The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 2 (41 page)

“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
.”