CHARLES CURTIS
Charles Curtis is a sports writer and journalist based in New York City. He has reported and written for publications including NJ.com, The Daily, ESPN.com, ESPN the Magazine, Bleacher Report, TV Guide and Entertainment Weekly. This is his first novel. He lives in New York City with his wife and son. He can be reached on Twitter: https://twitter.com/charlescurtis82
READ A SAMPLE CHAPTER OF TRACY TAM: SANTA COMMAND
CHAPTER ONE
Santa Command—Control Room 8
December 24th
2300 hours
The twenty-foot view screen was filled from corner to corner with one horrifying image: a brightly lit fireplace! A box popped up on a bottom corner of the screen, listing worst-case scenarios. It named everything from blistered feet to a flaming Santa.
Phil spoke frantically into his headset, sending Artie the order for an emergency Snow Drop. Artie, one of the techies on the lower level of the control room, grabbed his controller and began tapping buttons like he was fighting a boss on a video game. Except at Santa Command, there wasn’t a restart button.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” Walt scolded. He reached in front of Phil and tapped out a string of commands on Phil’s keyboard. The chances of Santa catching fire rose with each passing second. 23%. 48%. 76%.
Beads of sweat formed on Phil’s forehead, but it was nothing compared to the heat he would feel if he messed this up. “Heat signs for the entire block were negative. I don’t know how I missed it.”
Walt folded his arms across his rather large stomach. He was like Santa’s evil twin, making stops in each of Santa Command’s control rooms whenever his beeper warned him of an emergency. Instead of bringing presents, he brought demotions and demerit points.
“How long?” he asked.
Phil spoke into his headset. “Rose Street Camera. Knot of Giant Oak. Pull back. Show me the sky.”
A girl on the lower level punched a few buttons. The picture on the view screen rushed backwards, pulling away from the Tam’s living room window and up into the star-filled sky. There was nothing else to see, not even the moon.
“Where is it, Artie?” Walt’s normally rosy cheeks turned purple. The sleigh was on the roof. The big guy was two paces from the chimney.
“It’s coming!” Artie shouted up to them.
“Not fast enough.” Phil rubbed his temple. A headache was starting to form, and he couldn’t think straight. He scanned the screen, back and forth, up and down.
Santa stood by the chimney with one foot raised in the air. His eyes were glazed over, oblivious to the smoke rushing out of the chimney.
“Come on. Come on. Come on!” Phil drummed his fingers on the desk. “There!” He pointed to the upper right corner of the screen. A tiny black dot had appeared, and it was quickly approaching.
“If he doesn’t make it–” Walt warned.
“He’ll make it. I’m not losing this Santa.”
Phil held his breath as the black dot grew closer, revealing itself to be a large bird, not a real one, but close enough to fool the humans. There was a tan, leather bag clutched in its talons.
The man in the red suit lifted his leg over the chimney edge. The smoke touched the heel of his boot, then parted around it. The man didn’t pause. He wasn’t programmed to.
Phil buried his face in his hands. That type of mistake would certainly mean demotion and possibly the loss of his job.
Walt slammed his fist onto the control table. “Look!”
Phil’s eyes popped back open. He caught his thumbnail between his teeth as Artie’s remote control bird soared over the chimney top and dropped the white fluffy cargo down the hole, exactly one second before Santa hefted his other leg over, tossed a handful of yellow dust over his head, and dropped down the chimney.
“Rose Street Camera,” Phil said in a nervous whisper, “show me the Tam living room.”
The camera panned down to the window and showed Santa arranging presents around the twinkling tree. The fireplace was covered with a soft, white substance that would soon evaporate, leaving no trace it had ever existed.
Phil leaned back in his seat, running his hands back through his short, curly hair. He had saved his tail. This time.
He glanced at the calendar on the wall. Six months until he had enough money for his vacation. He’d been saving for years just so he could spend a month in Hawaii surfing, kayaking, and mountain climbing.
Walt’s beeper went off again.
Of course. Phil sat back up. The relief never lasted long on December 24th.
Walt pointed to the bright red words that scrolled across the top of the screen. “Phil, we’ve got movement upstairs.”
“Is it a parent?”
“Negative.” Walt pressed a button, and several lines of green text appeared in a box at the top left corner of the screen.
Species: Human
Height: 4’9”
Age: 10
Speed: Slow
Destination: Appears to be the staircase
Phil smiled. This was why he’d been chosen to lead Control Room 8. He knew kids, and he knew how to distract them. He’d seen a lot in his years at Santa Command, and he’d once calculated that four out of ten children tried to catch a glimpse of Santa on Christmas Eve. Whether the kids sneaked out of bed, slept in the living room with one eye open, or hid in the chimney, he had a scenario for them all.
Phil spoke into his headset. “Rose Street Camera. Tam’s Pine Tree. Give me the second story hallway.”
One of the techies made the adjustment. The view screen switched from the living room to a dark hallway on the second floor.
“Night vision, please,” Phil ordered.
The techie touched a key on his keyboard, and a night vision lens slid into place on the camera. The hallway was now lit in a green glow. Phil could clearly see Tracy Tam creeping past her parents’ bedroom door. Her bare feet made no sound in the plush carpet, and she was careful to side step the jingly toys her kitten left scattered everywhere.
“Hm,” Phil said. “Neatly brushed hair. No wrinkles in her pajamas. She’s been waiting up, most likely reading a book.”
“Seems pretty routine.”
“Affirmative.” Phil called up another camera, asking for the new shot to be displayed as a smaller video in the corner of the screen. The hallway was still the main focus, but the corner screen showed the rooftop where eight tiny reindeer stood eerily still. He flipped a switch on his headset and transmitted a message to the ear buds worn by each reindeer. “Time to change.”
Even though Phil had seen the transformation thousands of times, his mouth still dropped open in amazement. He knew enough about cameras and technology to create the appearance of magic, but these guys had the real thing. In less than an eye blink, the deer had shrunk out of their harnesses and morphed into their true forms—Inklings. About six inches tall with sharp brown features that made them look like they’d been carved from a tree, they were what most people mistook for elves. But they were so much more than that.
Sasha’s squeaky voice chirped into Phil’s headset. “Tell me this is gonna be fun.”
Phil suppressed a laugh. The Inklings were tricky little buggers and cherished the one night of the year when their magic wasn’t restricted to sneaking around as birds and squirrels, taking notes for the naughty and nice list. If they were judging themselves, they would make the naughty list every time.
“How about Diversion Scenario #3?” Phil suggested. Code Name: Wake up Mom.
Sasha cackled into the headset. As the tiny creatures dropped down the chimney and into the living room, Phil had the cameramen follow them so he wouldn’t miss out on any of the fun.
Sasha started small. She and her team raced up the stairs, pausing at the very top. She motioned for the rest of them to stay back while she slunk into one of the shadows to retrieve a purple cat toy. It looked about the size of a bowling ball in her
arms, and that was exactly how she used it. With perfect timing, she rolled it under Tracy’s heel just as the girl passed her parents’ bedroom. Tracy slipped and landed on her back with a soft thud.
“Oof!” she cried.
Her mother’s sleepy voice drifted into the hallway. “Did you hear that?”
Tracy sat up straight and, with wide eyes, glanced back to her bedroom. It was only a few feet behind her.
That’s right, thought Phil. Go back to bed. There’s nothing to see downstairs.
Sasha’s pointy face twisted into a frown. Many times, a small noise was all it took to send the kids scrambling back to bed.
“It’s probably Santa.” It was her father’s voice this time. “He usually comes about now.”
“Yeah,” her mother said. “I bet you’re right. I hope he brings that microscope Tracy’s been asking for. I couldn’t find it online.”
“Mmm,” her father said. “Go back to sleep. We’ll see in the morning.”
For a long moment, Tracy didn’t move, but when no further sounds came from her parents’ room, she stood up, brushed off her Superman pajamas, and resumed her creep toward the stairs.
“Uh oh,” said Phil, even though he knew the first attempt only worked half the time. Quickly, he thought up another scenario. “Sasha, go for the snowflake.”
Sasha nodded. She made a few hand motions to the seven Inklings behind her, and they moved into the hallway, arranging themselves in the Snowflake Position, each of them hidden in a dark corner of the hall. Time to amp up the game.
Tracy inched forward.
Sasha mumbled to the others. “Wait for it. Wait for it.” Then, when Tracy stepped into the sweet spot, the center of the “snowflake,” Sasha raised her hand into the air. The Inklings each pointed one finger toward Tracy and shot out a very low dose of magic, slightly chilled. To Tracy, it would have felt like the air conditioning flipped on and a breeze shivered across her skin. Cold, but not alarmingly so. Enough to send her scurrying for the warmth of her covers.
She lived in Florida, however, and the winter had been uncomfortably warm. When the air hit her, she smiled, welcoming the chill.
Walt’s beeper squealed louder. “Fix this!” he demanded.
Tracy was inches from the stairway now, and once she got there, she’d be able to see straight down to the living room where Santa was filling her stocking. She crouched down as she got closer, and Phil caught a glimpse of his solution sitting in her shirt pocket. He relayed the information to Sasha.
As Phil’s voice traveled through Sasha’s tiny ear bud, Sasha saw exactly what Phil was referring to. That’s why they worked as a team. Sasha saw the world from the ankles down. Phil and his cameras saw everything else. Sasha typed in a code to her wristcom and smiled as she sent out an activation signal to any wireless device within five feet. In this case, it was Tracy’s cell phone, tucked carefully into her shirt pocket.
When the phone started blasting Beyoncé, Tracy yelped, then scrambled back to her bedroom. A split second later, her dad poked his head out of his room.
Mr. Tam looked up and down the hallway, but all he saw was Tracy’s closed door and a bunch of shadows. The Inklings were well hidden, camouflaged both by darkness and magic.
When he was satisfied his daughter was safely in bed, he went back into his room. His muffled voice carried into the hallway once more. “If she was on that phone again—”
“Don’t,” his wife said soothingly. “It’s Christmas. She’s probably gossiping with Kate, talking about what Santa will bring them.”
“Fine,” Mr. Tam sighed. “But next time, it’s gone for a week.”
As the house settled back into a peaceful slumber, Phil wiped the sweat off his forehead. “There. Crisis averted.”
Walt raised one eyebrow. “Are you positive?”
“Well...” Phil surveyed the screen, which showed Santa still packing Tracy’s stocking. Depending on how fast he worked, she had time to sneak out again. Phil ordered up another camera, this one in the bird’s nest just outside Tracy’s window. He had a clear shot of the curled up lump lying in her bed, and her long black hair trailing out from under the comforter and across her pillow. “Now, I’m positive.”
“Good,” Walt said. It was the closest to a compliment he ever gave on Christmas Eve. “Now, get Santa out of there and on to the next house.”
Phil cracked his knuckles. “Bring it on.”
READ A SAMPLE CHAPTER OF KING OF THE MUTANTS
A BRIEF INTRODUCTION
HOW TO EXPLAIN MYSELF
Most people call me a freak.
Or a mutant.
Or a monster.
But I think of myself as a rock star—totally tricked out and freaking unique. After all, norms pay big bucks just to see my act at the circus. And, seriously, how many kids do you know that have a cult following? How about posters and books and movies about their lives? Sound like a dream to some of you?
It isn’t. It’s time to set the record straight.
See, I never asked to become King of the Mutants.
What makes me so weird? I’ll get to that soon, but first a little warning: if you are faint of heart, can’t handle the unknown, or if you really hate clowns like I do, I wouldn’t turn another page because things are going to get very freakish.
And it’s the story of my life.
I was born with the name Maverick Mercury, and I’m unlike any other kid you’ve ever met.
CHAPTER ONE
HOW TO SAVE A BOY FROM BECOMING A PANCAKE
The day my life took a turn for the worse was the day I met Freddie Finch. It’s not that Freddie’s a bad guy. He’s pretty darn cool in his own Freddie way. It’s just that if Freddie hadn’t run away from home, we wouldn’t have been hiding behind Bobo’s cage. And if we hadn’t been hiding behind Bobo’s cage, we wouldn’t have overheard Grumbling and Yorgi’s conversation. And if we hadn’t heard that particular conversation, there’s a pretty good chance I wouldn’t have become King of the Mutants.
But I’m kind of getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.
It was mid-afternoon, nasty hot, and the circus was holed up in this Podunk town in Florida. Sweat poured off my body. My eyeballs were seared to my eyelids. My sneakers practically melted to the asphalt. It would have been cooler dancing inside the Devil’s mouth, and I prayed for rain.
Our “big show” started in two days, but it wasn’t big at all. The lamest of the lame, we didn’t even have musicians, just a crappy old record that always skipped during the opening procession. One of our two lions was blind; the other didn’t have teeth. Yorgi’s clowns were just plain diabolical. And don’t get me started on the Flying Forsinis. Seriously, trapeze artists weren’t supposed to be that accident-prone.
Grumbling’s Traveling Circus and Sideshow was a pathetic joke. A dog and pony show would have been more entertaining.
Thing was, even at the cruddiest of circuses, you worked eleven months straight regardless of weather, sickness, or even the lack of paying customers. A day off? Getting one of those was like winning the lottery. So on that scorcher of a day, I just had to suck it up and get back to my list of never ending chores in the menagerie—the tent where our limited collection of “exotic” animals hunkered down during the run of a show.
I stood knee deep in a mound of sawdust in the center practice ring. The strong scent of animal urine wafted up to my nose, the stench even more rancid because of the heat. Surrounding me on all sides—once bright blue, red, yellow, and green—the paint on the animals’ enclosures peeled off like sunburned skin. Inside the cages, shrieks, growls, and roars came at me from every direction.
My head felt like it was going to split open.
And then it went numb with dread.
A loud, hacking cough warned me of Burt’s looming approach. That would be Burt Grumbling, the boss man, the Grumbling in Grumbling’s. He limped into the menagerie, his
lame foot scraping behind him because it couldn’t keep up with the rest of him. All the animals fell silent. Even they knew the consequences of irritating Burt. I held my breath and kept on sweeping, hoping he’d go away.
“Mutant,” Burt bellowed, “some of the midgets are under the weather. Stayed out all night partying in town. If you don’t pull ten times your weight today, you won’t get any dinner.” He hacked up another cough. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, you ignoramus. Show some respect.”
Luck just wasn’t on my side. I turned to face the satanic ringmaster of doom.
Pug-dog-ugly, Burt was as tall as he was wide and his face looked like it had been run over by a steamroller. He may not have been fast, but he was quick on the draw and always dressed for the kill. Skull-shaped, silver buttons decorated his knee-high, black leather boots. A two-foot long, spike-knuckled trench knife stuck out of a leather holster and attached to his flame-patterned riding britches. To top off this murderous look, he wore a sweat stained white tank that brought attention to his heavily inked arms.
An art gallery from my worst nightmares, every tattoo pictured an evil looking clown. The most messed up of them covered his entire left shoulder. Colored black, red, and orange, the clown’s mouth twisted into a vicious smirk.
Like Burt, the clown clenched a cigar between his jagged teeth.
Unlike Burt, blood dripped out of its mouth.
“Did you hear me, mutant?” Burt scraped closer. “Don’t just stand there looking like a mental midget when you have work to do.”
Wait a second. I wasn’t a First of May—a newbie to the show. Performers, even sideshow attractions like me, supposedly had rank. I crossed my arms over my chest. “What about those roustabouts? Don’t the new guys have to do the grunt work?”
“All the workers went out last night too. Everybody did.”
The tone in Burt’s voice indicated everybody meant everybody but me.
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