Candy Shop War

by Brandon Mull

*****

  Pigeon held onto Nile, trying not to cling like he was scared as they leaned around a corner onto Sunset Place. Pigeon loved the exhilaration of riding a motorcycle, but cornering made him feel off-balance. Nile accelerated down the road, the sudden increase in speed making Pigeon’s insides lurch.

  All of the houses in the North Ridge community were remarkable structures with professionally landscaped yards, but number 14 at the end of the cul-de-sac was the most impressive of them all. A brick driveway flanked by white planters led from the black iron gates to a wide mansion made splendid by numerous turrets, chimneys, and balconies.

  Nile came to a stop at the gate, dropping his feet to steady the motorcycle. “You want me to go up with you?” he asked.

  “For this to work, I need to seem nerdy and pathetic,” Pigeon explained. “You’re too cool.”

  “All right,” Nile said. “I’ll keep an eye out until you get inside, then I’ll check back every ten minutes or so. If I loiter too long in a neighborhood like this, somebody might call the cops.”

  Pigeon hopped down off the bike and removed his helmet. He wore a sky-blue button-down sweater and khakis. “Do I look pathetic?” he asked.

  “No comment,” Nile said.

  Pigeon had told Nile that he was working on a report for school, and that he hoped the mayor might let him take some old Colson artifacts into his class. When Nile had come to pick him up, he had spotted a box of white fudge on the table and snuck a piece, confiding that he had become mildly addicted.

  Running to the gate, Pigeon put a Sweet Tooth into his mouth and pressed the button on the intercom. He glanced up and noticed a security camera aimed at him.

  “Colson residence,” said a male voice. “May I ask your name?”

  “I’m Paul Bowen. I’m hoping to talk to Mrs. Colson. I go to Mt. Diablo, and I’m working on a report about Hanaver Mills.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” the voice asked.

  Pigeon hoped the Sweet Tooth would work through an intercom. “I’m only ten. I wasn’t sure how I would make an appointment. I thought maybe I’d just drop by. Can’t you let me see her? It will only take a couple of minutes.”

  “One moment.”

  Pigeon waited. He slid the Sweet Tooth around his mouth with his tongue.

  The gates started opening on their own. Pigeon heard Nile riding away. “Come on in,” the voice invited.

  Pigeon followed the driveway to the elegant front door. A middle-aged man in a shirt and tie opened the door and admitted him. Pigeon stared up at a magnificent chandelier suspended above a grand staircase. A fat Persian cat, its long hair a tawny brown, relaxed on the stairs, licking a black paw. The man escorted Pigeon across the marble entryway and indicated a room off to one side. “You’re welcome to wait in the parlor,” the man said in a friendly, unpretentious manner. “Mrs. Colson is on a call, and may be a few minutes.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Pigeon said, looking around the well-appointed sitting room.

  “Be brief and polite,” the man added in a confidential tone. He winked and exited, closing the door.

  Pigeon hesitantly sat down on an ornate pink and black chair. The furniture looked almost too nice to touch. There were several paintings on the walls, mostly pastoral scenes.

  After waiting for a minute or so, Pigeon rose and leaned an ear against the door. From his pocket he removed a plastic sandwich bag full of reddish-brown kibbles. The sack the Brain Feed had come in was too large for pockets, so Pigeon had downsized the bag.

  Pigeon inched the door open and peeked out. The Persian cat was walking away down a hall, but paused when Pigeon hissed at it softly and shook some Brain Feed into his palm. Pigeon set a few bits of food on the floor near the door and backed away. The cat came forward, sniffed the food, ate it, then entered the room.

  “That was quite good, have you any more?” the cat asked in an articulate female voice.

  He did not know what he had expected, but hearing the cat suddenly speaking in perfect English left Pigeon momentarily speechless. “Sure, if you help me out,” he finally managed.

  “Do I strike you as an errand girl?” the cat sniffed, raising her head imperiously.

  “I meant a favor,” Pigeon said.

  “I seldom grant favors, and certainly not in exchange for bribes.” The cat slunk to the center of the room, furry tail swishing lazily behind her.

  Pigeon remembered that he still had the Sweet Tooth in his mouth, and resolved to be more direct. “You must know this house very well,” he said.

  “None know it better,” the cat declared.

  “Have you seen a model ship inside a bottle?”

  “Here in the house? Certainly not.” The cat stretched.

  “A really nice model, built by Hanaver Mills,” he specified.

  “By Hanaver? You might try the Colson Museum.”

  “This model isn’t in the museum,” Pigeon said, realizing that this line of questioning was getting him nowhere. “Is Mrs. Colson nice?”

  “Nice? That depends. She can be affectionate and generous. She can be cold and ruthless. I quite like her.”

  “How about I give you some more of this food just to be kind,” Pigeon said.

  “How magnanimous of you,” the cat said sarcastically.

  Pigeon set a few more kibbles on the floor, and the cat ate them. “I must say, as sorry as it looks, this stuff has a most agreeable aftertaste. Where did you get it?”

  “Hard to explain,” Pigeon said. “Look, I—”

  At that moment Mrs. Colson came through the door, a slender woman in a smart gray suit, her hair short and stylish. Pigeon jumped up and tried not to look like he had been having a conversation with a cat. Mrs. Colson strode forward, extending a hand toward Pigeon with the breezy camaraderie of a practiced politician. “Victoria Colson, so nice to meet you, Paul.”

  “Thank you for letting me visit,” Pigeon said, meeting her assertive grip limply.

  Mrs. Colson bent down and picked up the cat. “How did you get in here, Jasmine?”

  “My fault,” Pigeon apologized. “I noticed her in the hall and opened the door. I like cats.”

  “More like you lured me in here with salty snacks,” Jasmine purred.

  “A fellow feline enthusiast,” Mrs. Colson said with an automatic smile. She did not appear to have heard the cat speak. “Please, Paul, have a seat.” He sat back down on the pink and black chair. Mrs. Colson alighted on the sofa, stroking Jasmine. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m working on a project for school about the models Hanaver Mills built. He’s your ancestor, right?”

  “My great-great-grandfather, yes.”

  “I’ve seen the boats in the town museum, but I read that he had a favorite, a ship called the Stargazer housed inside a bottle. I’d love to have a look and maybe take a picture if you know where I can find it.”

  Mrs. Colson placed a manicured finger beside her lips. “I donated the Stargazer to the library as a display piece several years ago,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m in there almost every week, but I can’t say I’ve seen it. The model must have ended up in storage. You know who could help you is Leslie Wagner, the head librarian. I’ll give you a note. Bravo for going the extra mile on your research! Wait here one moment.”

  “You got on her good side,” Jasmine remarked as Mrs. Colson exited the room. “Victoria has always been a pushover for kids and animals. Funny all the interest in Hanaver lately.”

  “All the interest?” Pigeon asked.

  “Some of his belongings were recently stolen from the Colson Museum,” Jasmine said. “And of course Belinda White keeps asking Victoria about Hanaver Mills memorabilia.”

  “Belinda White?”

  “She telephones on occasion,” Jasmine said. “Belinda runs the new candy shop on Main. She sends us the most delicious complimentary treats: peanut brittle, chocolate macadamias, truffles, fudge . . . I would love to meet her face-to-face.”

  Mrs. Cols
on returned, heels clicking across the marble entryway. She stopped in the doorway, a piece of stationery in hand, and glanced at her delicate wristwatch. “If you get down to the library before six, you might catch Mrs. Wagner before she heads home.”

  Pigeon crossed to the doorway and accepted the pink slip of paper. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Colson,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” she replied, guiding him to the door.

  “Come again, Paul,” Jasmine called.

  Pigeon turned and waved. Mrs. Colson closed the door. That had gone smoothly! He wondered if the Sweet Tooth had made Mrs. Colson so obliging, or if perhaps he would not have needed the candy in the first place. He hurried down the driveway as the gates swung open. With Nile nowhere in sight, he set off along Sunset Place.

  Sliding a hand into his pocket, Pigeon fingered the Brain Feed. What a remarkable creation! Without the kibble, Jasmine could not possibly comprehend English, which meant that the Brain Feed not only granted her the ability of speech, it also allowed her to instantly and effortlessly make sense of previous human interactions she had witnessed. Plus, the magical kibble functioned so naturally that the cat had not seemed a bit amazed to be conversing with a person. Pigeon determined that after visiting the library he would have to spend some time getting to know his dog.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Library

  Nate rapped on the door and Mr. Stott answered. “Come in, my boy,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” Nate asked, stepping inside.

  “I want to introduce you to a colleague of mine.” Mr. Stott closed the door. He led Nate down the hall and paused outside a door across from his bedroom. “We magicians sometimes employ engineered apprentices. Assistants whom we imbue with power to make them more useful.”

  “Like the fat guy full of orange goop who works for Mrs. White,” Nate said.

  “Precisely. I don’t as a rule tamper with my assistants, but many years ago, a loyal man who served me contracted a terminal illness. As the end neared, he urged me to preserve his life. The only hope within the parameters of my abilities was to drastically alter his physiology. I explained the hazards, and still he beseeched me to make an attempt.

  “In many respects, the procedure went wrong. Although I succeeded in sparing his life, it came at the price of his humanity. Physically he was ruined, and mentally he had changed as well, grown simpler. I can still communicate with him, which is why you are here. He renamed himself the Flatman. I tell you about him in advance because his appearance is unsettling. Upon seeing him for the first time, two people, to my recollection, have passed out, and others have become nauseated.”

  Mr. Stott opened the door. Nate walked into a dim room. Heavy drapes obscured the windows. A solid table stood in the middle of the room beside a wicker rocking chair. On the table sat a shallow aquarium filled halfway with fluid that reeked of formaldehyde. The Flatman floated on the surface of the fluid.

  Half curious, half disgusted, Nate drew closer. The creature looked like a cross between a human being and a fried egg. About the size of a Frisbee, the Flatman was sheathed in pale human skin, complete with pores and faint wrinkles. He had one large eye, one small eye, and three misshapen slits—presumably two nostrils and a mouth. Four translucent fins flapped languidly, their form eerily reminiscent of hands and feet. The larger eye had a fleshy lid that opened and closed, while the smaller one perpetually stared. Nate could appreciate why people might pass out upon meeting the Flatman.

  “Can he hear me?” Nate asked.

  “Most assuredly,” Mr. Stott said.

  “Can he talk?”

  “Not as you or I speak. After completing the botched transformation, I assumed my assistant would not want to continue in this state. But his will to live was extraordinary—to this day he claims he is glad to be alive. Along with all he lost, he did acquire some new abilities. One side effect of the changes I wrought is that his consciousness drifts across time, allowing him to glimpse the past and the future.”

  “Can he see outside this room?”

  “He can see only places where he was or will be, and he has no conscious control over the ability. At times he becomes confused. The past is constant, but the future is always in motion. Some of the futures he glimpses never come to pass. Lately he has been observing a future without me in it to feed and take care of him. He has seen himself anonymously starving, unable to seek help. And then this afternoon he adamantly insisted I needed to give you the most powerful confection in my possession.”

  “Give it to me?” Nate asked. “Does he know me?”

  “Perhaps he overheard your name during a prior visit. More likely, he has observed you in the future. He stubbornly maintains that giving you the Grains of Time will be my only hope for surviving the looming hostilities. When he acts this resolute, I have come to rely on his predictions.” Mr. Stott held up a small hourglass on a silver chain. Ornately decorated, the hourglass contained blue sand in one chamber, red sand in the other, with a tiny yellow pellet plugging the gap between the two.

  “What does it do?”

  “I created the Grains of Time with the help of my master, who has since passed away. I do not believe I could devise another like it. Back then we took more pride in packaging our formulations, before the world fell in love with all things plastic and disposable. To function correctly, the grains must be consumed in the proper order—first blue, then red, then yellow. The blue will take you into the past, the red into the future, and the yellow will give you temporary dominion over the present. The three types of sand must be consumed in rapid succession or the spell will fail. Use the contents of this hourglass only in the moment of your most dire need. You will get only one chance.”

  Mr. Stott handed Nate the hourglass.

  “Do I wear it around my neck?”

  “That would seem sensible,” Mr. Stott said.

  “Are you sure you want to give this to me?”

  “Sure enough. Tell me, has Pigeon had any luck locating the Stargazer?”

  “I haven’t heard back yet,” Nate said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

  Mr. Stott scratched his beard and shifted his feet awkwardly. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly into his fist. “Nate, if something should happen to me in the coming days, I’m wondering if you might keep an eye on the Flatman for me. He eats fish flakes and canned cat food. The mixture he floats in is three parts water, one part formaldehyde. He can help you learn the details. If other forms of communication fail, one blink means yes, two means no. Could you do that for me?”

  Nate looked over at the Flatman. A fleshy pancake with a disfigured face was about the last pet he would ever choose, but he supposed he could get used to it. “Okay. But let’s try to avoid the need. You take care.”

  “Count on it,” Mr. Stott said. “I simply prefer to cover my bases. If ever you require access to the house when I am not around, there is a way to bypass the defensive spells. Swear to me you will keep it private.”

  “I promise,” Nate said.

  “Ring the doorbell twice. Say, ‘Archmus, I am a friend indeed.’ Then ring the doorbell again. You should hear the locks in the door unfasten themselves. At that point, the house is yours. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it only if your need is dire and I am not answering the door.”

  “Okay,” Nate said.

  “You had better run along. If you can get the ship tonight, do it. The sooner we find the map, the sooner we can free Trevor. I’ll continue narrowing down Haag family candidates.”

  “All right. See you later, Mr. Stott. See you, Flatman.”

  One of the fragile fins seemed to wave good-bye.

  *****

  Summer counted her Flame Outs, ending up with a pile of fourteen. She knew how many she had, but wanted to conduct a careful inventory in preparation for breaking into the mayor’s house. Summer, Pigeon, Nate, and Trevor each maintained a personal stash of candy. In addition to her Flame Ou
ts, Summer had three doses of Shock Bits, eight Moon Rocks, six sticks of Peak Performance gum, and the extra Sun Stone.

  Since she had so many, she frequently considered sharing her Flame Outs with the others, but worried that Mrs. White may have been right not to trust the boys with such potentially destructive candy. She could envision Nate and Pigeon burning down the entire town.

  The telephone rang, and Summer picked it up. Her dad was not home yet, so she reached for a pen to take a message. “Atler residence.”

  “Summer, it’s Pigeon.”

  “Wow, you’re already done! Any luck?”