by Dean Lorey
“On three,” the crew chief said. He was a large man, who had never met a hoagie he didn’t like. “One, two…” They all lifted at the same time, grunting with effort. After some struggle, they managed to move the arm five feet onto the waiting gurney. “Man,” the crew chief said, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. “That’s heavy.”
“It’s that thing on its wrist,” one of the workers remarked. “There’s a ton of metal there. I wonder what kind.”
He reached out to touch it.
Instantly, a red flash like a lightning bolt ripped from the bracer, engulfing him. The light was so intense that it momentarily blinded everyone in the room. When the bright spots finally cleared from their vision, they could see that the worker had been reduced to a pile of ash on the floor.
“Run,” the crew chief said as he took off.
The other workers followed, panicked, their herky-jerky shadows spasming across the chamber walls, illuminated by the dark red light of the bracer, which strobed and throbbed, glowing more brightly now than ever before. Unseen by anyone, the carven image of Barakkas seemed to change slightly.
It seemed to smile.
PART II
THE NIGHTMARE ACADEMY
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BOATS IN THE BRANCHES
Charlie awoke to find himself staring into the face of a large woman with a wide, round head and round pink cheeks. In fact, everything about the woman was round. Her hair was pulled into a round gray bun. Her stomach pressed roundly against the lacy dress she wore. Even her elbows and knees were round.
“Welcome to the world, sleepyhead,” she said in a heavy southern accent.
“What?” Charlie replied, looking around dazedly, not yet fully awake.
“I’m Housemama Rose,” she said with a smile. “Now don’t get to thinking I’m gonna be here every morning to tend to your every need, but, seeing as how this is your first day, I thought I might as well ease your way into our little corner of the world just this once. Did ya bring clothes?”
“A few things,” Charlie replied, gesturing to his overnight bag. As the fog of sleep cleared from his head, he realized that something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, but a warning bell buzzed at the back of his brain. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“Well, if you need anything else,” she said, “socks, underwear, whatever, I’m sure we can scare it up for you.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said, and suddenly he knew exactly what was wrong.
Cinnamon.
The woman smelled like cinnamon.
That warning buzzer in his head turned into a gong, echoing through his skull.
Oh no, he thought. I’m all alone with it. What do I do?
As the thing that claimed to be Housemama Rose babbled on about orientation in an hour and the precise location of the grub hall, Charlie looked around for something he could use as a weapon. His eyes finally came to rest on a small cast-iron pig being used as a doorstop.
The thing calling itself Housemama Rose turned its back to Charlie, presumably to attend something behind it. He seized the opportunity to leap from the hammock and sneak across the room to the pig. He lifted it and was surprised to discover that it was even heavier than it looked. His mind raced frantically as he tried to come up with a plan.
He could clout the creature over the head and then make his escape. But what if he missed? Or what if it was stronger than he was? Or he could run and try to find someone to help him before the Housemama Rose thing caught up to him. But what if the hallway outside led only to a locked door?
“Here we go,” the creature said, turning back to him. The time for debate was over. He had to act—fast. Charlie raised the cast-iron pig above his head, preparing to strike.
“Oh my word!” the Housemama Rose thing yelled, stumbling backward. The silver tray in its hand dropped from its grasp, clattering loudly on the floor, sending the stack of toast and pot of jam on top of it flying.
As Charlie brought the heavy iron pig whistling down toward the thing’s head, some small detail registered in his overworked brain.
It was not just toast scattered across the floor.
It was cinnamon toast.
At the last possible second, Charlie spun to the left just as the iron pig left his hands. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The deadly doorstop sailed just enough off course to crash harmlessly into the wall two feet from Housemama Rose’s head.
“What on earth are you doing, boy?” she yelled, shielding her face with her hands. “You nearly took my head clean off!”
“I’m so sorry!” Charlie said, rushing over to her and helping her to her feet. “It’s just…I smelled cinnamon.”
“Yes, from the toast, which is ruined now,” she thundered, tucking errant wisps of gray hair back into the orderly sphere of her bun. “If you don’t like toast, you should have just said something.”
“It’s not that, it’s just…the cinnamon—when I smelled it, I thought it meant that you were…”
“A Mimic,” she said, realization dawning on her face.
Charlie nodded.
“Clever boy,” she said with a smile. Suddenly, the cabin began to sway, rocking back and forth in large arcs.
“What’s going on?” Charlie asked, looking around nervously. The building had shifted so dramatically that he wondered if they were having an earthquake…but it didn’t feel like an earthquake. The movement was too gentle.
“Relax, son,” Housemama Rose said. “It’s just the wind.”
“The wind moved the whole cabin?”
“Oh my,” Housemama Rose said softly. “You don’t know where we are, do you?”
“No, ma’am. It was dark when we got here and I went right to sleep.”
She laughed then. It was big and round, like the rest of her. “Follow me,” she said, walking to the door of the cabin. “You might find this…interesting.”
It was more than interesting.
It was spectacular.
Built in and around a gigantic banyan tree, the Nightmare Academy was the world’s most elaborate tree fort. Ramps and catwalks snaked up through branches so enormous, they could be mistaken for trees themselves. Huge sailing ships lay nestled on those branches, connected to one another by intricately woven nets and bridges. And they weren’t whole ships, either, Charlie noticed. They were mostly large pieces of ships: a hull from an old schooner, a stern from a pirate ship, a deck from an ancient warship, all of them scattered across the strong limbs like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that fit together in the most perfect and unexpected way.
Flags of various colors flapped in the breeze as water cascaded from somewhere high up above, splashing into troughs, which then snaked into and out of the various cabins and rooms, feeding the entire structure. And feeding, Charlie thought, was entirely accurate, because it was almost a living thing, the Nightmare Academy. It seemed too random and chaotic to have been built by sane human beings, and yet it clearly had been, cobbled together, piece by lunatic piece—a prow here, a plank there, a billowing sail up above. It was a glorious, crazy Tinkertoy creation that shouldn’t work, couldn’t work, really. But somehow it did—from the pirate mast at the very top to the collection of dinghies suspended at its base by large ropes.
“It’s unbelievable,” Charlie said, looking around with a wide smile.
“You get no argument from me,” Mama Rose replied. “Long as I’ve been here, it still takes my breath away.”
The warm tropical breeze ruffled the leaves of the palm trees that dotted the white sandy beach in front of the Academy. The water beyond was so clear that Charlie thought it was almost like looking into an aquarium. Fish darted playfully through the elaborate coral reef below, the sun reflecting off their scales in a rainbow of color.
“It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen,” Charlie said. “Where in the world are we?”
“Safe,” Mama Rose replied. “That’s all you need to know right now. Although the island is vast and som
e of it is quite wild, the Academy itself is protected. It’s a sanctuary from the monsters of the Nether.” She glanced off in the distance to the dark jungle beyond. “That’s not true of the rest of the island, you understand? Don’t wander.”
“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am. I mean, yes, Mama Rose.”
She gave him a warm smile, then led him onto one of the waiting dinghies that lay suspended at the base of the banyan tree. “Hang on tight,” she said. “We need to get you to orientation.”
She jammed a lever that was nailed into the trunk and, suddenly, the dinghy shot upward with blinding speed, pulled by a counterweight that sailed past them, heading toward the ground. Leaves and branches whipped by Charlie’s face until the world’s strangest elevator finally came to an abrupt stop.
“Top floor, all out,” Mama Rose said.
Charlie’s stomach lurched when he saw how very high they were. The rest of the jungle spread out far beneath them. If he fell, he realized, it would take several seconds before he would even hit the tops of all the other trees.
He closed his eyes, took a breath to steady his nerves, then stepped out onto the deck of the pirate ship in front of him. There were several rows of worn wooden benches crowded with kids around his own age, all shifting uncomfortably, all looking distinctly out of place.
“Don’t worry,” Mama Rose said with a smile. “None of them knows what’s about to happen, either. You’re in good company.” She turned to go.
“You’re leaving?” Charlie asked nervously.
“Of course. You don’t need me here. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” And with that, Mama Rose walked into another dinghy, hit a lever, and dropped out of sight.
Reluctantly, Charlie took a seat on one of the benches.
He stared straight ahead, not looking anyone in the eye, trying desperately to avoid attention. But as much as he tried to shrink into the woodwork, he felt someone’s eyes on him. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping whoever was staring at him would stop, but those unseen eyes still bored into him. Finally, he turned and saw a strange gawky kid on the adjacent bench just staring at him with a wild smile.
The kid was tall for his age, with long, skinny arms and legs, big front teeth, and a crazy shock of black hair. He looked for all the world like a puppet that had escaped its strings. He kept staring.
“What?” Charlie said finally.
“You’re that kid,” the stranger said. “The weirdo, right?”
“I don’t think so,” Charlie replied, wishing he’d never opened his mouth.
“Yeah, you are. You almost killed everyone at the Nightmare Division last night is what I heard.”
“You heard about that already?” Charlie asked in disbelief.
“Uh, yeah,” the kid said, and his cockeyed smile broadened. “Outrageous. Utterly outrageous. Total destruction. Beautiful, beautiful. My name’s Theodore, by the way. Not Ted, Theodore. Last name Dagget. Not Dagger, Dagget, with a t. Got it?”
“Got it,” Charlie said. The kid didn’t offer to shake hands, so Charlie didn’t, either. “I’m Charlie,” he said. “Charlie Benjamin.”
“Excellent. I don’t know anyone here. You’re the first. I think we’ll be best friends. What do you think?”
“Um,” Charlie said. “I guess so.” He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever been so aggressively nice to him before.
“Good,” Theodore declared. “Good to get that out of the way. So what do you think you’re gonna be—Banisher or Nethermancer? Obviously, I’m gonna be a Banisher.”
“How do you know?” Charlie asked.
“Come on, look at me,” Theodore said, standing up. “I’m a guy! I’m built for combat!”
He didn’t look built for combat, Charlie thought. In fact, he looked like a scarecrow in need of stuffing—all skin and bones and hard angles.
“Truth is, guys make the best Banishers,” Theodore continued. “They don’t like to tell you that. They try to keep the world PC—PC stands for politically correct—but Banishers are fighters, and fighting is in a guy’s DNA—DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. Girls, chicks, they’re softer, more emotional. You want a portal, ask a girl. You want to drive a creature back to the Netherworld, that’s my department. The GD—the guy department.”
“Please,” a female voice said from behind them.
Charlie and Theodore turned to see a pretty pony-tailed girl about their age doodling in a sketchbook. She was dressed casually in jeans and a white blouse with a little bit of pink embroidering at the top. She put her pen down and turned to Theodore. “The fact is, the Nightmare Division’s Guide to the Nether says there are just as many female Banishers as males. The same is true of Nethermancers.”
“Lies,” Theodore countered. “Mistruths, exaggerations, wishful thinking. Sorry. You lose.”
“I do not lose,” she said, starting to get angry. “Facts are facts.”
“Facts are not, in fact, facts,” Theodore shot back. “They are open to interpretation and, as such, are deeply suspicious and inherently unreliable.”
“Do you even know what you’re talking about?” she said.
“You do not want to get into a debate with me, miss,” Theodore challenged. “I will eat your soul and spit it out. I will destroy you utterly.”
“Oh, I’m scared,” she said with a laugh.
“What a retort!” Theodore shot back. “Is that the totality of your linguistic arsenal? I bet you don’t know a third of the words I do.”
“Does anyone actually like you?”
“Of course,” Theodore snapped. “Charlie here likes me. He’s my best friend.” He turned to Charlie. “Correct?”
“Um,” Charlie said. “Look, we just met. I think we can all be friends. I’m Charlie.” He extended his hand to the girl. She shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m Violet.”
“I see you like to draw,” Charlie said, gesturing to her sketchpad.
She nodded. Her ponytail bounced playfully. “I’m on a dragon kick right now.”
Charlie looked more closely at what she was drawing and saw a fantastically detailed sketch of a dragon with its long tail wrapped around a treasure horde. “That’s amazing,” he said. “I wish I could draw like you.”
“You could learn,” Violet replied. “It just takes practice. I’ve spent a bunch of time studying the greats—Maitz, Whelan, Hickman, Targete.”
“Who?” Theodore said.
“Well, I guess we finally found something you don’t know. Don Maitz, Michael Whelan, Stephen Hickman, J. P. Targete—they’re just some of the greats in the field of fantasy art, which I happen to love.”
“Interesting,” Theodore said, “that they’re all men.”
“Don’t make me tell you about Rowena Morrill and Janny Wurts,” Violet countered. “I will send you home crying.”
“Oooh, now I’m scared.”
And that’s when they all heard a soft pop!
They turned to see a portal open at the stern of the ship. The Headmaster stepped through. The bright noonday sun made her tropical dress glow against her beautiful dark skin. With a casual wave of her hand, the portal disappeared behind her.
“Good morning,” she said. “I am Headmaster Brazenhope.”
“No way!” Theodore blurted, astonished. “The Headmaster’s a chick!”
Without a word, the Headmaster waved her hand and a portal opened up in the deck beneath Theodore. He fell soundlessly into the Nether. With another wave, the portal closed shut behind him.
“Any other comments?” the Headmaster asked.
Everyone vigorously shook their heads.
“Good. Welcome to your first day at the Nightmare Academy. As you can see, it is a most unusual place, and yet I think it is entirely appropriate. I’ve always felt that dark and dangerous business is best learned in cheerful surroundings, and this island is very cheerful indeed. Don’t you agree?”
The students nodded quickly.
“Now, you may still be wondering why we have chosen to teach you in an environment so extraordinary—broken ships in trees, elevators fashioned from dinghies, plus the million and one outlandish nooks and crannies you have yet to discover. There are two reasons. The first I will tell you about now. The second you will discover when you are more capable of understanding it.” She began to walk among the students as she continued. “The Nightmare Academy is odd and unusual because it is the odd and unusual that stimulates the brain. There is nothing more poisonous to the imagination than sameness and repetition, and it is imagination, above all else, that we seek to nurture here. Why is that?”
It didn’t seem like she was really asking a question, so no one ventured an answer, which was good, because she plunged forward without waiting for one.
“It is imagination, ladies and gentlemen, that allows us to do our jobs, because it is imagination that allows us to access the Gift. Unfortunately, many of you, at least a third, will lose that powerful muscle during your stay here. It will atrophy and decay; it will wither and wilt. It happens to most people as they age, and it will, most assuredly and quite regrettably, happen to some of you, as well. If that occurs, you will no longer have access to the Gift and you will cease to be able to use it to protect humanity from the creatures of the Nether.”
She clapped her hands for emphasis. The students jumped.
“However,” she continued, “loss of the Gift does not mean that you will cease to be valuable to our cause. Your training will be put to use. You will become Facilitators and you will accompany your Gifted comrades on their endeavors. Your task will not be an easy one. You will organize the missions and act as a liaison between the Nightmare Division and the agents in the field. Most of all, you will provide a third, calm voice when monsters are closing in and the Banisher and Nethermancer on your team are overwhelmed by their own responsibilities. Everyone here is important. Everyone here is critical.”
Suddenly, Charlie realized that Pinch had said he was a Facilitator. Even though the Headmaster seemed to consider Facilitators equal members of the team, he wondered if it was difficult to have the Gift and then lose it. It seemed to explain a lot about Pinch’s sour attitude and why he was such an advocate for having promising students Reduced—after all, if Pinch no longer had access to the Gift, why should anyone else?