Wuthering high: a bard academy novel

by Cara Lockwood

  “Ow,” she cries, dropping the flowerpot to the ground. It breaks with a clatter, sending dirt flying in all directions. On the ground, the plant is definitely squirming, as if it’s alive, its roots and petals whipping about. “It bit me,” Blade exclaims, showing us her finger. There’s a little red ring there and a tiny drop of blood.

  “Weird,” Samir says. Blade isn’t going to let the attack slide. She slams her foot down on the squirming plant, flattening it underneath her Doc Martens lace-up boot. It makes a sickening, squishing sound, sending green-and-black goo in all directions.

  “Gross,” Hana says.

  Blade scrapes her boot against the ground, leaving a trail of black-and-green plant guts. I just stare at her. I still can’t quite believe she killed it.

  “What?” she asks me. “I’m tired of being on the freakin’ menu.”

  “Come on, let’s keep going.”

  In the distance we hear voices, and then something that sounds like a crash. It sounds like Ms. W and Coach H for sure, and then someone else I don’t recognize. The four of us sneak down the aisle and then hide behind a row of ferns to try to get a better look.

  There’s a sitting room and Ms. W and Coach H are there. They’re talking to another woman. She’s dressed in all black.

  “Emily, you know this is forbidden,” Ms. W says. “These characters do not belong in this dimension. They have to go back.”

  “They are not characters, they are people, and I am freeing them,” Emily says.

  “You’re attaching them to students, Emily, and you know the dangers of this,” Coach H says. “You have to stop it at once. You have to come with us.”

  “I am not going anywhere but home,” Emily says. “I’m not going anywhere but the Moors.”

  And as we watch, Emily reaches into her pocket and pulls out two books. They are old, with tattered covers, and writing that’s so worn on the outsides I can’t quite tell what they are.

  “How did you get those? That’s impossible…” I hear Ms. W shout, but it’s the last thing she says coherently. Emily opens one of the books and, as we watch, Ms. W is sucked into it, like it’s a black hole. Literally — sucked in. Slurp. Gone.

  “Cool,” whispers Blade, not at all scared — naturally. Anything occult she’s all over.

  “What the…” Samir shouts, giving away our position and temporarily drawing the attention of Coach H and the woman called Emily.

  Emily uses the distraction to open the other book and suck in Coach H, as well, like he was a piece of dust being picked up by a Hoover. Pffffffffft. Gone.

  “Children,” Emily says to us. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.” Emily seems to be struggling to hold on to the books, as if they are fighting against her hands, trying to open themselves. Every so often, I see a handprint come out from a side of one of the books, as if Ms. W or Coach H are fighting to be free. Eventually, she puts them on the ground and puts a heavy terracotta pot on top of them. It seems to take care of the squirming books, which are pinned fast to the ground.

  “What is going on?” I ask Emily. “Who are you? And what did you do to our teachers?”

  “Why, dear girl, you don’t recognize me? Not from the Bard yearbook you’ve been carrying around?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, I am disappointed,” Emily says. “I thought you were a bit smarter, Ms. Tate. I’m Emily Brontë.”

  “The Emily Brontë who wrote Wuthering Heights?” I echo, not sure I’m understanding what’s going on. “The Emily Brontë who died in 1848?”

  “The same,” she says, and takes a little bow.

  “But that’s…”

  “Impossible?” Emily says. “Impossible like imprisoning your teachers in books is impossible?”

  “You’re a ghost!” exclaims Blade. “Wow, this is, like, totally awesome.” Naturally, she isn’t the least bit scared. I’m sure meeting dead people is Blade’s dream come true. She’ll have to add it to her MySpace list of “turn-ons.”

  “Is she a ghost? Because if she is, I’m going to have a freak-out moment,” Samir says.

  “You’re not a ghost,” Hana says. “You’re just some crazy woman. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Emily Brontë shakes her head sadly. “You children today are so very skeptical. It’s no wonder there’s such a dearth of good fiction writers.” As we watch, Emily walks over to Samir, or, should I say floats, because that’s more like it, as her feet barely touching the ground. And when she gets in front of Samir, she plunges her hand right through his stomach, wiggling her fingers on the other side.

  “Ack!” Samir sputters. “You are a g-g-g-…” He doesn’t finish. Instead, his eyes roll back in his head and he faints. Hana catches him. Emily Brontë withdraws her hand, showing that Samir wasn’t harmed.

  “Okay, I stand corrected,” Hana says, stooping and slapping Samir on the face. He comes to sounding groggy and out of it.

  “Oh, do me next! Do me!” Blade says, gleefully clapping her hands together. She’s in Goth heaven at the moment.

  While I’m having a hard time processing this, I do know one thing: I don’t like Emily. I don’t like the fact that she scared Samir, and I don’t like that’s she’s trapped Ms. W in a book, either.

  “Did you have something to do with Kate Shaw’s disappearance?” I ask her, suddenly wary. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Why, look for yourself,” she says, and she tosses me a copy of Wuthering Heights. It’s old, and the cover is tattered, and when I open it up the title page has a handprint pressing out of it. It looks like someone trying to get out.

  “Aaaah,” I say, and drop the book.

  “Pick it up,” Emily commands.

  “No,” I say, completely freaked out at this point. I have no idea what’s going on, but I don’t like it.

  “Where’s my missing page? Page 139?” she asks me. I assume she means the one Coach H took.

  “I don’t have it,” I say, which is true. I stoop and grab the books Ms. W and Coach H were trapped in. I notice they’re Mrs. Dalloway and For Whom the Bell Tolls.

  “Put those down. Immediately!” commands Emily Brontë. She’s suddenly unnerved now.

  “No,” I say, clutching the books to my chest.

  “You are as stubborn as Cathy,” Emily says, shaking her head. “I was hoping to do this the easy way, but if you want to be difficult, you’ll just have to see for yourself what consequences that brings.”

  She pulls from her apron a copy of Dracula. She opens it and begins to read from it. As she reads, green mist begins seeping out.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Bad news,” Blade says, as the spiral of mist continues weaving its way out. As we watch, the mist grows, taking on the shape of a man. And then, suddenly, instead of mist, I find myself staring at a guy, dressed entirely in black from head to toe. His eyes seem to glow red in the light. Mist Man.

  “Is that…?” Samir asks.

  “Dracula,” Blade finishes for him. “I told you, but you didn’t believe me.”

  As if to prove the truth of this, Mist Man gives us a slow, determined smile, showing off his fangs.

  Okay, this would be a really good time for a Scooby-Doo moment. You know, like the ones where they rip the mask off the monster/ghost/pirate and it turns out to be a prickly old gardener trying to scare people off so he could sell the land to amusement park developers.

  I’m getting the feeling, though, based on the look on Dracula’s face, that he’s not some gardener looking for a get-rich-quick real-estate scheme. And he’s also blocking our only exit out of the sitting room: the door.

  “There’s your Mina,” Emily says, pointing to Blade. “Get her. Get them all.”

  Dracula hisses and takes a step toward us.

  “Run,” Blade whispers.

  Twenty-two

  I don’t need to be told twice. I may not be an athlete, but I’m not going to wait to get my blood sucked out by the D Man. I can
take a hint.

  Dracula is guarding the only door, but there is an iron spiral staircase near me that leads up to a kind of loft, running the entire length of the greenhouse. It’s a narrow loft, with a metal grate path as a floor, and rows of plants along its one solid wall.

  Samir and Hana are already on the staircase. Blade follows and I scamper up after her, losing my footing once and banging my shin hard against the metal step, nearly dropping the books in my arms. I barely even feel it. Dracula grabs my foot, a surprisingly strong grip. I scream and Blade grabs my hand, tugging hard.

  “Let her go,” she shouts. Hana and Samir also turn and grab Blade, helping her hold on to me.

  Blade digs around in her pocket and comes out with a small coin. She throws it at Dracula. It hits him in the forehead, leaving a red burn mark. He hisses, lets me go, and grabs his forehead.

  “What was that?” I shout, scurrying up the stairs.

  “It was a souvenir coin from the Vatican,” she says. “My grandma went last year and brought them back. It was blessed by the Pope. I always carry a few just in case.”

  I am suddenly very glad she is such an occult freak.

  “That works,” I say, scrambling after them. The grate we’re running on isn’t exactly in top shape. It’s rusted through in some places and creaks under our weight. I step on what looks like sheet music. It’s from Little Shop of Horrors. This can’t be good.

  “Is this going to hold us?” Samir asks.

  “Do we have a choice?” I say, as we run.

  Ahead of us, I see more of those biting plants. But they’re bigger. Much bigger than the one downstairs. These are like mini trees.

  “Not more of these,” Blade shouts. They lean out and snap at Hana. Samir picks up a hoe leaning against the wall and smacks one. The others start snapping at us, as well, as we barely squeeze by. One of them bites at Blade and manages to snag her skirt. I try to help her get free, but it’s got a strong hold. Samir hits it with the hoe, just as another one, the size of a small hatchback, comes to life behind it, lunging for my head and just missing, its plant jaws snapping at air.

  We survive the row of man-eating plants just in time to see a giant bat flap its wings and appear in front of us. It transforms into Dracula.

  “Ack!” I cry, coming to a sudden stop, causing Samir, Hana, and Blade behind me to run into me.

  Dracula takes a step toward us. A slow step.

  “We’re in trouble guys,” Blade says. This is an understatement. We’re stuck with Dracula in front of us and a giant Little Shop of Horrors plant behind us, with nowhere to go.

  “Do we want to be eaten by plants…or eaten by Dracula?” Samir asks.

  “At least things can’t get worse,” Hana says.

  We squeeze together tightly and that’s when a weak bolt on the grate below us pops loose with a ping. The left half of the grate beneath our feet comes loose, causing us to lurch violently to the left, then forward, toward Dracula. I clutch at the railing on the right.

  “Thanks for jinxing us,” Blade says.

  The right bolt gives way then, and we’re in a free fall. I scream, grabbing hold of the grate as it swings loose. Our section clangs to a stop at a hard right angle, the bump sending me loose from the grate. I scramble and clutch at air, managing to grab hold of the edge of the railing.

  Below me, there’s a sheer drop of about thirty feet to the concrete ground below.

  I look up and see that Hana and Samir have managed to hop safely over to the stable part of the grate and they’re helping Blade up, too. There’s now a three-foot gap between them and Dracula.

  “Come on,” Samir says, laying down and stretching his arm out to me. “Climb!” he commands. I try to climb, using my hands, but there’s nothing for my feet to latch on to and the grate is swinging back and forth, making it even harder to hold on. I’ve lost the books I was carrying and they fall down to the floor below, hitting it with a thunk. One lands in such a way that its cover flies open.

  “Wow — look — Coach H!” Hana says, and I glance down just in time to see Coach H appear, fully formed, out from his open book. He stoops down and opens the other and Ms. W springs from it. They both look up at once.

  “I’ve got to get the book,” Ms. W says, and then she turns back toward the sitting room.

  “Hang on!” Coach H shouts, running toward the stairs. “Samir! Help her!”

  “I’m trying,” Samir grunts, leaning farther down to try to reach me. “Hold my feet!” he shouts at Hana and Blade.

  “I can’t hold on much longer,” I cry. My fingers have gone numb. I can’t feel them anymore. Above me, I see Dracula melt into mist again. Now is my chance.

  I reach up with one hand and swipe at Samir’s. I’m two inches away from him. But then, another bolt in the grate gives way, causing a jolt that is just enough to make me miss Samir and loose my grip entirely on the grate.

  The next thing I know, I’m falling.

  I don’t know if I scream, but I feel the wind completely sucked out of me. I’m falling, arms and legs flailing, and I brace for the thud of impact. Instead, a green mist surrounds me and holds me up, putting me gently on the ground.

  For a split second, I feel relief. And then I realize Dracula saved me. And that is not a good thing.

  He materializes then with his arms around me. There’s no place to go. He pushes my head hard to the side with one hand, exposing my neck, and he opens his mouth wide, showing his sharp fangs.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping it won’t hurt as bad as I think it will, and I think: Well, I hope my parents are happy now. I am about to be eaten by the Big Daddy of All Vampires.

  The next thing I know, he’s released me and I’m on the ground coughing and rubbing my neck. When I turn over, I see Heathcliff, who is taller than Dracula and much broader, and he has him in some kind of sleeper hold and the two of them are struggling. And just when it looks like Heathcliff might have the upperhand, Dracula disintegrates, changing shape again, this time into dozens of rats, which run over the ground and over me, their little feet hard and scratchy. Heathcliff leaps on several rats, crushing them under the heel of his boot. I can hear the scream of their death throes, loud and shrieking.

  I have never been so glad to see Heathcliff. He extends his hand to help me up; I grab it as the rats scurry away.

  “What took you so long?” I joke. He gives me a rueful smile.

  “Get away from him!” shouts Coach H, who has abandoned the stairs and is headed toward us.

  Heathcliff scowls at Coach H, his grip on my hand tightening as he pulls me behind him for protection.

  “Behind you!” shouts Ms. W, reappearing with a book in her hands. And not just any book — Bram Stoker’s Dracula. I get it. She’s going to suck him back into the book. She must have gotten it from Emily Brontë, although I don’t see her now. She must’ve gotten away somehow.

  Behind me, Dracula has formed again into a man and he’s two feet away. Heathcliff whirls, pushing me out of the way. I stumble but catch myself, and it’s Heathcliff who takes Dracula head on. Dracula is snapping at him with his jaws and hissing, but Heathcliff is twisting him away, trying to keep his own neck away from Dracula.

  Ms. W tosses the book to Coach H, and he attempts to open it and trap Dracula, but Dracula hurls him straight up into the air and the book goes flying off, landing somewhere between me and Ms. W. Coach lands on top of the grating above our heads, and then while I watch, Coach H is literally snatched out of the air by the giant, man-eating plant, chomped on and then swallowed — whole.

  Ugh.

  Samir shouts and Hana covers her face.

  Before I can even register what’s happened, Ms. W cries, “Miranda! Look out.” Before I know what’s happening, Dracula swoops toward me, faster than a wolf. He has me by the throat and he drags me backward, effortlessly, while I clutch at his hand, trying to get it to relax enough so I can breathe. His grip is like steel.

  “Let her go!” sh
outs Ms. W, who has once again picked up the copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. It’s in her hands and glowing bright red.

  Dracula turns, scowls, and drops me, turning into a wolf. He gallops over and knocks her flat on her back, the book flying straight out of her hands.

  “Ms. W!” I shout, as the wolf stands on Ms. W’s chest, snarling and drooling, getting ready to bite. She struggles with the wolf’s jaws and I notice that her entire dress is soaking wet. It’s like she just fell into a pool.

  And then, as I watch, Ms. W disappears. Or, rather, she sinks straight into the solid concrete ground, leaving nothing but a puddle of water.

  At first I think Dracula caused it, but the wolf looks just as confused as I am, sniffing at the ground where Ms. W used to be and whining. Then, in another second, she comes back up through the ground, behind the wolf, snatches up the book, and opens the cover.

  She starts reading a scene from the end of the book — the last sentence of the book — and then as I watch, Dracula is drawn into it as if it’s a kind of black hole. He struggles, changing shape as he goes, first into a bat, then mist, and finally into his human form, but the book won’t be denied. After the last bit of him is sucked back into the book, Ms. W shuts the cover with a hard snap, trapping him inside.

  Stunned and surprised, all I can do is stare with my mouth open. Heathcliff picks himself up from the ground and dusts himself off.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Ms. W tells Heathcliff. As I watch, she takes a copy of Wuthering Heights out of her pocket. It’s at that moment that I really understand completely for the first time that Heathcliff = the Heathcliff. He’s no poser. He’s the actual character from the book. Ms. W means to suck Heathcliff back into Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff is frowning at Ms. W, but doesn’t move.

  “No!” I shout, suddenly on my feet and standing protectively in front of Heathcliff. He may be many things, but he doesn’t deserve to be sucked back into some dusty volume. He’s saved my life now at least three times. Without him, I’d be dead long ago. Not to mention, he just fought off Dracula to save me.