Death's Academy

Praise for
Death’s Academy

“What a trip! Michael Bast delivers a rip-roaring adventure through the afterlife, and Midnight Smith is by far my favorite hoodie.
Death’s Academy
is wicked fun!”

Frank L. Cole

Author of the Hashbrown Winters series

“I’ve always hated unicorns and
Death’s Academy
proves me right. They’re pure evil, I tell you—EVIL! But my favorite hoodie will have you cheering. Finally, a book gets these characters right. This story is a blast!”

Steve Westover

Author of the Crater Lake series

“A magical world that adores adventure and scorns old-school stereotypes.”

Matt Peterson

Author of
The Epic Tales of a Misfit Hero

“
Death’s Academy
is a unique and compelling story that seamlessly weaves a supernatural tale with the ordinary aspirations kids (and adults) feel every day—the desire to find acceptance and do something extraordinary.
Death’s Academy
is an extraordinary novel!”

B. K. Bostick

Author of the Huber Hill series

© 2014 Michael Bast

Cover and interior illustrations by Neil Robinson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-0797-1

Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.

2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc.,
www.cedarfort.com

Cover design by Kristen Reeves

Cover design © 2014 by Lyle Mortimer

Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell

A special thanks to Heather Robles for helping me tidy up
Death’s Academy
and getting it into a readable form.

To Jeffrey Hall and Matthew Peterson,
who both pushed me to make my story better.

To my Mom and Dad, who will always believe in me.

For my dashingly handsome son Caden, who let me read his short story about “grim reapers for cats,” and springboarded my imagination.

Especially to my amazing Sarah, who pushed me to start writing and who is my eternal inspiration.

No, no, not the cute fuzzy guy with the acorn. The creature next to “Mister Precious”—the one with the tufts of fur missing, a chipped front tooth, and an ear lopped off. Yeah, that gruesome monster.

As you shorties say, “His time’s up.”

“What’s a shorty?” you ask.

Do me a favor. Go into a bathroom, find a mirror, spin on the spot ten times and take a glance at what’s starin’ back at you. Yep, you’re a shorty. (Why spin ten times first? No reason. Just wanted to see if I could make you yack).

All right, all right, a shorty is someone who has a
clock on ’em. Someone who is going to die one day. Someone not like me.

I’m a Death. Well, I’ll be one soon enough. I’ve got to go through Death’s Academy and get my shroud and calling. If I do well enough at the Academy and get enough golden sickles, who knows, maybe I’ll be paying you a visit one day. Or, if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to help some famous musicians or movie stars bite it. My great-uncle Grimley was a Death for royalty. He got to snuff out a half dozen dukes, three or four counts, and even sent off a couple of kings. He’s kind of a hero in my family. Not just because he put down a few gold lace-wearing snobs, but also because he was an
artist
. He was like the da Vinci of death. In fact, if we hoodies (that’s kind of our street name) had a museum for masterpieces of demise, his work would have its own wing.

So you can imagine what a relative like that does to your parents’ expectations. My mom’s always telling me stuff like, “Your uncle Grimley never chased the dog around the yard with a lawn mower.” Or “Your uncle Grimley never superglued a pickle to his cousin’s ear.” But you know how moms are—nag, nag, nag. The way I see it, I’m doing her a favor. If I didn’t do the things that I do, my mom would have nothing to talk
about with the Parents Supporting Parents group that she meets with every Tuesday.

Now if you think my mom is bad, she’s not a shadow of what my dad puts me through. You see, my dad is famous, but not the type of famous you want to be. Let’s just say that as soon as people find out my last name, they immediately ask who my dad is. If I tell the truth, they look at me as if a cow has just dropped one of its pies on my face.

I get kicked out of stores. I get kicked out of restaurants. My friends’ parents forbid their kids from associating with me. I’m pretty much a social leper. I only have one real friend in the world. The worst part of it all is that I still don’t know what my dad did. Whenever I bring it up with my parents, my mom’s face darkens and my dad’s goes bright red. If I press the issue, my mom gets downright hostile, and she’ll make me go do some meaningless chore like wax the kitchen floor or pluck the ticks out from between my dog’s toes.

My parents will be rid of me soon, though, because I just turned twelve. For us hoodies, twelve is a big deal. We leave that whole school scene that you shorties do and move on to Death’s Academy. Yep, while you’re learning about really “important” things like the quadratic equation and the capital of Burma, I’ll be taking classes like Poisons 101, Household Explosions, and Traffic Accidents and How to Cause Them.

But between you and me, I’m getting a little nervous about the whole Death’s Academy thing. You see, there’s an entrance exam … and I suck at exams.

You think I’ve got a weird name?

What can I say? We’re Deaths, and we’ve got a fascination for dark and mysterious things. Could be worse. My older cousin’s buddy’s name is Moon Shadow. Everyone at school called him “Moonie,” but I’ve been told his nickname didn’t come from shortening his name.

Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked. The name’s Night. Nice to meet ya.

That entrance exam to get into Death’s Academy is why I’m sitting here in Michaels Park. It’s not like those pop quizzes you get in grade school. There’s none of
that namby-pamby multiple-choice or true-false questions. It’s all practical. It’s just you, three or four professors, and real-life situations.

Long ago, when my mom took the exam, she was given fifteen minutes to plan and execute the death of an over-the-hill water buffalo. Thankfully, prior to the exam she had taken a correspondence course in several African animal dialects and had studied a bit of herbivore tendencies. So what did she do? I think it’s brilliant.

She could speak a few phrases in mongoose, so she convinced a family of white-tailed mongooses to tie long strands of golden grass to their tails. She then got them to saunter tantalizingly close to the aged water buffalo. The water buffalo saw the juicy strands of premium Serengeti grass inches from his snout and he stumbled after them. He hobbled right into a croc-infested mudhole. Two sharp chomps later and my mom was admitted into Death’s Academy.

But for every happy ending like my mom’s, I hear a horror story. I’ve listened to tragic tales like islanders dodging falling coconuts at the last moment or walruses pulling themselves out of the sea just as the great white’s teeth scrape against their rear ends. Sure the
victim gets a momentary reprieve, but what you don’t see is some poor hoodie that has to wait an entire year until he can take the exam again. You only get two shots. If you screw up the second time, you’re done. No shroud. No calling. You end up working as a Death’s assistant or, even worse, a guard at Cha-rama Prison. That can’t happen to me.