“I knew I recognized him from somewhere. I saw Scallion unmasked in the Shadow Passage. But why a vial of his blood? Was that supposed to symbolize something?”
Andy looked disgusted. “It wasn’t Scallion’s blood. The Kilodan suspected something. He asked the police to check the DNA. The blood belonged to Dr. Captious.”
I gasped.
“Nicolaitan’s message was clear—Dr. Captious’s offense against him was worse than Scallion’s. He only removed Scallion’s heart. I don’t even want to imagine what Nicolaitan has done to Dr. Captious’s body if all that was left was a vial of blood.”
I felt very tired. “I’m glad it’s over. Maybe now we can get a little break. I’ve had my fill of Knights for a while.”
“It’s not over,” Andy said. His face was somber. “The battle at the stadium was just a test. Nicolaitan is planning something bigger. He wanted to see the extent of the Psi Fighters’ strength.”
“A test?” I said. “I wonder if we passed.”
Andy nodded. “We did, that’s the problem. It only took four of us to capture a dozen of his Knights and scatter the rest. We defeated his Proletariat. He has seen what the Psi Fighters are capable of. Nicolaitan’s next attack will be far more deadly. We have to be prepared for anything.”
Just then, the Kilodan entered the room, followed by Drake and his dad.
“Our guests are taking their leave,” the Kilodan said.
“Thank you for all you have done,” Drake’s father said. “This has meant a lot to me.”
“My pleasure, old friend,” the Kilodan said. “Be well.”
“You survived the Mental Blast pretty well, I see,” I said to Drake.
“I had practice,” he said with a smile.
“That blast was meant for me,” I said. “You saved my life. Why?”
“Hey, I’m a Psi Fighter.” Drake blushed. “It’s what we do.”
“I’m glad you were there. We made a good team.”
Drake stared at his Psi Fighter uniform hanging on the rack. “I don’t suppose I can take this with me.”
“I don’t suppose,” I said. “But it will be here for you when you come back. Keep practicing.”
“I wish I could have saved Art,” Drake said, hanging his head. “He was my friend.”
“I wish you could have, too. Nobody deserves to die that way. But everything is different at school now.”
“I’ll miss you.” Drake smiled. “I really enjoyed my time with you, Rinnie. You were a great teacher.”
I laughed. “I was under the impression you couldn’t learn anything from me. After all, I’m a girl.”
“You taught me that I was a jerk.”
“I will admit you had some rough edges. But you weren’t all that bad.”
“I was a jerk.”
I squeezed Drake’s hand. “You were a jerk.”
“I needed that lesson most of all. Good-bye, Rinnie. Even though I’m not a Psi Fighter anymore, I’d like to keep in touch. Is that okay?”
“I don’t think we ever stop being Psi Fighters, Drake. It’s in our blood.” I threw my arms around him and hugged.
“And what did you learn, Grasshopper?” Andy asked me after Drake and his dad left.
“I learned that even jerks can turn out to be nice.”
“I learned to never again say yes to anything I am asked,” the Kilodan said. “Ever.”
“Can I get my driver’s license?” I asked, batting my eyes.
“No,” the Kilodan said.
“Ple-ease!”
“Drive the Andymobile.”
“I’ll tell Susie who you are.”
“I’ll ground you for the rest of your life.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Another Day in the Life
A week later, Kathryn, Bobby, Mason, and I sat in the library reminiscing. So much had happened in the week since the battle with the Knights. Tammy Angel had been arrested, Boot Milner was running scared. The Dweeb League gave the police insider information on drug use in the school that had led to a very successful raid. It seemed that Art Rubric’s death had sparked something even stronger than Psychedone 10. Tolerance for drug use had dropped below zero. Mrs. Bagley and the Dweeb League had succeeded in ridding the school of drugs, once and for all.
“Tammy Angel is in jail, and this time, there’s nothing her dad can do about it,” Bobby said.
“Art’s father had a lot to do with that,” Mason said. “He asked my dad for help to stop the people who had supplied Art with drugs. My dad is finally giving Dalrymple and Mrs. Bagley the support they never had. He planned the drug raid this week. Art’s death hit my dad pretty hard. He decided that being undercover as the corrupt mayor to get closer to the bad guys wasn’t worth the price. Dad thought Dalrymple was as corrupt as the others, but when the Knights tried to kill him, Dad knew he must be one of the good guys. He pulled Dalrymple in, and they turned state’s evidence against every corrupt cop on the force. He even got a search warrant for the back room at the Shadow Passage. They found a ton of stolen loot. That helped put Tammy away. Her dad might go down, too. Sounds like he was involved as much as she was.”
“I think maybe you had something to do with your father’s change,” I told Mason.
Mason smiled but said nothing.
“I still can’t believe Whatsisface is a Knight,” Bobby said. “That’s unreal.”
I would have liked to say, “Imagine how I felt finding out my adoptive father is the Kilodan,” but I didn’t. There was nobody I could talk to about that. Instead, I said, “His name is Hi. Stop calling him Whatsisface.”
“Having a name like Hieronymus Friedrich Bodenwerder could drive anybody to the dark side,” Kathryn said.
“He’s our insider, now,” Mason said. “He can get us close to Nicolaitan.”
“You mom, too,” Bobby said.
“Maybe. I hope so.”
“Whatsis—I mean, Hi doesn’t seem any different,” Bobby said.
“Oh, yes, he does,” Mason said. “Speaking of.”
The door to the little study room opened, and Hi walked in wearing a black tuxedo, with Tish on his arm. He gave me a little smile. I flashed a quick grin back.
“Welcome to the second official meeting of the Dweeb League Board of Directors,” Hi said. “Hieronymus Friedrick Bodenwerder presiding. I would like to open this meeting with a kiss.”
“A what?” Bobby said.
Hi grinned. “Let me demonstrate.” He pulled Tish squealing into his arms and put a very impressive lip-lock on her.
“Wow,” Bobby said. “That gives a whole new meaning to ‘Let this meeting come to order.’ What gives?”
“James Bond does it,” Hi said. “Napoleon Solo does it. Why not a reformed Walpurgis Knight who was saved by an angel?”
“Undercover Walpurgis Knight,” Kathryn said.
Tish got a sly look in her eyes. “I’m dating a boy with a secret identity. Isn’t that hot?”
“Definitely,” Mason said, glancing over at me.
“I hear you and Rinnie are dating,” Tish said.
“Maybe.”
“I don’t buy it,” Kathryn said.
“Well, we are.”
Kathryn shook her head. “Have you ever kissed?”
Mason’s face turned beet red.
“Kathryn!” I said.
“Have you ever kissed? How can you say you’re dating if you’ve never kissed the girl?”
“Like this,” Mason said. “We’re dating.”
“Prove it.” Kathryn tapped her fingers on the tabletop.
“No,” Mason said. “I won’t be badgered into kissing anyone. A kiss is a very special thing. I only do Princess Bride kisses.”
“You sound like a girl, dude,” Bobby said.
Mason leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “There. Happy?”
His lips were soft. And warm. I never knew that soft and warm could give you a chill.
“That’s the ki
nd of kiss you give your aunt,” Kathryn said. “That’s not a we-are-dating kind of kiss.”
“It was a perfectly fine kiss,” Mason said. “Go away.”
I did a flirty smile. “Is that any way to talk to your aunt?”
Mason did an eyebrow-raise. “As you wish.”
Kathryn said, “Do you even know what that line means?”
Mason nodded and said quietly, “Since the invention of the kiss, there have only been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. This one left them all behind.” He leaned close, then stopped and just gazed into my eyes. My heart sped up a little.
Kathryn squealed. “Go, Buttercup!”
Without warning, the door burst open and Pickles came flying in. “Emergency! Dweeb League Security Update!”
Mason buried his face in his hands and moaned like Lurch. “I cannot get a break.”
I sighed.
“What is it, Picks?” Hi said.
Pickles did an eyebrow raise and a two-finger salute. “All systems go. The halls have been swept. The city can sleep safely.”
“What did he say?” Kathryn asked.
I smiled, and said, “The Sweeper is on the job.”
“He is, ma’am,” Pickles said, pursing his lips. “But please be careful with that name when I’m unmasked. I don’t expect you to understand, but the life of a superhero isn’t for the faint of heart. The safety of Greensburg requires that no one learns the secret of my true identity.”
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “And Pickles?”
“Ma’am?”
“Stop calling me ma’am.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Quoth the Maven, Livermore
The night sky was filled with stars, and a crescent moon was unnaturally bright over the Livermore Burial Grounds. The Blue Ghost Lady, Almira Demiurge, stood before me, studying my uniform as though it were the most intriguing outfit she had ever seen. I had questions for her. At the cave of the Proletariat, she’d said something that made no sense.
“How do you know me?” I asked politely.
“You saved my boy,” Almira said. “I never forget a friend.”
“Egon,” I said.
“Yes, he was below. I am not allowed below. You told me you saved him from Robert. I am indebted to you.”
See, this was the confusing part. I had defeated Egon with the help of Susie and Mason, so he is safe from Nicolaitan’s influence because he’s in jail. But Almira seemed to be talking about some other time.
“How tall is Egon now?” I asked on a hunch. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
Almira smiled and held her hand just above her waist. The height of a six-year-old. Egon’s mother was still living in the past, just as Mrs. LaReau’s diary had said. “How do you know me?” I asked again.
“Don’t you remember?”
“No,” I said. “Sometimes I forget things. I’m sorry.”
“I forget sometimes, too. You are the Maven.”
Chills shot down my neck at the mention of that name.
“The night you came to save my boy, I told you about Robert,” Almira said. “You didn’t know him. You came back when he took your daughter. You wanted me to tell you how to find Robert, but I wasn’t allowed.”
My daughter… Tears welled up under my mask. Almira Demiurge didn’t know me. She knew my mask. My mother’s mask. She’d met my mother the day Nicolaitan kidnapped me.
Mom was the Maven.
“Are you allowed tell me how to find Robert now?”
Almira fidgeted, and tightened the ties of her blue bonnet.
“Please?”
Her face strained as though she were struggling to break free of some invisible terror. Then she relaxed and smiled. “He lives in the cemetery.”
“This cemetery?” I asked.
“Little cemetery,” she said. “Be safe. I must go.”
“Wait—” But it was too late. Almira walked away into the woods, toward wherever she called home.
The little cemetery. I wondered if that was a memory from her past, or if somewhere on the Livermore Burial Grounds there was a little cemetery that was more than it seemed. I had been all over Livermore. It was nothing but a big cemetery. The rumors of another cemetery along Ghost Trail had turned out to be wrong. Almira had been in Livermore for ten years. She must have known the terrain better than anyone. But for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine where it could be. Then I remembered something Mason’s dad said. All the girls from the Little clan are there. Mason’s mother had family buried in Livermore. Her maiden name was Little.
I started toward the huge pine trees that formed a dark circle around the graves at the center of the cemetery. Moonlight glistened on the shiny pine needles but couldn’t penetrate the circle. I went into Shimmer. Inside the circle, the darkness was deep, solemn, as though light was forbidden to enter. I stepped into the darkness. The air grew cold.
“Red,” I said, and my night vision engaged, but even the enhancements Andy had added couldn’t cut through the unnatural shadow beneath the pines. Tombstones poked up from between the tree roots at odd angles. Many were broken, some were missing. The mausoleum was nearly invisible at the center of the circle. I could make out a peaked roof supported by stone pillars. The mausoleum resembled an old sandstone church, windowless. As I approached it, the writing above the door became clear. Little Girls. The door’s latch was secured with a very old skeleton key padlock.
This was the Little cemetery. Where all the Little girls were buried.
The mausoleum was big. I wondered what I would find inside. I placed my hand against the stone door and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. I tried the lock, but it held tight. Rather than desecrating the place by slicing it open with a Thought Saber, I decided to look for another way in. If this tomb really was where Nicolaitan lived, breaking in would not be as easy as slicing off a padlock.
Slowly, soundlessly, I made my way to the back of the mausoleum. The darkness had become almost tangible and I was totally freaking. When I reached the back wall, I noticed an aged inscription engraved into the perfectly polished stone.
Here lie the Little Girls,
Servants of God.
Finding nothing else on the back wall, I moved to the side. It was not glassy smooth like the back, so I began to feel for a hidden latch. Protrusions jutted out in several places, joints where the rough-cut stones came together. But then I found a small mural of a sunrise in the lower corner. Two words were carved below the mural.
Push Here
Something about the words felt wrong. The inscription didn’t belong. The letters were etched in a frivolous font, unlike the somber inscription on the back wall. And newer. As though someone was making a joke about the dead. Something Nicolaitan would do.
I pressed the carving of the sun in the mural. It sank into the wall with the grinding of stone on stone. I rushed to the front of the mausoleum and tried the door. No good. It still wouldn’t budge. I tried the lock. Nothing. Then I remembered how fond Nicolaitan was of riddles.
“Push here” had a double meaning. Press where instructed, and push—the word itself. I walked to the back of the mausoleum, to the inscription saying the Little girls were servants of God.
I understood.
Nicolaitan had placed the entrance to his hidden training quarters in the most sinister part of the Livermore Burial Grounds. But he hadn’t written “Push Here.” Why would he give away his own secret entrance? Someone else had found the entrance to Camelot. Someone who’d wanted revenge. Had this been Scallion’s last act before he was murdered?
The word “Here” in “Here Lie the Little Girls” caught my eye. I pressed it, and a section of the glassy back wall slid silently inward. The secret entrance had a double-lock. Pushing the mural alone was only half of the combination.
Inside the mausoleum, four stone coffins sat side by side. My hands shook as I entered. If I were an evil, twisted ps
ychopath, I would put my secret entrance in a creepy place like this.
The floor was smooth stone with no joints at all. If there was a trap door in the little bit of floor space not occupied by caskets, I couldn’t find it. Maybe the caskets held a clue. More likely, they held resting souls whom I shouldn’t disturb.
I reached for the lid of the nearest coffin. I pushed hard, but it would not budge. I moved to the next one. The lid was heavy, but it moved. It took all my strength to lift it. Iron hinges grated softly as I raised the lid.
I held my breath. The coffin wasn’t empty, but the rotting corpse stench that I expected never hit me. The air that gushed out was hollow, odorless. The dark eye sockets of a fleshless skull glared up at me. I moved to the next casket.
The lid opened as adventure-free as the last one, the inhabitant just as angry. The fourth casket was no different. Doubt started to fill my head, disappointment that I had only found the tomb of Mason’s ancient relatives.
I returned to the unopened casket, determined to open it if I had to cut through it with a Thought Saber. I placed both hands on the lid and tried again. To my surprise, it opened easily.
I looked inside and sucked in my breath.
In place of a skeleton, I found a set of stairs leading down into the darkness…
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Acknowledgments
No book is ever published without a boatload of great minds behind it, and this one is no exception.
To Léna Viollier, the 10th grade French student who stayed in our house and stole our hearts. She hasn’t actually seen the book, but she really did steal our hearts, and it happened just as I was writing the acknowledgements. So there. To the real Mrs. Simmons, my 12th grade English teacher, who made me want to be a writer. To my Agent Extraordinaire, SuperNic Resciniti, for listening to my whining. To my Publisher, Liz Pelletier, for redesigning the universe. To my Amazing Editors, Stacy Abrams and Lydia Sharp, who, as always, shaped the story into something better than I originally imagined. To my beta readers, Janice Tokarsky, Alexandra von Briel, Rachael Petrill, Heather Braham, Becca Braham, Matthew Moon, and Michele Mayger, for all their insight into the Psi Fighter mind. To the Psi Fighter Street Team, for all their awesomeness: Allykin Skywalker, aka Alexandra von Briel; Sassy Fangirl 101, aka Sarah Makar; Katherine.Hollisburg, aka Jessica Mitchell; Angie Won Kenobi, aka Angela Mitchell. To their parents for driving them to and from the Young Writer’s Group meetings at the White Rabbit. To anyone not mentioned (and I know you exist) who helped me with Live and Let Psi, even though my fragile mind forgot to put you on this page. Special thanks to Heather Braham for all her help in designing the story lines and character arcs. In the sea at Ocean Isle. Yeah, that was tough, but she’s a trooper. To my family, for putting up with me. And most importantly, to God. He’s let me live this long, and I’m happy about that.
Live and Let Psi Page 27