“What’s a nip?” I asked.
Fluffball started to laugh. “What a noob . . . He doesn’t even know what a nip is?”
I felt my face turning red. “Demon bunny,” I muttered, embarrassed about getting embarrassed by a rodent.
“Nip is slang for a manipulated boon,” answered Avery. “Fluffball can tell that the ribbon was cut and sewed onto the hat, manipulating it into having magical properties.” Avery turned back to the rabbit. “Can you tell us what the hat does?”
The bunny sniffed at the air. “Tell smelly boy to back away.”
“What?” I cried. “I’m not smelly! I just showered last night.”
“Apples and oranges, kid,” said Fluffball. “You’re smelly to me.”
Avery gave me an impatient look, and I suddenly realized that she expected me to do what the bunny was demanding.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I sighed in annoyance, taking a large step back.
“Ah. That’s better,” said the rabbit, his nose bouncing as he actively sniffed. “The top hat allows you to safely store other boons inside it. Even items that should be too big to fit.”
Avery looked at me with excitement in her eyes. “I think we’ve got our detector, Mason.”
“Don’t call him that,” said the rabbit. “If he’s going to call me Fluffball, I’m going to call him Stinky.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry I named you Fluffball. That was before I knew you could talk. Why don’t you just tell us what you’d like to be called?”
He turned up his pink nose, flipping his ears back. “If you really cared, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
I groaned. “Fine. Fluffball it is.”
Avery scooped the rabbit into her arms. “I’m Avery,” she introduced. “And this is Mason Morrison. He’s been accused of a crime he didn’t commit. We’ll fill you in on the way to the High Line. We just need you to keep an eye out—or a nose—or whatever—for any potential boons we might come across on the way. Magix will be looking for us. Possibly setting traps.”
“I’ll do it for you,” Fluffball said. “But I gotta know. Why are you helping him?” He flicked an ear at me.
“It’s my duty,” she said, “as an apprentice detective. I made a promise to uphold the law and the truth.”
“And now you’re on the run with a criminal?” Fluffball said. “Doesn’t sound like upholding the law to me.”
Avery glanced at me, then back at the bunny. “He’s innocent. I got a note that said—”
“But you could have taken that note to anyone,” I cut in. The bunny had touched on a good point. One that I’d been too hasty to think much about so far. Why was Avery really helping me?
“Why didn’t you tell anyone at Magix about the note you found in your locker?”
Avery fidgeted, straightening her top hat with the hand that wasn’t holding Fluffball.
“I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me,” she finally answered. “I didn’t want anyone to think that I’d written the note myself, just because I believed you were innocent.”
“Did you?” I asked. “Did you believe I was innocent before you got that note?”
“Does it matter?” she said, suddenly moving away. “Come on. We’ve got to find that bird artist.”
Chapter 12
THURSDAY, MAY 14
1:40 P.M.
THE HIGH LINE, NEW YORK CITY
I’d never been to a park like the High Line before. It was elevated about thirty feet above the city streets, built on the remains of an abandoned rail track. As we walked along the long, narrow park, I could catch glimpses of the old train rails running through the grasses and flowers that’d been planted to make it look nice.
We were snacking on some big salted pretzels that I had bought from a street vendor. They tasted good, but they had pretty much bankrupted me.
“Dry,” said Fluffball. “If you give me another piece of that dry pretzel, I’m gonna choke and die.”
It made me nervous to have the bunny speaking out in the open, but the people of New York didn’t seem to pay attention to anything going on around them.
“Sorry,” Avery said. “I guess we should have bought a salad for you.”
“Now, that would’ve been much more thoughtful,” grumbled Fluffball. “With a light vinaigrette dressing on the side.”
“Were you always this picky?” I asked. “Or did that just happen when you got a voice?”
“Were you always this stinky?” he replied. “Or did that just happen when you rolled around in the garbage?”
“I’m curious, too,” Avery said, backing me up. “What was life like in that cage in the pet store?”
“I’ll just say, I don’t exactly remember,” answered Fluffball. “Life in the cage was . . . like an old dream. I know it happened, but I can’t remember what it was about.”
“So the collar was an upgrade?” I asked.
“Now, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, “since it means I have to hang around with you.”
I was quickly learning to shrug off his insults. He was an ornery little bunny. He obviously liked Avery more than me, although I couldn’t figure out why.
“There.” Avery pointed ahead. A portion of the park walkway was covered, and I could see a gathering of artists with small tables set out to sell their work.
I drew in a deep breath. “Let us know if you see any boons, Fluffball,” I said as we drew closer.
“That’s what I’m here for,” he groaned.
“And maybe don’t talk for a while,” I added. “We don’t want people to grow suspicious.”
“Okay, smarty-pants,” said the bunny. “How am I supposed to tell you if there’s a boon if I’m not allowed to speak?”
Hmmm. Good point. “Maybe flick your ears or something,” I suggested. “Yeah. Point at the boon with your ears, and thump your back foot to make sure we notice.”
“Why don’t I jump up and do a little tap-dance routine while I’m at it?” said Fluffball.
“Or we could always take off the collar . . . ,” I threatened.
“You wouldn’t dare,” the rabbit said. “Take off this collar, and the boon loses its power. And I don’t think you’ll make it very far without a detector.”
“Might be worth the risk,” I said.
“All right, all right. Fine.” The rabbit sighed. “I’ll do the ear thing.”
As we drew closer, I could start to see how talented these street artists were. There was a guy wearing a dust mask, wielding two cans of spray paint. Somehow, the colors were turning out to look like an amazing view of outer space.
Another artist had pencil drawings of different buildings in New York City. Another had scenic nature landscapes in watercolor. One artist had a psychedelic array of artwork made from geometric shapes in bright colors.
And then there were the birds.
The table was covered in paintings and drawings, prints and sketches. All of them depicting a wide variety of birds. There was no question that we were in the right place.
“Do you see something you like?” asked the artist, looking up from her phone. She was seated cross-legged on the ground behind her table, but she popped up to her feet with ease. Her matted dark hair looked unwashed, a wide cloth headband tying it back. A twinkle on the side of her nose revealed a small gemstone stud, and her pierced earlobes had been stretched to hold large wooden plugs. The woman’s sleeves were rolled partway up, and her jean overalls were smudged with paint.
“Your work is nice,” Avery said. “Is it all birds?”
“Mostly,” she answered. “I’ve always wanted to fly. Painting them might be the closest I get.”
I was going crazy with this small talk. If this painter lady had proof that I was innocent, I needed to see it. But how was I supposed to bring up the topic?
“I’m Mason,” I said, offering my hand to shake. “Mason Morrison.”
“The name sounds familiar,” replied the painter as we s
hook.
“We’re in a bit of trouble,” Avery dared. “We were told you might be able to help us out.”
“Ah, I think I know what you’re after,” said the painter. She turned around to shuffle through some of her prints. She had only flipped through two or three of the matte-framed pictures when she lifted her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she typed something. Then she picked a print and turned back to face us.
“The hummingbird is one of my favorites to paint,” she said, holding out the artwork.
Hummingbird? This wasn’t helpful at all! How was a tiny hummingbird supposed to prove my innocence?
Her phone chimed, and a text message notification lit up the screen in her other hand. I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything, but a certain word instantly caught my eye as she lifted her hand and swiped the notification away.
The word was Mason.
A secret text about me? Something didn’t feel right. I reached out, taking the hummingbird painting with such enthusiasm that the edge of the frame clipped the woman’s phone and knocked it out of her other hand.
“Sorry!” I cried as it clattered across the table and fell to the ground. I quickly stooped to retrieve it, my eyes reading the text message conversation that she had just opened.
From the painter: They are here.
One minute later, another text from the painter: Where are you? Can’t stall them much longer.
The reply was what had caught my eye, sent from a contact named Wreckage. It said: Almost there. Don’t let Mason get away!
My heart was pounding as I stood up, holding the phone facedown as if I hadn’t seen the screen. Who was Wreckage? And how did he know my name when the painter hadn’t mentioned it in her text? I swallowed against a lump in my throat as I realized what this meant.
This was a setup. Don’t let Mason get away! The painter wasn’t here to help us!
“I just remembered we don’t have any money,” I said, setting the hummingbird painting on the edge of the table. “And we’re going to be late for a thing we were supposed to do, so . . . We should probably be going.”
“Umm. You guys?” said Fluffball, breaking his vow of silence. “I’m detecting some major boons!”
“You were supposed to tell us if she had—”
“Not her,” interrupted the rabbit. His back foot started thumping against the crook of Avery’s arm, and his ears pointed frantically. “Behind you!”
Chapter 13
THURSDAY, MAY 14
2:00 P.M.
THE HIGH LINE, NEW YORK CITY
I whirled around to see what Fluffball was warning us about. A figure was striding toward us through the narrow park. The sight of him made my blood run cold.
He was tall and broad across the shoulders, like somebody who had dedicated his life to lifting weights. His face was completely hidden behind a dark welding mask with the protective shield down, but I could see that his dark hair was trimmed short.
He was wearing heavy black boots that laced up halfway to his knees, and his belt buckle was big and shiny. The man’s wide chest was draped in a reflective yellow vest—the kind I’d seen crossing guards wear when helping people walk across busy streets.
His hands were covered with thick leather gloves, and he gripped two ordinary-looking items: a single wooden drumstick in his right, and a trailing red-white-and-blue jump rope in his left.
I was willing to guess that this was Wreckage. And I didn’t think he was here to play jump rope with us.
“Run!” I shouted, taking off down the High Line. Avery was at my side in a second, carrying Fluffball in the fold of her elbow like a quarterback running a football downfield.
I risked a glance over my shoulder just in time to see Wreckage bring the drumstick down. The wooden tip struck the ground with a deafening boom. At the same moment, shockwaves of sound rippled out from the stick, catching Avery and me in the back and throwing us face-first into a flowerbed.
As I rose to my knees, I realized that we weren’t the only ones who had been knocked down. The blast from the drumstick had rippled out in all directions, sending a dozen innocent park-goers tumbling to the ground.
Screams and cries for help sounded all around, but Wreckage didn’t seem worried. He continued his determined stride toward us, his face unseen behind that welder’s mask.
“This guy’s loaded with boons,” said Fluffball, who had tumbled from Avery’s arms and was shaking a bit of soil off his white fur. “His mask is a detector, so he’s going to know exactly what we’ve got as soon as he sees it.” The bunny squinted one red eye at Avery. “I’m assuming you do have some useful boons inside that fancy top hat of yours?”
“Yes . . . ,” she said, picking up the hat from where it had fallen to the ground. “Maybe . . . I just grabbed a hat that was stocked and ready for a field mission. I don’t know exactly what we ended up with.”
“Oh, you guys are going to go far,” Fluffball said sarcastically. “I’ve never met a pair of innocent criminals more ill-prepared than—”
Mid-sentence, Avery snatched the bunny by the neck and stuffed him straight into the black top hat.
“Find something useful!” she ordered, withdrawing her hand and leaping to her feet at my side.
There was a cracking sound like an exploding firework and suddenly, I was yanked off my feet again. This time it was the jump rope, which had somehow grown almost ten times its length and lassoed around my ankle.
Wreckage had both feet planted as he reeled me in like a fish. The magical jump rope was shortening itself as he pulled on it, dragging me kicking and screaming toward him.
“Mason Mortimer Morrison,” he said, his voice gruff and cold. “You will come with me.”
This was bad. This was very bad. What was this freaky supervillain going to do once he had me?
Luckily, I didn’t have to find out.
Avery sprang forward with a battle cry, grabbing the jump rope with one hand. I saw that her other one was holding a credit card, which she wielded like a knife.
With very little resistance, the edge of the plastic card sliced through the jump rope. The sudden release of tension sent Wreckage stumbling a few steps backward, while the severed piece of rope around my ankle seemed to disintegrate into ash.
“You had a credit card?” I cried, staggering to my feet. “Why’d you make me buy Fluffball?”
“I hear you, Stinky Boy!” came the rabbit’s deep voice from Avery’s hat perched on her head. “And I ain’t nobody’s property.”
“I don’t think it actually works for buying stuff,” said Avery, holding up the credit card. “It’s a boon my dad gave me. It can cut through almost anything.”
“Your parents trust you with that?” I cried. “You’ve got a razor-blade credit card and I can’t even get a Batman throwing star?”
“Really? Again with the throwing star?” Avery said, exasperated. “My card isn’t dangerous. It only cuts when I hold it just right and slice with the edge.”
“Can it cut through him?” I asked, noticing Wreckage moving toward us again.
“Nope,” Fluffball’s voice answered. Avery’s hat tipped back, and the bunny’s head appeared above her forehead, peeking out. “That guy’s covered in boons. His yellow vest is an immunity boon. It’ll protect him from direct strikes from other boons. That’s why he’s not getting leveled by his own drumstick.”
As though in response to Fluffball’s comment, Wreckage crouched, striking his drumstick against the ground once more. Again, the shockwave leveled everyone within fifty feet, Avery and myself included. I grunted, gripping my scuffed elbow and trying to get up quickly.
“I was trying to tell you . . . ,” said Fluffball, who had tumbled out of the top hat as it fell from Avery’s head again. “You’ve got to jump when he hits the drumstick. The shockwave won’t knock you down unless you’re touching the ground.”
“That would have been helpful ten seconds ago,” I said, watching the bunny d
ive headfirst, disappearing into Avery’s hat as she snatched it up again.
There were sirens sounding on the streets below the elevated park, and I figured the police had been notified about the madman with the jump rope.
“We’ve got to get out of here before the police come,” Avery said.
“Why?” I asked. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Talking to bird painters isn’t against the law.”
“If we get picked up by the police, Magix will know exactly where to find us,” she explained. “We’ll be back in headquarters by dark, and you can say goodbye to your precious memories.”
Avery was right. Best not to get caught. But I was worried about her escape plan. She had run to the edge of the park, peering over the railing to the street far below.
“We have to jump,” she said.
“What?” I shrieked, pushing past some shrubs to join her. I almost tripped as I crossed the old metal train tracks that ran down the side of the park.
“No way!” I said, backing up the moment I reached her. It was at least thirty feet down to a street crammed with moving vehicles. “This is way higher than the roof of my house, and that was bad enough.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, boosting herself up onto the railing. “I think we can land it. Maybe Fluffball will find a boon that’ll help.”
“Have you ever broken your femur?” I snapped.
“No,” she answered.
“Well, I have. And it’s not pleasant.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her back to solid ground. “The stairs we used to get up here aren’t far away. We can make it if we—”
“Mason Mortimer Morrison!” Wreckage called again, causing me to whirl around. Did he have to use my middle name? I mean, I knew he was talking to me. “Come with me now, and no one has to get hurt.”
“I already got hurt!” I yelled back, pointing at my scuffed elbow. Besides, I was pretty sure that was something only lying bad guys ever said.
“The Mastermind wants to speak with you,” called Wreckage. “You would be wise to come willingly.”
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