Rebels of the Lamp, Book 1

by Peter Speakman

  Fon-Rahm sized Parker up. “Parker,” he said, “is an excellent student.”

  Parker beamed.

  His mom was pleasantly surprised. “Good! That’s good to hear!”

  Parker took the seat next to his mom. “This is great, Mom. I’m really...” He gave her a genuine smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She took his hand on the table. “Thank you, Parker.” She thought she might cry, so she turned her attention back to Parker’s new math teacher. “I hope you’re hungry, Mr. Rommy.”

  “I am. Do you have any French fries?”

  “Try the mashed potatoes,” said Parker.

  They all dug in, thankful for many, many reasons.

  After dinner, as the adults drank coffee and digested their turkey, Parker, Reese, Theo, and Fon-Rahm stood in the backyard and stared up at the night sky.

  “I never really appreciated the stars before I almost got killed a bunch of times,” said Theo.

  Fon-Rahm said, “You know, it might not be such a bad idea for me to come and teach at your school.”

  “Excuse me?” said Parker.

  “That way we could remain within the tether’s limits and we would be ready if we were needed.”

  “I’m not crazy about this plan.”

  “Oh, I think you will find that as a teacher I am tough, but fair.”

  “The whole point of having a genie is to avoid things that are tough but fair.”

  Fon-Rahm was thoughtful. “I wonder if they would give me my own parking space?”

  “Do you really think that Vesiroth will come back, after all these years?” Reese asked Fon-Rahm.

  He looked to the moon. “I do not know. It has been a long time, and he has only regained three small parts of his power. It would be difficult, I think, for anyone to endure what he was put through.”

  Reese was relieved.

  “Of course,” Fon-Rahm continued, “Vesiroth is the most powerful sorcerer the world has ever known. If anyone could have survived all this time, it would be him. If he has revived, his anger will know no bounds. Even in a weakened state he poses a dire threat. And let us not forget that there are still nine more of the Jinn out there, somewhere.”

  Fon-Rahm saw that he had worried Reese.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We will never see Vesiroth. His body was probably destroyed years ago.”

  “Good,” said Parker. “I think we could all use a little downtime.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE CARNIVAL WORKER WALKED WITH a slight limp. He wished that he could say it was from getting bucked off a horse, or maybe that it was an old football injury. It wasn’t. His leg just bothered him, that’s all. The fact was, he was getting old.

  “Now, see, when the ride jams, nine times out of ten it’s right here,” he said, pointing his flashlight down. “The track is bent.”

  His trainee furrowed his brow and nodded, all business. That was good, the carny thought. You didn’t keep something like the Train of Terror running without knowing your stuff. It was an old ride, built in the sixties and showing her age. The carny could relate.

  “I keep asking for replacement parts, but the owners are too cheap. Ah, what do they care about an old ride? I think I’m the only one who’ll even notice when it finally stops running.”

  He had no idea how long that might be, but when it did happen, he knew he was probably out of a job. He had been touring with the carnival for more than forty years, and he had seen it go straight downhill. When he started, the rides were shiny and new. Now, the whole place gave off an air of seediness and disrepair. He wasn’t even sure it was worth anyone’s time to train the new kid. Still, the trainee wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t a genius, but if he was, he wouldn’t have been there, would he?

  It was dark inside the ride, and it smelled like stagnant water and metal. It was supposed to be a train through a haunted mine. The walls were fixed up to look like black rock, but the paint had fallen away in places, and the white stucco underneath poked through. The plastic skeleton on the first turn was missing a foot, and the thing that popped out from behind the dynamite kegs looked more like a mangy dog than a werewolf. Really, what was a werewolf doing in a haunted mine, anyway? A ghost would have made more sense. The carny guessed that it was too late to change it now.

  As the carny bent down to look at the tracks, the trainee let out a yelp. He had backed into an iron cage hanging from the ceiling.

  “Oh,” said the carny. “Have you met Harold?”

  The carny aimed his light at the cage. Inside was a mannequin dressed in rags and coated with shiny lacquer and a thick layer of dust. It was in a standing position, with one hand extended, as if he was reaching for something, maybe. The carny let the trainee stare at it for a few moments.

  “It’s a real body, you know,” said the carny slyly.

  “Get out of here.”

  “I swear. It’s an Egyptian mummy. It was part of some old traveling exhibit. After they went bust, this thing ended up in here. They call him Harold because, well, I don’t know why they call him Harold. He looks like a Harold.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “They say if you’re in here by yourself after midnight, you can hear him moving around in there. One time, when I had just started working here, I heard him say something.”

  The trainee was skeptical. “Yeah? What did he say?”

  The carny brought his voice even lower, making the kid lean in to hear him. “He said...” Then the carny yelled as loud as he could, “Lemme out!”

  The trainee jumped and the old man laughed. “I’m just pulling your leg, you dope. Come on, let’s go.”

  They walked down the tracks and out the exit. The carnival was closed. Workers swept the grounds and closed up booths.

  “Ah, man,” said the trainee, “I left my crowbar back there.”

  “Well, you had better go and get it. The last thing we want is for a car to derail because you left something on the tracks.”

  The trainee jogged back into the murky tunnel. He found the dent in the track and saw his crowbar on the floor. As he reached for it, his flashlight found Harold. The trainee stood up and peeked into the cage for a closer look. It sure was an ugly thing. Harold’s face had been painted over so many times it hardly even looked like a face anymore.

  The trainee smirked. A real mummy, right. And he was going to play shortstop for the Detroit Tigers next year.

  He bent back down to get his crowbar. When the trainee stood, Harold reached out of the cage and grabbed him by his throat.

  As he choked the trainee to death, the mannequin’s lacquered mask crumbled away. Underneath was a face brutally scarred on one side. It was good to be free, thought Vesiroth as his lips twisted into a grim smile.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Eddie Gamarra, Eric Robinson, Jeremy Bell, and Peter McHugh of the Gotham Group, Valerie Phillips and Trevor Astbury at Paradigm, Jim Garavente, Russell Hollander, Faye Atchison, all the friends and family members that put up with us while we’re writing, and everybody at Disney • Hyperion, especially our patient and tireless editors Kevin Lewis and Ricardo Mejías.

  Debut authors Michael M.B. Galvin and his writing partner, Peter Speakman, have worked together for twelve years. Galvin attended Ithaca College before eventually moving to Los Angeles. Michael is a native of Syracuse, New York. Rebels of the Lamp is their first novel.