For a week after the explosion, whoever my assailant was had taken a bit of a break. But then, on Sunday, Jenny had to go up north to visit her parents. She didn’t talk much about them—in fact, she didn’t seem to know that much about them. Jenny’s parents, like my father, primarily existed in her backstory. But unlike my father, they’d stuck around for more than a few sentences in her books. In fact, she explained, her first two chapters before she went to boarding school were spent in their home—and so, however undeveloped they were, they were still a part of her life. They lived in a nondescript, hazy, and rather black-and-white neighborhood, which she referred to as the Community. She seemed a little uncomfortable going there, and I could see why. Usually undeveloped places are merely mentioned in passing—you’re there and then you’re not, or the place isn’t important enough to warrant much description. But having to stay in a place like that . . . I shuddered at the thought, wished her luck, and told her I’d see her Monday.
So I decided to have a little “me time” on Sunday while she was gone and Randy, as always, was at work. I was just sitting on the couch, Beth’s quilt lying comfortably across my legs, and . . . not reading Chicken Soup for the Soul for the eleventh time, when my assassin struck back with a vengeance. Really.
I turned the page, not tearing up at all, and suddenly, a rocket the size of my arm coasted serenely through the open window and onto the blue-and-green rug next to the couch.
“A VENGANCE,” it said on the side. I’ll admit, its peaceful arrival threw me off a bit, and for a moment I just looked at it, wondering if it might be lost. But when it started beeping, I knew something was wrong . . . like the fact that there was a rocket in my living room.
I mustered all of the energy I had, recalled every powerful spell I’d ever learned as a Boy Wizard, cursed myself for not having practiced them more, and placed my hands on the rapidly beeping rocket. My heart sped up with its tempo and sweat poured down my neck and my arms. Abruptly it stopped beeping. I’d accidentally hit the “off” switch. After that, I vowed to stay locked up in my room, windows boarded, and never trust another soul for the rest of my life. But that night when Randy got home, after he’d spent much time convincing me that he clearly wasn’t the assassin as he’d been in the apartment when the kitchen had exploded, he reminded me that to live in fear is to not live at all (or something like that). And what would Beth think of her big brother hiding away from the world?
He was right. My sister had died never knowing what life could be like without an author, and if nothing else, I owed it to her to find out, assassination attempts or not.
And besides, I had a Creatures test the next day that I really couldn’t miss.
I spent the next day twitching nervously at the slightest movements, staring suspiciously at everyone, and scribbling through my Creatures test, not even processing most of the questions. Truth be told, I probably would have done just as well had I skipped the thing, but, oh well. I was living! Nervously! Terrified! But I was living!
I repeated this over and over, thinking of Beth’s death every time something made me jump, telling myself that life without an author was just dandy. Long John’s rant about conflicts killing off characters throughout history had not exactly calmed me, and by the time Jenny and I left campus that evening, I was a mess of nerves.
“Peter, are those hickeys on your neck?” she asked me sharply. Several of Sci-Fi’s young, long-limbed, spindly white aliens turned in our direction and made a clicking noise I thought might be giggling. I slapped my hand over my neck and realized it felt rather flushed. Jenny batted my hand away and looked more closely at my neck (the little aliens oooooooed at that and then scampered away).
“Hives. You’re breaking out in hives. Peter, are you okay?” she asked, eyeing me suspiciously. I was about to tell her that everything was just fine, that hives were the cool new thing, but when she’d touched me, I’d flinched and given myself away. So in a rush of words, and with several backward steps, I told her all about the rocket, how every moment I felt like I was going to lose my lunch, and how I really didn’t know who to trust. I wanted to trust her, and I really thought I did, but the very day she’d “gone off to the Community,” a rocket had sailed through my window. I didn’t know what to think. In response, she smiled sadly and shook her head.
“Peter, I am not trying to kill you. I’m in love with you,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the word love.
Well, that I hadn’t been expecting. Before I could utter any sort of inadequate response, she started walking again, and after a little persuading, I got my legs to follow her into Fantasy.
“You know that Love Conflict I told you I got in class?” Jenny asked quietly as I caught up to her. “Well, it wasn’t really about Joanne at all. I told you it might have something to do with her and her boyfriend because I didn’t want you to know, well, you know, and I guess I really could have made up a better conflict than that, but I was just so anxious. I mean, love . . . it’s just . . . it’s . . .”
Jenny’s previously calm demeanor was quickly slipping into borderline hysteria—she only talked this much when she was nervous. I grabbed her arm and she stopped.
“And I know what you’re probably thinking,” she barreled on before I could get a word in. “Why is this a conflict, right? Well, at first it was a conflict because, you know, I hated you and all. But then I got to know you and, well, you’ve becomeoneofmybestfriends and ever since my series ended, it’sbeenreallyhardformetomakefriends, and . . . Ijustdon’twanttomessthingsupbetweenus, so . . . can we just keep things the way they are? Stay friends?” She looked at me with those green eyes, which grew brighter and more detailed every time I saw her. She was someone special in some story Out There; she just had to be. But apparently she would only ever be my friend.
(Which I was fine with, alright?)
I was about to tell her just how fine I was with that—that I’d never even thought of her that way in the first place, that you couldn’t pay me to touch her with a ten foot pole—when, probably for the better, I was interrupted by a loud whistling sound.
“What is that noise?” I asked.
“I think it’s just the Neighborhood Dragon’s snoring,” she said impatiently. She was clearly a little offended by my lack of reply to her question, but I didn’t have time to apologize. The whistling was growing louder . . . and closer . . . and more trainlike.
“Jenny, look out!” I shouted, hurling myself out of harm’s way. Cursing my survival skills and downright rudeness, I got up and propelled myself into Jenny’s midsection, not a moment too soon. The lone freight engine went barreling by, missing us by mere inches. It continued on down the street, sending the jogging centaurs and that damn Damsel, who was always in the way, scattering to the grassy sides of the road. The crowd from inside Pip and Pop’s came pouring out the front door—centaurs, ogres, wizards, and even a few nymphs and gnomes—all watching together as the train chugged down the road. It looked like it would careen into the wall of trees where the street curved at the end, but instead it just disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Well, that was weird,” I said lightly as I helped Jenny back to her feet.
She didn’t seem able to speak, but words of shock, and most of them not very nice, were darting around her head violently. I think I’ll just leave those out.
“Thank you for saving me,” she finally said once she’d caught her breath.
We walked back to my apartment, mutually ignoring her conflict and the unanswered question of our friendship, and tried to objectively discuss who might be behind my conflict. Well, at least now I really knew it wasn’t Jenny. When we reached the steps to the building, we uncomfortably said our good-byes, ignoring that elephant in the room that just seemed to be growing bigger and fatter, and I ambled my way upstairs.
Before I opened the door, I turned and watched Jenny make her way down the street until she turned the corner to wherever it was that she lived and disappeared. Not that
I was wondering where she lived, or what she did at home, and especially not what her bedroom looked like. You know, trying to create setting and all that. We were just friends, apparently would only ever be friends, and I was fine with that. I sighed and went inside.
“Peter,” Randy said as soon as I’d closed the door behind me. Once again the lights were off and he was sitting on the couch. This didn’t bode well.
Reluctantly I felt my way into the space, wishing I could forever hold onto that scene where Jenny told me she loved me. Well, minus the bit about her only wanting to be friends. And that part about the train. But plus the bit about my saving her from the train. So maybe it would have to have the train, only—
“Peter, focus,” Randy snapped. “It seems as though this assassination thing is a bit more serious than I’d thought. I was hoping that since this was a school assignment, it might just be some Generic Assassin after you, and the conflict might easily be resolved in a chapter or two and I could get back to searching for Gail. But it’s not looking like it . . .”
Randy snapped his fingers and a previously nonexistent low-hanging lamp appeared, casting an eerie green glow on our brand-new coffee table. There was a note there too, pinned securely to the untarnished wood with a bloody knife.
I didn’t know much about the Detective world, but I had heard tampering with evidence was frowned upon, so rather than turning the page, I walked around the table to read the note.
Dear Peter,
If you are reading this you are still alive. Good for you! Unfortunately, I really can’t let this go on for too much longer. I am under strict orders to destroy you, and fast, as my client is kind of under a deadline. This may be a bit unorthodox, but I just wanted to let you know, I did so enjoy your series—especially the part about the end-of-the-year dance in book two! You looked so dashing! So, what I mean to say is, don’t take this assassination thing personally. See you soon!
-GP, A
“You see what this means, don’t you?” Randy asked timidly.
I nodded. “No,” I said.
“Well, first of all, Generics can’t have initials. They’re just Generic Assassins, or Generic Maids, or what have you. So we’re dealing with a professional here—a professional that seems to be working for someone with a deadline. And I assume you know what that means . . .”
He trailed off meaningfully. I looked at him blankly.
“Writers have deadlines, Peter! Authors! If this assassin is working for an author, especially one in a hurry to off a character, well it sounds like she is operating under a book in the works; it’s out of her control. And it sounds like you’re one of the characters! An expendable one, of course, but you seem to be involved whether you like it or not.”
I suddenly felt like there was not enough air in the room, and the swinging green lamp was making me dizzy. I looked at the note again, trying to find some comfort in the loopy letters and the way my killer made the big Gs like I did. It didn’t work. At least things couldn’t get worse.
“It gets worse,” Randy said. “As you know, I’ve read your books hundreds of times over the years, and Peter . . . book two doesn’t include a description of you at the end-of-year dance. In fact, the book barely even mentions the dance. It starts, and then the story just kind of skips forward a few hours, and the dance is over.”
Randy put his hand on my back to comfort me—or to prevent me from hitting my head should I faint.
“I think we’re dealing with a character from your series, Peter.”
I nodded. The brief moment when Jenny and I were lying in the grass, bodies pushed together—granted, only because of a train aimed at killing me—seemed so far away. What did this mean? Who was this killer, if not the ominous penguin from the coffee shop and certainly not Jenny? Could the penguin have more to do with my story than we’d given her credit for? My head was spinning with questions, and I knew only one thing to do. I calmly told Randy to get the frying pan. I needed to skip things forward a bit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Two days later I was sitting in Merlin’s classroom, looking around at the other students suspiciously again, when Merlin made an unexpected announcement.
“Class, I have an unexpected announcement,” he said from behind the wooden podium. I scooted farther into my normally comfy, velvet seat, feeling its surface scratch at my skin uncomfortably. I was suddenly very hot and very aware of my own heartbeat as I glanced around at the corners of the room. As far as I knew, nobody had tried to kill me since the train incident, and any plot developments that were unexpected, exciting, or even remotely interesting seemed like bad news. Not for you, of course.
“Today we will have a guest speaker. Now, I know that we are not quite up to Modern Fantasy yet, but our speaker will not be available later in the semester, so we decided to go ahead and bring her in. She is a chameleon within Fiction in that she has appeared in many series over the years, often at the same time, and rarely playing the same role. Now as we’ve discovered in some of the early Fantasy texts, and indeed in some of our own series, this break from the norm can be difficult. So I’d like you all to be sufficiently awed as I introduce to you today’s Guest Speaker, playing the part of today’s guest speaker.”
Merlin gestured toward his desk in the front corner of the room where, indeed, there was a woman. She’d either been crouched beneath the table, awaiting her introduction, or she knew some pretty powerful magic and had merely appeared. When she stood up, I decided it must be the latter—this woman didn’t look like the kind of person to hide beneath a desk. For one thing, she was simply too large. She was about six feet tall and thick with muscle, but had the look of someone who was beginning to soften a bit in middle age. She wore her long brown hair in a plait down her back, and as she made her way up to the podium, I noticed that beneath her floor-length paisley dress, she was wearing black combat boots. All of these details, and the soft glow of her skin, the soapy smell of her, were perfectly clear, perfectly developed. This woman was obviously playing a large role in some story Out There, and I found myself wishing I could be a part of it.
“Thank you, Merlin,” she said kindly. Her voice was low, melodious, and oddly familiar.
“As your professor has said, I have played many roles in many genres, but today I am here to talk to you about my experiences in Modern Fantasy. Like many of you, I grew up as a wizard, and as far as I was concerned, would remain as such for the rest of my life. I never dreamed of taking on another role. But then, toward the end of my series, I was offered another job. The job was very secretive and very dangerous, but it provided excellent benefits and a dental plan. In the end, I began working both series at once.
“Things quickly got complicated though. Now I won’t bore you with the details, but there were a few goons, death threats, and the people I loved were in danger. So I had to leave my old life behind, and I’ve been moving from role to role and from book to book ever since. It is a lonely life, but I’d do anything to protect those dear to my heart.”
Everyone shifted around uncomfortably. This was not the exciting Modern Fantasy adventure we’d been expecting. Even Merlin looked a little taken aback, sitting at his desk in the corner.
“But, eh, surely your life has not been all hardships? What about your role in the recent dragon book? That must have been . . . exciting,” he prompted, tucking his long white hair behind his ears awkwardly.
The woman’s somber demeanor disappeared quickly as she launched into stories about her adventures throughout Fantasy. Now, when I think of Fantasy, I pretty much just think of my little world, where the genres meet near the university. But as we all know, Fantasy extends well beyond my street, or neighborhood, or even Pip and Pop’s. It’s huge.
She told us how she’d travelled far up north into the mountains, the farthest border of Fantasy, to help fight off an unruly herd of beasts who were encroaching on Boarmoles. On another job for a book, she’d had to deal with a group of dinosaurs, who kept migratin
g from the jungles of Science Fiction into the forests of Fantasy, unsure where they really belonged. The scientists were in an uproar that the stupid things should be so confused, the fairies of the forest were a little peeved about being eaten by the hundreds, and the author in the Real World finally just had a nervous breakdown. In the end, they managed to secure the creatures in some sort of park on an island off Sci-Fi.
By the end of the class, she’d told us these stories and many more—how she’d tamed dragons, fought wicked witches, and even (the most daunting) taught algebra to unruly students. When she said this, some very heavy and lazy part of my brain began to slide into place, but then she was speaking again, and I felt hypnotized by the song of her voice.
“Now, if I may be so forward as to suggest a bit of homework, Merlin?”
He seemed as taken with her as the rest of us, and nodded obediently. I think she could have suggested that Merlin strip down to his underpants to give us a quick anatomy lesson, and he would have obliged.
“Now, of course, as the Guest Speaker, I won’t be back to make sure that you’ve done the assignment, but I think you will.”
She turned toward the blackboard behind her and began writing down the title of a book.
And Then There Were Two
“This, class, is the project I’ve most recently been commissioned for. Now, the official release won’t be announced for a while, but I thought you might like a bit of a sneak preview.”
As she spoke these last words, her eyes focused on mine and she smiled.
“It is about a boy wizard, some of his little friends . . .”
I had seen that smile somewhere before, perhaps in a dream . . .
The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able Page 8