“My bowels are fine!”
“Why are you shouting?” Baba looked quizzically at Ma. “Something wrong with her digestion or her hearing?”
Oy. I loved my parents, but sometimes I really couldn’t stand them. “Could we just watch the TV show, please?” I pointed to the screen, which had finally come to life.
When we’d started watching the Thirteen Rivers television channel last November, I was surprised at how many bizarre ads they broadcast. Like the one for the energy drink called KiddiePow™: guaranteed to keep kids up all night, and put hair on their chests to boot. And then there was Mr. Madan Mohan’s Artisanal Moustache Oil™, a product made by a strange little shopkeeper I’d met on my last visit to the Kingdom Beyond, which claimed to give any user, regardless of age or gender, a moustache that was longer side to side than they were tall. And then there was the company that seemed to be popular across multiple dimensions. The commercial that was on that day.
“Who is the pinkiest girl in the land?” shrieked a little girl in a rosy lehenga choli and sparkling tiara. She was super hyped up, like she’d just downed a six-pack of KiddiePow™ with a side of chomchoms.
“Princess Pretty Pants!” chanted the posse of girls behind her. Each kid had a Princess Pretty Pants™ doll in her hands, but unlike the ones in this dimension, these Kingdom Beyond dolls could walk, talk, poop, and even do gymnastics.
“Sashays, gallivants, and always enchants?” shouted the oversugared lead girl.
“Princess Pretty Pants!”
“Cute and stinky and amazingly pinky! It’s who?”
“Princess Pretty Pants!” The girls and dolls cheered and cartwheeled.
The screen froze mid-cartwheel and a male announcer voice said, “Magical batteries not included. Princess Pretty Pants, Inc., and TSK Industries are not responsible for any alterations in self-esteem you might experience with use of this product. If deep-rooted insecurities or increased pressure to conform to patriarchal expectations of femininity arise, please consult someone else, not us. We now return to our regularly scheduled program.”
Before the screen switched to the Intergalactic News Network studios, though, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before at the end of the Princess Pretty Pants™ commercial. A logo, like a snake eating its own tail, and the words TSK Industries in gaudy gold lettering.
I shivered and looked up at the moon, which was streaming brightly through our open living room curtains. For a second, I thought that maybe my birth mother, the moon maiden, was trying to talk to me. But I didn’t feel filled up with any of her silvery strength. Instead, I felt trapped, like I was in a cold and clammy cell. I gasped, my teeth almost chattering. And then, just as quickly as it came, the feeling was gone again.
“Are you all right, darling?” Baba put his big palm on my forehead. “Have you been taking your gummy vitamins?”
“Yup! Right as rain!” I said fake cheerily. “Look! The news is on!”
Ms. Twinkle Chakraborty was the glamorous news anchor with ginormous lashes and a dangly nose ring who read the IGNN headlines. Just like in our dimension, there were plenty of terrible things happening in the Kingdom Beyond: ghostly raids on fish markets, rakkhosh attacks during community theater events, a band of khokkosh who crashed a wedding party and ate the caterers. Then there was a news segment on something called the Chintamoni Stone—the so-called Thought Stone—which used to be a part of the Raja’s crown jewels, but was stolen by some invaders during a long-ago war. Legend had it, explained the pouty-lipped Ms. Twinkle, that the sparkling white jewel granted wishes, and gave its owner long life. But in combination with its partner, the bright yellow Poroshmoni, or Touch Stone, which the Raja still wore in his royal turban, the stone was even more powerful, and could make it rain precious metals from the sky.
Huh. Twin jewels—the Thought Stone and the Touch Stone—that could make it rain gold and platinum down from the sky. Why did that sound familiar? But I couldn’t remember right then.
Ms. Twinkle continued, in her weird, affected accent, “We at Intergalooctic News Network are delooghted to share this IGNN excloosive: there is a chance noo for the Chintamooni Stoon to come hoome at loong last! We join the Raja at the palooce for a highly anticipooted annooncement!”
The image on the television cut to the interior of the palace throne room. Lal and Neel’s father was in a shiny brocade jacket and a silk turban. At the turban’s crown was an elaborate brooch with what I now recognized as the huge yellow Poroshmoni jewel, and a single peacock feather sticking out from the top. I didn’t see any sign of Lal, Neel, or Mati behind the Raja, or even a glimpse of Tuntuni, the talking yellow bird who was also the kingdom’s chief minister.
“Mrph pahpa.” The Raja was talking, but I could barely understand him. Obviously, no one had told our scatterbrained monarch not to eat while he was making an intergalactic news broadcast. So His Royal Majesty kept reaching into the bags of vinegar-and-chili-flavored chips his ministers held out for him, shoving the nasty chips into his mouth as he spoke.
“My people,” he said again with a crunch, crunch, crackle, “too long has our most precious Chintamoni Stone been outside our borders. It is time for our national treasure to come home!” Crumbs flew out of the Raja’s mouth and onto his thick moustache. “So when our new ally suggested this innovative plan, I embraced it like the visionary genius I am!”
The Raja’s white-bearded ministers all jumped up and clapped for at least a full minute, yelling things like, “Hear, hear!” “The jewels in our crown!” “The Raja’s a jolly genius monarch!” and “No chips like vinegar-and-chili chips!”
The Raja grinned, waiting for all the applause to die down before he said, “But this is not only a chance to regain our Thought Stone! This is also an answer to our kingdom’s demon crisis! Too long have we been terrorized by these ferocious, rhyming monsters, these bloodthirsty rakkhosh, khokkosh, doito, and danav! Our kingdom has fought war after war with Demon Land. We have tried spells and curses, tightening our borders, but to no avail!” The Raja slammed his fist down, crushing some chips. “The time has come for a better solution, never mind what those skateboarding rebels say! On this auspicious day, we hereby announce a revolutionary new opportunity to not only win back the Chintamoni Stone, but rid ourselves of our demon problem once and for all!”
I leaned forward to hear the Raja’s announcement. Unfortunately, just at that moment, the TV image cut out, going to a plain green screen with a loud accompanying beep.
“Did the remote break again?” asked Ma as Baba shook the vibrating machine.
Then the TV screen came to life once more, but we were no longer looking at the royal palace, or even the IGNN newsroom. First came some studio logos. A pebble thrown into a still lake caused the words Undersea Productions to appear in the ripples. Then a splattering of bright red over a white canvas was the logo for Lifeblood Pictures, Inc. Finally, a roaring crocodile indicated funding from Reptile Studios International. Then, after a second of pause, a very familiar face came on the screen: my evil birth father, the Serpent King. Baba gave a little shout, but I couldn’t say anything. It was like my voice had dried up at the sight of him.
“IGNN viewers, do not be alarmed!” Sesha was in his human form, all oozy handsomeness and flashing green eyes.
Of course, I was alarmed. Seriously alarmed. During our adventure last fall, Neel and I had destroyed Sesha’s underworld palace, and then, when we’d had to fight him again, my moon mother had smoked the Serpent King with her magic moonbeams until he was ash. My birth mother had warned me his defeat was temporary, but it was still freaky to see him.
Sesha’s shimmery satin smoking jacket glinted with inlaid jewels, which were only outdone by the ruby, emerald, and diamond rings on his fingers. The Serpent King’s green-black moustache and beard were trimmed in snake shapes, he had a crown of serpent teeth on his head, and he sat on a throne of gaudy green velvet in a chandelier-filled room. To one side was a rich tapestry depictin
g that same image of the TSK Industries logo—the head of a snake biting its own tail.
“I interrupt the Raja’s announcement of our new interspecies partnership because he has no showmanship! What a bore with all that vinegar-and-chili chip eating, am I right? I mean, I hate vinegar-and-chili chips!”
I saw Ma and Baba exchange a look. Because of course, I hated vinegar-and-chili chips too. It was seriously creepy to realize it was something I could have inherited from Sesha. I put my hand over my snake sign, the scar I had on my upper arm from where my birth father had attacked me when I was a baby. I hated to think he had marked me in so many ways.
“I always say, if you want something done with proper pizzazz, you have to do it yourself!” The Serpent King made fancy jazz hands, then shouted, in a cheesy game-show-announcer voice, “The Serpent King Industries is proud to announce our answer to the Kingdom Beyond’s demon problem. Not a war. Not a treaty. Not a foreign infiltration of their internet. But the newest, most exciting reality game show in the multiverse! It’s Who. Wants. To. Be. A. Demon Slayeeer?”
There were two hooded cobras twisted around Sesha’s arms, which now picked up their heads to say, “rahhh!” like a cheering crowd. A bunch of fireworks went off and a logo flashed on-screen of someone valiantly fighting off a drooling rakkhosh with a bow and arrow. The thing that made me pause was the girl doing the fighting, who had green skin, a black braid, and purple combat boots.
Ma gave a choked little gasp, hugging me tight. “Except for the skin, that looks like …” She didn’t have to say it out loud.
Baba gulped, hugging me from the other side. “I know!”
“Guys!” I protested from the middle of their hug sandwich. “I can’t breathe!”
My parents cooled it with the panicky hugging, but still looked visibly shaken. As for myself, I was experiencing a mix of rage, disgust, and confusion. Sesha was back in mortal form, and the first thing he was doing was starting a reality game show in partnership with the Kingdom Beyond? This all had to be some kind of trick. Plus, what was with using someone who looked like me as the logo? What a sicko.
“For those of you who survive the three tests of the contest, the rewards are astronomical. Rubies, diamonds, jewels beyond your wildest imaginings.” Sesha let a bunch of colored stones fall through his fingers and into a giant chest. “But this is also a friendly contest between our two great nations. If the grand-prize winner is from the Kingdom Beyond, then you get to win your Raja back this.” The Serpent King held up a glowing white jewel in his hands, letting it catch and split the light into dancing sparks. “The famed Chintamoni Thought Stone, granter of wishes and long life.”
“That must be why the Raja agreed,” said Baba. “A chance for the kingdom to get back the jewel. But what is in it for that scummy snake, that … that … pooper-scooper?”
Needless to say, Baba didn’t curse very much, so this was strong talk for him. The thing was, Sesha had made his first seven kids—my brothers—into one awful seven-headed snake, Naga. He’d then tried to do the same to baby me, but my moon mother had stopped him and helped my adopted parents flee across the dimensions to New Jersey with me. Sesha hadn’t even known I was still alive until last fall, when the spell protecting Ma, Baba, and me had expired, sucking my adopted parents back to the Kingdom Beyond. When he’d seen me recently, Sesha had again tried to make me into one of his minions. Needless to say, none of this made Sesha very popular in our house.
On the TV, the Serpent King went on, “If the winner is someone from the Kingdom of Serpents, why, then, we win the Poroshmoni Stone.” The image on-screen cut to a still of the yellow stone in the Raja’s turban. “Either way, the twin jewels will be reunited, in one kingdom or the other.”
“It’s not going to be a fair contest,” I muttered. “Not when Sesha is involved.” But even as I said this, I could imagine how good it might feel to win the contest and beat Sesha at his own game. I felt a little dizzy at the thought.
“Thousands of hopeful contestants are filling out their required paperwork at Who Wants to Be a Demon Slayer? official registration offices, located conveniently throughout the Kingdom Beyond, the Kingdom of Serpents, and multiple points in between,” Sesha said as the screen cut to what looked like miles-long lines of human-appearing and snaky applicants. In one place, there was a stampede as the doors of the registration center were opened. People were pushing and shoving each other in their desperate efforts to get a registration form, ripping papers out of each other’s hands.
“Only a lucky few will pass our rigorous applicant selection process. Those who do will face tests both physical and mental. You will fight specially selected demons that challenge your every skill. Already, my minions are rounding up rakkhosh, khokkosh, doito, and danav into a magically reinforced demon detention center specially constructed by The Serpent King Industries!”
The screen switched to some kind of undersea dungeon with row after row of closed steel doors. Even though we couldn’t see any of the demons, the sound of moaning and crying coming from behind the locked doors was a little disturbing. And there was the TSK Industries logo again on the steel doors—of course! TSK must stand for “The Serpent King!”
“Yes, my modern-day gladiators!” Sesha tossed back his head and cackled evilly, like a movie villain plotting world destruction. “You chosen few will fight these monsters, and those of you who win will become not just heroes, not just reality TV superstars, but demon-slaying legends!”
Even though I knew he couldn’t see me through the TV, I squirmed under Sesha’s gaze. It was like he’d weaseled out my deepest desire—to be a hero, a star, a legend—and made it all dirty. I felt muddled and ashamed. I wondered how anyone related to such a bad guy could ever hope to become something good.
Then, before disappearing into a cloud of green smoke, the Serpent King shouted, “So good luck, you stupid contestants! I’m afraid you’ll need it!”
The two cobras on Sesha’s arms looked at the camera and said in clipped voices, “Offer valid only for official selected Who Wants to Be a Demon Slayer? contestants. Offer for participation in the Who Wants to Be a Demon Slayer? contest cannot be combined with other offers to The Snake King amusement parks, vacation cruises, or TSK All-You-Can-Kill chain of restaurants. Use at your own risk. The Snake King, Inc., is not liable for any loss of limb, loss of perspective, or any hospital, tailor, or funeral expenses.”
And with a sudden sticking out of the cobra’s tongues, they all disappeared. My parents and I stared at each other in weirded-out silence.
The screen shifted back to the IGNN studios, where Ms. Twinkle Chakraborty looked like she was about to burst. “Viewers, remember, yoo heard it here at IGNN first—any oone of yoo coould become the savioor of the Kingdoom Beyoond, and win back the famed Chintamooni Stoone! Just fill oot the handy-dandy application foorm and yoo’re on yoo’re way to becooming a legend!” The anchor fluttered her fake lashes. “And if that wasn’t enoogh yoo will never guess who just paid us a surprise visoot to the IGNN studioos!”
The camera panned out to show Prince Lalkamal, wearing his signature red silk tunic and turban, looking as handsome as ever next to the flushed news anchor.
“Thank you for having me here, Ms. Twinkle.” Lal kissed the anchor’s hand in a move straight out of a fairy tale. For a second, I worried the woman might faint.
“Oor pleasure, Croown Prince, oor pleasure!” she gushed like a hyperventilating ox. She was rubbing her face against Lal’s arm so much her sparkly teep had become un-stuck from the center of her forehead and was kind of hanging out above her left eyebrow.
Then Lal looked directly into the camera, his handsome face all smiles. “I have an important personal message for the Princess Kiranmala.”
“What, what, what?” Baba turned up the volume as Ma and I leaned closer to the TV.
“Kiranmala, come stand beside me and be the Kingdom Beyond’s champion.” Lal grinned and I was filled with a surge of affection f
or my sweet friend. “I may be the crown prince, but you are already our beloved Princess Demon Slayer.”
Princess Demon Slayer, huh? That was the first time I’d heard that name, but I kind of liked it.
“Together, we will win the Serpent King’s challenge. We will rid the kingdom of its rakkhosh problem, together. We will win back the precious Thought Stone—together.”
Ms. Twinkle Chakraborty now had her coiffed head leaning entirely on Lal’s shoulder. I was pretty sure this wasn’t professional anchorperson behavior. “Princess Kiroonmala, you looky herooine—if you’re watching, your people need yooou!” She winked, then did an eyebrow waggle that put Ma’s to shame. “The Crown Prince Lalkamal needs yooou!”
Before Baba clicked the newscast off, Lal gave the camera a meaningful stare.
“There are more things to save than you can even know,” Lal said in an extra-intense voice. “Remember, Kiranmala, you are the hero your people have been waiting for!”
I can’t believe my parents won’t let me go to the Kingdom Beyond and join the contest!” I whined for the thousandth time as I got off the school bus the next morning. “It’s so unfair!”
“Right, because this Who Wants to Be a Demon Slayer? show doesn’t sound at all like an elaborate trap set for you by your evil birth dad,” Zuzu yelled as we dashed, backpacks held over our heads, toward the front entrance of Alexander Hamilton Middle School. It was horrible weather, even for early February. There were golf-ball-sized chunks of ice falling from the sky, like we were on the losing side of a dodgeball game against the gods. “Didn’t the Serpent King say you were, like, some kind of weapon he wanted to use in some upcoming war?”
Sesha had said exactly that. Darn Zuzu and her good memory.
“If this were a trap, why would Lal be asking me to come home?” I asked, my purple combat boots sloshing through the icy puddles. “They need me to get this magic thought stone back! Lal probably knows he can’t do it without me! Anyway, all that weapon-in-the-coming-war stuff was just bad-guy talk. Probably.”
Game of Stars Page 2
