Death's Academy (5 page)

She shakes her head as if she is trying to dislodge a painful memory. “She was also vain and sought praise from others. She forgot what she loved most; she forgot about teaching and began only to do research. She scoured the world. She discovered many amazing things from the past, but she also found something else … Something up north …” Her voice trails off to just above a whisper. She raises her head from the iron bar, and her gaze rests on me.

“What? What did you find?” I ask.

“I found them,” she says, her eyes unfocused for a moment, and she blinks.

“Who?”

“Hundreds of them, hiding, waiting … an entire city. They captured Pandora. Tortured Pandora, made her tell them all about our great secret.”

“Great secret?”

“The Scythe of Grim, the foundation of all our powers,” she whispers. “Without it we would cease to be what we are. Without it we would cease to exist. They forced me to tell them where it was hidden.”

“The Scythe of Grim?” I ask and notice that I have taken another few steps toward her.

She licks her lips. “It’s here,” she wheezes and stomps her foot on the stone floor. “Below us, locked away. They want it. They want to pay us back, to destroy us all.” Her eyes slip again out of focus, and she wavers on the spot.

“Who wants to destroy us?”

“Pandora escaped, but no one would believe me, believe me.” As she speaks, her back begins to curve and droop.

“Who was it, Pandora?” I ask, grabbing her by the elbow.

Her glance darts to my face, but I can tell she is looking beyond me, and her expression goes vacant right before my eyes.

“Pandora?”

“Unicorns,” she whispers and then laughs out loud, patting me on my head. She turns away and shuffles to
the stone wall and knocks on it. She knocks again and then places her ear up against it.

“Hello!” she yells and chuckles. “Hello!”

She turns to me. “I came here last week, last week. We have an appointment. Yes, we do, an appointment. They are home, yep, yep. I’ll wait.” She then flops onto the ground facing the wall and stares at it. Occasionally she reaches forward and acts like she is about to knock again, but stops herself by slapping her hand down and shaking a finger at it. “Don’t be rude.”

I lean up against the iron bars. Hundreds of unicorns? She
really
must be crazy. The unicorns have been extinct for at least fifty years. Even I, a hoodie who hasn’t been to Death’s Academy, know that. I smile as I watch her slap her hand away again.

“Old loon,” I whisper and peer through the bars and down the torchlit walkway.

She’s got to be making it up. If there were hundreds of unicorns, the Sickles would know all about it … But if they didn’t know and she is telling the truth—well, let’s just say we hoodies would be in real danger.

“Midnight Smith!” a voice squeaks.

I turn to see the gargantuan guard Wolf striding down the walkway.

“Your parents are here.”

“Midnight Smith, you are grounded! No friends, no skull ball, no anything for, for, for—”

“A very long time,” my dad pipes in.

“Longer than that!” she barks and turns back in her seat, taking out her frustration on her seat belt.

“A
very
,
very
long time,” my dad says with a nervous glance at my mom.

“But we have the big skull ball game tomorrow. It’s the championship! I’m the roller! I can’t miss the game—the whole team is counting on me,” I protest.

“You should’ve thought of that sooner,” my mom says.

“We’re disappointed in you, son,” my dad interjects.

“Disappointed? We’re a heaven of a lot more than disappointed!” she growls. “Not only that, but you pull this stunt right before the Reapless? We’re leaving in two days! You know we look forward to it all year. Your dad and I don’t have time to deal with you
and
get everything ready to leave.”

“I still don’t know why it’s such a big deal. They let me go,” I say.

My mom gives me a look that … well, let’s just say I’m lucky I’m not within striking distance because I’d have a handprint across my cheek right now. I’m not going to tell you which cheek, though.

She grits her teeth and growls, “Internal Affairs has contacted Aunt Dementia, and they are inquiring how her chipmunk death schedule fell into your hands. She might be facing a disciplinary tribunal!”

“Mom, I’m sorry. I wanted to get some practice before my next pre-exam,” I say with as sad a face and voice as I can muster. “You saw the grade I got on the first one. I mean if I had a benefactor—”

“No, no! We’re not having this conversation again,” my mom blurts out.

“But, Mom, how do I stand a chance to get into the Academy if I can’t practice? You had a benefactor. Dad had one. It’s not fair!”

“We have told you now a thousand and one times. We can’t afford one. With your dad being bumped down to part-time at the prison and my two jobs, we’re just scraping by,” she says. “Besides, you have your dad. He can help you get ready.”

I can’t believe my mom was actually able to say that last part with a straight face.

“Are you kidding me? Dad? With his help I might as well not even show up for the exam,” I say.

My mom makes a noise that almost sounds like she is agreeing with me. I glance up into the rearview mirror. My dad’s scowl has deepened, and I notice his grip on the steering wheel tighten and twist, the sun-bleached rubber cracks underneath his hands. He is probably thinking of wringing my neck, but you know what? It’s true. My dad is an absolute embarrassment. Everywhere I go, when someone hears my last name, they automatically ask who my dad is. When I tell them, “Obsidian Smith,” they get this look on their faces as if I just farted up their nose.

No one will tell me exactly what happened, but what I have been able to piece together over the years is that my dad made one of the biggest bungles in the history of death. In fact, hoodies my parents’ age will say things like, “I pulled an Obsidian” when they do something really dumb. How would you like to have that trailing after you your whole life? Yep, it sucks.

“You’re just going to have to make do, Night. I’m trying to keep our family afloat, and my jobs don’t leave me enough time to breathe, let alone get you ready for the exam. You need to take responsibility and get yourself ready,” she says.

I open my mouth to retort when she adds, “Legally.”

My shoulders slump.

“Oh goodness, look at the time. I told them I would
be back at the office ten minutes ago. You’re going to need to drop me off first,” my mom says.

We drive in silence to her office, and she doesn’t even wait for the car to come to a complete stop before she’s out the door and running up the sidewalk.

“I’ll put your dinner in the fridge!” my dad calls after her.

She waves her hand back at us and then disappears into the building. The car lurches forward, and I take a deep breath while folding my arms.

“When we get home, you need to just go up to your room and stay there until dinner, got it?” my dad says.

“Whatever,” I spit back.

I turn my attention out the window and pretend to be interested in the creaking warehouses and condemned railroad buildings whipping by. They say that this part of town used to be a bustling metropolis, but now it’s just rust and barbwire. I’m sure if you stared too long you would probably need a tetanus shot.

As we leave downtown, the view gradually improves. We’re getting close to home. I can tell because all the houses look the same and the driveways have cars that are too expensive for the owners. You shorties and we hoodies do have one thing in common; we’re all trying to keep up with the Joneses.

However, I can tell which houses belong to hoodies. You shorties would have a hard time picking them out unless you know what to look for. One easy way to tell is that we still have those old-time antennas on our roofs. You know, the things that look like oversized Erector Sets jutting this way and that. We use them to
pick up the Hoodie Network. We have news channels and a few shows that come on in the evening. To be honest with you, the shows are not very creative, and the acting is awful. At least they always end happily—everyone dies.

Another way to tell if a house belongs to a hoodie is if you see a “beware of dog” sign on the house or fence, but the dog is a Chihuahua, wiener dog, or poodle. I mean why should anyone “beware” of something you could punt thirty feet in the air if you wanted to? You’re right, you don’t need to “beware.” But don’t be fooled, that’s only how they appear to you shorties. In reality, they are vicious “hellhounds” that protect our homes.

We have one too. His name’s Roger. To you, he’s a poodle-wiener mix. To me, he’s more fangs than fur. I would describe more what he really looks like, but I want you to be able to sleep tonight.

“Night?”

My dad’s voice startles me out of my daydream, but I don’t let on that I heard him.

“Night?”

I continue to focus on the outside. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll leave me alone until I can sneak up to my room. I’m in no mood to talk. The only
thing I have been looking forward to this summer was the upcoming skull ball championship game. We really have a chance this year to beat the halos, but without me rolling, we don’t have a prayer. Now that’s been taken away from me too.

“The Sickle Demien told me that he rescued you in the nick of time,” my dad calls over his shoulder.

I wince. I had hoped that my parents hadn’t gotten too many details about the park incident.

“He said that you were caught in the act by a halo. He also said that if he hadn’t done some maneuvering on your behalf, you would be facing a Golden Tribunal.”

I grimace.

“He also mentioned something about a fish?”

“It’s a long story. I don’t want to talk about it,” I blurt.

“I just want to help, Night. Maybe if you tell me what you were trying to do, I can give you some pointers that will help out with the exam,” he says.

I make a dismissive noise and roll my eyes.

“You never know. Maybe your old man can teach you a thing or two. Remember, I did get into Death’s Academy, and I was top of my class,” he says.

“Yeah, a lot of good that did you,” I say before I can stop myself.

My dad and I don’t make eye contact for the rest of the trip home. When we pull into the driveway he doesn’t get out of the car, but fidgets with a piece of the steering wheel.

“You know how much your mom looks forward to the Reapless. We only have two days before we leave.
Can I count on you to not disappoint her again?” he asks, still staring at the steering wheel.

“Why? She’s married to you. Isn’t she used to disappointment?” I ask while hopping out of the car. I don’t glance back, but head inside.

I’m greeted by a snot- and drool-covered Roger, who growls lovingly at me.

“Not now, Roger,” I say.

He whimpers and trots over to his bed made of ostrich bones and flops down with a crunch. I take the stairs two at a time and slam my bedroom door behind me. I am about to belly flop onto my bed when out of the corner of my eye I see something scamper across my desk. I whirl around, my heart in my throat, and see a tar-colored guinea pig with yellow spots leaning against my lamp with its arms folded. It’s got a voice receiver around its neck, a gizmo belonging to Mal, my best friend.

“It’s about time. I’ve been waiting for an hour,” it rumbles deeply.