The Hunt for Dark Infinity (The 13th Reality #2) (33 page)

Chu had already winked him to a new place.

The room was a perfect circle, thirty feet in diameter, bare of furniture except for several, almost invisible, clear plastic benches curving along the walls. That was it—no decorations, no signs, no light fixtures, nothing. Just glowing walls and invisible benches.

“Heaven’s waiting room,” Tick whispered.

“No, it’s not,” a soft voice said from his left.

Tick spun in that direction, stumbling backward two steps. Ten feet from him stood a tall woman, close to the wall, dressed in a tightly fitted yellow dress. Long, silky black hair hung from her head and framed a pale but perfect face; her red lips pulled tightly into a grim smile. Brilliant green eyes stared through horn-rimmed glasses. Tick was certain he couldn’t have missed her before. She had appeared out of nowhere.

“Who . . . who are you?” he asked.

The woman ignored him, scanning the room around her with a disgusted look, as if it were full of snakes and lizards and frogs. “This place is about as far from heaven as you can get in the Realities.” Despite her apparent anger, her voice still gave Tick goosebumps, as if he listened to someone playing the harp.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “Are you—”

“Yes,” she replied, finally focusing her eyes on him. “I imagine you saw a message similar to mine. My name is Mistress Jane, as yours must be Atticus Higginbottom.”

She walked over to him, her feet tap-tap-tapping as she did so. She stopped and held out a hand, which he took and shook quickly before letting go, a shudder of nausea trembling in his stomach. Master George’s most hated enemy stood inches from him.

Tick cleared his throat. “I . . . I thought you were bald.” He didn’t know what else to say, what else to do.

Mistress Jane smiled, though it was empty of humor or kindness. “Yes, I was bald for a very long time. So very long.” She stared past his shoulder as if remembering something sad from her past. “And it was quite . . .
painful
to grow it back so quickly. Painful, but sweet. That’s how the Chi’karda works in the Thirteenth, after all.”

Tick swallowed, fidgeted on his feet. He was so lost and confused and scared. His mind spun; his heart thumped.

Mistress Jane caught his eyes again, then continued. “So many things have changed, boy.
I’ve
changed. Do you understand?”

Tick couldn’t speak. He slowly shook his head.

Jane nodded. “Yes, we have a lot to talk about. A lot.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it. “Reginald wanted me to kill you, you know? That was my task.”

“Kill me?” Tick managed to say, almost a squeak.

Jane’s eyes closed and opened in a long, drawn out blink. “Yes, I was supposed to kill you. And I could have, easily—I crashed your spintrain to make Chu think I was at least trying. But I knew you’d survive.” She paused. “But you and I are going to turn the tables, Atticus.”

“What do you mean?” Tick pulled his hand away from hers.

Jane paused again before answering. “As dangerous as you and that baboon George may think I am, Mr. Higginbottom, Reginald Chu is far, far worse.
Far
worse. And you and I are going to stop him. Forever.”

~

Paul stared at the door for a full two minutes after it closed behind Tick, tempted to rip it back open and chase after his friend. But after all they’d been through—after all the things they’d seen Chu do to them—he knew the warning scrawled across the wood was for real.

Finally, he looked away, turned his back to the building. A fresh burst of pain exploded up his arm and into his shoulders, making him cry out before he could stop himself. For the hundredth time that day, tears welled in his eyes.

“Best be gettin’ on,” Sally grunted, glancing one last time at the door. “Better get that little sack of taters Rutger workin’ on dat nasty limb a’yorn.” His eyes fell to Paul’s swollen arm. “Dat don’t look so good.”

The lumberjack started walking away, making a straight line toward an area that looked just like the miles of dull nothingness in every other direction. “Come on, rug rats!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Sofia and Paul turned in unison to look at the door one last time.

“Wonder what he’s doing now,” Paul said.

Sofia touched Paul’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” she whispered, barely audible. “Master George’ll help us find him.” She nodded, then ran off toward Sally.

Paul followed; every step felt like a sledgehammer against his forearm.
My only hope now is a tiny, fat dude named Rutger. Great.

They probably walked half a mile before Sally stopped and turned to face the kids behind him. “Right chere seems ’bout right. Scoot yer buns on over here.”

Paul cradled his arm tightly against his body and stepped as close to Sally as he could. Sofia pressed in from the right until they were all squished together in a small circle.

“Great balls of turtle scat!” Sally bellowed. “You ain’t gotta get so close I can smell yer pits, now do ya!”

Despite the pain, Paul snickered as he backed away a couple of steps. Sofia did the same, but her eyes kept flickering back to the wooden building.

Sally reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, digging for a few seconds before he pulled it back out again with nothing in his hand. “Ol’ George’ll be winkin’ us right directly.”

“What did you just do?” Paul asked.

Sally scrunched up his forehead like Paul had just asked him what the color green looked like. “Triggered the nanobobbamajig, boy, what else?”

Before Paul could ask another question, he felt a quick chill flash across his shoulders and down his spine. The drab world around him vanished, replaced instantly by a room filled with leather couches and chairs, a warm fire crackling and spitting in a small brick fireplace. Master George stood in front of it, the Barrier Wand clasped in his hands and Muffintops the cat purring at his heels. Rutger perched on a floor pillow, leaning back against one of the sofas, his hands folded and resting on top of his huge belly.

“Quickly,” Master George sputtered, throwing all greetings and formalities out the window. “Have a seat and tell us everything, and I mean everything!”

“My arm,” Paul said, his voice breaking on the last word. “My arm,” he repeated. Now that help was so close, the pain seemed to intensify, flaring through his whole body as if more than one bone had been broken.

Master George looked down and noticed the ballooned arm, the skin stretched taut, bruised and bulging. “My goodness, man! Your arm is hurt!”

Paul said nothing, feebly attempting a smile.

“Rutger,” Master George snapped. “Take Paul to the infirmary this instant. Then wink in Doctor Hillenstat from the Second and tell him to deaden the pain, set the bone, cast it—what have you. We’ll follow you and have our discussion there. Chop-chop!”

Rutger rolled to his left, got stuck, then grunted as he tried rolling to his right. His body slipped off the pillow, his arms and legs flailing as he tried to find the leverage he needed to stand up. “Good grief, would someone
give me a hand,
please?”

Mothball entered the room, wiping her hands on her shirt and chewing on something. “What’s this?” she asked. “There’s a ruddy bowling ball loose, there is! Someone snatch it up before it breaks a vase!”

“Oh, go on and make jokes, then,” Rutger said, lying on the floor as his body rolled back and forth. “Poor Master Paul only has a severely broken arm—no big deal.”

Mothball’s face melted into a frown as her eyes fell upon Paul’s injury. “Oh, dear, terribly sorry. Quite nasty that, by the looks of it.”

“Yeah,” was all Paul managed to say. The room had started to pitch and spin in his vision.

“All right, then,” Mothball said as she reached down and yanked Rutger to his feet with a big roar. “Get the lad the help he needs.”

“Come on, Paul,” Rutger said, swiping at the dust on his round bottom.

Paul nodded and followed him as he heard Master George speaking to the others.

“Sofia, Sally—I need to know everything.”

~

The Tale of Mistress Jane

L
et’s have a seat,” Mistress Jane said. “I’m sure Reginald will be here shortly to rant and rave his frustration that we both made it here alive.”

She grabbed Tick’s arm again, pulling him toward one of the impossibly clear benches lining the lighted walls. Once there, she let go and sat down, crossing her legs under the tight yellow material of her dress. She flicked her thick black hair across her shoulder then motioned for Tick to sit next to her.

Tick wanted to run. No, he wanted to yell and scream at Jane for the terrible things she’d done, including killing one of Mothball’s closest friends, Annika. He wanted to rip her ridiculous glasses off, throw them on the ground, crush them with his shoe, then punch her right square between her flaming green eyes. He wanted to—

“Sit down!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the room as though a chorus of Janes had called out the two words.

Tick fell to the bench, his short burst of spirit crushed. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at the glowing floor below his feet.

Jane took a deep breath. “I’m . . . I’m very sorry, Atticus. I should not have spoken to you like that. I apologize.”

Tick closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. He realized suddenly that the woman sitting next to him was crazy. Crazy and dangerous.

“Now,” Jane said. “There are a lot of things I need to tell you. I’m sure George has made you think I’m a monster, a cruel and heartless devil who cares nothing for the Realities or their people. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

Tick looked up. “How can you say that? I saw Annika die—killed by those disgusting monsters
you
created! Then you tried to have them kill me!”

Mistress Jane held up a finger to silence him. “I want you to be quiet. Do you understand this request?”

“Why should I—”

Jane flicked her finger. Something yanked Tick from the bench and threw him three feet into the air, spinning his body in the middle of the room. He screamed, thrashing his arms and legs. He spun faster, the unseen force gripping him like invisible claws as it wheeled him about, pinching and battering him.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “Put me down!”

The force vanished in an instant, and he crashed to the floor, one leg bent awkwardly beneath his body. He cried out as he squirmed to the side and pulled it straight. Gasping for breath, he pushed himself to his knees and stared at Jane, his eyes on fire.

“Why would you—”

“Silence!”
she screamed, cutting him off again as she stood up, her face flashing red. “You will come over here. You will sit. And you will listen. Do you understand?”

Tick felt as if his old nemesis, Billy “The Goat” Cooper, had just sucker punched him in the stomach three times. Fighting tears, he slowly got to his feet and walked back to the bench. Without looking at Mistress Jane, swearing to himself he would never look her in the eyes again, he sat down.

After a few seconds of silence, Jane sat as well, crossing her legs again.

“Atticus,” she said, almost in a whisper, as if she hadn’t spent the last minute torturing him. “This . . . these are the things about me I don’t like. My temper, my impatience, my quickness to anger. I’ve tried very hard in recent weeks to better myself. To improve myself and be kinder to others.”

Tick snorted with all the disgust he could muster. “Yeah, obviously.”

Mistress Jane paused. “Think what you will. But know this—if Reginald had challenged me to kill you two months ago, perhaps even one month ago, your body would even now be rotting beneath several feet of earth. I have changed my ways as best I can, but my goal remains the same as it has always been—to save the Realities. I will never waver from it.”

Tick clenched his hands together, still staring at the white floor. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”