. White people’s homes. They hid us away in the basement during the day, gave us a little meal, then the next night we traveled farther north. I can’t even begin to describe what it felt like to cross the border into Ohio. A feeling came over me, and it had nothing to do with the frigid temperature, either. Can’t explain it. Won’t try to explain it.

And now?

Now I’m a conductor for the underground railroad. I help slaves escape, take em north into free territory. Across enemy lines, so to speak. Sad, isn’t it? Parts of America being “enemy territory” and all? The Civil War’s been dragging on for years now. People are dying by the thousands. Family and friends torn apart, and all of it because a bunch of slave owners want to keep their property.

But you can’t own a human being.

June 15, 1864

Passed the Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. Been traveling under the cover of night, but as of right now the North is firmly in control around here. The general of the Union army, Mr. David Hunter, he came through here and burned the Institute to the ground. All that’s left now is a blackened skeleton of a structure. Haunts the eyes, looking at it for too long.

Ground’s all chopped up from soldier’s boots and artillery. I’m traveling alone, trying to get a little deeper south to the plantations in South Carolina. Trying to save a few more slaves. Talk among the abolitionists say all slaves are goin to be free once the Union prevails in the war but a lot of us aren’t putting our faith in promises.

We’re putting our faith in the North Star.

June 21, 1864

Boy howdy, what I wouldn’t give for a real meal right about now.

Long’s I’m dreamin, I wouldn’t mind a new pair of shoes. Maybe some sugary drink to tickle my tongue.

Going’s slow. I almost bumped right into a Confederate army marching north—imagine what they’d have thought seeing a black man marching south! Heh. Got to keep moving. Sick of moving at night. Can’t really spend any time reading during the day unless I’m inside of a safe house.

Mr. Hill, he was the one who taught me how to read. Was real patient with me, too, making sure I got a good hour in every day. Said it was important to read. It exercises your brain, he’d always tell me. And some day, it’s gonna save your life. I never forgot those words.

I got three books with me. They belong to an abolitionist in Virginia. He loaned em to me for my journey. One of them’s a play by William Shakespeare, called Othello. Another’s called Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I’ve read it six times already. The third is the published tales of Br’er Rabbit, that rascally trickster. They’re not bad, but they’re not nearly as good as the ones my parents told me as a boy. My parents could spin a yarn, I’ll tell you what. They knew every Br’er Rabbit story by heart. My pa, sometimes he would even act out the parts.

Don’t want to write no more today.

June 23, 1864

Sorry.

Now look at me, apologizing to my own journal! Well, suppose Mr. Hill is right and suppose someone does decide this here journal is worth reading some day. Suppose I came off a little too strong in the last entry.

Supposing all that, I guess “sorry” is important.

But thinking about my parents is tough. I’ve missed em every day since I was separated and sold off.

Every day.

June 25, 1864

(Entry missing.)

June 30, 1864

Needed some time to straighten out my head. Lots happened. Lots. Where to begin? Well, I guess the beginning’s as good a place as any.

I passed another Confederate army at sunset, just when I was striking out. Making my way through a thin patch of sweet birch trees, the perfect place for an army to pass through because there’s not too much shrubbery on the forest floor. Usually, I’m pretty good at night. Heck, I’ve been doing this for three years now, after all! But they were marching something fierce, too tired to even send some cavalry ahead to scout. Had to double back and find a good hiding place on higher ground where I’d be out of sight.

They were beat up. Beat down. Ragged and rusted and rambling and downright bedraggled. I’d have felt sorry for them if they weren’t fighting to keep people like me in chains. Still, they’re human beings … my ma once said to me, “Eugene, you let your heart freeze through, it can be tough to thaw it out.”

It’s exactly that type of thinking that had me giving away the last of my food—two loaves of bread and some dried jerky—to the six men left behind. Now, I know just how foolish it was, and I bet if any of the soldiers was a little healthier, he wouldn’t hesitate to slap me in chains and sell me to the first plantation owner he could find.

But for all their faults, at the end of the day they were still human beings. Two of them were just boys. Probably couldn’t find D.C. on a map, much less know what in the heck they were really fighting over. Heck, I know I could be wrong. Eugene Washington’s an optimistic son of a gun and darn right knows it. Someday, maybe my compassion will catch up to me.

But it wasn’t going to be this day. I gave out the food, helping what I could to get them comfortable, thought it was obvious they were wounded something fierce. “Help is coming,” I told em. I knew once I got to my safehouse in the town three miles south, they could get some folks from town to pick those boys up. Maybe, just maybe, one of them might decide getting saved by a freed slave is enough to change their minds.

I ain’t holding my breath. But like I said, I’m an optimistic son of a gun.

Gotta stop writing for now. Candle is almost burnt out. Sun’s coming up. I’m tucked away in a little crawl space underneath the living room floor of two of the nicest white folks I’ve ever met. It’s a cramped little storage room, but I like sleeping all curled up so I don’t mind. When I wake up, it’ll be evening. Time enough for a little meal with my “station masters,” and then back on the road.

July 1, 1864

Well now! Time to finish my story. I got to be honest, I’m not relishing this. First thing you’re going to say is, “Boy, this Eugene has gone right off the deep end. His brain went skinny dipping in the Mississippi and it didn’t ever come back.” I tell you, I’ve got my brain sure enough. And I swear what I’m about to tell you is the honest-to-God truth …

None of the Confederate boys I fed was in much of a talking mood. I guess seeing a freed slave behave all civilized and compassionate is a bit of a shock if you’re raised thinking Negros don’t have such qualities.

But the last soldier I fed, he was different. I knew it right away when I saw him. He was watching me, see. Squinting in the darkness, watching me slip between the birch trees.

“You’re a danged fool to turn your back on those other men,” he whispered to me once I’d crept closer. He was leaning against a tree, clutching his stomach.

“You could see me way on down there?” I asked, pointing over my shoulder.

“I can see you pointing, too,” he said. “Come closer, Eugene.”

I swear on everything that I’m not making this up. He knew my name. Spoke it like we were good friends in another life. So I stepped out from behind my tree and walked over to him, kneeling beside him and digging through my satchel. I had a little bread left. My stomach growled, arguing against giving any more away. There was still a good six hours of walking or so.

I plucked a branch from the nearest cedar, plucking the little oblong leaves. They had double-toothed edges. Felt comfortable between my fingers. I gently lifted the man’s hand from his stomach, and set the leaves over his wound. “These leaves will do a heckuva lot more than that meaty paw you call a hand,” I said with a smile.

“You know these woods,” the man said, pushing away the bread. Had a northern accent, which was curious.

“I been through here once or twice,” I answered.

“You shouldn’t have turned your back on those other men,” he said. “Even the boys. This little army has done …” he licked his thin lips. “Bad things.”

“They’re in no position to do any more shooting,” said I. “You sure you don’t want a little food?” He tried taking his hand away from his stomach but I kept it there. “You want to keep pressure on that.”

The man smiled. He was young, probably no older than me. He’d let his hair grow long. His face was dirty, and he had a thin beard. His clothes were ragtag, his shoes worn down pretty good. Lots of Confederate soldiers’ clothing was coming apart. At least, the ones I’d snuck a look at in the past month. They were all hungry and tired and running out of food.

“Eugene,” he whispered. “I’ve dreamed of this moment. I knew it was coming. Look at this.” He pulled a little leather bag from his torn belt and handed it over. “Minie balls,” he said. “For my gun. Never used a single one. Not once.”

The bag was heavy. I believed him. “So why not?” I asked.

“This isn’t my war,” he said. “My war is far more dangerous.” He reached into the pocket of his tattered pants, pulling out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to me. “Unwrap it.”

I shook my head. “How … how do you know my name?”

“Unwrap it, Eugene.”

I carefully unspooled the cloth. A beautiful fountain pen landed in the palm of my hand. The moonlight caught it, giving it just a little shine. It was heavy, metallic, the kind of thing that belonged on the desk of a New York lawyer. Not a soldier dying out in the woods.

“Now listen to me very carefully …” the man said, licking his lips.

July 5, 1864

Well! I’ve been stewing over it for a few days now, and I do believe I’ve come to a decision.

Eugene Washington has officially gone crazy. Yup, I expected it at some point. Just not so soon. Thought I’d get married and have a few kids before my mind packed up and headed out, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards.

I spent yester-day getting a family of slaves into a safe house, what we in the Underground Railroad call a “station.” The “station master” who owned this particular house is a man who I’ll just call Timothy. Nice man. Big, round belly and pointed nose. Looks a lot like Benjamin Franklin.

Talks like him too.

“Eugene, I do believe we’ll be seeing three feet of snow this winter!”

“Eugene, a man who does not finish his plate is a man you shouldn’t trust.”

“Eugene, the day I find a pair of socks that fit will be the very same day men abolish war.”

“Eugene, why do you do it?” he asked me once. This must have been around a year ago, when I was running slaves through a “rail line” that went into Mississippi. “Why do you risk your life?”

Seemed like a dumb question to me. But he didn’t understand. How could he? So I told him the truth. “Timothy, somewhere out there are my parents. I’ll never find them, most likely, but I’ve found plenty of other families. And I don’t want any of them to feel the loneliness that I feel.”

Timothy just nodded. Maybe he understood a little.

Anywho! I got this family to their first “station” easy enough and Timothy set them up in his attic for the time being. I took off that very same night, getting a good five miles north before turning off the main road into a patch of woods that had more than its fair share of good resting places. Lots of hornbeams and oaks, with a few giant chestnuts, too.

That’s my secret, by the way. It’s why I’m so good at freeing slaves. Most people say just follow the ol’ drinkin gourd, but that’s not enough. See, if you know your trees, you know where you are.

All this talk of trees has got me thinking. About what that Confederate soldier told me. Truth is, I don’t really think he was a Confederate soldier at all. Knowing what he did about me, I was pretty sure he’d come from somewhere north and enlisted in the Confederate army to get to that very place we bumped into each other. Said he’d seen all of it in a dream.

Said a lot of strange things. Then he passed away. No time to bury him, but I did make sure to say a little prayer.

Early this morning, just as the sun was coming up, I took that fountain pen out of my little satchel and pulled off the cap.

“Here goes,” I said, pressing the diamond-shaped tip to a fallen log. A snake slipped out from one of the rotted holes, scaring me near to death. I fell back, kicking it away. Lord, how I hate snakes. Can never get used to them.

When I was sure it was gone, I crawled cautiously back to the log. I pressed the tip of the pen on it, moving it across the rough bark.

The ink glowed for a minute, then disappeared.

I stared at the fallen log for a minute, sure my eyes were playing tricks on me. I tried it again. The ink glowed, then disappeared again.

“So what’m I doing wrong?” I asked the empty forest.

The oak trees shrugged. What do we know, Eugene? We’re just trees. All we’re good for is whiskey barrels.

Then I remembered something the soldier had said: I had to imagine what I was drawing. And I had to know the object well enough that I could draw it in my head.

So I drew what came naturally. I drew a book. Specifically, I drew Moby-Dick, even coloring in the white whale on the cover. Then, when I was finished, while the drawing was still glowing a golden glow, I pulled it out of the tree bark.

And there it was. Only, it wasn’t a real book. Not exactly. The cover was real. The pages were real. But the words on the pages were few and far between as if the typesetter hadn’t used enough ink on the pages.

Then I realized it. The only words that had shown up were the words I remembered.

Then I realized what I’d just done. And nearly fainted right there in my little pile of wide-lobed oak leaves.

I couldn’t believe it, I—

(Pages missing)

July 8, 1864

Lots of stuff to write. Not quite sure what to do. I’m heading north. Trying to avoid the “stations” because I’m being followed. Last thing I want to do is put the Underground Railroad in any danger.

The Hessian is one mean son of a gun.

July 9, 1864

I think he’s lost my scent a bit. He came up on me so quiet-like that I didn’t even hear him. Was writing in my journal at the time. Recognized him the moment I turned around. Everyone along the north-south border has heard of Hessian mercenaries, fighting for the highest bidder. You see them fighting for the Union army one day, then the next day you see them fighting on the side of the Confederates. Whoever gives them the most money gets to tell them who to kill. Despicable human beings.

But this one who almost caught me, he’s something special. He looks like George Washington brought back from the dead, with curly brown hair and a dozen scars on his face. Wears a black vest and black pants and keeps a pistol holstered on his belt, next to a saber. Big, fat hands that could snap a man in two. He wore black gloves and black boots and a red leather strap that ran diagonally across his body. Tucked in that belt were a few knives.

Thankfully he doesn’t know his trees too well, and instead of making his way around a handful of American elm saplings, he tried pushing right through them to grab me. The young branches are strong as all get out, and they gave me just enough time to grab my knapsack and run.

The Hessian. That’s what he’s called. The most feared mercenary in the entire country. And currently being paid by the Confederate army.

July 10, 1864

I think he’s lost my trail. One thing I didn’t mention in my last entry was his cart. He takes a cart of books with him as he travels from battle to battle. Shipped it over from Germany. People say he likes to read after a battle. While everyone else is nursing their wounds and crawling to safety, he sits right there and pulls out a book. Scary, thinking about it. A person like that has lost any connection he had with his fellow man.

I wish could—

(Pages missing)

July 15, 1864

He caught me. Sure enough, he crept right up on me again and took me prisoner. The Hessian. And after he clamped my wrists in cuffs, he chained me to the back of his cart full of books.

Nothing quite like a six-hour walk to make a man miss New York City. And nothing like feeling cold steel around my wrists to remind me why I put myself in danger for the Underground Railroad. Brought back a lot of bad memories. Memories of my parents, too. Memories of seeing them put out in the field, while I sat on the dirt outside our little home, crying.

The Hessian, he didn’t care what I had to say. I knew it the moment he had the cuffs securely around my wrists. Smiled a wood-toothed smile, just a glint of pleasure in his rusty brown eyes. Only thing that would have made him happier was if he was smack-dab in the middle of a battle.

Violence corrupts the soul. Blinds the eyes. Makes a man into something less. The Hessian, he wasn’t no different. All he could think about was getting back into the fight. Poor sweet Eugene was just an afterthought. He was someone who could feed the horse pulling the cart, set up the camp at night, and whatever else he needed done. And when I was no longer useful? Well, then he’d just sell me off to the nearest plantation.

And it would be oh, so easy. See, after he tied me up, he took my free papers and burned them. Poof. A man’s freedom … gone.

July 16, 1864

Where was I? Of course … the great escape!

The Hessian didn’t have much use for my pen. In fact, he looked downright disappointed when he unwrapped the cloth covering it. He set the pen and my knapsack in his cart, next to a wooden crate filled with books. Some of the books were damaged, with wrinkled covers. He had six crates full of books and two of the covers for the crates were made of old, blistered wood. Probably pine. Bad choice, Mr. Hessian. It was no wonder rain was leaking in.

Might explain his bad mood.

That night, after I made his fire and laid out His Majesty’s sleeping quilt and got a kettle burning, he chained me back up and sat beside the fire, making himself a nice cup of tea while he read from his copy of King Lear. Everything was nice and peaceful … for him, at least. Me? I was chained to the back of a cart, lying on the hard ground without a blanket, shivering like a cat out of water.

The upside of having a dirt floor to sleep on is you don’t fall asleep too quick. But the Hessian? Well, he was all tucked in next to that roaring fire, sawing logs before I even had time to convince myself to not reach for the pen.

I knew the risk. If the Hessian woke up, he’d probably shoot me. Nothing worse than a slave who gets an itching to do some writing. Heck, there’s even laws against it for cryin out loud. But I wasn’t going back.

Never.

Eugene Washington is a free man.

Heart racing, I crept around the cart as far as the chains binding my wrists would let me. The chains made a rattling sound as they bumped against the wooden baseboards. I stopped, wincing and holding my breath. But the Hessian was still asleep. I reached out with my left foot, touching the pen sitting next to two crates of books. I could just touch it with my big toe, which had pushed its way through my shoes sometime during the forced march. I slid the pen closer, carefully, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the Hessian was still asleep.

Closer.

Closer now.

The moment it was close enough to grab, I reached out, unwrapping it from its cloth. I grabbed the pen and felt a surge of electricity run through me. The man who’d given it to me said my knowledge was my power. Well, if that was true, then there was only one thing to do.

I drew a door. Quite specifically, I drew a door leading down, and when I imagined it, I imagined the basement of my abolitionist friend, Timothy. Not even a basement, really. More of a storage space, where he could keep canned goods and the occasional escaped slave.

I drew a line through my metal cuffs, cutting them clean in half.

“Oh, Mr. Mercenary,” I called out.

The Hessian started awake. He sat up, looking around and blinking furiously.

I held out my hands. “My bindings seem to have come undone.”

The Hessian stood up and skulked his way over, not botherin to put on his weapon belt. I guess he thought what he had on his hands was a man more than ready to spend the rest of his life in bondage. Don’t blame him, really …

After all, how many people expect to step on a trap door outside? In the woods?

One mud-encrusted black boot stepped down on my little square-shaped creation, and I felt my heart skip a beat. It wasn’t going to work. This pen wasn’t magic at all. Poor Eugene really had gone crazy.

Then the door opened. The Hessian fell like a sack of bricks, tumbling right down the familiar staircase that led into Timothy’s basement. Only it wasn’t Timothy’s basement, and at the bottom of the stairs was just an empty space. I quickly hurried over to the cart, grabbing one of the heavy crates of books and setting it on top of the trap door opening. Then I grabbed another and set it there, too.

The Hessian pounded on the bottom of the crates, shouting something in German.

“Speak English,” I said, crouching down. I separated the two crates just enough to peer inside. Both of the crates were heavy, on account of all the hardcover books. A gloved hand shot out, nearly grabbing me by the throat.

“I’ll kill you!” the Hessian screamed. “I’ll destroy you blah blah blah blah blah!”

I let him drone on for a while. You know, so he could release some steam. He had a lot of anger, on account of being fooled by a Negro.

“I coulda killed you,” I said once he was finished. “Or I could leave you for dead. But I won’t. In fact, I’ll make sure the next person passing on this here road helps you out.”

“Kill me you coward!” he said, his eyes as big as dinner plates.

I shook my head. “Why, then I’d be no better than you, sir.”

“You are making a grave mistake,” the Hessian hissed.

“Nope. No I’m not. Showing compassion for another human being is never a mistake, sir. It’s what separates people like me from people like you, and I don’t ever want to become someone like you.”

I closed the crates, then set one more on top of them. There. Not even someone as tough as the Hessian could move all three. I unhitched his horse and sent her on her way, too.

Then I grabbed my journal and some new books.

“You can have my books,” I said to the Hessian, flashing him a smile bright enough to light up the entire night sky. “I’ll take a few of yours, and when I’m done with em, I’ll give them to some other soul.”

Well! That just riled the Hessian up even more.

“Do not take my books!” he yelled through the crack between the crates. His fists pounded the bottom of them, to no avail.

“Oh, you’ll get em back eventually,” I said, grabbing a copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales and Les Miserables from the top crate. “You’ll find them! It’ll be a treasure hunt. You’ll find clues in the towns you pass. And the more time you spend looking for them, the less time you have to hurt other people.”

He shouted something else in German, but I got the gist of it. A fella knows cursing when it hits his ears in any language. I took two more books from another crate, Frankenstein and The Count of Monte Cristo.

“I’m much obliged that you read in English,” I told him, stuffing the books in my knapsack. “Suppose these books are hard to find in Germany. Suppose you haven’t been to Germany in a long time, have you? Suppose you follow the bloodshed.”

More cursing. I decided to take my leave of the Hessian.

July 17, 1864

Hungry. Tired. Passed a stream and wet my whistle. Not sure which stream it is. Not sure exactly where I am. The trees are familiar, but I’m too famished to think straight. I passed a town in the early morning. Thought I recognized it. I slipped around the edge of town in the darkness just before dawn, wandering around brick buildings that seemed familiar. Even the library looked familiar. I set down the Hessian’s copy of Frankenstein on the doorstep, then walked confidently to my safe house on the north end of town.

I swear, it was my safe house. It was a bona fide “station” on the Underground Railroad. I swear it. But when the gentleman opened the back door, something strange happened.

My eyes stung. I stepped back. I’d knocked six times, which was our code. The door had opened. But standing in the doorway was a short man not half my size, wearing a gray suit and positively lit up like a glow bug. As if there was a lantern right behind him, sort of slipping its way underneath his pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is … is Mr. Walter White here?”

“Mr. White,” said the little man, “is gone from here, dear boy. Who are you? Who do you belong to?”

“The … the Beauregard Plantation,” I said, thinking fast. Come on, Eugene! You’re more clever by half! “I was told to pick up a sack of flower from town.”

“At night?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you looking at me so?” he asked.

“Never … never seen a small man, sir.” I tried not to squint. But my eyes were so used to the darkness … the light coming from this man burned my eyes. “I should go,” I said. “So sorry to bother you.”

The man shouted something, but I was already making my way through the little cotton field on the north end of town. Back into the forest.

Not sure that was such a good idea. I’m hungry and tired and only put in a couple hours of walking before the sun came up. Not sure if the little man is going to send anyone after me.

July 18, 1864

There’s a Confederate army moving west. At the northern edge of the forest, near the Virginia border. A big army. They’ve got lots of men on horses, and they’re moving slow. It’ll take a day to get around them, especially in this area of the forest full of big southern red oaks. Too thick with undergrowth to make good time. And I need to make good time. Something is following me.

Don’t know what I’m doin. Hungry. Scared.

Was reading Grimms’ Fairy Tales during the afternoon, waiting for dusk so I could creep around the Confederate army. But whatever is following me seems to be waiting for night, too. Definitely not the short man. Definitely an animal.

A page slipped out of the book. Feels strange. Can’t quite explain it, but the fountain pen seems drawn to it like one of those magnets magicians sometimes use. I’m going to try writing something.

July 19, 1864

Here’s what I wrote on that blank page. First thing that came to mind …

Well now, Br’er Rabbit was always a clever little rascal. A trickster.

My pa’s favorite way to tell a Br’er Rabbit story. Br’er Rabbit the trickster, always getting into trouble. He’d sit on my bed all sweaty and sore from working in the field, and he’d tell me a story about Br’er Rabbit. It helped me sleep. So did feeling my ma’s warm, calloused hand on my bare back.

“Ahem!”

I fell over the log I’d been sitting on. A terrified scream escaped my throat. I peered cautiously over the log and gasped.

“Oh dear, sweet Eugene you’ve gone mad as a hatter!” I exclaimed.

Br’er Rabbit eyed me suspiciously. He was wearing a pair of gray trousers and a brown vest, just like a human would wear. His ears were standing straight up. Brown fur. About five feet tall. Definitely a figment of my imagination.

“You know a wolf is hunting you, right?” he asked.

“I … I had an inkling something was following me,” I said carefully. Not wanting to spook my imaginary rabbit.

Br’er shrugged and looked around, spotting a berry bush. “Them edible?”

“I dunno,” I said. “I dunno what rabbits eat.”

“Oh, I suspect I can eat most anything,” the rabbit said. He hopped over, grabbing a pawful of berries. He hopped back, munching on a few and staining his big buckteeth a bright blue.

I shut my eyes. Get a hold of yourself, Eugene.

When I opened them again, the rabbit was standing in front of me. His paw was held out. Three blue berries sat there.

“Thank you,” I said, taking them and popping them in my mouth. They tasted heavenly.

“Don’t thank me,” Br’er Rabbit said. “They’re gonna make yer stomach hurt like there’s no tomorrow. And I do apologize, but that wolf chasing us is more than a little hungry.”

“Wh … what?” I asked. My stomach answered with a sharp pain, doubling me over.

“Again, so sorry,” said Br’er Rabbit. “But I am a trickster, as you may know.”

“As I may know … wait! Come back!”

But he was already hopping away, making his way between the tall trees.

From somewhere in the empty woods came the haunting howl of a wolf.

“Come on, Eugene,” I said. “You’re the hero, right? That’s what the nice soldier man said.” I looked around frantically for something to defend myself with. But all I had was the fountain pen.

And the piece of paper! I stared at the words I’d written. Whatever magic it was using … maybe I could use it again. So I started writing again.

Br’er Rabbit was the hero’s friend. And when he sensed Eugene was in trouble, he returned to lend his friend a helping paw.

“I have had a change of heart,” said the rabbit.

I fell back. He was sitting on the fallen log beside me, watching me with his two big blue eyes. The tips of his ears were flopped over.

“You gotta save me,” I said. “My stomach …”

“I can lend you a helping paw,” said the rabbit. “But you are the only one who can stop the wolf.”

“How?” I asked.

The rabbit pointed to my pen. “That will do the trick, I should think.”

“How’s a pen going to kill a wolf?” I asked.

Another howl, so close it tickled the hairs in my ears. My eyes darted from tree to tree, searching. The setting sun cast long shadows inside the forest.

Br’er Rabbit just shook his head. “Come on, now. You know that pen is magic. Do I really need to spell it out?”

“No … no, I suppose not.” I took the pen, holding it over the fat trunk of the fallen log. Last time, I’d drawn a book. Well, I didn’t think any book was going to stop a wolf no matter how good the book was.

So I drew a pistol. The image glowed on the surface of the log. I stared at it.

“No offense,” Br’er Rabbit said a bit nervously, “but you might want to hurry. I do believe we’re not alone.”

I looked up and nearly wet my drawers. There, standing—standing!—beside one of the southern red oaks not ten feet away was a wolf.

A big, bad wolf.

I pulled the gun from the log, aiming it at the wolf with a shaky hand. I pulled the trigger.

Click!

“Er, do you know how a gun works?” asked the rabbit.

“Not really.”

“Well then why did you think that contraption would work?”

The wolf answered with a growl, lunging at me A pair of soft paws grabbed the back of my shirt, spinning me around. The wolf missed me, reaching out for my knapsack and tearing it away from my shoulder.

“We should probably run,” Br’er Rabbit said, hopping back on the log, “since you obviously have no idea what you’re doing, and I’m a delicious juicy rabbit!”

I took a step back, watching the giant wolf tear at my knapsack with its big snapping jaws. It quickly lost interest, skulking its way around the oak tree. So close I could smell him. Smelled like a big old wet dog.

“How about a saber?” Br’er Rabbit asked. “You know what that is?”

“Course,” I said. “It’s a piece of sharpened steel.”

“Then draw it,” Br’er Rabbit said. “And … if you could, please be quick about it.” He began hopping up and down on the log. “Hey you! Yeah, you!” he called out.

The wolf looked at him, cocking its head. Then it turned back to me. Drooling.

“Hey!” Br’er Rabbit said, grabbing my journal off the ground. He threw it at the wolf, knocking him right in the kisser. The wolf turned and growled, crouching low.

And then it was flying through the air! Br’er Rabbit hopped back over the log, turned, and ran with the wolf right on his puffy white tail. “Hurry now!” he called out.

I drew a general’s saber into the trunk of the log. It glowed bright and golden, and when I pulled it out, the cool steel sent goosebumps up my arm. I tested the edge: sharp as a butcher knife.

From the shadows came an “Eep!” The rabbit appeared from behind a tree, followed by the terrifying wolf. “Get ready!” he called out.

“What do I do?” I asked, clutching the saber’s hilt with both hands.

“Point the sharp end at the monster, dagnabbit!” Br’er Rabbit jumped into the air, right over the log. The wolf was only a hare’s breath behind, lunging right at us.

I pointed the sharp end at the wolf. And closed my eyes.

July 20, 1864

We had to straighten some things out today. First and foremost, I leveled with Br’er Rabbit and told him everything the soldier had told me about the magic pen. About the Brothers Grimm and their voodoo silliness. About the Corrupted. He seemed to know a little bit, maybe because when I’d written those first few words on that blank piece of paper, I’d been thinking about the stuff the soldier had told me.

“So we hunt down these monsters and destroy them,” Br’er Rabbit said. He slapped his paws together. “It’s downright heroic!”

“Yeah, lots of fun,” I said, laying on the sarcasm.

He paced the forest floor. We’d made our way around the Confederate army, back into Union territory where we could at least breathe a little easier.

“Of course,” Briar added, “that means I’m also Corrupted. After all, this magic page of yours is no doubt a leftover from the magic paper used by the Brothers Grimm. How the Hessian got the book doesn’t matter. Magic is magic, no doubt.”

So I added this to the piece of paper:

The Corruption couldn’t touch Br’er Rabbit, as he was pure of heart.

One of the rabbit’s ears perked up, as if he knew what I’d written without even seeing the paper. He didn’t have much interest in seeing anything I’d written. “That’s mighty kind,” he said, hefting the book of fairy tales, “but I suspect it will only stave off the inevitable. After all, many characters in this book end up living happily ever after. And yet here they are, turning all sorts of evil.”

“You’re right,” I said.

“And so you shall have to write in my official position as deus ex machina. Helper extraordinaire. Assistant to the hero.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure? Once I write it … I don’t think I can change it. You’ll be shackled to your duties.”

Br’er Rabbit set a hand on my shoulder. “Dear Eugene, you must understand I’m not the Br’er Rabbit from the stories you were told as a child. I am your creation. I have appeared out of thin air as the result of magic. And I shan’t go off frolicking in the woods living in a briar patch. The only purpose I could possibly serve is to assist the hero. And I should very much like it.”

I sighed. The tip of the magic pen sat on the piece of paper. “All right,” I said finally, and wrote down the words that would forever bind my furry savior to this new world …

Br’er Rabbit’s job was to serve the hero and assist in the destruction of the Corrupted. And by gosh, Br’er Rabbit was good at it. He was smart, capable, witty and sleek of foot. He could turn invisible at will, keeping himself hidden from the rest of humanity. And he had the peculiar quality of communicating with his fellow animals …

“Ahem!” Br’er Rabbit tapped his foot on the ground, staring at me. “It’s hardly necessary to mention my intelligence or wit. Such qualities are natural in a fellow like myself. Don’t you remember the stories your parents used to tell you?”

I laughed. “I sure do, Br’er Rabbit.”

His whiskers twitched. “Call me Briar. My friends call me Briar.”

Book 5: Blood and Thunder

Chapter 1

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”[iii]

A giant lizard. A terrible stepmother. Vats of disgusting porridge.

Yup … you can bet I was more than a little anxious to get out of the orphanage. But not before Sam Grayle understood where the two of us stood. I don’t know if I’ve been clear about this just yet, but I didn’t trust Sam Grayle farther than I could spit. And I had a funny feeling the Corrupted jerk wasn’t going to be swayed by any of my “help the children” speeches no matter how reasonable I was being.

So I had a plan. A devious little plan. OK, that’s not entirely true—it was originally Briar’s idea. He really is a clever little trickster. But I was the one carrying it out. I was the one holding the ace up my sleeve. Sam Grayle wants to boss me around? Fine.

Two can play that game.

So let’s set the scene: I’m standing in the mansion foyer with Briar. Seth is in one of the first-floor living rooms with the children, keeping them entertained with—surprise, surprise!—a copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. “Sweet irony,” as Briar might say. No one was in a good mood. One of the pots of porridge had overcooked and the crispy stench was clogging our nostrils.

After about ten minutes, the dwarf returned from his upstairs inspection with a sigh. “That cursed woman doused two entire rooms in oil. What the blazes was she thinking?”

“Burn and move on,” I murmured, staring at one of the maps Briar had found in the first-floor parlor. There were dozens of others, too, each one measuring something different: wind, temperature, annual rainfall.

“She was looking for a seed,” Briar said, rubbing his chin with one paw. “Somehow, she believed the seed had slipped underground at some point. I can’t make sense of it. How could a seed possibly bring back her stepson?”

“Perhaps her stepson is a seed,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “Perhaps the seed blossoms into a tree that bears delicious fruits and the stepson returns to eat them. Who knows? Who cares? I have my mansion, and I want everyone out.”

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider the kids?” I asked. “They could use a good foster home. They deserve an education, too, just like everyone else gets. They haven’t exactly had it easy.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. He was standing on the third step of the staircase so he was eye-level with me. “Are you trying to sway a Corrupted with compassion?”

“Worth a try,” Briar said. “Oh, I do so enjoy children.”

“Yes, they’re wonderful at wasting money and wetting the bed and other such things,” Sam snapped. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d very much like to see all of you off my new property. You have no idea how much paperwork must be filled out to cover up this event.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, raising my hands. “Sorry. We’ll leave. But you might want to check the basement first before you commit to this place, though.” I glanced at Briar. “I hear it’s a total mess.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, then slipped past us, hurrying to the basement door.

“How are the kids?” I asked Briar.

The rabbit shrugged. One ear flopped down. “Terrified. No doubt this will be traumatic for some. Hopefully, your friend Seth is doing a better job of comforting them than I did. Thankfully, kids’ imaginations are usually an excellent excuse for their interactions with me.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to suggest doing anything unethical, per se, but now might be a good time to do a little more snooping before the dwarf returns.”

“Right.” I made my way past the living room, where all of the kids were sitting on the floor, some of them zonked out on the carpeting. The fake playroom. The room the kids probably never even got to use. It had just been for show, in case someone important had come to visit and check up on the kids. To make sure this place was indeed an orphanage and not, say, some creepy child slavery operation complete with an illegal mine and giant subterranean lizard.

I walked to another room near the end of the hall, one that had always been closed in my dreams. The floor slipped underneath me like ice—the magic boots weren’t exactly the easiest thing to get used to, especially when I forgot I was wearing them. They moved me forward so quickly with each step that my mind couldn’t keep up without effort. Nor could my stomach.

I pulled off the boots and opened the door to the room, surprised to see two twin size beds pressed up against opposite walls. So they slept in beds. And here I was expecting coffins or foul nests made of bones and refuse—something more suited to the character of the occupants.

The room was plain looking, with old faded brown striped wallpaper that had begun to peel near the ceiling. There was a single lamp with a dusty yellow shade sitting on an end table beside the bed, and an old white ticking alarm clock sitting beside the lamp. There was a dresser, no doubt full of neatly folded clothes, and two closets each with a dozen or more plain-looking dresses hanging from old metal coat hangars.

Practical and boring. It seemed impossible that such evil, cold-blooded creatures could have inhabited this mundane space. After a closer inspection of the closets I concluded that unless Victorian-era culottes were going to make a comeback in the near future, nothing in here was going to be useful.

“Um, excuse me.”

I spun around and gasped. There, on the dresser: a fish. A gold-colored fish bobbing in a small glass tank. A talking fish with its head poking out of the water, one glossy eye staring right at me.

“Oh now I’m dreaming again,” I muttered, slapping my forehead.

“Ah,” he said in a distinct man’s voice with just a hint of a British accent. “Wonderful. I take it the mistresses are dead then? Very good, very good. I can’t say how many times that miserable old woman dressed right in front of me.” He made a hacking noise, dipping below the surface of the water so that a flurry of bubbles escaped his mouth. He surfaced again, his tail swishing rapidly to keep his head above water. “I daresay I’ve seen enough girdles to last me a lifetime.”

“You’re glowing,” I said. “Which means I have to destroy you.”

His little fins flapped faster. “Don’t be so hasty now, I have a better idea. How about you and I make a deal?”

From the depths of the basement, Sam Grayle’s startled shriek echoed up the stairs. I turned back to the fish. “Say what now?”

“Get me out of here,” the fish said. “Drop me off in Lake Michigan. In exchange, I’ll grant you a wish. Any wish you’d like.”

I pulled my fountain pen from my pocket.

“No, no,” said the fish, his eyes widening. “That’s no good. What would that serve? Hasn’t there been enough death tonight? Goodness! Didn’t you hear me? I can grant you a wish. Anything you desire, just for tossing me in the lake! All you have to do is release me. That’s how it goes. That’s how I was written, you see.”

“I don’t think so, buddy. Lake Michigan already has enough trouble with invasive species.”

“Indeed, indeed!” He dipped back into the water for a moment, then lifted his head up again, his tailfin flicking madly. “But, you see, I do believe I can offer you something you desperately deserve. Something I once granted to a previous hero …”

“You’re a Corrupted, I can’t trust you.” I tried to sound resolute, but my statement came out more like a question and I felt my grip on the pen loosen slightly.

“Ah, ah! Excellent. You’re listening. Well, this particular hero found me well enough, and … let’s just say he’d had it with the whole hero business. Too cut-throat for him. Too much hacking and slashing. No, he had better things to do. Really, who doesn’t? And so before he returned me to the ocean—this was in New York, mind you—he asked for a new hero to take his place. And I happily obliged with that wish. Simple as that! He was no longer the hero. He was free. And best of all, continuity was maintained. A new hero punched in and immediately started fighting the Corrupted. Just as another can take your place.”

“Free …” My mind reeled. Was it a trick?

“Please, do hurry and decide,” the fish said. His little pale fin wiggled a few times so that he faced me. His eyes bulged out of the sides of his face.

“Why would you grant me a wish, just like that?” I asked.

The fish took another breath underwater, then surfaced again and released the breath in a long, drawn out sigh. “Because as I said before, that is how I was written. I must obey the rules set by the Brothers Grimm.”

“Why did the mistress have you?”

“Because I could, technically, bring her stepson back. But in order to do it, she would have to release me. And in doing so, she would lose her one wish. It’s a powerful thing, you know. Wishes don’t just come by every day.”

I nodded, running my lower lip across my teeth. If I wasn’t the hero anymore …

“And of course she believed she was close,” the fish continued, flapping his fin a few times to right himself. “I could tell because the old bat wouldn’t stop humming that same song over and over. A dreadful old woman. Couldn’t carry a tune.”

I was barely listening. All I could think about was my old life. Long nights of peaceful sleep. Spare time to discover new books. Not having my life threatened by dwarves, hedgehogs and giant lizards …

The sound of Sam Grayle’s shoes tapping on the stairs broke my trance.

“OK, how do I hide you?” I asked.

“No need,” said the fish. “Just put me in your pocket. I’ll hold my breath until we get to the lake.”

“Yeah …but you see, I don’t really want to smell like a fish …”

The fish’s bulbous eyes rolled upward. “There is a purse in the second drawer of the dresser below me. I trust the owner won’t mind if you take it, considering she’s quite dead.”

“But what if I don’t get you to the lake before you suffocate?” I asked, suddenly afraid that my one chance to get my normal life back might not happen.

“Little girl,” he said in a stern voice. “I’m not a real fish. You know there’s only one way I can die. Please don’t be so stupid.”

“Right.” I opened the second dresser drawer, surprised to find three purses, each of them hideous and out of fashion. I picked the brown leather one only because it was big enough to fit the magic boots as well. “Hello … what’s this?” I asked, grabbing something cold and metal tucked into the corner of the purse. I pulled it out.

A gold coin. It was twice as big as a quarter, twice as heavy, with ridges along its rounded edge that had been worn down so that they felt smooth. Both sides had the same engraving: a dragon with its wings spread. It had thick, curved horns and a long snout and a tail that wrapped around the bottom. Above the dragon were the words EX MULTIS UNUM.

“Hurry now!” the fish exclaimed. He was right: the sound of the dwarf’s shoes was louder now, echoing up from the first flight of basement stairs.

I grabbed the slimy fish and put him in the purse, then closed it just as Sam stepped through the basement doorway, slamming the door shut behind him. His face was flushed, his hairline glistening with sweat. He walked into the mistresses’ room, pointing one fat nail-bitten finger at me.

“I demand you destroy that … that thing!”

I shrugged. “Wasn’t part of the deal.”

The dwarf inhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers clenched into fists. “Do not play coy with me, young lady.”

“I’m not being coy. I’m playing by your rules. You told me to get rid of the mistress so you could have your mansion. I did that. You didn’t say anything about the giant terrifying lizard in the cavern below, which technically isn’t even part of the mansion.”

His eyes narrowed. “Kill it.”

“Set up a foster home for these kids,” I said. “Just them. Make sure they get an education and a safe place to live. That’s it. How much would that cost you?”

“An excruciating sum, I can assure you. I’ll have to come up with a dozen plausible lies just to explain this entire incident to the proper authorities. It will take another dozen lies to explain the kids.”

“Well, they’re not being herded out onto the street to die.”

“Oh, please?” Sam asked. “That would make things so much easier.”

I crossed my arms. “A foster home and an education in exchange for the lizard.”

He said nothing for a few moments, grinding his teeth side to side. Finally, after considerable growling, the word “Deal” escaped his lips.

I smiled, relieved. “And I can trust you to keep your side of the bargain?”

Sam’s face darkened. “Never doubt my word, hero.” The word dripped off his tongue like acid. It was enough to send a cold feeling running through my body. “You’ll get your precious foster home, the best foster home these little rats could ever imagine, and they’ll get it in exchange for a basement FREE OF GIANT LIZARDS!”

His shout echoed down the hall. I heard Seth’s calm voice over the frightened murmuring of the children: “It’s OK. Everything’s cool, little dudes and dudettes.”

“A deal is a deal,” I said, and went down into the basement to finish the job. I have to admit, I was more than a little excited. A magic fish! One that could grant a wish in exchange for freedom. One who’d done it before. Faint music played in my head, some unfamiliar happy tune that had me descending the basement steps two at a time. I thought I had my chance, the chance I’d been hoping for since this whole “hero” business began. I thought I had a way out.

Little did I know …

Chapter 2

Sleep, wonderful sleep! Peaceful sleep. No nightmares. No Corrupted. Just me sitting in a diner and who should walk in? None other than a young Clint Eastwood. Looking for a cup of black coffee to wet his whistle before rounding up baddies. We talked. Mostly about waffles. Then in came James Dean. He wanted a cup of coffee, too, but we had the last pot at our table. He slid into the booth, right next to me. I smiled at him. His green eyes sparkled mischievously as he complimented my violet shirt.

Hey! It was a dream. My dream.

One I didn’t have any control over. One lacking monsters. Gawd, how I missed that. And I certainly didn’t mind the addition of James Dean. Pretty soon I’d be able to have my own dreams back every night.

When I woke up for school just two hours later, I felt more rested than I had in over a week. I yawned, stretched, then wandered sleepily into my closet. The fish was there, quite angry that he wasn’t yet in Lake Michigan. I’d placed him behind a pile of dirty clothes, inside the deepest container I could find in our kitchen cupboards. It was a large ceramic soup tureen with a deep bowl and notch in its lid where, under normal circumstances, the handle of a ladle would rest. But my life was having a definite shortage of normal circumstances. Instead, a cold round eye glared out at me from the small opening.

“Freedom!” he said harshly. “I offer you freedom and in return you put me in a soup dish and nearly smother me with your laundry! You could use a lesson in hospitality, my dear.”

“Shhhh,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. Briar was fast asleep under the window, snoring softly amongst a motley collection of throw pillows that had once decorated my bed.

“Oh. Right. The rabbit.” The closet was dark, but I swear I caught him rolling his eyes. “Incognito. Secrecy. Silence. All that jazz. Well, fine. But I do hope you’ll at least give me some bread crumbs to tide me over.”

I nodded, contented. Silence was what counted. Because I hadn’t exactly informed Briar that I was harboring Corrupted in my closet.

I picked out some clothes and opted to get dressed in the bathroom, away from that hostile fishy gaze. I came back and made sure the closet door was closed tightly before giving Briar a kick in the butt.

“What now? Carrots for whom?” he asked, sitting up and licking his teeth.

“You told me to wake you up.”

“Ah, yes!” He stood up, dutifully returning the pillows to my bed. “I need to sneak into the library downtown. I swear I’ve seen that gold coin before. It will take hours, no doubt. Perhaps even days of searching the newspaper and records archives to discern the connection.” His ears perked up. “No doubt a tiresome and draining process …”

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “I’ll leave you a bag of lunch on the counter. Just grab it before my parents wake up at seven-thirty.”

I went to school feeling … well, good. In fencing class, I riposted. I counter-riposted, too. Chase was there on the sideline, not sitting with the boys. Instead, he sat next to Jasmine on the girls’ side. He cheered me on. He shouted tips between points. I beat Steve Strauss, one of the team’s toughest boys who wielded his foil like a maniac.

Afterward, Chase and I walked/wheeled to the lunchroom, staying close to the wall of green lockers to avoid the throngs of students. I’d chosen not to shower—I hadn’t even broken a sweat taking down my (male!) opponent. OK, I was also really happy with the healthy flush of my hard-earned victory and the way my eyeliner and mascara had held up, even after having my face inside the stuffy fencing mask.

“So I was thinking we meet up again after school,” Chase said. “I’ve got a science project coming up and I really want to nail it. I want an A.”

I glanced down at him. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and dark jeans. This seemed to have become his uniform of choice, now that he’d had to abandon baseball.  “Oh? And what’s in it for me?”

He looked up, his green eyes wide in feigned innocence. “Why my company, of course. Isn’t that enough?” Then he flashed me a dazzling grin. I could only chuckle in response, as my heart seemed to be ricocheting madly around my chest cavity. Was he flirting with me? Impossible. Then he added, “But … I suppose I could throw in a few more moves to sweeten the deal. I still notice a couple opportunities where you could tighten up and really balance your attack.”

Yeah, impossible. “Fine. That sounds like a fair trade-off.”

He stopped at the doors leading to the cafeteria. I stopped with him, curious. He looked down at the ground, then laughed nervously.

“So, hey. Um … what do you think of me sitting with you and Tina—I mean Rachel—today?”

“Sure.” I shrugged, but was more than a little surprised by his request. “I have to warn you though,” I said in mock seriousness, “We’re going to be talking nerd stuff.”

He smiled, clearly relieved. “That’s all right! I don’t mind it.”

Oh, he definitely didn’t mind it. And I understood why the moment we brought our lunches to the back of the room. Chase’s girlfriend—that tart little blonde that every boy fought to sit next to in every class—locked eyes with him for just a second, then turned away. The other guys on the baseball team were all wearing their jerseys because there was a game after school, and as Chase passed they gave him the obligatory high-five but said nothing when he chose not to sit with them.

“Oh maaaaan,” Clyde said, pulling aside the chair beside him to Chase could wheel up to the table. “Something went down.”

“Hmmm,” Rachel murmured, stealing one of my apple slices from my plate before I could slap away her hand. “Lovers’ quarrel. I can see it in your eyes, dear boy.”

“Yeah,” Chase murmured. He grabbed his burger from the tray and opened it up, picking off the pickles. The lunchroom seemed ridiculously quiet. Tense.

“What happened?” I asked, changing the subject. “The cafeteria feels weird.”

Clyde smiled and snorted, pulling his hair back behind his ears. “Maaaan! Nothing gets by you, Goodenough. You’re some kind of bloodhound or something.”

“A fight,” Rachel said. She swiped another apple slice; this time, I let her do it. She’d clearly forgotten her lunch; I still had a plate of pasta and chicken that I wouldn’t even finish.

“Let me guess: Joey Harrington,” Chase said. He stuffed a quarter of the hamburger into his mouth, wiping mustard from the corner of his lips.

His lips. They’d be soft, yet firm …

I shook my head to clear the dirty thoughts. “Wait, what happened?”

“Oh, it was epic,” Clyde said. “Total meltdown. We’re talking a battle, man, right here in the lunchroom. Joey threw something at one of the skater kids, right? And then the skater kids started yelling at him, you know, just like you did to him the other day. Only there were, like a hundred skater kids …”

“Six,” Rachel corrected.

“OK, six.” Clyde pulled back his red flannel sleeves and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “But it seemed like a hundred. And so they stood up to him, just like you did! But guess what? Joey Harrington is a total psycho, man, because he just went over to their table and picked a fight anyway. And so there were six skaters attacking him and he was fighting them off and it took two of the gym teachers to break it up.”

Chase shook his head.

“Let me guess: everyone got sent home,” I said.

Clyde nodded. “Correct-a-mundo.”

Chase shrugged. “Why not? Everyone was fighting.”

“It never would have happened if Joey hadn’t bullied them,” I snapped. “And the skaters never would have gone up to him and attacked him. He went over to their table and attacked them because they stood up to him. He’s a bully.”

Chase raised his hands. “OK, OK. Harrington’s a jerk, that’s kind of old news. Didn’t know it was such a big deal.”

“It is,” Rachel said with a sigh. “Sometimes, it really is.”

Later, in the library, I went back to cleaning the old periodical shelves, hoping to not run into Briar. I didn’t want to think about being the hero all day. In fact, I even kept my fountain pen in my purse and put my purse in the librarians’ office just to avoid being reminded of it. I wanted to lose myself between the bookshelves for just a while. I wanted to remember what it was like before I found that cursed pen.

Time went slowly. I relished it, getting to know a couple dozen new paperback friends in the History section. When it was finally time to go home, I reluctantly grabbed my purse, wondering briefly what it might be like if I just left it—and the magic pen—at the library for a few days.

Chase was coming over. I’d gotten permission from my mom for a temporary reprieve from the grounding, only because she hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night last night and noticed my empty bed or the rope ladder outside my window. Her text that afternoon had been pretty clear: Two hours. Studying only. No leaving the house.

So my parents were sticking to their guns with this week-long confinement. No early release for the hero who so far had managed to save the world from a devious mind-controlling dwarf, a smoke monster that wanted to steal everyone’s music, and a mistress who was working kids to death to feed a giant lizard who was digging underground for a mysterious seed belonging to a tree from one of the Grimms’ fairy tales.

Whew. Just the thought of it all made my head spin. The sooner I could sneak out of my room and drop the fish off in Lake Michigan, the better. I just needed to get down there without bumping into Briar. That was my greatest fear now. Not my parents. Heck, if I had a driver’s license, I probably would have borrowed one of the cars and released the fish the first chance I got.

Or maybe not. I know it sounds strange, but even though I wanted out of this horrible hero business, a part of me deep down was making me hesitate. Hold off. Wait. I can’t explain it now. I couldn’t explain it then. But some kernel of doubt or uncertainty was holding me back, forcing me to wait.

When Chase pulled up that afternoon, I went out to help. His parents—a young-looking couple both with dark hair like their son’s—unbuckled Chase’s chair from the restraints that had been built into the back of the van and then helped him down the little foldable metal ramp.

“Do you need help getting into the house?” his mom asked with wide eyes. She was attractive, in a “Mom” sort of way—except for the “Mom” jeans, of course. Ditto for his dad, who seemed intent on one-upping his wife’s awkward clothing choice via a brightly colored and considerably oversized bowling shirt. They seemed well-meaning, if a bit anxious.

“I don’t need help,” Chase answered gloomily.

“Does she have a bathroom on the first floor?”

“Mom,” he said, slapping the armrest of his chair. “It’s all right. I’ll be all right.”

She sighed. Chase’s dad patted him on the shoulder and then they were off, pulling slowly out of the driveway and giving one quick honk of the horn.

“Well, that was thoroughly embarrassing,” I said with a wry smile.

Chase shook his head, then smiled a little in spite of himself as he looked up at me. He was wearing an old red t-shirt, a pair of faded jeans rolled slightly at the cuffs and a pair of well-maintained leather oxfords that looked like they might have lived through the period when his hairstyle had first been in fashion. “Just give me some time and I’ll be out of this thing for good. I can make it.”

At the door, I spun Chase around and pulled his chair up the little step.

“You’re pretty strong,” he said. “What kind of steroids are you using?”

“Hah!” I wheeled him backwards into the living room. It was empty, the TV off. Both my parents were still at work. “You sound like my mom.”

“Is she home? I might be able to charm her into making us cookies.”

“She’s gone for the afternoon. Her ad agency is putting in overtime on some political campaign.”

“Cool.”

“So what are you working on now?” I asked, sitting down on the couch. I was wearing a pair of cropped slim pants and cute flats. I also had on an ivory camisole under my favorite blouse: a sheer indigo-violet number hemmed in intricate scallops of lacy embroidery that buttoned up the back. For months it had languished at the back of my closet, being the sort of thing that’s too nice for school and wildly impractical for slaying mutated storybook creatures. I had even put on earrings and managed to coax my hair into a loose-but-pretty updo. All of which he appeared oblivious to.

Ugh, I thought, why would a boy compliment a girl’s fancy shirt? Pull back those expectations, Alice, this isn’t a date.

He grabbed his science book from his backpack, then squeezed the backpack between himself and the armrest.

“Geez, isn’t that uncomfortable?”

He shrugged. “This entire chair is uncomfortable. At least with the backpack with me, I still feel like a student.” He opened the book. “OK. So … we’re on the topic of fishing.”

“Fishing?” I asked with a smirk. “Like, what bobber to use and how to cut bait?”

“No, smart aleck. I’m supposed to discuss how fishing has changed over the last twenty years and how it’s affecting the planet.”

“Oh.” I crossed my legs on the couch. “That sounds like a cool thing to learn.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty neat.” He leaned forward, showing me a chart of Atlantic Sea Cod population over the years. There was a sharp incline near 1960, then it dropped abruptly and was nearly nonexistent from 1990 to the present day. “Like with these fish,” Chase said, “you can’t even catch enough to fill your boat nowadays. They just don’t show up during the fishing season anymore. It’s like they disappeared. It’s insane.” He looked up at me. “But you know what’s even more insane? The fact that I have to write a two-page paper on this.”

“Give me that,” I ordered, grabbing his book. I leafed through the pages. It was a lot of reading. It seemed interesting, though. “Did you read this entire chapter?”

“Of course I did. I’m trying to get a good grade, remember?”

“OK, so what else did the chapter say?”

“That every ecosystem is delicate.”

I rolled my eyes. “Duh. You’re going to need more than that.”

“Hey! Just let my brain get warmed up here.” He looked around. “Couldn’t we get some music or something? I think better with music.”

“Sure.” I ran upstairs to grab my mp3 player, then came back down and hooked it up to the stereo. The Black Keys started playing a fast, thumping tune.

“Yeah,” Chase said, nodding his head. “I can dig this.”

“Just focus on the fish.”

Chase smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “Um … There was something about jellyfish … sometimes, jellyfish benefit from overfishing.”

“How?”

“Because … uh … certain types of fish are natural predators. If you get rid of too many of them, the jellyfish population explodes. Then you have tons of jellyfish, and the entire ecosystem falls out of balance. The jellyfish prey on smaller fish, and so they start totally throwing everything out of whack, and then the ecosystem gets even more screwed up.”

“Bummer. I hate jellyfish.”

“Me too. They sting like the dickens.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we go on vacation to Florida sometimes.”

“So do we!” I exclaimed. Calm yourself, Alice. I cleared my throat, blushing. “Where do you go?” I asked nonchalantly.

He shrugged. “Usually Siesta Key. It’s quiet and the beaches are nice. Good waves sometimes, too. I always liked boogie boarding.”

“Oh. That’s cool.” I totally loved boogie boarding.

“But anyway, look at this figure here.” He spun the book around so I could look at the little table in the corner of the page. “This says that as of 2011, close to 25 percent of fish stocks are either overexploited or depleted. Worse, a lot of bigger marine animals are being caught in these nets and killed, which means fewer predators in the ocean.”

“That sounds like something to write about. What’s the solution?”

“Solution?”

“Yeah,” I said. “If you’re going to write a good paper, you don’t want to just regurgitate what you read in the book. Give your teacher a solution to show you’re actually thinking about the issue. That’s how you get an A.”

He nodded, leaning forward. “Crap, Goodenough … you’re a tough one. All right. Solutions … solutions …”

We sat in silence for a moment. Thinking. OK, that’s not totally true. Chase was thinking. I was staring at his hint of chin stubble and imagining what it would feel like rubbing up against my cheek.

Hey. I wasn’t the one with a paper to write.

The front door opened. I peered around Chase’s shoulder, my hand instinctively reaching for my pen—usually, when my parents worked late on advertising projects, they worked really late. Maybe they didn’t trust me, though. Or maybe it was a Corrupted who just thought he’d stop by for a visit and a snack.

Seth appeared, sweaty and disheveled. His red Metallica t-shirt had a big mud stain and he was wearing an old pair of green shorts—what he liked to call his “lounging shorts” for when he sat around his house and played video games.

“Well, it happened,” he said. “It finally happened.” He looked down at Chase, as if he hadn’t even noticed him until that very moment. “Oh. Uh … what’s the baseball player doing here?”

Chase smiled, wheeling around the couch. “I’m studying. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah …” Seth cocked his head, taking a closer look at me. “Weird is the word I would use, for sure …”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh nothing. Just finally got dumped by Trish is all.” He walked over and plopped onto the couch beside me. I could tell with one look at his glossy, bloodshot eyes that he’d been crying. I bit my lip, saying nothing.

“Were you crying?” Chase asked.

I shot him a dirty look.

“Yup,” Seth answered nonchalantly. His hand fiddled with the black TV remote. “Like a little girl. All afternoon, pretty much. Didn’t even go in to work.”

I put a hand on his back. “It’s her loss.”

Seth snorted.

“Really,” I said, trying not to let my voice choke up. Seth and Trish! It was now just hitting me. These were my two best friends. This was the relationship that always seemed a little rocky, but always felt so comfortable, too. Like, they just enjoyed fighting from time to time but they would always be OK. I guess in retrospect that sounds a little crazy.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Seth said quietly. “I really loved her. For real.”

“You’re going to buck up,” Chase stated. “And you’re going to move on. Because you’re tough and you’re going to find someone else.”

Seth half-grunted, half-laughed. “I don’t know about that. I’m not a cool kid like you.”

“Well you know what? Being a cool kid doesn’t help with love. And being cool doesn’t make it hurt any less, either. Look at me. My girlfriend dumped me, too. You don’t see me moping around.”

I studied his frown, his tightened expression. I turned to Seth, who was staring blankly at the remote in his hand. Yup. Two incredibly bummed-out boys.

“We need ice cream,” I declared. “Lots and lots of ice cream. I’ll get the bowls.”

And so we dined. Cookie dough ice cream, more cookie dough ice cream, a good old-fashioned round of reassurances that being single was waaaaay better than being in a relationship, and of course just a little more ice cream because, hey, you can’t put a nearly empty container back in the freezer anyway. That’s a rule.

You know what was strange about it? We all got along really well. We laughed at each other’s jokes. We told stories about middle school—I have no idea how we ended up on that topic, but believe me I had more than a few interesting stories to share myself. Like the time I knocked out a classmate’s tooth with a snowball. Chase’s best story was when he turned fourteen, it was a tradition in his circle of friends to pee somewhere weird … so he peed on a fire hydrant at recess and totally got busted. Seth ended up in the auditorium alone after exploring the theater department’s massive storage closet. The doors were locked before he could get out and he stayed there, terrified, for three hours until the janitor popped in.

“I can’t believe you never told me that!” I said, laughing. Chase was laughing too, his face flushed and his hair disheveled.

“I never told anybody!” Seth exclaimed. “I was locked in a dark room with a mannequin dressed like King Lear. I thought it would murder me! Then my stomach started to growl and I wondered if I could survive on grease paint until tryouts for the spring play rolled around! I still have nightmares about it!”

We all laughed even harder.

I could tell talking brought some relief. It even brought a little relief to me, too. I think I had enough going on to warrant some stress, and seeing the way Chase fit in with me and Seth just seemed, well, cool. Not “cool” like the popular kids at school who wasted their time partying all weekend, either. I mean “cool” in the old-fashioned way: good. Or, in the words of the ever-cool Clyde: radical.

An hour passed. We ate more food and turned on one of the Lord of the Rings movies that my dad owned. I stuffed myself on broccoli and Chase and Seth snarfed down vanilla wafers. We engaged in an insane conversation.

“OK, if you were in Middle-Earth, what kind of weapon would you use?” Chase asked.

“Sword,” I answered.

“Bow and arrow,” Seth said, almost at the same time.

Chase blinked, obviously surprised at how quickly we answered.

“What about you?” I asked.

He shrugged, popping a wafer in his mouth and wiping his hands clean. “I’d pick the axe. Or, as the dwarves call it, the baruk.”

Seth nodded approvingly. “Axes are tough to wield. You’d be better off picking something that works well on a horse.”

Chase looked down at his wheelchair. “Oh, right. So what would you recommend?”

“A jousting lance,” I offered. My eyes widened. “Or one of those crazy maces that hang from the chain! You could swing those pretty well.”

“Let’s stick with the lance. But we’ll make it temporary. Once I can walk again, I want an axe.” Chase tossed his last wafer to Seth, then wheeled himself down the hall. He came back a moment later. “The bathroom says out of order.”

“Out of order?” The explanation hit me and I snapped my fingers. “That’s right: my dad’s screwing around with the plumbing. Crap! The only bathroom is upstairs. I’m so sorry, Chase.”

“That’s fine,” Chase said, wheeling himself to the base of the staircase. He locked the wheels. “Just help me off this thing.”

Seth and I walked over, grabbing him under his arms. “What are we doing?” Seth asked. “I can’t carry you up there. I have sensitive muscles.”

“Just set me on the bottom step,” Chase said. “That’s all I need.”

We lifted him up, both of us groaning comically. As we set him on the step, he tugged at his jeans to straighten out his legs. They responded to his commands in a lazy, sluggish sort of way, as if they’d both fallen asleep. It seemed much more serious than he was letting on.

“Watch,” Chase said. He pressed his hands on the next stair, then lifted himself up. He did it again. “See? All you need is good upper body strength. Which I have.”

Seth asked the obvious (and embarrassing) question: “Do you … need help up there?”

I felt my entire body cringe. Chase’s face hardened for a second, then he fought it away with a forced smile. “I can manage, thanks.”

I watched him scoot up a few more stairs. Then, realizing I was probably making the whole situation even more uncomfortable then it needed to be, I turned around, grabbing Seth by the arm as I did so. “You’re bringing all the dishes into the kitchen,” I ordered.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you ate the most ice cream.”

“I got dumped!”

“That’s no excuse for gluttony,” I said, sticking out my tongue. We took the dishes into the kitchen. Above us, the ceiling creaked. The telltale sign that someone was in the bathroom.

“I bet it’s rough,” Seth said, rinsing off the spoons under hot water. “A drunk driver makes one stupid decision and now he can’t walk again. Ever. Like, I don’t even know what I’d do.”

“He’ll walk again,” I said. “It’s just going to take time and effort. Like he said.”

Seth grunted. I handed him the bowls one by one. He was staring intently at the water running from the faucet.

“Hey,” I said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll be OK. It just takes time.”

“Right. I’ll just sit in my room till it happens, I guess.” He grabbed another bowl, then closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh man, lunch is going to be awful. I need to switch lunch periods so I’m not around her. They can do that, right? There’s gotta be some kind of ex-boyfriend clause in the Student Handbook, right?”

“I have no idea.”

His eyes examined me for a moment. “What’s up?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Not much. Why?”

“You look nice … more like the old Alice. Relaxed. You haven’t looked relaxed all summer. What’s going on?”

Oh nothing. Just, you know, dressing up for a boy who’d never notice anyway and looking forward to sneaking down to the lake so I can steal a wish from a magic fish and finally end this whole hero business. “I’ll tell you later, OK?”

He rolled his eyes. “Classic Goodenough, always with the teases. You should host a radio show. Your trademark line could be after the commercial break.”

The ceiling creaked above us. We both looked up. “Do you think I should check on him?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t.” He grabbed another bowl. “Probably embarrassing enough as it is. Doesn’t help that he was an athlete before the accident. Having a girl help him pull up his pants is probably the last thing in the world he wants.”

“Yeah.” I felt an intense sorrow for Chase. And I felt a little guilty, too. I liked hanging out with him. We would never have hung out like this if the accident hadn’t happened. That was just the way it was at our school: the cliques stuck together. You had to have a really good reason for moving from clique to clique. You needed an even better reason to get into the “cool” clique.

Like dating Edward, for instance. And now that that was over—thankfully!—I was outside of the cliques once again. In fact, I was willing to bet that I was dangerously close to “outcast” status at this point, especially after giving that annoying Ted guy the boot.

“He’s a pretty funny dude,” Seth added, setting the last dish on the metal drying rack beside the sink. “Maybe he’ll actually talk to me in class sometime.”

“Maybe. It seems like he could use some new friends.”

“Hey guys,” Chase called from the living room. “Mind giving me a hand?”

We went to the staircase, where Chase was sitting patiently on the bottom step. We lifted him by the armpits and set him back in the chair. He mumbled a thank-you, setting his backpack on his lap and following us into the living room.

“My parents are on their way,” he said.

“OK. Are you still going to give me more fencing tips?”

Chase nodded. “Let’s plan on Sunday outside the library. Three o’clock.”

“OK. Sorry we didn’t get more done for your paper.” I stomped my foot. “It just irks me. I know we could figure out a solution if we put our heads together. I mean, not literally, like putting our faces together. I mean our brains.”

“What problem?” Seth asked.

“Overfishing. Chase has to write a report on it.”

Seth shrugged. “Just don’t fish so freaking much.”

I looked a Chase. He seemed intent on quietly studying the space between his shoes. I turned back to Seth. “That’s a pretty simple answer.”

“It’s a pretty simple solution,” Seth said. He rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Didn’t you guys fish as kids?”

“Not as much as you,” I said. I turned back to Chase. “Seth’s dad used to own a fishing boat.”

“Back when he wasn’t working weekends,” Seth explained. “Long story. Anywho, there were three lakes we fished at. Two of them had really strict rules on what size fish you could catch and how many fish you could catch. And they had rangers patrolling, too. The third lake had looser restrictions. Now the third lake doesn’t have any fish and the other two lakes do. There’s your solution.”

Chase took a breath, then nodded a half-interested nod. “Maybe. I guess. Seems like it would be tough to enforce.”

Seth shook his head. “Dude, it’s really not. When it comes to solving the world’s problems, adults make everything waaaay more complicated than it needs to be.”

Chase smiled, tapping his fingers impatiently on the armrest of his chair. “Sage words from a sage hobbit.”

I studied him a moment, trying to figure out what was different about him. It was as if he was on edge now, or … embarrassed? Upset? Had it been because he’d had to climb up the stairs? I could only imagine how hard it was to make such a drastic change, but the last thing I wanted to do was drip empathy. Chase didn’t seem to want too much help. He was figuring this out on his own. Add on to that the fact that he’d been dumped by his girlfriend, and the last thing he needed was me prying.

Boy was I wrong.

And maybe if I’d asked, things might have turned out drastically different.

Chapter 3

Briar returned via the window at almost exactly nine o’clock. I’d been practicing what I would say to him for nearly an hour, but I still didn’t feel prepared. I felt I owed him an explanation. He was my friend, after all.

“I found something,” he said, climbing through the window. “The Order of the Dragon. They certainly exist. In fact, I do believe I nearly found myself face to face with them some time ago … anyway, my research suggests that this order, whatever it is, has some connection to the Corrupted.”

“I’m quitting.”

His eyes widened. Both ears went straight up. “Pardon?”

“I’m … quitting.” I started pacing the room. “Gaaaah! It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Sorry!”

Briar said nothing, watching me curiously as I returned to my bed.

“OK. It’s like this: I found a way to get my old life back. I found a fish.”

His whiskers twitched. “The golden fish … how?” He waved away with the question before I could answer. “It doesn’t matter. Alice, you must destroy it. You must!”

I glanced at the bedroom door, then put a finger to his mouth. “Shhh. My parents, remember?”

A whimper escaped his mouth. One ear flopped over. “Alice, please destroy it. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” I snapped. I immediately regretted being so harsh, but I suddenly had so much anger in me. All of the frustration and stress was bubbling to the surface. Chase and Seth got to vent this afternoon while they ate their ice cream. Me? I couldn’t, not without sounding totally crazy in front of Chase. And so now here it was. “I never asked for this, Briar.”

“Neither did I.”

“Yeah, well you’re not real. I am. Get it? I’m real, Briar. And I want to go back to my old life. I want to have pleasant dreams again. I don’t want to risk my life fighting creatures that shouldn’t exist in the first place.”

“I’m real,” Briar said quietly. His other ear lowered. “I’m just as real as you. And so are the Corrupted …”

I was losing my will. Get it together, I thought. Don’t back down now. Don’t re-think this. “Your job is to assist me, Briar. So now I’m giving you an order: don’t talk me out of this. Don’t get in my way.”

He was silent a moment, his mouth quivering as if he was trying to get it open, trying to tell me something. Then he stood absolutely still, just staring me right in the eye with a mix of sadness and … something else. I know now it was terror. Finally, his paws grabbed the bottom of his vest, pulling it down where it had bunched up. “Very well. I must carry out my duty because I was written that way. But know this: I understand what you’re feeling, Alice.”

And with that, he disappeared. The window opened, then closed. I walked over to it, looking outside and expecting to see a sad rabbit walking solemnly down the street, stopping under the streetlight and giving me one last look. Maybe we would both wave to each other. I wanted to wave to him. I wanted to still have him as a friend.

But he was gone. A few dry brown leaves swirled on the sidewalk, maybe from Briar’s invisible feet or maybe from a gentle breeze. It didn’t matter. He was gone.

I went to the closet, sighing. “Well, tonight’s the night,” I muttered. “The bus schedule runs until two in the morning, my parents are already zonked out, and I’ve got a date with destiny.”

I pulled aside the blouses sitting in the pile on the floor, then gasped.

The tureen’s lid sat on its side. The bowl was empty.

That night, in my dream, I was on a boat. A ship. I could feel myself floating and cursed silently. Still the hero. Of course. The fish was gone. How had he escaped from my closet? He’d claimed he needed my help. He’d promised to make my wish come true.

Now I was standing on a ship. An old ship with two tall wooden masts and massive white sails tied in place by thick cords of rope. The rope ran everywhere, like tightly spun strands of spider web. The sails caught the brine-tinged wind, bulging out like a pregnant woman’s belly, and above them the nearly full moon cast a dull blue glow over the old rotted floorboards of the deck. Men were moving from sail to sail, tying down the ropes. The men had a shadowy look to them, each one wearing black rubber pants with suspenders stretched over their broad shoulders. They all had stringy long hair, or longish hair, as if they’d been at sea for months.

A wave splashed onto the wooden deck and as the ship lolled to one side, the water slipped off back into the dark sea. It spanned in every direction, no land anywhere to be seen.

“Missy.”

I turned and found myself face-to-face with a man with pale features and long, stringy hair. His skin looked old and dead, his long nose twitching as another wave hit the ship. I felt my legs wobble as the deck under my feet shifted. The man smiled. He was missing teeth and what few he had left were rotted. His entire face seemed cast in a shadow, as if someone was blocking out the moon’s soft glow.

“You’re the greenhorn.”

“What?” I asked. I couldn’t hear my voice. Was this a hero’s dream, or just a really bad nightmare? Now I wasn’t sure. No one other than the little boy named Alex had ever seen me before …

Except the princess who loved music.

Crap.

“The greenhorn scrubs the deck and stays out of the way.” He grabbed my hand. I was surprised to see it—that meant this was just a nightmare. This guy wasn’t glowing, either. If anything, he was the opposite of glowing, as if the shadows stuck to him like dirt.

This was a dream. I’d been thinking about that stupid fish right before I went to sleep and now I was dreaming about a boat.

“What if I don’t?” I wanted to ask. But instead, I simply took the brush and kneeled on the deck, scrubbing away at the slowly rotting wooden boards. I looked up, watching the strange man cross the deck, stepping over a wide hatch. I knew enough about ships thanks to the annual Pirate Festival that came through town. The hatch led below deck. Behind me was the quarter deck, with a wooden door that no doubt led to the captain’s cabin. Above the quarter deck was the helm, basically a giant wooden steering wheel. It was manned by another shadowy figure, staring ahead with a dull, bored expression. Beyond the two main sails were three more triangular sails attached to the bow spirit, which was a long pointy spear-shaped thingy at the front of the ship.

Another dark wave crashed into the ship, splashing across my face and soaking my socks. I reached out, grabbing the wooden railing to keep myself steady. Bulwark, that was what the railing was called. On the other end of the deck between the two masts were large metal winches and pulleys whose purpose I couldn’t fathom. There were nets, too, sitting in massive piles; a dozen crewmen stood over them, examining every inch with a careful eye.

Another wave. I tried to avoid the water as it splashed onto the deck, saving myself the squishy feeling that came from soaked socks.

“Get these nets into the water, boys!” barked the sailor who’d confronted me. He walked along the deck with ease even as the ship swayed again and again, crashing against the waves. Above us, the sails flapped madly. “Blood and thunder! Split your lungs the moment you see that dreaded fish!”

Fish. He couldn’t be talking about …

No. That was impossible.

I woke up to the sound of my alarm. I turned it off, my eyes automatically going to the floor under the window. I had to tell Briar. Something about all of this didn’t make any sense. They’d seen me. They’d seen me! And the strange sailor had mentioned a fish, too.

But Briar was gone. I felt my heart skip a beat. Where was he? I was still the hero, right? The fish … where had he gone?

I got out of bed, hurrying to the closet. I checked the bowl again, then checked the closet, picking up my dirty clothes and tossing them one-by-one in the hamper. But the fish was gone, just as he’d been last night when I frantically searched my room from top to bottom.

I walked back toward my laptop, wondering if I could contact Briar through his ridiculous email address, then thought the better of it. Truth be told, I was a little nervous contacting him at all. I’d been so harsh last night. What if he didn’t want to help me anymore? But he had to. That was how he’d been written.

But what if he didn’t want to be my friend at all?

I walked back my closet and stopped, aware of the strange sloshing sound being made with each step.

I looked down.

My socks were soaking wet.

Chapter 4

The weirdness only got more intense once I got to school. One of the sophomores in homeroom swore that Chase was walking again.

“That’s impossible,” said Amanda Winston, one of the popular juniors. “My dad works at the hospital that took care of him. He said Chase was messed up really bad. He can’t just walk all of a sudden.”

“I hear he was totally pranking us,” said a senior named Gustav. He laughed briskly. “He totally got me! I bought into it hook, line and sinker.”

Everyone was curious, even the teachers. During first period, a few people in my Genetics class said they’d seen him walking. I still didn’t believe them. No one did. It really did seem like some kind of cruel prank. Ms. Rome hushed them up, desperate to keep us focused on Y chromosomes.

In U.S. History, even more students confirmed the bizarre news. Paige Smith, who had first period Algebra with him, said he was “totally, like, totally seriously” walking around. I think that meant she was pretty confident in her assertion.

Mr. Feinman wasn’t convinced, wandering around the room with his arms crossed as we worked in groups. Our room hardly looked like a room at all anymore because of all the posters we’d created on various topics. We were putting on a play this week in small groups, acting out the War of 1812. It was insane, awesome, and even the kids in the back who slept were getting into it.

But before we could act out our plays, we needed to rehearse. And we couldn’t get any rehearsing done when everyone couldn’t stop speculating about Chase.

During fencing practice, we all waited with bated breath. Even Mr. Whitmann had heard the rumors and seemed on edge.

“It has to be some kind of new surgery,” said Jasmine.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Aaron stated. “He wasn’t walking yesterday.”

“It’s probably some kind of brace,” said Max, setting two fencing foils on the rubber mat. “My brother got braces for his knees and now he can play soccer again. Totally couldn’t do it without the braces, though.”

It all seemed unlikely.

As if on cue, Chase walked in. My mouth nearly dropped to the floor. Everyone stared for a moment. Then the boys started cheering. The girls clapped pleasantly. I couldn’t believe it. He was wearing old patchy jeans and his Washington High baseball jersey—vintage Chase, the kind of outfit only Chase could pull off. He was smiling, practically beaming, as he strode into the weight room.

“What?” he asked with a broad smile. “You didn’t really think I’d never walk again, did you?”

“I was pretty convinced,” mumbled Mr. Whitmann. He tapped his clipboard. “Well! Are you joining the fencing team or what, Chase?”

Chase shook his head, still smiling. “Sorry, Mr. Whitmann. I’ve got a baseball team to lead to the playoffs.”

More cheering from the boys. I was standing half on the mat, watching the way Chase shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He was hesitant, testing, as if he didn’t fully believe it either.

“Well, I’d still love to have you on as assistant coach,” Mr. Whitmann announced, and the boys cheered their approval. “Lord knows you’ve been a great help so far.”

Chase nodded. “I’ll think about it, sir. Right now, I need to take some swings in the batting cages.”

And with that, he was gone. Needless to say, I didn’t win any of my matches.

In the lunchroom, I sat with Rachel and Clyde, neither of whom seemed particularly concerned about whether Chase was walking or not. They’d brought their robot game again, and this time they let me have one of the stronger and more complicated robots. I was becoming a bit of a professional when it came to robot attacks.

“Have you given any thought to joining the fencing team?” I asked Rachel.

Clyde chuckled. “Oh, she totally has, man.”

“Ignore him.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “I said I might. That’s all.”

“I’m on Alice’s side,” Clyde announced, raising his eyebrows above the top of his black sunglasses. “Anything is better than gym. They’ve got us playing badminton, man! My grandma’s the only person in my family who knows the rules to that game, and you know grandparents are pretty lame.”

“Hey, that was a good rhyme,” Rachel said.

Clyde looked at me. I nodded. He crossed his arms and smiled in satisfaction.

Everyone in the lunchroom began cheering. I turned in my chair, watching Chase walk in. He grabbed himself a burger and milk, tossing a five-dollar bill to the cashier and walking away without change. He plopped himself in a seat beside his baseball buddies.

I watched him, anxious for some kind of affirmation. I got it, finally, after a handful of tense breaths.

Our eyes met. He gave me a curt nod, then turned away.

Total bummer, as Clyde might say.

I hung out in the library a little longer than usual that afternoon, sure Briar would show up. But the library was empty all afternoon, not even the click-clicking of the computer keyboards to break the silence. Fran had a cold, and each of her sneezes sent a jolt through my body. I was on edge. I needed Briar’s help to straighten all of this out.

As I walked home, realizing I hadn’t exercised in days, I felt more than a little lost.

The dream that night didn’t help things. I was back on the very same ship, only instead of crashing waves and shadowy sailors moving frantically from sail to sail, the deck was empty save for the man with the stringy long hair who’d spoken to me the previous night. The sails were tied tightly to the masts. I looked over the bulwark: the water below was calm.

I could feel the wooden deck shift beneath my feet. My stomach lurched as the ship listed softly from side to side. I could control myself so much easier than I ever had when I was wandering through the orphanage of doom. I felt like I was really there, not just in “ghost form.”

“Ain’t no sailing tonight, lass,” said the man. He reached down, struck a match to his boot, then lit a fat white candle sitting on the bulwark railing. “Tonight, the boys sleep while the captain makes his plans.”

“Plans for what?” I asked. I could hear my voice. What was happening?

“He wants the fish,” the man said.

“What fish?”

“The one that got away.” In the candlelight, I could see the man’s face more clearly. He looked about as old as my dad, and his skin had begun to sag along his jaw line. His lips seemed incapable of closing around his rotted teeth and so his mouth hung open even when he wasn’t talking. Each breath went in with a wheeze and came out with a groan.

But still the shadows clung to his skin, fighting desperately with the candle’s light so that the man’s features seemed alive, always changing.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The man snorted. “Nobody’s asked me that for a long, long time. Call me Ishmael.”

“Like the narrator of Moby-Dick?” I asked.

The man named Ishmael nodded. “The captain’s favorite book, when he’s not reading fairy tales. I had another name long ago, but I can no longer remember it. Now I’m just a sailor aboard the Leviathan.”

“Leviathan?”

The man smiled. “Every good ship’s got a name, girl. And there’s no better ship than the Leviathan.”

There came a crash from the rear section of the ship—the aft, as it was called. Through the single circular window beside the wooden door of the cabin, I could see someone had a lamp of some sort lit. A shadow passed over the light; the sailor beside me grunted.

“Captain’s not in a good mood. He wants his fish.”

“Why?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Don’t know. He don’t say. It’s not for us to know. We’re just his crew. But we’re all hoping he finds it.” He looked up, watching a cloud pass over the moon. The light in the cabin window went out. The entire ship seemed to go dark, save for the dancing candle flame. Ishmael sighed. “Perhaps if the captain finds his prey … he will release us from this hell.”

A cold wind blew over the ship, snuffing out the flame. I felt the skin on my neck grow cold. I was thankful I’d put on my heavy wool pajamas for bed.

“Tell me about the captain,” I said, remembering Briar’s voice in my head: details!

But the sailor simply shook his head. He turned to me and the clouds above parted. His eyes reflected the moonlight. Each of his breaths came out in raspy coughs, as if the shadows clinging to him were choking the very life from his body.

“Please,” I urged. “Tell me about the captain. Tell me a story about him.”

“A story?” The man choked out a laugh. He walked toward the foremast. I followed him, taking a cord of thick rope when he held it out. We were under the massive sails of the foremast, which were still. Water gently splashing against the hull was the only sound to break the silence. Without anyone else walking safely across the rotted wooden planks making up the deck, I felt as if I might crash through the floor with any step.

“Tie a knot,” he said.

“Oh. Um, OK.” I held the end of rope, bending it with my fingers. “Like, if I were tying my shoe or something?”

The man sighed. “Tie a zeppelin bend.”

“I don’t know how.”

He raised one eyebrow. The shadows on his face reacted, as if surprised by the muscle movement. “Like this,” he said, grabbing the end of another rope and setting both on the wooden dock. It was hard to see with just the moonlight overhead, but as he formed a bend in each rope and then slipped them around each other, it was clear he was tying the two together.

“A zeppelin bend,” he said, standing up. “If you’re going to be part of our crew, you’ll need to learn how to tie knots.”

“I’m not part of your crew,” I said.

“Then why are you here?” When I didn’t respond, he grabbed another cord of rope that was hanging from the mast and began tying an even more complex knot with practiced ease. “Lass, the captain don’t take stragglers. And he don’t give back. When the curse takes you over, you leave the old world behind. All that’s left in your soul is the captain’s obsession.”

“Who is he?” I asked, kneeling down beside him as he began working his fingers through one of the massive black nets that were spread out beyond the foremast.

“Don’t got no name,” the man said. His fingers worked meticulously around each square of the net, checking for damage. “That’s what he prefers. Silence. Obscurity. He told us once …” He took a deep, raspy breath, shaking his head. “He told us once that the Leviathan had been boarded by pirates off the coast of South America. It was night, when the Leviathan travels fastest. But the crew had killed a sperm whale just a day prior and its hold was full. Full of guts. Full of blubber. Full of meat. Full of spermaceti. It was a pirate’s dream.

“They boarded easily enough. The captain let them, knowing with the hold full the Leviathan wouldn’t be able to escape. It was a bloody fight. Two dozen pirates, dead. Not a single crew member from the Leviathan worse for wear.”

“How?” I asked, feeling a chill run down my spine.

The man wiped sweat from his forehead. The shadows seemed to slip away, too, then just as quickly resumed their embrace. “The curse’s shadows protect us. Two dozen pirates wielding flintlocks—”

“Flintlocks?”

“Pistols that used black powder. All of the pirates had a least one. And a cutlass, their favorite close-combat weapon. The captain claims he took a dozen bullets. That was when the pirates realized they’d boarded the wrong ship. They tried to escape but the captain and his sailors followed them onto their ship, cutting down all who remained. No one was spared, not even the deckhands. In the hold were valuables of all kinds: clothes, money, silver, trinkets … the captain took none of it. He sank the pirates’ ship and took the Leviathan east. He could hear the fish’s song somewhere far, far away.”

The fish’s song. That was something. A detail that seemed important.

“You have to tell me more,” I urged. “And then you need to get off this ship and as far away from this weirdo as possible. I’m not stupid. I can see how different you are from the others. The shadows … they haven’t …”

Ishmael shook his head sadly. His fingers clutched the netting. “I’m sorry, lass. The curse has already consumed me.” He looked at me with sad, gray eyes. Slowly, the shadows consumed them too.

I woke up with a start. My alarm seemed louder than usual and I smacked it hard to shut it off. My head hurt. The early morning sun coming in through the windows seemed to burn my eyes. As if …

As if they’d been used to the darkness.

“Not a dream,” I whispered, surprised to hear my own voice. I looked around. Still no Briar. Where was he? I was still the hero, right? I hadn’t made my wish. The fish had escaped, or Briar had taken him …

“Or was it Chase?” I wondered, going to my closet to find my favorite pair of jeans. I needed to talk to Chase. I needed answers.

In the halls at school, all anyone could talk about was Chase’s “miracle.” There was talk of the baseball team going to the state championships. Some of the younger kids wondered if it had all been some kind of bizarre scam just to warn everyone about the dangers of drunk driving. Others were convinced he’d undergone some sort of super-secret experimental operation.

Me? I had an even stranger idea. But I didn’t know exactly how to broach the subject with him. “Hey, Chase … soooo did you by chance steal a magical talking fish that was sitting in my closet? More importantly, did you touch my bras and panties that were sitting in my dirty laundry pile? Perhaps you noticed the pile of clean clothes on the bed from the half dozen times I changed before you came over?”

No. Wouldn’t work. Definitely not if someone else was within earshot.

I expected him in fencing class, but he never showed up. Jasmine said he had “better things to do” now, specifically getting back into baseball shape so he could re-join the team in time for the weekend games. With him on my mind, I lost both of my matches. Again. The second match wasn’t even close. I couldn’t counter-riposte because I couldn’t think about anything other than Chase.

But Jasmine and Margaret looked good. So good, in fact, that their second matches were against boys. The team was coming together while I fell apart.

In the cafeteria, Chase was back with his baseball buddies. They’d commandeered three tables near the front, talking colorfully about some video game. Chase’s ex-girlfriend sat beside him, one leg resting on top of his. She was wearing skinny jeans and a pink t-shirt with short sleeves, her three girlfriends who sat nearby were wearing nearly the exact same thing.

I stared a second too long. Chase looked up, saw me, and gave a thin smile. His ex-girlfriend—apparently no longer an ex—turned and scowled.

“Great,” I muttered, clutching my pasta bowl tightly as I made my way to the back. “More enemies.”

Seth and Rachel and Clyde were already seated and sharing a whole pizza slathered with pepperoni and green peppers. Rachel had returned to her usual outfit of a black t-shirt and baggy jeans. Clyde was wearing his red flannel over an old Pearl Jam t-shirt. Of course he had his sunglasses. Seth had on his favorite t-shirt: an old faded brown Led Zeppelin thing that looked like it had been picked up at a hippie’s yard sale. The picture of the actual burning zeppelin was chipped away from too many washing cycles.

“Don’t look over your shoulder,” Seth said. When I instinctively cocked my head, he reached out with one hand, blinding my peripheral vision. “No, don’t! Trish is right there, dudette.”

“Dudette,” Clyde repeated, chuckling. “That’s a great word. I dig this guy. He’s, like, my brother from another mother.”

“Thanks.” Seth rolled his eyes. “Anywho, It would be totally awesome if I didn’t have to acknowledge my ex-girlfriend’s existence in any way, shape or form until the end of time.”

“Seems tough,” Clyde says. “Time is pretty relevant, man. It never ends.”

Rachel grabbed another slice of pizza. “I think he was just being melodramatic.”

“Hey fatty!”

I spun around, recognizing the voice, ready to more than happily throw a slice of pizza at Joey Harrington in exchange for an afternoon of detention. But he wasn’t looking in our direction at all—instead, his focus was on anyone sitting across the aisle who was foolish enough to turn and look. He pointed out one girl wearing a stretched red cardigan—obviously a freshman—and started laughing. His three guy friends joined in.

Including Ted.

And then, not to be upstaged, Trish and the other girls joined in, too.

“I could just dunk Trish’s head in a toilet,” I muttered, feeling a pain of sympathy for the poor girl whose face had turned beet red. Thankfully, most of the students sitting nearby hadn’t joined in the laughter.

“Yeah.” Seth stripped the cheese off his slice of pizza, dropped it into his mouth, then licked his fingers clean. “I wouldn’t mind dunking Trish’s head in the toilet, too.”

“That poor girl,” Rachel murmured.

Clyde nodded. “Yeah, man. Freshman year’s tough enough. It’s like The Hunger Games in this cafeteria.” He picked a piece of pepperoni. “Not sure how I made it out alive. I mean, I remember some things, like gym class, but it’s mostly a blur. Maybe I was in a coma or something.”

He was being a little melodramatic, but he was kind of right: freshman year was hard enough. The last thing that poor girl needed was the attention of the bully. And where was Chase during all of this? Where was the guy who’d written such a great book report on how tough it was being an outsider?

Well, isn’t it obvious? He was sitting with baseball buddies and his ex-ex-girlfriend, smiling at the bully.

At the end of lunch, Trish cornered me. Seth slipped away with Clyde, using a crowd of underclassmen as a shield.

“Hey,” she said with a pouty face. “Ted told me you guys didn’t work out. What the heck happened?”

“Uh … he’s a weird, controlling creep.”

“And?”

“And nothing!” I exclaimed. We pushed our way out into the hallway, heading toward the staircase. Trish was wearing a cute denim jacket with a pink top underneath; she also had a considerable amount of blush on. That was new. She never wore so much blush before.

“Well, OK, point taken. Geez, will you take the steps one at a time like a normal person?”

I slowed down. We let two of the baseball guys pass so we had the hallway to ourselves.

“Look, you need to reconsider because you’re on the verge of becoming a total loser.” She put a hand on my shoulder. As if she was consoling me after a death in the family, for crying out loud. “It doesn’t help that you’re hanging out with Tina Hyena and that weird Clyde guy. You’re becoming irrelevant.”

“I’m not dating Ted,” I stated flatly.

“OK, well at least come hang out with me at lunch time. Seriously, the other girls are starting to consider putting you on their Unsocial Networking list. Do you even realize what that is?”

I did. Everyone knew about that. Basically, the most popular girls went on the social networks and used their influence to force other people to defriend certain students they’d deemed “losers.” Or sometimes they just went after a girl who ticked them off. Or sometimes it was even someone in their own clique who’d said or done something inexcusable. Basically they were branching out their “mean girl” philosophy into the virtual world.

It was really quite wonderful, quipped the sarcastic hero.

“At the very least,” Trish continued, “you should try to wear a little less purple from here on out.”

“Violet,” I corrected.

I caught her rolling her eyes. “Violet, sorry. Style is huge this year. It’s making or breaking potential cool people. Now, your … um, fencing skills are helping a lot. The boys on the team are impressed and it’s generating some positive buzz in the halls. But hanging out with style nightmares like Tina Hyena and Clyde are hurting. I mean, the guy wears flannel. Flannel! I don’t even know what that is.”

“Why did you break-up with Seth?” I demanded.

“Because I like Brandon now.”

I stopped her. A big group of football guys and their stick-figure girlfriends walked past us. A couple pointed out a potential catfight before snickering and walking through the first-floor doors. “Who the heck is Brandon?”

“He’s dreamy,” she said, nearly swooning and falling right down the staircase. She reached out, grabbing the railing. “And rich. And he’s part of The Golden Whelps, which is like, the youth group now.”

“The Golden Whelps ...”

She picked up her pace to match mine. “Geez, one stair at a time! Do I really have to remind you? Anyway, The Golden Whelps are big. They’re very selective. You have to have lots of money, you have to do all sorts of volunteer work, you have to have your own car …”

“He sounds wonderful,” I murmured. I opened the door to the second floor, letting her take the lead. In the hall, students were rushing to their next class. Well, most of them. I could see some of the football players huddled together next to the green lockers on the right-hand side, right between rooms 201 and 203.

“Ugh,” I muttered, interrupting Trish’s rambling about the merits of popularity during senior year. I walked closer, hoping the huddle of no-necks would at the very least move a bit so I could walk by. I just wanted to get out of here and hide away in the library. How awful is that? I enjoyed school. I didn’t love it by any means, but I enjoyed it.

Now … now I wasn’t so sure anymore.

The moment I reached the mass of muscle, a hand reached out for me. I dodged right, slapping it away before I even saw who it belonged to.

Then he appeared, parting the sea of meatheads with his Cro-Magnon gaze. OK, I’m being a little harsh here—Joey Harrington was the quarterback, so he wasn’t exactly a giant monster. But he was tall, and built, and had perfected his scowl over the course of four years. A scowl that intimidated not just his football opponents, but pretty much every single kid in school, including his friends.

“You ever throw something at me again,” he said, “and I swear I’ll knock your head right into a locker.”

“You don’t scare me,” I snapped.

His nostrils flared. He reached out for my hair. I leaned back, reaching up with both hands and grabbing his wrist. I squeezed, bending it forward, then let my weight fall back. The force pulled him toward me. I spun out of the way, twisting his arm, letting go with one hand and pressing it firmly into the small of his back. I gave him a good push, sending him face-first into the nearest locker.

His head hit the thin metal surface with a loud bang. The other jocks stepped back. Trish gasped. I let go of Joey’s hand, stepping away from him, ready to have at it.

He clutched his forehead. When he pulled his hand away, his skin was stained with a nickel-sized bit of blood. He cursed me through gritted teeth. Before he could close the distance between us, two of his friends grabbed him, holding him back. He started cursing louder now, and it only took two breaths before Mr. Tuck emerged from room 202. He got between us.

And escorted both of us to the principal’s office.

Chapter 5

“You have got to be kidding me!” I shouted. I could feel my heart pumping against my chest, as if the man sitting behind his desk wasn’t the principal at all, but a Corrupted on the verge of finally doing in yours truly. My palms were sweaty, gripping the armrest of the uncomfortable plush chair. I was losing.

Principal Sanders—AKA Coach Sanders, as in “Coach Sanders led the Washington High football team to another victory today”—remained stoic. He was a silent gargoyle, features and all: hair combed over the bald spot on top of his pasty head, a square chin that resembled a brick, a tie hanging loosely from his thick neck.

Dad sat beside me, saying nothing. He was mad. His big ears were red and he’d only said two words since arriving and getting the somewhat misleading low-down from the principal. Those two words were “OK” and “Huh.” There would be no defense from Dad, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Joey tried to grab my hair,” I said. Sanders put his hand up so I continued in a louder voice: “He’s getting detention so that he doesn’t miss the football game on Friday night. You’re playing favorites with him because you need him to win the game.”

“No, Alice, I wouldn’t do that.” To emphasize his point, he shook his head.

I turned to my dad. “He’s lying, Dad! Joey Harrington is a bully! He’s been in more fights than you can count on both hands and he’s never had an expulsion hearing. He treats everyone like crap! I’m being punished because I didn’t want him to hurt me!”

Principal Sanders sighed, folding his hands. He had a messy desk. A big desk. There were a lot of documents, but there was a football, too. And hanging on the wall next to his teaching degree were three Championship Titles, each one encased in a wooden frame. No pictures of his kids … yeah, don’t worry, kids, daddy will be home after he’s done protecting another crop of jocks from being held responsible for their actions.

OK. I was mad. Obviously.

And so was my dad.

“But I have a good reason to be mad!” I exclaimed on the car ride home. He was driving a little faster than normal, taking every yellow traffic light. Definitely not something my dad normally did.

“You attacked him,” Dad said. “You harmed another human being. I can’t believe it. You could have been expelled. You’re lucky you weren’t expelled!”

“Joey Harrington has done things a hundred times worse!”

“I don’t care what he’s done!”

“Dad—”

“What’s gotten into you? Why are you all of a sudden playing the tough girl?”

“Because I’m trying to survive, Dad!” I’d begun crying. My vision blurred. I felt my body shift as Dad made a hard right turn. My stomach lurched. “You don’t know what it’s like to be bullied like this!”

“We had bullies in my time, too!”

“Not like this, Dad! These bullies are everywhere! They’re on the Internet! They’re in the cafeteria! They’re in class! They’re in the hallways! They’re in the bathroom! And the principal doesn’t stop them! The teachers don’t do anything! Joey Harrington gets away with everything because he’s on the football team!”

“You don’t attack someone,” Dad said. It was nearly a growl. “There are enough human beings harming each other in this world. And where does it get them? Nowhere. Ever.”

“Dad …”

“Don’t use violence to solve your problems with people,” Dad said. “You know who told me that? My parents. And they got it from their parents. And I’m passing that along to you.”

“Dad, if you just—”

“We’re done talking.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes. There was no point in fighting anymore. Joey Harrington had won again. The little tiny cut on his forehead would heal and then who knew? Maybe next time he would be even bolder. And you’d better believe I was going to defend myself again.

If only the fountain pen could help me out of this jam. What good was it to be the hero if it didn’t help with high school?

I ate dinner as quickly as I could and then retreated to my room. I couldn’t stand dealing with the questions from Mom. The more honestly I answered, the more convinced she seemed to be that I was either “on drugs” or “depressed.” Neither of them was listening to me about Joey. Neither of them believed me that our principal could be so crass.

“Briar,” I mumbled, lying on the bed. I waited for him to appear. When he didn’t, I cried myself to sleep.

Back on the ship. The moon had grown fuller now, casting a long pale glow over the dark water. The sails were up, the crew of shadows moving from mast to mast. One of them slid down the fore mast, landing on the deck with a thud. He took the rope in his hand and tied it to a steel loop attached to the deck.

“Blood and thunder, boys!” cried one of the sailors. “Get those lines in!”

They moved to the winch next to the foremast. Two of them were turning the rusty iron crank while another ten began pulling in the massive net as it slipped up over the bulwarks. Water and fish splashed across the deck. I stepped back, bumping into someone. I turned, raising a fist.

“Easy, lass.” It was Ishmael, the sailor from the night before. His long, graying hair was wet and stringy, which seemed to be his favorite style. “No need for that.”

“How can you see me?” I asked. “How can you hear me?”

He smiled. Shadows danced across his pale face. The sailors hurrying past us all had the same shadows clinging to their bodies. They all had long hair, either pulled back or held back by black bandanas. They all wore the same rusty-looking waders—heavy rubber pants held up with suspenders—and long-sleeved coats buttoned up to their necks to protect them from the not-quite-cold water.

Shadows—no … humans being consumed by shadows.

“Well?” I asked. The ship tilted and my hand instinctively reached out for the bulwark. I felt a sliver of wood dig into my hand. “Ouch!”

The man stared at my hand, curling his upper lip. “Pain … I miss pain. We feel nothing on this ship. We care about nothing. All that drives us is the captain’s spell. The desire to find that cursed fish. Check them all, boys! The captain says he hears the music sure enough, so the fish must be nearby!”

The other shadow sailors were bent over, using long curved hooks to sift through the hundreds and hundreds of fish being pulled in by the net. The ship rocked again, and dozens of fish slid off the deck.

“Easy!” Ishmael shouted to the dark shadow operating the massive wheel-like helm above the captain’s cabin. “Keep her steady! And get those fish into the hold!”

“You’re keeping them?” I asked.

The man nodded. “We sell them at port. I sell them.”

“Why you?”

“I’m the newest one onboard. Haven’t quite … ah, lost my good looks like the rest of these poor blokes. The captain took me just a few years ago. Made me a deal too good to pass up.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I can imagine hopping aboard a spooky pirate ship is probably pretty tempting.”

The sailor snorted. “Pirate ship? No, lass. This is a whaling vessel.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the open hatch. “Take a look for yourself.”

My arm slipped away from his wet fingers. I fell into the hatch, followed by dozens of flopping fish. I landed below on a soft pile of rotting fish, fish that must have been caught earlier. It smelled horrible. The cavernous, empty hold was dark, save for a lantern swinging from a rusty curved nail hammered into one of the support beams farther down. In the light of the lantern was a fat, shadowy man with a glistening bald head, standing over a massive marine animal three times as big as him. Its tail was long, the fins wide and delicate-looking.

The shadowy butcher clutched his sharp carving knife, staring at me.

“A whale.”

I spun, aiming high. Ishmael caught my hand and brushed it aside.

“We come from the ocean,” he continued, stepping off the pile of fish. I stepped back and he walked past me with sturdy sea legs, reaching out with one hand to steady the swinging lantern. The shadows stopped dancing on the wooden walls of the hull. The ship rocked side to side. The sound of crashing waves penetrated the hull and made my stomach lurch. I stared ahead to keep myself from going dizzy, noticing for the first time that deeper into the ship, beyond the man standing over the whale, was a furnace much like the one I’d seen inside the orphanage of doom. Only this furnace had an anvil next to it and a large table filled with tools.

The furnace was out.

“The captain was lost for so many years,” Ishmael said. “He couldn’t hear the fish’s song anymore, so he and his crew sailed the sea. They fished and fished and sold it all to shady merchants so they could afford repairs. The Leviathan is an old ship, too old to be out here. Even now, her bones rattle and crack, threatening to send us all to Davy Jones’ Locker. But the captain will not relent. He wants this fish that sings to him.”

“You caught this whale in the ocean,” I said, stopping a few feet from the massive dead marine mammal. I wrinkled my nose. There was something missing from the stench down here. Salt. “We’re not in the ocean anymore. We’re in fresh water.”

Another shadowy figure appeared beside the bald one, slipping out of the shadows. The boat rocked again and the lamp began swinging, and each time it swung in the direction of the men, the shadows refused to bleed away. It was almost as if they weren’t afraid of the light. The second man was taller, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting trousers that had been ripped away at the knees and no shirt, leaving only taut, rippling muscles scaled with barnacles and strips of seaweed, as if he’d just emerged from the ocean after a long nap. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, and it was plain that he was missing more than a few toes.

The bald one with the hook tore into the massive gray whale, cutting across its belly and removing a strip of white blubber slicked with blood. The other man grabbed a long spade, stood on the blubber, and began cutting it up into pieces.

“The blubber will fill our bellies,” said Ishmael, “as well as light our lamps.”

“You’re human beings, all of you,” I whispered. “But the captain …”

The man cocked his head. “You know what the captain is.”

“A Corrupted.”

He smiled a sad, pathetic smile. The shadows seemed to fight it, squeezing the edges of his mouth. “And we are bound to him.”

I suddenly found myself floating again, pulling away from the ship. The man with stringy hair—Ishmael—watched me go, the shadows over his face darkening as I drifted back, slipping effortlessly through the hull of the ship and soaring over the empty water. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying not to throw up as I picked up speed. Where was I? Ishmael had mentioned the ocean, but those fish were freshwater fish. The Leviathan was headed somewhere …

The cool air chilled me to the bone, whipped across my ears. I had to open my eyes, no matter how badly I wanted to barf. I had to take in the details, just like Briar trained me. For a moment, there was nothing but water in every direction. It was so empty that my heart began to race—I had this sudden fear come over me, as if I would be stuck out here forever.

I held out a hand but saw nothing. It was invisible once again, and I was willing to bet the change had happened the moment I left the ship. That ship had some kind of magical power, both over the sailors and my dream form.

Below me, the waves began to cease. It was a vast wasteland of water, and I once again had that feeling of absolute emptiness. There was nothing. Nothing in every direction. Moonlight cut a narrow strip of bluish-white across the surface of the water, and then it was gone as clouds gathered overhead. The water turned black. Fear seemed to creep across me like the cursed sailors’ shadows. I felt so empty.

Then, on the horizon ahead: land. I laughed silently, feeling an intense relief I can’t describe. I never thought I’d be so happy to see land. My body slowed as I got closer. I could see buildings now, each one’s roof lit up with blinking red and blue lights to warn airplanes. Only a few lights were left on in the windows, but the skyline was recognizable enough.

Milwaukee.

I passed over the beaches on the south end of the city, right where I’d had that fateful encounter so long ago with the strange Corrupted creature inside the tunnels who’d begged me to destroy him. The beaches gave way to a marina with dozens of sailboats floating in the water. When I passed over it, I began to slow down even more. I flew toward the shipyards, where long massive docks were split up by wide two-story concrete buildings with multiple cranes sitting idle on the rooftops, waiting to unload the next ship’s cargo. There were no ships docked. Each of the buildings beside the docks had fat floodlights attached to the exterior, lighting up the docks and the street beside them, where a handful of trucks were parked in designated spots divided by yellow lines.

There was only one person visible.

I had to will myself to move closer to him, floating down to Dock 4, which looked older than the others. Fat tires hung from the wooden support beams that held the dock in place, no doubt to soften the blow when smaller cargo ships ran up against the dock. The person—a man. No! A young man—clutching the last support beam at the end of the long dock, yelling something.

I moved closer.

“Fish!” he shouted. “Fish!”

I fell in behind him. If he could sense my presence, he didn’t show it. He was searching the black water, breathless.

“Fish, I gave you freedom!”

We waited. I searched the water with him. It was calm, unnaturally calm, almost as smooth as glass. I didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. I knew just by looking at his familiar broad shoulders. His tattered jeans. His pompadour haircut.

“Chase,” I whispered.

He turned, scanning the dock as if he’d heard my voice. His eyes moved past me without recognition.

Something popped up from the dark water. Above, the clouds dispersed. I could see it clearer now with the moonlight shining down. It was the fish.

The one that got away.

“What is it?” the fish asked, swimming closer to the dock. He looked bigger. Maybe it was my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear he looked … well, fatter.

“Do you …” Chase licked his lips, tentative. “Do you know about baseball?”

“Boys hit a ball with sticks and run around with much fanfare,” the fish said dryly. “I picked up enough over the years from the safety of my horrible fish tank.”

“I want to hit home runs,” Chase said. “Every time I bat.”

“Is that so?” the fish asked. “Is it not enough that I gave you back your legs? Is it not enough that you can walk again?”

“I freed you!” Chase shouted. “You owe me!”

“Why not be satisfied with potential?” asked the fish. “Why not ask me for the ability to be great? Do you not rob yourself of something by asking for the easy way out?”

“I want to hit home runs!” Chase shouted.

“Very well,” the fish said. “Go home. When you wake tomorrow, you’ll find I’ve granted your wish.”

Chase smiled. It was a smile I’d never seen on him. It looked evil.

He turned and started walking. One of his legs seemed to go out from under him. He fell over, landing hard on the old wooden dock. When he pulled himself to his feet, he looked shocked. Then that smile returned.

I woke with a start, feeling a tear escape from my right eye. “Briar?” I called out quietly. There was no response. My room was empty, and it felt so lonely I could barely get out of bed.

“What am I going to do?” I asked, grabbing the first pair of jeans I could find. My hand hovered over my collection of violet shirts. There were more than a dozen of them hanging up, another half-dozen dirty ones lying on the floor. Was Trish right? Was I overdoing it with my favorite color?

OK. Yes. Duh. But did it really matter?

Apparently it did now. And if I wanted to keep myself from sliding down the social ladder at school, I’d have to make changes. But I didn’t want to make changes. Arrrrg! Why was my brain doing this to me? Because I was lonely. That’s why. I knew it even then as I stood in my closet, staring at my clothes. I was afraid of being alone, hovering over a sea of water.

My hand reached for the first non-violet shirt it could find: a gray v-neck shirt with short sleeves. I put it on, staring at myself in the mirror.

I realized, quite suddenly, that it didn’t really matter what I put on. I had nowhere to go. I was suspended until Monday. And I was grounded until … oh, around 2046 or so.

“Briar,” I whispered, hoping the rabbit would magically reappear. He didn’t.

OK. Steel yourself, Alice. I was on my own until the rabbit came back. What would Briar do if he were here? Well, first off he would listen to my dream. Then he would make some snide, goofy comment. Then he would research.

And I knew exactly where to start: ship speeds. I went to Google, hoping someone somewhere on the planet was also curious about the speeds of big whaling vessels that also just so happened to be around 200 years old. I tried “How fast do whaling ships go?” and found myself confronted with some disturbing facts: whaling was still happening. Not only was it happening, but the few rules governing whaling were being actively ignored by a number of whalers around the world. I ended up completely distracted, wondering why exactly whaling had been so prevalent for so long.

Here’s what I found:

1.        Oil. The oil could be used in lamps and machinery.

2.       Ambergris. This was found in the whale’s digestive system. It was used in perfumes.

3.       Baleen. This is the hair inside the whale’s mouth that filters krill. After the whale is killed, its baleen is used to make whips and corsets.

So there. Whales were hunted by the captain and then their “stuff” was sold off to merchants who used it to make whips, corsets and perfumes. Good thing, too. What would we have done without those items in our daily lives, right?

And then the captain used the money to repair his old ship. His sailors, cursed and unable to escape, did the captain’s bidding while the shadows clung ever tighter to their bodies.

“Focus!” I scolded myself, going back to Google. I tried “How fast does a pirate ship go?” this time, and—surprise, surprise!—it turned out a lot of people were curious about how fast a 17th or 18th century pirate ship might travel.

The answers on each web page varied, but they all gave me a rough estimate of 8 knots per hour for a ship from the early 19th century. That was enough for me to go on. Now I just had to figure out how the ship was traveling, if it was indeed making its way from the Atlantic Ocean to Lake Michigan to catch the magic fish.

I searched for “Distance from Atlantic Ocean to Lake Michigan” and got a lot of hooey … until I came across a site for the St. Lawrence Seaway. Not only did the site show exactly how a ship traveled from the Atlantic Ocean and through The Great Lakes, it gave me the nautical distance from the city of Montreal to Milwaukee: 1909 kilometers.

“Holy crud!” I exclaimed. I was doing it. I was figuring this all out on my own. “Now … uh, what the heck is a knot?”

I searched for a definition and got it simply enough: one knot is equal to 1.852 kilometers per hour. Which meant 8 knots was about 14.8 kilometers per hour.

“This would be so much easier if we learned kilometers instead of miles,” I muttered, clearing my calculator so I could do one more calculation:

1909 kilometers divided by 14.8 kilometers per hour.

About 129 hours.

I raised my arms in celebration. Oh, how my junior-year algebra teacher would scream in triumph if he could see me now. I was using math. I was using math to track down a terrible whaling ship with a Corrupted captain who had every intention of capturing a magical fish.

OK. So maybe I wouldn’t be able to tell my math teacher everything, but if I ever passed him in the hall I would at the very least thank him for drilling basic math skills into my brain.

The phone rang. It was Seth. I grabbed my phone and hit the green “talk” button.

“Hello!” I exclaimed.

“Woah. Why are you so excited? You’re suspended.”

“I just used math!”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wait! What’s going on?”

“Oh nothing,” he said. “Just wondering if you’ve … um, you know … talked to Trish at all.”

“Not really,” I answered. “We talked a little right before that idiot Joey Harrington tried grabbing my hair. We were arguing about who I should date.”

“She didn’t …” He cleared his throat. “Um, she didn’t mention if she was dating anyone, did she?”

Oh crap. My mind raced. What to say? I couldn’t lie to him. He was my best friend. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, either. And what if Trish wanted to keep it a secret?

“Look,” I said, swallowing hard. “You and Trish are both my friends. I think you guys should both leave me out of it, OK? Otherwise, I could end up with just one friend or no friends, and I don’t want that.”

There was silence for a moment. Finally, Seth sighed into the phone. “You’re right. I’ve gotta just deal with this on my own. It just totally sucks, that’s all. And I can’t even come visit you because you’re under arrest.”

I laughed. “I have a job for you, if you want.”

“Yes. Definitely. Anything to get me thinking about something else.”

“I need you to go to the Washington High baseball game tonight.”

He made a gagging noise. “What for? Wasn’t it bad enough I had to sit through the hour-long pep rally this morning? Seriously, you’d think Chase was some kind of rock star or something the way they played up his triumphant return.”

“That’s why I need your help. I have a feeling he’s …” Oh geez, how to explain this one? “I have a feeling he’s under the spell of a Corrupted.”

“What? Weird! What kind of Corrupted?”

“A fish.”

“Oh. That’s not as scary as I expected.”

“Will you please just ask him?”

Seth laughed. “Ask him what, exactly? Whether he’s under the spell of a fish?”

“Yes.”

He was silent a moment. “If someone overhears, this is totally going to eliminate what little social status I have. Can’t you just call him?”

I could. I had. The truth was I’d called him a dozen times without an answer. “Just keep an eye on him,” I offered. “Don’t ask him anything. Just make sure nothing weird happens.”

“And if something weird does happen, I’ll just step in and save the day,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“I know you’re ready to take this risk. Thanks, Seth.”

“Yeah. Oh hey, wait! Have you seen Briar? I’m worried about him.”

My heart sank. “He hasn’t been around for a few days.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. We were going to play Risk and eat marshmallows this week, but I haven’t seen him.”

“You two play Risk together?” I had to admit, I was a little jealous.

“Just let him know I’m, um …” He paused. “Ah, crap. I’m a little lonely.”

I nearly cried. He sounded so sad that it was jarring—I hadn’t heard Sad Seth in years and years.

“But don’t tell him I’m lonely,” Seth added. “Because then I’d seem like a total dork. Just tell him I want to play Risk.”

“I’ll tell him. I promise.”

I hung up and looked down at my crude map I’d drawn of the Great Lakes. It was possible the ship could be anywhere. I needed to figure out how much time I had. I needed to get aboard. I needed to take down both of these Corrupted somehow. Maybe I could trick the captain to catch the fish for me … or maybe I could corner Chase and convince him to …

To what? Give up his wishes? Go back to the wheelchair just so I could kill the fish? Gawd, the entire situation was already insane enough. How would I explain to Chase that maybe his wish to walk again wasn’t such a good idea after all? That I might be the one to take it away from him?

That evening, my parents had calmed down enough that I could at the very least make it through a dinner of beef stew without getting grilled about whether I was transforming into some sort of deviant gang leader. Mom was less hysterical. Dad seemed genuinely regretful about yelling at me; not enough to un-ground me, though.

And so I was forced to wait. In my room. With nothing but homework to keep me busy. I put the finishing touches on my paper on Thomas Jefferson, then spent a solid hour studying Genetics.

My mind wandered again and again outside my room. Somewhere, Chase was no doubt playing some of the best baseball of his life. But was there some kind of catch? When the captain of the Leviathan caught his fish, would the wishes be reversed? Briar would have had answers.

“Briar,” I whispered, staring out the window. Outside, brown leaves fluttered across the lawn.

The phone call came at nearly eleven o’clock.

“Well, I’m officially an outsider,” Seth mumbled instead of a “Hello.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I’d given up on finding a man-sized rabbit scurrying between the houses, instead burying myself in Genetics. I returned to my bed, tugging nervously on a stray hair.

“I mean Trish is totally ignoring me, none of her friends will even look at me, and it’s entirely possible that the baseball team plans on beating me up at some point in the near future.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, nothing. I just made the mistake of trying to talk to Chase before the game started. Apparently that’s, like, really bad luck. If you ask me, they should be thanking me given how he played.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He batted four times. He hit four home runs. I’m not sure how up-to-date you are on sports, but four home runs in one game is pretty ridiculous awesome.”

“His wish came true,” I whispered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Thanks for trying, Seth. I’ll call you soon.”

I hung up, anxious for once to get to bed. I needed answers. I needed more details. I couldn’t get the image from last night out of my head: Chase, walking down the pier … and collapsing.

Chapter 6

When I finally drifted off to sleep—after about two hours of tossing and turning—I found myself once again at the docks in Milwaukee. I floated south, moving through each of the warehouse buildings along the lake. Small waves lapped at them and splashed water upward in a wide arc. I tried to will my feet to touch the ground but they refused, and I found myself floating toward the very same old wooden pier at the south end.

Chase was there again.

“Fish!” he called out, clutching the last support beam of the dock. He was still wearing his baseball jersey. His number—12—was cut in half by a streak of dirt.

“Chase,” I whispered. “Don’t do it. Something’s not right about all this!”

This time, he didn’t turn around. “Fish!” he called out again.

A little glowing head popped out of the dark water in front of the pier. It was the fish, all right, but something was different—not only did his head look waaaay too big to fit in the little bowl in my closet, it look misshapen, too, as if he’d been made out of clay and then dropped onto a tile floor.

“Now what is it, boy?” he asked.

“I want to be the best baseball player in the entire state,” Chase said.

“Oh really?” the fish asked. “Why stop there, boy? Why not be the best baseball player in the world? Oh, but then of course there’s always the chance of some other planet’s team to threaten your superiority, no? So why not be the best baseball player in the universe?”

“Just do it,” Chase said in a low growl. “And remember who freed you.”

“I remember,” the fish said, nodding his misshapen head so that it bobbed in the water. A big wave rolled over him, hitting the end of the dock with a frightening clack. A terrible wind was blowing in from the east. “How can I forget? You pester me so. Very well, boy. Your wish is granted. Will you be able to find peace now?”

Chase turned away from the end of the pier, walking past me with that same terrible smile on his face.

“Will you be satisfied now?” the fish called out. “With all that you have? Or will you desire more and more until your selfish desires consume all that you’ve stood for?”

Chase stopped. His knee buckled and he nearly fell again. The evil smile melted away and, for just a moment, he looked terribly afraid.

I tried to moved closer but my body refused, lifting me high into the air. I began floating quickly over the water, leaving behind the eastern shoreline of Milwaukee. In just moments, I was alone again with nothing but the lake in every direction. The cool wind rushed across my face.

I was alone. Again. Boy, if ever there was a metaphor that fit my life at that exact moment …

“Can’t I at least have the moon?” I called out breathlessly, searching the dark water below for the reflection of moonlight. Just a hint that there was something else. Because that’s what we need. We need hope. Hope can give us strength even when we’re surrounded by dark water.

It was another handful of tense, solitary moments before something popped up on the horizon. A light. Then another. Then more. I felt myself slowing down as I flew closer and closer. I could make out a dark object in the water, and its shape was recognizable enough.

The Leviathan.

Her—ships are always girls, right?—bowsprit was pointed at me like an accusing finger. On one side were two smaller boats, hitched to the ship. The two tall masts jutted up to the sky. One was slightly crooked, as if it had been damaged at some point and then repaired in a hurry.

The ship was “parked” at a dock that ran parallel with the shore. Lights hanging from the exterior of the large warehouses beside the docks bathed the ship in a yellowish glow. So the Leviathan docked somewhere. But where?

I landed on the deck of the ship. Hard. I used the railing of the bulwark to pull myself to my feet, then immediately stepped aside as one of the shadowy sailors walked past. He narrowed his pitch-black eyes at me, skulking toward the hold.

The sails were tied tight to the masts. Long, thick ropes were tied around the bulwarks, tied down to the pier below. A wooden plank connected the deck of the ship to the pier, and a section of the bulwark had been removed so the shadowy men could step off the ship.

They walked quickly. I stood beside the plank, watching them take turns grabbing wet, woolen sacks of fish that were pulled up from the open hatch in the deck. The iron winch had been pulled away from the port side of the ship and was now beside the hatch, pulling up each sack of fish. The shadowy figures took turns grabbing a sack, hefting it over their shoulders, then walking down the plank onto the pier. When they moved past me, I could hear the fish shifting inside the sack. More than a little foul-smelling water leaked out from the bottom, running down each sailor’s back.

“Make way!” one of the sailors called out from atop the captain’s cabin.

I turned back to the pier. A middle-aged man smoking a cigarette stepped onto the wooden plank, walking cautiously up to the deck. The pier looked new, made of smooth concrete that was soaked wet in a few places by the sacks of fish that were being carried ashore and into a well-lit warehouse with the number “7” painted above its loading doors in bright red paint. Floodlights illuminated the warehouse’s exterior, but the port looked otherwise deserted.

It wasn’t Milwaukee’s port. Some of the warehouses had lots of glass windows, and all the piers were made of concrete and shaped like a “T.” Farther down the shoreline were a few docks with older buildings, and two tall cranes towering up into the night sky, little red lights blinking at the very tips.

“Here’s where you see old Ishmael earn his worth.”

I turned, surprised to see my sailor friend, not quite so surprised to see he was sticking with the wet, stringy hair look. The shadows seemed to have retreated for the time being, revealing an aged, pale face with long lines around his mouth. My mom called those “laugh lines.” I wondered just how long ago it had been since Ishmael had really laughed, much less had a genuine smile to share.

“Them fish aren’t so good,” said the merchant as he stepped onto the deck of the ship.

“Stop there,” Ishmael ordered, holding up one wrinkled hand. “Keep one foot on the plank if you know what’s good for you.”

The man frowned but kept his left foot on the plank.

The other shadowy sailors resumed unloading the sacks of fish, keeping their heads bent low as they passed the merchant.

“As for the fish … they’re good enough,” Ishmael said. “The captain isn’t picky about price.”

“I know that,” the merchant snapped. He tossed his cigarette overboard and rubbed his protruding belly. He looked like the father of any high school kid, with heavy whiskers and slightly unkempt hair that moved out of place in the breeze. “If he was picky about price, I wouldn’t risk my neck doing business with him. What do ya want for them?”

“Good timber, nails, some oil for the winch, and as much nylon as you can spare so we can repair our fishing nets.”

The merchant said nothing for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I knew I was going to like doing business with ya. It’s a deal.” He narrowed an eye. “You’re not messing with me, are ya?”

Ishmael shook his head slowly. “The captain has no interest in trivialities.”

“I’d like to meet him,” the merchant said, glancing at the captain’s cabin. He looked a bit uneasy—one of his feet kept tapping on the deck. “You know, just to make sure we’re straight. Not that I don’t trust you or nothing, but it’s not every day a stranger seeks me out in the middle of the night offering to sell me an illegal shipment of fish.”

The shadows returned to Ishmael’s face. “The captain sees no one.”

“See, that’s the thing that’s kinda creeping me out a bit.”

Ishmael stared at the man, saying nothing. His dark eyes seemed as if they were fathoms deep, the full meaning of his gaze unreadable. But the set of his jaw indicated that there would be no more discussion on the matter.

“Fine, fine,” the merchant said, taking a step back. “I have everything you need in my warehouse. Get those fish to my truck, and tell your boys to do it quick-like. I want out of here as soon as I can.”

“As you wish.” Ishmael watched the man walk down the plank, hopping back onto the concrete dock. He sighed. “He’ll get a good deal on those fish. Somehow. He’ll find someone willing to buy them all up, and for a pretty penny.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

Ishmael shook his head, watching another shadowy sailor walk by with a sack full of fish. This sailor’s features were nearly nonexistent, as if the shadows had soaked into his skin and begun to wash away his mouth and nose and wrinkles, like a river smoothing out and polishing a stone.

“I was once a callous fisherman,” Ishmael said. He pulled his wet hair back behind his small ears. “I took of the oceans whatever I could. Every fresh haul brought into port got me more money. I knew little of the consequences of what I was doing. I wanted only more and more and more.

“But soon our catches shrank. So we spent more and more time at sea, filling our holds with as much as we could. What once took a day took three days, and then a week. Soon, no matter how much we fished, we couldn’t catch enough to fill our holds. Still, we continued, taking whatever we could pull from the sea.

“Then one day I crossed paths with a shadowy man who promised me even more. More riches than I could ever hope to spend. And all we had to do was find a special fish. A species that only the captain of the Leviathan had seen before.”

“The magic fish,” I finished.

Ishmael nodded. “But I knew nothing about that back then. Not until I came aboard this ship and met the captain did I learn the horrible truth of it. And by then, it was too late. The captain’s curse had already infected me. Now, shadows cling to me like a jealous lover … and I am in thrall to the captain’s undying obsession.”

“Stations, boys!” called the helmsman from atop the captain’s cabin. The last of the sailors made their way back onto the deck with armfuls of wood and heavy cardboard boxes, and the last one aboard—a big, burly man with a brown bandana over his head and white eyes that contrasted with his thickly shadowed face—pulled back the plank.

The men began working the sails, running from place to place, untying ropes that made the area around the masts of the ship look like an unfinished spider web. In just moments, the unfurled sails grabbed the wind and the ship began to slowly move, cutting through the dark water. Something caught my eye: a blue sign hanging over the large windows of a building just beyond the northernmost dock, illuminated by a single yellow light bulb. I leaned on the wooden bulwark as we moved closer.

Ludington Harbor.

“We’re getting closer,” Ishmael said in a low voice. His hands wrapped around the bulwark’s wooden railing, squeezing so tight that the wood creaked and popped. “The captain can hear the fish’s music. He’s connected to that fish somehow.”

“But what music?” I whispered. The ship was pulling away from the shoreline now. The lights from the nearby city reached into the dark sky, blotting out the stars. Ishmael followed my gaze and grunted.

“It’s easy to take the stars for granted when you’re traveling the oceans. Out there, surrounded by water, the stars burn so bright I swear you have to shield your eyes. Sometimes, it’s beautiful enough to forget about our curse. For a moment or two.”

He began walking toward the captain’s cabin. He was staring at something. I followed, curious. Clouds passed over the moon, blanketing the ship in darkness. I stepped closer to the cabin, careful of my steps on the creaking, rotted deck. Whatever Ishmael was looking at … it was hanging over the captain’s door. Both windows on either side of the door were pitch-black, no lights on inside the cabin. What kind of evil Corrupted lurked inside?

Ishmael stopped, staring at the small circular object above the door. He sighed. “The captain has made some  peculiar friends around the world. Some of them I swear aren’t human at all. Some are human, and those are the ones I fear the most. The ones who would willingly do business with a creature such as the captain. Are they willing participants, or are they under the very same spell that curses me to this ship?”

I looked down at the deck. There was a soft, barely visible gold trail running along the wooden boards into the captain’s cabin. He’d been out recently. Very recently. Had he been watching the men unload the fish? Had he been watching me?

“Once,” Ishmael said, “not long ago, we were traveling north, up the eastern coast of the continent. We stopped at a small port in New York in the dead of night. Strange men wearing long black robes boarded. They kept their hoods up to hide their features, and their presence made even the oldest sailors uneasy.”

“The captain emerged from his cabin and bid the mysterious figures a good evening. One of the hooded men stepped forward. I had a terrible feeling about him. Somehow, he was not like the others. He spoke to the captain without fear. He told the captain that The Order had only servants. No masters but one: the dragon.”

“The dragon?” I asked.

Ishmael nodded. “I stepped closer to the captain. The cursed shadows clung tightly to my body, forcing out quick breaths. A gentle wind picked up. It smelled like the ocean and stung my nostrils. A chill went down my spine as the hood of the man slipped back a bit. He was not human.”

We walked closer to the door.

I gasped. Ishmael simply nodded, unable or unwilling to take his eyes off the object. Above us, the clouds parted and the moonlight hit the coin. The dragon’s eyes seemed to glisten, staring down at me.

“A gold coin,” Ishmael said, “for the first man to spot the fish.”

I woke up with a start, as if I’d been falling in my dream right before I woke up. I leaned over, squinting as my sore eyes adjusted to the morning sun shining in through the windows. I opened my desk drawer, fumbling around until my fingers touched the cold piece of metal. I pulled out the gold coin, the one we’d found at the mansion.

Yup, it was definitely the same coin as on the ship. The coin that Briar had said belonged to the Order of the Golden Dragon. What did it mean? How had the captain gotten one? How had the headmistress gotten one?

I put the coin away. “Briar!” I whispered.

No answer. I fought back tears. All I could think about was the empty water in my dreams. The intense loneliness.

“You’re the hero,” I whispered, wiping my eyes. “Tough it out. Come on, Alice.”

Downstairs, Mom was making pancakes. Dad was reading the paper, sipping coffee. I played it like I was really tired—that way, if they were still mad at me about getting suspended, I could feign exhaustion and go back to bed. I didn’t want to hear any more lectures. All I wanted were a few pancakes and a good training session.

“Well, it’s a pretty nice thing to do,” Mom said.

I sat down at the table. “What is?”

Dad grunted. “The city’s new hotshot CEO is setting up a foster home.”

I leaned over so I could look at the front page. Sure enough—there was Sam Grayle’s smooth mug on the front page, smiling broadly as he cut the tape on a brand-new foster home. He was looking right at the camera, his eyes no doubt searching for me. See? Those eyes said. I’m holding up my side of the bargain. Again.

“It’s probably a P.R. stunt,” Dad said.

Mom handed me a glass of orange juice. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’s already the toast of the town, what with his bank halting all of the home foreclosures in the area. He doesn’t need more good publicity.”

“Oh yes he does,” Dad murmured, reading my thoughts. “Bankers always need more good publicity. And I’d love to know what happened to the lady who ran the orphanage in that mansion. I bet Grayle killed her.”

I nearly spit out my juice.

“Swallow small gulps,” Mom suggested, handing me a plate of pancakes. “When you’re done with breakfast, you can get your weekly chores done. You’ve been slacking all month on them.”

“OK,” I said, looking down. At least the pancakes were delicious.

“Do you have to put in any hours at the library this weekend?”

“N …” I stopped, then shoved a forkful of pancakes in my mouth. Chase was meeting me at the library at three o’clock. If he kept his word, I’d be able to confront him. “I, uh, was going to go in and work on the shelves,” I said. “I’m a little behind on cleaning there, too.”

“Just let us know when you’ll be back,” Dad said. He sipped his coffee. “That’s the only way you’re leaving the house this weekend.”

“OK, OK. I get it.”

Back in my room, I opened my laptop and sent an email to Briar, hoping that wherever he was, he’d at least read it. I made it quick and to the point:

NEED YOUR HELP. MAGIC FISH. SEA CAPTAIN. CURSE. DRAGON.

SINCERELY,

THE HERO.

That finished, I went back to my map and put a star right next to Ludington Harbor, which was on the northwestern border of Michigan.

“All right, brain,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s do one more math problem, and then I promise I’ll let you take a break and watch and hour’s worth of music videos on Youtube.”

I opened up the website that let me measure the traveling distance from port to port in the Great Lakes. There was no button that would let me measure the distance from Ludington, so I had to figure out another way. I looked up “Lake Michigan” on Wikipedia and searched for its measurements. The maximum width of the lake was 190 kilometers, which gave me a rough estimate of the distance between Michigan and Wisconsin at its widest point … but of course the Leviathan wouldn’t be sailing directly across because Ludington was northeast of Milwaukee … so she would be sailing diagonally, which would add a little distance …

“Crap!” I said, rubbing my temples. I’d drawn a diagonal line from Ludington down to Milwaukee, then a horizontal line from Milwaukee to the western shore of Michigan, then a vertical line up to Ludington. I’d drawn a triangle. And no matter how hard I racked my brain, I couldn’t figure out how I might be able to measure that long diagonal line.

OK, I thought. A guess was going to have to be good enough. If the Leviathan was traveling at 8 kilometers per hour, and it had to cover about 190 kilometers …

The captain would arrive sometime tonight.

“Crud,” I whispered. My hand reached for the magic pen.

I made it to the library at 2:55 pm, waiting nervously outside by the benches where Chase had first shown me how to counter-riposte. I was convinced he wouldn’t show. A cool autumn wind had picked up, rustling the dry leaves on the trees. More leaves blew across the grass, rolling past my feet. A wind coming in from the east. Perfect for a ship sailing southwest.

Then, like magic, he appeared. OK, it wasn’t magic—he pulled up in his car and got out just like a normal human being, but I was surprised to see him nonetheless.

“Chase,” I said, standing up and licking my lips. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I always keep my word,” he said. His hand reached up for his hair, checking it against the wind. “Always.”

“I have to talk to you.”

He shook his head, crossing the grass and grabbing two long sticks that were lying beside one of the old empty benches. He tossed one to me. “Don’t talk. Fight.”

I hefted the stick in my hand. It was light. Bent awkwardly. Definitely not a good facsimile of a foil. But before I could say another word, he came at me, swinging his stick wildly. I whacked the stick away, falling back and nearly tripping.

“Woah! Time out, time out!”

“No,” Chase said, launching another attack. I riposted as best I could, but it was only a few attacks before his stick slipped through my defense and connected painfully with my left arm.

“Ouch! Chase!” I jumped back, looking at my arm. The sleeve of my blue t-shirt was ripped. The skin was cut. “You ripped my shirt!”

“You don’t like that shirt anyway,” Chase said. “You like your violet shirts. Now come at me. Are you mad?”

“Yes!”

“Then come at me!”

I launched an attack, whipping my stick wildly left, then right, then downward. I stabbed. Then I stabbed again, pushing him back.

“Good,” he said. “Faster now! Faster, Alice!”

I swung again, losing control. He counter-riposted, hitting me right in the stomach. I fell back, then came at him again, this time keeping control.

“Faster!” Chase ordered.

I swung faster. He parried what he could, but my stick connected with him a couple times. I aimed right for the number of his jersey, swinging and counter-riposting and stabbing that number 12 again and again. I wanted to tear away that jersey and make sure he never wore it again. I wanted to hurt him.

“OK, stop.” He lowered his stick but I swung again anyway, connecting with his elbow. “Ouch, damn it! We’re done. We’re done.”

“What the heck was that all about?” I asked angrily.

“You need the killer’s instinct,” he answered, grabbing my stick. He threw both of the sticks onto the grass. “The best athletes have it. It’s that drive to finish the job. It’s the absolute power over your opponent. Relentlessness. You haven’t had it yet. You always start strong, then you back up and play down to your opponent. Go for the kill, Goodenough.”

He turned and walked back to his car. “Chase!” I called out, following. At his door, I grabbed his arm and pulled him around. The force seemed to surprise him. “I need to talk to you.”

“Talk to me after the game,” he said. “Come to the game. See me play.”

“Why?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

He opened the door to his car. His left knee buckled and his grip on the door tightened to keep him from falling. A look of strain spread across his face.

“Chase, listen to me! The …”

He shook his head, getting inside and shutting the door. His car’s engine roared to life and he pulled out of the parking space.

“You bonehead,” I muttered.

There was only one thing left to do. I walked into the library, giving Mary a wave as I grabbed the duster. I made my way to the back of the library, taking a book titled How to Tie Sailing Knots off the top shelf of the Reference section.

I started reading.

Later, at the bus stop, I couldn’t keep my foot from tapping anxiously on the sidewalk as I peered down the street. The magic boots were good for tapping because they had such hard soles, but they were a dreadful fashion statement. I could walk normally with them so long as I focused, but the desire to paint over their dreary gray-brown color was absolutely overwhelming.

I glanced down the busy street again. The bus would take me to Greendale High, which was where the baseball game was tonight. On the offhand chance one of my parents was driving down the street at this exact moment, I could only hope they wouldn’t recognize the baggy gray UW-Milwaukee sweatshirt I was wearing. Technically, it belonged to Trish. And with the hood up, it would be hard for a person driving by to get a good look at my face. I had on the magic boots and my shoes and fountain pen were tucked away safely in my purse. In other words: Alice Goodenough was ready for battle.

I was going to take a big risk tonight. There was no other option.

OK, there was one other option. I could just let it go. Let the captain find his fish and get his old life back again. That was what he probably wanted, right? After all, in the Brothers Grimm story, he asks for too much and the fish takes it all away. So this time, he probably wouldn’t wish for quite so much. Or maybe he would kill the fish and he would be happy and Chase would keep his legs and he would be happy and everyone would be happy.

Right?

Yeah. Because these Corrupted are allllllllllll about happy endings …

I had a bad feeling about this one. And as I got on the bus that would take me to Greendale High, I couldn’t stop thinking about Chase’s legs giving out from under him. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe his legs worked just fine and the fish had granted his wish and there was no catch at all.

Heh. I could almost hear Briar add, “Pardon the pun.”

Crap, I missed that rabbit. The bus ride took longer than I expected, weaving its way through the neighborhood of Greendale, giving me lots of time to think about my furry friend. By the time I got off the bus in front of the high school, I’d firmly decided I was going to hunt him down and order him to come back. I never should have cast him aside like I did. I regretted it.

The floodlights over the baseball diamond were bright, so bright that they lit up the dusky sky behind the high school. A handful of parents and students had parked their cars and were now hurrying down the path that wrapped around the big three-story brick building. I followed them, surprised to see the baseball diamond lined with bleachers along the foul lines. There were enough seats to hold at least a thousand and they were nearly full.

Greendale took its baseball seriously.

I made my way to the bleachers near the visiting team’s dugout, hoping to spot Chase. He was there, all right, leaning against the chain-link fence dividing him from the fans, his fingers slipping between the links to touch the fingers of his ex-ex-girlfriend. He was standing, smiling, and generally looking pretty confident. I guess having a magic fish does that for you.

The other team’s players didn’t seem quite so happy. Neither did their coach. Everyone else was sitting on the dugout bench, watching the game, while Chase continued flirting with his girlfriend. It was already the fifth inning and Washington High was up 4 to 1.

“Chase!” I called out, slipping closer and navigating my way through the first row of the bleachers. The crowd behind me cheered as one of the batters for Washington High stepped up to the plate.

“Well if it isn’t the kung-fu fighter herself,” the ex-ex-girlfriend said with a smile. “I thought you’d for sure be grounded, sweetheart.”

“We need to go to the docks,” I told Chase. His ex-ex-girlfriend looked at me, wrinkled her face, and made an “Ew” sound before clicking her tongue. “Just give us a minute,” I snapped.

Chase laughed, watching her slink back to her seat farther down the bleachers. She joined the “cool” seniors, which included Joey Harington. He was wearing his little cut on his forehead proudly—and by that, I mean he had a bandage on it. Talk about a drama queen.

“I know what you did,” I told Chase.

The crowd on the other side of the diamond cheered. Chase turned, watching his distraught teammate skulk back to the dugout. “One out,” he said. “That means I’m up after the next guy. Sorry, Alice.”

I followed him to the end of the dugout, where he grabbed his bat from a green barrel and stepped out onto the on-deck circle. He took a few swings, giving his teammate in the batter’s box an encouraging nod. The teammate swung at the first pitch, missing.

“Chase!” I called out, clutching the chain-link fence. “Chase, I know what you found. You need to listen to me!”

“Do I?” he asked. He took a step closer. He had horizontal black lines under his eyes to reduce the glare from the lights. From the bleachers, his parents waved. He turned, waving back, then spun around to me. “I got my legs back, Alice. That’s all that matters. That’s all that ever mattered.”

“Then why’d you make more wishes?” I asked. “Why’d you go back?”

“Because I was struggling,” he snapped. “I missed three months of practice. I couldn’t just jump back into the game. I needed help. So I got it.”

“Chase …” I didn’t know what to say. People behind me were no doubt cocking their heads, trying to listen to our conversation. His ex-ex-girlfriend was now openly glaring at me from the other end of the bleachers.

“Time for the show,” Chase said as his teammate struck out. He gave the bat one more swing, then stepped into the batter’s box. Behind me, the crowd went wild. They started chanting “Home run!” so loud that the pitcher actually stepped off the mound to wipe the sweat from his brow. Energy pulsed through the bleachers. They pounded their feet on the aluminum seats until the pitcher stepped back on the mound.

Then they went quiet. The catcher stood up, holding one arm out. When the pitcher threw the ball, he threw it as far away from Chase as he possibly could. The catcher side-stepped, caught the ball, then tossed it back.

The crowd booed.

“He’s intentionally walking Chase,” his dad called out. “What a bunch of bums! Hey you bums!”

“Coward!” shouted Joey Harrington. Chase’s ex-ex-girlfriend and all of their friends heckled the pitcher as he threw another intentional ball.

Chase, upset, tapped his shoes with his bat, then got back into his batting stance. The next ball that flew by, he tried to reach out and hit it anyway. He missed. The crowd went wild.

The pitcher threw two more balls as far away from Chase as possible, the catcher sidling right so that he could catch each one. Chase threw his bat down on the ground and walked to first base.

I pulled my phone from my purse, checking the time. It was 5:30. The ship would arrive soon. I had to make a decision: either get home before my parents freaked out or see this out and risk being grounded forever. The Old Alice in me told me to go home, but the New Alice—the Alice who’d saved the children from the orphanage—told me something more was going on here. Something that involved Chase. Something that was going to end badly.

There was only one thing to try. I walked away from the baseball diamond, dialing Mom’s number. I waited for her to pick up.

“Yes, dear?” she said after the fourth ring.

“Mom.” I swallowed, feeling my heart race. “One of my friends is having a crisis. I need to be with him for a while tonight.”

She was silent for a moment. “Is it Seth?” she asked finally.

“No. It’s Chase.”

“The boy who got in the accident?”

“Yup. Yes, I mean. I don’t want to leave him alone tonight. None of his other friends understands. Please let me be with him until his parents come back. No one else will help him. Please. I promise you I’m telling the truth.”

I waited. There was silence. The next batter struck out, throwing his helmet on the ground and kicking up dirt. Washington High’s players took the field.

“Fine,” Mom said finally. “Only because what you’re doing is a good thing. When will you be home?”

“As soon as he’s OK,” I said. “I promise.”

“All right. Thank you for calling and asking permission.”

I hung up, satisfied and only slightly guilty. It wasn’t the full truth, but it was true. And I was going to live up to my promise, too … as soon as I was sure Chase was OK.

He came up to bat again in the ninth inning. The score was now 4 to 5—Greendale High was up by one now. The pitcher threw another intentional ball, more than happy to give Chase first base instead of risking a home run. Chase grew even angrier than last time, swinging twice just to egg on the pitcher.

“Come on!” he shouted. The umpire gave him a warning for unsportsmanlike conduct.

The pitcher threw another intentional ball. Ball four. Washington High’s fans booed. Chase turned toward his dugout and threw his baseball bat in frustration. It bounced off the chain-link fence, causing the fans in the first row to flinch. He jogged toward first base.

Then, suddenly, his left leg gave out from under him. He collapsed like a sack of potatoes. The crowd in Washington High’s section gasped. I clutched the chain-link fence with tense fingers. Now I knew. The wish was short-circuiting. I didn’t know why and I didn’t know how, but I definitely knew. We had to get that fish.

Chase slowly got to his feet. Washington High’s fans cheered. When he got to first base, he waited for the pitcher to wind up, then took off for second base. Everyone in the crowd went nuts. The catcher stood up, throwing over the pitcher’s head to the second baseman.

It wasn’t even close. Chase slid headfirst into second base, touching the white bag before the second baseman even grabbed the ball out of the air.

The Washington High crowd went wild. The pitcher stepped off the mound, wiping sweat from his forehead. When he stepped back on the mound, he gave Chase one look, then stretched his leg and pitched.

Chase took off running again. The catcher grabbed the ball and threw to third. It was a good throw, right on the money, but by the time the third baseman could bring his glove down for the tag, Chase was already safe, his hand firmly clutching third base.

Washington High’s crowd went even wilder.

The pitcher stepped off the mound again and took off his hat, taking a deep breath. Everyone in Washington High’s section was going crazy. The batter—a junior slacker I recognized from my Genetics class—stepped out of the box to take a few swings, then nodded to Chase.

Everyone was on the edge of their seats. I clutched the cool chain-link fence even harder, finding myself rooting for Chase despite everything.

The pitcher moved the ball around in his glove, shaking off signs from the catcher. Suddenly, Chase was off! He’d taken two big steps before the pitcher even realized, and now the pitcher was winding up and throwing awkwardly toward home. Chase had already taken two more steps, his arms pumping up and down like a steam engine’s pistons. It was as if he was wearing the magical boots I’d taken from the orphanage of doom.

He was going to make it. Everyone in the crowd knew it, too. The ball seemed to float toward home plate in slow motion while Chase continued speeding toward home.

Then his right leg buckled. He fell to the ground just three feet short of home plate. Everyone in the crowd suddenly quieted. The catcher plucked the baseball out of the air, bent down, and tagged Chase out before he could right himself.

The game was over.

Chase lay there for a moment, then slowly got to his feet on shaky legs. No one from Washington High applauded. Instead, they simply dispersed, not bothering to wait for Chase to skulk to the dugout.

I made my way through the thinning crowd to the third base side, where the chain-link fence stopped abruptly. By the time I got there, Chase was already waiting for me. He reached out and grabbed my hand, then pulled me toward the parking lot.

“You’re giving me answers,” he said. “Tonight. I want to know what’s going on.”

“You didn’t want to know earlier,” I pointed out, letting him pull me. No point in fighting back—I knew exactly where we were going.

We got in his car. He peeled out of the parking lot, taking the turn onto the main road at a crazy speed. He was silent until we reached the freeway, heading toward downtown Milwaukee. The sun was nearly set, leaving only fiery red and orange clouds in the sky behind us. The engine of Chase’s car—a black sports car with a big futuristic-looking spoiler on the back—hummed angrily.

“Why did you have a talking fish in your closet?” he demanded.

“Why did you go through my closet?” I retorted.

“Because I heard someone calling out to me! I didn’t think it was a fish, for crying out loud!”

“Chase, you shouldn’t have made a wish. That fish is …”

Chase pounded the steering wheel. He seemed angry, really angry, on the verge of losing control in some way. “He offered my life back! How can you not understand that? I would have done anything for it, and you’d better believe that includes throwing a talking fish into Lake Michigan, as insane as it sounds.”

“The fish was in your backpack,” I said, thinking aloud. Of course. The fish had mentioned to me he could hold his breath … heck, I’d hidden him in my purse until I got home from the orphanage. Then Chase had simply stuffed the little guy in his backpack and then found a way to get to the lake. Maybe he’d even asked his parents to take him.

“Now what is going on?” Chase asked. “Why did you have a talking fish in the first place and what’s happening to my legs?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I found him, all right? I didn’t get a chance to make a wish because you stole him from me.”

He switched lanes, taking the turn-off that brought us downtown. Milwaukee’s tall commercial buildings went by on our left as we sped along the interstate to Lake Michigan. The moon was out now, the last rays of the sun fading on the horizon behind us.

“This is just like that fairy tale,” Chase said. “The one about the fisherman and the wishes. I can’t believe it’s happening. But I can’t not believe, either. Because I want to believe it’s happening. I want to keep my legs.”

“Chase …”

“I can summon him,” he interrupted. “I can call out to him and he’ll come, just like in the fairy tale. I’ll force him to fix my legs again.”

“Chase, the fish … it’s not what you think it is.”

“I can be the best,” Chase said. He laughed, but not the warm laugh I was used to. It was a frighteningly hollow sound. “The best baseball player on the planet!”

“But it’s not real, Chase!” I turned to him, wishing he’d just glance my way and make eye contact. “You wished to be the best. Your success isn’t coming from your abilities—you’re relying on a wish. A crutch. You’re no better at baseball than an athlete who uses steroids. A cheater.”

He didn’t respond. I gave up, clutching the handle of the door as he turned onto the exit for the port. What are you thinking, Alice? He had to be confused. In denial about all of it, maybe. And most importantly, he had no idea what the Corrupted were. He’d stumbled into all of this and it was my fault.

My fault for not killing that stupid fish. My fault for selfishly assuming a Corrupted could help me escape my destiny, no strings attached. My fault for hiding it from Briar, and maybe losing my friend for good.

Chase turned onto an old road that led us under the expressway, closer to the port. There were a few cars parked at the curb but the port looked otherwise deserted. We passed one tall concrete warehouse, then another. Then another.

Then I saw it.

“Stop!” I shouted. My voice must have thrown Chase off-guard because he slammed on the brakes, pulling over on the wide road in front of a small glass building with a rusty sign over its first-story windows reading “Milwaukee Port Authority.”

“What?” he asked, turning to me. He frowned, as if he didn’t trust me. As if all of this was about just him.

“Look. Look at me.” Finally, he looked me in the eye. I took a deep breath, steeling my nerves. “Listen. I know all of this is really weird and you don’t understand exactly what’s happening. I know how badly you want your legs to be OK again.”

He sighed, staring down at the gearshift between us. “It should have just been that. You’re right. I made more wishes and they were a shortcut. I got greedy. I couldn’t stop. I’m still thinking about asking the fish for another wish, to be even better, even though I know it’s wrong.”

I reached out and grabbed his warm hand. He sounded more like himself again, but there was no time to feel relieved. My heart had begun racing. The shadows were closer now, stalking toward the car like cats on the prowl. Coming from every direction. As if they’d been waiting for us.

“I was gonna come back tonight anyway,” Chase continued. He sighed. “I was gonna ask to be really smart, too. Just so I’d have it all. How stupid is that?”

I tightened my grip on his hand. It was getting hard to control my breathing now. The shadowy figures were almost upon us. My brain went into full hero mode, searching for the safest way out of this. Five of them stood behind the car. They’d laid something across the road ahead—there was nowhere to drive. With the streetlights out, they seemed to moved swiftly through the darkness.

But I could see their eyes. The moonlight reflected in their eyes. Dozens and dozens of white eyes all around the car, moving closer.

“Hey,” Chase said, tugging on my hand. “Are you listening to me? The reason I wanted to be smart was so I could still talk to you.”

“Chase … that would be really sweet if not for the fact that you relied on a magic fish,” I said with a weak smile. I reached into my purse, grabbing the magic pen. I stuffed it in my pocket.

He smiled back. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel different, somehow. Not just because I can walk again, either. I feel …”

“Chase.” I reached out with one finger, lifting his chin so our eyes locked. “Listen to me. Something is about to happen to us. It’s going to be weird and scary, but I want you to promise me you won’t fight back.”

He smiled and cocked his head, obviously confused. Through the driver’s-side window, I could see shadowy figure skulking across the street. “Weirder than a magic fish?”

“Promise me you won’t fight back.”

“Alice, I don’t—”

A fist broke through the driver’s-side window. Chase flinched, spinning in his seat. The fist unclenched, reaching for the collar of Chase’s baseball jersey and pulling him to the window. His seatbelt tightened; I reached out, unbuckling him.

“Alice! What—no!” he cried out as the shadowy hand pulled him through the broken window.

They were even less subtle with me, opting instead to simply tear away the passenger’s-side door. I unbuckled before they could grab me, not willing to fight. Their cold, wet hands wrapped around my arms, pulling me out. They were both tall, both wearing tattered fishing gear that had been stained with fish guts and who-knew-what-else. Their short, wet hair clung to their skulls. No smiles for them, either—heavy, unkempt beards hid their mouths. Shadows covered them like tattoos.

I let them drag me across the street, down the dock and toward the horrifying old ship. The Leviathan. Just like in my dreams. I staved off panic with the knowledge that the pen was safely stashed in my pocket. I tried to remember that despite their horrifying visage, the two sailors clutching my arms weren’t Corrupted—underneath those shadows were human beings. Cursed human beings, but human beings nonetheless.

Maybe I could save them yet.

Chapter 7

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.[iv]

The ship slowly pulled away from the harbor, a single unfurled sail catching an unfelt wind. I suddenly felt a whole lot less confident.

Ishmael stood beside us. The sailors had tied rope tightly around our wrists and now we were prisoners on deck, waiting for the captain to emerge from his cabin. Behind us, the sailors shouted orders to each other as they tied down loose sheets and prepped the fishing net. Over the captain’s cabin, I watched the city get smaller and smaller.

We passed the breakwater. A wave splashed against the hull of the ship and water sprayed across our faces. It was cold. I felt a shiver run down my back—as the shoreline slipped away, the water seemed to close in around the ship, squeezing it so tight that the wooden hull creaked and groaned.

Chase’s bound hands found mine. He squeezed my fingers. Warmth replaced the cold deep inside my bones.

“All hands!” came a shout. The sailors gathered on either side of us, forming two columns. All of their heads were bent low, their white eyes peering up at us from under their dark brows. I could feel the icy cold radiating off of the shadows that swirled around their bodies, but Chase’s touch kept the darkness at bay.

“Ready for inspection, Captain!” Ishmael shouted.

“What’s going on?” Chase asked, fumbling with the rope around his wrists.

“Just stop struggling,” I said quietly, staring at the door of the captain’s cabin. “Let me handle it.”

Chase turned, glaring. “That’s not reassuring.”

“It should be.”

The captain’s door flew open, slamming on its rusted hinges against the cabin wall. A man’s form filled the doorway, tall, bulky, the candlelight flickering from inside his cabin. He stepped forward. His heavy black boots thumped on the wooden deck.

“Who is that?” Chase whispered.

The captain stepped closer, his movements unhindered by the swaying of the ship. He was a full head taller than Chase, wearing a heavy blue waistcoat more befitting of a pirate than a fisherman. Its brass buttons had tarnished to green and the fabric was stiff, its hem visibly crusted with layers of salt. His black woolen pants looked as if they’d been ripped and sewn together a hundred times before, tattooed with scars. One hand was missing, replaced with a fearsome-looking hook. The other hand was dark blue and shriveled like a corpse’s, with long bony fingers and disgusting dried nails.

“Oh man,” Chase murmured, taking a step back.

I hadn’t even taken a look at his face yet, and now that I finally got around to it, I couldn’t help but step back too. The captain’s face was a dead blue, just like his hand. One eye was hidden behind a leather eye patch. The other glowed eerily white. His cheeks were sunken, his nose long and sharp. A wild gray beard hung from his chin, filled with all sorts of things that shouldn’t be there: barnacles, seaweed, and—yup—even a little long-dead sea crab. One of its white claws was clutching the beard’s hairs. The beard was knotted and clumped into two ropy segments that descended over his chest like long, hairy tentacles.

He sniffed in through his rotten nose, smiling. “My ship!” he called out in a booming voice. “Thou mightest well be taken now for the sea-chariot of the sun!”

“Thou?” Chase whispered to me. “Alice, what’s happening?”

The captain’s head snapped to Chase, then me. He smiled, raking his bony hand through his graying wet hair. “At last,” he said in a gravelly, clipped voice, “the hero has come to visit.”

Chase looked at me. “Huh?”

My eyes widened. “Um …”

The captain tipped his head back, cackling madly. The shadowy crew joined in. When he stopped, they shut up just as quickly. He studied me with one eye. I swear that white eye was glowing brighter than the moon. It had bloodshot veins and was secreting pus, causing my stomach to lurch.

“Why are ye so surprised?” he asked. “Have ye not been skulking around my ship every night?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I was having a hard enough time hiding my terror—hiding my surprise was impossible.

The captain laughed again. His crew joined in. He silenced them by raising his hook in the air.

“Alice, what’s he talking about?” Chase asked. He was breathing heavily. When I didn’t respond, he turned back to the captain. “You need to release us. You’re breaking the law.”

The captain snorted, his white eye gleaming devilishly. I felt my heart sink in my chest. There seemed to be no pupil or iris … just a terrifying milky white orb that twitched in its socket. I watched incredulously as Chase took one step to the side, edging himself in front of me. I was the hero and even I wasn’t that brave, for crying out loud. I was just trying to keep my head straight and Chase was standing protectively in front of me, staring down this nightmarish beast of a captain. I couldn’t believe it.

The captain wasn’t quite so impressed. He reached out, grabbing Chase by his shirt and pulling him closer. The captain’s dry, pale lips cracked into a smile. “I have every intention of releasing ye, dear boy. Just as soon as ye summon the fish.”

Chase’s mouth opened. A look of terrified realization spread over his face.

The captain shook him violently. “Do ye take me for a fool? Do ye think I can’t smell the stink of the wish upon you?” He reached around Chase’s leg with his hook, lifting it up. Chase tried to hop back but the captain held him close. “Do ye think this is real, boy? This leg of yours? Do ye think the fish will let you keep it?”

“I … I made a wish,” Chase said, his mouth quivering.

“And the fish will take it back,” the captain snapped. “Whenever he feels like it. But I can help you, boy. Call for the fish! Call for him and I’ll kill him and you’ll keep your legs forever!”

“Chase,” I whispered.

“Call him, boy!”

Chase shook his head, looking down at the deck. “Fish,” he said in a low voice.

The captain shook him again. “Louder! Let the stars and heavens hear ye!”

“Fish!” Chase called out, shutting his eyes.

We stood by the railing, staring out at the empty lake. The Milwaukee skyline had disappeared over the horizon. We were alone on the black water. I had a sudden realization as my heart plunged into my stomach: I was afraid. I had no plan, no idea how to get us out of this. We were alone out on the water, and the inescapable knowledge of that made it hard to breathe.

“Chase, you don’t know what the fish really is,” I whispered.

The captain hooked the rope binding my wrists and drew me closer. I could see the dead crab hanging in his beard wiggle when his bony cheek twitched. His breath smelled something awful: cigarette butts mixed with barf. “I’ve waited a long time for this, lass. It was no coincidence that ye appeared on my ship. It was no coincidence that ye could be seen by my cursed crew.”

“Let my friend go,” I said, pulling on the rope binding my wrists. The captain didn’t budge—he was too strong.

“Once his part in this is done,” the captain said. “We all must play the role that’s been written for us, lass. The fish will come to your friend. Then I’ll catch it. Then you’ll help me kill it.”

“Then I’ll kill you,” I added, staring into his horrifying white eye.

The captain smiled crookedly, revealing rotted brown teeth. Some were missing. Others were cracked and jagged. He turned to his crew. “Ready the net! Unfurl t’gallant sails! Open-reef the top sails!”

The sailors ran between the masts, grabbing at ropes and tying them off. One of the sails was unfurled and the ship tilted toward the right. I clutched the railing, feeling my stomach churn.

“Call again,” the captain growled to Chase. “And this time split your lungs on blood and thunder, boy!”

“Fish!” Chase called out. “Fish, I command you!”

At first, there was nothing at all—just the sound of water splashing against the hull of the ship as she picked up speed. Then, something small broke the surface of the water far off the starboard bow.

“There!” Ishmael cried behind me. “Something in the water!”

“The fish,” Chase said. He sounded relieved. He turned to me, his eyes searching mine. “Alice, you don’t know. My legs ...”

“I understand, really. But Chase ...” My mind scrambled for a way to tell him, to explain the things he didn’t know. But there was no time.

The captain’s decayed hand came quick, too quick for me to block it. Worse, it wasn’t aimed at me at all, and when it connected with Chase’s head, he dropped to the deck like a sack of potatoes. Out cold.

“You didn’t have to do that!” I screamed.

The captain ignored me. He slammed his hook onto the bulwark railing, digging its point into the wood. “Come up on the fish and prepare the nets!” he called over his shoulder.

“Ay-ay, captain!” the sailor at the stern called out, turning the massive wooden wheel to the right. My feet danced on the deck as the ship tilted violently.

“Captain!” called out one of the shadowy men near the front of the ship. He was pointing to the water. The shape was closer now. And bigger.

“What’s this then?” the captain murmured, peering over the bulwark to get a better look.

A massive white body broke the surface, followed by the fat y-shaped tail. For a moment, the giant creature was in the air, showing us its belly. Then it came crashing down with such force that I could feel the deck shudder underneath my feet. Powerful waves hit the Leviathan’s starboard side, forcing her to roll left. Everyone lost their footing, sliding across the wet deck. I fell to my knees and threw one arm across Chase’s unconscious body. My right hand clutched the bulwark while the left clutched Chase. I felt every muscle in my arms and fingers strain under the weight but kept a strong grip until the ship righted itself.

The captain looked down at me, one eyebrow raised. “A fish, eh?”

“Captain?” Ishmael said, stumbling across the deck.

“Throw the boy in my cabin!” the captain ordered.

Ishmael gently pulled me to my feet and jerked his head for me to follow the captain while another sailor dragged Chase’s unconscious body toward the cabin. More of the sailors followed, skulking beside us, staring at the captain with a mixture of rapture and fear. Shadows clung to them like mud.

“I don’t understand what happened,” I said. “It was a fish. He could fit in a freaking soup bowl!”

The captain grunted, opening the cabin door and dragging Chase inside. “And ye call yerself a hero, eh?” He turned to me, his blue upper lip curled into a snarl. “Such a foolish lass. Do ye understand how yer so-called magic pen works, or do I have to explain that, too?”

“It was a fish.”

“Aye, and now it’s Corrupted.” Off the starboard side, a great spout of water erupted from the white whale’s blowhole. The ship was keeping up with it on a steady straight line. It refused to change course, as if it was daring the captain to try his luck. Its body was nearly as large as the Leviathan.

“The whale spouts thick blood,” Ishmael whispered.

The captain turned back to me. “Have ye not seen one turn Corrupted yet, dear hero?” When I didn’t answer, he laughed. “Oh, sweet little girl, did ye think we all slowly rot?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Might be it happened in an instant. Sometimes, it does. For those like me it happened real slow-like, taking us over like gangrene. I watched it happen to my wife, so fast I could barely say goodbye to her. She turned into a monster, one so terrifying that it was only a matter of days before a hero arrived, slaying her while I watched from a distance like a frightened dog.

“Then I felt the Corruption begin to turn me as well. I grew more obsessed with the fish. My hatred began to consume me.” His putrid-looking hand curled into a fist. “I thirsted for salt water—it seemed to run through my veins. I fished for every creature under the sea, desperate in my search. Every time the trail went cold over the years, I felt a piece of the good old honest fisherman die.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. For a moment, just a moment, the hard lines on the captain’s ghoulish face seemed to soften. He turned starboard, watching the whale swim alongside the ship. His face hardened again.

“For some,” he continued, “the Corruption takes them quick. The poor miller might go to bed thinking about nothing but his beautiful children … and wake up with a thirst for blood in his gullet.” He spat a yellowish wad of saliva on the deck. “That’s for the Brothers Grimm.” He spat again. “And that’s for the hero who killed my wife.”

“What of the coin, captain?” Ishmael asked.

The captain reached up and plucked the gold coin from its place above the door, showing it to the gathered sailors. Even those who were still working the sails and the ropes around the masts stopped to look.

“In this vale of Death,” the captain said, “we see nary but gloom … but the sun of Righteousness shines like a beacon of hope. We can narrow our eyes, searching the dark vale in hopes that we might see light, and snatch some sweet solace from it. But here on these waters we gaze for light in vain!” He put the coin in the pocket of his waistcoat. “The coin is mine. As are you all. Now get all my sails tied down so we can keep up with this hellion!”

The sailors dispersed. A cold hand landed on my shoulder. I turned and saw Ishmael’s solemn face. He didn’t want to do any of this. Whatever curse was infecting the other sailors, the shadows had yet to slip in between his bones. There was still something human about him.

“Captain Ahab,” he said quietly. “Would it not benefit us to let the hero kill the whale?”

The captain raised one thin eyebrow. Ahab? He’d taken that name on purpose, I bet.

“The fish is mine,” Ahab growled. “I’ve not come all this way to let the hero have the glory. I want my revenge. I’ve killed enough creatures in the seven seas to earn this.”

“You haven’t earned anything,” I told him angrily. “You don’t earn anything when you senselessly kill defenseless creatures.”

The captain cocked his head. “A tongue on this hero, I see. But thou understands me not. My hatred for this fish has driven me since the day he took away my wishes. Since then, I’ve killed fish out of pure hatred. I’ve killed whales because they remind me of the fish. I’ve torn apart jellyfish simply to pass the time at sea. That this one fish has lurked beneath my feet for so long infuriates me to no end. I want revenge on him and all the rest, for they are all my enemies.”

“I’ll stop you.”

He smiled. The wind blew his ghoulish gray hair out of place. “So ye say. I ask ye, hero: do ye want the boy in my cabin to die?”

“No,” I choked out.

“Then you’ll craft for me three barbs. “You’ll make them to my specifications. Understand, girl? I want something that will stick in the whale like his own fin-bone. Can ye do that, dear hero?”

“If you show me,” I said.

The captain smiled. His bony hand touched my shoulder, guiding me to the hatch. We went down into the bowels of the ship, through the slimy hold that smelled like dead fish, past the butcher’s block where in my dream a sailor had been gutting a whale. Now that whale’s blubber was lighting the lanterns that swung from their nails on the wooden support beams. At the far end of the ship was the iron furnace, lit and burning hot. A blacksmith covered in soot stood beside a barrel of water and an iron anvil next to the furnace.

He clutched his hammer, watching us approach. I walked carefully in my magic boots, not willing to tip my hand just yet.

“Give me twelve steel rods,” Ahab ordered. “Pick the strongest you have.”

The blacksmith nodded, setting his hammer on the anvil. The ship rocked gently to the right as it changed course slightly. Why wasn’t the whale trying to escape? I wondered.

From under the worktable the blacksmith produced twelve thin rods that were each slightly taller than me. The blacksmith was wearing a black rubber apron, his face caked with dirt. He had a bushy mustache and terrified, bright white eyes. Almost human. Was he the most recent cursed sailor to join the captain’s crew?

“Shall I twist the rods?” he asked.

“Nay,” said Ahab with a snarl. “I’ll do it myself! And when I’m done I’ll curse the steel while the hero crafts my barbs. Show her what I want.”

The blacksmith reached under the table, producing a terrifying-looking barb. It was jagged, like a fish hook, cold and heavy in my hands. I coughed away the smoke from the furnace.

“Well?” Ahab asked. “Can ye make it or not, hero?”

I nodded, holding up my bound wrists. Ahab grabbed the barb from my hand and in one swift motion cut through the rope. He turned and threw all twelve of the rods into the little furnace. I looked at Ishmael, who was standing beside the nearest lantern as if afraid to step into any of the shadows.

I didn’t blame him.

I walked over to the anvil and pulled the fountain pen from my purse. I uncapped it and drew three barbs, pulling each one from the anvil’s surface when it was complete. The blacksmith watched nervously, stepping away from the hot fires of the furnace and wiping sweat from his face.

“You Corrupted sure do enjoy your dark, cramped quarters,” I muttered.

The captain ignored me, pulling the red-hot steel rods from the furnace and setting them on the wooden workbench. He banged them together with a massive hammer that rang in my ears, then began twisting the hot steel, using his hook to hold them down. When his bare skin touched the hot steel rods, a sickening hissing sound filled the room. Then I smelled it. I nearly puked. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, watching him work. It took only a few minutes, an inhuman amount of time to twist the rods together into one long, reinforced spear. All it needed was the pointy part.

“The barbs,” he ordered, holding out his burned palm. I grabbed the barbs, flipping them around so the sharp end was aimed at his soft blue skin. His hand drew back. He cackled. “Careful now, hero.”

I flipped the barbs over. He grabbed them and immediately his hand began to burn. He quickly placed them on the tip of the spear between the twisted metal rods and set the spear on the table, hammering the barbs into place.

He held up his spear. It was the perfect weapon for a Corrupted: only the sharp tip had been made with my magic pen. As long as the captain clutched the base of his spear, it wouldn’t burn him.

“Who will give me their blood to temper this?” he asked.

Ishmael and the blacksmith remained silent. Ahab laughed and looked at me. “How about you, little hero?”

“Don’t even try it,” I snapped.

“Then the glory is mine,” he said, cutting the skin on his arm with one yellow fingernail. A few drops of dark blood streamed out, landing on the razor-sharp barbs.

“Gawd, you are so melodramatic,” I said.

Ahab glared at me, then pointed to the ladder under the hatch. “Up ye go, lass. It’s time to see just how good yer drawing skills are.”

I walked with Ishmael, praying that the captain wouldn’t stab me with his spear just yet. All I needed was one chance. One chance to draw a weapon of my own and level the playing field.

All of a sudden, the ship seemed to slow. The lanterns stopped swinging. Ishmael looked to his right, as if he’d seen something in the shadows. Then, suddenly, the hull of the ship groaned and the boat lurched violently, knocking us all off our feet. Water leaked in slowly between cracked boards.

“Patch her up!” Ahab shouted to the blacksmith. He pointed his spear. “Up! Up! The whale calls me into battle! I can hear its song in my ears and taste its blood on my tongue!”

“That’s probably your blood,” I muttered, hurrying up the ladder. The jolt had caused my teeth to clatter together and my body was still shaking. The whale was strong and the Leviathan … well, she wasn’t exactly in the prettiest shape. A few more hits like that and we’d all be swimming home.

On deck, the sailors were hurrying from mast to mast. The wooden boards were wet. Ropes were being hurriedly tied down. The foremast had a long, diagonal crack along its surface and the sails were flapping in the wind, their ropes either ripped apart or torn loose by the impact.

One of the men had lit a lantern, shining it on the black water to better see the giant whale. The other shadowy sailors cowered on the port side of the boat, at least temporarily fearing the whale more than their captain. Ahab reached out and grabbed the lantern from the sailor’s shaking hand, then turned and began to advance upon his terrified crew. “Listen to me!” he called out. “You are bound to me! Until this infernal creature is dead, you are my wards in body and soul, lungs and life! The curse which carries us is also our finest weapon, for we are immortal! So with this flame I extinguish the last vestige of your humanity. Give yourself to my cause, and help me slay this beast once and for all!”

He blew out the lantern’s flame. The shoulders of the shadowy sailors seemed to slump a bit more, as if a heavy weight had landed on their backs. The terror slipped out of their faces, replaced by … nothing. With blank expressions, they returned to readying the nets.

“She’s coming again!” someone cried out. Ahab ran to the starboard bulwark, digging his hook into the railing just as the whale crashed into the ship again. I landed on the deck with a thud, feeling my palms scrape on the rotten wet wood.

“Get her into my cabin!” the captain ordered. He glared at me. “Pray this spear ends this once and for all, lass. Or we die tonight.”

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” I muttered.

He grunted. “Might be. Or maybe I’ll let the curse take you instead. We could use a good deck scrubber.”

Ishmael led me to the cabin, tying up my hands behind my back with a fresh piece of rope and throwing me into the captain’s cabin. “I’m sorry,” he said before shutting the door.

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, kneeling in front of Chase’s unconscious body and checking him for wounds. He looked OK—just unconscious. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing under the circumstances.

I looked around. It was dark, but with the full moon shining in through the rear windows, my eyes adjusted enough to make out more than shadows. The captain’s cabin was spacious, filled with all sorts of trinkets no doubt collected over the past 200 or so years. On his desk were statues of horses and warriors and gods and goddesses, each one intricately carved out of wood or ivory, most lying on their sides. On the wooden walls were paintings; two stuffed lions guarded opposite corners of the room, and a grandfather clock with a massive face and silver hands in the third corner, nailed down at its base. There was a chest beside the old desk, lined with brass trim, and another much bigger one made of older, rotted wood sitting next to me by door.

Nothing sharp. Nothing to cut this rope binding my wrists behind my back. I paced, searching for something, anything that I could use to get out of this. “Come on!” I shouted, stamping my foot on the old faded Turkish rug covering the floor.

“Ahem.”

I turned back to the door. Chase was still out cold, lying on the floor.

“Ahem!”

My heart nearly jumped through my ribcage. I hurried over to the old rotting wooden chest, nearly falling as the ship rocked again. I turned, fumbling blindly with the brass latch.

The top flew open. Briar popped up, smoothing out his vest. “I do say! A more uncomfortable experience I cannot imagine. Although there was that time in Egypt when I was chased on a camel …”

“Briar! I’ve never been so happy to see a giant rabbit untie me so I can hug you!” I shouted.

The rabbit glanced at the door. “Er … we should probably be quiet. I’m not sure how much you know about this ship, but those sailors aren’t exactly from Her Majesty’s Naval Force.”

I turned around. “Just untie me already.”

“Right-o.”

I felt the rope loosen. I threw it aside and spun around, hugging Briar. “How did you get aboard? How did you end up in here?”

“Dear hero!” he said in an offended tone. “I’m a trickster. You think this is the first ship I’ve snuck aboard? No. Really, the most difficult part was following Chase around. After receiving your email, I tailed him—pardon the pun—to the docks, and assumed it would only be a matter of time before the hero showed up. I didn’t expect a ship full of crazies, though.”

I squeezed his soft shoulders. “I’m sorry. For everything.”

His furry ears perked up. “If you would have just let me speak and listened to me, I could have told you …”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“But it does,” Briar said. His paws found his vest again, nervously smoothing out the wrinkles. “You see, this particular fish has crossed paths with a hero before. He granted a hero’s wish to no longer be the hero. But you see, in granting the wish … well, that is to say, being the hero doesn’t simply pass from one person to the other. Not until the current hero is dead.”

The breath in my lungs escaped in one fast whoosh. “You mean …”

“I mean that in granting the hero’s wish, the magic fish simply ensured that an unfortunate accident occurred. Killing the hero thus ensured that he was, technically speaking, no longer the hero.”

“I would have died.”

Briar nodded. The boat rocked violently again. What few statues on the captain’s desk that hadn’t already been knocked over now came crashing to the ground. I tripped over Chase, nearly landing on top of him. Briar fell beside me, one ear flopping over onto my head. “Not to hammer the point home by any means,” he said, “but when you tell me to stop talking, I really must obey. No matter how dire the circumstances.”

My mind was already elsewhere. “If the last hero’s wish had a catch, then Chase’s wishes probably did, too. And now that the fish has become Corrupted ...” I thought back to the times his legs had given out from under him. Chase’s wishes were like a skinned apple: slowly rotting. “He needs to be stopped before the wishes he granted Chase turn Corrupted, too. We need to kill that fish.”

“Whale,” Briar corrected.

“Whatever!” I bent down, tearing away the colorful Turkish rug so I had a smooth drawing surface. “Quick! Grab those two harpoons hanging on the wall.”

“Ah! A plan.” The rabbit hopped to the other side of the room behind the captain’s old desk, pulling the long harpoons off the hooks holding them up on the wall. They were old, made of wood, and the sharp barbs at the tip were tied to the spear handle with hemp.

Perfect.

“I do hope one of these is for the captain,” Briar murmured, untying the hemp. He pulled the jagged barb out from the groove at the tip of the spear, handing it to me. “I have to say, I can’t quite stand his peculiar dialect. Thou and ye and the such can be quite confusing.”

“Tell me about it. We’ll deal with the captain after we get the fish,” I said, studying the barb closely. I would need to get the base’s dimensions perfect so it could fit snugly into the groove of the wooden shaft. I drew it once, then twice, then a third time, adjusting the shape each time and pulling my creation out of the floor to study it more closely.

“Got it,” I said, fitting the third hero-ready barb into the groove. I wound the hemp around it, securing it in place with a good old-fashioned shoe knot.

“We should hurry,” Briar said, clicking his tongue.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “I never thought I’d be happy to hear your nervous ticks.” I untied the second spear tip, replacing it with another hero-ready barb. “I’m glad you came back.”

“I never left, dear hero.” His mouth cracked into his goofy rabbit smile. “Well, I did spend a few days stuck in the downtown library’s massive newspaper archives. My invisibility was on the fritz, no doubt because I was upset, and so it was impossible to escape because they locked up at night …”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m just glad to see you, friend.”

His whiskers twitched. “Me too. I take it a little fisticuffs are in order?”

“No.” I grabbed one of the coils of heavy rope sitting next to the door. The captain had no shortage of ropes, all of them stacked beside the old wooden chest next to the door. “They were human, Briar. They might still be, to some extent. Everyone on the ship but the captain.”

“Human!” A paw went to his mouth. One eye narrowed. “But that must mean … that must mean the captain used some kind of spell on them. The captain in the story was no wizard. He must have had help, just like that wretched mistress at the orphanage. Oh dear. Alice, I do fear all of this is connected.”

“We can’t worry about that right now. We need to save these sailors.” I opened the door a crack, peering onto the deck, then tied two coils of rope together with a zeppelin bend, just like Ishmael had taught me in my dreams.

“This is connected with the Order of the Dragon,” Briar said, hopping beside me. “I’m sure of it! And if there’s magic involved, then there is a mage. A wizard, that is. We must be careful.”

“We’ll be more than careful, pal.”

He tugged on my shirt. “Er, what are you going to do?”

I turned to him, smiling. “I’m going to tie a rolling hitch.”

Briar gasped as I ran onto the deck. I sprinted quickly between the shadowy sailors. My boots did their ridiculously weird trick, letting me cover twice the distance with each step. The shadowy sailors stopped their work with the sails and came at me. But they couldn’t follow, couldn’t spin quickly enough as I ran around them, wrapping each one in the rope.

“Get her!” cried one. More of the sailors pulled away from their stations around the two tall masts, sending the sails flapping wildly. The boat slowed while I sped up, moving between the sailors, dodging their wild punches by shifting my weight as I moved, just like Briar had trained me. The rope wrapped around each of their bodies, tightening when I reached my next victim.

“Stop her!” Ishmael called out. He was standing beside the foremast, clutching a heavy rope in both hands, unwilling to release it.

I gave the rope a strong pull, tugging them toward one of the loose sail sheets hanging near the center mast. “Come on!” I said, pulling the tangled sailors closer. They obliged, if only to try and get closer and attack me. Some fell, tripping on the rope. I held it tight, tying it to the sheet using a rolling hitch. It immediately grew tighter when the sailors began struggling.

What I ended up with was an impressive length of struggling sausage links.

“Let’s go!” I shouted to Briar, hurrying to the rowboat lashed to the starboard side of the ship. “No time to gawk at my impressive knot skills!”

“I’m more worried about what they’ll do when they untie themselves,” Briar said, hopping over the nearest one.

The sailors would free themselves in time, but I doubted they would bring the ship any closer to the whale. It was more than a hundred yards away, splashing madly along the surface of the water. The captain was already headed toward it in the other rowboat, as I’d expected. He had two cursed sailors rowing for him. They’d already put two spears into the whale, the ropes tied to the fore of boat. But not the spear I’d helped Ahab build. He had that one in his hand, held high in the air as his sailors rowed closer to the whale while it circled the little boat, an anxious spray of water erupting from the blowhole.

I grabbed the spears from the captain’s cabin, then followed Briar to the second boat hanging from the starboard side. My fingers began immediately untying the hitch. To our left, Ishmael finally released the rope he was clutching, sending a massive block of wood from the mast crashing down.

“No!” he called out. “You can’t!”

Briar hopped into the boat. I followed, setting the spears under the bench with the tips carefully pointed away from my furry friend. “You can’t stop us, Ishmael.”

“But I have to,” he said, grabbing the ropes that kept the boat tied down. They were run through a winch that was currently locked, although a good kick right to the handle would probably do away with that problem. The boat would crash into the water below and our butts would be sore, but there was no way Ishmael was stopping us now.

“You can fight this,” I said. “You’re not like the other sailors. Not yet.”

He shook his head. His wet hair whipped against his face as the wind picked up. Behind him, the loose sails fluttered. Both masts were cracked, ready to break away if the whale chose to flee the captain and give the ship one more bump.

“Ptoo,” Briar spat. “My mouth was open … I do believe I swallowed some of your hair water!”

“The curse controls me,” Ishmael said. “I cannot let go.”

“But if you let go, I’ll most surely die,” I said. “I’m just a wee lass after all, right? What hope do I have against a terrible white whale?”

Ishmael’s grip loosened. “But … I don’t want you to die. The curse wants you to die.”

“Obey your master,” I said. “Let go. It’s the surest way to guarantee I don’t live. And that’s what your captain wants, right?” I held up my hand. Shadows danced over my skin. “I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to, could I?”

“No.” Ishmael sighed, releasing his grip. “The curse has infected you.”

“Alice!” Briar exclaimed. He held out a paw, tracing the path of the shadow as it slithered across my arm. “Black magic,” he whispered.

“Lower us,” I ordered Ishmael.

Ishmael stepped beside the winch, grabbing the iron crank. He lowered the boat a foot, then stopped. “I do hope you survive.”

I smiled. “So do I.”

The boat slowly dropped into the water. We untied the knots and tossed aside the heavy strips of rope; they swung against the hull of the ship, hitting it with a wet crack. Briar grabbed the oars awkwardly with his paws, rowing toward the massive whale that was thrashing near the captain’s boat, pushing him left and right while his shadowy crew attempted to maintain control.

Holy crud, the whale was huge. Every time it thrashed in the water, it sent rolling waves that slipped under our boat and threatened to capsize it. We were still a good fifty yards away when Ahab stood in his boat, raising his terrifying spear. This was it. I knew. I totally knew even before he threw the spear that it wasn’t going to be enough to kill the whale … just make it angrier than ever.

The whale’s giant tail breached the surface, then slapped the water. Ahab threw the spear. Rope trailed behind, flapping wildly. The spear landed in the whale’s thick white hide. A burning blackness opened up around the spear.

It spread slowly. Very, very slowly.

“Get us closer!” I ordered Briar, reaching down for the harpoons. We had one spare rope attached to an anchor. I untied it, then tossed the anchor overboard and tied the rope to the blunt end of the harpoon, where some ancient whale hunter had at some point drilled a hole into the wood.

The whale splashed along the surface, sending more waves rolling across the surface of the water. Its tail came down next to Ahab’s boat, and his crew frantically paddled with their oars to keep themselves out of the way of the destruction.

“Why is the creature not trying to escape?” Briar called out.

“I don’t know,” I said, pulling my hair out of my face. “Maybe it knows the captain won’t stop until he’s dead.”

“What are you doing?” Briar asked, turning his head and watching me tie the other end of the rope to a hitch at the front of the boat. He had his back to me so he could paddle in the direction of the whale.

“It’s complicated,” I answered. “Just … try not to worry!”

“Oh, like that’s going to happen,” the rabbit muttered.

Ahead of us, the whale thrashed around again, surfacing and clearing water from the blowhole. Its white skin had begun to change color: it was grayer now, and long black lines had begun to appear across its slick surface. It looked as if it was breaking apart.

“What’s happening?” I asked Briar.

“It’s the Corruption!” Briar called out as the whale breached the surface again, landing just a few feet away from Ahab’s boat. The boat rocked and nearly capsized in the resulting waves, sending both sailors scrambling to one side to keep it balanced. “The creature is still changing!”

“Changing into what?” I asked.

The waves reached us, splashing against the boat. Briar spit out water and shook his head. “No way to say! Most likely something bigger and meaner!”

“How?”

“It’s complicated!” he answered. “Just try not to worry!”

The whale slipped underneath the water, but before it did I could see the spear sticking in its back. The burning blackness had only spread a bit, barely visible. It would need more. A lot more.

“What’s happening?” Briar asked over his shoulder. “Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know.” I narrowed my eyes. We were only twenty yards away from the captain and his boat now. He didn’t acknowledge me; he was more interested in searching the water for his prey. More and more rope was slipping out of his boat and into the water. Wherever the whale had gone, it wasn’t far. The ropes attached to the boat were still slack.

“I have a bad feeling,” Briar said.

“Yeah.” I clutched the first spear. “Me too.”

Suddenly, the rope at the bow of the captain’s boat went taut. His boat lurched forward, nearly knocking him over. It began to move through the water, pulled downward by the whale far below. “Hold her steady!” Ahab ordered his shadowy crew. “Steady, now! It’ll surface. And when it does, I’ll tear my spear from its back and stab it through the heart!”

“Briar, stop,” I ordered. “Back us up just a bit. Holy crud, back us up quick!”

I heard the oars splash in the water. I felt us move backward a few feet. Deep down in the dark water just ahead, I could see the faint glowing form of the whale. The glowing shape was growing bigger and bigger. My heart began racing.

“Faster, Briar!”

“I’m trying!” he called out. “These oars aren’t designed for paws, you know!”

The glowing figure swam closer to the surface. I could see its tail moving up and down furiously. I dropped my harpoon, clutching the side of the boat. “Hold on to something, Briar!”

The whale breached the surface directly in front of us, arcing its back. It seemed to hang there in the sky, cresting in slow-motion, the harpoon firmly lodged between two ribs.

Its shadow seemed to loom over the captain’s boat. His crewmen tossed the oars, diving into the water. Ahab stood at the stern, staring up at the massive creature and baring his rotten teeth. The whale’s body choked off the moonlight, casting Ahab in a dark shadow. When it landed, Ahab disappeared. The boat disappeared. The creature’s body sent up massive waves of water littered with the splintered remains of the boat. The two shadowy sailors swam past us, obviously not all that interested in searching for their captain.

“The whale is getting bigger,” I whispered.

“Say what?” Briar asked. “What’s happening? Should I row?”

I reached down, grabbing the spear. “No. Not yet.”

The waves settled. After a moment, a body came splashing up. It was Ahab! He thrashed in the water, waving his arms in the air. “Save me!” he shouted to us. “Don’t let it get me! Don’t let it take me!”

But it was too late. Beneath him, I could see the soft glow of the whale as it surged to the surface once more with its mouth opened wide. It swallowed Ahab whole as it breached the surface once again. I held my breath and threw the harpoon as hard as I could. The barbed tip caught in the whale’s side and a burning blackness consumed the area around the harpoon. It was burning away quicker now.

But not quick enough.

“Get ready,” I said to Briar as the whale’s body hit the water again. “Hang on to something!”

Briar let go of the oars. “I do believe I’ll sit the rest of this one out,” he said, ducking underneath the bench and clutching it tightly with both arms.

I groaned, watching the line of coiled rope slip out of the boat and into the water. Attached to one end of the rope was the harpoon. Attached to the other end was our boat. A terrible sinking feeling told me maybe I should have thought about coming up with a better plan. “Boy, I wish I could join you under there,” I told him.

Briar’s whiskers twitched. “That is not your destiny, friend.”

He was right. My destiny was resting on the bench beside me: the second harpoon. And as the rope grew taut and the boat dipped down, creaking and groaning under the pressure, I felt a strange calm rush over me, steeling my nerves. This spear would do it. All I needed was a true shot. All I needed was to take the offensive, just like Chase had taught me.

“Oh dear,” Briar said with a burp. “I do believe I’m growing seasick.”

The boat surged through the water, cutting massive waves in its wake. It tipped to the starboard side as the whale tried diving deeper, nearly capsizing us. I clutched the port side of the boat, using my arm to wipe the water away from my eyes.

“We’re going to tip!” Briar said.

“I know!”

“What are we going to do!”

“Jump!” I ordered.

We jumped into the cold water. My clothes soaked through, weighing me down. I splashed with my free hand, keeping the spear clutched tightly with the other. The weight of the magic boots plunged me down and I inhaled at the wrong time, taking a good snort of water up through my nostrils. I coughed, kicking violently with my feet while clutching the harpoon with both hands. It was no use. It was either the harpoon or the boots. I pressed the toe of my right boot against the heel of my left, pulling it off and taking my sock with. I kicked away the other boot. With my feet free, treading water became infinitely easier.

Briar emerged beside me, spitting out water between his front teeth in a long stream. “What the devil do we do now?”

“Stay near the boat,” I said, kicking away from him. My eyes scanned the water, searching for that familiar soft glow far underneath the surface that would tell me exactly where the whale was. I spotted it … coming right toward me.

“What are you planning to do?” Briar asked as he crawled on top of the capsized boat. He shook his fur.

“I have a really, really bad idea!” The strain in my legs grew and I felt myself dip into the water. My mouth opened and water flooded in. I kicked harder pull myself back up, searching the water again. The massive glowing form of the whale was almost directly below me now. It wasn’t changing course.

It was going to swallow me too.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. I swallowed, fighting the urge to look down into the black water. It was coming. I could feel it swimming beneath me, churning the water. My heart raced. Here it comes, I thought, kicking the water to keep myself floating. I flipped the harpoon, dipping the barbed tip into the water. My hands clutched the slippery wood.

Suddenly, the water all around me seemed to sink, like I was caught in some kind of whirlpool. I saw the massive mouth emerge from the water all around me, so close that I could see the lightning-like Corruption lines around its mouth fighting against the burning blackness that was still slowly spreading. I took a last, desperate gulp of air.

And then darkness consumed me.

Time slowed down. I slipped down the whale’s slimy gullet, my toenails scraping against its tongue. I could feel the heat of the creature, and when it groaned I could feel the vibration inside its throat. I lifted the spear and held it out, running it along the soft fleshy walls. My breath held in my mouth. My eyes remained glued shut.

The whale groaned again. I felt its body begin to thrash. Through closed eyelids I could see a dull flickering light from the whale burning around me. I could hear the magic barb of the harpoon as it tore and scraped its way through the creature’s insides.

I heard something else, too. A song. The words were soft but they were there, tickling my eardrums:

Laid them beneath the Juniper Tree …

That music … I’d heard it once before, back when I’d first found the magic fish. I’d passed it off as something in my head but now, here, it sounded so much louder.

I landed in the stomach. My lungs desperately wanted to breathe. My throat convulsed. I swept the spear across the soft flesh and the stomach seemed to melt away.

I heard the music again, louder this time:

My mother, she killed me …

My hand brushed against something hard and I reached out instinctively, my imagination expecting it to be the captain’s hook. My eyes opened. The burning blackness was spreading quickly now, and in the soft red light I could see the insides of the whale. I could see the object in my hand and knew immediately what it was.

The Juniper seed. It had been inside the fish all along. That’s why the stepmother had always heard the music everywhere she dug.

I stuffed it in my pocket and traveled deeper inside the beast, more of its insides burning away as my magic barb tore through its slimy entrails. Where was the captain? Had the stomach acid killed him? Was it possible? Would it have done the same to me had I not snuck in a contraband harpoon?

There was no time to think about it. The burning blackness was spreading faster than my harpoon could cut. I had to be near the tail now—nowhere to go but out, and I’d rather make my own exit than use the one provided to me by the whale’s digestive system! I was growing dizzy. The stale air felt like fire in my lungs, and I silently begged them to hold out for just one more moment. I reached out with the harpoon, weakly stabbing at the surrounding flesh in hope of a way out.

The pressure changed. I closed my eyes. Cold water crashed in all around me, forcing the harpoon out of my hands.

I kicked my way to the surface, emerging just in time to take the biggest, sweetest breath of my entire life. Briar was sitting on the capsized boat, shivering as his soaking wet vest and pants clung to his fur.

“That was incredibly … daring,” he said. “Downright heroic.”

I grabbed the boat, holding myself up and giving the muscles in my sore legs a much-needed reprieve. “I’m a heroic type of gal, I guess.”

“Look.” He pointed over my shoulder. I turned—the ship was approaching us, cutting slowly through the water with only a single sail catching wind. Ishmael was standing at the starboard bulwark, staring at us.

Smiling.

The shadows on his face were gone.

Chapter 8

It took a full hour to get back to Milwaukee’s docks. Two of the sails had been damaged when the whale crashed into the ship. The hull had sprung more than a few leaks, too. As for the crew? Well, they were about as happy as a bunch of formerly cursed sailors could get. I was pretty happy, too, after watching the shadows slip from my own skin.

“We’ll fix the ship well enough,” Ishmael said cheerfully, helping me carry Chase onto the pier. Chase was coming to slowly, groaning about the magic fish.

“What will you do?” I asked.

Ishmael shrugged. His fingers found the deep lines on his face. “It’s been years. Most of us are from the east coast, so we’ll start there. Try to piece together what we can of our lives. No more fishing. We’ve done enough damage.” He sighed. “We’re all just so glad to be free.”

“Good luck,” I told him, giving his calloused hand a firm shake. When he pulled his hand away, there was something in my hand: a gold coin.

“How?” I asked, staring at the golden dragon etching.

“I lifted it from the captain’s pocket,” Ishmael said. He shrugged, smiling. Now I realized why he had such pronounced wrinkles around his mouth—his natural “curse-free” smile fit his face perfectly. “It’s the captain’s own fault for being so preoccupied with the fish.”

“Whale.”

“Whatever.” He returned to the ship, giving me one more nod as the sailors—now quite normal looking—pulled the plank away from the pier.

“All hands!” Ishmael called out. “Blood and thunder, boys!”

I watched the ship slowly pull out of the harbor. The sailors ran with purpose across the deck, throwing ropes and setting as many sails as the damaged masts would allow.

Briar reappeared beside Chase.

“Do you think the captain is dead?” I asked.

The rabbit tapped his head with his paw, one eye narrowed as he scanned the surface of Lake Michigan. “Strangely enough, it would appear that way, although it’s extremely rare for a Corrupted to kill another Corrupted, given their, um, unique qualities. Extremely rare. Unless, of course, it was written in the Grimms’ story.”

“The curse is gone, too,” I said. “You know what? Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. We have more pressing matters.”

“What do we do now?”

“His parents will need to get his car some other time.” I leaned over, wiping Chase’s sweaty hair away from his face. “He’s … this isn’t going to be easy.”

“And what about the seed?” Briar asked.

My hand instinctively went to my pocket. The moment my fingers touched the seed, I could hear the same song again. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe the stepmother found the magic fish in an underground waterway, and that was why she thought the seed would be underground, too.”

“A reasonable deduction,” Briar said proudly. “Hold on to it. My intuition tells me it has some important part to play yet.”

I rolled my eyes. “Rabbit sense tingling. Got it.”

We went to Chase’s car and used his phone to call Seth.

“You know,” Briar said, “if you had a driver’s license, you could drive us.”

“I’ll file that away,” I murmured, putting Chase’s phone in my pocket.

When Seth arrived, he helped us get Chase into the backseat of his car. I let invisible Briar take the front seat, buckling Chase in and clutching his cool hand. He was wide awake now, not saying anything, staring at the back of Seth’s seat.

“Do I … ah, even want to know what happened?” Seth asked. He made a U-turn, heading away from the port and toward downtown Milwaukee.

“No,” I said. “At least, not yet. Let’s just get Chase home.” I squeezed his hand. “Chase? Chase, are you there?”

He swallowed. His eyes lowered. He took a deep breath.

“Does anyone need a sports drink?” Seth asked. He reached over, near invisible Briar’s feet. “I don’t know what kind you guys like, so I bought a couple different ones. I prefer the purple myself.”

He handed me a bottle of the lemon-lime stuff. I took it and mumbled a “thanks” before downing half the bottle. It was perfect. Nothing better than a little electrolyte replenishment following a battle with a Corrupted whale.

“Chase?” Seth asked. “I got a few more.”

“I don’t know,” Chase whispered.

“Suit yourself.” Seth sped up as we hit the freeway, heading back toward our suburb. “So what was it? Giant monster? Big bad wolf? Demon prince?”

“Ixnay,” I said, running my hand across my throat. Zip it, Seth.

“Oh. Got it. I just figured … you know.”

I took one more look at Chase, then closed my eyes and rested my head against the window. My hand went to my pocket, checking for the fountain pen and finding something else as well.

The coin. I pulled it out, staring at the terrifying creature taking up most of its surface. Definitely a little more imposing than, say, George Washington’s head on a quarter. What was the Order of the Golden Dragon?

“Um …”

There had to be a connection. The orphanage, the fish, the captain …

“Hey, Alice …”

I put the coin back in my pocket. “I’m sorry, what?”

Seth glanced in the rear-view mirror, then took the exit for Mooreland Road. “OK. Not to sound like a total lunatic or anything … but I’m pretty sure the same car has been following us since we got on the freeway.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s been changing lanes every time I do. It just got off the freeway with us.”

“Go around the next block,” I said. Seth put on his blinker, then turned right just past the neighborhood pizza place that my parents loved so much. “Now make a left,” I said.

He turned left at the next street. We passed a bunch of small houses. I knew where we were. We could double around the next two blocks with ease and not have to worry about any of the dead end cul-de-sacs.

“My house is over here,” Chase murmured. “It’s another ten blocks away.”

“Make a right,” I ordered.

We turned right. The music on Seth’s radio went in and out, like we were traveling through a valley. The streetlights were out and the car’s headlights only cut through the darkness right in front of us, illuminating the old yellow lines on the street. Seth was breathing quickly, eyes wide and searching the darkness beyond the headlights.

“Well?”

His eyes glanced at the mirror again. “Still following. Crap, dudes. Crap.”

“OK.” I reached into my pocket, grabbing the fountain pen. We passed an alley and something caught my eye—multiple somethings. Garbage cans. Big, green ones full of garbage. Tomorrow was garbage day, so they were all rolled out next to each garage.

Perfect.

“Pull into the alley at the next street,” I said. “Speed up, then stop long enough for me to get out. Text me Chase’s address once you get there.” I glanced at Chase. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell slowly. “Try to get him inside if you can.”

“What are you going to do?” Seth asked nervously.

“I’m going to create a diversion,” I said. “Go! Now!”

Seth sped up to the next block, slowing quickly at the alley and turning into it. He sped up, then stopped. I opened the car door, jumping out and slamming it shut. He sped up, reaching the other end of the alley just as the mysterious car turned, its headlights burning my eyes. I rushed to the nearest garbage can, pulling it and throwing it in front of the car. It crushed the can, then its tires began squealing as the can got caught underneath the front bumper.

I stepped back, ready to bolt through the nearest yard. The car’s windows were tinted black but there was no glow inside, no glowing trail behind the car.

Whoever was inside was human.

“Who are you!” I demanded.

The window rolled down, revealing a man with a pale face and a heavy black hood hanging over his head. Around each of his eyes was black paint. Around his neck was a pendant. I didn’t need to read the Latin words to know what it said. The picture of the dragon was a dead giveaway.

He lifted one hand, then slipped on a steel weapon that fit over his hand. His fingers clutched the handle. Four sharp steel claws jutted out over his knuckles.

“Right,” I said. “Well, good luck with that!”

I turned, cutting through the nearest yard. I heard the car’s tires squeal and the crunch of the garbage can underneath the car, but by the time their car screeched out of the alley, I was already through the yard on the next block. I looked both ways, then ran another block and made a left, doubling back and slipping into the alley. The car was gone.

Chase’s phone buzzed. I ducked behind a garage and pulled it from my pocket. My heart sped up as I read it:

2244 E ESTES ST. COME QUICK CHASE IS FREAKING.

“Crud,” I hissed, checking the street before breaking into a run. I found Estes Street and turned right. My breaths caught in my chest and my lungs burned. My already sore legs screamed for rest. Tears welled up in my eyes. I pushed everything back, forcing my legs across the street and searching desperately in the darkness. The streetlights on this block were out, too, as if the entire neighborhood was trying to hide. Where was Seth’s car? Where?

There, up ahead! Seth’s awful parallel parking was recognizable even with the street lights out. I slowed and squinted in the darkness to read the addresses on the little two-story houses, hoping Seth wasn’t foolish enough to park right in front of 2244.

Yup. Sure was.

I burst through the door, locking it behind me. The lights in the hallway were on. Along the walls were tons of photos of family. Parents and a little sister at the zoo. Parents sitting on a tropical beach. Chase and his sister swimming. Chase, younger, playing T-ball at the local park.

“You don’t understand!” came Chase’s voice.

I hurried down the hall, turning into a small living room. On one end was a TV. On another wall was a fireplace. Above the mantle were baseballs, more than a dozen of them. Hanging next to the fireplace was a Washington High jersey with Chase’s last name printed on the back.

Chase was sitting on the couch. Seth was standing beside him. Briar stood behind the couch, one ear up, obviously concerned.

“Chase,” I said. “You have to be quiet right now. And we need to turn out this light …”

He laughed. “I have a better idea. Leave. Please. Please.”

“His parents aren’t home,” Seth said.

“They’re never home!” Chase yelled. His fist pounded the arm of the couch. “They go out with the parents of the other baseball players after every game. It’s what they love to do. When I got hurt, they stopped going. When they get home tonight and find out I can’t walk again, they’ll be so disappointed.”

Seth nervously shifted his weight. “They could still go, dude.”

“No,” Chase said, laughing and shaking his head. His face was red. His ears were red, too. One hand went to his sweaty, tussled hair. “They already said they couldn’t go anymore. Wouldn’t feel right. Like it was my fault or something. Like I was the one who ruined their good time.”

I walked closer, reaching out. I wanted to touch his shoulder. I wanted to be near him. “You’ll walk again. It’ll just take time. Your doctors … they …”

“I’ll never walk,” Chase said. He shook his head again, more viciously this time. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I lied. The doctors told me the night that drunk driver hit me, that was it. I might get to use crutches someday. Maybe. But that’s it. I lied because I didn’t want anyone to know.”

I stepped closer. My hand found his shoulder, squeezing tightly. I sat down beside him. He tried to shrug my hand away but I moved closer, grabbing one of his shaky hands. “Chase … I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to be without my legs.”

I squeezed his hand tighter. “Chase. Look at me.” He didn’t at first, so I reached out and grabbed his other hand, pulling him toward me. He turned. His normally resolute green eyes were wet with tears. He looked so lost and hopeless that I had to fight back the tears welling up in my own eyes. “Chase. Chase. What happened was awful. But there are reasons to move on. Baseball isn’t who you are, I can see you’re so much more than that. I know what it’s like to feel trapped in a life you didn’t choose, to have to give up things that are important to you …” my voice cracked. I took a deep, shaky breath to steady myself. “You didn’t choose this, it’s not your fault. But you can choose to not give up. Because there’s still so much to experience. There’s so much about life that’s still wonderful.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the castles in Germany,” Seth offered.

I smiled. “I’ve always wanted to go back to Yellowstone.”

“I’d really like to get a Boston Terrier,” Seth added. He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Or maybe just a lizard.”

“I want to someday be a nurse,” I said, shrugging. “It might happen. You never know.”

Chase wiped the tears from his cheeks. He half-chuckled, half-cried. “I really, really wanted to win the World Series. I guess a close second would be seeing the Brewers win it all. Not that that’s ever gonna happen.”

Seth laughed. “You never know, dude.”

I put my arm around Chase, holding him tightly. He was warm. I could almost feel the pain radiating out. It was electric. It surged through me. I tried to fight it away. I tried to imagine it as shadows, shadows that could be burned away by a strong light.

“I can’t do this on my own,” he whispered. “I’m not as strong as people think.”

“You won’t do this on your own,” I said. “You’ll have me and Seth. Always.”

He looked at me. “Always?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, dude,” Seth said. “We’ll always be cool. Heck, we only live a mile away from each other.”

Chase looked down. “I should be having this talk with my baseball buddies. And my girlfriend. That’s going to be tough. I know what’s going to happen. They’re going to drift from me. They were doing it before I … before I found that stupid fish.”

Seth cocked his head, glancing at me.

“I just don’t think I can do it,” he whispered.

“Chase,” I said. “You said once that you’re a man of your word. Do you still mean that?”

He nodded, staring at the old beige carpeting.

“I’m going to give you a rose,” I said. “And you’re not allowed to lose hope until that rose wilts. Do you promise?”

He smiled. “So I only have to stay positive for a few weeks? Fine. Deal.”

“Shake.” He shook my hand. I pulled out the fountain pen and started drawing a rose on the coffee table. The stem began to glow a soft, golden color.

Chase, mesmerized, leaned over to stare. “That’s my ma’s coffee table.”

“Shhhh,” Seth said.

I finished the rose and carefully grabbed the stem, pulling it free from the table. It was beautiful—sharp green thorns and dark red petals, each one imperfect and unique.

Just like a real rose.

Only it wasn’t a real rose. I didn’t know how a real rose was made or how it worked on a biological level. But I did know how a glass rose was made. My dad had showed me years and years ago in his little stained-glass workshop in the basement. He showed me how to score and cut the shapes from large panes of colored glass. How to edge them in copper before soldering the pieces together.

I handed it Chase, who carefully grabbed it with two shaky hands. His mouth was open. “What … what …”

“You promised,” I said. “You promised me, Chase. Never forget that. And never forget that you have me on your side.”

He looked at me. “This is impossible.”

“So was the magic fish,” Seth said.

There came a sound from outside. We all looked toward the hallway, but after a moment Seth and Chase returned to staring at the rose. They were both obviously impressed. Me? I was a little more concerned with the noise outside. A bad feeling had begun creeping over me like a thousand ants marching up my legs.

“This … this …” Chase laughed. “I just don’t understand.”

“Briar,” I said. “It’s story time.”

Briar stepped beside the couch, puffing out his chest a little and clutching his vest as if preparing to give a speech for Congress.

“Oh, awesome,” Seth said with a smile. He gave Briar a high-five.

When Chase finally tore his eyes away from the rose and looked up at Briar, he fell back on the couch.

“Oh, this just keeps getting weirder!” he exclaimed.

Briar cleared his throat. “I could not agree more, dear sir.”

“I’m dreaming.” Chase set the rose down carefully on the table. “I’m dreaming! I got knocked out cold by some strange fisherman and now I’m dreaming.”

There came a crash, this time from the rear of the house. “Briar, tell Chase the story. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Seth asked. “What’s happening?”

My hand clenched into a fist. “They’ve found us.”

The Lost Journal of Eugene Washington: Part Two

There was once an old castle  that stood in the middle of a deep gloomy wood, and in the castle lived an old fairy. Now this fairy could take any shape she pleased. All the day long she flew about in the form of an owl, or crept about the country like a cat; but at night she always became an old woman again. When any young man came within a hundred paces of her castle, he became quite fixed, and could not move a step till she came and set him free; which she would not do till he had given her his word never to come there again.[v]

August 4, 1875

Ten years, this journal has been sitting in the drawer of my desk. Never once thought about adding to it until now. Things just happened so fast after that night with the wolf. With Br’er Rabbit.

We’re in New York now. Been here ten years. Ten years of hunting Corrupted, moving around the country, using the old Underground Railroad to move from state to state in relative safety.

The big shots in the government say slavery is over. Nope. Slavery’s not over. It’s just different now. Negros are free, but they got to live under laws that say they can’t do this, can’t do that, have to work here, can’t be walking around wherever they darn well please.

Getting angry. Glad to have it off my chest. Maybe I’ll keep this journal around for a while. Take it with me on this last little journey.

Don’t feel like writing any more tonight.

Briar’s asleep on the floor. The window’s open, letting in a cool breeze. Candle on the bedside table is almost out. Tired.

Tired of all this.

August 5, 1875

That night when Briar appeared, we tried ending everything in one fell swoop. I had a little space left at the bottom of the magic piece of paper. I tore it off and we tried a little “experiment”:

And all the Corrupted were removed from the earth.

But Briar didn’t disappear. And two weeks later, we ran into one of the most frightening donkeys I’ve ever seen in my life. A Corrupted, from one of the fairy tales. Nothing but a shadow on the ground, hee-hawing like it was laughing at us. A shadow, chasing after us! It was enough to give Briar second thoughts about all of this hero business.

But it was too late. We’d burned the magic page, knowing what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands. Not only that, the magic had taken its toll on me. I was weak for months, as if a part of my very soul had been used up telling the story of Br’er Rabbit. When we bumped into that terrifying Corrupted donkey, I was one foot in the coffin, swear to God.

I recovered slowly. And with Briar’s help, we got pretty darned good at taking down Corrupted. My dreams led the way, and we stayed in New York to catch any unwanted Corrupted sneaking over from Europe.

Even caught a fish once.

August 8, 1875

Let me tell you about that fish. That bright, golden fish is my ticket out. Found him while we were at a shipyard in Providence, hunting down a female Corrupted who’d once convinced her fisherman husband to ask this particular fish for untold riches. The fish gave them everything, then took it away. All three of em were Corrupted. Characters in one of the Brothers Grimms’ most popular fairy tales. Anywho, the fisherman and his wife traveled all over the world to find the fish. Somewhere along the way, the fisherman’s wife developed a nasty appetite for children. Stopped her, but the fisherman got away.

Heh.

I was just about to stab the fish with the pen when he started talking. He made me an offer: freedom for freedom.

“How do you I know you’re not lying?” I asked.

The fish sighed. “Because I must behave in the way the Brothers Grimm wrote me, of course.”

I took the deal. I told him I wanted until the end of the month. And then I didn’t want to be the hero no more.

“It is done,” he said. “At the beginning of next month, a new hero will emerge and take your place.” And I tossed him back in the sea.

I haven’t told Briar yet. Would probably break the furry fella’s heart, given everything we’ve been through. But you see … I had to do this. I know all of the risks of letting a Corrupted go, but I also know that the fish has to follow the rules of his fairy tale. He has to make my wish come true.

And I need the wish to come true. I’m in love.

August 9, 1875

Harriet Smith, a former slave just like me. Three years older than me, but I don’t mind. She’s beautiful. She surrounds herself with books in her little home in downtown New York. Her father, the foreman of a textile factory, generally hates me. Doesn’t like the fact that I take so many “business” trips around the country.

Heh.

Briar gets a kick out of that.

And you know what? Her papa’s right: the “business” trips have taken a lot out of me. We’ve hunted down monsters all over the country, monsters that come out of the shadows and kill human beings without thinking twice. I’ve saved men who would turn around and sell me back into slavery in a second if they had a chance.

Yup, that’s right. Slavery. In New York, there’s name-calling and limits on where I can shop … but down south it’s a whole different story. Down south, Negros are arrested for anything from “changing employers without permission” to “gaming” to “selling cotton after sunset.” And when a Negro is charged with one of these so-called “crimes,” he has to work off the fines doing hard labor for local businesses.

Slavery.

August 10, 1875

The reason I told the magic fish to give me until the end of the month was because I’d been having these strange dreams for a long time, and they were getting more and more serious. Dreams about a white woman wearing a white dress, and just writing those words down are enough to get me arrested down south, that’s for sure! But this woman, there’s something important about her …

She can “see” a Corrupted. In her mind. She has visions of him, and those visions haunt her. The creature’s life seems to pass before her eyes. He wears a cloak, hiding his features with a heavy hood, only his glowing gold eyes visible.

And then my dreams shift. I see a young girl, dressed strangely in a black outfit, wielding a sword against the very same cloaked figure. But she can’t stop him. She looks confused. Worn out.

Tired.

“I’m telling you, Briar … these dreams are connected!” I told my furry helper. We were in a private rail car heading south, sitting across from each other on plush violet cushioned benches. Rather, I was sitting. Briar was lying on his back, legs crossed. We had the luxury of a little money … one of the benefits of having a magic pen is I can create simple things—irons, tables, brass doorknobs—to sell.

“The Confederate soldier dreamed of you,” Briar said. “Perhaps this woman is the next hero. Er …”

“Which means … my time is almost up.” Of course, I thought. It all made sense! I’d made my wish with the magic fish, and so a new hero had been chosen a new hero to take my place.

But by who? That was the real question. The real mystery Briar and I couldn’t solve. And believe me, Briar tried. He was a determined son of a gun when it came to figuring out more about the Grimms’ magic.

“Then we simply get off this train right now,” Briar said, sitting up. He peered out through the window. We were traveling past yellow fields parched by a week of no rain and hot weather.

“Briar …”

“If we run, we could escape your destiny!” he said excitedly, hopping off the bench. “Yes, we’ll traverse the globe seeking adventure … relatively safe adventure, I might add! Why, you can even take that dame you’re so smitten with. She clearly doesn’t mind my presence.”

He was right. I’d broken my own rule for Briar … I’d let Harriet see him. Mainly so she didn’t think I was going crazy, since she always caught me talking out loud when I thought I was alone. To say she’d been surprised is an understatement. She’d downright swooned, and I’d had to catch her before she fell on the ground. Tweaked my back but good. Poor Sweet Eugene has turned into Old Eugene at some point during the past ten years.

Lied about the rest of it, though. No, not “lied,” so to speak. Just told her Br’er Rabbit was real and he was my friend, plain and simple. Like the Easter Bunny, only trickier and well-read. I couldn’t tell her about the Corrupted. Didn’t want her to worry when I went out on a “business trip.” I guess lying once in a while is the only way for a hero to truly keep loved ones safe.

I leaned back on the bench. Just thinking about Harriet made me warm inside. Three years of courtship. Three years, and with each passing year, I began to dread falling asleep more and more. Because it was only a matter of time before another Corrupted showed up in my dreams.

The first seven or so years, Briar and I had crossed the United States, using my magic pen’s unique abilities to barter our way. We were tactful and guile and outright crass as we hunted down the monsters. We thought we were invincible.

But now? Now all I wanted to do was grow old. I wanted to sit in a rocking chair with my dear sweet Harriet and look over at her and exchange a smile. I wanted kids. I wanted to tell them stories and make sure they had a life I’d never been privy to. A childhood with parents. Then, eventually, I wanted to tell my grandkids stories, too.

Heh. Can you imagine a 75-year-old hero out there, hunting Corrupted?

Me neither.

August 12, 1875

In Georgia, in a little town called Present. I’m sure this is the town where the woman from my dreams lives because in the dreams I always see the main road and the rows of buildings with the town name on them. Staying with an abolitionist who once kept three families of escaped slaves hidden away in his house. Gave me my own room, which I appreciate.

And wouldn’t you know it, things just can’t be simple! Last night, instead of dreaming again about the woman and the cloaked figure, I was treated to something much more terrifying.

A woman. A fairy, to be precise. Could tell right away by the magic she used. Them Grimm brothers, they got a little predictable from time to time with their stories. “Nefarious dabblers in magic, but not quite as creative with names and creatures,” as Briar was fond of saying.

Told Briar about the dream.

“Well, we need to identify her,” he said, thumbing through the worn pages of our book of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. He tossed aside a big winged bug that landed on the pages, shivering. He hates bugs. “What else did you see? Give me details.”

“She’s been turning people to stone.”

He looked at me. His ears stood straight up. “Stone, you say?”

I nodded.

“We’ll have to be careful,” he murmured. “It would be just my luck that this she-beast turns me to stone just as I’m scratching a rather embarrassing itch.” He tapped his paw on the book. “Here. Jorinda and Jorindel. A story about a fairy who uses her magic to freeze people as if they’re made of stone.” He clicked his tongue. “One of the brothers’ less developed tales. Look at this ending! Why, they never even bothered to explain what happened to the fairy. Would have saved us a whole lot of trouble if they’d just written that she’d died at the end.”

“Maybe.” I looked at the page. Sure enough, the word “fairy” wasn’t crossed out, which meant we hadn’t run into her in the past ten years. We were crossing out the names of every Corrupted we ran into, in hopes the book would help future heroes.

Speaking of which. Just glanced at the calendar sitting on the desk and my heart started to race. Time is running out.

August 15, 1875

Dreams have gotten more intense, as they have a tendency to do. I’ve been laying low in town, only traveling when our host—let’s call him William—can accompany me so I don’t get hassled. I’ve been keeping an eye out for that woman in my dreams, although I haven’t said as much. I told William I’m here to survey the land for a shipping company from New York.

Feel bad lying to William, especially given how many times I hid away in his underground storage space when we were “transporting” freed slaves to Canada. On the other hand, William isn’t exactly what I would call a forward-thinking gentleman. Oh sure, he’s opposed to slavery and genuinely likes me, but he still doesn’t believe people with different colored skin are equals. Lots of white people in New York are like that. They opposed slavery but they don’t want Negros eating at the same table.

Long way to go yet. But at least William is letting me sleep in his house. And I’m being mighty nice to him, too. He’s got a sore throat and a bit of a cold. You know what helps with that? A little inner bark of a slippery elm, steeped in hot water.

Meanwhile, Briar’s doing the real work. There have been disappearances all over the county, and the town we’re in now seems to be near the center of it. There’s a forest to the west, which is our best bet. To the east are cotton fields, worked by sharecroppers and convicts working off their fines. To the south of the town are lots of homes built by freed slaves and their families.

We gotta hurry. Time’s running out. And more people are goin missing.

August 17, 1875

My dreams are all mixed up. One moment, I see the woman from town. Next, I see the girl, confused, all alone inside an empty room with a dirt floor. Then I see the Corrupted fairy. Scares me. Waking up in cold sweats even though a heat wave is covering this town like a wet blanket. Been inside for the last two days because the sheriff in the town hassled a Negro man for walking on the train tracks. He’s in jail now.

The Negro man. Not the sheriff.

But the fairy! Oh, ye god the fairy. She must have read some of the Greek legends at some point and decided that was the way to go, because she’s certainly not human anymore. Medusa, that’s who she reminds me of. Definitely somewhere in the forest, in the ruins of a burned down plantation mansion that was no doubt the victim of General Sherman’s march to the sea during the Civil War.

Snakes for hair. Living, hissing black snakes that curl around her ears. A beautiful face shadowed by gray, flaking skin. Red eyes that can turn a man to stone. Rags covering her body and …

A snake’s tail. Instead of legs. The lower body of a snake. She slithers around statues of men and women, hiding in the shadows of the ruins of the old mansion.

I told Briar all of this.

He fainted.

August 20, 1875

We found the mansion. Well, Briar found it. The next difficult part was sneaking out of town. It would have to be at night. There was no getting around it. And if I was caught, not even William’s impeccable credentials with Ace Telegraph would be enough to keep me out of jail. Negro folks just aren’t allowed to walk around town after curfew. Even one who’s trying to save their lives.

So! Sneaking around it was. We slipped out of the town at just a hair past nine o’clock, which was when the town was mostly settled in for the night. The air felt hot and sticky, and I was sweating something fierce before we even got a mile north. In the woods full of oaks with their big thick canopies, it was cooler, quiet, just the hoot of an owl to fill a pair of human ears and a pair of rabbit ears.

“This way,” Briar said, leading the way in the darkness with all the confidence of a rabbit who can read. Yup, he could read. I taught him myself, just like Mr. Still taught me. And just like me, Briar gobbled up books by the dozens. They taught him a lot. He taught me a lot, too. And he found more stuff about the Brothers Grimm and their magic than I ever thought possible. I made sure he memorized it, so he could help future heroes.

“Say Eugene,” he said as we reached the northern edge of the woods. The trees spread out, giving way to an old overgrown field of tall grass. The mansion was just up ahead. It was just a skeleton of a building, nothing but cracked and burnt timbers. Under the full moon I could see people standing outside of it plain as day. “You think those are townsfolk?” he asked.

“Naw,” I said. I crouched down and used my hand to search for a nice, flat surface. It didn’t matter what the surface was made of, so long as I could draw a straight line. I brushed at the dirt beside a little shrub, smoothing it out a bit.

“Say Eugene,” he said again.

“What,” I murmured, drawing a line in the dirt. It lit up the color of gold.

“What if we just left now?” he asked. “Just … got outta here? Picked up your dame and headed out west? We could be cowboys! We could rustle up some cattle and get paid handsomely for it.”

I chuckled, imagining the rabbit on a horse. “Now you know the rules. I’m the hero. Gotta do what the hero does.”

“And then you die.”

I grunted. “That might be the case, I suppose. Or maybe I just pass it on.”

“That’s not what the soldier told you.”

“He wasn’t very specific, on account of him dying and all.” I sighed, pulling the spear from the ground. I hefted it in my hand. A spear, just like my ancestors in the Oyo Empire used. It was perfect. Perfect length, perfect spade-shaped stone tip. Perfectly straight. Spent ten years getting it right.

“I don’t want you to die, pal.”

I looked up. The rabbit was standing beside me. His ears were flopped over his head. “I won’t die,” I said. “I’ll figure something else out. And then …”

“You and Harriet can grow old together,” he finished. “And what about me?”

“Why, you’ll be sleeping in your bed in New York, happy as all get out! And when we wake in the morning, I’ll make us coffee and eggs.”

“Promise?”

I nodded. A thought came to mind: Corrupted could kill each other. It wasn’t easy, and it took the right circumstances, but we’d seen it happen once out west between two animals who both thought poor little Eugene would make a good dinner. “Best you stay here,” I told Briar. “You might not be protected from her gaze, old pal.”

I caught a glimpse of a smile before the moon disappeared behind a cloud. “Best news I’ve heard all day,” Briar said.

Still one more thing to draw. God bless literature. God bless Perseus, for showing me the way! I finished the shield and pulled it from the ground, staring at my reflection behind the handle. Not quite a perfect mirror, but hey—it was my first try. And it reflected well enough.

“Good luck,” Briar whispered.

“Since when do we need luck?” I asked him with a smile.

August 21, 1875

Eggs for breakfast again. I tell you, William sure knows how to treat a guest. He remarked, upon my finishing three eggs, that perhaps I ought to just cook up the remaining nine. I almost took him up on that offer, and had he known what I’d gone through the previous night, he’d have cooked them up without hesitation.

“You see them frogs falling from the sky last night?” he asked me.

Oh yes. Yes I sure did, William.

Back to the story! It wasn’t enough that I had to take down a fairy with magic powers. Oh no, that would be too easy. And as I made my way across the overgrown clearing toward the group of people in front of what remained of the mansion, a terrible feeling crept over me. Like a chill. Like something horrible was about to happen. I crouched down, using the mirror in the back of my shield to check over my shoulder.

A frog landed on the shield, nearly scaring the pants right off of me. It croaked and hopped off.

“You got me good,” I murmured, creeping my way closer. As the sky cleared again the figures in front of the burnt mansion reappeared. My heart skipped a beat. I’d been dreamin it but that still didn’t prepare me for it.

Statues. Men and women frozen in time and turned to rock. I crept closer, sure to check the mirror in my shield to make sure the coast was clear. Up close, the statues were as life-like as if someone had simply tossed a bucket of gray paint over them. Some looked positively bewildered. Others were horrified, caught in a never-ending scream.

I took a deep breath, slipping between them, making my way toward what remained of the mansion. She was here. I could see her trail on the ground, like golden breadcrumbs.

A hiss came from somewhere in the darkness. I pressed my body against one of the mansion’s burnt pillars that ran along the front of the building. With my shield held out just a bit, I could see around the pillar using the mirror. At first, all I saw were shadows. My fingers clutched the spear tighter.

Then: movement. A shadow detaching itself from the other shadows, leaving a trail of golden bread crumbs. She wasn’t lighting up. Some Corrupted don’t. Some Corrupted can hide it really well. I hate to bring up that shadow donkey again, but danged if he wasn’t the most frightening thing ever. This fairy could hide her glow, but she couldn’t hide her trail.

Another hiss. My heart thumped against my rib cage. I fought the urge to shut my eyes. It was either risk turning to stone, or sit here with my eyes shut and wait to get eaten. I could either be a rock or a meal.

See why I want out of this so bad?

Slowly, I brought the shield around, using the mirror to peer around the other side of the pillar. There—her face! Just like it had been in my dreams: gray, cracked skin, boiling red eyes, snakes for hair that hissed and snapped their jaws.

I held the shield steady, keeping the mirror on the fairy so that I could deliver a striking blow the moment she slipped around the pillar. But instead, slithered her way toward the congregation of statues at the front of the old mansion, her snake-like tail moving too quickly for me to reach out and stab it.

I slipped around the pillar, watching her in the mirror. She went up to one of the statues, then used her hands to break away one of the arms. It was a young man, I could tell by the suit he was wearing. She stared out at the overgrown field, hissing, then plucked the statue’s fingers off and popped them into her mouth one by one.

“Oh, dear me,” I whispered. She slithered beside a statue of a man on his hands and knees, looking back over his shoulder in fear. She seemed to be contemplating him. Studying him.

There was only one thing to do. It meant conquering my fear of snakes and then some, but there was no other option. Like Perseus before me, I needed to do away with this monster without looking back.

I stepped away from the pillar, keeping my spear in front of me. I tilted the mirror so I could watch her slip between the statues.

I tapped the spear on the ground. In the reflection, I could see the fairy’s snake-covered noggin turn in my direction. She hissed. The twisting snakes on her head hissed. She slithered closer, her hands pushing aside the statues. One—an elderly man with his back hunched—fell over, cracking in half.

Clouds covered the moon. All I could see now was a shadow approaching. I bent my knees, watching her slither closer. The tip of the spear rested on my shoulder. My fingers tensed.

Closer now. The shadow loomed over me.

Closer …

The clouds parted. In the moonlight, I could see her face was right over my shoulder. Too close! I fell back and stabbed my spear over my shoulder, feeling my sweaty grip loosen.

A scream. Warm ash fell over my face.

It started to rain. Frogs.

August 24, 1875

Still haven’t located the woman from my dreams. Briar has begun searching house to house. I’ve written letters to Harriet in the meantime. In one, I apologized for my “business” travels. I want so desperately to tell her the truth now. Get it all done with and start a new life.

But first, we need to find this woman.

Time is running out.

August 25, 1875

Dreams are getting stranger. The girl dressed in strange clothes is back, standing in an empty room with a dirt floor. Lightning lighting up the sky outside. The girl looks afraid and confused.

She’s in danger.

August 26, 1875

Success! Briar has found her. Constance. A schoolteacher. The only schoolteacher in town who works with Negro children. Briar says the white townsfolk are wary of her, but keep things amicable because she comes from a powerful family. Still, there seems to be no shortage of rumors about her “strangeness,” including night terrors that wake the entire neighborhood up and fainting spells.

Storm’s been sitting on the western horizon for a couple days now, like it’s just waiting for something to give it a push. Clouds are dark and getting even darker. I need to meet this woman soon. The month is nearly finished.

August 27, 1875

Explained to William that the shipping company I worked for wanted to make a small donation to the local schoolhouse that taught Negro children. William was ecstatic at the idea. Told him I’d like to meet the teachers.

“There’s only one,” he said. “Her name is Constance Parsons. Wonderful girl. Her parents own a military supply company, so they pay her themselves. Saves the city money, don’t you know.”

“We should pay a visit,” I offered, “and ask her what supplies my company can offer her to improve her classroom.”

“Splendid!” William said. “Let me loan you a fresh suit coat so you look presentable.”

A fine silk suit coat? Why sure, William. You let old Eugene show this town a thing or two about style.

We walked down to the schoolhouse together in the late afternoon, after classes were finished. William lent me a blue suit, not my best color but it breathed well in the heat. William was quite convinced that my style of dress was too “Northern” for anyone’s tastes this far south. I have no clue what he meant by that, except maybe he didn’t like my choice of gray slacks, which in my defense is the fashion in New York right now. Caught him eyeing those slacks a few times, like he might “accidentally” throw them out so he could replace them with something more sensible from his wardrobe.

I was disappointed when we reached the schoolhouse on the southern end of town. It was nothing but a big box with a few dirty windows, and the wooden boards making up the exterior had been hammered in place with rusty nails bent at awkward angles. The roof looked like it leaked.

“It really is a fine place,” William remarked. “For Negro children.”

From the west, the rolling black clouds answered with thunder. Couldn’t have come up with a better response myself.

William looked at the clouds disapprovingly. “Feels like that storm is just loomin, wouldn’t you say, Eugene?”

I nodded. Flies nipped at our necks, taking off and buzzing in our ears when we swatted at them. Could have used another shower of frogs right about then. I still can’t believe that fairy had made frogs rain down from the sky. Who did she think she was?

A Corrupted. That’s who. And boy, could they get weird.

“Maybe the storm’ll miss us entirely,” I offered.

“I doubt that,” came a female voice.

We turned to the schoolhouse. A blonde-haired woman with sharp features was standing in the doorway, hands clasped together. She was wearing a white dress that had been stained with dust near the bottom. I recognized her immediately. A strange thought came to me, one I knew was true.

She’s not the next hero.

I don’t know how I know it, but I’m sure I’m right.

Too tired to finish. I’ll write more tomorrow.

August 28, 1875

Constance knew who I was. That much I was certain. But we kept up appearances, letting William do all the introducing. The town wasn’t exactly quiet yesterday afternoon, and there were white people milling about, moving from shop to shop along the main road, so I made sure to address Constance as “ma’am” and give my head a little tilt downward so show respect.

“Come inside,” she said finally, cutting off William before he could finish explaining the difference between a white child’s brain and a Negro child’s brain. I was certainly thankful for that.

Inside the little house, Constance opened the two windows overlooking a field. Beyond the field were the black clouds on the horizon. She stared at them a moment before finally turning and giving us a wary smile.

“My apologies for the heat,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “Whoever designed this schoolhouse was clearly a sadist.”

I laughed at the outrageousness of the comment. William wiped sweat from his forehead, smiling. “Well,” he said, “Negro children can handle heat very well …”

“How did you travel here?” Constance asked me, cutting him off. “Did you come by stagecoach or train?”

“Train,” I answered.

She sighed, smiling. “I do so love the trains. I should like to ride one again some time. But …” She was silent a moment, then shook her head. “Tell me, why are you here?”

William blathered on about the donation my company was considering making. Constance listened, hardly convinced. No, she knew exactly why I was here.

I need to speak with her alone.

But how?

August 28, 1875

I woke knowing full well that I had no choice in the matter. I needed to speak with Constance, then I needed to get the heck out of town before the locals finally decided I’d worn out my welcome.

Last night, the dreams were clearer. I saw the girl dressed in funny clothes and I knew she was the hero, plain as day. She was standing in the schoolhouse, wearing strange clothes, looking around confused.

But the schoolhouse was empty.

Then, a cloaked man walked in through the front door. No—he flew in. His feet never touched the ground! From underneath his dark hood, his eyes glowed a menacing gold. He reached out for the girl. She struggled, but it was too late.

They both disappeared.

Haven’t told Briar any of this just yet. He was so excited to know Constance isn’t the hero. Thinks the two of us are just going to … I don’t know. I suppose he thinks I’m going to be around forever, like him.

I made my way to the schoolhouse in the early afternoon, walking behind the buildings along the main street where I wouldn’t be spotted as easily. I caught the eyes of a few tending to gardens outside their homes, but nothing worth tensing up about.

Couldn’t have been more wrong.

At the schoolhouse, Constance was waiting. Standing by that same window, staring at the dark clouds on the horizon.

“They haven’t moved,” she said. She turned to me. “I knew you would come, Eugene. I saw it.”

“How?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Years ago, at a train station in Boston, I brushed up against a man in a cloak. He recoiled at my touch, as if I’d hurt him. I tried to apologize, but I was suddenly struck by a terrible seizure. I dreamed of that same man living in a different time, living with a woman he loved. Then, something happened. I didn’t understand it. They were arguing, and he lifted his hand up and … it was as if … as if he’d accidentally thrown dust in her eyes. She fell back. She … died.”

I was speechless. She was talking about a Corrupted. I was sure of it!

“The dreams have continued to this day,” she said. She glanced back at the clouds on the horizon. “Different visions from his life. He’s lived for so many years that he can’t possibly be human like you and I.”

Human. That warmed my heart. Here, finally, was someone who saw past the color of our skin.

“He’s coming … but I don’t think it’s for me.”

“He’s coming for a girl,” I said. “I saw her in my dreams. I can see things, too.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“No, ma’am. If anyone’s crazy, it’s me.” I smiled warmly, hoping she wasn’t on the verge of her infamous fainting spells. “We could spend all day talking about this, but we don’t have the time. I don’t. This girl from my dreams, she’s really important. I don’t know how I know this, but …”

“I saw you once, in a dream,” she said. “Tell me, did you ever find your parents?”

My mouth hung open in surprise. “Um … yes,” I finally said. “I did. Found their gravestones, that is. In Florida. They lived there after the Civil War was over. Couple years later, my pa got arrested for selling oranges on the wrong side of a street.”

“Is that a law?” she asked.

“Only for Negros,” I explained. “And he had to work off his fine. Was sent to work at a bullet manufacturer for two years. Died in a gunpowder explosion. My ma died of influenza a few months later.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. Her gaze dropped to the dirt floor. It’s funny, but I could see the little indentations in the dirt where the kids had been sitting.

“We got bigger things to worry about now,” I said.

She nodded. “This man I dream of, he …” A tear rolled down her cheek. “He couldn’t control his magic. That’s what it was. People died. His magic grew more and more powerful. Now … now I fear he can control it, and it has made him even more dangerous. This girl from your dreams … can she stop him?”

I nodded. Not a moment of hesitation.

“Then tell me what I must do.”

“This girl is going to come here,” I said. “You have to tell her about your dreams. She’s gonna need all the help she can get.”

Too tired to continue. Just a couple more days and I’m free.

August 29, 1875

I tried taking the side road back to the train station.

Bad idea.

I noticed them following me right away. You don’t survive 10 years fighting Corrupted without getting real good at knowing the world around you. But there was nothing I could do. There were six of them. Two were following behind me on the road. Another two up head, cutting me off. Two more hiding near a white one-story house with purple drapes.

They stopped me another block up.

No point calling for help. No one to help me. I could have fought, yeah … Briar had taught me enough over the years. But then I remembered the Hessian from so many years ago. I remembered the rage boiling in his eyes, the lust he had for hurting other people. He hadn’t always been like that. He’d once been a boy just like me. Just like all of us. An innocent child.

I let em take me. I let em shout names at me. But I didn’t let em hurt me. When one of em tried punching me, I dodged and let him punch his friend instead. I figured between the two of us, the guy’s friend deserved a punch more than me anyway. By the time they were done arguing about it, we were past the train station, a good quarter mile north inside the forest.

One of the men, with pale skin and a bubbling wart on his fat nose, announced that it was a crime for a Negro to speak to a white woman.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said.

The man just shook his head. He flashed a badge. Of course he was a sheriff. Old Eugene has all the luck, doesn’t he?

“Also a crime for Negros to walk around town without an escort after four in the afternoon. That’s curfew.”

“Must be tough for working Negros to get home on time,” I remarked. Oh, I couldn’t help myself.

The sheriff squinted one eye and leaned closer, examined me. His breath smelled like onions. The other men were close to us, squeezing us in. I noticed for the first time one of them had a gun. I cursed myself for sassing back.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, son,” said the sheriff.

“Can’t we talk about this?” I asked.

The sheriff shook his head real slow-like. “This is—”

There came from the trees a terrible howl. A scream, really. High-pitched, hair-raising, loud enough to cause all seven of us to jump.

The white men looked around nervously. Two more pulled out guns and aimed them at the oak trees.

“What’s that?” one of them asked.

Another scream, this time coming from a different direction. I nearly clutched one of the white men out of fear. I’d never heard a sound like that. And I’d seen some pretty terrifying monsters in my lifetime.

“Who’s there?” the sheriff called out.

His voice echoed all weird-like, as if someone was mocking him from deeper in the thick forest.

The other men began murmuring to themselves. “Let’s just take him to jail,” said one, grabbing my arm.

“Jail … jail … jail …” the word echoed above us. A wind picked up, rustling the lobe-shaped leaves in the trees.

Another scream, this one closer.

“That’s a mountain lion if ever I heard one,” said the plumpest of the men.

“A mountain lion!” the sheriff said incredulously. “Ain’t no mountain lions around here, Warren!”

Another scream. The crack of a branch. It came falling down right in front of us, thick as a man’s torso and twice as long. The men with guns pointed up and started firing their pistols. Leaves and twigs rained down on us.

Another scream came from right behind us.

“I saw something!” Warren said. “It was weird looking as all get out!”

“Just cool your head,” said the sheriff. The men stayed close, searching the forest. Suddenly, Warren screamed, dropping his gun and running back the way we came. Everyone turned to where he’d looked and we let out a collective gasp.

There, standing beside a tree, was some kind of feral creature covered in mud and rags. He had long horns and a smooth, cone-shaped face with rabid-looking blue eyes and terrible buckteeth.

“Shoot him!” the sheriff said. They fired their pistols. The creature bounced around, hissing, dodging as many bullets as it could. Some of the bullets hit it and it fell over, dying dramatically.

The men stopped firing.

Suddenly, the creature leapt to its feet! The men fired again, but this time the bullets didn’t stop it from skulking closer, hissing.

The men’s pistols clicked. My ears rang. For a moment, the entire forest was silent.

The creature screamed again.

“That does it!” the sheriff said. He pushed me toward the creature, knocking me to the forest floor. I turned, watching the men run quickly back the way they came.

I turned to the creature. He was crouching over me, the vicious expression on his face gone. His horns were no longer pointed forward.

They were flopped over.

“B … Briar?” I asked.

“You were expecting, perhaps, another deus ex machina?”

I laughed. “Never knew you had it in you.”

“Nor I,” the rabbit admitted. “Nor I. Do you like the rags? I got the idea from your Medusa friend, actually.”

“I think I prefer your stylish vest,” I answered.

August 30, 1875

On our way back. Train should pull in at New York City tomorrow around seven in the evening. I told Briar about the fish. Told him everything was going to be fine, just like I promised. Nervous fella doesn’t believe it for a second, but he’ll see soon enough. A new hero was coming. She was going to meet Constance, just like in my dreams.

I told Briar we gotta take precautions. I put the pen in a small box. When we arrive in New York City, Briar will take it to the library downtown, where it will rest among a collection of rare books that are closed to the public.

Last night, I dreamed of the new hero, arriving inside the schoolhouse. Constance was waiting for her. Together, they watched the storm finally roll into town.

Tonight will be my last dream of Corrupted.

September 1, 1875

Little time to write. Should have known. Should have known. I want to get to Harriet and hold her in my arms just one more time, but it’s too dangerous. Briar … not sure where Briar is. He went to the library to stow away the pen, just like we planned. Usually, he can find me easy enough, especially when I’m in trouble.

But what if he can’t anymore?

September 2, 1875

He’s still following me. That same short little man in the gray suit that I met so, so many years ago. The Hessian is with him, following him like a faithful dog. No doubt getting paid a pretty penny … or is it revenge he wants? The little man is a Corrupted. I didn’t realize it ten years ago but I know now. He knows I don’t have the pen. Library’s shut down, locked up, even though it’s the middle of the day. No one can tell me why the doors are locked. Briar … don’t know where he is.

Just want to see Harriet one more time. But I can’t. Can’t endanger her life. This little man in the gray suit … it’s like he’s been following me for ten years. He knew exactly where I’d be. He knows—

(Pages missing.)

Book 6: The Order of the Golden Dragon

Chapter 1

I slipped through the front door of Chase’s house, creeping along his family’s vegetable garden and then skulking behind a man-sized evergreen sapling for cover. My fingers tingled. With the coast clear, I slipped around back, one hand pressed against the brick foundation as I very carefully peered around the next corner, my hand clutching the magic foil I’d drawn on the ground underneath the house’s front steps.

And there they were. Three guys wearing pitch-black robes with the hoods drawn up over their heads. They’d broken the window and I suddenly had a terrible thought: what if one had already slipped through?

But then they began very carefully using their terrifying golden claw thingies to scrape away the shards of glass still clinging to the window. They were being careful, not particularly interested in cutting themselves in the process of climbing through.

None of them was glowing. Not even a bit. If these were the same ones who’d been in the car that followed us back from the pier, then there was a good chance they were all human. Which meant unless I wanted to commit murder, I would have to get creative in dealing with them.

I turned back around the corner of the house, pulling out my pen. I set down my foil and used the pen to draw a big square in the grass. Then I drew another square a few feet away, overlapping the original square. I connected the corners with straight lines. It was just like the 3-D box doodles I always made in my notebooks, only with the help of my imagination this was no simple 3-D box.

It was a trap.

I ran around the box, back to the corner of the house, peering around. Two of the robed men were in the process of lifting up the third to the window.

“Eep!” I exclaimed.

The men turned. I waited, giving them the most convincing look of surprise that I possibly could. They dropped the one who’d been ready to slip in through the window, letting him land comically on his butt. They reached for their golden claw-shaped weapons that they’d set on the grass, slipping each one over their hands.

“Are you guys looking for me?” I asked innocently. They moved closer. “I’ll take that as a yes!” I said, disappearing around the corner. I jumped over the massive trap. The outline was only slightly glowing now, fading with each passing breath. Hurry, I thought.

The robed men turned the corner. They stepped onto the trap and suddenly the surface hardened, then collapsed. Two of the men fell inside immediately. The third man’s foot hit the edge of the box and he flailed a moment before falling inside as well.

I stepped closer to the trap, peering inside. There they were, a good eight feet below. Unharmed. A little angry, though.

“Silly weird robed guys! Didn’t you know who you were messing with?”

“We do now,” muttered one of them.

“I’m going to have to ask for your weapons,” I announced in a low voice. “And please, no shouting or yelling. You don’t want to wake the neighbors. They have a tendency to call the police when they notice creepazoids hiding in pits.”

One of the men’s hoods had fallen back; sure enough, he was nothing more than a middle-aged man. No glowing skin, although in the moonlight it was clear he could have used a little moisturizer from time to time. He had thinning hair and wide, dark eyes.

“To relinquish the golden claws is to relinquish our very existence,” he said.

I shrugged. “Then you’re stuck down there until the police arrive.”

The other two men pulled themselves to their feet, pulling off their hoods and wiping dirt off their robes. The box was a tight fit—they jockeyed for breathing room, searching the dirt walls for a way out.

“No way but up,” I said. “And you’re not getting up here with those very fancy claws of yours.”

The balding man—obviously their leader—flashed his most fearsome snarl. “The dragon’s claw is as much a part of us as our own fingers, you fool.”

“Dude!” I exclaimed. “I just saw you guys take them off so you could climb in the window.”

The three robed figures mumbled amongst themselves. The other two were younger-looking. Shorter, too.

“If we relinquish our claws, what guarantee do we have you’ll honor your bargain?” asked the balding leader.

“You don’t have any guarantee,” I said.

They mumbled amongst themselves again. I sighed.

“Guys, seriously. I’m going to call the police. Do you really want to be here when they show up?”

More mumbling. I was beginning to think I’d overestimated my enemies.

“All right,” said the leader, removing the golden claws from his hands. He tossed them out of the hole, onto the grass beside my feet. The other two men followed suit.

I picked up the creepy claw-looking things, examining one of them. I used my finger to pick away at a little chip, surprised when it flaked off. “Hey, these aren’t made of gold. It’s just metal that’s been spray-painted!”

“The gold has been promised to us by the master,” said the leader. “When the dragon awakens.”

“Wonderful.” I tossed all of the claws into the rose garden beside Chase’s house. “Now your robes, please.”

“What?!” The leader’s graying eyebrows shot up so high I thought they might both go airborne. “You said … you said …”

“What, are you naked under those or something?” I asked, hands on hips.

“I am,” said the youngest of the three. “Well, I have underwear but it’s laundry day so the underwear has some holes in it.”

I groaned. “Boys! I swear, it’s like you have an allergy to buying new clothes.”

“What is the purpose of this?” asked the leader. “Really! You’ve won. You’ve disarmed us. We’re harmless. Embarrassing us won’t change things.”

“Not for you,” I said. “But it would make me feel soooo much better to know you don’t have any hidden knives or other dragon-inspired weapons. I know I’m being a little paranoid here, but I’m just trying to be safe. And since you guys probably aren’t going to write a check for the window you broke …”

They tossed up their robes. Sure enough, they’d chosen to wear nothing underneath but their underwear. I understood why when I pinched the fabric of the robe between my fingers. “These are, like, really nice robes!” I said, whistling low. “I mean, really, really nice. I bet this is totally cozy in the wintertime.”

“Oh, you can’t beat it,” said the young one. He was very daintily covering his man-nipples with one arm. “The wool does wonders for staving off the cold.”

“Silence.”

I looked up, stepping back. The toe of my shoe found my saber and slipped underneath the blade, kicking it up. I grabbed it in mid-air, pointing it at the dark robed figure standing in front of the bushes that divided Chase’s house from the neighboring property.

“Who are you?” I asked.

The figure moved closer. He was still a good fifteen feet away, but it didn’t stop a cold feeling from running through my body. My muscles tensed, as if expecting him to close the distance between us and strike before I was ready.

“Who are you?” I asked again. The men stuck in my trap had gone eerily silent. I positioned myself behind the opening. If the mysterious figure did plan an attack, he would need to jump over it to reach me … or run around it, giving me an extra precious second to react.

He moved closer. He was wearing a black robe just like the others, only he was taller, and red velvet trim adorned the edges of his robe. With the light shining through the windows next door, I could see the intricate golden pattern embroidered onto the trim.

Claws.

And how much do you want to bet they were dragon claws?

“My name is Agnim,” said the figure. He raised his head a bit revealing two eyes, glowing a soft gold, deep inside the darkness of his hood. A Corrupted. I was sure of it. The rest of his face was hidden but the eyes were enough. He moved closer, and I realized why my body was so tense: his feet weren’t touching the ground. He was hovering over the grass, his robe trailing behind him.

“Very clever trick,” I said. “What story are you from?”

He chuckled. His laugh came out wet and throaty. It reminded me of my grandpa’s laugh—a lifetime of cigarettes and all he got out of it were bad lungs. “In due time, hero.” He glanced down at the trap. “Clever. Most clever. Or perhaps my minions are simply foolish.”

“Oh we’re in so much trouble,” whispered one of the trapped guys. The other two hushed him quickly.

“No matter,” said the mysterious Agnim. “They’ve served their purpose.”

“And what was their purpose?” I asked. “To act like dummies? To break a window?”

A quiet, animal-like growl escaped the darkness under his hood.

I fought the urge to switch the saber into my left hand. My right hand was sweating something fierce. Not a good spot to show weakness, Goodenough. Especially not with a Corrupted like this. There was something about him I couldn’t quite place, as if I instinctively knew what he was capable of. Somewhere, deep down, I knew Agnim was dangerous. Different, somehow, from the others I’d faced.

“The purpose was to reveal the hero,” he said. He stood still as a statue, his hands hidden in his sleeves. “I have seen you in my visions, but your face has always been hidden. Protected, perhaps. But now … nothing can stop the Awakening. The Order of the Golden Dragon will finally see its plans through.”

Somewhere above us, an owl called out. Agnim glanced up, searching for the sound. Now I caught a glimpse of his chin as it jutted out of the darkness underneath the hood. The skin was green, flaky, a few dark black hairs poking out.

“The owl hunts like no other,” said Agnim, taking a deep raspy breath. “He slips through the sky in complete silence, the serrated edges of his flight feathers muting his attack. He consumes his prey whole, regurgitating what he cannot digest.”

“Stop. Please. You’re making me hungry.”

He looked at me. Definitely not amused. And there came that uneasy feeling again.

“So now you know I’m the hero,” I said. “Good for you. And I get it, I totally do! I can see why you probably want me dead. But I swear, if you try to hurt my friends …”

The owl’s call stopped. Agnim the Mage cut me off. “I have no intention of hurting your friends, so long as they stay out of my way.”

“Oh, good. A nice Corrupted for once.” I stepped into a wide stance, holding my saber in front of me. “Let’s do this then.”

But Agnim simply shook his hooded head. “Tonight, I want only to give you a gift.”

His hand slipped out from the sleeve of the robe. My leg muscles tensed. I had to fight the urge to run. His green, rotted fist unclenched, revealing a small coin. He flicked it at me. Rather than embarrass myself by trying to catch it, I let it fall by my feet. I didn’t need to examine it closely to know what it was.

The dragon was recognizable enough.

“When you destroyed the fiddler,” Agnim said, “you did not bother to search his dwelling. Had you done so, you would have found this.”

My heart skipped a beat. The fiddler … “You’ve been following me since then?”

“We were only informed that the fiddler was dead. He was a member of our order. Not a particularly good member …” He glanced down into the pit, where the three fellow robed guys were huddling together. “Then again, it seems our order has no shortage of fools.”

“Why are you giving me this?” I asked.

“Because now you have three,” he answered sharply. “The fiddler and the stepmother and the captain make three. Three gold coins, just as I have seen in my visions. You will find a fourth coin. When you do, we will meet again.”

“Why?” I asked. “What’s so important about my having four coins?”

“There is a reckoning coming, hero. The time is drawing nigh. When you collect the fourth coin it will signal the Awakening of the Golden Dragon. This dragon will consume everything in its path, including your precious friends.”

“Are you sure we can’t fight now?” I asked, taking a careful step around the trap. “I have the sudden urge to kill you.”

“Enough,” he said sharply, holding out one hand. With a flick of his wrist an invisible force knocked me backward. I landed in the rose garden beside Chase’s house, the thorns painfully digging into my back.

“What was that,” I whispered, keeping my saber in front of me. Agnim had barely moved, but it was clear whatever magic he’d used on me had taken its toll on him, too: his breathing came fast and his shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

“You will know more soon enough,” said the magician. He stepped back, away from the light shining through the neighbor’s window. Back into the shadows where he looked much more comfortable. “And when the dragon wakes, nothing will stop us.”

He took one more step back and then—surprise, surprise—melted away into the darkness.

“Well hooray for you,” I muttered.

“Um, can we go?” asked one of the guys in the trap.

I ignored him, walking over to the rose bushes. I grabbed their ridiculously scary steel claws and went around the back of the house to the dumpster, tossing them inside.

Chapter 2

Parents. Just when you think you have them figured out … they go and surprise you.

I can only imagine my parents thinking the same thing about their daughter, too. Case in point: I’m pretty sure they were more than a little flabbergasted when I arrived that night with Seth and Chase in tow. Just imagine if they’d seen the giant talking rabbit as well.

But you know what? They were pretty cool about it. Mom understood the moment she saw Chase back in his wheelchair. And she didn’t ask questions, other than to inquire politely about the sleeping arrangements. Chase and Seth volunteered the living room, setting their backpacks on the coffee table.

“Woah, Mr. G!” Seth said, bending over to examine the DVDs under the television stand. “You got Blu-Ray now? You’re so twenty-first century!”

Dad stuffed his hands in his pockets, obviously proud. “Bought it this afternoon. Pretty soon, we’ll be watching TV in our minds, my boy. Ten years, tops.”

Mom brought down pillows and blankets, moving the coffee table near the TV so there was ample room. “What else do you need?” she asked. “Chase? Is there anything?”

Chase shook his head. He’d calmed down, not quite sure what to make of everything. Not quite sure if he should look around for the giant talking rabbit.

Thankfully, Seth was here. He gave Chase a solid pat on the shoulder. “He’s in good hands, Mrs. Goodenough. I’ve even valiantly offered to sleep on the uncomfortable couch so he can have the comfy floor.”

Chase cracked a smile.

“Oh no,” Mom said. “You give him the best spot. And no television. Right to bed, the both of you. No staying up late gossiping, either.”

Seth’s face turned serious. “Mrs. Goodenough. Chase and I only gossip by phone.”

“Do you need a toothbrush?” Dad asked. It was late and he was already wearing his Green Bay Packers pajama bottoms and his favorite old gray Washington High t-shirt. Chase was staring at the name, which was crossed with baseball bats. Below it was a football.

“Oh, I think we’re all right,” Seth said with a polite smile. “I didn’t eat too many sweets today, soooooo …”

Dad slapped him on the back, pushing him toward the bathroom. “There’s spare toothbrushes in the cabinet there. You too, Chase. Otherwise your teeth are going to rot out of your skull and we can’t have that. Chicks dig teeth.”

Chase glanced at me, raising an eyebrow.

“Have a fine sleep,” I said with a smile.

Mom cornered me upstairs. At first, I thought she was going to yell at me again. But her eyes were soft, almost glassy. She had that look she always gave me when I ran home from Seth’s as a child with a scrape or boo-boo.

I mean owie.

I mean injury.

“Was Chase really walking before?”

I nodded. My teeth found my lower lip, biting hard to keep the tears from pouring out. I don’t know why I was so emotional about it. Maybe it was the stress of the entire night all crashing down at once. I’d managed to hold it all together with surprising force. It was as if a switch turned on when I was dealing with the Corrupted, and while I was in “hero” mode I was on a different level.

Now, the switch had turned off. I was back in the “real world” again.

“And now Chase can’t walk again?”

I nodded again.

“Should we call his parents, just so they know where he is?”

I shook my head. “We … he left a note.”

She put a hand on my back, rubbing gently. “Honey. Don’t you think his parents will want to be with him tonight?”

“They’ll be too disappointed, Mom. Just like they were after the accident. They hurt Chase’s feelings. They were more worried about their stupid get-togethers with the other parents of kids on the baseball team. They didn’t care, Mom. They didn’t—”

She held me tight, hugging me.

“I’m sure they care,” Mom said. “Deep down, somewhere. And Chase is going to have to work things out with them. But don’t think his parents don’t care just because it looks that way. Sometimes, parents forget, too.”

“But he’s hurting.”

“So are they. And they’re adjusting to what happened. They’re only human, after all. It’s up to Chase and his parents to work through this.”

“What if they can’t?”

“If they care, they will,” she said. “And it’s up to them to do it, not you. You don’t have to fix their problems. You’re not a superhero.”

“OK.” I wiped my eyes. “They’re still buttheads for being so selfish.”

Mom smiled and nodded. “Just more proof you have great parents.” She ran a hand through my hair, catching it with her fingers. “Why is your hair damp?”

“It’s a long story.”

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll let it go, but only because I don’t want to ruin this excellent mother-daughter moment.”

I laughed. “Thanks, Mom.”

In my room, Briar was waiting patiently at the desk, legs crossed.

“I don’t know if I’m ever going to get these wrinkles out of my trousers,” he said with more than a little defeat in his voice. “They’re soggy, too.”

“Relax, rabbit. I’ll iron them tomorrow.” I went into my closet, closing the door and changing into fresh clothes. The underwear was the most important part—while my shirt and pants had mostly dried, the underwear hadn’t been so kind. “I bet Wonder Woman never has to worry about soggy wedgies,” I muttered.

“What’s that now?” Briar asked once I emerged.

“Oh nothing. Let’s talk strategy.” I sat on the bed, putting the magic pen in the top drawer and setting the gold dragon coin on the desk.

Briar looked at it hesitantly. “Um … wouldn’t you rather sleep? You know how you get when you don’t get enough sleep.”

I narrowed an eye. “No. How do I get?”

“Oh. You get … uh …” He tapped his paws together nervously. “Just a little edgy, that’s all. Grumpy, too. Er, you have a tendency to forget to brush your teeth in the morning and your breath smells a bit …”

He trailed off.

“No, please … go on!” I said, eyes wide. “Let it all out, furball. Then we can have a loooooong discussion about how gross it is to talk to you when you have bits of carrot and lettuce stuck between your teeth. Which is, like, always.”

“Perhaps we should talk strategy.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

His paw wrapped around the gold coin. “Tell me about this wizard fellow.”

“The magician?” I shrugged. “Creepy. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Yes. Definitely. I could just feel it. Like, my entire body wanted me to run. The whole moment seemed so incredibly weird that I wanted to just get the heck out of there, even though I had a weapon to protect myself.”

“We must know who this particular Corrupted is,” Briar said. “There are only a few options. The Brothers Grimm only mentioned a few wizards or magicians or fellows of the like. One was from Jorinda and Jorindel, but another was from The Glass Coffin. And then of course there are fairies, who I don’t particularly enjoy bumping into. I need more to go on.”

“Do you want me to call him?” I asked.

His ears perked up. “Brilliant! Does he have a landline or cellular phone?”

“I’m kidding.”

“Oh. Right.” He grunted. “You snookered me.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up, old boy. My dreams will tell me more, right?”

“Perhaps …”

“So we wait until he appears in my dreams. Then I sneak around, find some information about him, and wham! We take him down.”

“Wham? I don’t think such a word …”

“Shhhhh,” I whispered, lying down on the bed. I tossed him the spare pillow. “I think you’re right: it’s time for sleepy-sleep, my friend.”

And so it was. My dreams, thankfully, were peaceful. Relaxing. No Corrupted. No monsters or weirdness. In fact, it wasn’t even really a dream at all; it was a movie. An old, grainy black and white movie.

In the movie, I stood in the back of a small schoolhouse. The house had one room, and sitting on the dirt floor were a dozen African-American children, each one wearing overalls and striped shirts. The woman at the head of the class was white, beautiful, with blonde hair and a sprinkling of freckles. She stood clutching a small green chalkboard no bigger than a laptop screen. She wore a white sundress that was dirty at the bottom, no doubt from the dirt floor.

“Jacob walked quietly home,” the woman read from the chalkboard. She had a smooth voice with a southern accent. “Identify the noun.”

“Jacob!” the kids yelled enthusiastically.

“Identify the verb … the action word.”

“Walked!” the kids called out.

“Excellent!” the woman stood up straight. There wasn’t any desk so she let the chalkboard fall to the floor. Her hand found her temple, pressing on her soft milk-white skin.

The scene seemed to change for just a moment, as quick as a lightning flash. It left a burning imprint in my eyes: a young man, standing with a young woman, holding her tight in front of a roaring fireplace. They were both wearing fancy royal clothes and little black masks, as if they’d just attended a costume ball.

At their feet was a body. A man, dressed immaculately in pants and a coat with braided trim and lots of shiny buttons.

“What have you done?” the young woman asked.

The scene shifted back. From outside came the low growl of thunder. The teacher looked out through the only window. “All right, students. Get home now. Don’t dally. Rain’s finally coming.”

The children stood up and walked to the old rickety-looking door. When they were all gone, the schoolteacher stood beside the window that overlooked a small old-timey town with narrow buildings clad in wood that had weathered to a silvery gray. A roiling mass of dark storm clouds loomed above.

I woke up the next morning thinking nothing of it.

Chapter 3

The next week, the dreams returned every single night. In every dream, I was inside the schoolroom. There was a thunderstorm approaching. The schoolteacher stood at the window and watched the clouds roll in.

Boy, if ever there was a metaphor for senior year of high school.

With the first crack of lightning, the scene temporarily changed, just a shard of a memory. Each time, I followed the same young man and woman as they disposed of the mysterious body that had been beside the fireplace. They fled down a long and winding staircase, pushing open a massive wooden door and disappearing into the night. I followed them twice. Both times, they hurried their way through a small town. I could tell from the writing on the signs outside the little buildings that they were in Germany, a long time ago: there were no cars and no tall buildings or asphalt roads.

The dreams left me perturbed. There seemed to be no Corrupted. So what was causing these?

Meanwhile, at school, Seth and I had officially become misfits. Social pariahs. Outsiders. We sat in the back of the lunch room with Rachel and Clyde, who were already about as “uncool” as you could get in the school. Of course, the “cool” kids weren’t exactly all that admirable. For starters, you had people like Joey Harrington, who if anything was becoming even more of a bully than he’d been in his previous years. Some of the kids from the track team and the baseball team had just sort of stopped paying so much attention to him, as if his aura of “coolness” had faded. Naturally, Joey responded by doubling down on his obnoxious and cruel antics.

Chase, for his part, kept his head high. But the defeat had returned to his eyes. He sat with his former teammates and ate his food, but they didn’t talk much. Then, five minutes before lunch was over, he wheeled out of the cafeteria to beat the traffic. He used the service elevator, alone. In class, he sat at the far end so that he didn’t have to wheel his way around the desks.

We hadn’t had much time to talk about the whole Corrupted are trying to destroy the world thing. In fencing class, Chase stayed focused. Rachel had officially joined the team, and with Chase’s help she began to get down the basics. She worked with a foil, which had its own set of rules and was the easiest to practice with. I graduated to the saber, which I was obviously more comfortable with (for reasons I could certainly never explain to Mr. Whitmann), and as such I had greater flexibility with my attacks.

Allow me to explain. In fencing, the weapon you use determines where you can hit your opponent and score a point. When you use a foil, you can only score a point by stabbing your opponent’s torso. But when you use a saber, it gets more terrifying. With a saber, you can score a point by hitting your opponent anywhere above the waist. That means you need to protect your arms and your head in addition to your torso. Another important point: with the saber, you can score points by using the edge of your blade, not just the tip. It makes every single attack a furious battle.

Fun stuff! And right up my alley, too. After all, how many of my opponents were getting extracurricular practice fighting off hordes of Corrupted monsters?

As it turned out, I would get the chance to size up the competition really soon. With the addition of Rachel, Mr. Whitmann immediately entered us in the Midwest fencing tournament that would be held in just a few short weeks. Combatants from all over the Midwest would be convening in downtown Milwaukee to do battle. We would be testing our mettle against some of the very best in the region.

No pressure or anything.

On Friday, with my grounding officially lifted, I invited Seth and Chase over once they were done with classes. Seth arrived first, and immediately he and the rabbit began putting together a game of Risk. They had their own rules, along with a “phantom” third army that attacked both of them every chance it could. Their games went fast and furious and required numerous glasses of milk and soda, not to mention vanilla wafers, cookies and various other forms of junk food.

Chase arrived at 3:30. When I saw his parents’ van pull up, I went to the door. There was still some obvious strain, frustration knotting the brows of parents and child. Still some adjusting that needed to be made. His mom tried to help him wheel up the driveway but Chase waved her away, pushing the wheels himself. At the door, he turned and gave his parents a hesitant wave, letting me grab the rubber handles in the rear of the chair and pull him up the little step and into the house.

“OK, OK,” he said, laughing when I started pulling him quickly into the living room. His hands found the wheels and deftly spun him around so he could face Seth and the rabbit kneeling beside the coffee table.

“Hello, Sir Chase,” Briar said cheerfully. He shook the attacker’s dice in both cupped paws, then let them fly onto the game board, causing all of the little Risk armies to bounce all over the place.

Chase shook his head, smiling. “And here I was starting to believe it was all a dream.”

“Nope,” Seth murmured, rolling his defender’s dice. “Crap! Two more armies gone.”

“Do you want something?” I asked Chase. “We have soda and cookies and stuff.”

He shook his head. “Not big on the junk food.”

“How about some carrots, celery, a little blue cheese, and whole grain crackers?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty specific.”

“That’s what she makes for herself,” Seth said. He made a puckered noise with his lips. “Pretty lame snack, if you ask me.”

“I second the motion,” said the rabbit.

“Ignore them,” I said, walking with Chase into the kitchen.

“Where are your parents?” Chase asked. “Or do they not care that a giant monster rabbit is in their house?”

“Monster?!” Briar exclaimed from the living room. I didn’t need to turn around to know his fur was bristling like he’d just stuck a fork in an electrical socket. “I resent that!”

“He has great hearing. And my parents are both working,” I answered. “Big ad campaigns. They’ll be home around six, or maybe later.”

Chase wheeled into the kitchen. His wheels had left heavy indentations in the living room carpeting, but the chair had a much easier time with the kitchen’s linoleum tiles. His eyes followed mine and he nodded solemnly. “Yeah, sorry. This chair is killer on carpeting.”

“Not a big deal.”

“No? You should hear my parents. Can’t stop talking about the carpeting. Can’t stop worrying about which room on the first floor is going to be turned into my bedroom. Dad wants to convert Mom’s study. Mom wants to convert Dad’s office.”

“Tell them to compromise,” Seth called out. “They should break down the wall and let you have both rooms.”

Despite himself, Chase couldn’t fight the grin. “Maybe, Seth.”

“Seth has good hearing, too. Here.” I handed him the plate of snacks. “Do you like orange juice?”

“Sure. Love it.”

I poured two glasses of orange juice and we returned to the living room. We sat around the coffee table, staring at the Risk board. Seth and Briar had chosen the black army as their “phantom” army. The little soldiers were spread across Asia, invading Europe, forcing their way down into Africa where Briar’s last remaining pieces were valiantly fighting for survival.

“There’s a metaphor here,” Seth said. “I’m sure of it! It’s on the tip of my tongue. Don’t tell me …”

“The Corruption,” Briar finished.

Seth snapped his fingers. “Right, right. Yeah. Perfect metaphor.”

“So wait,” Chase said, making a “T” with his hands. “Time out. How many Corrupted are there? Do they actually have an army to take over the world?”

I shrugged, looking at Briar. He thoughtfully finished chewing his cookie. “Difficult to say, I fear. The heroes have tried to keep track, but you know how it can be when you get busy. Who’s to say how many times a hero has forgotten to make an accurate record? That is, before I was created. I always keep an accurate record. We cross out names in the book.”

“The book?” Chase asked.

“That’s not important,” I said. “What’s important is this Order of the Golden Dragon.”

“Who?”

“Dudes who tried breaking into your house,” Seth explained. “Creepy. Unusual taste in accessories. Like to run around in bathrobes.”

“Hmmmm …” Briar clicked his tongue. “Well, that’s one way to put it, certainly. Are you certain your dreams are telling you nothing, Alice?”

I shook my head. “My dreams have been pretty peaceful all week. Just me in a schoolhouse. An old one.”

His ears perked up. So did Seth’s, only in a less literal sort of way. “How do you know it was from a long time ago?” the rabbit asked.

“It looks like a real old schoolhouse, somewhere south if the schoolteacher’s accent is any indication. The kids are all sitting on the floor.”

“Wait. I thought she could see the Corrupted in her dreams,” Chase said. “So why would she be dreaming about something that happened a long time ago?” He groaned, slapping his face. “Why am I asking a giant talking rabbit all of this?”

“They may be just dreams,” Briar offered, ignoring Chase’s incredulity. “It may be that whoever this mysterious Agnim the Magician is, he’s not yet become a threat.” His right paw tapped thoughtfully on his little furry chin. He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Still, it’s a strange occurrence. All of this sounds quite familiar.”

“We’ve been learning about the period after the Civil War in my U.S. History class,” I said. “So it’s totally possible I’m just dreaming about the stuff I’m learning. Following the Civil War, African-American kids didn’t have access to good schools. And they were segregated, especially in the South. So that could be the source of my dreams.”

“Dude, Mr. Feinman is so cool,” Seth said. “I wish I had him teaching every class.”

He was right: Mr. Feinman was cool. And his class was fun. Instead of lecturing us on everything and making us take notes until our hands cramped, we were always doing activities, making posters, acting out scenes from history. All this past week, we’d been learning more about Reconstruction, the period after the Civil War where slavery was abolished, but new laws were passed to punish former slaves. Laws that made it a crime to not have a job. Laws that made vagrancy a crime, where “vagrancy” could be interpreted to mean just about anything so that sheriffs could arrest former slaves and put them back to work.

Just this past Wednesday, we’d all sat on the floor just like in my dreams. Mr. Feinman taught us using a little chalkboard just like in my dreams. We weren’t allowed to take any notes because, he said, most of the students in the segregated schools didn’t have any school supplies. Then, the next day, we tried to remember everything he’d taught us. He hadn’t been able to teach us much. His little chalkboard could only fit a few words at a time and his handwriting was awful.

That was the point. The schools weren’t able to provide a good education. Add onto that the laws being passed to restrict as many of the ex-slaves’ freedoms as possible, and what you had was a pretty rough life. I could remember so much more when we weren’t just sitting and taking notes.

“Forget Mr. Feinman,” Chase said, pulling me back out of my daydreams. “Let’s talk about the Big Bad Wolf. Who is he and how do we stop him?”

“Oh, I’m quite sure he’s long dead,” Briar said. “At least, one of the terrifying wolves from the Grimms’ fairy tales is gone. Dispatched by the first hero.” He leaned back, clicking his tongue in frustration. “The Brothers Grimm were so fond of wolves in their stories.”

“OK, so what about evil stepmothers?” he asked. “Thundering giants? Witches?”

“Chase, this isn’t a game,” I snapped.

“Yeah dude,” Seth said. “It may sound totally fun and cool, but it’s actually pretty terrifying when you’re facing down a giant lizard creature that’s on the verge of eating your best friend.”

Chase shook his head. “You really made that sound cool.”

“I know, right?” Seth smiled, tapping Briar on the shoulder. “You see? You see what I mean? It’s totally impossible to make this whole Hero-versus-Corrupted thing not sound cool!”

Briar sighed, tugging on his vest. “Point taken.”

“Let’s stay on track,” I said. “We need a plan to deal with this guy, preferably before my next paper is due and definitely before the fencing tournament.”

“Good to know you have your priorities in order,” Briar mumbled. “Very well. I shall continue to ascertain more details of this mysterious cult. I shall do it by using my abilities as a skilled researcher to infiltrate the darkest depths of the Dewey Decimal System, the Dark Side of Dewey, if you will …”

“The what?” Seth asked, scratching his head.

“The Dewey Decimal System. It’s a set of numbers libraries use to arrange information …”

“Why don’t you just Google it?” Chase asked.

Another sigh from the rabbit, this time more pronounced. “It’s complicated. Suffice it to say, there is more to the world than the Google.”

“You two can have a job, too,” I told the boys. “Since you’re obviously part of the team now, and I know for a fact that neither of you has much homework this weekend, you guys can start searching the newspaper for strange occurrences.”

“What do you mean?” Seth asked, narrowing one eye suspiciously.

“The wizard guy, Agnim, mentioned that I would collect one more coin before the dragon awoke. He said he saw it in a vision. That means there’s another Corrupted hanging out somewhere in the neighborhood. And since my dreams aren’t helping me much, it’s going to be up to us to hunt down Agnim and this other Corrupted the old-fashioned way.”

“Ah, detective work!” Briar exclaimed. “A fine endeavor. I envy the both of you.”

“Spend the weekend researching?” Chase waved it off, then thought about it. I could see from the way his face cringed that a cold reality had hit him like a gust of wind. “I guess I have nothing better to do.”

Seth slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll go to the library!” His smile faded and his eyes got big. “Wow, I never in a zillion years thought I’d say that with any excitement.”

Chase sighed. “I guess it’s better than sitting around with my parents all weekend.”

“That’s the spirit!” Seth said. He narrowed one eye. “And you know what the best part about the library is?”

Chase shook his head.

A devilish smile crept across Seth’s face. “We don’t have to worry about running into our ex-girlfriends.”

That night, the dream loop continued with more intensity. I was still in the little schoolhouse, only this time the teacher dismissed her students immediately. She dropped the little chalkboard tablet and walked over to the window, staring at the black clouds rolling across the horizon. This was different. She looked more fearful than usual, her wide eyes searching the storm clouds as if waiting for something to appear. She looked older, too—around her eyes were little creased wrinkles. More had begun encroaching on the edges of her lips.

“Come closer,” she said.

At first, I didn’t think she was talking to me. Then, she tugged on the frayed collar of her white dress and turned to look at me.

“Come closer,” she said again.

I willed myself to step closer. I could feel grit from the dirt floor between my toes—I’d fallen asleep without socks again, I realized. The woman watched me hesitantly, tugging on her collar again. The dress was old and worn, not as pretty up close.

“Can you feel the heat?” she asked.

I could, just a little. It was warm and muggy; wet air was being carried into the town on the wind. “Who are you?” I asked, surprised to hear my own voice.

“Constance,” the woman said. Outside, the clouds emitted a low rumble of thunder. She sighed heavily at them as if she could blow them away. “This storm … it ain’t like other storms. That much I know. I may just be a schoolteacher, but I know a thing or two about weather.”

I stared out at the dark clouds. They looked like mountains come alive, each tumbling over its neighbors in a mad dash to reach the town first.

Lightning lit up the sky. Another brief image appeared. Once again it was the young man who’d been standing over the body beside the fireplace in my previous visions; this time he was in some cold, desolate town half-buried in snow. The buildings looked newer than the last time I’d seen him, but were still obviously from a long time ago. Horses pulled buggies through the knee-deep snow, and the young man avoided them as he trudged toward a small square-shaped building made of stone. He wore a dark cloak with the hood pulled back, and before he entered the building, he turned to watch a buggy pass. I could see his face was no longer youthful. It looked like he had some kind of disease: the skin on his face was bubbling in places and his lower lip looked as if it was on the verge of rotting off.

He turned back to the building. The sign beside the building was in a different language. It read “Toverkunst.”

Thunder broke the image away, returning me to the schoolhouse.

“That lightning’s close,” Constance said. “You can tell by how fast the thunder comes after.” She crossed her arms and closed her eyes. “There’s something terrible coming with this storm. And you aren’t safe.”

Chapter 4

I spent the entire weekend in the library, cleaning a giant section of shelves and keeping a keen eye on my helpers. I discovered Chase and Seth worked best when they didn’t have their cell phones to distract them, and so I confiscated them early on Saturday to ensure I got as much work out of them as possible.

We ate lunch on the fresh-cut grass outside. Lunch consisted of hot dogs, kettle-baked chips with ranch flavor, and various drinks. For me, that meant a fruit juice from the grocery store. For Seth and Chase, it meant soda, which seemed to be what their hearts pumped instead of blood.

“Where’s Briar?” Seth asked.

Chase, having stuffed half his mustard-smeared hot dog into his mouth, mumbled something unintelligible.

“Huh?” I asked. “What was that? You want me to paint your nails?”

He blushed, shaking his head. He chewed quickly, held up a finger, then finally swallowed. “I definitely don’t want my fingernails painted. I just pointed out how nice it must be to have a servant.”

“He’s not a servant!”

“Technically not,” Seth said. He threw a ranch-flavored chip in the air, hoping to catch it in his mouth. But of course a chip is sort of shaped like a sail, which meant the moment it peaked, it changed course dramatically on the way down.

Landing right on Seth’s eye.

“Oh holy crap!” he exclaimed over our laughter. He peeled the chip away, examined it with a squint, then popped it in his mouth. “That burned.”

“Anyway,” I said, “Briar is investigating a lead. We need to know where this Order of the Golden Dragon is located.”

“So you can kill the wizard and the dragon?” Chase asked. “And save the world?”

Seth nodded, slurping his soda. “It sounds so crazy when you say it out loud. But in your head, it all makes sense.”

“No.” Chase shook his head. “It doesn’t.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to deal,” I told him, stealing his bag of chips.

“Easy!” he said. “Did you seriously already eat yours?”

I nodded. “I did a long run today. Through the woods. With a sword.”

“You see?” Seth said. “You see what I’m talking about? She totally makes this whole hero thing sound so awesome that you completely forget about the insanely terrifying monsters.”

“Adverb alert,” I murmured, spitting out a few chip crumbs onto Chase’s lap. I blushed. “Erg … sorry.” My body cringed at the sight of my very exposed half-eaten chips on his clothes.

Chase just chuckled, brushing them off his lap. He was wearing a pair of deep charcoal gray jeans, slim but not too tight at the ankles, and some moccasin-esque suede shoes. He was also wearing a black vest over a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, apparently to show off his nice forearms and … beaded bracelets? It was a curious combination, even by Chase’s risky standards.

“What’s with the, uh, vest?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I guess your rabbit friend’s style is rubbing off on me.”

Seth chuckled. “If Briar was here, he’d say ‘Well, I do say!’”

We all laughed.

“Hardly.”

Seth jumped off the bench, his head whipping around wildly. Chase nearly tipped his wheelchair. I grabbed him, steadying the chair.

“You get used to that,” I told him.

“Where are you?” Seth asked. The area outside the library was empty except for us—a good thing, given our wild mood. Then again, we were teenagers … would anyone really think we were acting weird, even now as we searched for our invisible friend?

“I’m currently above you.”

We looked up. Above the bench was the art deco steel extension that hung over the library’s front doors. Sometimes, kids got their baseballs stuck up there and cried when we sadly informed them that there was no way out onto the overhang from the second floor. In our heads, Mary and Fran and I all thought the same thing: why were you tossing around your baseball outside the library to begin with?

“Did you do that so we would look as kooky as possible?” Seth asked. “I mean, can you at least turn visible so we can see you?”

“Right. Here goes.” He appeared, sitting on the overhang with his feet dangling. “How’s that?”

Seth shook his head. “I got nothin’. Chase?”

“Nope?” Chase said, squinting as he stared at the exact spot where Briar was sitting. His eyes searched the rest of the overhang.

Briar shivered, the fur on the tips of his ears puffing out. “How about now?”

“There we go,” Seth said. “Good to see you, buddy. Now will you come down already so we don’t look like we’re talking to the library?”

“Right.” He hopped down. “Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret about my invisibility …”

“It sucks?” Seth offered.

Briar’s fur bristled. He tugged on his vest, then, noticing Chase’s own wardrobe choice, gave a polite nod. “It’s nice to see one of you has a keen eye for fashion.”

Chase looked down. “Um, I’m not exactly going for the rabbit look. More of a Native American thing. You know, like something from an old Sherman Alexie novel. Before he was cool.”

“Ah.” Briar’s whiskers twitched. “Well, I have no idea what any of that means. Anywho, what I was going to say is that it’s much easier to remain visible to nearby humans. So if anyone walks by without me noticing … poof! This could be trouble.”

“And why are you going for a Native American look, exactly?” I asked Chase.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Briar waved his paw in front of me. “I didn’t run all the way here to patiently wait my turn.”

Seth snickered.

I gave them both the stink eye. “Then out with it, rabbit.”

“Ahem! The Order of the Golden Dragon. I do hope you all enjoy stories.”

“Just give us the abridged version,” I said. “You’re invisible, remember? If anyone notices three teenagers just sitting around staring at the library like a bunch of zombies, they’re going to call the police.”

“Right. Ahem! As I was saying …”

Chapter 5: Briar

Let’s pick up right where we left off in the story, eh? No point in dallying and getting reacquainted, after all. But I would like to point out that the story I’m about to tell was not acquired lightly, so to speak. In fact, yours truly had to call in many, many favors with individuals—human individuals, no less—who would have rather never seen my handsome rabbit face again.

But you see, the Order of the Golden Dragon is not exactly the type of organization you would find in a phone book. Or on the Google for that matter …

150 years ago, a mysterious figure named A. Hanzen started a guild called the Golden Dragon. Now, I know what you’re thinking: what’s a guild? Lucky for you, Br’er Rabbit is full of trivia. A guild is an association of artisans—craftsmen, in other words—who practice their work in a particular town. More or less. The point is this Hanzen fellow wanted to make sure he had absolute control over the creation of bullets.

Yup! Bullets. And it is no coincidence that this happened during the Civil War. North and South, dueling for the soul of the nation, a nation divided by the horrible force known as slavery.

Hanzen wasn’t exactly all that interested in dying for one side or the other. Hanzen had an even better idea: making money. Not just money, either … gold.

You see, Hanzen lived in one of the towns right on the southern border of Kentucky, right on the border between the North and South. The perfect place for a wretch like him to make a living selling bullets to Northern armies and Southern armies. But he realized he could make even more money if he didn’t have any competition in the neighborhood, so he gathered up all of the nearby bullet manufacturers …

… And killed them.

At least, that seems the most likely explanation. To be honest, I can’t find any details on Hanzen’s competition. But I did find seven—seven!—old newspaper articles reporting on fires at munitions factories in the area. All of them burned to the ground in a similar fashion at around the same time.

If this reminds you of that awful orphanage mistress, you’re not alone.

Needless to say, by the time the Civil War picked up, there was only one business along the border to buy bullets: The Golden Dragon. A more ridiculous name I cannot fathom, but it served a purpose: Hanzen wanted all of his payments in gold. Not silver. Not coins. Not the paper money you keep in your little wallet.

Gold.

The very color lures men in. It lures women, too, of course … I don’t mean to sound one-sided. Human beings have always had a fascination with the shiny yellow stuff as I like to call it. Its gleam catches your eye. Like money, a little bit is never enough. You need more. And more. And more. Pretty soon, you’re pouring it into molds and setting up golden statues of yourself all over your mansion.

But even that’s not enough, is it? Soon, the quest for gold—for wealth—corrupts even the most decent of human beings. Statues are just a start. What, a plain old bowl? I want my cereal poured into a gold bowl! What, what … a porcelain toilet bowl? Absolutely not! I want a throne of gold to sit upon and relieve my bowels!

You get the idea.

The Civil War dragged on for years. Thousands died. Thousands more were wounded. Families were destroyed. Towns were burned. And through it all, The Golden Dragon sold more and more bullets. More and more gold in the pockets of Mr. Hanzen and his guild.

Then the war ended. What became of this Hanzen fellow? He seemed to have disappeared completely. Trust yours truly on this—if there was any evidence to be found, Br’er Rabbit would have found it. But Hanzen left no paper trail, not even a breadcrumb or two for a curious little Gretel to follow.

Hiding the bullet factory was a little more difficult. It was sold off, and shortly thereafter the name was changed. Hanzen wasn’t involved. At least, not publicly.

Who is he? That is a trickier question to answer than one might think. You see, there aren’t many wizards in the Grimms’ fairy tales, but there are mysterious creatures and fairies with magical powers. Some can shape-shift. Others can cast spells. This reminds me of another story, one that involved a very pesky and frightening fairy.

Here’s what happened oh, about 140 years ago or so …

Eugene—the hero who created me—and I were in New York, itching to head south. Eugene was having some fierce dreams about a very particular Corrupted who just looooooved to freeze people into statues. We needed to get down there right quick. The problem was a man of color—that is, an African-American—couldn’t just walk around in the South back then. Even after the Civil War, people of color weren’t treated too well, and they could be arrested for doing something as simple as walking down the street, if the local sheriff felt so inclined.

Now, don’t ask me why. I’m just a rabbit, after all. But I can tell you one thing for sure: my creator, Eugene, was a darned good human being. He never once raised his hand against his fellow man, and he went out of his way to help people even when there was a terrible Corrupted breathing down his neck.

Of course, Eugene couldn’t just tell the racist sons of guns all of that. And far be it from me to try and explain it! So we had to be real careful-like, strategizing and making sure we took a crowded train into Georgia, making sure Eugene had some white family willing to “vouch” for him in case he got stopped by a local law authority.

Eugene wasn’t the only one with stress, I should point out. It was right around this time vacuum cleaners were invented, turning our once beautiful world into a nightmare the likes of which the animal world had never seen. The first truly motorized monstrosity was called the “Puffing Billy,” and in only a few short years it permanently changed the world for the worse.

Right! Moving on. Where was I now? Ah, yes. The trip to Georgia. I’ll make a long story as short as possible …

Eugene found an old friend from his Underground Railroad days, and the sheriff of the town was kind enough to let Eugene walk around with his “escort” without being hassled. Oh, what a sweet, nice sheriff! And he only asked for a few dollars in exchange for this kind-hearted service!

Said the sarcastic bunny.

There was this one night, though. See, we had to “hunt” at night because this fairy wouldn’t come out during the day and we sure as heck couldn’t walk around hunting her. She’d been all over, snatching up people and taking them to her lair and causing all sorts of plagues that were downright Biblical. As if turning people to stone wasn’t enough, she had to get all hocus-pocus with the creepy-crawlies. Frogs. Hail. Locusts—I was finding all sorts of things in the local papers. I’m not so proud to confess that the frogs got to me but good. Several ended up under my vest, crawling all around with their scratchy legs, and I had a bit of a freak-out moment.

Never mentioned it to Eugene, though. Truth be told, I looked up to him. Never said as much, really. I hope he knew it. When he died … I just felt it in my bones. I wasn’t even around to help him.

Anywho. You’d better believe Eugene found that fairy soon enough and gave her the old Corrupted heave-ho. I thought that was it. I thought after all we’d been through, we’d be making our way up to New York where things were at least a little bit easier for a person of color and Eugene didn’t have to go walking around getting hassled quite so much. But it turned out we had one last thing to do.

We had to wait for a storm.

He’d seen it in a dream, you see. And he told me he couldn’t give me any details. I was a bit hurt, I admit, but I understood well enough. This was something “between heroes.” All he told me was that there was a woman in town, and she’d been touched by the magic of a Corrupted. She could see things, almost as if she were a hero herself. Eugene needed to get to the bottom of it.

Well, we found her sure enough. A schoolteacher. A white schoolteacher who educated the children of ex-slaves in a run-down little schoolhouse that the children’s parents had built on the edge of the town. Just talking to her alone was a risk because the color of Eugene’s skin didn’t match the color of this schoolteacher’s skin. But there was no time to adhere to the town’s more creative laws—Eugene needed to pass along this information, no two ways about it.

That afternoon, the storm on the horizon finally rolled in. That was our cue to leave.

I never did fully understand the significance of that storm. All Eugene said was that he’d had a dream.

The Order was already in New York by the time Eugene and I returned. They were everywhere, in fact … we just didn’t know it. Word has it, they’d been moving around a lot, buying up companies and changing the names to avoid detection, waiting for the next war so they could hoard more gold. After the Civil War came World War I, then World War II, then the Korean War, then Vietnam, then Iraq, then Afghanistan, then Iraq again.

During each new war, the Order of the Golden Dragon very quietly sold bullets and bombs, asking for payment in gold or taking money and buying up gold. Every single war, every single death, the Order made more and more money. And they learned to do it quieter and quieter …

Until poof! The Order disappeared completely.

Chapter 6: Alice

“Wait, that’s it?” Seth asked.

Briar’s whiskers twitched. “It really was a pretty good story.”

“Yeah …” Seth shrugged. “I was just expecting … you know, a dragon.”

Chase nodded. “It was a bit lacking in the monster department, Mr. Rabbit.”

Briar stood up straight, clearly offended. “Well, I think we can be quite sure there is some kind of dragon, not to mention a frightening wizard and who knows what else? So all in all, this is quite serious.”

Chase laughed.

“It’s not funny,” I said.

Chase laughed harder.

“Hey! What’s your deal?”

“It’s just so amazing is all,” Chase said, wiping his eyes. “A giant rabbit is warning us about a dragon. I think I’m still in shock.” He looked around. “Is this still earth? Have I landed on some other earth in an alternate universe?”

“Oh! Like Planet of the Apes?” Seth asked. “Yeah, that would make a lot more sense.”

“It’s real,” I said. “You’re both just going to have to deal with it.”

“Alice,” said Briar, gently touching my shoulder. “Please keep in mind that you are the hero. You were born with a destiny. These monsters and hidden dangers are not so easy to accept for the rest of humanity.”

I drew in a deep breath, cursing myself for not remembering. Of course Chase wasn’t accepting everything that had happened. “I’m sorry I brought you guys into this. I didn’t mean to.”

“That idiotic dwarf brought me into this,” Seth said, clenching a fist.

“I guess searching through your closet was kind of my fault,” Chase added. “Although the fish was calling out to me.”

Seth’s eyes crossed. “What? What?”

“Just never mind,” I said, waving it all away. “The point is this is between me and the Order. Briar, do you think Eugene’s dreams are related to my dreams?”

Briar rubbed his furry chin. “They are eerily familiar. Perhaps some residual memory passed by the hero … I don’t know, quite honestly. Before I could pester Eugene enough to get more information, he was gone.”

I opened my mouth to ask more, then shut it. The tips of Briar’s ears had drooped. He was staring at the concrete sidewalk, lost. I turned to Seth and Chase. “You guys can help on the sidelines, but I don’t want either of you involved when it’s time to confront these lunatics.”

“Oh, lunatics is such a bad word,” Briar said, shivering. “And this wizard, if he’s connected to the mysterious Hanzen fellow, is anything but crazy. By all accounts, he appears to be quite sane. Calculating.”

“You’re right.” I paced in front of the bench, thinking. “So this Corrupted wizard used to be named Hanzen but now he goes by the name of Agnim. He built an empire selling bullets. He created the Order of the Golden Dragon. Then the Order just disappeared a few years ago.”

Briar nodded. Seth ate a chip.

“If Agnim is waiting for the Golden Dragon to awaken, then it must be some kind of Corrupted creature that’s been mutated,” Chase said. “Right? Or transformed. Or … something. And if it’s a sleeping dragon, it’s probably huge. Right? That’s what’s happening here, right?”

“Agnim is paying people to transport it,” Seth finished. “He’s giving them gold, and in exchange they’re transporting around a massive dragon.” He shook his head. “That kind of operation would take hundreds of people. Maybe thousands.”

“This order,” Briar said ominously, “has existed in the shadows for a hundred years. And from what I’ve gathered, even those operating in the highest echelons of the Order do not know who—or what—guides them.”

“Echelons are a kind of pastry,” Seth explained to Chase.

“No,” Briar said gravely. “I fear no sugared snacks are in our future.”

“We need to find a trail,” Chase said. “We need to find the people who belonged to the original Golden Dragon guild and figure out where they went.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it when I saw the family walking across the parking lot toward the library. I used my arm like a bar to gently push Briar away from the path so the two little kids wouldn’t bump into the invisible rabbit. “My dreams are getting clearer,” I said once the family had passed. “They’ll give me the answers we need.”

That night, there were no children in the school room. Just the teacher, standing at the window and watching the dark clouds rolling toward town. She had her arms crossed, and as I stepped closer I could see the goosebumps on her pale skin. Her dress was caked with not just dust, but mud near her feet. Her normally pristine white shoes were layered in mud, too.

“He told me you would come,” she said. She turned to me. “I believed him. I felt sorry for him, in a way. He was in love with a woman, but circumstances had made it impossible for them to be together.” She laughed. “He shouldn’t have even been talking to me at all. It’s against the rules, you know.”

“It is? Why?” I asked.

“Because whites and Negros are not supposed to intermingle,” she answered. Her southern accent was almost musical. “It’s a foolish rule. But it won’t last. You can only divide humanity for so long. Eventually, we’ll understand that we’re all brothers and sisters.”

Outside, the dark clouds lit up. Bright purple bolts of lightning darted across them like veins.

Another flash of an image: the same mysterious man, wearing a dark robe, lurking in the shadows of a massive factory filled with rusted old machinery. As two men in brown overalls walked by, he put his hood up, hiding the skin that had begun to turn green. His eyes glowed a golden white.

The two workmen stepped beside a long conveyor belt, one of two that ran the length of the massive factory. They began packing away the bullets running along the black belt.

Thunder shattered the image. Loud, loud thunder that shook my stomach.

“We must hurry.” Constance turned to me, grabbing my shoulders. “I can’t explain everything to you, but I shall try to give you as much as possible. Years ago, a Negro named Eugene Washington passed through town. He sought me out. He said he’d seen me in a dream, and he said that some day, I would be visited by a young woman.”

“Me?” I asked. “He knew I would visit you?”

She nodded. “He said I shouldn’t ask you too many questions, nor should you ask many of me. We exist in different times. But he said you are real and you must believe that I am real. However you’re visiting, be you angel or ghost, I’ve seen you appear and reappear numerous times.”

I glanced out at the clouds. They were closer now. The thunder seemed continuous, rattling the thin, cheap window.

“It’s been there for days,” the woman said. “Waiting on the horizon.”

“What year is it?”

“The year is 1875,” she answered.

“Oh holy crud.”

She smiled. “A strange expression. But then again, this isn’t the most normal of circumstances, is it?”

“No, it’s definitely not.”

Her fingers found the window, pressing against them so that the skin under her manicured nails turned white. “So you are here, just as he predicted. We have little time. I will tell you what I promised to tell you, and then the storm will hit our town. And then … then he will come to kill me.”

A sharp crack of lightning caused both of us to start. She looked shaken, unable to form words. When she did finally talk, each word came out in a clipped whisper.

“The cloaked man will come for you. In your sleep. He will torment you. He will try to break you. He will bend your dreams, twist them, distort them … all in hopes of destroying your mind. You must not give in.”

“But how?” I asked. The cloaked man. Agnim. Just thinking about him made my stomach lurch. That night outside of Chase’s house, seeing him face to face, had terrified me.

“I have seen a monster in my dreams,” the woman said. A white cloud seemed to slip over her pupils. “But he was not always a monster. He was once a simple thief. He … killed a man. On accident. Then he killed his wife. He couldn’t control his magic. He was utterly alone. That was when he began to change.”

“Corrupted,” I whispered.

A tear escaped the woman’s eye. “He found a terrible secret. A creature that could do terrible damage to the world. He cast a spell and put it to sleep, biding his time.” She reached out for me, but her hands sifted through my ghost-like visage. She held her hands out, as if hoping I might be able to touch her. I couldn’t. “You must not let him succeed. No matter the cost.”

“No matter the cost,” I repeated. “But … how can you know all of this?”

“I’ve touched him,” she answered, closing her eyes. “I brushed past him long ago, two strangers walking in opposite directions. Since then, visions appear before my eyes. I’ve had them for years now. They plague me.”

Another crack of thunder. We both jumped. The woman turned to the window.

“Who was Eugene?” I asked. “Can you tell me more about him? Did he say anything else?”

She shook her head, hurrying to the window on the other side of the small classroom. She pressed her hands against the glass. Outside, rain pattered at the window. “It’s too late. The storm is here.”

I followed her gaze. There, walking down the dirt road leading into town, was a man in a black cloak. Little drops of rain peppered the road, soaking into the dirt. The man’s cloak flapped in the wind. Above him, bolts of lightning streaked across the sky, as if obediently following him. His hood was drawn tight, his face hidden.

But the eyes glowed.

Chapter 7

Do I really need to say that I woke with a start at this point? I think it should pretty much be assumed from here on out that any time I dream about the Corrupted, I don’t exactly wake up feeling well rested.

Needless to say, we had some research to do. We needed to find Agnim and his little group of jerks.

But before we could get there, I needed to get through school.

First, the good news: Rachel was doing great in fencing. As a team, we felt good. The Midwest tournament was coming up fast, but the team had begun to gel. With Chase as the assistant coach and a little extra funding from the school to buy more equipment, we could hold two matches at a time. Chase and Mr. Whitmann switched off on the teams, and despite our cozy friendship, Chase refused to go easy on me.

Good. I liked that. I respected it, too.

What I would have liked was maybe just a little more attention from him. Instead, he kept the focus mainly on Rachel, trying to get her into a solid stance and swinging her foil like a pro.

“Diversify your tempo,” Chase urged, wheeling back and forth beside the match as Rachel sparred with Jasmine. Jasmine, wearing the helmet with the blue stripe, parried all of Rachel’s blows, landing decisive point after point.

“Return to your en garde stance,” Chase instructed her.

“I can’t,” she murmured through the mesh mask. Her feet tripped over each other as she tried a clumsy crossover. She fell forward, pretty much walking right into the tip of Jasmine’s foil before plopping on the mat.

The boys groaned. Jasmine took off her mask, sighing. Rachel rolled over, setting her mask on the rubber mat. She pulled back her sweaty hair, glancing at Chase.

Chase smiled. “Uh … that was actually better than last time!”

Now the bad news: Joey Harrington. He was making everyone’s life more difficult now. You’d think with football season starting, he would go easier so he didn’t get into any trouble. Quite the opposite. Everything he did, he got detention. No matter what he did, it was detention. No suspensions. No expulsion hearings. It gave him free rein to do whatever he wanted.

Like, for instance, picking a fight with a couple of sophomore boys in the hallway. The first floor hallway was a risky place to pick a fight, because on one end of the hall were the offices for the principal and the nurse and the secretaries who sent us home with permission slips and all sorts of other paperwork. The trick—and I think Joey had this down pretty well—was to use the other end of the hallway, because the last two classrooms were for Band and Symphony, and the doors were reinforced with soundproof panels.

Perfect place to cause a ruckus, which is exactly what Joey did after third period. He was heading down to lunch, and Seth and I were following a good ten steps behind him when it happened. The poor sophomore boys didn’t even see it coming. In this case, “it” was a violent shoulder-check, the kind football players give their opponents when they want to knock them out of bounds.

And down the boy went, dragging one of his friends along with him.

“Oh crap,” Seth said. He grabbed my shoulder. “How about you not play hero on this one?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I muttered. The other students in the hallway hurried out of the way as the two sophomores got up, shouting obscenities at Joey. Joey just stood there, smiling. He had two of his football player buddies with him, standing behind him. Big, burly offensive linemen.

“Must be nice to have bodyguards,” Seth said.

Joey slipped in front of the door leading to the staircase, giving both sophomores a push when they tried to get past him.

“Just let us pass!” one of the sophomores shouted.

“Let us pass! Let us pass!” Joey said in a whiny voice. His bodyguards laughed. None of the other students standing in the hallway followed suit. There was a solid mixture of all grade levels, it seemed, and all of them had one thing in common: this entire scene made them uncomfortable. You could just totally tell.

“Go around,” Joey said, pointing toward me. When he saw me, his hard façade slipped momentarily. He shook his head, scowling at the sophomores. “You can use the stairs on the other side of the school. That’s the sophomore and freshmen staircase today.” When no one moved, he shouted in his loudest voice: “Go!”

The sophomores and little freshmen began filtering away, walking past me and Seth toward to the other end of the hall. I watched them go, studying their movements just like Briar always told me when we were training. What did their body language say? Their heads were down. Some of them looked embarrassed. Some looked afraid.

“That’s really impressive,” I said, turning back to Joey. My voice seemed to echo in the near-silent hallway.

Joey crossed his arms, glaring at me.

“What’s your next trick, Joey?” I asked. “Terrorizing senior citizens? Taking toys away from children?”

“Maybe,” he said with a wry smile, “I’ll pick on the handicapped.”

A flash of anger spread through my body like a forest fire.

“Woah, cowgirl,” Seth whispered, grabbing my shoulder. “Just let it go.”

I took a deep breath. I could feel my face redden. Joey noticed, grinning.

And then Mr. Feinman was between us. He was frowning, obviously angry, the sleeves of his blue sweater pushed up. “Whatever is going on stops right now,” he said.

Joey turned to him and looked down. Yup … looked down. Mr. Feinman was only about my height, and Joey stood a full head taller than him. Not exactly the most imposing of authority figures. And Joey knew it, too. He stepped around Mr. Feinman, shrugging away his arm.

Just to show his power. Just to show Mr. Feinman and me that he was the one in control.

“Go to lunch,” Mr. Feinman ordered Joey. He directed his attention to the two goons standing by the staircase doors. “Clark, Brad. Go.”

“We’re going, we’re going,” Joey said, giving me one last glare. He pushed his goons out of the way, kicking one of the doors open. The sound echoed down the now-empty hall.

Mr. Feinman sighed. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk with you to the other staircase so you don’t get in trouble for wandering the halls. Are you two going to class?”

“Lunch,” Seth answered. I was glad he was there. I’d almost let my temper get the better of me. I’d almost gone after Joey. Again. And it wouldn’t have changed anything.

“Well, the good news with Joey is he has a short attention span,” Mr. Feinman said with a weak smile. “He won’t bother you later, right?”

“Oh, who’s to say with Joey?” Seth asked. “His entire life is a video game. Picking on people racks up points. Picking on defenseless people racks up extra points. Alice is kinda like the end boss.” He scratched the blond whiskers on his chin. “Or maybe Joey’s the end boss.”

“I definitely think Alice is the hero,” Mr. Feinman said. He looked down at the floor. “I can’t protect you guys. I can give Joey detention and I can send him to the principal. The teachers can complain all they want, but Principal Stevens …” He sighed again.

We walked past the offices on the other end of the school. Mr. Feinman gave the secretaries a wave. “OK, get down to the cafeteria. I’m going to report the incident. For what it’s worth.”

“Good luck,” Seth said with a wave. He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets, shaking his head. “He’s gonna need it.” He opened the door for me, giving me a weird look. “You all right?”

“No,” I said. “I’m sick of Joey Harrington.”

“Everyone is sick of him. But it’s the last year, so at least we have that.”

“Yeah, and then someone is going to take his place.” I grabbed the staircase railing, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. “Sorry for snapping. I’m just a little peeved.”

“Ah, it’s OK. Crap, you’re so right. Joey’s not the only bully out there. If the principal’s not gonna stop him, then he’s not gonna stop the next one. Man! Can you imagine how much it’s gonna suck ten years from now when robots are the ones bullying us?”

I cracked a smile.

Seth nudged my arm. “There we go. OK, obviously I’m probably joking about the robots. Probably. But in all seriousness, don’t you think a heroic beat-down would solve this problem on the spot? You know, maybe strike a little fear in his black heart?”

“I’m not hurting him,” I said. I thought about my dad and what he said about violence. He’d been right: slamming Joey’s head into the locker hadn’t solved anything.

Seth opened the basement door, glancing around. The hallway was empty. “OK,” he said in a low voice, “what if you just drew a hole he could fall into? Like you did with those robed dragon dudes? You don’t have to hurt him … just, you know, hide him away somewhere until we’re in our thirties.”

I laughed. “Let’s make that a last resort.”

In the lunchroom, it was as if nothing had happened. Joey and his jock friends were sitting at the tables near the front, already engaged in such fascinating topics as “What did you watch on TV last night?” and “How much can you bench press?” No, I’m being totally serious here. This is not an example of the hero exaggerating.

Chase and Rachel and Clyde were sitting at the far table on the other end of the cafeteria. The tables near the back were more crowded than usual. I grabbed a slice of veggie pizza and an orange juice and followed Seth to the back, trying to figure out why so many had congregated toward our section of cafeteria, normally reserved for the outcasts.

Then it dawned on me: they were the underclassmen. The ones Joey had bullied in the hall right before he’d directed his ire at me.

“The swallows are lined up,” Clyde said after we’d sat down. He pulled down his sunglasses, revealing blue eyes that momentarily stunned me. “All they need is direction.”

“What does that mean,” Seth mumbled, picking at his cup of ketchup-soaked French fries.

“He’s all about the metaphors today,” Rachel said. She shook her head. “He’s been listening to a lot of Led Zeppelin. Just go with it.”

Clyde shrugged, pushing his sunglasses back up.

“I was getting used to it being quiet back here,” Seth said. “It was peaceful. Now it’s … boy, I dunno. Hard to describe.”

“Tense,” Chase offered.

Seth snapped his fingers a few times. “That’s the word. Tense.”

“Still better than being over there,” Chase said, nodding his head toward the baseball and track clique congregating near the center of the cafeteria. When Seth looked, Chase stole a few of his fries. He immediately regretted it, holding the ketchup-slathered potato strings like they were worms. “Ew, that’s a lot of ketchup.”

I felt the tension, too. I knew exactly what all these students around us were feeling: anxiety. Fear. Worry. Worry that any moment, Joey might decide “Hey, you know what would be fun? Picking on someone.” And then he would look around, and that’s when all these underclassmen’s stomachs would hollow out. A sick feeling would come over them. Their hearts would start racing. They would think to themselves, please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me.

Then Joey would choose his target. It could be totally random or he could have a bone to pick with someone, even for something as ridiculous as a weird look in the hallway or someone accidentally bumping into him. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was how bad it would be. Would Joey just throw something at them, or would he say something mean? Would he keep saying mean things until the person cried? Would he push the person? Would he corner the person in one of the stairwells where teachers rarely patrolled? There were a million options for bullies like Joey. He could even enlist the help of the Mean Girls who hung out with his clique. They could go online and continue the torment.

Girls like Trish. She was watching us, sitting between Joey’s friends and Chase’s old friends, laughing at one of the sinister comments made by Cynthia Blake, Mean Girl Number One. They were all wearing light pink blouses, gold necklaces, their smartphones sitting next to their salads. So alike. And they’d managed to assimilate Trish to the point that she wouldn’t even talk to me in the halls.

Thinking about all of it made me sick to my stomach.

“Hey,” Chase said. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” I shook my head. “Huh?”

“You’re frowning,” Rachel said. She looked over her shoulder. “Did you see a mouse?”

“Oh no way, man,” Clyde said, lifting his feet onto the table. Seth and Chase groaned, pulling their food away from his dirty brown sneakers.

“I’m just thinking,” I said. “That’s all. Eeeeew, Seth! You have ketchup all over your face.” I tossed one of my napkins at him. “You really need to carry wet-naps or something.”

Seth sat up straighter, using the napkin to test one of the many ketchup smudges around his mouth. “I’m comfortable with who I am.”

Chase stifled a chuckle.

Rachel shoved Clyde’s feet off the table. “Woah!” he exclaimed. “Did you guys see that?”

“She pushed your feet off,” Chase said, shrugging. “So what?”

Clyde smiled. “That’s the first time ever that Rach has done something unexpected, man.”

A little meek smile crept up one side of her face.

“Elaborate,” Chase ordered. His eyes were narrowed, almost suspicious.

Clyde tugged on his flannel sleeves. “Rachel’s predictable, man. Always has been. It’s why I dig her. I don’t have to think too much around her. You guys on the other hand … man! You make my brain hurt.”

“She is predictable,” Chase said. He rubbed his stubbly chin. “She’s also got great fencing potential.”

“No, not really.” Rachel laughed nervously. “You’re just being nice.”

Chase shook his head. “Nope. I’m being honest.”

Rachel sat up a little straighter. She cleared her throat. “Still don’t believe ya.” But she totally did. She looked proud. Confident.

At least there was that.

This is the part where I leave school early for library and everyone else finishes up classes for the day. Then, in the early evening, everyone gets some homework done—the good students do, at least—and then whittle away the time before bed. Then everyone goes to bed and has wonderful dreams about sugar plums and supermodels and Hollywood hunks.

But not yours truly. Yes, I understand I’ve complained about this before. But you know what? I’m allowed to complain a little bit. I was sacrificing my beauty sleep and social life to save the world, for crying out loud. And besides, what was about to happen over the course of the next week was like nothing I’d experienced before.

I fell asleep that night listening to Briar’s soft snoring, and felt myself jolted back to that very same schoolhouse. Only this time the classroom was empty. I stood patiently, digging my toes into the dirt floor, waiting for something to happen.

Thunder happened.

The rumble shook the window in its frame. I hurried over, searching the little town. Sure enough, the same cloaked figure was advancing down the hard-packed dirt road. The pitch-black thunder clouds churned above him, seeming to follow his progress like obedient pets. His hood was drawn over his face, his wart-ridden green fingers slipping out from the sleeves of his cloak. His dragon pendant swung from his around his neck.

I ran outside. Yup, Crazy Alice the hero ran outside to meet him, not realizing she didn’t have her trusty magic pen with her. Not realizing just what kind of danger she was in.

The moment his hood lifted up, a blinding bolt of lightning hit the road between us. I felt my feet lift off the dirt.

“Woah,” I said, surprised to hear my own voice. I held out a hand—I was visible. I could hear my voice. This wasn’t the usual “follow the Corrupted” dream.

Another crack of lightning hit the metal sign of one of the small square buildings beside the road, sending a shower of sparks that landed on the cloaked figure. His black robe caught fire.

“Yessssss,” I hissed, clenching my fists.

A drop of rain landed on my forehead. Then another. Then a dozen more. I wiped the water away from my eyes. When I opened them again, I could see the sheet of rain approaching me. It was like a curtain of water, traveling down the road, hitting the cloaked figure and putting out the flames on his robe, then slamming into me like a ton of bricks.

The sound was deafening, like applause in a sports stadium. I floated backward, wiping furiously at my eyes. I tried to step on the ground, but my ghost form wouldn’t fully obey my commands. All around me, the dirt road seemed to be exploding as the thick droplets landed and burst.

“Come on,” I said, reaching down with my tippy-toes. The rain soaked through my shirt and pajama bottoms. I wiped the water from my face again, then searched for Agnim.

And screamed.

Before I could lift my arm to defend myself, his sickening green hand was around my throat. I clutched his arm. The sleeve of the black robe was pulled back and I could see the green hideousness of his boil-ridden skin, blackened in places as if he’d been recently burned.

“You think you control this dream?” he asked in a low, guttural growl. I kicked wildly at him, but his reach was too long. He kept his head down, his hood covering his face. Water slid over the fabric, the rain coming so fast that it created little waterfalls at the edge.

“Let go,” I choked out. I didn’t even want to touch his disgusting hand, but I had to try and pry his fingers away. His wet skin was slippery, his nails black and broken.

“A storm comes for this town,” he said, squeezing tighter. I coughed, feeling my lungs fight desperately to open up an airway. “Or should I say came? After all, this has already happened. What you see now is nothing more than a fleeting after-image. You and I aren’t here. I’m safely in my lair. You’re tucked in bed with your loyal leporidae companion sleeping peacefully on the floor.”

“Leporidae?” I asked, picking at his fingers for a reprieve.

“Otherwise known as a rabbit.” He cocked his head. From somewhere underneath that black hood, I was sure he smiled. “You’re not the only one armed with knowledge, hero.”

Above us came a loud crack of thunder. I felt my breath escape my body. I was choking. I was really, really choking! My fingers clawed desperately at his, pulling one away, then another, then a third, screaming out the last little bit of air left in my lungs.

Agnim let go. I floated backward, taking in a long breath. The rain pushed me downward. I felt my feet touch the wet, muddy road. I scraped my toes, scooping up mud, trying to gain some kind of traction.

“Come on!” I shouted, looking around frantically for something, anything that I could use to defend myself. I felt a surge of panic. It was as if his cold, strong hands were still tight around my neck. Whatever was happening here was even more intense than the dream experience on the cursed ship. This dream felt real enough to kill me. Man, was I missing the good old days when Corrupted couldn’t see me in my dreams.

Agnim stood silently in the middle of the muddy road, watching me from underneath his hood. The rain didn’t seem to be soaking through his robe at all, as if it was made of some water-resistant material. And he wasn’t standing on the road, either. He was floating, just like me.

He moved forward. Slowly.

“Give me a break!” I shouted, using my heel to push myself backward. I turned myself around, trying to swim through the air. It was working. It was working! I swam past an old general store, then a red house with shuttered windows, then a store that had recently been painted white, its paint slowly washing off onto the porch, pooling at the base of the steps where the road dipped. The sign—Ace Telegraph Service—had been recently painted, too, and the red letters were quickly bleeding away under the intense force of the downpour.

“Come to me,” Agnim whispered.

I spun around. He was following me, his green hands folded together in a patient vigil. A strange, red glow appeared between his fingers.

“Come on!” I shouted, kicking my legs wildly in the air. Go lower, I told myself. Go lower. Envision yourself dropping to the ground.

The rain hit harder now, painfully pelting my face. I risked looking up into the black clouds. They blotted out the sun, casting the entire empty town in a shadow. Looking up and seeing the millions of thick rain drops only made me dizzy, so I turned back to Agnim, hoping I could keep the distance between us for a few moments more. Until I could reach something.

“Wake up,” I hissed between clenched teeth. “Come on, Alice. Sleep’s overrated anyway. Let’s just read a book until it’s time to go to school.”

A sinister laugh cut through the loud pat-pattering of raindrops. “Do you not understand, hero? You are not. In. Control.”

His spread his hands. The red glow grew brighter, forming a ball shape that flared with energy. This was bad news—I had to move.

But how?

The light post! There, just past the Ace Telegraph building: a light post, tall and green and only a few feet away. If I could just swim my way there …

I kicked my legs furiously just like I learned in swim class, floating through the air. An intense burst of raindrops blinded me and I had to reach out with my hands, grasping for the cold metal. I got it! I clutched the post, wiping my eyes, searching for Agnim.

He was still in the middle of the road, still clutching the fiery red ball between his hands. His fingers shook violently, as if he was struggling to contain the magic. Water drops landed on the ball, hissing and evaporating into steam.

“Oh that is so not good,” I said, tensing my bare feet against the wet light pole.

The fiery ball expanded. The light from the flame illuminated Agnim and even with his head bent low, I could see his green chin, his pointed green nose, his black lips pulled back to reveal a set of sharp carnivore’s teeth clenched together.

“Pretend this isn’t a dream,” I ordered my tense legs. “Pretend we might actually die, legs. Because we might.”

Agnim brought his hands forward. The ball followed, breaking apart and growing a hundred times brighter. My legs pushed me off even before I was ready, propelling me across the street. I spun, watching the ball turn into a dozen small beams of red light, slicing through the air and evaporating the rain. Three of the beams cut through the light post, melting the metal. The rest traveled another dozen feet, then seemed to fizzle out under the downpour of rain.

With part of its structure melted away, the light pole slowly bent over, then snapped in two, splashing mud as it hit the road.

“Oh holy crud,” I said, turning swiftly around just in time to reach out and grab the edge of a small house on the other side of the road. The wooden panels were rough hewn, and I felt a sharp pain as a large splinter of wood dug into the palm of my right hand.

But at least I had something to hold onto. At least I wasn’t floating helplessly like an astronaut in the middle of space. I looked back to Agnim. He’d turned to face me. Another fiery red ball was forming between his green hands. As the glow grew more intense, the rain near the ball hissed and turned to steam. The glow illuminated Agnim’s rotten teeth.

He was smiling.

He pushed the ball toward me. I jumped, watching the ball break off into a dozen beams of red light that peppered the house, burning through the wood like it was made of paper. Little snake-like trails of steam rose up from each beam before they dissipated.

This time, I didn’t have a chance to reach the other side of the road. Agnim moved quickly, crossing the road and reaching out. I could feel his grip even before his repulsive hands closed around my throat. He held me up in the rain.

“Are your dreams safe?” he asked, digging his nails into my skin. He pulled me closer. I could almost see underneath the hood. I didn’t want to, though. I didn’t want to see his face. I closed my eyes, letting the hard raindrops pelt my soft eyelids.

“Wake up,” I whispered.

“I will torment you,” he hissed, spitting rainwater onto my cheeks. “I will break your mind and then, only then, will you face me. Broken. Defeated. And before I kill you, you will watch the Awakening and know that your world is doomed. Open your eyes.”

My eyelids forced themselves open against my wishes. I looked away from Agnim’s shrouded face, then gasped. It wasn’t just rain falling from the sky anymore.

There were frogs, too.

Chapter 8

I woke with both hands clutching my neck. Briar’s furry paws were wrapped around my fingers, pulling desperately.

“Gak!” I coughed out, letting go.

Briar’s fur stood on end. He pretended to wipe sweat from his brow, then glanced nervously at the door. My alarm was going off, morning sunlight streaming in through the window. “Er, I’m not sure exactly where to start.”

I turned off the alarm, waiting a moment for my mind to get itself right. “Hide,” I said, recognizing the stomping of my father’s feet on the staircase.

Briar disappeared.

The door opened. Dad had his hair combed. He was wearing a red tie, too, which was totally weird.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Are you?” I asked, nodding to his tie.

“Oh. Um.” He grabbed the tie, staring at it. “I have to give a presentation to the ad agency’s board this afternoon. They’re going to yell at me, so I thought I’d wear a red tie.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“Red is a power color.” He shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”

“Those khakis will,” I said, getting out of bed. I glanced down, half-expecting to see my feet caked with mud. But they were clean. I pushed Dad into his bedroom and opened his closet. I grabbed a pair of dark gray slacks. “These,” I said, “will help give the impression that you know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you, dear.” He started unzipping his pants. I turned away, pretending to throw up.

“Gross, Dad!” I ran to the door, shutting it behind me.

“Just kidding!” he called back.

I waited, scratching at a dull pain in my hand. I looked down and gasped. A splinter! I used my nails to pull it out, wincing in the process. Great, I thought, my dreams are trying to kill me.

“Where’s Mom?” I called through the door. “Doesn’t she usually dress you so you don’t look like a dork?”

“She does,” Dad called out. “But she had to get to the office early. Her agency’s ads didn’t do so well last quarter, either.” He opened the door, proudly showing off the gray slacks. “Good?”

I nodded.

He bent down, kissing the top of my head. He sniffed in. “Better take a shower. You smell a bit like a wet dog, dear.”

I aimed to give his butt a swift kick, but the old fool jumped out of the way. “We’ll both be home late,” he said, hurrying down the hall. “Late late. You’re on your own for dinner.”

“Pizza it is!” I called out. I went back into my room, shutting the door. “It’s safe.”

Briar reappeared beside the desk. He sat down and flipped open my laptop. “I do say, I feel quite good about my invisibility once again. I feel in control.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured, opening my closet door and searching for fresh clothes. Lots of them were piled on the floor, waiting to be washed. Just another thing I needed to find time for this week. First: find and destroy the maniacal wizard. Second: laundry.

“So … why exactly were you choking yourself?”

“I wasn’t,” I said, searching my sock drawer for two matching socks. “It was the wizard.”

“Agnim?” Briar asked, his voice cracking.

“Who else? We only have one maniacal wizard tormenting us. I hope.”

“You mean he saw you?”

“Yup. Hey, remember when you were like Oh, don’t worry—the monsters can’t see you in your dreams, and then the monsters were all like Hey Alice, we can totally see you! Remember that?”

“Not exactly.” His whiskers twitched. “Although I do see what you’re getting at.”

I grabbed a violet sweater and a pair of blue jeans. “Stay turned around, please.”

“Right, right. So Agnim could see you just like the sailors—and the captain, presumably—aboard that cursed ship. So very strange.”

“No, it wasn’t just that he could see me,” I said, closing the closet door. My poster of Ryan Gosling stared back at me. Sigh. Remember when I used to finish my homework and just stare at Ryan for a good hour because I didn’t have a care in the world?

Yeah. Me neither.

“Alice! Will you please finish your sentence?”

I spun around and shook my head, clearing away naughty thoughts. “Sorry. Right. We were talking about Ryan Gosling?”

His ears flopped down. “We’re doomed.”

“OK. Wait. Right! The dream. So Agnim could see me, but that wasn’t all. He was … I don’t know … it was like he could control the dream. And then he almost fried me with some sort of magic spell.”

“Spells!” Briar pounded his paw on the desk. “Now that’s a start. If only we could figure out who this dastardly fellow is … was there anything else?”

I walked over to the window, picking absently at my teeth as I watched Dad’s car pull out of the driveway. I needed a shower … and some floss …

“Alice!”

My entire body snapped to. I shook my head again. “Oh gawd. I’m losing it, Briar. I feel like I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night and now I’m acting all spacey. I get this way when I don’t get much sleep.”

He sighed. “I’m aware.”

“So what do I do?” I asked, wide-eyed. “He’s going to come after me again tonight!”

“We must learn more about him. Tell me: what else do you remember from your dream? Try to stay focused now. You can sleep in your Genetics class.”

He was right. I was doing pretty well in Genetics. I was doing pretty well in every class. Not great anymore. Not all A’s … but all B’s … and that was going to have to be good enough for the time being.

“Alice! Consarn it!” He waved his paws wildly in front of my face.

“OK. We were in a little town.” I closed my eyes, trying to picture the scene. “A storm was coming … Agnim arrived with the storm … there was a schoolhouse … there was an Ace Telegraphs, whatever that is …” My eyes snapped open. I grabbed Briar’s shoulders. “There were frogs!”

“Er, frogs?”

“They were falling from the sky!”

His eyes narrowed. “Say what now?”

“Falling from the goshdarn sky, Briar!” I waved my arms around the room. “Like, for real!”

He crossed his legs and tapped his cheek with one paw, thinking. I loved when he did that.

“Agnim said the scene in my dream … the town … it was real. He said my dream was of a different time. That storm was real, Briar.”

He turned to the laptop, typing furiously. “This definitely reminds me of that time I was down south with Eugene. Were the frogs alive?”

“Yup.”

“Just like when we fought that Corrupted fairy. If only I could remember the name of the town ...”

“But what does it all mean?” I asked. “Hurry. Seth will be here to pick me up any minute.”

Briar typed furiously on his keyboard. “If I can find the town, maybe we can begin connecting the dots. This will require some detective work. I’ll send a message to my historian friend post-haste. He will surely know … oh dear.”

He tried clicking away but I swatted his paw before he could close his Facebook window. “What the heck is that?”

Briar’s eyes went wide. “It appears to be you.”

“I know it’s me.” I could see that plain as day: it was me walking down the first-floor hallway at school. I was wearing the exact same shirt I was wearing now, which meant it had probably been taken a week ago. My hair looked awful, meaning whoever had taken the photo had caught me after fencing practice.

There were more photos, too. It was a Facebook page dedicated to “Fashion Failures,” as the massive headline so boldly explained. They were all girls from Washington High. And underneath every single picture was a nasty little diatribe explaining exactly what “fashion crimes” the alleged perp was guilty of.

I grabbed the mouse, nearly pulling its cord from the USB port of my laptop. “Guilty of wearing too much purple? It’s not purple! Who’s doing this?”

I scrolled to the names of the page’s creator. Cynthia Blake, the Mean Girl equivalent to Joey Harrington. And there, under “fans,” were all of the other Mean Girls and their boyfriends. And Tricia.

And Briar, who was a “fan” of over a gazillion pages.

“What are you doing?” Briar asked as I sped back to the closet.

“Don’t look! I’m changing.”

“Why are you changing?”

“Because I can’t wear a purple shirt to school now! Gawd, Briar, do I really have to spell it out? You can turn around now.”

He sighed, examining the plain gray blouse I’d put on. “Humans.”

I made a point of lying low the entire day. Even in Mr. Feinman’s class, I stayed quiet. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, knowing full well that a significant portion of the school had probably seen that horrible web page. My suspicions were confirmed when we broke off into groups to discuss our poster presentation.

“It’s probably for the best that you stay away from purple,” said Jennifer Wisenhunt, the perky blonde volleyball player who was pretty good at commenting on everyone’s business. “I mean, no offense, but it’s just one color. And you don’t want to get on the Mean Girls’ bad list any more than you already are.”

“Helpful, as always,” I murmured.

“Hey, can we just focus on this?” asked Brad Johnson, our other group member. “We have to create a poster about strikes. What is a strike?”

“It’s when the workers walk out to protest something,” Jennifer said. She pulled a nail file out of her red purse and started going to town on her thumbnail. “My grandpa did one at the steel factory he worked at. He said he got beat up.”

“By whom?” I asked.

“Strikebreakers.”

“Did he fight back?” Brad asked, wide-eyed. “I’d ‘a socked em in the face.”

“No, dummy. None of them fought back. That’s why they won.”

“You lost me.”

She sighed. “In the papers the next day, everyone was all like, Ooooh, the steel company beats up its own workers, and Ooooh, all they wanted were hardhats. So the steel company gave in because looked like total jerkwads.”

“That helped during the Civil Rights movement, too,” added Diego, the quietest of us. “Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached nonviolence.”

“Let’s make those for our poster,” Brad said. He grabbed the box of colored pencils and pulled out the red one. “I’ll draw all the blood and stuff. Alice, you can do the writing.”

“Why can’t I help with the drawing?”

Brad raised his eyebrows and smiled a dorky braces-laced smile. “Because if there’s one thing this picture doesn’t need, it’s purple.”

I groaned. It was going to be a long day.

Thankfully, fencing class offered a reprieve from the hour-to-hour anxiety. I unleashed it on Margaret and Jasmine and Rachel, holding nothing back. Chase spent most of his time coaching Rachel, giving her outrageous tips on how to move her feet and block my best shots. Her strength was almost overpowering at times—thankfully, she still couldn’t quite break the bad habit of making predictable moves, letting me sneak in for a few pokes.

Jasmine and Margaret were tougher. Margaret was definitely getting better, and Jasmine had an incredibly annoying habit of making her foil dance in the air, like it had a mind of its own. It annoyed me. And then I started thinking about the fact that I would be doing so much more if we had more sabers to practice with and didn’t have to share with the boys, and then I started thinking about how much money the football team got for equipment, and then I started getting aggressive with my attacks.

It didn’t win me any friends in the locker room that day (and I have a funny feeling Jasmine made a point of leaving before I could ask to borrow her hairbrush), but I needed the release. Even just a few hours of worrying constantly about whether someone passing me in the hall had seen the Mean Girls’ website was causing me so much stress that I seriously felt sick to my stomach.

I barely touched my salad at lunch. I gave it to Clyde, who’d simply brought a roll of crackers for lunch. He piled dressing-enhanced lettuce on each cracker, then a mini tomato. Watching him made my stomach feel worse.

“I really think you should just beat them up,” Seth said later at the library. “Pow! Pow! A couple knuckle sandwiches to their pretty little kissers.”

“What are you talking about?” Chase asked, ducking to avoid Seth’s wild kung-fu moves as he wheeled up to our table. He had a lap full of old history books. “The Mean Girls, or the weird  cult?”

He shrugged. “Either? I dunno. Seems to work pretty good in the movies.”

“Well this isn’t a movie,” I said. I hefted a stack of fiction books in my hands. I had one more stack left and then I was free for the day, thankfully. My energy was sapped.

“I can’t find anything about an order of dragons,” Chase said, leafing through a massive tome with a leather cover. It was an old book, something Briar had found in the basement. It was an old record of business entities in the United States around the turn of the Twentieth Century. “But I’ve definitely found some interesting stuff.”

“Me too,” Seth said, sliding his book across the table. I looked at the page he was on: a copy of a newspaper ad from World War I.

“Draconem Industries,” I read, “proudly serving the U.S. military with a variety of ammunition, announced today an expansion of its principal factory. The factory will be expanding its manufacturing of munitions and explosives. Draconem currently manufactures seven different bombs, each designed to be dropped from the sky and capable of destroying even the most well-fortified enemy emplacements.”

“Or a building full of civilians,” Seth added, wrinkling his nose. “The whole thing stinks. See that name? That means dragon in Latin.”

“Right … the meaning is hidden,” Chase said, grabbing one of the other old books piled up on the square desk. He licked his finger and leafed through the pages. “I saw something too ... Here it is. Look at this, from 1970.”

“The U.S. government recently purchased new flame-based bombs from the Yang Corporation,” I read. “The jellied gasoline compound is designed to stick to enemy soldiers for maximum casualties. The Army boasts these new bombs will ensure victory in all future wars.” I looked at Chase. “Ew. Really?”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Believe me, you don’t want to know more.”

“So how is this connected?” I asked.

“It’s tricky,” Chase said, grabbing another book. “And I would have never thought about it if my ex-ex-ex-girlfriend hadn’t gotten one of those stupid trendy Yin-Yang tattoos. Here.” He slid another much newer book across the table. “I dog-eared the page. No, wait.” He grabbed Seth by the shirt and looked at him, wide-eyed. “I rabbit-eared the page.”

Seth pretended to be impressed. “Har-dee-har-har.”

I looked at the page and felt my heart jump in my ribcage. “The Yang symbol is a dragon. Briar was right—the Order of the Golden Dragon is everywhere. Definitely big enough to very quietly move around a giant sleeping dragon.”

Chase nodded excitedly.

I was less thrilled.

Once we’d done enough research to make our eyes bleed, I ran home, switching into a pair of more comfortable sweatpants. I looked in the bathroom mirror, making a sour face at my reflection. Gawd, I thought, what if someone from school saw me outside and took another picture? I mean, let’s not fool ourselves: I could totally pull off black sweatpants, provided they weren’t too baggy in the butt area. But still, I had to look mildly presentable. I had to.

I didn’t want to end up on the Mean Girls’ website again.

So I went back to my closet, tossing aside the violet shirts in favor of something older and outside-appropriate, something that the Mean Girls would appreciate: a long-sleeve red and white striped shirt with solid red sleeves. It was enough. I disliked the color, but at least there was nothing about it that seemed worthy of ridicule.

“So that’s how you’re going to be now?” I asked my reflection. “You’re going to throw out your favorite shirts so you won’t be bullied?”

“Yup,” came the reflection’s answer.

I jogged to the baseball diamond two blocks away from Chase’s house, thankful for the cool weather, which would minimalize sweating. I hurried past couples out for strolls, cutting through alleys and testing my leg muscles with more than a few dodges of imaginary Corrupted. Every time I went through an alley, I imagined that crazy Frog Prince who’d come out of nowhere. Thinking of him reminded me of Sam Grayle and all of the unfinished business the two of us still had. Thinking of Grayle made me think of Death. Thinking of that made me wonder just how long I was going to last as the hero.

Thinking of that upset me, and so I brushed away all of my thoughts, focusing instead on the environment just as Briar had taught me. I was getting closer to Chase’s neighborhood, which had fewer cul-de-sacs and more square-shaped blocks full of small houses with green front yards full of leaves. I ran on the edge of the sidewalk, avoiding the dry leaves scattered across the grass and concrete, listening to the sounds.

A car with a damaged muffler.

An owl, awake a few hours early.

Dry leaves shuddering on a maple tree.

A middle-aged couple standing in their front yard, arguing about a couch.

I took it all in, walking the last two blocks to cool down. I was aware of my shoes crunching on the dry leaves. It used to be a sound I liked as a kid. Heck, I liked everything about fallen leaves! I liked jumping in piles of them, I liked stuffing them in friends’ shirts, I even liked raking them.

Now, they were something else entirely: a liability. Every time my foot stepped on a crunchy leaf, it betrayed my presence. It told everything hiding in the shadows exactly where I was.

Rachel, Clyde, Seth and Chase were already at the baseball diamond. Seth and Clyde tossed the softball to each other like pros, occasionally lobbing one at Rachel, who shakily caught the ball with a black leather glove. She had changed into baggy jeans and a black t-shirt, which looked right on her. The more subdued clothing choices she’d been making for school lately just weren’t her. Dark and baggy to match her dark eye shadow … that was her.

Chase watched them all approvingly, buttoning up his black vest. He was wearing a leather headband, too, and had an old worn leather baseball glove in his lap.

“Got one more for me?” I asked Chase. He reached into the red sports bag hanging from the back of his chair and tossed me a brown leather glove. “Thanks. Who’s batting?”

“Rachel,” he said.

“What do I do?”

Chase squinted in the setting sunlight, peering over at the diamond. “Clyde is pitching. You can play infield. Seth can play outfield.”

I nodded, giving his head a pinch with the big glove as I passed. I jogged over to the dirt between second and third base.

“All right!” Chase called out, wheeling onto the dirt behind home base. “Come on, Rachel.”

“She’s going to you,” Clyde said, pointing to me. “She’s a softie. She likes to swing early.”

“You’d be a better trash talker if ya took off your sunglasses,” Rachel said, grabbing the bat sitting on home plate. She got into a batting stance. Chase murmured something to her.

Clyde pitched the ball underhand. Rachel swung, connecting. The ball went rolling toward me. I crouched, clumsily scooping it up and tossing it back to Clyde.

Clyde pitched again. And again. Every time, Rachel swung early and the big softball came rolling toward me.

“I’ll just read a magazine,” Seth called out.

“Come on,” Chase said. “Close your stance. Trust me.”

Rachel slid her left leg—her front leg—further to the right, closing her stance. Clyde swung again. She connected early again, but this time her shoulders were facing toward first base. The ball went rolling that way. I ran across the diamond, scooping up the ball and tossing it back to a flabbergasted Clyde.

“Now swing upward,” Chase said. “Like you’re swinging a golf club.”

“I’ve never swung a golf club,” Rachel said, laughing nervously.

“Neither have I,” Chase said. “But we’ve both watched it on TV.”

Clyde pitched again. Rachel swung downward, missing. The ball bounced once and landed in Chase’s glove. He plucked the ball from his glove. His fingers touched the ball, moving it around in his hand. It looked so comfortable there, and it was impossible for him to hide the longing on his face.

Finally, he tossed it back to Clyde. “Try again,” he ordered. “And make sure you use your natural strength.”

Clyde tossed the ball again, this time putting a little pepper on it. Rachel swung, connecting with the ball. It sailed up into the air, right at me. I jumped at high as I could, reaching out with the baseball glove. The ball floated over, landing into the grass in front of Seth.

“Yes!” Rachel shouted, jumping up and down. She jogged to first base, celebrating all the way.

“All right,” Chase said, unable to contain a proud smile. “Who’s next?”

I nearly knocked Clyde over on my way to home plate.

Chase nodded, wheeling back a foot. “Now get your stance right. Come on. Come on. Slide your foot forward.”

“I’m more comfortable like this. Pitch it, Clyde!”

Clyde tossed the ball. I swung, feeling the wooden bat barely connect. The ball piddled back to Clyde.

“That was a screamer!” Seth called out from the outfield.

“Just listen to me,” Chase said with an exasperated frown. “Slide your foot forward. Watch the ball, and as you’re swinging, let the sweet spot of the bat connect with the ball. Let the bat do the work.”

Clyde pitched again. I swung, following the ball with my eyes. It connected with the thickest part of the bat, flying past Clyde and bouncing in front of Rachel, who was standing in the dirt between second and third base. Rachel clumsily grabbed the ball with her bare hand instead of using the glove.

“Not quite getting the point of the glove, Rachel!” Seth called out.

“OK,” Chase said. “This time, I want you to really use your butt. We’re going to shut Seth up.”

Crimson red flooded up my neck, burning my face. “Um …”

“You’re going to push off with your back foot,” Chase explained. As you’re swinging. And keep the bat back a bit. Like this.” He held a phantom bat in his hands. We locked eyes and I suddenly could read his mind: he wanted to be standing behind me, helping me get into the perfect batting stance; I wanted him standing behind me, his strong hands wrapped around mine. But I could deal with just staring at those beautiful eyes.

“Back foot,” Chase said, shaking away the thought.

“Back foot,” I repeated, watching Clyde comically wind up before tossing the ball. It came fast, and I had to swing quicker. I used the strength in my right butt muscle to put a little more oomph into it. The ball connected with the bat just a little higher than the sweet spot, but the added force of my modified stance more than made up for it. The ball sailed over Rachel’s head, then over Seth’s head.

“I did it!” I shouted, holding the bat up like a spear. I hopped up and down on home plate.

Chase smiled. “Yeah, I kinda figured your butt could do it.”

Later, back at Chase’s, we ordered pizza.

I’ll admit: I gorged a bit. One of the pizzas was full of veggies and heavy on pizza sauce, my favorite combination. And Chase’s parents warmed up some apple cider, perfect for a cool autumn day.

We congregated in the massive living room with Seth firmly in control of the movie selection. Clyde and Rachel had stocked up on breadsticks, using up a thousand or so napkins for the grease. Chase’s parents had moved the couch a bit and gotten a smaller coffee table so he could maneuver around the entire room with ease.

“That was nice of them,” I pointed out when the two of us made our way into the kitchen for seconds.

“It was.” He held out his plate for another slice of pepperoni pizza. “Is the rabbit around? I could leave him something by the door.”

I shook my head. “He’s probably trying to find more information on the Order. I think he secretly enjoys going to the downtown library.”

“He’s strange, to say the least.”

“Who?” Rachel asked, walking into the kitchen. We watched her grab a soda from the fridge.

“Oh, Sam from the fencing squad,” Chase answered.

Rachel popped the top. “Oh, totally. He still collects LEGO toys. I bet he plays with them.”

She walked back into the living room.

“Man, this alternate life stuff is weird,” Chase said. “Kind of exciting, too.”

“Yeah.” I rolled my eyes. “Then comes the running and screaming and sharp teeth and giant sea monsters.”

From somewhere down the hall, Chase’s mom announced she was going upstairs to the office. “So you’re getting along with your parents now?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We had a long talk. It was … really, really awkward.” He chuckled, taking a bite of his pizza. “But it was good. Good talk. Very good talk. We didn’t even shout at each other like we usually do. We just tried to listen.”

“I’m glad,” I said. Looking down at him, I couldn’t help but feel good. It took a while to realize it, but he had such nice eyes—it wasn’t just the color, it was the way he could really look at you. The muscles around his eyes made his entire face so animated; when he was taking you seriously, you could totally tell it just by the way the top of his cheeks tightened.

All he needed to do was to get rid of that ridiculous headband.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s talk about the headband now. What’s the deal?”

He took another bite of his pizza, mumbling an incoherent response.

“What now?”

“It’s just a Native American headband is all,” he said. “I’ve been reading a lot of those Native American books you recommended. Picked up a few non-fiction ones, too.”

I crossed my arms. “And so you just decided one day to wear a headband?”

“Yes. Fine. That’s right.” His eyes rolled, warning me he was getting frustrated.

Good.

“And so you think somehow this new style is going to change your life?”

“What are you getting at?” he asked. “Do you want me to admit it? Fine. I’m wearing it because it’s different. I’m trying something different.”

“But it isn’t you, Chase! You’re not Native American. You should wear what you want to wear.”

“Well how about you?” he asked, waving his pizza crust at me.

“What about me?” I gave him the stink eye.

He shrank back a bit in his seat. “You’re wearing red.”

“So?”

“You hate red.”

Words momentarily escaped me. I licked stray sauce off my lips. “How … how did you know that?”

“Because your favorite color is violet. It’s what you wear. And if violet is out of the question, you go with blue. You like cool colors. That’s why you always pick the fencing helmet with the blue stripe on the back. You hate the red fencing helmet.”

“Um …” I searched desperately for an argument.

“Now you’re searching for an argument.”

“What?! How did you know that?!”

“Because I know you,” Chase said. “You’re the most mature girl I’ve ever met, but deep down you’ve still got a childish passion for competition. It’s what makes you so good at fencing. So.” He clasped his hands together. “Are you ready to take off that shirt?”

I raised an eyebrow.

He blushed. “That didn’t sound as dirty in my head. What I mean is, are you ready to change shirts?”

I snorted. “Are you saying you have a violet blouse sitting in your closet?”

“Something close enough. Wait here.”

I watched him wheel into the adjoining hallway. I ate my pizza, thinking. It was hypocritical, of course—for me to tell him to dress the way he wanted, but to not dress the way I wanted simply because I was afraid of appearing on the Mean Girls’ web page.

Gawd, everything would have been easier without that web page. And who were they, anyway? Why did they have the right to embarrass their fellow students?

Chase returned without the headband. He was wearing his leather gauntlets instead, and as goofy as it looked, it seemed right on him.

I just wish I could say the same thing about the sweatshirt he found for me.

“It’s soooo huge!” I exclaimed, holding up the old sweatshirt with a college baseball team’s duck logo painted across the front. I didn’t recognize the college. Or the duck. “And it’s not violet, it’s purple! There’s a crucial difference.”

“Well, it’s better than red,” he said.

I put it on. It definitely wasn’t figure flattering. It smelled like Chase, in a good way: his musky deodorant mixed with a hint of his tangy cologne. I decided to stop arguing about it.

“Hey guys, come on!” Seth called out from the living room. “I totally found a creepy horror movie with giant slugs and a weird guy with a mask and that Scientology actress and laser guns!”

“We’re coming,” I said.

Chase smiled, shaking his head. “Something tells me your rabbit friend would love that kind of movie.”

“Oh, he and Seth have frighteningly similar tastes,” I said.

We went back into the living room, where Clyde and Seth and Rachel had staked out positions on the couch in front of the TV. Chase wheeled up beside Clyde, giving him a nod. I took the floor.

“Hey man,” Clyde said to Chase, “what’s in that room at the end of the hallway? Right past the bathroom. It smells like evil.”

“It’s an armory,” Chase answered.

Clyde stared at him a moment, then used one finger to pull down his sunglasses.

“Elaborate” Seth ordered, momentarily forgetting about his half-eaten cheese pizza.

“It’s nothing. It’s just my dad’s hobby.”

“OK seriously dude, you can’t just say the word armory without giving us some details.”

“Yeah, man,” said Clyde. “There’s probably something in there that we need to see.”

“No, really. It’s just a collection of weapons my dad buys at hobby shows.”

And just like that, Seth and Clyde were off. I half-expected them to leave behind a dust cloud like in cartoons.

Chase sighed, turning his wheelchair.

“I suppose I should go, too,” I said. “You coming, Rachel?”

Rachel shook her head. “Weapons don’t excite me, lady.”

Well, I thought—at least one of us was normal.

I followed Chase down the hall, to the so-called “Armory.” The door was already open, as were Seth’s and Clyde’s mouths. They moved from one end of the dark room to the other, examining all of the artifacts hanging from the walls and sitting in tall glass cases.

“Don’t touch anything,” Chase said, wheeling left when he got inside the room. He flicked on the lights.

“Armory” was practically an understatement. The room was pretty large, almost as large as the living room. It was full of weapons, most of them medieval. Some—a couple ancient shields, a couple swords—hung from the bare walls. Others, like a collection of six crossbows, sat in glass cases. There were three windows on the other end of the room, one of them newly replaced. It dawned on me that this was the room the dastardly Golden Dragon minions had tried breaking into.

Talk about dodging a bullet there.

“Oh holy crap!” Seth exclaimed. His eyes had reached the man and horse tucked into the far corner of the room, next to a glass case full of Japanese swords and other weapons I didn’t recognize. The man and horse were much more impressive, to say the least. The horse was stuffed, outfitted in terrifying black armor. The man was nothing more than armor, a knight with a decorative helmet complete with a terrifying visor shaped like an angry face. He held a shield in one hand and a jousting lance in the other, the tip of the lance grazing the ceiling.

“Yeah, my dad’s still trying to figure out how to convince my mom to put this thing in the dining room,” Chase said. He blew out a puff of air. “You have no idea how mad my mom was when pieces of the armor started arriving by mail. Then came the stuffed horse. That was a war.”

“It was a warhorse?” Clyde asked.

“No … no! I mean it was a war between my parents. Over the horse.”

“Which one was on the horse?” Seth asked.

“No one.” Chase narrowed his eyes. “Are you two messing with me?”

Seth and Clyde looked at each other, confused.

“What are these?” I asked Chase, pointing to the tall glass case next to the knight. There were a variety of weapons in there, mostly from Japan—a katana, some throwing stars—but the bottom shelf had a fan, a weird fork, and a long strip of thin brown leather.

“Defensive weapons,” Chase said, wheeling over. He pointed to the fan. “That’s actually used to defend yourself. Warriors used to open the fan, then close it over an enemy’s weapon. That,” he pointed to the fork-like thingy, “is called a sai. The trick is to catch a sword between the prongs.”

“Totally from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Seth pointed out.

Chase looked up at me and nodded.

“What about that?” I asked, pointing to the leather strip.

“That’s some obscure weapon from Europe,” Chase said. “I dunno much more.”

“Looks like a little whip,” Clyde said.

“It’s kind of like that.” Chase opened the case and carefully pulled it out. On both ends were little fluffs of a brown, long-dead plant seed of some sort. “I guess these used to be little burrs,” Chase explained. “The kind that sticks to your jeans when you’re out in the woods. Whoever made this affixed them to either end of this thing, so it would catch on someone’s sleeve, kind of like Velcro. So when someone attacked you, all you had to do was whip this at his arm. It wrapped around your enemy’s arm and stuck long enough that you could incapacitate him.”

“You lost me,” Seth said.

Chase wheeled beside me. “Alice, hold out your arm.”

I held out my arm. Chase whipped the leather strap at me. Its end wrapped around my wrist, tightening when Chase give it a strong tug. He pulled me close. I felt my heart nearly leap out of my rib cage as my hand flew out, pressing against his hard chest to keep me from landing in his lap.

“See?” Chase said. He unwrapped the strap. “My dad calls it a strapper. It would work even better if the burrs at the end weren’t dead.”

Seth smiled. “Looks like it’s also good at bringing in the ladies.”

I let go of Chase’s chest, blushing.

“Can I borrow that?” Clyde asked. “There’s a girl in my math class I like, man. I bet I could snag her with this next time she asks for a spare pencil.”

“No.”

“OK, then just answer me one question, and be entirely honest.” Clyde took off his sunglasses, eyeing Chase. “Is your father Batman?”

Chase sighed, shaking his head.

That night, I tossed and turned in the darkness. Somewhere outside, an owl called out periodically, and every time I felt my heart race. I couldn’t stop anticipating the next freaking hoot and it sent my anxiety into overdrive.

“If you would just shut up,” I kept whispering, “then I could fall asleep.”

Yeah … that was the solution. I just needed that stupid owl to shut up and I’d fall asleep, getting a few precious hours of rest before school.

I got out of bed and turned on the little lamp on my desk. I blinked a few times in the light, looking around. “Briar?” I called out in a whisper. His usual sleeping place under the window was empty.

“Briar!” I called out again in a low voice.

There came a noise from the closet. I held my breath, staring at the closed door, trying not to let Ryan Gosling distract me.

“Briar?” I asked.

There came another noise, as if one of the blankets from the top shelf had fallen. I got out of bed and opened the top drawer of the desk, reaching my hand inside. My fingers searched for the magic pen.

Then searched again.

Then again.

“What the heck,” I hissed, leaning over. I gasped.

The drawer was empty.

There came another soft thump.

“I’m dreaming,” I whispered. I had to be. I always put my magic pen in the top drawer. And there was more that was supposed to be in there, too: pencils, note cards, paper clips, a weird Juniper seed, a few gold coins with dragons …

I stepped cautiously toward the closet, testing the carpet as if unsure of its stability. What if I wasn’t dreaming? What if Agnim had come inside and somehow stolen the pen?

The closet door opened a crack. My hand went for my desk chair, fully ready to throw it at whatever might be inside.

“Hello,” I called, a little louder this time.

Outside, the owl hooted again.

The door opened further. I rolled the chair in front of me like a shield.

There, sitting on the floor in front of my dresser, were my five favorite stuffed animals. Elephant the elephant, Tigger the tiger, Hippie the hippo, Leo the lion, and Mike the bear. I have no idea why I named the bear “Mike.”

Nor could I fathom why they were sitting in my closet instead of under my bed.

Nor was I entirely sure which of them had opened the door.

“OK,” I said, fingers clutching the back of my desk chair. “Now I know this is a dream.”

“Dream.”

“Dream.”

“Dream.”

“Dream?”

“Dream!”

I blinked. What was happening? Were my old childhood toys seriously talking? My toes dug into the soft carpeting. This felt too real to be an ordinary dream. And this was too weird and nonsensical to be a hero’s dream.

The owl outside hooted again. There came another sound from directly behind me and I spun around, arms extended. My laptop had opened up on its own, the music player maximized so I could see the name of the song that had just started:

Greensleeves.

Yes, that melodic old English folk song that just about everyone has as a ringer on their phones. It was playing loud, and the smooth notes momentarily stunned me.

The closet door slammed shut

I spun around, swallowing a breath. All five stuffed animals were closer now, sitting on the floor right next to the window.

“Who did that?” I asked them, then immediately regretted it. Get a hold of yourself, Alice!

The music kept playing, kicking up into a full orchestra. Something about the haunting violins made my entire body shiver. Whatever was happening, it needed to stop. And the first thing to do was put my frightening stuffed animals back into the closet.

I scooped them all up, half-expecting Tigger the tiger to bite me. I opened the closet door, throwing them inside before anything else could jump out at me from the darkness.

I closed the door. The music stopped.

Outside, the owl hooted again.

“Shut up!” I shouted at the window. “And go away!”

“Alice?”

I spun toward my bedroom door. It was my mom’s voice, I was sure of it. But that was impossible. That meant this was real. Everything happening was real.

“Alice?”

A knock.

I licked my lips. “I’m … I’m OK,” I said in a wavering voice.

The door opened. I felt my body automatically square up into a defensive stance. My lungs clung to the air they already had, not willing to take in another breath.

Mom poked her head in. She had her white curlers in her hair and some sort of white cream on her forehead. “If you’re OK, then why are you yelling?”

“There’s … there’s a scary owl outside.”

She smiled. “Just leave him alone and he’ll leave you alone. Go to bed.”

She shut the door. I stood in place, not ready at all to crawl back into bed. The shadows in the corners of my dark room seemed to be clinging there, waiting to pounce on me. I could feel something was about to happen. I could feel it like static electricity standing my hairs on end.

Even still, I wasn’t ready when the music started up.

Greensleeves again, only this time all of the notes were out of tune, as if the strings of every single violin in the symphony had been loosened, the violinists slouching in their chairs. Something was dreadfully wrong.

There came another noise from behind the closet door.

My hand fumbled for the desk, pulling open the second drawer. I looked inside: empty. I opened the third drawer.

Empty.

The out-of-tune symphony began playing at a faster pace now. I shut the laptop, but the music continued uninterrupted. There came another thump from behind the closed closet door, this one louder and heavier.

“Mom!” I called out, rubbing my sweaty palms on my pajama bottoms. “Dad! Get out of the house! Get out!”

The closet door crashed open. The symphony’s violins screeched a high note, as if all of the violinists in the recording had been frightened at the same time, their bows drawing across the thinnest string.

I drew in a deep breath, clutching the back of my desk chair. There, standing in the closet doorway, was Mike the bear. Or, to be more specific: hundreds of Mike the bears, glued together to form one giant Mike the bear that stood on its hind legs just like a real bear.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumbled, feeling a rush of adrenaline course through my body. His body was made of little stuffed bears, but his claws were real. Sharp. Tearing into the carpeting.

The symphony picked up again. Mike took a step forward. The floor shook. A dozen little stuffed versions of him fell away, landing on the floor. He opened his mouth, growling, revealing a hundred sharp white teeth and a long, slimy red tongue.

“You are not the cute little Mike I grew up with,” I said, taking a step back. My eyes darted from my bed to my desk to the window, searching for the magic pen, searching for any way out of this.

Mike took another step. His massive foot broke through the floor, tearing through the carpeting. Panels of wood snapped in two. A couple more little stuffed versions of him fell away.

I ran to the window, hoping maybe a fifteen-foot drop would be less painful than getting eaten by a massive stuffed bear. I could make it. I might be hurt, but outside at least I had some options.

The violins picked up again, screeching a hundred different sharp notes, a hundred violinists playing their own frantic song.

I grabbed the little brass handle at the base of the window. The owl appeared on the other side of the glass, flapping its wings wildly. It was the biggest owl I’d ever seen, its ears curved like horns and its wide yellow eyes shining with a ferocious intensity. Its talons screeched against the glass, the black spots on its white body dancing madly as its muscles tensed.

The bear took another step, breaking apart the floor. More little Mikes fell away, one landing right at my foot. The giant bear reached out with one paw, slowly closing the space between us. I jumped onto my bed, watching as the paw’s very real claws tore through the carpeting and ripped into the wooden floor.

The house shuddered.

“Crud,” I said, rolling to the other side of the bed. I tore away my white bed sheet, rolling it up like a long snake. Maybe I could snag this creature’s foot and trip it up. But the foot was made of a couple dozen little stuffed Mikes, glued together with some kind of magic. He was heavy and tall, the tips of his bear ears brushing against the ceiling. What hope did I have?

Mike stepped onto the bed, snapping it in half and sending another dozen of the little bears falling from his body.

“It can’t end like this!” I shouted. “I’m not going to be crushed by my childhood teddy bear!”

Mike took another thunderous step, opening his mouth to show off his terrifying teeth. His foot broke through what remained of my bed, broke through the floor …

And then kept going.

The floor opened up. The house shook, groaned, and the hole in the floor spread as Mike lurched forward, falling as if in slow motion. When he hit, wood splintered apart and snapped, cracking like a hundred gun shots going off at once. I fell back, clutching the carpeting, feeling the floor underneath me curve downward as Mike fell through, crashing to the first floor below.

The hole widened. The house groaned again. The floorboards underneath me gave away and I slid to the edge, clutching the carpeting with tense fingers. I looked down: Mike was lying on his back, his mouth open, inviting me to fall.

“No!” I shouted. “No!”

Mike’s slimy tongue slipped out between his teeth, waiting.

I reached out, clutching the loose carpeting. I could almost reach the blue curtain. I could pull myself up …

A flapping noise momentarily distracted me. I turned left, searching the room for the source of the sound. When I saw it, I gasped.

Ryan Gosling. My poster was flying through the air, coming right at me.

“Not you too, Ryan!” I shouted, trying to push the poster away. It flapped the edges of its paper like a bat, hovering over my head. I grabbed the curtain, then felt my sore fingers give way.

The curtain slipped out of my grasp. I fell, screaming.

Chapter 9

“Alice! Alice!”

I opened my eyes and reached out, hugging my mom.

“What the heck is going on?” she asked, concerned. “I’m doing my hair and all I hear are screams coming from your room!”

I pulled away and looked around. I was on the floor of my bedroom. Sunlight shone in through the window. My throat was sore.

“Just … a really, really bad dream,” I said with a raspy voice.

Mom rubbed my back. “Are you sure you’re OK? I had a really tough time just waking you up. Do you want to stay home today?”

I sat up, my fingers clutching the carpet to make sure the floor wasn’t about to collapse. “No … I’m OK. What time is it?”

“Time for school,” she said. “I’ll go make you some toast.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, pulling myself onto my bed. I watched her leave, shutting the door behind her. “Briar!” I whispered.

No answer. I blinked away the sleep crust. My heart was still racing. That dream had felt so real. So terrifyingly real.

Thump.

My head snapped to the closet door. “Briar?” I called out.

Another thump. I stood up on shaky legs, my hand reaching back for the desk drawer. I pulled it open, fumbling around inside.

Empty. My legs turned to jelly.

“Briar?” I called out again.

The closet door split apart. I could barely believe my eyes: there, on all fours, was a dragon the size of a horse. It had gold scales shaped like maple leaves, a veritable body of armor. Its bat-like wings were folded back, as were its pointed ears. Drool escaped as it opened its mouth to let out a low growl, revealing sharp canines and fist-sized molars perfect for chewing flesh. Under its chin was a short white beard made of coarse hair, sopping up the drool before letting it drip onto my carpeting.

It stepped closer. My vision blurred.

“Alice! Alice!”

I woke on the floor, screaming, in the arms of my mom. I pulled away from her, crawling on the floor, hurrying to the desk drawer.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Mom asked. She was already dressed for work, wearing a black skirt and a red top with long sleeves. Definitely one of her favorite outfits, but that didn’t mean this wasn’t another dream. Breathless, I opened the top drawer.

I opened the top drawer. The pen! It was sitting right where I left it, along with the gold coins and weird Juniper seed and all my school supplies. My lungs expelled one long, relieved sigh.

“Honey! What happened?”

I turned to her, ordering myself to make a calm face even though I was anything but. “Probably the worst nightmare ever,” I said. “But I’m good now. Definitely good.”

She stood up. “Well, you scared the hell out of me, that’s for sure.”

“Mom, don’t swear.” I forced a smile. “It’s unbecoming of you.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “You almost gave me a heart attack, dear. I’m allowed to swear once. I’ll make some toast and then I have to get going.”

I waited for her to shut the door, then grabbed my pen and went cautiously to the closet. It took every ounce of courage to convince my shaky hand to touch the handle. It took even more to open the door.

“Gaaaaah!” Briar cried out, cringing at the sight of my pen pointed at him like a knife. “I surrender!”

I lowered the pen. “The cap isn’t even off.”

He stood straight, pulling down his rumpled vest. “It never hurts to play it safe.”

I took a deep breath, rubbing my eyes. “I need to get ready for school.”

“What happened?” he asked, stepping aside and turning away so I could dress. “You fell off your bed, screaming like a wild turkey. Your mother popped in here so quickly I nearly jumped through the window!”

“Dragon,” I mumbled, grabbing a pair of jeans. My hand hovered briefly over one of the plain gray t-shirts hanging near the back of the closet. Then I remembered my talk with Chase. I grabbed a violet blouse instead.

Screw the Mean Girls.

“A dragon?” Briar asked.

“You can turn around now. And yes, it was a dragon.” I held out my arms, laughing at the ridiculousness of it. “Bigger than this. Horse-sized, with a long neck and a broad snout just like every picture you’ve ever seen. It had bat-like wings and thick rear legs. Thick golden scales. A cute little white beard. How’s that for detail?”

“Not bad at all,” Briar said, rubbing his chin. He followed me to the desk. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit pale.”

I closed my eyes, shaking my head. It felt so light, as if my brain had fluttered away during the night. Probably sometime between dream #1 and dream #2. “He’s playing with me, Briar.”

“Who?”

“Agnim. He’s getting inside my dreams. I can’t take it much longer.”

“Well, luckily, you won’t have to.” He pulled a small slip of paper from the breast pocket of his vest, unfolding it. “Thanks to your furless friends’ impeccable research, I do believe I’ve found a connection between all of these organizations run by the Order of the Golden Dragon.”

I opened my eyes. The rabbit looked serious. “You’re not joking?”

“Hardly.” He handed me the paper.

“Kensington Accounts,” I read. There were a handful of addresses scribbled down in Briar’s poor handwriting. “Alexander Kensington.”

“He,” Briar said, tapping the paper with his paw, “is, potentially, the accountant who’s been handling the Order’s money to ensure it’s very quietly hidden away. My guess is the secret business entities funnel the money through Kensington, who then uses it to pay for the relocation of the sleeping dragon. And Kensington Accounts just so happens to have been established about one hundred and fifty years ago.”

I folded the paper. “Which means …”

“Er, yes. Your sword-fighting abilities will no doubt come in handy.”

“We need to figure this out,” I said, rubbing my dry eyes. “Today. Before I fall asleep again.”

The entire morning at school, I had to struggle to keep from collapsing. I was tired. I couldn’t focus on Genetics. I could barely keep focused in U.S. History even though my group needed my contribution.

Not that they showed it in any way.

“You should have stayed home if you’re sick,” said Brad. “I don’t want to catch it.”

“I’m not sick,” I mumbled. “I’m tired.”

“Then you should have slept in. It’s just school.”

I groaned and handed over my typed sheet of paper. It contained a history of a sit-down strike during the 1960’s. African-American men and women sat down at a “Whites only” restaurant, refusing to leave. The police arrived and arrested them, and then more African-Americans took their place. Every new day, more and more people came to protest the horrible segregation.

And they won.

Jennifer took the piece of paper and held it up to Brad. “This is why she came to school, you idiot. It’s a big part of our poster. How are we going to present without this?”

Brad shrugged. “I thought the drawing I did explained everything.”

Jennifer made a gagging noise. “All you did was draw, like, a ton of blood and some gross bodies lying on the ground. You didn’t even draw Alice’s protest yet!”

Brad examined our poster. It was pretty good. We had two examples of strikes. One—Jennifer’s story about her grandpa—had won workers more safety measures. Mine—from the Civil Rights movement—had helped break the color barrier. All Brad had to do was draw another picture and we were finished. It was one less thing to worry about.

I snuck a can of soda between classes, reinvigorating myself before heading down to the gym. I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the last person to arrive.

“Where’s Rachel?” I asked Jasmine.

She shrugged. “Sick? I dunno.”

I looked at Chase, who was on the other side of the mats, chatting with the guys. The clock above the mirrors along the wall switched over to 10:00. The bell rang.

“Where’s Rachel?” Mr. Whitmann asked, walking over. He scratched his mustache. “Please tell me she’s in the locker room putting on some makeup or whatever you girls do. Please don’t tell me she’s not here.”

“She could be sick,” I offered. “There’s a cold going around …”

“The Mean Girls put a picture of her up on the web page last night,” said Chase. He wheeled around the mats. “They said Rachel dresses like a guy. They were … uh …”

“Mean?” I finished.

He nodded.

“What now?” Mr. Whitmann asked, turning his head to Chase, then to us girls, then back to Chase, then back to us girls. “What’s going on?”

“Some of the senior girls set up a web page,” Chase explained, “and they put pictures of other girls from school online and make fun of the way they dress.”

“Why?!” Mr. Whitmann asked, exasperated.

“They just think it’s funny,” I answered.

His head snapped to me. “What’s so funny about that? What the heck is going on here? What the heck is wrong with you kids? You’re blasting Bieber and wearing funky shoes and texting like robots and now you’re making web pages to pick on each other? Why can’t you all just get ice cream at the local custard stand like I used to do!”

Chase looked at me, raising an eyebrow. “Um …”

Mr. Whitmann pointed his clipboard at me. “Call her. Get to the bottom of this, Goodenough.” He turned to the boys. “I want that picture taken off the web site!”

“We can’t,” said Chase. “We’re not … ah …” He looked down at the floor. “We’re not friends with the cool kids.”

“And neither are our girlfriends,” said Sam.

A low, monstrous groan crawled out of Mr. Whitmann’s throat. “I’m going to have an ulcer. This is going to kill me, you realize that? I’m going to be done in by a bunch of fencing kids. My mother was right all along.”

“Mr. Whitmann?” said Jasmine, raising her hand. “If it makes you feel better, my mom had an ulcer once and she got better.”

He closed his eyes. “Someone please call Tina. Rachel. Whatever she’s calling herself.”

I went back into the locker room, grabbing my phone from my locker. I dialed Rachel’s number. She picked up after the fifth ring.

“Rachel,” I said. “Are you OK? Is everything OK?”

She was silent for a tense moment. “I, I just need a few days. Until they update the web site and pick on someone else. Ya know?”

“I do. Listen ...” So what was I supposed to say here? Something empathetic like “I’ve felt exactly what you’re feeling” or something incredibly inspiring like “You just have to fight through this and show them you’re not going to be bullied”? Neither was true. They were empty words. Clichés. When I saw myself on the Mean Girls’ web site, I felt like complete and utter crap. I’m sure the other girls with their photos next to mine felt the same way.

And Rachel? Her picture was apparently alone. Hey everybody … focus on this one person. That just made it a thousand times worse.

“Look, I have to go,” Rachel said quietly. “I pretended to be sick this morning and my mom stayed home with me cuz she’s crazy. If she hears me on the phone, she’ll call me out on it. I’m sorry about missing fencing today.”

“OK. Just … you’re my friend, Rachel. And I’m here for you. Don’t worry about fencing.”

“Thanks, lady.”

I hung up, not all that anxious to go back into the workout room. Our makeshift fencing room. But I did, giving Mr. Whitmann a desperate look. We need help, my look told him, we can’t win without help.

He got it. “Get some people suited up,” he ordered Chase, handing over the clipboard. He went into his office right outside of the workout room.

Of course none of us got suited up. Instead, we rushed to the door of Mr. Whitmann’s little office. The gym was empty, and with no basketballs bouncing on the wooden court it was easy to overhear Mr. Whitmann’s entire (brief!) conversation with Principal Sanders.

“Well, you have to do something … Coach, Phil, they’re putting up pictures of each other on some stupid web site. It’s insane! … Ya. Yup. Uh-huh. Well, it’s screwed up. Oh, don’t bullcrap me, Phil! I’ve been here fifteen years. I know what you can and can’t do … uh-huh. All right, fine. Well, I respectfully disagree. Thanks.” He hung up the old phone. “Thanks for nothin’,” he added.

“You need to do something about this,” Chase said, nudging my arm.

“Why?”

He looked up at me, a look of despair in his eyes. “Because you’re the hero.”

Chapter 10

Seth parked a block away from the strange little house. He leaned forward in his seat. “You sure that’s it, rabbit pal?”

“Indeed,” said Briar from the backseat. He pointed with his paw. “That is the home of the Order’s money keeper.”

We were on the east side of Milwaukee, near the lake. North of Grayle Incorporated and the other big buildings downtown. There were a lot of historic mansions that ran along the lake, protected with tall gates and stone fences. Our destination was about a block away from the St. Mary’s hospital, sitting at the end of a row of very nondescript two-story houses with red-brick chimneys.

This particular home had a sign in front of its brown porch. The sign looked old, rusted where the nails held it to rotted wooden posts. It read “Kensington Accounts” in bold, black letters. The grass in the front yard was well-groomed, and all of the fallen brown leaves from the nearby ash trees had been raked into a neat pile.

“Well,” I said, “whoever this Alexander Kensington is, at least he’s neat and tidy.”

“Could use a new sign, though,” Briar murmured thoughtfully.

“OK, does anyone else have the urge to jump in that leaf pile?” Seth asked.

Briar grabbed his shoulder with one paw. “Best not to, friend! Who knows what nefarious spikes and traps are waiting underneath all those leaves?”

“That’s a bit much,” I said. “But regardless, we’re going to play this one straight.”

Briar’s head snapped to me, one narrowed eye studying me. He was definitely in battle mode, all giddy and nervous and twitchy. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean we’re going to walk right in and demand answers.”

Briar’s right ear flopped over onto my head. “Is that wise?”

I swatted his ear away. “No. But if this accountant of theirs has a business out in the open like this, maybe he’s not entirely Corrupted. Maybe we can reason with him.”

“Or her,” Seth said. “Don’t be sexy, Alice.”

“Sexist,” I corrected, rolling my eyes. “All right. Wait for us here.”

I opened the door and got out, waiting for Briar to follow.

“You’re invisible to everyone but me, right?” I asked.

He nodded. “I can assure you, my special power is totally under control.”

I shut the door, my hand going to the pocket of my jeans just like it always did in moments like these. The pen was there. So were a few sticks of gum, a necessity following a homemade spaghetti dinner heavy on the garlic bread. I’d nearly fallen asleep right on the plate halfway through, prompting Dad to try and carry me to my room. But I wasn’t a little girl anymore, and my dad’s back nearly gave out as he tried to lift me from the seat. It had taken a fair amount of convincing to get the OK to go hang out with Seth.

I was wearing a violet sweater, thick enough to stave off the autumn chill. For a few minutes, at least. Besides, that wasn’t its primary purpose. Its primary purpose was to let my arms move freely—something a loose jacket with bulky sleeves couldn’t do as well.

“I hope you have a Plan B,” Briar murmured, hopping beside me. The sidewalk was empty, and cars periodically passed us on the street. “I couldn’t find a darned thing about this Kensington fellow. Not even a clue as to who he might be from the fairy tales.”

The sun was setting, burning orange over the commercial buildings to the west. Clouds were gathering to the south, rolling toward us. The sight of them made me uncomfortable, as if my dreams were encroaching on reality. I had to stop a moment, taking a deep breath to keep the world from spinning.

“Alice …” Briar put a paw on my shoulder.

“We’ll improvise once we’re in there,” I said.

We walked up the steps to the porch. Briar ticked off the details: “Hasn’t been painted in a while … curtains in the windows are pulled back … hmmm, three of the floorboards are loose … no bulb in the light over the door … no stray leaves anywhere on the porch …”

“The brown totally doesn’t go with the green window trim,” I added.

Briar looked at me. I shrugged.

“Ready?” I asked.

He took a deep breath. “This is always so tense.”

“Just stay back and try not to get your furry butt in any trouble.” I opened the door, walking casually in and immediately letting my eyes sweep around the room. My hand drifted to my pocket, ready.

It was not what I expected. The office was large, with a single door behind the counter that must have lead to the rest of the house. On the counter were a dozen ledgers bound in leather, two ink quills, and about a dozen staplers. There were old Renaissance paintings on the walls, two filing cabinets along one wall and a tall grandfather clock along the other. A tall lamp in each corner. A bookshelf to my left, filled with old books. A flat screen television in the corner to my right.

Except … everything was cut in half. I mean actually half-missing! The pendulum of the grandfather clock swung inside its case one way, then swung outside the case the other way. The paintings and their frames were cut in half—in one, a little chubby cherub reached out to something, but whatever it had been was ripped away. Even the TV and desk were cut in half.

The only thing intact was the frumpy-looking old man sitting behind the counter.

“Miss?” he asked in a gruff voice. The air that blew in from the open front door had blown his thin white hair out of place. He smoothed it out, carefully putting it to rest across his balding crown. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah …” I walked closer, giving the room another looksee. There was no other exit except the doorway behind the counter. Briar skulked beside the bookcase like a ninja, invisible to the man. Invisible because the man wasn’t a Corrupted.

“Well?” the man asked. “Out with it, sister! This isn’t some hangout for teenagers. Do you have accounting business?” He eyed me closely over his thin little glasses. A wattle of loose, wrinkled skin hung from his chin.

“I’m looking for Alexander Kensington,” I said.

“Why, that’s me!” said the man. He was wearing a striped button-down shirt with a ridiculous little black bowtie that his fingers found and ceremoniously adjusted.

“No,” I said. “No you’re not.”

“Yes! Yes, I am!” He nodded, his jowls flapping. “It’s true!”

I shook my head. Briar watched beside me, curious.

The man glared at me a moment, then grunted. “Wait here a moment.”

I watched him leave through the doorway behind the counter.

“What the heck was that about?” Briar whispered.

“I have no idea.” Something on the half-bookcase caught my eye. “Briar, look at this!”

Briar followed me, examining the book I grabbed from the fifth shelf. It had been lying facedown on the shelf, used as a bookend for the other books so they didn’t fall off the edge. “A History of Lesser Magic,” Briar read. “Oh my.”

“The heroes are alvays so curious.”

I spun around, hands going for my fountain pen. My eyes searched the room for the voice—gruff, deep, with a German accent—expecting to see a German soldier pointing a gun at me.

But there was no one.

“Look closer, hero.”

I turned back to the half-desk, narrowing my tired eyes. At first, I didn’t see him. Then, when I did, I gasped in astonishment.

There, standing next to one of the massive leather-bound ledgers, was a sausage.

A talking sausage.

Chapter 11

And what was the result? The sausage trudged off toward the forest; the bird made the fire; and the mouse put on the pot and waited for the sausage to return with wood for the next day. However, the sausage stayed out so long that the other two feared that something bad had happened.[vi]

“Alexander?” I asked.

The sausage nodded, or did the sausage-equivalent of a nod. He looked, quite literally, like one of Milwaukee’s famous beer brats, only with a slightly browner complexion. He had little legs, and little arms and a little mouth, too. His eyes were wide, almost cartoonish.

No nose. I guess living, breathing sausages didn’t need them.

“Well, that explains the small pens,” Briar said.

The sausage—Alexander—turned to him. “Who are you, rabbit? Vat do you vant?”

“We vant …” I shook my head. “We want to know where the Order of the Golden Dragon is.”

“Ah! So you are here to fulfill ze master’s prophecy.” The sausage nodded again, his whole sausage body bobbing in the process. “I have expected you for some time. A hundred years, to be precise. Those hundred years have been trying. Dark moments …”

I burst out laughing.

The sausage seemed taken aback. “Vat? Vat is it?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes. “It’s just … you’re a talking sausage.” I started laughing again. I couldn’t control it.

“Quiet now!” the sausage yelled. “Quiet yourself, child! Zis is no time to lose one’s composure.”

Briar chuckled. “You must admit, it’s not every day one converses with cured meat.”

The sausage grunted. The sausage grunted. I burst out laughing again.

“OK, OK,” I said, hiccupping. “I’m done. I’m done. This is just such a welcome change from the usual Corrupted.”

“Well,” the sausage said carefully. “Vat I lack in evil I more than make up for in brains.”

“Would those brains be … smoked or cured?” Briar asked.

We both burst into laughter.

“Ah, very good, very good,” the sausage said. “Yes, it is all so funny. Magical creatures enthralled to dark masters is certainly something to laugh about. Are you finished, or vould you like to come back at a later time?”

“OK, OK.” I waved Briar off, forcing myself to put on a serious face. “All right. Give us the goods. Where is the Order of the Golden Dragon?”

The sausage stayed silent.

“Really,” I said. “Tell us. Or …”

“Or vat?” the sausage asked. “I’m no fool. I know what the hero does and I know what you plan to do vith me. I’m doomed either way.” He walked on his little stick-like legs across the massive ledger. “So vill you hear me out? Vill you leesten to vat I have to say?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. We’re listening.”

“Because I’m trying to be nice here.”

“You’re right. We’re sorry.”

“Eh …” Briar raised his paw. “Might I inquire as to the unique decoration?”

“Why pay full price for a full piece of furniture when half will do?” the sausage asked. He narrowed one eye. “That is why Agnim loved using me, no matter my qualms vith his plans. Now, are there any other questions? Perhaps you vould like to know about my favorite books? Or my favorite TV show?”

Briar and I looked at each other. “I do believe that’s my only question,” Briar said.

The sausage painstakingly turned the page in the ledger, walking across the book and pushing the piece of paper so it turned over. “I vas conscripted by Agnim because I knew how to make myself useful. I vas more clever by half, and I could very easily keep myself out of sight by entering into … agreements vith people of exquisite taste.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean I let people eat me,” the sausage snapped. He lifted his rump in the air. “They take a few slices off right here. I heal quickly enough, and their stomachs are full. Everyone is happy. That old man you met before? He is quite happy. For lunch today, he enjoyed some pickles, potato chips and a few slices of yours truly with a side of mustard. And in exchange for this never-ending supply of food, he pretends to run my operation so that I may serve my oh-so-vunderful master, hiding his wealth, converting it to gold, paying off ne’er-do-wells.”

“Ingenious!” Briar exclaimed. “And more than a little mouth-watering as well.”

“Yes, indeed.” The sausage put his little hands—made of sausage, too, I guess—on or near his hips. “But I must be careful, you see, because humans have a tendency to want ever more. Sure, it’s a few slices of me here and there, but pretty soon my helpers always vant to stuff me into a bun and eat me whole! Zis is what makes the magician Agnim so dangerous. His followers—his minions!—lust for more and more gold. Zey will not stop, and zey have no qualms with hurting others to get it.”

“A curse,” Briar whispered.

“No, no curse. Zey do it villingly.”

“Villingly!” Briar exclaimed. “I mean willingly! Dear me.”

“Agnim carries a dark secret, hero,” the sausage continued. “He cares nothing for the gold his minions collect from their nefarious war profiteering. He seeks only the birth of the Golden Dragon and uses ze gold to motivate his minions. The dragon will wake soon. Very soon. Agnim promises his minions when this happens, the dragon will give them an unending supply of the shiny yellow stuff. But he is lying.”

“When will the dragon awaken?” I asked. “Where?”

“On ze south side of the city, there is an old movie theater. There, Agnim will be waiting. He has foreseen your arrival, and instructed me to say as much. As for what I’m about to tell you now … I do not think he has foreseen it. Page seventy-four of that book.” He pointed to Briar. “Rip it out.”

Briar pawed through the pages of the book of magic, tearing away the page. “Hmmm. An old language. Not sure if I could translate it …”

“You don’t need to translate it, hare,” the sausage snapped. “You just need to know what it does. It is a reflection spell. It will reflect Agnim’s dark magic. Use it on him. And tell him I never liked working for him.” He turned around. “Now. Do what you came here to do, and make it quick.”

I stepped up to ze—I mean the—counter and pulled the cap off the magic fountain pen. I gently poked the sausage’s body.

“I did not even feel it,” he said approvingly, burning away. Little black ashes floated onto the half-desk.

“Alice,” Briar said, tapping me on the shoulder. “Look at the book!”

I turned to the leather-bound ledger. There was something underneath the next page, which was lined with columns of big, big numbers. I turned the page.

There, sitting near the bottom of the page just below the last entry of numbers: a gold coin.

I grabbed it. Lightning lit up the room, followed quickly by a crack of thunder.

Chapter 12

I crept quietly around the exterior of the movie theater. The Century Theater. It was the only old theater left on the south side of Milwaukee. I could remember as a child, my parents took me there to see a cartoon filled with wizards and ponies. It was a terrifying place, all old-timey, with dim red lanterns that hung from the ceiling in the lobby and lots of shadows near the staircase that led upstairs to the bathrooms and the balcony. Abandoned for years, it was the perfect place for a crazy wizard.

I huddled behind a dumpster and using my magic pen to draw a saber into the concrete parking lot. I pulled it away, then scanned the dark alley for any unwanted company. It was empty.

The clouds above emitted a low growl. A warning.

I hurried to the emergency exit door, using my pen to draw an opening. I quietly pulled back the square of metal and crawled through.

I was at the front of the old theater. To my left was the massive old screen that looked so damaged that it could hardly show movies anymore. In front of the screen was a stage, about shoulder height. Above me was the intricately decorated ceiling, lined with old Chinese dragon sculptures that guarded the corners of the massive theater, their gold paint peeled away in places. Lights hiding behind dark red wall sconces bathed the entire theater in a blood-red glow. To my right were the old plush seats.

Empty.

I walked up the aisle, through the doors in the rear of the building. Inside the lobby. Memories came flooding back. V-shaped glass sconces adorned the walls where old wallpaper was peeling away. The concession stand was empty, its glass case devoid of Chuckles and Sno-Caps and other treats I had as a child. The red carpeting, old and worn, muffled my footsteps.

To my left was the grand staircase, its brass railing lined with dust. The staircase led to darkness, just as I remembered it as a child. There were bathrooms up there, along with plenty of shadows. Creepy, dark shadows created by dim lights and north-facing windows that were typically covered by thick red curtains. I could remember as a little girl, I always needed someone to come with me up those stairs so I could use the bathroom. I was too afraid.

A clanging noise echoed behind me. I walked back into the theater, searching the empty seats. I reached the stage, feeling my shoes adhere to the hard, sticky carpeting. Another noise came from behind me. I turned, sword held out defensively.

Sitting in the seats were men. Dozens of them, clad in black robes, each with a golden dragon pendant around their necks, hoods drawn low to hide their faces.

“Alice.”

The voice came from the far end of the seats, near the door that led to the lobby. In the dim lighting I could barely see him, but I recognized the voice.

“Agnim!” I called out. “Let’s do this. You and me, buddy!”

A great cackling laughter echoed through the large space, bouncing off the decorative soundproof walls. Agnim floated halfway down the aisle, then stopped.

“No,” he said finally. “I think I should like to see my minions destroy you instead.”

They all stood as one. They were scattered in the rows of seats, but when they stood I could see something was wrong. There were no men inside the robes. They were just ghosts filling out the robes, the hoods drawn over their invisible heads just in the same way Agnim wore his. No hands protruded from the sleeves. No feet—they simply floated over the seats.

Right toward me.

I clutched my saber, opening up my stance, using the corner of my vision to take in the details of the setting. Beyond the stage in front of the screen was a little pit where there used to be a piano. Beyond that was another emergency exit, stage-left.

“Right,” I said. “Higher ground it is.”

I climbed the little stage, kicking wildly at the first cloaked apparitions to reach me. My foot connected with one of them and it touched only fabric, but the moment it did a terrible coldness hit me, as if I’d stepped onto snow with bare feet.

Agnim’s laugh echoed through the theater. “Why are you running, Alice? Kill my minions! They’re nothing to you!”

“I’m getting there,” I hissed, taking a step back on the stage and letting my eyes adjust to the dim ambient lighting that was coming from the small bulbs near the ceiling. The cloaked specters were swarming the stage now, climbing over one another in a mad attempt to get at me.

I swung my saber, cutting through the robes of the nearest two as they climbed onto the stage. The fabric of the robes burst apart.

“Kill them all, Alice!” Agnim said with a demonic cackle.

I stepped back, watching more of them climb onto the stage. I swung my sword in a wide arc, sidestepping as I did so, spinning, slicing again. Six more of the robed specters fell apart.

“More, Alice! More!” Agnim called out in a booming voice. The sound of thunder outside penetrated the thick walls of the theater.

I swung again, then stabbed wildly. More of them climbed onto the stage. I stepped back, then leapt forward and swung again and again, cutting the robes apart.

There was only one left. One specter standing between me and Agnim. It floated onto the stage right in front of me and I stepped forward, stabbing. The sweaty grip of my saber slipped in my hand as the blade hit something solid. My heart stopped.

The robe didn’t flake away like the others. Instead, it doubled over onto my blade. There came a groan from underneath the hood.

Blood spilled onto the stage, soaking into the old wooden boards.

“No!” I screamed, stepping back.

The specter fell over. The hood fell back. Underneath it was a man’s face. A middle-aged man stared up at me, gasping and clutching desperately at the saber in his chest. He went still.

“That’s impossible!” I could feel my entire body breaking down. My legs quivered. Bile rode its way up my throat. An intense electrical numbness ran through my body, as if I’d been struck by lightning.

Agnim disappeared like a flash of lightning. One blink of my eyes later, his icy hands wrapped around my shoulders. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. My inner voice screamed at me to fight back.

But I couldn’t move. My eyes were drawn to the dead body in front of me. Who had he been? What have I done?

My body lifted from the ground. Agnim held me in place, pushing down on my shoulders. My saber disappeared.

“Ahhhh,” Agnim said. “Here, finally, is what I’ve been searching for.”

A spotlight appeared on the dead body.

“Tomorrow night,” Agnim whispered, his cold words bouncing off my neck, “you will come for me. And I will make you break your rule of nonviolence. You will kill my minions or they will kill you.”

“No,” I whispered.

“Yesssssss.” His nails dug into my shoulders, squeezing. I felt entranced, unable to move. “Tomorrow night, you will learn a terrible secret about the human race. For my minions are not cursed. They are not under my control. They are nothing more than greedy men who are never satisfied no matter how much gold they receive. They will unleash the dogs of war for just a few more ounces of gold. They will kill their own brothers for it. And you will kill them to get to me.”

“No. No!”

Agnim released me. I began floating upward, high above the stage. Something sharp and painful gripped my shoulders. I looked up and screamed. The white spotted owl was clutching me in its talons, glaring down, its dark horn-shaped eyebrows bent down in a hungry scowl. We flew through the ceiling, and the owl flapped its wings harder, carrying us up above the roof of the building. Raindrops pelted my face. Above us, lightning flashed across the sky. Below us, the rooftop grew smaller and smaller.

Agnim’s voice whispered in my ears: “You will kill my minions … and then the Golden Dragon will awaken!”

Chapter 13

“I will teach him well. Come back when a year is over, and then if you recognize your son, I will take no payment at all for teaching him; but if you don't know him, you must give me two hundred thalers.”[vii]

I woke to the sound of my alarm, my sweaty palms gripping the sheets of my bed. My mouth was dry and tasted faintly of bile. My eyes had trouble focusing. Reality seemed to be fleeting, as if the dream world was replacing it.

“Good morning,” Briar said cheerfully, smacking his lips and stretching out on the floor. “Was it an informative night’s sleep?”

“Oh yeah.” I got up and wandered into the bathroom, drinking a tall glass of cold water, staring at my haggard reflection. The bags under my eyes were new. So was the fresh crop of zits breaking out on my cheeks. Stress zits. Agnim was going to pay for that.

And I was going to prove him wrong. Somehow.

“So?” Briar asked when I returned. He obediently turned around as I went for the closet.

I changed into a pair of black stretch pants and a violet t-shirt. The last clean clothes. “The theater is bigger than I remember. It’s huge, actually. Lots of old seats. There’s a stage. There’s a backstage, too, from what I could see. The screen is damaged. Um … the floors are sticky.”

Briar sighed. “I take it you were distracted.”

I nodded. A tear slipped out of my eye. “Briar, those robed men … Agnim’s minions … they’re just human beings. They’ll kill me if I don’t kill them.”

Briar hopped over to the window, tucking one paw in the pocket of his trousers. “I’ve often said that the difference between humans and Corrupted is humans can choose to be good or bad. Some, unfortunately, choose to be bad.”

“Well, I’m choosing to be good,” I said. “No matter what happens tonight, I won’t let Agnim break me. And if that freaking owl shows up, I swear I’m going to yank all its tail feathers out.”

Briar’s ears perked up. “Owl? What owl?”

“The owl that’s always in my dreams,” I said.

“And of course you didn’t mention this,” Briar said agitatedly. He flipped open my laptop, opening Wikipedia.

“Briar,” I said, running a hand on the puffed-out fur between his ears. “Why, you’re positively upset with me!”

Briar grumbled something unintelligible. “How about we focus on this owl?”

“White, with black spots and mostly black wings.” I sat down on the bed and closed my eyes, thinking back. “Bright, big yellow eyes. Big black eyebrows, like a V, that jut out like horns. Big, too.”

“Something like this?” Briar asked, turning the laptop. I stared at the picture and shivered. The owl looked like it was staring right at me with those two big yellow eyes, ready to silently release from its perch and cut through the air like a ninja, catching me unawares.

“That’s the one.”

“This,” Briar said, “cannot be the one. Because it is a bird found mostly in South Africa.”

“No, this is it,” I said, pointing at the screen. “This is the owl. This … this is Agnim.”

“A shape shifter!” Briar exclaimed, opening the top drawer of the desk. He pulled out our trusty Grimms’ Fairy Tales book, searching through it. “Here,” he said, tapping his paw on page 147.

“The Thief and His Master,” I read.

“The thief trains with a master,” Briar said, “and ends up outwitting him by changing into an animal.”

“Agnim is the thief,” I said. “He fell in love with the maid from the story, then accidentally killed her. He couldn’t control his magical powers as the Corruption grew inside him.”

Briar’s ears straightened. “And now?”

“Now … now his magic is even more powerful.”

At school, I went through the motions. In U.S. History, we gave our group speech and presented our poster to the class. We definitely had the most “colorful” poster thanks to Brad’s drawing skills.

I barely kept my eyes open.

The big moment I’d been expecting all day came after lunch. I was ready to skip the library and head home, putting in two hours of sleep before I headed over to Chase’s house to plan the attack. But before I could do any of that, I needed to make a stop in the little girls’ room.

I never thought Joey Harrington would follow me in there.

His reflection betrayed him—the mirrors above the sinks gave me a perfect view over my shoulder as I walked in. He was right behind me, lurking like a total creepazoid.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, spinning around. My voice echoed in the empty bathroom. There was no one roaming the halls—classes had already started. Somewhere, a teacher was taking attendance, passing over Joey’s name and thinking nothing of it.

“I’m going to dip your head in the toilet,” Joey said simply, kicking the bathroom door shut.

My hand reached for the leather strap in my back pocket. I kept it there, stepping away from the sinks so I could have enough room to maneuver.

“You’re going to regret this,” I told him.

He laughed. He was doing a great impression of a Corrupted, that was for sure. “Girl, I own this school. Don’t you get that?”

“That explains why you think you’re allowed in the girls’ bathroom.” I smiled. “Or maybe this is where you always use the bathroom.”

That got his temperature boiling. Classic meathead, totally worried about his masculinity. It wasn’t even that good of an insult, for crying out loud! But that didn’t matter. I’d insulted Joey’s manliness, and now the time for talk was over. He came at me, only instead of grabbing for me like I expected, he tightened one hand in a fist and swung!

I ducked out of the way, keeping my hand on the leather strap in my back pocket. “Woah, Joey! You tried to punch me! Even you can’t get away with that.”

“Let’s try,” he snarled.

He charged me again, only this time he reached out with both hands to grab me. It was just what I was waiting for. I sidestepped, pulling the leather strap from my pocket and whipping it around Joey’s right wrist. I tugged hard, tightening its grip, and pressed one foot firmly on the back of his right knee. His leg buckled. I helped him to the tiled floor, pressing my shoulder hard into his back.

He swore at me, but I had him pinned pretty good, with my knee between his shoulder blades and my weight to keep him down.

“What are you doing?” he asked, adding a variety of curses that I’d rather not repeat.

“This,” I held the strap in front of his face, using it to wiggle his arm around with ease, “I call a strapper. See how it wrapped around your wrist?” I held it closer. “Little hooks and fabric. It’s Velcro! Isn’t that totally ingenious?”

Joey released another string of foul words.

“Velcro is made of tiny hooks on one side and tiny loops on the other. The creator got the idea when a bunch of little burrs stuck to his dog’s fur. It’s amazing history! You should really read up on it.” I reached out for his right foot, ignoring his other flailing arm, and tied the other end of the leather strap around his ankle. I used a constrictor knot, one of the toughest knots out there. “Come to think of it, you should try reading anything. Exercise your mind a bit.”

More curse words!

“OK,” I said, standing up. I watched Joey flop around like a fish out water, trying to reach for the knot with his free hand. He looked like a fool, with his right hand and right foot tied together behind his back. Good, I thought.

“You’re a lunatic, Goodenough!”

“You’re a bully, Harrington. And you can’t beat me.” I walked to the door, then stopped. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

Back home, I spent an hour lying on my soft bed with my eyes closed. I was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t come. Agnim had taken it away from me.

At Chase’s house, I laid out the plan. Then I laid it out again because Chase was having a serious problem about being left out.

Briar? Not so much.

“Look,” I said. “It’s crazy enough that Seth is coming along. But he’s the only one who can do what needs to be done.”

“You mean he’s the only one of the two of us who can walk,” Chase said, frowning. “I can still help. There’s gotta be something I can do.”

I shook my head. “Even if you weren’t in a wheelchair, I still wouldn’t let you come. This isn’t a game, all right?”

“I get that.”

“No, you don’t,” I said, maybe a little too harshly. “Look, Seth has seen what really happens with these things. And this is going to be even more dangerous than before.”

“Trust her,” Seth said, double-checking the magic bow. He set it on the table, next to a handful of store-bought arrows. “Alice goes very in-death with her plans.”

“In-depth,” Briar corrected.

“Oh. Yeah.” Seth shrugged. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to if you ask me.”

“But you don’t even know what this dragon is,” Chase said to me. “How are you going to know how to beat it?”

“That’s a good point,” Seth said. “I mean, that’s a really, really good point.”

“There’s no time,” I said. “The Golden Dragon wakes tonight. We need to get over there and kill it—whatever it is.”

Chase shook his head. “It just sounds risky. Back me up, rabbit.”

Briar tapped his foot on the floor. It made a heavy thumping sound. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Agnim has the upper hand.”

“You mean upper paw,” Seth said, elbowing Briar in the ribs.

Briar hopped back, chuckling. “Yes, well. However you might phrase it, Agnim clearly is ensuring that Alice plays by his rules.”

“I hate this. I absolutely hate this.” Chase pounded a fist on his armrest. “Why can’t you call the police?”

“We’re dealing with a wizard, dude,” Seth answered. “And his dragon. If we try to tell the cops we’ll all end up in the loony bin.”

“What’s that?” Chase asked, pointing to my necklace. “You don’t wear a necklace.”

“I do when I’m hunting Corrupted,” I said, tucking the magical vial under the collar of my shirt. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Aren’t you even the least bit curious how that vial refilled itself after the last time it was used by the angry dwarf?” Seth asked.

“I try not to ask too many questions about this stuff,” I answered. “The answers just lead to more questions. All I know is the last hero wanted me to keep this vial handy, so that’s what I’m doing.”

Chase looked up at Briar. “You’re OK with her plan?”

“Er …” Briar shifted uncomfortably. “To date, I don’t believe I’ve been OK with any of Alice’s plans. But they do seem to have an incredible success rate.”

“But you don’t know how to stop Agnim!” Chase exclaimed. He sighed, slumping into his chair.

I had no response. I had no idea how I was going to defeat Agnim. And that was exactly what Agnim wanted. He’d drained me for days, testing my mental toughness, probing my dreams for a weakness. Now he had it.

“Come on,” I said to Seth.

“Alice …”

I stopped at the front door, turning back to Chase.

“Just … be careful,” he said.

“I promise.”

We were quiet for most of the drive into Milwaukee, listening to an old Nirvana CD. Seth kept the heat on and I was thankful, positioning my clammy hands in front of the vents.

“The Century,” Seth said, shaking his head as he took the freeway exit to Kinnickinnic Avenue, which would take us through the trendy south side of Milwaukee and right to the theater. “Who would have thought in a million years that a dragon would rise from the ashes of a historic theater that went out of business half a decade ago?”

“Agnim,” I answered.

“Oooooh. Right.”

We passed the tall building on our right. Seth turned on the next street, pulling into the alley between two old houses surrounded by pine trees. He parked next to the green dumpster that I’d so vividly seen in my dream last night. It was almost as if Agnim wanted us to park here.

As if he wanted the dream to play out exactly.

“OK,” Seth said, turning off the engine. “This is it.”

“You have your gun?” I asked softly, staring down at my black athletic shoes.

“Yup.”

I wiped my hands on my black pants. Black pants, tight black long-sleeved shirt, black headband to keep my hair out of my face. “Are you sure you know how to shoot your gun?”

Seth nodded. “Tons and tons of practice over the years. I know you might find that hard to believe, but I am in fact quite the manly man.”

“Great.” I took a deep breath, clutching my white purse. “Just stick to the plan. No risks.”

“Right,” Seth said. “No problem.”

We walked to the emergency exit door. My shaky hand went to the handle, testing it. Yup: unlocked. Agnim was definitely ready for me. I checked my right pocket: the magic pen was tucked safely inside. I checked my purse: the strappers were inside.

“You sure those are going to work?”

I smiled. “They’ve been tested. Let’s go.”

Seth nodded, clutching his gun with both hands.

I opened the door, stepping inside. Except for the red curtain in front of the movie screen, it was just like my dream.

Right down to the robed men sitting in the seats. About two dozen of them, a few more than I expected. The little lights along the ceiling cast a bloody glow over the audience, and I felt a warm rush of anger flood through my body. They were human, all right. Men willing to cavort with a creature like Agnim didn’t deserve mercy.

But I was going to give it to them anyway.

“Get her!” shouted one. They got up from their seats, swarming toward me. I set my bag on the stage, grabbing one of my homemade strappers. Three of them reached me at the same time, their hoods falling back as they charged toward me.

“Get ready,” I said to Seth, who was crouched in the open doorway.

The first one got within striking distance, and as he reached out with his arms I could see the ferocity in his dark blue eyes. He would kill me. This man, this fellow human being, would kill me simply to protect the gold promised to him by Agnim.

I dodged right, whipping the leather strapper around the man’s arm, pulling him to the ground.

“Now, Seth!”

He fired his gun. A nail the size of my finger flew through the air so fast I didn’t even see it until it hit pierced the fabric of the man’s thick, magnificently tailored robe.

Pinning him to the floor.

The other two came at me at once. From behind them came the shouts of a dozen more, charging down the center aisle between the rows of seats. I used the momentum of the two men to pull them back, falling over and taking both with them.

Whump! Whump! Whump! Whump!

Two nails each pinned their robes to the floor. Seth gave a quick thumbs-up, then pointed over my shoulder.

“I know!” I said, turning and climbing the stage before the next group of minions could reach me. They were swarming the stage now, and nearly all of them were wearing those terrifying steel claws.

“You’re not playing by the rules!” I shouted, pressing my shoe on the head of one who’d managed to get one leg up on the stage. I pushed him onto his fellow minions. “You’re supposed to come at me one at a time, like in the movies!”

“Kill her!” one of them shouted, his mouth frothing with saliva.

Another had managed to climb halfway onto the stage, using his claws to dig into the old wooden floorboards. I grabbed another strapper from my bag, whipping his wrist and pulling him onto the stage. I then promptly tossed him off, stage-right.

Whump! Whump!

Two nails pinned his heavy robe to the ground.

“Luckily you’re all mostly out of shape,” I added.

“Get her friend!” someone shouted.

“Shut the door, Seth!” I called out. We knew it would happen eventually. The plan was for him to shut the door and bar it shut with his ice scraper. No risks. He could open the door again once they turned their attention back to me.

Instead of following the plan, he ran inside.

“Seth!” I shouted, pushing another of the minions off the stage. “What are you doing, you big dummy?!”

“I panicked!” he called back, running up the side aisle along the wall. A handful of minions followed him, splitting up so they could corner him before he crossed over to the center aisle.

I grabbed another strapper, heart racing. They would kill him if they caught him. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Seth!” I called out, pushing two more minions off the stage. “Jump the seats!”

“What?! How?!”

“Just stand on the backs of the seats and step on them like they’re stepping stones!”

He crossed into one of the rows of old seats, followed quickly by the robed minions. Thankfully, none of them were in peak physical condition. In fact, most of them looked like they’d spent the last ten years sitting behind a desk. They were huffing and puffing; the murderous lust to protect their gold was their fuel now.

More cornered Seth from the center aisle, sidling between the seats. Seth climbed onto one, then stepped over to the next. The minions, clearly not as agile or young as Seth, sidled their way back to the aisles to chase him down.

I kicked three more off the stage. They were getting bolder, spreading out and making it difficult for me to keep them off. I used the strapper on another one, wrapping it around his wrist and taking him down just like I had Joey Harrington, tying a quick knot around his ankle. I rolled him onto his friends, momentarily incapacitating a half-dozen of them.

This wouldn’t work for much longer. And Seth was stuck, jumping frantically from row to row. His assailants were already spreading out, closing in. I had to think fast. I looked around frantically …

And quickly spotted my way out.

“Perfect,” I said, running over to the red curtain hiding the movie screen. I grabbed it and pulled as hard as I could, feeling it give way somewhere above. One of the minions climbed the stage and I ran over still clutching the heavy curtain, pushing the minion off with my shoe.

The curtain began falling. I guided it to the edge of the stage, blanketing the minions.

There came a collective gasp from those not trapped under the heavy curtain. I looked out into the seats—the minions had stopped chasing Seth and were just standing there, staring at me. Seth jumped his way toward the stage, hopping over the first row of seats and then stopping.

“Woah. Holy crap.”

“The dragon! The dragon has finally awakened!” said one of the robed men, pointing with a shaky finger.

I turned, feeling an icy chill creep down my spine. When I saw it standing there on the massive hay-covered platform, I nearly fainted.

It wasn’t a dragon at all.

It was a goose. A big, fat, golden goose.

Chapter 14: Briar

Dummling went and cut down the tree, and when it fell there was a goose sitting in the roots with feathers of pure gold. He lifted her up, and taking her with him, went to an inn where he thought he would stay the night. Now the host had three daughters, who saw the goose and were curious to know what such a wonderful bird might be, and would have liked to have one of its golden feathers.[viii]

Meanwhile, back at the bat-cave …

Huh! Well, not quite. But at the very moment our hero was on her way to the movie theater of magic happenings, yours truly was on the precipice of a downright terrifying discovery.

“I don’t see what the point is,” Chase huffed, tossing aside another book. We were in the incapacitated fellow’s living room, combing through my research. “All these old writings won’t help Alice now. She’s out there and we’re here …”

“Helpless?” I finished. “Ah, of course you feel that way. You’re quite smitten with her.”

“Take that back!”

I hopped back a step, ever the cautious one. That, and I now had a straight line to the kitchen, should a snacking break arise. “Easy now … perhaps a snack to settle your nerves …”

Chase flipped through another book with all the temerity of a squirrel, sighing a great big teenager sigh.

“Now, be careful with those,” I said. “All three of the books are very, very old. They were incredibly important in my research on this horrid group of ne’er-do-wells.”

“So what do we need them for now?” Chase asked. “What are we looking for?”

“We are checking and re-checking and re-re-checking our research, like good researchers do.” I grabbed one of the old books Chase had already flipped through. “Hmmmm,” I said, sipping my mug of hot cocoa. “Quite a few stains on this table. I hope your parents don’t notice.”

“Dad won’t care,” Chase murmured, thumbing through the book. “Ma might, I guess. So do you poop or what?”

My fur bristled. Positively stood on end. The very rudeness of the question! “That’s between me and the garden outside the house, dear sir.”

He chuckled. “Now that my dad might have a problem with.”

“Tell him he missed a few delicious tomatoes when last he harvested. If he’d simply got on his hands and knees, he might have seen them.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him when he gets home tonight.”

“And when are we expecting your parents?”

“Tonight. Late. They have some card club. Geezers like playing cards.”

I sat down on the couch, stretching out my legs. Hoo boy, I was a fan of that couch. Cushions that you could really sink into. My favorite. “Say, shouldn’t we have snacks while we’re waiting?”

“Rabbit, how could you think of eating at a time like this?” the furless fellow exclaimed. “I mean, who knows what’s happening to Alice right now?”

“If I had to guess, she’s probably still in the car. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive from here to the theater.”

He gave me a very animated expression of suspicion. “How do you know that?”

“Because it’s my business to know. And besides, you have little to worry about. I’m a bit of a deus ex machina, if you haven’t noticed. The hero’s helper.”

“But you’re here,” he said.

“Oh. Right.”

“Why are you here again?”

“Er … to do research.” A clever lie, unfortunately. I’d promised Alice I would protect Chase, plain and simple. After all, we didn’t know what Agnim might try, and poor Alice was so worried about the young man. I hopped off the couch—with some hesitation. “You don’t mind if I make myself a sandwich, do you?”

“No, go ahead,” he said, his face buried once again in the book.

I meandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge and surveying the bounty.

“There’s lettuce in the bottom drawer!” Chase called out.

“Lettuce!” I scoffed haughtily, selecting a handful of deli meats and cheeses. “Turkey … ham … provolone … that’s a wonderful book you have there, by the way! From the late eighteen hundreds. Lots of information about the southern states after the Civil War was over.” I arranged the meats and cheeses on a piece of bread and took a bite. Absolutely scrumptious! “It’s amazing what you can learn …” I took another bite. “Laws and goings on, and so on and so forth. All that wonderful stuff. This really is a fantastic sandwich. What was I talking about again?”

“Briar! Come here!”

I gave my sandwich a sad look of longing, then hopped back into the living room. My heart sank when I saw Chase’s face. “What is it? Is someone at the door?”

He held up the book. “Look. Look at this.”

“What?” I asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Here,” he said, pointing to a passage. The very same passage Alice and I had run through during our initial research. But I didn’t see anything out of the sort. “Wheel me into the hallway, where the lights are brighter.”

I pulled him backward into the hallway.

“Look close,” Chase said.

“The Order of the Golden Dragon,” I read. It was a passage from an old newspaper account, one of the only ones I could find that mentioned the mysterious organization.

“Read closer,” Chase urged, holding the book up.

“The Order of the Golden Dragons.” I burped, nearly spewing half-eaten sandwich onto the poor fellow’s head. “Dragons! Plural! How, oh how did we miss it? More importantly, how many dragons are we talking about here?”

“The type is so faded I almost missed it too.” He turned in his chair, nearly falling right out in his excitement. “Briar, we have to go to Alice. She’s walking into a trap!”

I tittered, thinking. The boy was right. If there was more than one dragon, there was no telling what else we missed. Agnim had played a royal flush when we expected a full house.

“Briar, come on!” Chase slammed the book shut. “We have to warn her. We have to help. I may not be able to do much, but you can.”

“But how will we get there?”

“I’ll drive.” He winced. “I mean I’ll steer, and you can push the gas and break pedal. Can you handle that?”

A surge of energy ran down my legs. “Yes! Yes, I might could do that. But what will we do when we get there?”

Chase’s fingers tapped nervously on his armrest. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Damn it, I don’t know! I can’t do anything in this chair, Briar.”

I looked around. There had to be an answer. I was Br’er Rabbit, after all. I always had something up my sleeve. But what?

What?!

“Ah-ha!” I exclaimed, spotting the open doorway at the end of the hall. Alice had told me all about that room and I hadn’t believed her. To think: a grown man obsessed with ancient toys! But there it was, just sitting in the corner begging to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world.

A suit of armor. And a lance.

I flashed Chase a devilish smile. “How’s about we play a little prank?”

Chapter 15: Alice

I watched as the goose preened her golden feathers, then laid another massive golden egg, which slid down a small wooden slide and landed beside the two others. The eggs were as big as me, and the goose was as big as a freaking draft horse.

And all of Agnim’s minions had fallen on their knees, worshipping the dang thing.

“This is … a strange turn of events,” Seth murmured.

“Yup.” I knelt down, pulling the magic pen from my pocket. I drew a saber on the wooden panels, plucking it and watching it magically solidify in my hand.

Seth walked around the bowing minions, giving one of them a gentle kick on the shoulder. He ignored Seth completely. “They’re worshipping the thing like it’s a freakin’ god or something!”

“Yup.” I grabbed Seth’s hand and pulled him up onto the stage.

He pointed his nail gun, firing a few nails into the robes of the nearest one. The others continued worshipping. “Man! They are totally obsessed.”

“Yup.” I switched the saber to my right hand, turning to the goose.

“Or maybe not …” Seth tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned back. The minions were staring at me. All two dozen of them, including the ones still nailed to the floor.

“I’m going to kill it,” I announced. “And then you’re all going to go home.”

“Never!” one of them cried out. They began rushing the stage again, all at once. Before I could take two steps toward the goose, two of them already had half-crawled onto the stage.

“Seth!” I said. “Help me!”

We pushed them off, back onto the crowd. But four more took their place, using the steel claws to dig into the stage’s old floorboards, climbing onto it. They screamed, frothing at the mouth, wide bloodshot eyes glaring at me.

Behind us, the goose let out a deafening “Honk!” Another giant golden egg rolled down the slide. For a moment—just long enough to take a deep breath—all of the eyes of the minions followed that golden egg. There was a terrifying lust in their bloodshot eyes … they wanted those golden eggs. As many as they could possibly take. I was willing to bet the minions would even kill each other for a chance to escape with just one of them.

“We’re losing!” Seth said, using his black boot to push another one off. This one reached out with his claw, scraping Seth’s leg and tearing his jeans. He cried out.

“Seth!” I grabbed him, pulling him back. He was right: two had already climbed the stage on the far end, hurrying toward us. Every instinct told me to use my sword.

“Cut them down.” Agnim’s voice echoed in the massive theater. “Kill them or they will kill you.”

“No,” I whispered. I reached out with my foot to push down another minion, then turned my attention to the two fast approaching me.

They stopped. Both of them were old enough to be fathers. One was balding; the other had a thin beard and beady eyes. Human beings, ready to kill me. And for what? Gold.

“You’re pathetic,” I told them.

The one with the beard took an angry, thoughtless step forward, but the bald one held him back. They looked to the minions who were climbing the stage.

“Too clever by half,” I murmured.

“We’re gonna die,” Seth said, clutching his bleeding leg. “They’re gonna feed us to the goose.”

I clutched my saber, pulling Seth behind me. The sharp steel of the saber blade hovered over the head of one of the minions climbing the stage. It was ready. I was ready. They would all die. Agnim had won. He’d forced my hand. I would kill them all, and then I would make Agnim pay.

Suddenly, the emergency exit door opened, letting in a dull yellow light from the streetlamps in the alley. The minions stopped to look. I took the opportunity to kick two more off the stage, knowing full well who it was. Who it had to be.

Briar. My personal savior.

But no … not Briar. As the figure stepped inside—rolled inside—I nearly fell off the stage myself.

It was Chase. Chase, clad in armor from head to toe, clutching a lance with a boxing glove attached at the tip.

Chase, wheeling around in his wheelchair as if by magic, like it was some industrial-age horse.

“Oh what the heck!” Seth exclaimed. “These encounters always get totally weird.”

“Chase!” I called out.

The minions, not knowing what to make of it, simply stared in shock while Chase surged forward, lance held straight. He knocked them down one by one. More yet dove out of the way, landing amongst their pinned-down brethren.

“Now, Seth!” I called out, grabbing another strapper from my bag and charging the two men on the stage. I heard his nail gun go off again and again and again as I dodged the bald man’s claws, locking his arm and throwing him off the stage. His bearded companion roared and swiped at me again and again. I dodged, dodged again, then felt the sharp claws scrape across my forearm. I ducked low, grabbing the bottom of his robe and pulling hard. He flipped back, landing on his butt.

In front of the stage, Chase had completed his charge, turning in his chair and doing a wheelie as if his chair was a rearing horse. Behind him, Briar appeared, giving me a wink.

“One more go!” Chase commanded in a very knightly sort of way. Briar pushed him forward, and this time he turned the lance sideways, aiming for the last remaining minions. A few ducked low, but the rest went down again. Two—the only younger men I’d noticed so far—closed in on him, disregarding their safety.

“Chase!” I cried out.

But the steel claws scraped harmlessly across the steel armor. Briar ducked low, wheeling the chair to the other side of the room.

“Alice!” Seth shouted, pointing to the last of the stragglers. “I’m out!”

I ran to my purse, grabbing three more strappers, then tossed the purse to Seth. “I packed extra nails. Make sure they’re all pinned down!”

“Wow,” he said. “You thought of everything.”

Not quite. I still had no idea where Agnim was.

“You can’t stop the Golden Dragon!” cried a young man at the edge of the stage. He grabbed my foot. “He is the gold bringer! He will make us more powerful than even the richest men! One golden egg is enough to …”

“Oh shut up already,” I said, kicking off my shoe. I jumped off the stage, landing awkwardly, wiping my forearm on my shirt. The cuts stung, making my eyes water.

“Alice, watch out!” Chase yelled. He rolled by, knocking over two of the last minions before they could jump me. Briar, pushing the wheelchair with a frantic worry, stepped on top of one and muttered a quiet “Sorry!”

“Two golden eggs!” cried the young man, throwing my shoe at me. He came at me and I stepped aside, ready to whip my strapper at his wrist. But instead of attacking me, he clawed at the stage. “No no … three eggs, that’s all I need! Three eggs and I can buy the world! I can buy a small island! I can buy anything! Everything!”

I grabbed him, tying one hand and twisting it behind his back. He ignored me, trying to get his leg up on the stage.

From behind me came the whump, whump whump of Seth’s nail gun.

“Just let me touch it!” the young man cried out. “Just one egg! Let me touch one egg and then you can nail me down or whatever it is you’re doing, you crazy girl!”

I grabbed his other arm, tying it behind his back, then pulled him to the ground. “Seth!”

Seth stepped over, nailing the young man’s robe to the ground in three different places. The young man struggled, wiggling as best he could, his hood falling back.

We both gasped.

“Brandon!” I exclaimed. Angry, I tied up his feet, too. I couldn’t believe it—Trish’s new boyfriend. The guy she’d dumped Seth for. “You idiot. The Golden Whelps! What do they do … prepare you for the Order by teaching you how to be a greedy moron?”

His eyes bulged out of their sockets. He was drooling like a boy watching an R-rated movie. “Just let me touch an egg! The gold belongs to us! It’s ours!”

I grabbed another strapper, tying it around his mouth. “Just shut up already.”

“Alice,” Chase said, lifting up his visor. “Your … uh, friend wants to remind you about the giant freaking goose.”

Briar, standing behind him, tapped his little button nose.

“Right.” I climbed the stage, grabbing my saber. The goose watched me as I walked up the wooden steps to her little nest. “You really are a big beast, aren’t you?” I told her.

The goose honked again. The pinned-down minions responded with lusty cries for the golden eggs.

“Seth,” I said.

“Right.”

“Give ‘em all another couple nails each.”

“Right.”

I stopped at the top of the platform, kicking aside a clump of hay. “You know,” I said in a soothing voice, “I used to be afraid of geese. When I was a kid. They were always so unafraid of me. You’re not afraid, either.”

The goose craned her long neck. Her black eyes studied me.

“Why were you sleeping?” I wondered aloud. “How did Agnim find you?”

The goose just shook her head, ruffling her golden feathers. I reached out, stabbing her. She gave one last honk, burning away.

“Why?” I asked, watching the ashes slowly fall onto the platform. The smell of burnt paper filled my nostrils.

“I think we know,” Chase said. Briar wheeled him around the pinned minions to the base of the stage. “The texts you and Briar found … it’s not the Order of the Golden Dragon. It’s the Order of the Golden Dragons.”

“But then what …” I looked underneath wooden platform. Four golden eggs, sitting at the base of the slide. Four coins. Suddenly everything made sense, and it all added up to a pretty terrifying picture.

“Oh crap,” Seth said. He pointed the nail gun at the eggs. “Oh crap! Dragons! Dragons, dudette!”

“Shoot,” I ordered. “Maybe we can get them before they hatch.”

He fired. The nail pinged off the egg. He fired again. Another ping.

“Woah!” Chase called out, ducking in his chair. “That’s not working.”

I swung the saber at the egg. The blade clanged against the shell, and the vibration numbed my fingers.

“Ouch. OK. One other idea.” I drew a crude-looking sledgehammer into the floor, then pulled it out. It was heavy, a little misdrawn, but otherwise good enough to do some smashing.

“I’m covering my ears,” Seth announced.

“I wish I could,” I said, slamming the hammer on the egg. The minions screamed, their agonizing drowned out by the ear-ringing clang.

The egg wasn’t even dented. I looked to Briar. He shrugged.

“OK. New plan,” I said, picking up my saber. “You guys are going to keep an eye on the eggs while I take care of Agnim. Maybe I can get some answers from him.”

“Uh … Alice.” Seth pointed to the eggs. “Those are dragon eggs.”

“Yes,” I said, hopping off the stage. I grabbed Briar by the vest, pulling him up the aisle. “If the eggs crack open, scream really, really loud so I hear you.”

“Where are you going?” Chase asked, taking off his helmet.

I took a deep breath. “Upstairs.”

Chapter 16

I stood at the base of the old grand staircase. The entire lobby was illuminated by the same dull box-shaped lights from my dream. Just like I remembered from my childhood.

Same scary staircase, too. I knew why, too: Agnim had seen my memories in my dream. He’d made sure the place looked just as I remembered it. He’d even had his minions close the red curtains on the second-floor windows, just like in the dream.

Briar looked at me, whiskers twitching.

“OK,” I said. I touched the cold brass bannister. My hand snapped back as if shocked.

I tried to take a step. My foot felt like lead. I felt unsteady. I was having trouble focusing, as if the last ounce of energy in my body had been expended.

Just what Agnim wanted.

“OK,” I said again, steeling myself. “For real now.” I took a deep breath, forcing my hand to touch the bannister. I kept it there, even though all five tense fingers were itching to pull away.

“I hope you don’t mind a bit of hurried advice,” Briar said, glancing over his shoulder. “Normally, I would go into a lengthy diatribe about the merits of fear and learning to conquer it and all such manner of things … perhaps a digression on the dangers of greed … but I do have this sneaking suspicion that those eggs are going to hatch, you see …”

“Briar. Get to the point.”

He looked at me, his whiskers twitching. “They’re just stairs, dear hero. And whatever awaits you at the top … you will not face it alone. You will always have me.”

“My little furry deus ex machina,” I said with a smile.

“Indeed! Oh, that’s funny. I was just saying the same thing to your friend Chase.”

I took a deep breath, grabbing his extended paw. A little—very, very little—bit of anxiety disappeared. “I’m glad you said that. Because you’re going to need to take off your clothes for this part.”

“Er … what?”

I stepped onto the first stair. A rush of adrenaline coursed through my body.

Good.

“Come on,” I said, tugging on his paw. We hurried up the stairs, into the shadows. Into the darkness. All of my dreams seemed to be flooding back to me. I crept through the darkness, unable to focus. I shook my head. To my left were the old bathrooms, the ones that had scared me so bad as a child. Between them was a single V-shaped wall sconce, casting a dull light on the old red hallway carpeting and the thick red window curtains to our right.

Ahead was another staircase. A dim golden trail led up.

“Our destination,” I said to Briar, nodding ahead. “It’s a good thing you trust me, friend.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

I drew the device into the old carpet floor. It glowed a golden color, then solidified as I pulled it out, setting it up perfectly in line with the men’s restroom door. I stepped over it and set up another one perfectly in line with the women’s restroom door. The devices were about five feet apart. “Will you remember? If you’re not absolutely sure, I won’t do this.”

Briar looked down at the device. “I’m honored by your concern, but it’s hardly necessary. It is my duty to assist the hero, not cower in fear every time my potential destruction is imminent.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “But you’re my friend.”

His ears perked up. “I can do this.”

“Good. Now take off your pants and vest.”

His ears drooped.

I laid out the rest of the trap, then stepped inside the narrow staircase beyond the bathrooms, following the golden trail up. The door ahead was open just a crack. Light shined through, dim and soft. I opened it, clutching my saber.

Lightning sliced across the dark black clouds blanketing the sky. A few raindrops landed on my face as I stepped out onto the massive roof. Agnim stood on the other end, looking out at the city, his black cloak billowing in the wind. A gold trail ran along the stone-covered roof, a straight line from my feet to Agnim.

“I’m impressed,” he said. “I did not foresee your knight in shining armor.”

“Me neither.” I smiled. “That’s the cool thing about having friends who care about you. You wouldn’t know because you don’t have any.”

Agnim growled.

I pulled the sheet of magic paper from my pocket, unfolding it. The scribbled words meant nothing, but—weird as it sounds—I trusted that clever little sausage. I rubbed the paper along the blade of my saber. It glowed blue for a moment. I held it out in front of me, marveling at the sight. I could feel something different about the blade.

“You haven’t foreseen any of what’s about to happen,” I warned. The rain picked up, melting the piece of paper in my hand. The cuts on my forearm stung. The doctor in my head reminded me just how finite my body was, and performed a quick inventory of my injuries: not just the cuts but also the throbbing bruises on my thighs, shoulder and lower back.

Agnim turned. His hood hung low but I could see his pointed green nose and chin. Raindrops bounced off his cloak, just like in my dream.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said. “That much is clear.”

I shrugged. “It happens a lot when I’m fighting Corrupted, actually.”

Lightning lit up the sky, followed closely by thunder that reverberated through my body. A massive old metal-looking box—an old air conditioner compressor—on the right side of the roof rumbled with such intensity that I thought it might start hobbling off.

Just like in my dream.

I stepped left, clutching my sword. Agnim watched, hovering over the layer of gravel covering the roof. “You’ve overplayed your hand,” I told him. “I saw this rooftop in my dream.”

“But you did not see the future. I’ve seen a great deal more than you know,” Agnim called out over a crack of thunder. “I saw the wars coming. I saw man’s lust for shiny gold objects and paper money trump his brotherhood. I saw human beings tear at each other’s throats, bomb entire cities, burn down their own homes, all for what?” He grunted. “Do you really think that had I not enticed them with gold, that your fellow human beings would have all gotten along and sang campfire songs?”

“No,” I whispered.

“No!” His voice was met with another loud crack of thunder. The raindrops seemed to be burning away when they landed near him now, as if a great heat was emanating from his body. “Your fellow human beings did not need me at all for their wars. They had each other to thank for that. But I will not lie to you: I’ve loved watching every moment of it. I love watching human beings tear each other apart.”

I clutched the wet hilt of the sword tighter, stepping left again. Agnim followed me, staring at me through two golden eyes hidden deep in the shadows of the hood. He drew the hood back, revealing his face. Rain fell onto his bald, green forehead, slid down his pointed ears, ran down the bridge of his beak-like nose. He had terrible blackened lips, rotten sharp teeth, boils and scars lining his green face. He looked like an orc.

He looked terrifying.

“Your story is over,” I said, stepping left again. Agnim followed, moving closer, his green, gangly hands slipping out of the sleeves of his robe.

His back was to the door leading into the building. I switched the sword to my right hand—that was the sign. In a flash, naked Briar ran from the doorway to the big metal air conditioner compressor, hiding behind it.

Now all I had to do was get over there.

“For one hundred and fifty years, I have waited to face the hero,” Agnim called out as the rain picked up into a downpour. “I protected the golden goose, knowing what terrible secret she possessed. Everything culminates in this night. Here. Now. My destiny. I have seen it.”

“You’ve been wrong before.” I stepped left. “What’s your ulterior motive?”

Agnim cocked his head inquisitively.

“Come on,” I said. “All you Corrupted have some motive or other.”

The wizard shook his head. “I desire nothing more than to see this world burn. And the golden dragons will do exactly that.”

Agnim brought his hands together. A ball of red pulsating light appeared, growing quickly.

“OK, saber” I said under my breath. “Please please please do your magic thing now.”

The ball of light grew larger and hotter.

“Do you know what happened to that poor woman who warned you about me?” Agnim called out. He cackled when I was unable to hide my surprise. “I killed her, Alice! I choked the life from her!”

I held out the saber, clutching it with both hands, tempering the anger boiling inside.

“Come on!” I said to the sword. “Do your thing!”

Agnim moved forward. He pushed the ball of red light toward me. Instead of splitting apart like in my dream, it stayed intact, burning away raindrops and creating a vapor trail as it cut the distance between us in half before I could even draw in a panicked breath. There was no time to move out of the way. No time to think.

The ball of hot light hit my blade. I could feel the heat. The hissing of vaporized rain tickled my eardrums. The blade of the saber shook violently, threatening to slip out of my tight grip. I held on, locking my fingers together.

The ball of light disappeared.

“Impossible!” Agnim screamed. “Impossible!”

I exhaled, stepping left again. Then again. Then again. I could do this. We were dancing around each other very slowly, and I was getting closer and closer to the old compressor where a very wet Briar was waiting to play his part. But I needed to keep Agnim moving.

“You’re not the only one who knows magic!” I called out. Angry thunder responded for Agnim, a thousand boulders breaking away from a massive mountain.

Another red ball of light appeared between his hands. It grew faster this time, hissing like a snake as it vaporized the rain. I held my blade low. Agnim released the ball again. It flew through the air so fast I nearly missed my chance, swinging my saber up in an awkward arc. The base of the blade hit the ball of flame. My saber clanged as if I’d just hit a steel pole, and an intense heat burned my fingers. The ball flew back.

Right at Agnim.

He jumped out of the way, landing on the pebbled roof, digging his fingers into the stones. The ball of flame hit the tall brick ledge of the roof, melting it away.

“Impossible!” he screamed, getting up and forming another red ball.

“You sound like a broken record,” I called out, wincing at the pain in my fingers. I’d need to time my swing a little better than that if I wanted to survive this. “Watch the ball,” Chase said in my mind, “and watch your bat connect with it. And put your butt into it.”

Right. Only missing this kind of ball meant melting like a hot marshmallow.

“No pressure,” I told myself, watching the red fire grow larger between Agnim’s hands. He released it again and it soared through the air. This time, I used my legs to add some extra oomph, swinging my saber more quickly. The ball of flame bounced off the tip, snapping the blade in the process. Agnim ducked out of the way, avoiding the flame yet again.

He got up, his bare feet touching the pebbles. He was no longer floating. His shoulders were slumped. He took deep breaths, rainwater dripping off his chin.

He was getting tired.

But so was I. My muscles ached. My eyes burned. The cut on my arm stung. It took every ounce of willpower to stave off the dizziness infecting my brain.

“This is your destiny, hero!” Agnim called out, raising his hands high in the air. “You will die here tonight!” Another ball of red fire grew in his hands. I clutched my broken saber, suddenly very afraid. The broken tip was glowing a bright blue now. The magic spell … it was dissipating. Running out of power. I held it low, hoping it had enough juice left to repel just one more blast. I was so close to the massive air conditioner that it would only take a few more steps to reach it.

Agnim threw the fireball at me again. I swung upward, and this time when my saber connected with it, an intense shockwave propelled me backward. The fireball exploded in a flash of light, vaporizing the falling rain with such an intensity that, for a breath, the entire rooftop seemed to be under an umbrella.

Then the rain fell again. And it was a good thing—one of my sleeves and part of my pants were on fire! The raindrops put the flames out quickly, but I’d dropped the saber in the panic. My hands fumbled over the wet gravel. I looked over my shoulder. The wizard had fallen back, too, and was leaning on the brick ledge, wheezing for breath.

I found the saber and gasped. The blade was melted down to the hilt. Not only that, my pointer finger was burned a dark red and a disgusting blister had already begun to form.

Agnim cackled furiously, forcing himself to his feet. “You see, hero? Do you understand my powers now?”

I got up, hurrying behind the air conditioner. Briar was waiting, soaked to the bone, both ears flopped over his face.

“You ready, pal?”

He nodded.

“You can’t hide, hero!”

I peered my head around the air conditioner. “Who says I’m hiding?”

Agnim wrinkled his face inquisitively, scrunching up his green skin. “Then … what are you doing back there?”

“I have one more spell!” I called out. Lightning tore across the sky, accompanied by more treble-heavy thunder that sounded distinctly like Agnim’s laughter.

“And what spell is that?”

“Something you can’t match!” I called out, ducking back behind the air conditioner. “Now, Briar! Go!”

Briar hopped out from behind the massive metal box, running quickly toward the door leading back into the building.

Agnim cackled again. “Perfect! I could imagine no better ending to this tale!”

I crawled to the other side of the metal compressor, carefully peering around. It was working! Agnim was changing—not into an owl, but a fox. Just as the Brothers Grimm had written him.

“Yes,” I whispered, watching the robe melt away. Agnim was no ordinary fox—he was bigger, meaner, with thick hind legs and a terrifying long snout. He bounded toward the door leading into the building, crashing through it.

“Good luck, Briar,” I whispered. I drew a new saber into the sheet metal, pulling it away. As I did, there came a ferocious howl from inside the building. I hurried through the broken door, taking the dark steps two at a time. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust once I reached the landing, but the scene was unmistakable.

The fox—Agnim—was caught in my spring trap beside the men’s room door.

“Yes!” I said, kicking aside the other spring trap. Its metal teeth snapped together with a loud clang.

“He missed the first one entirely,” Briar called out. He was near the staircase leading to the lobby, hiding behind an old brass-colored garbage can.

I walked carefully around the fox. It pulled on the spring trap, whose teeth had closed around one of its thick hind legs. Burning blackness was beginning to spread around the wound. The fox snapped at me, making a terrible barking sound that very slowly turned into “No” as Agnim reverted to his humanoid form.

And here I use the word “humanoid” very loosely. He was naked now, frail, his disgusting green skin slowly burning away. The smell of paper filled the air.

“Did you foresee this?” I asked him, squatting just out of reach. I held the tip of the saber in front of his gross pointed nose. “Did your vision show you this?”

Agnim laughed, then coughed. His legs were burned away and now he was clawing toward me, his fingers digging into the theater’s dirty old carpeting. “I … see new things. I see a journey … I see you trapped in a dark cavern … I see the death of your loved ones …”

I drew in a sharp breath.

“One … more surprise … hero.” He laughed, coughing again. “A … present … from the twisted minds of the Brothers Grimm …”

The burning blackness spread faster, creeping up Agnim’s neck. It stopped. He laughed harder, reaching out with one blackened hand and snagging the fabric of my pants.

“No!” I said, reaching under the collar of my shirt. I pulled out the vial of magic liquid, the very same one that had brought Death to Sam Grayle’s office. I pulled the top off and sprinkled the clear liquid onto Agnim’s head. He recoiled, snarling.

“What is this?” he asked, watching his blackened hand slowly return to its healthy green color.

“Tell me how to kill the dragons,” I said. “Tell me or Death comes for you.”

“Death …” his golden eyes widened in horror. “No! Destroy me! Don’t let him take me away! Destroy me now!”

The building began to shake.

“Tell me how to destroy the eggs!” I shouted, raising my saber over my head.

“There is no way!” Agnim shouted frantically. “The dragons will hatch and there is no stopping it! Now destroy me! Destroy me!”

The red curtains to my right spread open, as if a wind had blown them apart. I kicked my feet on the floor, scrambling away from Agnim.

Death appeared over him, clutching the massive scythe in one bony hand. His robe was like Agnim’s, only older and more worn, his skeletal jaw moving from side to side, grinding his rotting teeth together as he contemplated the screaming Corrupted below.

“No!” Agnim shouted as the scythe’s crescent blade came down. “Noooooooooooo!”

They both disappeared.

The red curtains settled back into place.

“Well!” Briar said, putting his trousers back on. He buttoned up his vest. “It would appear that vial of liquid is nothing but bad news. Remind me to never have a taste.”

“We need to destroy those eggs,” I said, tucking the vial necklace back under my collar. “Before …”

There came an inhuman scream from the theater.

Chapter 17

We hurried back down the grand staircase that led to the lobby, taking the steps two at a time. More screams echoed through the empty building, only this time they were distinctly human.

“Oh no,” I said, stepping inside the theater.

All four eggs were cracked open. Two horse-sized dragons stood in front of the stage, gobbling up the assorted human snacks. Eating them whole, the bodies sliding down their long serpentine necks. I felt my stomach lurch at the sight: they weren’t even pinned down anymore … they’d crawled out of their robes and were still refusing to escape, feverishly climbing the stage and trying to reach the golden egg shards.

“Seth! Chase!” I called out, running down the center aisle. I could barely suppress the urge to vomit—the thought of losing either of them now was too much to fathom.

The two dragons grew bigger as they each took one of the minions, swallowing them like a piece of popcorn. They were just like the dragon in my dream: gold scales, long necks, long snouts, emerald eyes and little white beards. Hungry-looking, too, and not the least bit satisfied with just one of the minions. In fact, there were only a few left. All the others were already gone.

But where were the other two?

I ran faster down the aisle.

“Seth! Chase!” I called again.

The two dragons in front of the stage turned to me, roaring.

“Alice, duck!” Briar called out.

I dropped to the floor, landing hard on my right knee as I turned, swinging my saber upward. It cut across the leg of the third dragon that had dive-bombed me from above. It screamed, baring its teeth as its wings flapped quickly to elevate it toward the ceiling. It burned away, sending hot ash floating down like snowflakes.

“Pfoo!” I spat, wiping my eyes with my blistered finger. It stung. It felt like it was on fire. A sharp ache surged through my ribs and knee, too, and just putting weight on my right leg brought tears to my eyes. My mind fought through it, reminding me that I couldn’t worry about pain right now.

Not with two more hungry dragons coming right at me.

“Alice!” Seth called from the emergency exit. He had the door open a crack and was peering through. “We’re safe!”

“What about the other minions?” I called out, giving both dragons the evil eye.

“I freed most of them as the eggs were cracking open … and they all ran toward the eggs instead of away from them!”

“Well, not much we can do about that,” I muttered to the dragons. They cocked their heads.

“What do you want me to do?” Seth asked.

“Get the bow and arrows from your car just in case!” I shouted, stepping back. The two dragons skulked closer, watching me with hungry burning white eyes. “Briar, find the other one!”

“Right … well, there’s a problem with that. There are a number of golden dragon statues lining the ceiling. I can’t be sure which one is real!”

“You’re a rabbit who eats carrots! Your vision should be great!”

“I’m two hundred years old, consarn it!”

“Just watch my back,” I said, swinging my sword to keep the two dragons at bay. They crawled across the rows of seats, tearing the old seats away with their thick claws. They both snapped at me again and I backed up, bumping into Briar.

“Back!” I ordered. “Back!”

“Right.” Briar’s paws landed on my shoulders. “I apologize for turning my attention away from the ceiling for a moment, but do you see that down there?”

I looked past the frightening dragons, eyeing the base of the stage. The lance! Chase’s lance!

“A carefully designed tip might do just the trick to keep these wily creatures at bay,” Briar said. “That is, if we can get there without dying.”

The dragon to my right stretched out its neck, opening its mouth and exhaling. A little puff of flame warmed the air in front of my face.

“Yes,” I said, “that lance might be a really good idea.”

The dragon to my left tried spewing fire like its sibling, and this time I stepped forward stabbing my saber into its open mouth and piercing its soft tongue. It recoiled, pawing at its face as the burning blackness consumed it. The stench of sulfur filled my nostrils.

From above us came a roar of thunder.

No. Not thunder. A roar.

“Alice,” Briar said nervously, “I do believe I’ve spotted that last dragon.”

The dragon to my right snapped again. I pushed Briar back and ducked out of the way, ready to stab it when it went for me. But instead, to my horror, it turned its attention to Briar, leaping over the next row of seats and extending its neck.

Closing its mouth around Briar’s arm.

“Yeaaagh!” Briar cried out.

“Briar!” I screamed, leaping at the dragon. I had the sudden flashback of the captain being swallowed by the whale. A Corrupted had killed another Corrupted, swallowing the captain whole. That wouldn’t happen to Briar. I wouldn’t let it, no matter what.

“Alice!” he cried out, punching at the dragon’s snout with his free paw. “Don’t put yourself in danger for me!”

The dragon shook him violently. I felt tears well in my eyes as I climbed the seats, jumping from row to row half-blind. When I was close enough to the massive, blurry thing I leapt off the back of the seats, landing squarely on the scaly back of the dragon. I grabbed the jagged scales along the back of its neck and reached around, sure that Briar was already dead, unable to control myself as I used the edge of my saber to slash repeatedly at the dragon’s soft underbelly.

The dragon roared. Its wings flapped violently against me. I rolled off, landing on the sticky aisle carpeting. Black ashes landed on my tears, tickling my cheeks. More hot ashes landed on the back of my neck. “Briar,” I whispered.

There was a grunt. My heart skipped a beat.

“Briar?”

“Hoo-ah,” came the response. Two rabbit ears popped up from behind the seats a few rows up. Briar peered over the top, holding out his arm. “I’m injured! Oh grievous of maladies! I shall require stitches and bed rest and all forms of medicines! I—”

His complaints were drowned out by another roar. He looked up.

“Oh dear.”

I looked up at the ceiling and gasped. The last dragon was perched upside-down, hanging from one of the statues in the corner. His thick, bat-like wings covered him like a cocoon. He’d clearly had his fill of minions, and now he was three times as big as the others.

Slowly, the wings parted. His head slipped through, his massive white eyes glaring down at me. He snorted, sending two little jets of flame spewing out. His white chin hairs caught fire, burning away.

“The lance,” Briar whispered.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “I won’t get there before he can gobble me up.”

“Go!” Briar shouted, hopping up. He waved his paws. “Hello!” he called out. “Hello, I am delicious!”

The dragon’s head swerved toward Briar. I took off running down the aisle, glancing up to make sure the dragon’s attention hadn’t returned to me. But it was clearly transfixed by the idea of topping off its human meal with a little rabbit dessert.

“Hurry, Alice!” Briar called out.

I slid the last five feet, grabbing the cold steel lance and turning, holding it with both hands in front of my body.

And then the dragon’s jaws were right in front of me, closing down on the steel lance, its tongue lolling out between its sharp teeth, lapping at the ashes coating my cheeks. My heart thumped against my rib cage. My head felt light and got even lighter as the dragon’s massive head moved even closer to my face. I could feel its molars biting down on the steel. Its burning hot breath smelled like death itself.

“Seth!” I screamed. “Seth!”

“Yup!” Seth called back. “One arrow on its way!”

The dragon pushed its mouth closer. Drool landed on my forehead. The dragon blinked, its eyelids closing sideways around the glossy white orbs.

I heard a plink! sound.

“OK, the arrow bounced off the scales!” Seth called out. “Crap! What do I do? What to I do?!”

“This!” Briar called out. I looked left in time to see my furry friend sliding down the aisle, ears pulled back. He landed beside me and guided my saber right into the dragon’s belly.

Plink!

The tip of the saber bumped into the dragon’s rock-hard scales. The blade bent, then snapped in half. Briar dropped it, rubbing his sore paw where the magical weapon had burned him.

The dragon let go of the lance and turned its head, glaring at Briar.

“Er … heh, heh!” Briar crawled back a step, whiskers twitching. “Usually I’m quite good at saving the day. You know, the hero’s helper and all.”

The dragon growled a low, guttural growl that vibrated wooden stage beside us. My hand reached out for the broken saber.

“Right. Well, good luck Alice!” Briar kicked at the floor, scurrying behind the second row of seats before the dragon could snap him in two. Its mouth closed around the air right above Briar’s ears, teeth clomping together with a furious smack.

I kicked away and jumped to my feet, and as the massive creature turned back to me I jammed the hilt of the broken saber right into its face, knocking a fair amount of drool from its mouth. It straightened its neck, snapping furiously. I sidestepped, hopping onto the stage and rolling out of the way of immediate danger. My hand landed on a jagged piece of golden egg shell. I grabbed it, hefting its weight in my hand.

The dragon turned to me, its long tail knocking away the first row of seats in the process. It extended its long neck again, opening its mouth and making a low, guttural hissing sound. An intense heat escaped its throat. Its salivary glands caught fire.

I bonked it on the head with the hilt of the saber.

“Your breath stinks!” I shouted. It snapped at me again, and this time I gave it a mouthful of egg shell. I ran across the stage, turned, and jumped onto its scaly back. It roared, flapping its wings in a mad attempt to unseat me. I reached down, grabbing one of the leaf-shaped scales and tearing it away. My broken saber found the soft flesh, digging in and infecting the nearby golden scales with burning blackness.

The dragon roared, flapping its wings violently to rise above the stage. I fell off, landing hard in front of the stage beside the lance.

“Yes!” Chase and Seth called out, then quickly shut the door as the dragon turned toward them in mid-air.

I popped the cap off my pen, using it to cut the tip of the lance into a point. I colored it in, imagining heat. Intense heat emanating from the tip. It glowed a fiery gold that matched the dragon’s scales.

“Now,” I hissed, pointing the lance up at the dragon. “Come get me.”

The dragon, looming above, roared and flapped its wings harder, taking it higher. I kept the lance aimed at him, feeling the muscles in my arms grow sore under the weight. Come down, I thought, before my arms give out!

The dragon dove down, heedless of the lance. The hot tip melted through its tough underbelly, piercing its heart. It burned away, blanketing me with hot ashes.

Chase and Seth cheered. Briar crossed his arms, nodding approvingly.

“The gold …”

I spun around. There, hiding underneath the seats in the first row, was Brandon, the leather strapper that had been in his mouth now hanging like a necklace around his neck. The only survivor. He was reaching out for the once-golden eggshells, which had already begun to burn black. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“It’s gone,” I told him. “All of it. Everything that was promised to you. Consider this a second chance.”

Chapter 18

The next Wednesday, Rachel returned to school wearing her favorite baggy jeans, chain wallet and pitch-black t-shirt. To say the others on the fencing team were relieved is an understatement. I was relieved, too, mainly because I was just happy to see her wearing her favorite clothes. She needed some extra fencing attention, and Chase was more than happy to provide it, staying late with her for the next few days. We felt good. We felt like we could win a few medals in the tournament.

To make things even more exciting, it appeared the world’s Corrupted were lying low for a little while. No terrifying dreams. No horrible wizards flying around and acting like idiots.

My life wasn’t completely idiot-free, though. Not yet, at least.

The previous Friday, the Washington High football team had won a close game. Joey Harrington celebrated by being even more obnoxious during the week, and the tension overflowed in every class he attended. You could feel the difference in classes that were “Joey-free.” Students were more relaxed. They could be who they were without getting bullied. They didn’t have to worry about drawing attention to themselves.

The Mean Girls were temporarily out of commission. Someone had cracked their web site’s password and deleted all of the pictures. I had a funny feeling Seth and Briar had figured it out, with the help of Chase who’d overheard more than a few passwords spoken in his days of hanging out with the “cool” kids.

But Joey. Joey was not so easily beaten. And while he had learned his lesson about going after me, no one else in the school was safe. Not even some of his friends were safe, as they quickly learned in the halls and cafeteria. He was out of control. Absolutely out of control. And through it all, I kept hearing Chase’s voice in my head:

“You’re the hero.”

It happened that Friday, in Geometry class. Joey sat in the far back. We had a substitute teacher named Mr. Ahmed who gave us the last fifteen minutes to ourselves after drilling us with some grueling squares and triangles. I huddled close with Rachel and a couple art students who had a binder full of photography that they were entering in a competition.

The photos were good. Like, really good. And we’re not talking about stuff you put together using Photoshop or any of that twenty-first century crud. These three girls were entering photos they’d developed in a darkroom. Photos that took hours and hours to perfect inside a cramped place that was stinking with fumes that burned their nostrils. Oh, and we’re not talking about photos of puddles or sad playground equipment, either. These girls were finding all sorts of weird cracks and corners of Milwaukee and making it all beautiful. There was one of a man reaching into a garbage can in a cramped alley. Another was of a broken window, and sitting on the ledge on the other side of the window was a single rose, three of its petals wilted. Another was a top-down shot of a crabapple tree, the sidewalk underneath it littered with splattered crabapples.

That last one … well, that one Joey didn’t like it too much.

I heard him coming but I kept mum, hoping he might just be wandering around to stretch his legs. He liked sitting still about as much as he liked learning. But our luck wasn’t with us. He stopped beside Rachel, pointed to the picture of the crabapple tree with one grubby finger, startling Rachel and one of the photographer girls named Kayla.

“Is that crap?” he asked. “All over the sidewalk? Why are you taking pictures of crap?”

Kayla looked up at him, terrified.

“Get away from us,” I warned, shifting in my chair. My terrible wizard-inflicted bruise on my left leg screamed for me to sit still and stay out of this.

Joey looked at me, no doubt sizing up my wounds. He was sucking on a sucker, and the white stem poked out between his lips. “I’m just asking a question. That OK? Can I speak freely?”

“You think you’re really smart, don’t you?” I asked. I knew what he was doing. He was playing out the bad guy fantasy from every movie ever made: pretending to be following the law, antagonizing the hero.

He was in for a big surprise if he expected me to go along with that tired old script.

Joey turned back to Kayla, sucking loudly on his sucker. “It’s a pretty ugly photo.”

Kayla curled up in her chair. She was already a petite one, her loose red t-shirt and baggy jeans giving making her look more like a freshman than a senior. Now she looked even smaller, as if Joey’s shadow was causing her some sort of bodily harm.

“You’re a bully,” Rachel whispered.

We all looked at her in surprise. Joey’s ears reddened. I looked around—everyone in the class was watching now, even our substitute teacher, who stood behind the teacher’s desk in the front of the room, debating whether to get involved.

“You’re a bully,” Rachel said again, more forceful this time.

Joey pulled the red sucker from his mouth and pointed it at her. “You know what you are?”

Full stop. I’m not going to repeat what Joey said next. Let’s just say it was something you say to a homosexual solely to hurt her feelings. It doesn’t matter what name he called her. What matters is he didn’t even know Rachel. All he did was reduce her to an object of ridicule, and he went out of his way to be as hateful and hurtful as possible.

And all of it was too much.

“That’s it!” I said, pounding the table.

Joey flinched, stepping back. He must have immediately realized what just transpired because he put the sucker back in his mouth and stood straight, doing his best to recover.

But the damage was done. I could see in my classmates’ eyes a look of complete surprise. Joey Harrington had just flinched. The stone façade had cracked.

“I’m going outside,” I told the class. “And I’m not coming back inside until Joey Harrington is suspended.”

A few of the students gasped.

Mr. Ahmed held up his hands. “Um, I don’t think you can do that …”

“I’m not coming back in until this school starts dealing with bullies,” I added. “All of them, including the Mean Girls. And anyone who’s sick of the bullying in this school can join me.”

Rachel stood up. Then Anton and Jared from the basketball team. Then Kayla and her photographer friends.

Then everyone else in the class except Joey and his little table of football friends that included Mean Girl Cynthia Blake, who was glaring at me with a sour face. Mr. Ahmed watched in stunned silence. So did Joey.

We marched to Mr. Feinman’s classroom. I opened the door, knowing full well the students would be in groups doing some wild activity related to history.

I wasn’t disappointed.

Chase was there, sitting with Clyde and a couple others, working on a big colorful poster that I think was supposed to represent Napolean’s battle at Waterloo.

“Alice?” Mr. Feinman said, weaving his way around the tables. The rest of the class stopped what they were doing to stare, peering over my shoulder to see how many students were with me.

“We’re going on strike,” I announced. “And we’re not coming back inside until Joey Harrington is suspended. I don’t know what else because I’m too angry to think!”

Mr. Feinman stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Huh.” He looked at the other students. “Is that what you all want?”

“Man!” Clyde exclaimed, shaking his head. “I’ve got some demands, all right.”

“Are we going to get in trouble for missing class?” asked Samantha Klinger, one of the gamers who kept pink streaks in her hair.

Mr. Feinman shrugged. “I’d say yes. The real question is what if you win?”

“We need an anti-bully committee,” said Bryce Smith, a theater kid with thick glasses. “Made up of students and teachers so bullies have to answer to someone other than the principal. So there’s no favorites.”

The class murmured an agreement. The students behind me seconded the motion.

“So go,” Mr. Feinman said. “Go and fight for your education, then.”

I felt a heavy hand squeeze my shoulder. I spun around, nearly karate-chopping Mr. Ahmed right in the ear. The tall man pushed past me.

“Mr. Feinman,” he said, “Mr. Feinman, I’m so sorry. There was an altercation with another student. He said something he shouldn’t have.”

“What did he say?” Chase asked.

When Mr. Ahmed didn’t answer, Mr. Feinman urged him, “Go on, it’s OK.”

Mr. Ahmed’s brown skin turned a crimson red. Bless his heart, he repeated Joey’s verbal assault verbatim. The class nearly gasped in unison. “But it’s OK,” Mr. Ahmed said. “I’ll send him down to the principal’s office and everything will be right as rain.”

“Oh maaaaaan,” Clyde said, slumping in his chair. “This guy’s totally out of the loop.”

“Joey won’t get punished at all!” Samantha Klinger yelled. She stood up, knocking over her chair. “There’s a football game next weekend!”

The class shouted an angry agreement. Mr. Ahmed looked totally confused. He looked to Mr. Feinman for help.

Mr. Feinman turned to his class. “I’d recommend making signs.”

And then, just like that, we doubled our strength. We took markers and poster board outside, not bothering with jackets or backpacks.

By the time the principal got wind, three more classes had evacuated the building. He stepped outside, standing on concrete staircase and glaring at us. We held up our signs so he could read them. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and went back inside.

I ran across the parking lot to Seth’s car to get extra markers and extra poster board, which I’d just so happened to have stored safely inside his trunk.

“You know,” Briar said, lounging on the top of Seth’s car, “I could very well help you. If I wasn’t mortally wounded.” He held up his bandaged paws.

“You’re being a baby,” I murmured, glancing around to make sure we were alone. “And it was your own fault for grabbing my saber.”

He sat up. “Do you have any idea how much it burns to touch a weapon crafted by the hero?”

I held up my finger that had been burned by Agnim’s fireball of death. There were still a few blisters. The burning sensation hadn’t left for days. “I think I have an idea.” I chuckled. “You know, this probably would have healed already, except Clyde has this weird fascination with poking the skin bubbles while we’re at lunch.”

“That’s positively disgusting.”

“It really, really is.”

“So what’s all this then? A nefarious goings-on at the learning institution?”

I smiled, shutting the trunk. “Call it a little real-world heroics.”

“Ah, splendid! There is no greater hero than the one who can do good without the magic pen. You’d be amazed how many of your contemporaries forgot that.”

I glanced around again, making sure the parking lot was still empty. “How’s your … um, vacation?”

Briar swooned, nearly falling off the car. “More relaxing than you can possibly imagine. Although I am itching to get back into it. Nothing like the thrill of dragon slaying, I always say. Any dreams yet?”

“No. Thank gawd. The fencing tournament is next week. You’re going to come, right?”

The rabbit nodded. “I shan’t miss it.”

“Good. And your arm?”

He held it out, proudly displaying his glossy brownish fur. “No lasting harm. That isn’t to say being bitten by a dragon was painless, though …”

I smiled. “I’ll leave you a plate of cookies on the kitchen counter tonight.”

His long ears perked up.

Back at the front of the building, more students had joined us, congregating on the sidewalk and grass mall in front of the school. We made more signs. Signs like this:

NO MORE BULLYING.

WE WANT A BULLY-FREE EDUCATION.

NO MORE FEAR.

OUR SCHOOL IS INFESTED (WITH BULLIES)

Cars honked. Other students watched from the windows.

“O. M. G.” Jasmine made her way through the crowd, Margaret in tow. She grabbed Rachel by the shoulders. “Can you believe this? You totally started this, girl!”

“Well …” Rachel shrugged. “Alice was the one who …”

“Oh, whatevs,” Margaret brushed me aside with a wave of the hand. “Alice is, like, Wonder Woman or something. But you? You’re just a normal person. Like the rest of us.”

“Normal,” Rachel said, tasting the word on her tongue. Tears welled up in her eyes. She looked at me.

“Just like us,” Margaret said, putting an arm around our fencing teammate.

Jasmine put her head on Rachel’s shoulder. It was comical, given Jasmine was a good head shorter. She glanced over the crowd at the school and her eyes widened. “Uh oh.”

Principal Sanders was walking down the front steps of the school, carefully unbuttoning his brown suit coat. The crowd of students went silent. Principal Sanders’ brown dress shoes tapped on the concrete. He was looking right at me.

“Goodenough,” he said, stopping just a few inches from where the school property ended.

I walked over to the sidewalk, standing in front of him, my fingers tense as if he might grab me and toss me back in the school. This was it. Our turning point. If we caved … if we showed weakness … the spell would break. Students would disperse, hopeless.

I wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight.

Principal Sanders sighed. “Get everyone inside.”

“No. Not until our demands are met.”

He raised one eyebrow. A breeze tussled his thinning hair. He wasn’t as intimidating out here, I realized. It was as if the strength of his power came from his office, where he was safe and in charge.

Out here? Out here, we were in charge.

“Joey Harrington will receive detention for what he said,” Principal Sanders offered.

The crowd of students booed. He turned to them, surprised, his jaw dropping just a bit.

“We want him suspended,” I said. “And if he bullies any student again, we want him expelled. We want a committee made up of students and teachers tasked with reviewing incidents of bullying and we want them to have the power to decide the punishment, since you are obviously incapable of being fair. And we want this written into the school charter, so that every new class of students is protected from bullies.”

He took a deep breath, turned, and walked back into the school.

Everyone started texting. More students snuck out between fourth and fifth period, and even more simply stormed out of the lunchroom, announcing that Mr. Whitmann—the monitor on duty—had refused to stop them. Seth arrived, bringing with him a handful of younger students who played percussion in the marching band.

“Holy Wonderbread,” Kayla said, staring at her phone. “My parents are totally coming down to join us! Everyone text your parents!” she called out. “And tell them to bring blankets because it’s getting freezing!”

Everyone in the crowd got on their phones.

Between fifth and sixth period, more students poured out of the school.

Then the police arrived.

Principal Sanders came out to meet the two officers, pointing directly to me as he hurried down the stairs. “Arrest them all!” he said, one hand clutching his striped red tie to keep it from flapping in the breeze. He was sweating—I imagined him pacing his office, staring out the window every few minutes.

The officers looked at me.

“We’re just peacefully assembling,” I said.

“They are truant,” Principal Sanders snapped. One finger was still pointing right at me. “They must be arrested and sent to jail.”

“Jail?!” I pointed a finger back at him. “All we want is to not be bullied! That’s it!”

“You, young lady, are on the verge of being expelled!”

“Wait, hold on.” One of the police officers—a middle-aged woman with dark black hair—held up both hands. “You want us to arrest more than a hundred students who are out here because they’re sick of being bullied?”

“Yes.”

She looked at her partner, smirking. “You want us to club them too? Maybe pepper spray them? I mean, they’re obviously pretty dangerous.”

Principal Sanders gave her the evil eye. “Are you going to arrest them or not?”

“No, sir. But we’ll stick around and make sure they don’t burn down the school if it makes you feel better.”

Principal Sanders, furious, stomped back into the building.

School got out. More students joined us, but not the bullies. Joey Harrington and his friends got into their cars, peeling out of the parking lot and kicking up smelly tire smoke that wafted into the crowd. In one of the cars, I saw Trish. I wasn’t surprised. Sad, but not surprised.

Parents began arriving. Some brought blankets. A few tried to convince their kids to go home, but just about everyone refused. None of the parents seemed sure of what to do except stand around and either hold a sign or wander into the building to get some answers from Principal Sanders.

Then my parents arrived. Mom looked horrified. Dad had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, examining the crowd. I didn’t say anything to them. I just held up my sign:

WE DESERVE A BULLY-FREE EDUCATION.

Dad smiled.

Mom looked around at the mass of students camped out, surveying it all. She put her hands on her hips. “We’ll need pizza.”

Six o’clock came and went. None of the teachers had left the building yet—we knew because all their cars were still parked in the parking lot. Principal Sanders stayed in his office. Sometimes, he came to his window and the students’ chants got louder.

OK. This wasn’t perfect by any means. A few parents went inside the building and came back out, announcing grimly that Principal Sanders’ door was shut and locked, and it sounded like a number of the teachers were in there with him. Some of the students refused to hold signs because their hands would get too cold. Seth spent an entire hour repeatedly touching a 9-volt battery with his tongue. Jasmine passed around a game on her cell phone. A couple students balked at the pizza dinner ordered by the parents and wandered off to find something more appetizing, not quite getting the idea that in order to protest something, you sorta have to stick around and suffer a little bit.

But most of them came back. And we stood together.

7:00 passed.

Then 8:00.

Finally, Principal Sanders walked out of the building. He had his coat on. At first, we thought he was leaving, but then he called some of the parents over. They talked heatedly. Finally, my mom said in a loud voice: “I think you should talk to your students, not us.”

We cheered.

Principal Sanders frowned. Under the light of the streetlights, he looked positively orc-ish, which only steeled my resolve not to give in. I met him on the sidewalk with Rachel. Anton from the basketball team came, too, wheeling Chase in front of him to remind Principal Sanders that we had athletes in our crowd, too.

We had everybody. That was what made us so strong.

“Joey Harrington will be suspended,” Principal Sanders said. “He won’t play Friday’s football game, as per the rules of the school charter. I’ll leave the anti-bullying measures up to the Student Senate. Will you please go home now?”

I turned to Rachel. She nodded. “We agree.”

“Wonderful,” he said in a low voice, stepping around us to get to the parking lot.

We turned back to the massive crowd of students and parents. Rachel smiled.

“We won,” she said.

The crowd cheered.

Last Chapter – For Real!

OK, one more ending. Just one more! I know I’ve got a whole Lord of the Rings thing going here with so many different endings, but there’s still one thing we have to wrap up.

The fencing tournament.

So let me set the scene: an arena, its bleachers filled with family and friends cheering like crazy. Four fencing matches going on at once, each one taking place on a red rectangle in one section of the arena floor. Blinding hot lights shining down from overhead, lights normally used for basketball and hockey games. An incredibly dull-sounding announcer who definitely spoiled the whole Karate Kid mood.

And an invisible rabbit, watching quietly from the rafters.

Sweat dripped down my forehead, gathering above my eyebrows. I held my breath, watching my opponent step forward. I tried to anticipate her next move, but she surprised me by going inside, stabbing at my stomach. My hot breath bounced off the mesh mask. I parried with my saber, stepping back, feeling my opponent’s blade slip through and tap against my chest plate. The electronic bell sounded, signaling a point.

I bent the blade of my saber, trying to straighten it as best I could. It had already dished out a lot of points for me and had begun to lose its straight shape.

“Come on, Alice,” I whispered into the mask.

“Remember the whale!” Chase shouted from behind the judges’ desk. Lots of people were shouting—there were four matches going on at once in the massive arena, after all, and the stands were jam-packed. The noise level reached a crescendo anytime anyone scored a point.

“The whale,” I muttered, stepping back onto the mat. I wished I’d never told him the full story of that whole experience. All day, every point I gave up was a “Remember the whale” moment.

“Killer instinct,” I whispered, checking my stance and holding out my saber. The referee—also known as the “Director,” as he proudly informed us—shouted “En garde!”

I stepped forward quickly, advancing on my opponent’s position, stabbing quickly; my blade grazed hers, sending her off-balance. She tried to regain her footing, counter-riposting by extending her blade high. This was my moment. Sweat dripped from my eyebrows. The muscles in my right arm burned but I fought through, initiating a stop-cut, preventing my opponent from making another attack. Her blade bounced away from her body and for a split second, just a fraction of a breath, I saw my opening plain as day. My blade was already in position. I stepped forward, stabbing her in the chest.

The tip of the blade bounced off her protective plate. The bell chimed. Seth and Clyde and all the entire boys’ fencing team stood up, cheering. My parents screamed at the top of their lungs.

I’d won. I’d taken first place in the women’s saber event. I shook my opponent’s hand, then the hand of the Director. He gave me a quick nod, a sign of respect. I looked up, toward the rafters. Briar was there, leaning on one of the big spotlights. He gave a little wave with his bandage-free paw.

“We’re not done yet,” I told Chase, pulling off my mask. He smiled, tossing me a hairband so I could tie my hair back.

We hurried behind the line judges’ tables, making our way to the other side of the arena where Rachel was playing for third place in the foil round. Jasmine had taken second place with the foil. Margaret had taken third place with the epee, which was the strongest of the three types of blades. We were doing better than the boys despite having two fewer fencers to compete. No other team had as many fencers finishing in the top three. We could take first place overall with Rachel’s points.

If she won.

“Beautiful!” Mr. Whitmann called out. We followed his voice, moving around another judges’ table to the other side of the arena floor. Mr. Whitmann was standing beside the judges’ table, moving so that the Director didn’t obstruct his view of the two fencers dancing on the platform that stood about a foot higher than the floor of the arena.

Behind them, Margaret and Jasmine stood cheering our teammate on.

The bell chimed. Rachel’s opponent cheered, stepping back and bending the blade of her foil back into place.

“Shrug it off!” Mr. Whitmann said gruffly. His blue collared shirt was stained dark under the armpits. “That’s an order, by the way!”

Rachel’s shoulders slumped. I looked at the score and realized why: one more point, and she lost.

But it was close. She only needed two consecutive points to win.

“Stop thinking about your feet so much,” Mr. Whitmann said. “You always think about your feet too much!”

Rachel, armored head to toe, simply shrugged.

“Use your strength!” Mr. Whitmann urged, crushing his hand into a fist.

Her masked face turned to Chase. He held up three fingers.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Chase didn’t answer. He simply nodded to Rachel, who nodded back, lifting her shoulders.

She got back into position inside the carefully marked red rectangle. She was definitely bigger than the other girl. Not just bulkier, either—taller. She had the reach, that was for sure. Her opponent was winning because she could dance like someone running across hot coals. Rachel needed to turn that into a disadvantage somehow.

“En garde!” the mustachioed Dictator called out.

Rachel took two big steps, closing the gap before her opponent could do any fancy footwork. They locked blades, and Rachel used her strength to push her opponent back.

“Yes!” Mr. Whitmann called out, nearly ecstatic.

Rachel stepped forward again, closing the distance between them. She parried, lifting her sword up to deflect a blow, then another then took another step …

Thump!

She brought her foot down hard, and her opponent—thinking she was going to attack—stopped her own advance, hesitating. Rachel took advantage of the opportunity, going on the offense, the blade of her foil sliding left and right, the sound of their blades clanging together again and again and again, so fast it was impossible to know what was happening.

The bell chimed. The little light on Rachel’s helmet lit up. Everyone cheered.

“An appel?” I asked Chase. “A foot stomp?”

He shrugged. When she looked at him, he held up one finger.

Rachel closed the distance between them again, no longer hesitant. She stabbed wildly, keeping her opponent off-balance, overpowering her with sheer strength and willpower.

“Yes!” Mr. Whitmann yelled. “Yesssss!”

The crowd behind the judges’ table cheered louder. Rachel had her opponent on the ropes, their foils crossing and clanging together in a flurry of attacks and counter-ripostes. Rachel’s strokes had no pattern—zero pattern. It was as if she and Chase had planned it that way, as if it was a carefully designed series of attacks. A series of attacks so furious that her opponent could only defend, stepping back again and again while her foil went up, down, left, right. Rachel’s foil slid left, slid right, then very gently poked her opponent’s ribs.

The bell went off again. The light on Rachel’s helmet lit up.

Mr. Whitmann screamed at the top of his lungs. Rachel tore off her helmet, a big grin plastered across her face. She shook hands with her opponent, then stepped off the stage. I gave her the first hug. Then everyone else from our team was pushing me aside to get theirs in, too.

“We won!” Chase said, laughing hysterically. We’d placed first overall in the girls’ tournament and second overall in the boys’ tournament.

I grabbed him by the shoulders. We looked each other in the eyes. Before I knew it, I was falling into him. Our lips touched. Opened just a bit. His hand clutched mine. White-hot dragon’s fire coursed through my body.

I wish I could say this was a totally awesome, absolutely one hundred percent happy ending. But this is the real world, not a fairy tale.

“Everyone settle down, settle down,” Mr. Whitmann announced in our locker room once we’d all reconvened and packed up our gear. He grunted, examining us, kicking aside one of the duffel bags after tripping on it. “You did a fine, fine job. I’m proud of you all. But we’re not done.”

We looked at each other, confused. The tournament was over.

Mr. Whitmann smiled. “I just received word that we’ve been invited to the International Fencing Tournament in Romania!”

“Woah!” said Bobby, pulling back his blond hair. “That’s where Dracula lives!”

“He’s not real,” Jasmine snapped.

Mr. Whitmann held up his hands, quieting us down. “We’re going during winter break. Two weeks. And here’s the best part. We have a sponsor, which means everything will be paid for.”

Chase smiled, glancing at me. “Free trip to Europe? I’ll take it.”

“This sounds too good to be true!” Margaret exclaimed, her eyes fluttering.

A sharp pain stabbed me in the gut, warning me of danger.

“I’d like you to meet our sponsor,” Mr. Whitmann said. “And give him a round of applause before he rethinks his kind gesture. Mr. Sam Grayle!”

The dwarf walked into the locker room, greeted by thunderous applause. He grinned, giving everyone an obligatory wave, unbuttoning his shiny gray suit coat and taking a bow.

I felt my stomach drop.

Sam Grayle turned to me, grinning wider.

Click here to buy book 7: The Giant Slayer!

Legacy of Red

A special Grimm Chronicles mini-story, featuring Alice Goodenough …

(This story first appeared on abackwardsstory.blogspot.com)

Every dream for the past week has been the same: someone running through the forest. Running from something.

Emphasis on the “thing” part.

He was a wolf at some point. Or, to be more specific, he was one of the Big, Bad Wolves.

Yup, there were two of them. Read “Little Red Riding Hood.” The first one is supposedly killed by a hunter. The second supposedly drowned. But neither of them died. I have no idea why … maybe it was the words the Brothers Grimm used when they wrote the story. The first one was skinned. The second one was drowned. They didn’t write anywhere that the wolves died.

So now, 200 years later, one of them is skulking around the state of Wisconsin, hunting human beings.

And here I am, walking through a forest fifty miles north of Milwaukee, wearing a red cloak with the hood drawn tight. Red Riding Hood. Or, to be more accurate, disguised as Red Riding Hood. The cloak covers my body. And my weapon.

My feet step carefully around the dry leaves that have fallen to the ground. No sounds. Maybe I can catch the wolf unawares. Maybe he’ll make this easy.

The trees shudder. No birds calling out from the bare branches of the oak and pine trees. No one else anywhere.

The air is cold. A sweatshirt would be more appropriate for this autumn weather. But with the red hood on, the wolf will be drawn to me. He’ll think I can lead him to my delicious grandmother, just like in the fairy tale. He’ll do this because he was written this way by the Brothers Grimm. It’s part of his personality.

Suddenly, I feel him. I smell him. The dry, crisp air brings with it the intense smell of mud-caked fur. He smells like kind of like a wet dog.

But he probably doesn’t want to hear that.

“Whither away so early, Red Riding Hood?”

I turn around slowly. How did he sneak up on me? If I hadn’t been wearing the red hood … I stifle a shudder. He’s tall. He stands on his hind legs, like a werewolf. His mane is furry and he has a long snout. His hair is a patchy, mangy brown. The Corruption has positively ruined his teeth, causing them to twist and crack and bend awkwardly. Along his belly are long, ragged scars.

“To grandmother’s house,” I reply nonchalantly. In the story, Red Riding Hood is calm, despite facing a wolf. She was obviously near-sighted, because the beast in front of me is about as terrifying as any Corrupted I’ve come across. Also? Probably not a great idea to tell a hungry wolf where your grandmother is.

“Would you rather not pick some flowers for your grandmother?” he asks.

“No.” I tear away the cloak, revealing my fencing saber clutched tightly in my right hand. “I’d much rather stay here.”

He growls. “The hero! Why, you’ll taste best of all!”

He lunges forward. I dodge, swiping at him with my saber and running the blade across his belly. His body lands hard on the forest floor, kicking up dirt and fallen fiery orange leaves.

“Well,” I say. “That was easier than expected.”

The wolf groans, rolling over. There’s a burning black mark across his belly but it doesn’t spread. It doesn’t consume him!

“Come on!” I shout. “Burn away already! That’s how it works. I cut you, you burn away. Everyone is happy. Except you.”

The wolf stands and shakes his massive head slowly. His ears prick up at the sound of wind sliding between the bare branches above us. He runs one claw across the cut again and again. Little black stitches appear, as if he’s sewing the wound closed.

“Magic!” I hiss. “Who taught you that?”

The wolf shrugs.

“Oh that is so not fair!” I shout, taking a step back. He lunges at me again. This time, I circle around a fat tree trunk, hopping onto a fallen log and pushing off with all my might, leaping over a prickly bush.

The wolf follows effortlessly, closing the distance between us. I grab the trunk of a maple sapling, using my momentum to spin around, stabbing at him with the saber. He dodges with a grunt, then howls as the tip of the blade scrapes across his shoulder. He steps back, splitting a fallen branch in half with his long foot.

“Why are you here?” he asks. “Did you see me in a dream, hero? You wouldn’t be the first. Your predecessors have all seen me once or twice. Some have tried hunting me down. None were so smart as to disguise themselves.”

“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” I mutter, watching him stitch up the wound on his shoulder. The burning blackness is still there, though, underneath the stitches. It’s a continuous stitch—I can tell because I’ve had the same suture on my arm. I remember thinking it was so cool, watching the doctor stitch up my cut, and I watched it all happen while my mom looked away. If I can just unstitch the wolf’s suture, somehow …

The wolf side-steps, his tail thrashing side to side. He sniffs in through his nose. “You reek of experience, hero. How many Corrupted have you killed?”

“Tons,” I say. “Hundreds. Millions.”

He comes at me again, moving quicker than I expect, his feet deftly avoiding the fallen branches and little shrubs in the way only an animal can. I throw myself behind a tree, tearing my shirt on the rough bark. He tries to cut me off, but I duck low, rolling under the swipe of his claws. My feet push me forward and I somersault between two pine trees, rolling onto my back. The wolf is coming down on me, claws extended. I draw my feet close to my body, letting the wolf land awkwardly on them. I cut at one of his stitched wounds, then block a swipe of his claws with my forearm and push his heavy weight off.

The muscles in my legs burn. My heart races. My lungs gasp for air.

“Come on, Alice,” I whisper. Think! You’re so good at thinking. Avoiding giant ferocious wolves? Not so much. And you’re getting tired.

The wolf jumps to his feet, glaring at me through yellow eyes. Our hot breaths escape in clouds of steam. He’s reckless. He knows he can outlast me, stitching himself up and waiting for me to make a mistake.

Then I see it: the magical stitch I took a swipe at, to the right of his stomach. He hasn’t repaired it. It’s just hanging there. I can grab it.

“What are you waiting for?” I ask. “An invitation?”

The wolf howls, lunging at me again. I step back and deflect one set of claws with my saber, reaching out with my free hand and grabbing the loose stitch. His heavy weight knocks us both over, and his warm drool lands on my face.

“Gross!” I shout, pushing off of him.

He grabs my foot before I can get away, his claws digging into my calf. A smile creeps across his muzzle.

I return the smile, holding up the stitch I’m clutching.

His smile fades. He looks at his stomach. The open wound, now free of stitching, has already begun spreading, the burning blackness quickly consuming his body.

Black ashes fall to the forest floor. The smell of burnt paper tickles my nostrils.

I grab my red cloak. In the Brothers Grimm story, Red Riding Hood had cake and wine. I’m too young for wine, but I think a little victory cake is definitely in order.

[i] THE MISER IN THE BUSH

By the Brothers Grimm

A farmer had a faithful and diligent servant, who had worked hard for him three years, without having been paid any wages. At last it came into the man's head that he would not go on thus without pay any longer; so he went to his master, and said, “I have worked hard for you a long time, I will trust to you to give me what I deserve to have for my trouble.” The farmer was a sad miser, and knew that his man was very simple-hearted; so he took out threepence, and gave him for every year's service a penny. The poor fellow thought it was a great deal of money to have, and said to himself, “Why should I work hard, and live here on bad fare any longer? I can now travel into the wide world, and make myself merry.” With that he put his money into his purse, and set out, roaming over hill and valley.

As he jogged along over the fields, singing and dancing, a little dwarf met him, and asked him what made him so merry. “Why, what should make me down-hearted?” said he; “I am sound in health and rich in purse, what should I care for? I have saved up my three years' earnings and have it all safe in my pocket.”

“How much may it come to?” said the little man.

“Full threepence,” replied the countryman.

“I wish you would give them to me,” said the other; “I am very poor.” Then the man pitied him, and gave him all he had; and the little dwarf said in return, “As you have such a kind honest heart, I will grant you three wishes—one for every penny; so choose whatever you like.”

Then the countryman rejoiced at his good luck, and said, “I like many things better than money: first, I will have a bow that will bring down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set everyone dancing that hears me play upon it; and thirdly, I should like that everyone should grant what I ask.” The dwarf said he should have his three wishes; so he gave him the bow and fiddle, and went his way.

Our honest friend journeyed on his way too; and if he was merry before, he was now ten times more so. He had not gone far before he met an old miser: close by them stood a tree, and on the topmost twig sat a thrush singing away most joyfully. “Oh, what a pretty bird!” said the miser; “I would give a great deal of money to have such a one.”

“If that’s all,” said the countryman, “I will soon bring it down.” Then he took up his bow, and down fell the thrush into the bushes at the foot of the tree. The miser crept into the bush to find it; but directly he had got into the middle, his companion took up his fiddle and played away, and the miser began to dance and spring about, capering higher and higher in the air. The thorns soon began to tear his clothes till they all hung in rags about him, and he himself was all scratched and wounded, so that the blood ran down.

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” cried the miser, “Master! Master! Pray let the fiddle alone. What have I done to deserve this?”

“Thou hast shaved many a poor soul close enough,” said the other; “thou art only meeting thy reward.” So he played up another tune. Then the miser began to beg and promise, and offered money for his liberty; but he did not come up to the musician's price for some time, and he danced him along brisker and brisker, and the miser bid higher and higher, till at last he offered a round hundred of florins that he had in his purse, and had just gained by cheating some poor fellow. When the countryman saw so much money, he said, “I will agree to your proposal.” So he took the purse, put up his fiddle, and travelled on very pleased with his bargain.

Meanwhile the miser crept out of the bush half-naked and in a piteous plight, and began to ponder how he should take his revenge, and serve his late companion some trick. At last he went to the judge, and complained that a rascal had robbed him of his money, and beaten him into the bargain; and that the fellow who did it carried a bow at his back and a fiddle hung round his neck. Then the judge sent out his officers to bring up the accused wherever they should find him; and he was soon caught and brought up to be tried.

The miser began to tell his tale, and said he had been robbed of his money. “No, you gave it me for playing a tune to you,” said the countryman; but the judge told him that was not likely, and cut the matter short by ordering him off to the gallows.

So away he was taken; but as he stood on the steps he said, “My Lord Judge, grant me one last request.”

“Anything but thy life,” replied the other.

“No,” said he, “I do not ask my life; only to let me play upon my fiddle for the last time.”

The miser cried out, “Oh, no! No! For heaven's sake don't listen to him! Don't listen to him!”

But the judge said, “It is only this once, he will soon have done.” The fact was, he could not refuse the request, on account of the dwarf's third gift.

Then the miser said, “Bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake.” But the countryman seized his fiddle, and struck up a tune, and at the first note judge, clerks, and jailer were in motion; all began capering, and no one could hold the miser. At the second note the hangman let his prisoner go, and danced also, and by the time he had played the first bar of the tune, all were dancing together—judge, court, and miser, and all the people who had followed to look on. At first the thing was merry and pleasant enough; but when it had gone on a while, and there seemed to be no end of playing or dancing, they began to cry out, and beg him to leave off; but he stopped not a whit the more for their entreaties, till the judge not only gave him his life, but promised to return him the hundred florins.

Then he called to the miser, and said, “Tell us now, you vagabond, where you got that gold, or I shall play on for your amusement only,”

“I stole it,” said the miser in the presence of all the people; “I acknowledge that I stole it, and that you earned it fairly.”

Then the countryman stopped his fiddle, and left the miser to take his place at the gallows.

[ii] The Juniper Tree

By the Brothers Grimm

Long, long ago, there lived a rich man with a good and beautiful wife. They loved each other dearly, but sorrowed much that they had no children. So greatly did they desire to have one that the wife prayed for it day and night, but still they remained childless.

In front of the house there was a court in which grew a juniper-tree. One winter’s day the wife stood under the tree to peel some apples, and as she was peeling them, she cut her finger, and the blood fell on the snow. “Ah,” sighed the woman heavily, “if I had but a child, as red as blood and as white as snow,” and as she spoke the words, her heart grew light within her, and it seemed to her that her wish was granted, and she returned to the house feeling glad and comforted. A month passed, and the snow had all disappeared; then another month went by, and all the earth was green. So the months followed one another, and first the trees budded in the woods, and soon the green branches grew thickly intertwined, and then the blossoms began to fall. Once again the wife stood under the juniper-tree, and it was so full of sweet scent that her heart leaped for joy, and she was so overcome with her happiness that she fell on her knees. Presently the fruit became round and firm, and she was glad and at peace; but when they were fully ripe she picked the berries and ate eagerly of them, and then she grew sad and ill. A little while later she called her husband, and said to him, weeping. “If I die, bury me under the juniper-tree.” Then she felt comforted and happy again, and before another month had passed she had a little child, and when she saw that it was as white as snow and as red as blood, her joy was so great that she died.

Her husband buried her under the juniper-tree, and wept bitterly for her. By degrees, however, his sorrow grew less, and although at times he still grieved over his loss, he was able to go about as usual, and later on he married again.

He now had a little daughter born to him; the child of his first wife was a boy, who was as red as blood and as white as snow. The mother loved her daughter very much, and when she looked at her and then looked at the boy, it pierced her heart to think that he would always stand in the way of her own child, and she was continually thinking how she could get the whole of the property for her. This evil thought took possession of her more and more, and made her behave very unkindly to the boy. She drove him from place to place with cuffings and buffetings, so that the poor child went about in fear, and had no peace from the time he left school to the time he went back.

One day the little daughter came running to her mother in the store- room, and said, “Mother, give me an apple.”

“Yes, my child,” said the wife, and she gave her a beautiful apple out of the chest; the chest had a very heavy lid and a large iron lock.

“Mother,” said the little daughter again, “may not brother have one too?”

The mother was angry at this, but she answered, “Yes, when he comes out of school.”

Just then she looked out of the window and saw him coming, and it seemed as if an evil spirit entered into her, for she snatched the apple out of her little daughter’s hand, and said, “You shall not have one before your brother.” She threw the apple into the chest and shut it. The little boy now came in, and the evil spirit in the wife made her say kindly to him, “My son, will you have an apple?” but she gave him a wicked look.

“Mother,” said the boy, “how dreadful you look! Yes, give me an apple.”

The thought came to her that she would kill him. “Come with me,” she said, and she lifted up the lid of the chest; “take one out for yourself.” And as he bent over to do so, the evil spirit urged her, and crash! Down went the lid, and off went the little boy’s head. Then she was overwhelmed with fear at the thought of what she had done. “If only I can prevent anyone knowing that I did it,” she thought. So she went upstairs to her room, and took a white handkerchief out of her top drawer; then she set the boy’s head again on his shoulders, and bound it with the handkerchief so that nothing could be seen, and placed him on a chair by the door with an apple in his hand.

Soon after this, little Marleen came up to her mother who was stirring a pot of boiling water over the fire, and said, “Mother, brother is sitting by the door with an apple in his hand, and he looks so pale; and when I asked him to give me the apple, he did not answer, and that frightened me.”

“Go to him again,” said her mother, “and if he does not answer, give him a box on the ear.”

So little Marleen went, and said, “Brother, give me that apple,” but he did not say a word; then she gave him a box on the ear, and his head rolled off. She was so terrified at this that she ran crying and screaming to her mother. “Oh!” she said, “I have knocked off brother’s head,” and then she wept and wept, and nothing would stop her.

“What have you done!” said her mother. “No one must know about it, so you must keep silence; what is done can’t be undone; we will make him into puddings.” And she took the little boy and cut him up, made him into puddings, and put him in the pot. But Marleen stood looking on, and wept and wept, and her tears fell into the pot, so that there was no need of salt.

Presently the father came home and sat down to his dinner; he asked, “Where is my son?” The mother said nothing, but gave him a large dish of black pudding, and Marleen still wept without ceasing.

The father again asked, “Where is my son?”

“Oh,” answered the wife, “he is gone into the country to his mother’s great uncle; he is going to stay there some time.”

“What has he gone there for, and he never even said goodbye to me!”

“Well, he likes being there, and he told me he should be away quite six weeks; he is well looked after there.”

“I feel very unhappy about it,” said the husband, “in case it should not be all right, and he ought to have said goodbye to me.”

With this he went on with his dinner, and said, “Little Marleen, why do you weep? Brother will soon be back.” Then he asked his wife for more pudding, and as he ate, he threw the bones under the table.

Little Marleen went upstairs and took her best silk handkerchief out of her bottom drawer, and in it she wrapped all the bones from under the table and carried them outside, and all the time she did nothing but weep. Then she laid them in the green grass under the juniper- tree, and she had no sooner done so, then all her sadness seemed to leave her, and she wept no more. And now the juniper-tree began to move, and the branches waved backwards and forwards, first away from one another, and then together again, as it might be someone clapping their hands for joy. After this a mist came round the tree, and in the midst of it there was a burning as of fire, and out of the fire there flew a beautiful bird, that rose high into the air, singing magnificently, and when it could no more be seen, the juniper-tree stood there as before, and the silk handkerchief and the bones were gone.

Little Marleen now felt as lighthearted and happy as if her brother were still alive, and she went back to the house and sat down cheerfully to the table and ate.

The bird flew away and alighted on the house of a goldsmith and began to sing:

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

The goldsmith was in his workshop making a gold chain, when he heard the song of the bird on his roof. He thought it so beautiful that he got up and ran out, and as he crossed the threshold he lost one of his slippers. But he ran on into the middle of the street, with a slipper on one foot and a sock on the other; he still had on his apron, and still held the gold chain and the pincers in his hands, and so he stood gazing up at the bird, while the sun came shining brightly down on the street.

“Bird,” he said, “how beautifully you sing! Sing me that song again.”

“Nay,” said the bird, “I do not sing twice for nothing. Give that gold chain, and I will sing it you again.”

“Here is the chain, take it,” said the goldsmith. “Only sing me that again.”

The bird flew down and took the gold chain in his right claw, and then he alighted again in front of the goldsmith and sang:

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

Then he flew away, and settled on the roof of a shoemaker’s house and sang:

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

The shoemaker heard him, and he jumped up and ran out in his shirt- sleeves, and stood looking up at the bird on the roof with his hand over his eyes to keep himself from being blinded by the sun.

“Bird,” he said, “how beautifully you sing!” Then he called through the door to his wife: “Wife, come out; here is a bird, come and look at it and hear how beautifully it sings.” Then he called his daughter and the children, then the apprentices, girls and boys, and they all ran up the street to look at the bird, and saw how splendid it was with its red and green feathers, and its neck like burnished gold, and eyes like two bright stars in its head.

“Bird,” said the shoemaker, “sing me that song again.”

“Nay,” answered the bird, “I do not sing twice for nothing; you must give me something.”

“Wife,” said the man, “go into the garret; on the upper shelf you will see a pair of red shoes; bring them to me.” The wife went in and fetched the shoes.

“There, bird,” said the shoemaker, “now sing me that song again.”

The bird flew down and took the red shoes in his left claw, and then he went back to the roof and sang:

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

When he had finished, he flew away. He had the chain in his right claw and the shoes in his left, and he flew right away to a mill, and the mill went “Click clack, click clack, click clack.” Inside the mill were twenty of the miller’s men hewing a stone, and as they went “Hick hack, hick hack, hick hack,” the mill went “Click clack, click clack, click clack.”

The bird settled on a lime-tree in front of the mill and sang:

“My mother killed her little son;

then one of the men left off,

My father grieved when I was gone;

two more men left off and listened,

My sister loved me best of all;

then four more left off,

She laid her kerchief over me,   And took my bones that they might lie

now there were only eight at work,

Underneath

And now only five,

the juniper-tree.

and now only one,

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

Then he looked up and the last one had left off work.

“Bird,” he said, “what a beautiful song that is you sing! Let me hear it too; sing it again.”

“Nay,” answered the bird, “I do not sing twice for nothing; give me that millstone, and I will sing it again.”

“If it belonged to me alone,” said the man, “you should have it.”

“Yes, yes,” said the others: “if he will sing again, he can have it.”

The bird came down, and all the twenty millers set to and lifted up the stone with a beam; then the bird put his head through the hole and took the stone round his neck like a collar, and flew back with it to the tree and sang:

“My mother killed her little son;

My father grieved when I was gone;

My sister loved me best of all;

She laid her kerchief over me,

And took my bones that they might lie

Underneath the juniper-tree

Kywitt, Kywitt, what a beautiful bird am I!”

And when he had finished his song, he spread his wings, and with the chain in his right claw, the shoes in his left, and the millstone round his neck, he flew right away to his father’s house.

The father, the mother, and little Marleen were having their dinner.

“How lighthearted I feel,” said the father, “so pleased and cheerful.”

“And I,” said the mother, “I feel so uneasy, as if a heavy thunderstorm were coming.”

But little Marleen sat and wept and wept.

Then the bird came flying towards the house and settled on the roof.

“I do feel so happy,” said the father, “and how beautifully the sun shines; I feel just as if I were going to see an old friend again.”

“Ah!” said the wife, “and I am so full of distress and uneasiness that my teeth chatter, and I feel as if there were a fire in my veins,” and she tore open her dress; and all the while little Marleen sat in the corner and wept, and the plate on her knees was wet with her tears.

The bird now flew to the juniper-tree and began singing:

“My mother killed her little son …”

The mother shut her eyes and her ears, that she might see and hear nothing, but there was a roaring sound in her ears like that of a violent storm, and in her eyes a burning and flashing like lightning.

“My father grieved when I was gone …”

“Look, mother,” said the man, “at the beautiful bird that is singing so magnificently; and how warm and bright the sun is, and what a delicious scent of spice in the air!”

“My sister loved me best of all …”

Then little Marleen laid her head down on her knees and sobbed.

“I must go outside and see the bird nearer,” said the man.

“Ah, do not go!” cried the wife. “I feel as if the whole house were in flames!”

But the man went out and looked at the bird.

“She laid her kerchief over me … And took my bones that they might lie … Underneath the juniper-tree … Kywitt, Kywitt … what a beautiful bird am I!”

With that the bird let fall the gold chain, and it fell just round the man’s neck, so that it fitted him exactly.

He went inside, and said, “See, what a splendid bird that is; he has given me this beautiful gold chain, and looks so beautiful himself.”

But the wife was in such fear that she fell on the floor, and her cap fell from her head.

Then the bird began again:

“My mother killed her little son …”

“Ah me!” cried the wife, “if I were but a thousand feet beneath the earth, that I might not hear that song.”

“My father grieved when I was gone …”

Then the woman fell down again as if dead.

“My sister loved me best of all …”

“Well,” said little Marleen, “I will go out too and see if the bird will give me anything.”

So she went out.

“She laid her kerchief over me … And took my bones that they might lie …”

And he threw down the shoes to her.

“Underneath the juniper-tree … Kywitt, Kywitt … what a beautiful bird am I!”

And she now felt quite happy and lighthearted; she put on the shoes and danced and jumped about in them. “I was so miserable,” she said, “when I came out, but that has all passed away; that is indeed a splendid bird, and he has given me a pair of red shoes.”

The wife sprang up, with her hair standing out from her head like flames of fire. “Then I will go out too,” she said, “and see if it will lighten my misery, for I feel as if the world were coming to an end.”

But as she crossed the threshold, crash! The bird threw the millstone down on her head, and she was crushed.

The father and little Marleen heard the sound and ran out, but they only saw mist and flame and fire rising from the spot, and when these had passed, there stood the little brother, and he took the father and little Marleen by the hand; then they all three rejoiced, and went inside together and sat down to their dinners and ate.

[iii] THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE

By the Brothers Grimm

There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a pigsty, close by the seaside. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing; and one day, as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the sparkling waves and watching his line, all on a sudden his float was dragged away deep into the water: and in drawing it up he pulled out a great fish. But the fish said, “Pray let me live! I am not a real fish; I am an enchanted prince: put me in the water again, and let me go!”

“Oh, ho!” said the man, “you need not make so many words about the matter; I will have nothing to do with a fish that can talk: so swim away, sir, as soon as you please!”

Then he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down to the bottom, and left a long streak of blood behind him on the wave.

When the fisherman went home to his wife in the pigsty, he told her how he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted prince, and how, on hearing it speak, he had let it go again. “Did not you ask it for anything?” said the wife, “we live very wretchedly here, in this nasty dirty pigsty; do go back and tell the fish we want a snug little cottage.”

The fisherman did not much like the business: however, he went to the seashore; and when he came back there the water looked all yellow and green. And he stood at the water's edge, and said:

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

Then the fish came swimming to him, and said, “Well, what is her will? What does your wife want?”

“Ah!” said the fisherman, “she says that when I had caught you, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go; she does not like living any longer in the pigsty, and wants a snug little cottage.”

“Go home, then,” said the fish; “she is in the cottage already!”

So the man went home, and saw his wife standing at the door of a nice trim little cottage. “Come in, come in!” said she; “is not this much better than the filthy pigsty we had?” And there was a parlor, and a bedchamber, and a kitchen; and behind the cottage there was a little garden, planted with all sorts of flowers and fruits; and there was a courtyard behind, full of ducks and chickens.

“Ah!” said the fisherman, “how happily we shall live now!”

“We will try to do so, at least,” said his wife.

Everything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Ilsabill said, “Husband, there is not near room enough for us in this cottage; the courtyard and the garden are a great deal too small; I should like to have a large stone castle to live in: go to the fish again and tell him to give us a castle.”

“Wife,” said the fisherman, “I don't like to go to him again, for perhaps he will be angry; we ought to be easy with this pretty cottage to live in.”

“Nonsense!” said the wife; “he will do it very willingly, I know; go along and try!”

The fisherman went, but his heart was very heavy: and when he came to the sea, it looked blue and gloomy, though it was very calm; and he went close to the edge of the waves, and said:

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“Well, what does she want now?” said the fish.

“Ah!” said the man, dolefully, “my wife wants to live in a stone castle.”

“Go home, then,” said the fish, “she is standing at the gate of it already.” So away went the fisherman, and found his wife standing before the gate of a great castle.

“See,” said she, “is not this grand?” With that they went into the castle together, and found a great many servants there, and the rooms all richly furnished, and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and around it was a park half a mile long, full of sheep, and goats, and hares, and deer; and in the courtyard were stables and cow-houses.

“Well,” said the man, “now we will live cheerful and happy in this beautiful castle for the rest of our lives.”

“Perhaps we may,” said the wife, “but let us sleep upon it, before we make up our minds to that.” So they went to bed.

The next morning when Dame Ilsabill awoke it was broad daylight, and she jogged the fisherman with her elbow, and said, “Get up, husband, and bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the land.”

“Wife, wife,” said the man, “why should we wish to be the king? I will not be king.”

“Then I will,” said she.

“But, wife,” said the fisherman, “how can you be king—the fish cannot make you a king?”

“Husband,” said she, “say no more about it, but go and try! I will be king.” So the man went away quite sorrowful to think that his wife should want to be king. This time the sea looked a dark grey color, and was overspread with curling waves and the ridges of foam as he cried out:

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“Well, what would she have now?” said the fish.

“Alas!” said the poor man, “my wife wants to be king.”

“Go home,” said the fish; “she is king already.”

Then the fisherman went home; and as he came close to the palace he saw a troop of soldiers, and heard the sound of drums and trumpets. And when he went in he saw his wife sitting on a throne of gold and diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head; and on each side of her stood six fair maidens, each a head taller than the other. “Well, wife,” said the fisherman, “are you king?”

“Yes,” said she, “I am king.”

And when he had looked at her for a long time, he said, “Ah, wife! what a fine thing it is to be king! Now we shall never have anything more to wish for as long as we live.”

“I don't know how that may be,” said she; “never is a long time. I am king, it is true; but I begin to be tired of that, and I think I should like to be emperor.”

“Alas, wife! why should you wish to be emperor?” said the fisherman.

“Husband,” said she, “go to the fish! I say I will be emperor.”

“Ah, wife!” replied the fisherman, “the fish cannot make an emperor, I am sure, and I should not like to ask him for such a thing.”

“I am king,” said Ilsabill, “and you are my slave; so go at once!”

So the fisherman was forced to go; and he muttered as he went along, “This will come to no good, it is too much to ask; the fish will be tired at last, and then we shall be sorry for what we have done.” He soon came to the seashore; and the water was quite black and muddy, and a mighty whirlwind blew over the waves and rolled them about, but he went as near as he could to the water's brink, and said:

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“What would she have now?” said the fish.

“Ah!” said the fisherman, “she wants to be emperor.”

“Go home,” said the fish; “she is emperor already.”

So he went home again; and as he came near he saw his wife Ilsabill sitting on a very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a great crown on her head full two yards high; and on each side of her stood her guards and attendants in a row, each one smaller than the other, from the tallest giant down to a little dwarf no bigger than my finger. And before her stood princes, and dukes, and earls: and the fisherman went up to her and said, “Wife, are you emperor?”

“Yes,” said she, “I am emperor.”

“Ah!” said the man, as he gazed upon her, “what a fine thing it is to be emperor!”

“Husband,” said she, “why should we stop at being emperor? I will be pope next.”

“O wife, wife!” said he, “how can you be pope? there is but one pope at a time in Christendom.”

“Husband,” said she, “I will be pope this very day.”

“But,” replied the husband, “the fish cannot make you pope.”

“What nonsense!” said she; “if he can make an emperor, he can make a pope: go and try him.”

So the fisherman went. But when he came to the shore the wind was raging and the sea was tossed up and down in boiling waves, and the ships were in trouble, and rolled fearfully upon the tops of the billows. In the middle of the heavens there was a little piece of blue sky, but towards the south all was red, as if a dreadful storm was rising. At this sight the fisherman was dreadfully frightened, and he trembled so that his knees knocked together: but still he went down near to the shore, and said:

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“What does she want now?” said the fish.

“Ah!” said the fisherman, “my wife wants to be pope.”

“Go home,” said the fish; “she is pope already.”

Then the fisherman went home, and found Ilsabill sitting on a throne that was two miles high. And she had three great crowns on her head, and around her stood all the pomp and power of the Church. And on each side of her were two rows of burning lights, of all sizes, the greatest as large as the highest and biggest tower in the world, and the least no larger than a small rushlight. “Wife,” said the fisherman, as he looked at all this greatness, “are you pope?”

“Yes,” said she, “I am pope.”

“Well, wife,” replied he, “it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must be easy, for you can be nothing greater.”

“I will think about that,” said the wife. Then they went to bed: but Dame Ilsabill could not sleep all night for thinking what she should be next. At last, as she was dropping asleep, morning broke, and the sun rose. “Ha!” thought she, as she woke up and looked at it through the window, “after all I cannot prevent the sun rising.” At this thought she was very angry, and wakened her husband, and said, “Husband, go to the fish and tell him I must be lord of the sun and moon.” The fisherman was half asleep, but the thought frightened him so much that he started and fell out of bed.

“Alas, wife!” said he, “cannot you be easy with being pope?”

“No,” said she, “I am very uneasy as long as the sun and moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish at once!”

Then the man went shivering with fear; and as he was going down to the shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the very rocks shook. And all the heavens became black with stormy clouds, and the lightnings played, and the thunders rolled; and you might have seen in the sea great black waves, swelling up like mountains with crowns of white foam upon their heads. And the fisherman crept towards the sea, and cried out, as well as he could:

“O man of the sea!

Hearken to me!

My wife Ilsabill

Will have her own will,

And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!”

“What does she want now?” said the fish.

“Ah!” said he, “she wants to be lord of the sun and moon.”

“Go home,” said the fish, “to your pigsty again.”

And there they live to this very day.

[iv] Moby-Dick

By Herman Melville

Chapter 1

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?—Water—there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow quarrelsome—don't sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honourable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids.

No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of honour, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from a schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time.

What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way—either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But BEING PAID,—what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition!

Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the fore-castle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way—he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

"GRAND CONTESTED ELECTION FOR THE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES.

"WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.

"BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN."

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces—though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment.

Chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it—would they let me—since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in.

By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

[v] Jorinda and Jorindel

By the Brothers Grimm

There was once an old castle that stood in the middle of a deep gloomy wood, and in the castle lived an old fairy. Now this fairy could take any shape she pleased. All the day long she flew about in the form of an owl, or crept about the country like a cat; but at night she always became an old woman again. When any young man came within a hundred paces of her castle, he became quite fixed, and could not move a step till she came and set him free; which she would not do till he had given her his word never to come there again: but when any pretty maiden came within that space she was changed into a bird, and the fairy put her into a cage, and hung her up in a chamber in the castle. There were seven hundred of these cages hanging in the castle, and all with beautiful birds in them.

Now there was once a maiden whose name was Jorinda. She was prettier than all the pretty girls that ever were seen before, and a shepherd lad, whose name was Jorindel, was very fond of her, and they were soon to be married. One day they went to walk in the wood, that they might be alone; and Jorindel said, “We must take care that we don’t go too near to the fairy’s castle.” It was a beautiful evening; the last rays of the setting sun shone bright through the long stems of the trees upon the green underwood beneath, and the turtle-doves sang from the tall birches.

Jorinda sat down to gaze upon the sun; Jorindel sat by her side; and both felt sad, they knew not why; but it seemed as if they were to be parted from one another for ever. They had wandered a long way; and when they looked to see which way they should go home, they found themselves at a loss to know what path to take.

The sun was setting fast, and already half of its circle had sunk behind the hill: Jorindel on a sudden looked behind him, and saw through the bushes that they had, without knowing it, sat down close under the old walls of the castle. Then he shrank for fear, turned pale, and trembled. Jorinda was just singing:

“The ring-dove sang from the willow spray,

Well-a-day! Well-a-day!

He mourn’d for the fate of his darling mate,

Well-a-day!”

when her song stopped suddenly. Jorindel turned to see the reason, and beheld his Jorinda changed into a nightingale, so that her song ended with a mournful “jug, jug.” An owl with fiery eyes flew three times round them, and three times screamed:

“Tu whu! Tu whu! Tu whu!”

Jorindel could not move; he stood fixed as a stone, and could neither weep, nor speak, nor stir hand or foot. And now the sun went quite down; the gloomy night came; the owl flew into a bush; and a moment after the old fairy came forth pale and meager, with staring eyes, and a nose and chin that almost met one another.

She mumbled something to herself, seized the nightingale, and went away with it in her hand. Poor Jorindel saw the nightingale was gone– but what could he do? He could not speak, he could not move from the spot where he stood. At last the fairy came back and sang with a hoarse voice:

“Till the prisoner is fast,

And her doom is cast,

There stay! Oh, stay!

When the charm is around her,

And the spell has bound her,

Hie away! Away!”

On a sudden Jorindel found himself free. Then he fell on his knees before the fairy, and prayed her to give him back his dear Jorinda: but she laughed at him, and said he should never see her again; then she went her way.

He prayed, he wept, he sorrowed, but all in vain. “Alas!” he said, “what will become of me?” He could not go back to his own home, so he went to a strange village, and employed himself in keeping sheep. Many a time did he walk round and round as near to the hated castle as he dared go, but all in vain; he heard or saw nothing of Jorinda.

At last he dreamt one night that he found a beautiful purple flower, and that in the middle of it lay a costly pearl; and he dreamt that he plucked the flower, and went with it in his hand into the castle, and that everything he touched with it was disenchanted, and that there he found his Jorinda again.

In the morning when he awoke, he began to search over hill and dale for this pretty flower; and eight long days he sought for it in vain: but on the ninth day, early in the morning, he found the beautiful purple flower; and in the middle of it was a large dewdrop, as big as a costly pearl. Then he plucked the flower, and set out and travelled day and night, till he came again to the castle.

He walked nearer than a hundred paces to it, and yet he did not become fixed as before, but found that he could go quite close up to the door. Jorindel was very glad indeed to see this. Then he touched the door with the flower, and it sprang open; so that he went in through the court, and listened when he heard so many birds singing. At last he came to the chamber where the fairy sat, with the seven hundred birds singing in the seven hundred cages. When she saw Jorindel she was very angry, and screamed with rage; but she could not come within two yards of him, for the flower he held in his hand was his safeguard. He looked around at the birds, but alas! there were many, many nightingales, and how then should he find out which was his Jorinda? While he was thinking what to do, he saw the fairy had taken down one of the cages, and was making the best of her way off through the door. He ran or flew after her, touched the cage with the flower, and Jorinda stood before him, and threw her arms round his neck looking as beautiful as ever, as beautiful as when they walked together in the wood.

Then he touched all the other birds with the flower, so that they all took their old forms again; and he took Jorinda home, where they were married, and lived happily together many years: and so did a good many other lads, whose maidens had been forced to sing in the old fairy’s cages by themselves, much longer than they liked.

[vi] The Mouse, the Bird and the Sausage

By the Brothers Grimm

Once upon a time a mouse, a bird, and a sausage formed a partnership. They kept house together, and for a long time they lived in peace and prosperity, acquiring many possessions. The bird's task was to fly into the forest every day to fetch wood. The mouse carried water, made the fire, and set the table. The sausage did the cooking.

Whoever is too well off always wants to try something different! Thus one day the bird chanced to meet another bird, who boasted to him of his own situation. This bird criticized him for working so hard while the other two enjoyed themselves at home. For after the mouse had made the fire and carried the water, she could sit in the parlor and rest until it was time for her to set the table. The sausage had only to stay by the pot watching the food cook. When mealtime approached, she would slither through the porridge or the vegetables, and thus everything was greased and salted and ready to eat. The bird would bring his load of wood home. They would eat their meal, and then sleep soundly until the next morning. It was a great life.

The next day, because of his friend's advice, the bird refused to go to the forest, saying that he had been their servant long enough. He was no longer going to be a fool for them. Everyone should try a different task for a change. The mouse and the sausage argued against this, but the bird was the master, and he insisted that they give it a try. The sausage was to fetch wood, the mouse became the cook, and the bird was to carry water.

And what was the result? The sausage trudged off toward the forest; the bird made the fire; and the mouse put on the pot and waited for the sausage to return with wood for the next day. However, the sausage stayed out so long that the other two feared that something bad had happened. The bird flew off to see if he could find her. A short distance away he came upon a dog that had seized the sausage as free booty and was making off with her. The bird complained bitterly to the dog about this brazen abduction, but he claimed that he had discovered forged letters on the sausage, and that she would thus have to forfeit her life to him.

Filled with sorrow, the bird carried the wood home himself and told the mouse what he had seen and heard. They were very sad, but were determined to stay together and make the best of it. The bird set the table while the mouse prepared the food. She jumped into the pot, as the sausage had always done, in order to slither and weave in and about the vegetables and grease them, but before she reached the middle, her hair and skin were scalded off, and she perished.

When the bird wanted to eat, no cook was there. Beside himself, he threw the wood this way and that, called out, looked everywhere, but no cook was to be found. Because of his carelessness, the scattered wood caught fire, and the entire house was soon aflame. The bird rushed to fetch water, but the bucket fell into the well, carrying him with it, and he drowned.

[vii] The Thief and His Master

By the Brothers Grimm

Hans wished to put his son to learn a trade, so he went into the church and prayed to our Lord God to know which would be most advantageous for him. Then the clerk got behind the altar, and said, “Thieving, thieving.” On this Hans goes back to his son, and tells him he is to learn thieving, and that the Lord God had said so. So he goes with his son to seek a man who is acquainted with thieving. They walk a long time and come into a great forest, where stands a little house with an old woman in it. Hans says, “Do you know of a man who is acquainted with thieving?”

“You can learn that here quite well,” says the woman, “my son is a master of it.” So he speaks with the son, and asks if he knows thieving really well? The master-thief says, “I will teach him well. Come back when a year is over, and then if you recognize your son, I will take no payment at all for teaching him; but if you don't know him, you must give me two hundred thalers.”

The father goes home again, and the son learns witchcraft and thieving, thoroughly. When the year is out, the father is full of anxiety to know how he is to contrive to recognize his son. As he is thus going about in his trouble, he meets a little dwarf, who says, “Man, what ails you, that you are always in such trouble?”

“Oh,” says Hans, “a year ago I placed my son with a master-thief who told me I was to come back when the year was out, and that if I then did not know my son when I saw him, I was to pay two hundred thalers; but if I did know him I was to pay nothing, and now I am afraid of not knowing him and can't tell where I am to get the money.” Then the dwarf tells him to take a small basket of bread with him, and to stand beneath the chimney. “There on the cross-beam is a basket, out of which a little bird is peeping, and that is your son.”

Hans goes thither, and throws a little basket full of black bread in front of the basket with the bird in it, and the little bird comes out, and looks up. “Hollo, my son, art thou here?” says the father, and the son is delighted to see his father, but the master-thief says, “The devil must have prompted you, or how could you have known your son?”

“Father, let us go,” said the youth.

Then the father and son set out homeward. On the way a carriage comes driving by. Hereupon the son says to his father, “I will change myself into a large greyhound, and then you can earn a great deal of money by me.”

Then the gentleman calls from the carriage, “My man, will you sell your dog?”

“Yes,” says the father.

“How much do you want for it?”

“Thirty thalers.”

“Eh, man, that is a great deal, but as it is such a very fine dog I will have it.” The gentleman takes it into his carriage, but when they have driven a little farther the dog springs out of the carriage through the window, and goes back to his father, and is no longer a greyhound.

They go home together. Next day there is a fair in the neighboring town, so the youth says to his father, “I will now change myself into a beautiful horse, and you can sell me; but when you have sold me, you must take off my bridle, or I cannot become a man again.” Then the father goes with the horse to the fair, and the master-thief comes and buys the horse for a hundred thalers, but the father forgets, and does not take off the bridle. So the master-thief goes home with the horse, and puts it in the stable.

When the maid crosses the threshold, the horse says, “Take off my bridle, take off my bridle.” Then the maid stands still, and says, “What, canst thou speak?” So she goes and takes the bridle off, and the horse becomes a sparrow, and flies out at the door, and the master-thief becomes a sparrow also, and flies after his protégé. Then they come together and cast lots, but the master loses, and betakes himself to the water and is a fish. Then the youth also becomes a fish, and they cast lots again, and the master loses. So the master changes himself into a cock, and the youth becomes a fox, and bites the master's head off, and he died and has remained dead to this day.

[viii] The Golden Goose

By the Brothers Grimm

There was a man who had three sons, the youngest of whom was called Dummling, and was despised, mocked, and sneered at on every occasion.

It happened that the eldest wanted to go into the forest to hew wood, and before he went his mother gave him a beautiful sweet cake and a bottle of wine in order that he might not suffer from hunger or thirst.

When he entered the forest he met a little grey-haired old man who bade him good-day, and said, do give me a piece of cake out of your pocket, and let me have a draught of your wine, I am so hungry and thirsty. But the clever son answered, if I give you my cake and wine, I shall have none for myself, be off with you, and he left the little man standing and went on.

But when he began to hew down a tree, it was not long before he made a false stroke, and the axe cut him in the arm, so that he had to go home and have it bound up. And this was the little grey man's doing.

After this the second son went into the forest, and his mother gave him, like the eldest, a cake and a bottle of wine. The little old grey man met him likewise, and asked him for a piece of cake and a drink of wine. But the second son, too, said sensibly enough, what I give you will be taken away from myself, be off, and he left the little man standing and went on. His punishment, however, was not delayed, when he had made a few blows at the tree he struck himself in the leg, so that he had to be carried home.

Then Dummling said, father, do let me go and cut wood. The father answered, your brothers have hurt themselves with it, leave it alone, you do not understand anything about it. But Dummling begged so long that at last he said, just go then, you will get wiser by hurting yourself. His mother gave him a cake made with water and baked in the cinders, and with it a bottle of sour beer.

When he came to the forest the little old grey man met him likewise, and greeting him, said, give me a piece of your cake and a drink out of your bottle, I am so hungry and thirsty.

Dummling answered, I have only cinder-cake and sour beer, if that pleases you, we will sit down and eat. So they sat down, and when Dummling pulled out his cinder-cake, it was a fine sweet cake, and the sour beer had become good wine. So they ate and drank, and after that the little man said, since you have a good heart, and are willing to divide what you have, I will give you good luck. There stands an old tree, cut it down, and you will find something at the roots. Then the little man took leave of him.

Dummling went and cut down the tree, and when it fell there was a goose sitting in the roots with feathers of pure gold. He lifted her up, and taking her with him, went to an inn where he thought he would stay the night. Now the host had three daughters, who saw the goose and were curious to know what such a wonderful bird might be, and would have liked to have one of its golden feathers.

The eldest thought, I shall soon find an opportunity of pulling out a feather, and as soon as Dummling had gone out she seized the goose by the wing, but her finger and hand remained sticking fast to it.

The second came soon afterwards, thinking only of how she might get a feather for herself, but she had scarcely touched her sister than she was held fast.

At last the third also came with the like intent, and the others screamed out, keep away, for goodness, sake keep away. But she did not understand why she was to keep away. The others are there, she thought, I may as well be there too, and ran to them, but as soon as she had touched her sister, she remained sticking fast to her. So they had to spend the night with the goose.

The next morning Dummling took the goose under his arm and set out, without troubling himself about the three girls who were hanging on to it. They were obliged to run after him continually, now left, now right, wherever his legs took him.

In the middle of the fields the parson met them, and when he saw the procession he said, for shame, you good-for-nothing girls, why are you running across the fields after this young man. Is that seemly? At the same time he seized the youngest by the hand in order to pull her away, but as soon as he touched her he likewise stuck fast, and was himself obliged to run behind.

Before long the sexton came by and saw his master, the parson, running behind three girls. He was astonished at this and called out, hi, your reverence, whither away so quickly. Do not forget that we have a christening today, and running after him he took him by the sleeve, but was also held fast to it. Whilst the five were trotting thus one behind the other, two laborers came with their hoes from the fields, the parson called out to them and begged that they would set him and the sexton free. But they had scarcely touched the sexton when they were held fast, and now there were seven of them running behind Dummling and the goose.

Soon afterwards he came to a city, where a king ruled who had a daughter who was so serious that no one could make her laugh. So he had put forth a decree that whosoever should be able to make her laugh should marry her. When Dummling heard this, he went with his goose and all her train before the king's daughter, and as soon as she saw the seven people running on and on, one behind the other, she began to laugh quite loudly, and as if she would never stop.

Thereupon Dummling asked to have her for his wife, but the king did not like the son-in-law, and made all manner of excuses and said he must first produce a man who could drink a cellarful of wine.

Dummling thought of the little grey man, who could certainly help him, so he went into the forest, and in the same place where he had felled the tree, he saw a man sitting, who had a very sorrowful face. Dummling asked him what he was taking to heart so sorely, and he answered, I have such a great thirst and cannot quench it, cold water I cannot stand, a barrel of wine I have just emptied, but that to me is like a drop on a hot stone.

There, I can help you, said Dummling, just come with me and you shall be satisfied.

He led him into the king's cellar, and the man bent over the huge barrels, and drank and drank till his loins hurt, and before the day was out he had emptied all the barrels. Then Dummling asked once more for his bride, but the king was vexed that such an ugly fellow, whom everyone called Dummling, should take away his daughter, and he made a new condition, he must first find a man who could eat a whole mountain of bread. Dummling did not think long, but went straight into the forest, where in the same place there sat a man who was tying up his body with a strap, and making an awful face, and saying, I have eaten a whole ovenful of rolls, but what good is that when one has such a hunger as I. My stomach remains empty, and I must tie myself up if I am not to die of hunger.

At this Dummling was glad, and said, get up and come with me, you shall eat yourself full. He led him to the king's palace, where all the flour in the whole kingdom was collected, and from it he caused a huge mountain of bread to be baked. The man from the forest stood before it, began to eat, and by the end of one day the whole mountain had vanished. Then Dummling for the third time asked for his bride, but the king again sought a way out, and ordered a ship which could sail on land and on water. As soon as you come sailing back in it, said he, you shall have my daughter for wife.

Dummling went straight into the forest, and there sat the little grey man to whom he had given his cake. When he heard what Dummling wanted, he said, since you have given me to eat and to drink, I will give you the ship, and I do all this because you once were kind to me. Then he gave him the ship which could sail on land and water, and when the king saw that, he could no longer prevent him from having his daughter. The wedding was celebrated, and after the king's death, Dummling inherited his kingdom and lived for a long time contentedly with his wife.

Table of Contents

Introduction!

Book 4: The Orphanage of Doom

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

The Lost Journal of Eugene Washington: Part One

Book 5: Blood and Thunder

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

The Lost Journal of Eugene Washington: Part Two

Book 6: The Order of the Golden Dragon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Briar

Chapter 6: Alice

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14: Briar

Chapter 15: Alice

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Last Chapter – For Real!

Legacy of Red

[i] THE MISER IN THE BUSH

[ii] The Juniper Tree

[iii] THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE

[iv] Moby-Dick

[v] Jorinda and Jorindel

[vi] The Mouse, the Bird and the Sausage

[vii] The Thief and His Master

[viii] The Golden Goose