Praise for
Death’s Academy
“What a trip! Michael Bast delivers a rip-roaring adventure through the afterlife, and Midnight Smith is by far my favorite hoodie. Death’s Academy is wicked fun!”
Frank L. Cole
Author of the Hashbrown Winters series
“I’ve always hated unicorns and Death’s Academy proves me right. They’re pure evil, I tell you—EVIL! But my favorite hoodie will have you cheering. Finally, a book gets these characters right. This story is a blast!”
Steve Westover
Author of the Crater Lake series
“A magical world that adores adventure and scorns old-school stereotypes.”
Matt Peterson
Author of The Epic Tales of a Misfit Hero
“Death’s Academy is a unique and compelling story that seamlessly weaves a supernatural tale with the ordinary aspirations kids (and adults) feel every day—the desire to find acceptance and do something extraordinary. Death’s Academy is an extraordinary novel!”
B. K. Bostick
Author of the Huber Hill series
© 2014 Michael Bast
Cover and interior illustrations by Neil Robinson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.
ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-0797-1
Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.
2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663
Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc., www.cedarfort.com
Cover design by Kristen Reeves
Cover design © 2014 by Lyle Mortimer
Edited and typeset by Melissa J. Caldwell
A special thanks to Heather Robles for helping me tidy up Death’s Academy and getting it into a readable form.
To Jeffrey Hall and Matthew Peterson,
who both pushed me to make my story better.
To my Mom and Dad, who will always believe in me.
For my dashingly handsome son Caden, who let me read his short story about “grim reapers for cats,” and springboarded my imagination.
Especially to my amazing Sarah, who pushed me to start writing and who is my eternal inspiration.
One
You see that chipmunk over there? I’ve got to make sure it’s dead in less than three minutes. Don’t make that face—it’s my job.
No, no, not the cute fuzzy guy with the acorn. The creature next to “Mister Precious”—the one with the tufts of fur missing, a chipped front tooth, and an ear lopped off. Yeah, that gruesome monster.
As you shorties say, “His time’s up.”
“What’s a shorty?” you ask.
Do me a favor. Go into a bathroom, find a mirror, spin on the spot ten times and take a glance at what’s starin’ back at you. Yep, you’re a shorty. (Why spin ten times first? No reason. Just wanted to see if I could make you yack).
All right, all right, a shorty is someone who has a clock on ’em. Someone who is going to die one day. Someone not like me.
I’m a Death. Well, I’ll be one soon enough. I’ve got to go through Death’s Academy and get my shroud and calling. If I do well enough at the Academy and get enough golden sickles, who knows, maybe I’ll be paying you a visit one day. Or, if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to help some famous musicians or movie stars bite it. My great-uncle Grimley was a Death for royalty. He got to snuff out a half dozen dukes, three or four counts, and even sent off a couple of kings. He’s kind of a hero in my family. Not just because he put down a few gold lace-wearing snobs, but also because he was an artist. He was like the da Vinci of death. In fact, if we hoodies (that’s kind of our street name) had a museum for masterpieces of demise, his work would have its own wing.
So you can imagine what a relative like that does to your parents’ expectations. My mom’s always telling me stuff like, “Your uncle Grimley never chased the dog around the yard with a lawn mower.” Or “Your uncle Grimley never superglued a pickle to his cousin’s ear.” But you know how moms are—nag, nag, nag. The way I see it, I’m doing her a favor. If I didn’t do the things that I do, my mom would have nothing to talk about with the Parents Supporting Parents group that she meets with every Tuesday.
Now if you think my mom is bad, she’s not a shadow of what my dad puts me through. You see, my dad is famous, but not the type of famous you want to be. Let’s just say that as soon as people find out my last name, they immediately ask who my dad is. If I tell the truth, they look at me as if a cow has just dropped one of its pies on my face.
I get kicked out of stores. I get kicked out of restaurants. My friends’ parents forbid their kids from associating with me. I’m pretty much a social leper. I only have one real friend in the world. The worst part of it all is that I still don’t know what my dad did. Whenever I bring it up with my parents, my mom’s face darkens and my dad’s goes bright red. If I press the issue, my mom gets downright hostile, and she’ll make me go do some meaningless chore like wax the kitchen floor or pluck the ticks out from between my dog’s toes.
My parents will be rid of me soon, though, because I just turned twelve. For us hoodies, twelve is a big deal. We leave that whole school scene that you shorties do and move on to Death’s Academy. Yep, while you’re learning about really “important” things like the quadratic equation and the capital of Burma, I’ll be taking classes like Poisons 101, Household Explosions, and Traffic Accidents and How to Cause Them.
But between you and me, I’m getting a little nervous about the whole Death’s Academy thing. You see, there’s an entrance exam … and I suck at exams.
Two
Oh, my bad. I should have introduced myself; the name’s Midnight Smith, but everyone calls me Night.
You think I’ve got a weird name?
What can I say? We’re Deaths, and we’ve got a fascination for dark and mysterious things. Could be worse. My older cousin’s buddy’s name is Moon Shadow. Everyone at school called him “Moonie,” but I’ve been told his nickname didn’t come from shortening his name.
Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked. The name’s Night. Nice to meet ya.
That entrance exam to get into Death’s Academy is why I’m sitting here in Michaels Park. It’s not like those pop quizzes you get in grade school. There’s none of that namby-pamby multiple-choice or true-false questions. It’s all practical. It’s just you, three or four professors, and real-life situations.
Long ago, when my mom took the exam, she was given fifteen minutes to plan and execute the death of an over-the-hill water buffalo. Thankfully, prior to the exam she had taken a correspondence course in several African animal dialects and had studied a bit of herbivore tendencies. So what did she do? I think it’s brilliant.
She could speak a few phrases in mongoose, so she convinced a family of white-tailed mongooses to tie long strands of golden grass to their tails. She then got them to saunter tantalizingly close to the aged water buffalo. The water buffalo saw the juicy strands of premium Serengeti grass inches from his snout and he stumbled after them. He hobbled right into a croc-infested mudhole. Two sharp chomps later and my mom was admitted into Death’s Academy.
&
nbsp; But for every happy ending like my mom’s, I hear a horror story. I’ve listened to tragic tales like islanders dodging falling coconuts at the last moment or walruses pulling themselves out of the sea just as the great white’s teeth scrape against their rear ends. Sure the victim gets a momentary reprieve, but what you don’t see is some poor hoodie that has to wait an entire year until he can take the exam again. You only get two shots. If you screw up the second time, you’re done. No shroud. No calling. You end up working as a Death’s assistant or, even worse, a guard at Cha-rama Prison. That can’t happen to me.
That’s why I’m here. I have my second practice exam tomorrow afternoon, and I didn’t do too hot on the first one I took three weeks ago. Let’s just say if there was a letter grade below an F, you would still need to go two below that letter to know what I got.
So I need to get a little practice with practical death situations, and that is where the chip-monster over there comes in. I’ve got a foolproof plan. I hope it’s foolproof. I’m not too familiar with Michaels Park. It’s named after some famous halo, I think. I never come around here. We hoodies stay on our side of town and the halos stay on their side. In fact, if I get spotted it could go badly for me. They don’t like us hoodies, and we don’t like them.
Oh, sorry. A halo is a guardian angel. Yep, you got it. They are our archnemeses.
Since forever we’ve been at odds with those harp-playing do-gooders. We’re trying to bring the shorties in on time, and the halos get in the way. They don’t meddle every time, only when they know it will irk us the most. For example, they always seem to pop up if we’re offing a high-profile shorty. They also come around if we are falling short on our monthly quota and they know they can keep us from hitting our goals. Then why am I chancing being spotted in a halo park? Well … that’s none of your business.
Sorry … didn’t mean to be all harsh and stuff. They just bring out the nastiest in me.
Halos, ugh! Can’t stand ’em. If I had my way—wait a second! Here he comes!
I can barely make out a hovering black speck in the distant sky above my chipmunk’s pine tree.
Yep, it’s the falcon! He’s the key to my plan. It took me over three hours to get one of those stuck-up birds to even listen to what I had to say. He didn’t want to help me. At first I tried to appeal to his vanity; you know how vain birds can be with their bright beaks and shiny feathers. I told him that he was the critical piece of my plan, and only an elegant bird such as him could be counted on to carry it out. He rolled his eyes, turned his back to me, and flashed his tail feathers. I wonder if he learned that trick from my cousin’s friend Moonie? I finally had to threaten him. I told him if he didn’t help me I would let my Uncle Shayde know that a certain falcon was looking to kick the bucket. Thankfully he didn’t call my bluff; I don’t even have an Uncle Shayde.
“Stupid bird,” I whisper with a smirk.
I glance down at my watch; the tattered band clings to my wrist by a few remaining strands. 5:23—right on schedule.
I gallop to a nearby park bench and dive behind it. I want to get close enough to the pine tree without drawing any suspicion from the chip-beast. I peek through the bench slats and spot the black speck. It has grown two wings that are straining against gravity. It seems to be struggling with something in its talons. It must be the cactus branch!
Perfect. I knew this would work. The falcon is going to drop the cactus branch exactly where I told him to! I am a genius!
My eyes dip and I see my oblivious victim gnawing on a mold-covered pinecone. His grotesque claws are shoving pieces of it into his crusted mouth.
A shiver zigzags down my back.
“Eww, he’s hideous,” I whisper. My watch flashes and the three flips to four.
5:24. Only thirty seconds to go.
My heart starts to flutter with excitement. The nose of the falcon tilts toward the earth and he begins his dive. He rockets toward the pine tree with the chip-creature tucked underneath it. I use every ounce of self-control to not scream out in excitement.
Maybe the exam to get into Death’s Academy won’t be so hard after all. Heck, this is the first time I’ve even attempted any of this death stuff, and I’m going to have the chip-beast bagged and tagged right on schedule. Granted, a chipmunk isn’t the most difficult of adversaries, and I would sooner jump off a cliff than actually be a Death for chipmunks. But you gotta start somewhere, right?
I refocus my attention on the chipmunk that is now sucking the mold from its claws. I hold back the puke, but just barely.
“Any second now,” I mutter under my breath. At that moment I catch a glimpse of something flash from underneath the falcon. My eyes shoot up to take a closer look, and my stomach lurches. The falcon isn’t grasping a piece of cactus. It has … a … fish?
Why does it have a fish?!
Everything happens at once. The falcon lets the fish loose and it twirls limply through the air toward the pine tree. At that moment, I realize that, in falconese, “cactus” and “rainbow trout” are pronounced almost identically, but cactus has a silent j at the end. Oh, I am such an idiot! I pronounced the j. I slap my forehead in frustration. You see, a rainbow trout isn’t going to trigger the series of events I was looking for. Then to my utmost terror, I hear a deep voice growl, “What are you doing here, hoodie?”
Three
A viselike grip grabs my shoulder and spins me on the spot. I come face-to-face with a scowling halo. Actually, I come face-to-pecs with him—he is a good foot and a half taller than me. His stark white shirt barely contains his mountainous shoulders and biceps. Not a hair is out of place as his thick mane comes to rest on his shoulders.
He is a typical halo—tan, buff, and straight off the cover of some magazine. His teeth are almost too straight and they seem to sparkle in the sun. I expect to hear a heavenly chorus accompany his arrival, but instead I hear the fish tumble clumsily through the tree’s branches and land with a soft thud. I swear I can just make out the sound of the chipmunk chuckling.
“I said, what are you doing here?” The halo gives me a fierce shake by the arm. My entire body ripples like a mound of Jell-O, and I lose my breath.
“I … I,” I can only croak.
He examines me up and down.
“You don’t even have your shroud or calling, do you?”
“Uh … uh,” I stammer back.
He shakes me again. “Do you?”
If it weren’t for his steadying grip, I would topple over.
“Do you know the penalty for an unauthorized death?” he barks.
I try to answer, but lights are popping in front of my eyes, and my fingers are tingling. The halo’s grip has completely cut off the circulation to my arm. I swallow and clear my throat.
“I didn’t mean to,” I lie.
His blue eyes narrow and he smirks. “You hoodies are all the same. Liars.” He lets go of my shoulder and catches hold of the front of my black shirt. In one quick movement he lifts me off my feet and brings me to his eye level.
I catch a whiff of the ocean and orange blossoms. He smells like a typical halo.
“Half the life of a man in Cha-rama Prison. That’s the penalty for an unauthorized crossing over,” he snarls.
I feel like I’m about to throw up. “Half the life of a man” is about fifty years to you shorties. It’s not an eternity, but fifty years is fifty years.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to practice. I have my exam,” I whimper.
My feet still dangle two feet off the ground, but he acts as if he is holding a dandelion up to his face to examine it.
“Where’s your benefactor then?” he asks.
I wince. I knew this was coming. Benefactors are Deaths that get you ready for the Academy’s entrance exam. They tutor you on possible scenarios and even take you on actual assignments. Without a benefactor by your side, you’re not supposed to be a part of any death. All my friends have benefactors. They are crucial to passing the exam, but they are also a
luxury that my parents can’t afford.
“I don’t have one,” I whisper.
His scowl deepens even more and a perfect V creases his forehead. “Then how did you get this assignment?”
Uh-oh. This just went from bad to worse. I’m going to have to spill the beans on how I found out about the chip-monster.
“Did you know that the chipmunk isn’t scheduled for death for another year and a half?” he continues.
“Magnificus, what’s going on?” a voice rings out.
I’m dropped onto my feet with a hard thud. The towering halo turns his attention to someone behind me. I whip my head around and my heart leaps; it’s a hoodie. But my euphoria evaporates when I notice his uniform. He’s a Sickle. A Sickle is a cop in our world. If you haven’t guessed already, this little experiment with the chip-monster might have been a shade illegal.
“Demien,” Magnificus spits out. “ ‘What’s going on?’ I’m doing your job, that’s what.” He gives me a shove from behind and I sprawl to the earth. I skid to a stop at Demien’s feet. I peer up, and my eyes are met by his jagged scowl.
Demien’s raven-black hair is spiked in all different directions like he woke up this morning, stuck his hand in an electrical socket, and then moussed the outcome. His left eyelid droops slightly, but it does little to mask his brilliant emerald-green eyes. He’s a bit shorter than most adult hoodies, but he compensates by wearing thick-heeled boots. His uniform is neat and pressed, but from my point of view I can just make out his wrinkled T-shirt underneath his uniform.
“So what has he done?” Demien asks.
“That underage thug attempted to perform an unauthorized death,” Magnificus says.
“Who was the attempted target?” Demien asks.
“Chipmunk 4W8 dash Z739 dash 212. Or as his friends call him, Fluffy,” he responds.
“Fluffy? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I blurt out.
Demien gives me a forceful nudge with his boot, which I translate to mean “shut up.” He then pulls out a palm-sized gazer from his wide pocket and lifts it up to his mouth. I’ve only seen a handful of gazers in my life. They come in all shapes and sizes but can usually be held in one hand. They look very much like a shorty’s vanity mirror, but they don’t reflect anything and at times they glow blue. They are expensive and highly regulated. My dad told me they’re used for communicating with other Deaths and, more important, to get the names and times of those slated for death.
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