The War for the Waking World (27 page)

Amy said, “Yep. So she studied a lot. Big deal.”

“No, that's something,” Archer said. “It squares with all the Lucid Walking research she's done.”

“True,” Amy said, “but what we're looking for is something that had a big emotional impact on Kara, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, let me try,” Amy said. “Girls are better with emotional stuff. Yep.”

Archer was about to argue but stopped himself quickly. Even if he disagreed, it wouldn't solve anything. Besides, his approach was getting nowhere. They were back at Mrs. Windchil's side in an instant.

“Mrs. Windchil, has anything happened to Kara?” Amy asked. “Anything that really upset her?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Windchil said. “Yes, there was. Just about a month ago, we went by the mall, and her favorite taco place had closed up. She was so frustrated I thought she might cry.”

Amy frowned. “That's very sad,” she said. “But what I meant were more serious issues, like issues she might get counseling for.”

“We tried that once, you know,” Mrs. Windchil said. “That was after Bill left. Didn't do any good.”

“What was Kara going to counseling for?” Amy asked.

“Oh, it was a weird kind of attention disorder,” Mrs. Windchil said. “They didn't have a name for it really. Wasn't that big of a deal, but we wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“When Kara was little, and I do mean little, she used to make up imaginary friends. You know, she'd set a place at the table for one and serve him a plate. It was cute at first, but we thought she'd grow out of it. And she did, for a while. When she was nine, though—and that was right after Bill left—she began doing it again. I'd walk by the door and hear her talking all kinds of nonsense. So I took her to counseling. They told me it wasn't too uncommon when a kid has a parent run out on the family. You know, the child pretends the parent is still there.”

“Did losing her father hurt Kara?” Amy asked.

“Doctors said yes, but I don't really know. To be honest, I didn't really care that Bill left. I hate to say so, but he was a bit of a leech. Not the best with kids either. I made enough money, so it didn't kill me to see him go.”

“What about Kara?” Archer asked. “Were the doctors right? Did she start talking to her invisible friend again because her father had run out on her?”

“I thought so at first,” Mrs. Windchil explained. “Heck, for a while there, I thought she'd named her imaginary friend Bill. I'd walk by her room or stand at the top of the basement stairs, and I'd hear ‘Bill this' and ‘Bill that.' It was tiresome.”

Amy adjusted her glasses and glanced at Archer. “You said, ‘At first,' Mrs. Windchil, like at first you thought she was troubled over her dad leaving.”

“But she wasn't, turns out,” Kara's mom replied. “Tell the truth, I think she got over not having a daddy far faster than what was good for her.”

“What do you mean?” Archer asked.

“Well, Kara never really got attached to much. When we moved into town, Kara was three, but she didn't cry about her friends in the old school. She didn't care. She was never content, always looking for a new . . . something.”

“But the imaginary friend,” Archer said. “Wasn't that all about her father?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Windchil said. “I had that all wrong. Turned out, when she was talking to her invisible friend, she wasn't saying ‘Bill.' She was saying ‘Bezeal.' ”

FORTY

T
WO
D
AYS

“S
COVILLE
M
ANOR
,” K
AYLIE SAID
, “
IT
'
S TIME FOR AN
upgrade.”

It was a massive Victorian mansion, all dark wood siding, irregularly-shaped windows, and dragon-scale shingles. The ground f loor was diamond-shaped with one pointed angle entirely made of a sprawling wraparound veranda. There were three stories, two protruding gabled roofs, two tall brick chimneys, some kind of sloping roof, and widow's walk. The spire had a dark, wrought-iron weather vane in the shape of a galloping horse.

“How could you live here?” Kaylie asked. “Well, here I go!”

Rigby held up a hand and said, “Remember, lil Keaton, we keep the basic structure intact. We build up around it. Wouldn't do to squash all the pets . . . or Uncle Scovy.”

“Don't worry,” Kaylie said. “I already have the perfect plan.”

“Okay, then,” Rigby said. “Impress me.”

“Here,” Kaylie said. She handed Patches to Rigby, pursed her lips, and beetled up her eyebrows. Then, her arms and hands moving in flourishes, she began to build.

A double wall of stone arose from the turf around Rigby's home and grew until the original structure could no longer be seen. Kaylie wiggled her fingers, and the top of the entire wall became crenelated. She pushed imaginary buttons with both her pointer fingers. Windows, arrow slits, and murder holes appeared at various strategic locations on the face of the wall.

Kaylie made a fist, and a wide rectangular keep arose in the section of the wall closest to the street that ran in front of Rigby's home. She punched her left fist three times into the air. Three circular towers arose. She bounced her right fist, and a series of smaller towers, each with a crayon-tip roof, suddenly protruded from the facade's right flank. Then, as if her silent symphony were coming to a dramatic end, she bent her knees, clapped her hands together, and then leaped into the air. From within the double wall, a massive square fortress grew. It was a mighty structure, an enormous rook, and it completely engulfed Scoville Manor.

Then, even though the sun was setting, a stark rainbow climbed from the distant woods and formed an arch over their new castle fortress. At the front gate, a white unicorn reared and released a proud neigh, followed by a mischievous nicker.

“There,” Kaylie said, snatching Patches back from Rigby. “All done.”

“Really? A unicorn and a rainbow?”

“What?” Kaylie asked innocently. “Everyone loves unicorns and rainbows.”

Rigby frowned. “Not everyone.”

“Don't be so negative,” Kaylie said, batting her eyelashes. “You said to impress you, so there it is. I based my design off Corvin Castle in Romania. It's mostly Gothic architecture, but I borrowed a little Romanesque for the interior: arches, barrel vaults, columns, and such.”

Rigby stared. “Sometimes, I forget 'ow much of a genius you are.”

“That's okay,” Kaylie said. “I'll remind you.”

Rigby rolled his eyes and said, “C'mon, squirt, let us make 'aste to the inner bailey, for we 'ave an army to create.”

“Why, yes, sir knight,” Kaylie giggled, playing along. “Verily!”

Doctor Scoville heard the ruckus going on outside. It was next to impossible to ignore the forty-foot walls, eighty-foot towers, and half of a million tons of stone going up. Doc Scoville wasn't about to be distracted, though. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Back and forth, he ran the simulation showing the earth's magnetic field a few weeks before the Rift, during the Rift, and now a few days after the Rift. He watched the rings, the digital representation of the earth's magnetic fields, as they were buffeted by an unseen force. Soon, they were in motion, shifting violently as the Rift tore out the barrier between the Dream and the Waking World. And, in the days following, the rings continued to sway . . . back and forth. It was like a struck tuning fork, the metal tines vibrating so quickly and creating the loudest sound, but then the vibrations slowed. Just as they'd predicted.

While the magnetic field was still in motion, their team could reverse the Rift. If they could create their own magnetic tidal wave, it would send those rings back to their proper spot. But if they could not do so in time, and the waves ceased, the Rift—and all its consequences—would become permanent.

There
were also
those periodic burst-anomalies. “What are these things?” Doc Scoville muttered. He'd recorded the location of each. Just a few sites, really: Glasgow, Scotland, was the first; then Nice, France; a couple nearby in Maryland; and then one in Queensland, Australia.

Doc Scoville stopped typing and laughed at his own ignorance. “Of course!” he said aloud, slapping his knee. The anomalies, he thought, could be nothing else but the Dreamtreaders' bopping in and out of the Dream. Duncan, Mesmeera, Archer, Kaylie, and Nick—powerful magnetic signatures indeed. Maybe they would be enough to reverse the Rift.

Maybe.

“Who or what is Bezeal?” Amy asked as they passed by Archer's neighborhood and continued walking toward Scoville Manor.

“That's a little hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

Archer sighed. “He's some kind of being from the Dream Realm. He's been around forever. Everything he does—everything he influences others to do—it all turns to misery. Put it this way, he's messed me up more than once.”

“Okay, so this Bezeal is no good,” Amy said, thinking aloud. “And he was somehow with Kara when she was little?”

Archer clenched his fists. “I'm not certain what it means,” he said. “But it's not good.” He stopped in the middle of the street and gazed into the western sky. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Old Jack,” he said. “We've only got two and a half days left.”

“Old Jack?” Amy threw her hands up. “You realize, of course, I have no idea what you mean.”

By the time Archer finished explaining Old Jack and the time remaining to reverse the Rift to Amy, they'd arrived at Scoville Manor, and it was night. The glowering, overcast sky reflected enough ambient light for them to see that the place had . . . changed.

“It's . . . it's a big castle now,” Amy said breathlessly. “One big, big castle. Yep.”

Archer saw the rainbow and then the unicorn. “I know Kaylie's work when I see it.”

They came to the main gatehouse, and within twenty yards of the entrance, a swarm of red dots swam over them. “Get behind me!” Archer shouted.

Amy blinked. “What? Why?”

Too late. A beam of blue light flashed out of one of the gatehouse's
many arrow slits and struck Amy right in the forehead. She started to fall, but Archer caught her. She was out cold, but still breathing. More than that, she had the goofiest look on her face that Archer had ever seen.

“Oh, crud,” Archer muttered. “Sorry, Amy. You've been happified.”

FORTY-ONE

A
N
E
VENING AT THE
S
YMPHONY

O
NCE INSIDE THE CASTLE GATES
, A
RCHER FOUND AN
alcove, and with the aid of a spray bottle of water, he managed to wake Amy up. Even so, she was wobbly on her feet for the next several hours and smiling like a maniac.

Just then, soldiers—on the alcove high above—turned, leveled crossbows, and took aim. Like some kind of electric measles, the telltale red dots of laser sights popped up all over him and Amy.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he cried out. “Don't shoot! It's me, Archer Keaton! And . . . and . . . Amy's a friend!”

In slightly staggered time, the knights stowed their crossbows and fell back into the alcoves. “Wow,” Archer said. “Kaylie and Rigby
have
been busy.”

“Y'know, Archer,” Amy mumbled, blinking in a kind of sleepy slow motion, “I don't think your plan is going to work.”

“What?” Archer asked. “What plan?”

“Plansies, plansies,” Amy replied. “But I know you'll try hard. You'll fight for what's right. That's what's so great about you, Archer, you're brave. Brave . . . and cute.”

Face burning, Archer coughed. “O-okay, Amy,” he said, leading her ahead. “Try not to talk so much.”