Battle of the Beasts

by Chris Columbus

  “Cordelia, what’s happening? What’s the matter?”

  Cordelia opened her hand. A tooth sat in it.

  Will gasped. The tooth was on a tissue with a bit of blood.

  “That just fell out,” said Cordelia.

  “What?”

  “It started yesterday. This is the second one. And all of my other teeth . . . they’re loose as well. I think it’s linked to my entire body feeling ice-cold sometimes.”

  “Are you saying it’s a spell?”

  “It’s possible,” said Cordelia. “I feel like I’ve brought back something from the world of Kristoff’s books. Something inside me.”

  Will put his arms around Cordelia, trying to comfort her. But instead of warming up, Cordelia found herself getting even colder. She pushed Will away, looked down at her hands, and screamed.

  The skin was transparent. And underneath . . .

  Nothing but ice.

  “We should get you to the hospital,” said Will.

  “No,” said Cordelia. And she looked up at him.

  Her eyes were gone, replaced by discs of clear blue ice.

  Will was a hardened, fearless war hero—but he still cried out in terror.

  “Cordelia, what is happening—”

  She jumped to her feet and ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Will started to go after her, but then he heard the front door slam, followed by Mrs. Walker yelling, “Cordelia, come back! Where are you going?!”

  Will didn’t want to be hanging around Cordelia’s bedroom in case Mrs. Walker came upstairs. And he didn’t like the idea of Cordelia being alone in the world, with some kind of spell spreading through her body. He opened a window and climbed out of Kristoff House, determined to find her, but then he realized he had no idea where she’d gone. Except . . . Perhaps she went to school, to meet with her brother and sister?

  But what school? Will waited behind a tree until Mrs. Walker pulled away in her car, off to search for Cordelia herself, no doubt, and then sneaked into the kitchen and took Brendan’s report card from the bulletin board. (He saw Brendan’s grades: lots of S’s and one E—in gym.) The report card had the address for Bay Academy Prep, so that’s where Will headed. He walked quickly down the sidewalk, appreciating that he looked like a proper young man, in Dr. Walker’s clothes, as opposed to a homeless, insane wannabe plane thief. Within twenty minutes he reached the school’s imposing black gates.

  Will reached out to open the gates. Locked. He could climb them, but that would almost certainly lead to arrest on the other side. He wasn’t sure what to do. Until . . .

  A FedEx vehicle crunched the gravel as it drove toward the gates. Will backed off and gave a friendly wave to the driver. The driver identified himself over the intercom. This was followed by a loud buzzing, and the gates opened. Like magic, Will thought. He ducked behind the truck, hopped onto the rear bumper, and rode into Bay Academy Prep.

  Looking past the duck pond, Will spotted a big, modern building next to the school’s main building. He leaped off the truck, scampered over, dashed inside a service entrance, and found himself in the enormous kitchen of the dining hall. The place was bustling with workers, all dressed in yellow smocks, preparing the day’s lunch (and vegan option). Will spotted a laundry basket filled with freshly washed smocks, snatched one, and put it on. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “Hey, you! What’re you doing standin’ around?!”

  The head cook, a burly woman with chin whiskers and a hair net, was a dangerous type. Will tried to explain to her, “I’m new”—but she was already shoving him out of the kitchen and directing him to the hot-food bar.

  “In about thirty seconds there’s gonna be a stampede of hungry little silver-spooners! You’re on mashed potatoes and green beans, so shut up and get to it!”

  The dining-hall doors burst open and students raced inside. Will made himself busy dishing out portions over and over from the steaming pans as the kids made ungrateful faces. Then he heard, “Will?”

  He looked up. A confused Brendan faced him.

  “What are you—Why are you—?”

  Will raised a finger to his lips: Shhhh. He placed mashed potatoes and green beans on Brendan’s tray, but took extra time, arranging the serving to make a message for Brendan in green-bean letters: Outside.

  Will stepped away from his post and rushed toward the rear exit. The head cook stopped him.

  “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

  “These working conditions are deplorable!” said Will, whisking off his smock and throwing it on the floor. “I quit!”

  Will left with the head cook staring at him open-mouthed and the other workers cheering. No one ever talked to her like that!

  Outside, Will met Brendan, who kept his distance.

  “Okay, so now you’re showing up at my school in my dad’s clothes, working the cafeteria line. . . . Can you give me one good reason I shouldn’t be totally creeped out?”

  “Cordelia’s gone,” Will said.

  “What?” Brendan stepped toward him. “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing. She ran away. Something’s wrong with her, a spell—”

  “You mean the tooth thing. She told us it was a frozen Snickers. What’d she tell you?”

  “Just that it started happening out of nowhere . . . and it terrified her—”

  “So my sister lied to me and not you?”

  “That’s not the point—”

  “Yeah it is, Will. My sister’s not supposed to trust you more than me!”

  “Bren. She needs help. She’s scared. She’s not herself—”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  “What? . . . You think it’s my fault?”

  “Duh. She’s in love with you. You kinda broke her heart. She’s been missing you since you disappeared.”

  “Well, that’s . . . that’s . . .” Will struggled for the right words and found them in his past. “There’s one thing I’ve learned from fighting in a war and sleeping on the street. That kind of experience teaches you a very valuable lesson. Do you know what that lesson is, Brendan?”

  “I don’t really care—”

  “It’s that problems like love are what you worry about when you’re safe. And right now, your sister isn’t safe. And we need to help her. If you’re not up for the task, that’s fine. But I’m going to find Cordelia and protect her. I thought you were going to help me. Are you?”

  Brendan looked into Will’s eyes. He saw the same deep worry he felt in his own gut.

  “Fine. Tell me everything you know.”

  Will filled Brendan in as they walked, including the details of Cordelia’s icy skin.

  “Sort of sounds like how she’s been acting lately,” mused Brendan.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Cordelia hasn’t been herself. I mean, she could always be annoying, but now it’s like she doesn’t even care enough to annoy us. All she cares about is this tutoring program she’s doing at school. Have you tried calling her cell?”

  Will stopped walking. “I’ve been eating out of garbage cans for the last few weeks. How could I possibly afford a mobile phone?”

  “I actually see a lot of homeless people with phones,” said Brendan, “but I get your point.” He called Cordelia and waited through four rings. Her voice mail answered. He tried again. Still nothing. But the third time—

  “Bren! Bren, I can’t talk right now—”

  “Deal, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t—I left Will—left the house—not in control—” Her voice was strangely gulped, as if she were speaking while someone tried to drown her.

  “Deal, slow down—”

  “I can feel it, Bren, it’s inside me—”

  “Where are you, Cordelia?!”

  “I’m at”—her voice cracked—“where it all happens, Brendan. Where weaving spiders do not come—”

  The phone cut off. Brendan tried calling back. It went straight to voice mail
. He tried again—same thing. He looked to Will.

  “We need to head downtown.”

  Eleanor would have been furious had she known that Will and Brendan were going off on a mission without her, but she was busy with her after-school riding lesson. Her horseback riding, which started after her parents got “the settlement,” had become one of the most important things in her life.

  Eleanor felt at peace around horses. They liked her; they respected her; she could get the most troublesome ones to walk, trot, canter, and gallop. That gave her a sense of confidence that was missing everywhere else in her life—and it made her feel more grown-up, because she was actually good at something. Plus there was one horse she truly loved: a powerful, shiny thoroughbred, Crow, who galloped so fast that when Eleanor was on him, the world blurred and she could imagine she was back in Kristoff’s books.

  Today they practiced turns and jumps; Eleanor and Crow worked seamlessly, as if they had discussed their plans the night before. The two-hour lesson felt like it ended almost as soon as it began, with Mrs. Leland, the instructor, telling everyone to return to the stables. Eleanor dismounted, still wearing her helmet, and led Crow inside.

  “Good job today,” Mrs. Leland told her. “You’re becoming one of my best riders.”

  “Thank you,” Eleanor said, feeling so proud that she wanted to say something more, to make some grand statement. But her mother taught her to simply say thank you when people gave compliments, to keep it simple.

  Mrs. Leland looked around. All the other students had gone home. “Eleanor, I have exciting news for you. It’s time for you and Crow to enter a competition.”

  “Really?” Eleanor was thrilled—and frightened. She had always dreamed of being in a competition with Crow. But it would be hard work. All the other riders would be really good. Wait a minute, though; what about the times you cheated death like five million times with Bren and Deal? A riding competition is nothing!

  “That sounds great,” Eleanor said. “I’m ready.”

  “Good to hear,” said Mrs. Leland. “I expect big things from you. Oh—here’s your father.”

  Mrs. Leland pointed to the far end of the stables. Eleanor saw Dr. Walker lazily walking up to different horses and patting their heads. She beamed. It meant a lot to her that her dad would come and pick her up. Maybe, Eleanor thought, Mom was right! Now that we discovered what was going on, Dad will get better.

  Eleanor ran to Dr. Walker.

  “Hi, baby,” he said. “Did you have a nice lesson?”

  “Yeah! Guess what Mrs. Leland told me?” Eleanor lowered her voice: “I’m gonna be in a competition.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “Yeah, I’m gonna work really hard and come back with a blue ribbon. Well, two. One for me and one for Crow.”

  “I’m so proud of you.” Eleanor’s father touched her chin. “You’re really growing up.”

  She turned away, blushing. “You haven’t said hi to Crow.”

  “He’ll be happy to see me. I brought him a special treat.”

  Dr. Walker pulled out a fresh Gala apple and gave it to the black horse. Eleanor grabbed his arm—

  “Dad! That’s not Crow.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—”

  “You know that! That’s always been our family joke, remember? His name is Crow, but he’s a palomino!”

  “Right . . . of course I remember.”

  Dr. Walker turned to the actual Crow, the palomino opposite—but now Eleanor was suspicious. Her father had met Crow before. The joke about him being a palomino was part of their family’s repertoire, like the joke about how when Brendan was a baby he would only eat rice and soy sauce. Now, looking at her dad’s face . . .

  It looked wrong.

  The skin was too loose. As if her dad were made of wax and standing too close to a hot stove.

  Eleanor started to back away while Crow sniffed the apple—then nosed it aside. It hit the ground and sent up a puff of dust.

  “I guess Crow doesn’t like apples—”

  “Dad? What’s wrong with you? Why do you look so . . . so weird—”

  “Weird?” Dr. Walker turned toward her. “You think I look weird?”

  Eleanor glanced behind her. Mrs. Leland had left the stables. The door at that end was locked. When Eleanor turned back, her father was locking the door at the other end, trapping them inside. And then he started coming toward her.

  “Eleanor, I want you to listen carefully,” Dr. Walker said.

  Eleanor backed up, terrified. The stables weren’t supposed to be completely closed. Not ever. It was dark inside; the only light shone through cracks in the wood. The horses whined and reared up on their hind legs—NEIGHHHHEHEHEHEHEHE!

  “Daddy! What’s wrong? Stop—”

  “Don’t talk, listen. Or on second thought”—he chuckled, a nasty gurgling sound—“watch.”

  Dr. Walker dug his nails into his chin. Eleanor couldn’t turn away. Even in the weak light she could see how the skin puckered around each of his fingernails, and then there was a tearing sound and Dr. Walker pulled his chin off, revealing something darker underneath.

  “Dad!”

  Dr. Walker wasn’t finished. He tore his hand into his cheek, gripping and pulling—and his cheek came off. He tossed it into some hay and grabbed his nose. That came off quickly. Then his other cheek . . . his ear . . . his scalp—he wrenched his whole face off as if it were a cheap mask of Silly Putty.

  And now . . . the man’s real face was visible.

  The Storm King’s face.

  Eleanor screamed. The horses screamed with her.

  Denver Kristoff was staring right at her with his orange eyes and his purple, pitted, deformed skin. The flaps that served as his nose wheezed up and down.

  Eleanor dropped to her knees. Little pieces of hay poked into her. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “Kill you?” Denver Kristoff said. “After all you’ve been through . . . you still fear death? Trust me. There are worse things.”

  He curled his mouth into a smile—or a Denver Kristoff smile, with one end of the mouth turned up, the other down. “I won’t kill you, as long as you answer one very important question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where is your sister?”

  Brendan and Will hustled toward 624 Taylor Street, in downtown San Francisco. The landmark building, known as the Bohemian Club, had a huge guard in front of it, with a shaved head and big rings on each finger.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” said Brendan.

  “It is if Cordelia’s inside,” said Will. The building was made of limestone and brick, occupying a whole city block. Carved in the facade above the door were an owl and an inscription: WEAVING SPIDERS COME NOT HERE.

  “How did you know that was there?” asked Will.

  “I know a lot about old San Francisco buildings,” Brendan said. “When Cordelia and I were little, we used to walk by this place and try to spot all the owls on the walls. And when we learned on our last adventure that this is where Denver Kristoff was trained by the Lorekeepers . . . I’ve been keeping a close eye on it ever since. Let’s look for a secret entrance.”

  “What makes you think there is one?”

  “US presidents were members of this club. They’d never go through the front door.”

  “Could I help you?”

  The guard approached. Up close, he was as big as two people stapled together.

  “I noticed you lookin’ at the building,” he said. “You wanna walk away, or you wanna get free handicapped passes for life?”

  “Free handicapped passes for life?!” Brendan shouted. “That means I don’t have to wait in line for roller coasters! That’s awesome . . . so what do I have to do?”

  “Let me put you in a coma,” said the guard.

  He grabbed for Brendan—and Brendan and Will took off running around the corner of the Bohemian Club. The guard came after them, gathering momentum with his trunk-like legs. They
dashed into an alley at the side of the building and raced under bluish shadows, skirting smelly Dumpsters. Brendan glanced back—there was the guard, huffing his way forward, closing in fast. Brendan knocked over a garbage can—and then saw steam rising ahead. He noticed a nice smell too, very different from the reeking garbage. . . .

  “The laundry room!”

  “What?”

  “Follow me!”

  Brendan ran up to a metal grate in the sidewalk. The steam was rising from it. He dropped to his knees, pulled up the grate, and revealed a ladder leading down.

  “This way!”

  Brendan started going down. Will followed. The guard came to where Brendan had knocked over the garbage can—and yelped as he slipped on some old kale soaked in vinaigrette and his legs whizzed out from under him. He hit the ground on his back, getting the wind knocked out of him.

  “Urf! Huh . . . Huh!” (That’s about all you can say when the wind is knocked out of you.)

  Down below, the ladder ended, and Brendan and Will crawled into an air duct that blew out laundry steam. They moved forward, coughing at the heat—and at the pieces of lint that blew into their faces. Within a few minutes it was getting very hot and stuffy, and Will started kicking frantically at a seam in the duct. Brendan realized that it could be a very slow death for both of them: They would collapse in the air duct and suffocate; their bodies wouldn’t be discovered for months; then, instead of the pleasant odor of laundry, the smell of their rotting corpses would pour out. . . .

  Finally Will’s kicks worked and the seam split open. They slid out of the air duct, hitting the concrete floor below.

  “We—kaff koff—we did it!” Brendan managed.

  They were inside the Bohemian Club. But you wouldn’t know it from the laundry room. It looked like any other laundry room. Only when Brendan led the way out did they find themselves in the place they had expected.

  The walls were deep, rich mahogany with mother-of-pearl inlays. Bookshelves were placed throughout, holding leather-bound volumes with spines embossed in gold and silver. Between the shelves were items on pedestals: Greek warrior statues, daggers encased in glass, and preserved animals in jars.