Knavery: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 6)

by Cidney Swanson

  He followed Georg out of the lab, slipping alongside him as Georg walked toward his room.

  Except Georg didn’t go into his room.

  Instead, Georg entered the private office of Dr. Fritz Gottlieb.

  Skandor replayed the conversation he’d just overheard between Georg and Gottlieb and felt certain Gottlieb had not given Georg permission to enter. How very wayward of the dragon-boy. Skandor felt a moment’s admiration: it was something Loki would do, akin to raiding Father Odin’s private quarters.

  Skandor followed.

  The dragon-boy evidently wanted something in particular and knew where to find it. As Skandor observed, Georg moved unerringly to Gottlieb’s desk where he picked up a pen and inserted the back end into the bottom left hand drawer of the desk. Silently, the drawer slid open, revealing a series of vials marked AGA. Swiftly, Georg replaced six of the vials in the back row with six identical looking ones kept hidden in his pockets. Having done this, Georg laughed softly to himself and returned to his own room with Skandor following silently, curious as to why Georg had stolen the vials and what was inside of them.

  Could it be the enzymatic treatment Georg and Katrin had discussed?

  Inside his chambers once more, Georg retrieved two identical syringes and needles and proceeded to draw the liquid from two of the vials. After this, Georg injected himself with the liquid.

  It must be the enzyme, thought Skandor, because Georg had too high a view of his own worth to inject himself with something injurious. The spare syringe, Georg placed in his pocket, humming softly to himself, his left eye twitching. Having done this, Georg exited his room, vanishing.

  On a hunch, Skandor pushed through the wall and into Katrin’s room just in time to witness Georg coming solid with Katrin in his arms.

  Skandor rolled his eyes. Really? This was Georg’s “nap”? Feeling particularly displeased that his hunch had been correct, Skandor settled himself in one corner and prepared to eavesdrop on the siblings. But Georg seemed in no hurry to awaken Katrin. Had he forgotten the phrase with which to awaken the slumbering girl? Skandor crossed invisible fingers and invisible toes.

  Instead of trying to wake the girl, however, Georg prepped Katrin’s arm for an injection from the second syringe.

  Aha! Skandor had been right; this had to be the serum Katrin had demanded Georg to procure for her.

  Skandor wished he was the one administering the cure. He should have thought of it. Now Georg would be the hero.

  What if Georg was planning to take Katrin away next? Skandor felt a wash of panic rushing through him. Georg couldn’t take the girl. What had Georg ever done to deserve her smiles? Other than growing up with her and bringing her necklace back and healing her sickness. When Skandor looked at it like that, he had to admit Katrin might have a reason to be impressed with Georg.

  Skandor scowled, invisible arms crossed over his invisible chest, as Georg looked at Katrin, sighed heavily, and then disappeared with the girl.

  No! This was not the way the story was supposed to play out. Skandor was on the point of coming solid and shouting some ill-judged challenge after Georg when Georg came solid again in the room, alone. Was the girl … back on the bed, then?

  Georg looked around the room, located the syringe assembly, picked it up, and vanished, having first taken a few steps toward the room he slept in down the hall. Skandor raced through the wall and into Georg’s room, arriving moments before Georg came solid and sprawled on his bed. In another few seconds, Georg was making the heavy sounds of sleep-breathing.

  Skandor thought of all the times he’d ventured into Jotunheim Cabin or Niflheim Cabin to play pranks on the slumbering campers. Something like nostalgia for the old days passed through his mind. Maybe he should spray shaving cream on Georg’s hands.

  He decided not to, though, because really, he had better things to do with his time.

  Passing through the walls, he slipped into Katrin’s chamber. He came solid and set his phone to notify him when twenty minutes had passed. And then he cloaked himself in preparation to bring Katrin back solid.

  Skandor had only “retrieved” cloaked items a handful of times back home. Each time, it had been while Camp Midgard was in session. He’d stolen a care package laden with contraband potato chips once, placing it deep in the wooded area no one visited. It had taken Skandor three tries over the course of a week to find the invisible chips. After that, Skandor had been more careful to mark the places he set his hidden treasures. He smiled, remembering how he’d cloaked a five gallon tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, which he’d enjoyed over the course of the summer whenever it suited him. How delighted he’d been to find it didn’t melt or go stale while it sat invisibly next to the top of the flume.

  But Skandor had never attempted to cloak, much less to retrieve, another human being. Still, if Georg could do it, surely Skandor could do it. He felt for the edges of the girl’s form, hoping those edges would be as apparent as the five gallon tub of mint chocolate chip had been. When he felt certain he’d placed his arms around her, he uncloaked.

  It worked. Skandor laughed at his own audacity. It had worked, by the thunder of Asgard!

  Katrin looked more beautiful than ever. Her lips were slightly parted, round and soft and red like autumn dogwood berries. He wanted to run a hand over that alabaster cheek, and he knew with certainty mischievous Loki would have done that (and more) to the girl as she lay sleeping. But placing shaving cream on a jotun camper while he slept was one thing, and touching the face of a warrior-maiden without her permission was quite another.

  Skandor slid off the bed and placed himself in the far corner of the room. After a glance at his smart phone (eighteen minutes remaining), he spoke the syllables that would bring Katrin to life.

  “Svegliati.”

  Her eyes flew open and she sat up, looking disoriented for a fraction of a second before she seemed to remember where she was. But then her gaze fell on Skandor and her eyes narrowed.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  Gone was the peaceful vision who’d slumbered on the bed. Fire gathered in her eyes and her fists clenched tightly.

  “I’m Skandor,” he said. “Skandor Jan Waldhart Dusselhoff.”

  “That,” she said cautiously, “is certainly a mouthful of German. Why are you here? Why am I awake?”

  “I woke you.” Skandor’s carefully prepared speech about rescuing the maiden from the dragon had evaporated, leaving a dearth of language behind.

  “Okay. And why did you wake me?” asked Katrin, speaking slowly, as though Skandor was a few logs short of a ski cabin.

  “Oh. That.” Skandor felt his face turning bright red. “So we could talk.”

  Katrin’s arms crossed. “Why does Uncle Fritz want us to talk?”

  “Fritz?” Skandor’s ability to form sentences was remarkably poor at the moment. “Well, Fritz Gottlieb doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “How did you get in?” demanded Katrin, her gaze darting to the locked door and back again.

  Because words were such a lot of work at the moment, Skandor chose to vanish and reappear in order to answer her question.

  “You’re a caméleon?” she asked in surprise. “Has dearest Uncle Fritzi found his new supply, then?”

  “A new supply of chameleons? No. No. I’ve been able to do this all my life. I never met anyone else who could, er, ‘chameleonize’ until I came to work here.”

  “You work here?”

  Skandor nodded in response.

  “Whatever for?” demanded Katrin. “Does Fritz know you’re a caméleon? Are you some kind of neo-Nazi?”

  Skandor frowned. “My great-grandparents fled Germany. They hated the Nazis. I wish people wouldn’t assume your family must like Nazis just because you have a German name.”

  “Please forgive me,” said Katrin. She looked truly apologetic. Or as if she might burst out laughing—Skandor wasn’t sure which. “Your given name’s unusual.”

  “It
’s supposed to sound Icelandic or Swedish or something. My parents run a Scandia-camp.”

  “A … Scandia-camp?”

  “Yes. A fake-y Scandinavian themed camping experience for overweight children entering fifth through eighth grades.”

  Katrin nodded as though this were a completely ordinary thing. Skandor couldn’t help feeling just a tiny bit pleased. No one ever nodded as though Scandi-camps were in the category of normal things.

  “And you’re here today because you wanted to talk with me?” asked Katrin.

  “Yes. Well, really, I’d like to rescue you. I mean, with your permission, obviously. I know Georg offered to rescue you, too—”

  Katrin cut across his words. “How do you know about that?”

  “Oh,” said Skandor. He fiddled with his smart phone. His alarm would sound in six and one half minutes. “Well, I’d like to tell you that Georg confided in me,” he said. Then he sighed heavily. “But that wouldn’t be the truth. I … I spied on the two of you.”

  One of Katrin’s brow arched. “Indeed.” Her tone was dry. Unapproving.

  “Yes,” continued Skandor, feeling his cheeks flushing once again. “But if you let Georg rescue you, I think Gottlieb will try a lot harder to find the two of you because Gottlieb likes Georg. Whereas if I rescue you, well, Gottlieb doesn’t even know I can cloak myself. Chameleonize, I mean.”

  Katrin’s mouth pulled up on one side. “‘Cloak’ is good. I don’t think I’ve ever heard ‘caméleonize’ used before. Georg says ‘ripple’ sometimes.” She crossed her arms and stared sternly at Skandor. “So, let me get this straight. You’re a caméleon, and you work for Fritz Gottlieb, and you don’t like him, and you think it’s your duty to … rescue me?”

  Skandor nodded. “So, what do you think? Shall we go now? Oh, I almost forgot. Georg gave you a shot of that thing you need. To stay healthy.” Skandor pointed to her arm and then tapped the inside of his own elbow.

  Katrin’s eyes dropped to her elbow. Pushing up her sleeve, she found the evidence of the injection in the form of a spreading bruise. “That will be fun to explain,” she muttered, pulling her sleeve back down to cover the bruising. “You’re certain it was the enzyme treatment?” she asked.

  Skandor nodded. “I saw him steal it and inject himself with the same thing right before injecting you with it.”

  The eyebrow arched again. “My, you have been a busy spy, haven’t you?”

  The smart phone in Skandor’s hand buzzed. His time was up. He shouldn’t risk staying longer. Georg might wake up and come back to see how Katrin was doing.

  “I have to go,” said Skandor. “I don’t want to get caught. So, what do you say? About the rescue?”

  Katrin’s mouth curved into half a smile. “I think it’s charming that you offered, but I really can’t—”

  “Oh,” said Skandor, his face falling. “Your friend. The other girl….” He struggled to remember the girl’s name.

  “Hanna,” murmured Katrin, all traces of her smile gone. “Yes. You know about her, too?”

  “I know it’s against about a million laws for Gottlieb to hold you both prisoner here. I could … rescue you both, maybe … somehow….”

  Katrin shook her head. “I am honored by your offer. Really. But it seems like there are a few pieces missing from your plan. How are you going to rescue both of us? We weigh too much, together. And what about Hanna’s need for the enzyme? And there are two others—my foster brothers.”

  Skandor’s face fell. “I didn’t think about any of that.” He deflated onto the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs. It wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t come with him, because even if he was pretty good at coming up with camp mischief, he was lousy at coming up with rescue plans.

  Then he remembered something. “I know where the enzymes are kept. I could steal some.” But then he frowned. “Except, I don’t have anything to put in their place. Georg had six fake vials to replace the ones he stole.”

  “Georg stole six vials?”

  Skandor nodded.

  “Did he give them to my brothers and Hanna?”

  Skandor shook his head. “He stuffed them in his pocket.” Skandor squirmed uncomfortably. “I suppose I could … steal them from Georg.” He had some limited experience taking things without waking people up.

  Katrin seemed to be distracted. “I can’t believe he gave me a shot and not the others.”

  “I think you’re the only one Georg is interested in helping,” ventured Skandor.

  Katrin cursed softly. “I need time,” she said. “I need time to think it through from all the angles. I need a plan in place for keeping all of us safe.”

  “Listen, maybe you could come up with the actual rescue plan. And I could be, um, your ‘getaway vehicle.’ For each of you, one at a time, when you’re ready.”

  “If only we had our abilities back—we could just vanish.”

  Skandor’s eyes flew wide. “You’re all cloakers?”

  Katrin nodded sadly.

  This was a lot to take in.

  “You’re like me?”

  She nodded. “I assumed you already knew.”

  “No,” said Skandor, feeling as though destiny was whispering in his ear.

  “You said you had to go?” asked Katrin.

  Skandor dropped slam-dunk back into reality. He glanced at his watch. He was treading dangerous ground. It was almost time for Fritz and Georg’s dinner, and they usually ate it together, just across the hall in Fritz’s office.

  “Right. So, work on that escape plan, okay?” said Skandor, preparing to go.

  Katrin shook her head. “That would be a great idea except for one detail: I don’t exactly spend a lot of my time conscious, thanks to dear Uncle Fritzi.” She folded her arms over her chest again, looking as angry as the Aesir host after one of Loki’s tricks.

  “I could put you back without placing you under hypnosis,” suggested Skandor. “You can think all you like while you’re cloaked. I do it all the time.”

  Katrin’s hand flew to her mouth. “That would be wonderful. That’s actually a very good idea.”

  “You’d just have to pretend to wake up when you hear someone say svegliati.”

  “Yes. Yes—that is a very good plan.” She looked at Skandor carefully. And then she smiled softly. “And thank you for the offer to rescue me. I’m not in a position to take you up on it today, but … you never know. It was nice meeting you, Skandor, whatever else happens.” She held her hand out, to shake.

  Skandor felt his cheeks warming again, but he took her hand in his. It was softer than he expected, for a warrior-maiden. “It was nice meeting you, too. Oh. And, would you mind not telling Georg about me? If you talk with him? I could lose my job.”

  “You could lose a lot more than that if Georg told Gottlieb about you.” Katrin said solemnly. “I promise to keep your secret.”

  “Thanks.”

  She held her arms out. “I’m ready to disappear.”

  As Skandor placed his arms around her, he noticed how soft her skin felt where it touched his, and then they both vanished and he couldn’t feel anything except a sort of sadness that she wouldn’t agree to leave with him.

  Skandor made his lonely way back to the monitoring room, where exactly nothing had changed since he’d left. And then he realized he’d forgotten to bring the tin of cookies to the girl.

  Next time, he thought to himself.

  Because if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that there would be a “next time.” She was a cloaker. Skandor grinned to himself with a feeling that his destiny was unfurling before him at last.

  15

  TRANSDERMAL ROUTES OF ADMINISTRATION

  A week and a half later, Georg dined with his uncle and heard some news that was unexpected, welcome, and timely. Georg had been more and more a guest at his uncle’s dinner table, spread in his office. The food was plain but wholesome; Georg didn’t care for it at all.

  “I shall be de
parting this evening, my boy.”

  “Yes, Uncle?” It was his most inviting response.

  Georg had been attempting to perfect the “inviting response,” finding that this was a better way to obtain information than asking a direct question.

  “Indeed. I think I mentioned it to you. A conference in Fresno. Transdermal Routes of Administration for the Twenty-First Century.”

  “I hope it will not … bore you, Uncle.” Georg was fishing for how long his uncle might be away.

  “It’s only for the weekend,” said Fritz. “No, I think I will find it all quite interesting, my boy.”

  “Ah,” said Georg, carefully applying his attention to his fish and cauliflower.

  Uncle Fritz continued, expressing his hopes this would satisfy the bastards in Sacramento that Geneses was pursuing worthy goals for the betterment of the human race.

  Georg nodded sympathetically. The encouragement to “demonstrate goals consistent with the highest aims,” et cetera, had made clear the corporation was still under close scrutiny.

  “There are one or two individuals I am especially looking forward to … overhearing.” Uncle Fritz smiled, and Georg understood his uncle to be saying the “overhearing” would be done in caméleon form. He had the distinct sense his uncle was hiding something from him, however.

  Georg wished, and not for the first time, that he had his brother Hansel’s gift to easily hear the thoughts of others. Although, perhaps it wouldn’t have served him, anyway. Hansel had taught Fritz to conceal what he was thinking, and Hansel had, when Georg asked, reported that Fritz was capable of hiding all but his most emotionally laden concerns. So, if Uncle Fritz was trying to keep something back, Georg wouldn’t have heard it, anyway.

  “Uncle,” began Georg, “I’m sure it’s my own ignorance, but I don’t see how attending a conference with those beneath your contempt will assist in your long-term goals—”

  Fritz interrupted him. “That’s because I do not choose to reveal to you my ultimate aims.”

  Georg attempted to look chastened.