“Gods help us all,” Natalie said after her brother.
Fifteen minutes seemed to take forever. Bellamy was the first to go down to the library, down and down into the darkest parts of the school.
The Harmswood library housed thousands of books on every subject imaginable; the rows of shelves seemed to go on forever. The air was thick with the smell of old books and older spells. Some of the books sat docilely on their shelves. Some had to be chained in place. Some faded in and out of existence, depending on the time of day, the time of year, or just the lighting.
Outside the main stacks there were several rooms in the library for arcane texts, one room devoted entirely to the history of Harmswood, and the vault. In that vault, surrounded by stone and spells and accessible only by a key held by the librarian, were some of the most powerful and chaotic objects the world had ever seen…including a magic traveling mirror.
Bellamy knew of the mirror’s existence because there was a legend about an instance where it was used—a student whose home was halfway around the world had a family member suddenly taken ill. Or taken prisoner. Or released from a thousand-year-old spell. There were many versions of the story, but one detail always remained the same: the traveling mirror.
“Hello, Bellamy!”
She gave Ace and the still-very-loud Sam a cursory wave as she entered the library, and then began to wander through the stacks.
The clock on the wall ticked like molasses.
Bellamy made her way over to the section full of costumes from around the world…this world, and others. Her eyes slid to the fairy tale and folklore books across the aisle. A colorful spine caught her eye. She took the book off the shelf, cracked it open, and immediately felt at ease. All the stories shelved here were like her comfort food. If she lost track of time—which she sincerely hoped she did—Hubble and Natalie were sure to find her.
But the next person that appeared in the aisle was neither Hubble nor Natalie. It was Professor Blake.
Oh, nasty word.
“Missing home?” Professor Blake said with a nod to the massive collections of fairy tales on either side of them.
“Always,” Bellamy answered. Which was true, but right now she was missing a lot more than just her family back in South Carolina.
“My heart goes out to those of you who can’t return home for every school break.”
“It’s all right,” said Bellamy. “I enjoy the quiet.”
Her heart began to pound. Getting detained by the Head Witch wasn’t in their plan. Tinker, we’re on our way. Don’t give up…
“I am aware that your family originally came from a world beyond ours,” said the Professor. “In a time beyond our own. Do you find that the fairy stories we tell here are very different from the ones you were raised on?”
It was an odd topic of conversation, to be sure. But Bellamy liked Professor Blake, so she humored her. “Some are, yes. Which stands to reason, as there are so many versions of the same tales in this world alone.”
“But the same tropes still resonate, do they not?” the professor asked. “The good sister and bad sister, the young man seeking his fortune, the clever servant…”
The ill-fated lovers, Bellamy thought but did not say. “Yes, we have similar themes in our tales.”
“My favorites were always the fairy beggars,” said Professor Blake.
“You mean the beggars who turned out to be fairies in disguise?” Bellamy smiled. “I like to imagine that there really are fairies out there who spend their whole lives waitin’ around to help people, always encouragin’ them to be kind and generous and pure of heart. Not that they’d ever exist in real life. But it’s nice to think about.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” mused the professor. “I suspect if those fairies did exist, they’d be a lot like you.”
Professor Blake’s kindness touched her. Bellamy tried not to dwell on the fact that she and her friends were on the verge of breaking about a thousand school rules. “Thank you, Professor.”
The Head Witch slid an old, weathered tome off a high shelf. “Have faith, Bellamy. Everything will turn out all right in the end.”
It will take a miracle, Bellamy thought. With her outside voice she said, “Have a good day, Professor.”
“You as well, my dear.” As the professor turned to go, Bellamy glanced at the clock. It wasn’t quite the top of the hour yet. Where were Hubble and Natalie and Sam?
When Professor Blake reached the center aisle, her face brightened. “Dean Zuru! Just the man I wanted to see.”
Bellamy lost her breath. If the dean was here, there was no way they’d be able to break into the vault, never mind escape through the mirror. She looked back down at the book in her hands, but she was freaking out too much to read. What were they going to do? This kind of thing always happened in movies—a wrench in the works at the last minute. Hubble said they should improvise. She could solve this problem. She had to solve this problem.
Think, Bellamy, think…
The words on the page continued to swim before her as Natalie brushed up against her shoulder.
“The dean is here,” Natalie whispered between her teeth. Hubble stood on her other side.
“I know,” Bellamy whispered back. “And the Head Witch!”
“What do we do?” Natalie asked.
“I’m wrackin’ my brain. Hubble? Any great ideas?”
“Only one.” Hubble’s lids fell over his frantic blue eyes and he sighed a little. “The last ditch idea. I sacrifice myself for the team.”
“No!” Natalie whispered. “I’ll do it. You’re the Dungeon Master. You go with Bellamy.”
Bellamy didn’t want to sacrifice anyone. The whole point was to track down Tinker as a team. Before she could add her opinion, Sam burst around the corner.
“I have the key!” He didn’t whisper.
Hubble moved to clamp his hand over Sam’s mouth, but Sam’s lips already seemed glued shut. Sam’s hands flew to his mouth and his eyes widened in horror.
“What the…?” Natalie started to ask, but Bellamy already knew the answer. She’d seen this very thing happen to a few students during her tenure at Harmswood. Hubble had, too, having once been on the receiving end of it.
Because no one defied Professor Blake without consequences.
Together, Bellamy and Hubble dared to peek into the center aisle. Dean Zuru had his back to them. Professor Blake was still speaking to him…but her gaze was fixed on Bellamy and Hubble. Quickly, as quick as a twitch, one eye closed and opened again.
Professor Blake had just winked at them.
Theodosia Blake: Head Witch of Harmswood and granddaughter of a Necromancer. The one witch who could make the entire student body sit down and shut up with a wave of her hand. The one woman who could end their school careers right then and there with but a word. Professor Blake…was on their side.
Hubble turned back to Sam and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Relax,” he said softly. “It’s a spell. Just go with it.”
Bellamy whispered an explanation in Natalie’s ear in an effort to ease her anger. “Professor Blake is helpin’ us.”
Natalie’s brows furrowed, but she kept her mouth closed. Sam, still frightened, nodded a bit. Then his head tilted, the hand with the key flew up before him, and he marched with a soldier’s efficiency to the door of the vault. Hubble hefted his bag of cloaks and followed. Natalie lifted Sam’s precious bag of snacks and did the same. Bellamy brought up the rear.
“Thank you,” she mouthed to her very own benevolent fairy-in-disguise.
Professor Blake gave an almost imperceptible bob of her head before turning her full attention back to Dean Zuru.
By the time Bellamy made it into the vault, the magic mirror had already been activated, and her friends had presumably slipped through to Goblin City. She made sure to close the vault door behind her as quietly as possible, and then she jumped.
Traveling through the magic mirror was much like bei
ng swept down Nocturne Falls. A light glowed glittery and white, and then was gone. There was a crash in her eardrums like the rush of water. Instinctively, Bellamy pulled her wings in tight to her body and closed her eyes. Her clothes felt heavy and damp.
She was being swept away, she decided, in some sort of river. Underground, maybe, since there was no light? For all she knew, the magic mirror had dumped them straight into Goblin City’s sewer system. Or perhaps just Bellamy, since she was fae—it would have been a clever goblin defense mechanism. A dousing like this would leave her magicless until her wings dried out and the dust regenerated.
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until the magical river spat her out through some sort of tunnel opening; she only realized it because she could feel cool air on her face instead of water.
“There she is!” she heard Natalie cry.
“Grab her!” Hubble yelled at the same time.
Someone in the darkness caught her around the waist before she smashed onto what seemed to be a rocky, uneven floor. Someone else fumbled for her arm, caught her hand, and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders.
Hubble. He always seemed to be giving her a cloak.
Bellamy shivered. She was cold, but nothing like the soul-chilling freeze she’d experienced in the wake of Tinker’s disappearance. “Is everyone all right?” she asked.
“All present and accounted for,” said Hubble.
“And all soaked to the bone,” said Sam, with much less enthusiasm. Professor Blake’s magic control over the boy did not seem to extend past the mirror’s event horizon. Bellamy would have been surprised if it had…but not very surprised. “If someone tripped and opened a secret door, it wasn’t me.”
Bellamy had no idea what Sam was talking about.
“We will only blame you if we’re suddenly attacked by a band of teenage girl zombie orcs,” Natalie said to her brother. From the tone of her voice, Bellamy could tell Natalie was teasing. “Ugh. Everything is soaked.”
“The cloaks stayed dry,” Hubble boasted.
“We should have put the matches in with the cloaks,” said Sam. “I can’t see a thing. What are we supposed to do now?”
“Yeah, Dungeon Master,” Natalie said with a great deal of snark. “Whatcha gonna roll to get us out of this one?”
“A natural twenty,” Hubble said, followed by what sounded like a deep breath. “Gird your loins, gamers.”
Not two seconds later, Hubble glowed. His silver skin and hair became as radiant as the moon. The cavern around them began to illuminate as if someone had lit a lantern.
“Whoa,” breathed Sam.
“I take it a ‘natural twenty’ is a good thing,” said Bellamy.
“Yes,” Natalie confirmed. “It is a very, very good thing. Hubble could you always…glow in the dark?”
Hubble opened his eyes and they gasped—his irises twinkled like sapphires. “All the mine-dwelling kobolds can,” he said. “We don’t really need it for survival in the modern age, but it does come in handy from time to time.”
“I’ll say,” Sam said with a smile.
“It also burns an incredible amount of energy,” Hubble added. “So hand me a snack, willya? And keep ‘em coming.” Reverently, Sam pulled a granola bar out of his pack and handed it to Hubble. “Thanks. Now,” he said as he crunched, “let’s hurry up and find a way out of here.”
Bellamy surveyed the room. “It seems the only way out is up,” she said. “But I won’t be able to fly anyone out of here anytime soon.”
Hubble tilted his head back and looked up at the gaping hole from which they’d entered. “It’s not that far up. We might be able to scale it,” he said.
“And go where,” said Natalie. “Back through the magic mirror?”
“Hey!” Sam, who had been running his hands along the walls, waved them over. “The cavern bends around this way. Come on!”
Excited, they all raced after Sam…but they didn’t go far. The tunnel curved into another room, with another gaping hole in the wall about twenty feet up. There, on a rock below the hole, sat a dark-haired boy.
“Well, hello there,” he said. “I’m Quin. Welcome to the oubliette.”
10
Maker Deng, the Goblin King, sat upon the stone dais. Much like the Mantle of Majesty, his throne was a conglomeration of precious and worthless metals, haphazardly welded together into a structure as strange and imposing as Maker himself. The assembled goblins placed various offerings to the Goblin King around the edge of the dais. Most of the offerings were metal: a slinky, a broken watch, some bolts and washers, a handful of paperclips. Those less fortunate goblins brought the odd fruit or vegetable. Their petitions to the king would be heard last.
Tinker stood at Maker’s right hand, learning the art of being a ruler and trying not to hate every moment of it.
Retcher might have been astonished at Tinker’s acceptance of his new position, but Maker had exhibited no such surprise. In Maker’s eyes, no goblin in his right mind would turn down the magnificent opportunity to be King of the Land and Keeper of Stuff.
Tinker’s tenure at Harmswood had taught him that a goblin’s “right mind” and everyone else’s “right mind” were two very different things.
Maker, as king, was the handsomest of all goblins. He matched Tinker in height, but with none of Tinker’s lingering awkwardness. His eyes and hair and flawless skin were all as black as the Myrkwood Mire; that telltale goblin-green hue was almost impossible to make out. Despite his eccentricities, the goblins looked up to Maker as the wisest of the brothers.
Maker had held the position of king far longer than most. Goblin Kings typically retired before the age of thirty. None of them returned to the city after leaving the throne.
Tinker had never really stopped to think about his own mortality before. Allergic or not, who had he been kidding thinking he had a future with Bellamy? Fey lived practically forever. In Goblin City, fifty was old. Sixty was ancient.
Retcher was ancient.
Maker was at least thirty-five, not a Lost “Boy” anymore. He still looked fit as a fiddle, but it was obvious that he was tired. His heart just wasn’t in it anymore. He would wax dreamily about far-off lands and white sand beaches…and then play tricks on his brothers or dole out ridiculous punishments purely for his own pleasure.
As yet another assembly began, Tinker wondered absentmindedly if today would turn out to be a wistfully wise-and-dreamy day, or a wrath-of-an-insane-king day.
“I normally start with a report from the squads,” Maker announced without preamble. “But today, some idiot has decided to bring a cow into my receiving hall. Pickafur, have you lost what little mind you had to begin with?”
So, not a wistfully wise day then, thought Tinker.
The ragtag bunch of goblins in the hall parted to let Pickafur and his four-footed friend come forward. The dairy cow’s shiny hide was a light brown, and she had kind eyes. Her hooves clacked against the stone floor and the bell around her neck gave a dull clank as she and her master settled in front of the dais.
“Oh, Great and Powerful Goblin King!” Pickafur pulled the hat off his head and held it to his heart. A thick mass of wiry black hair sprang in all directions, as if it, too, had been commanded to stand at attention.
Somehow, Tinker managed to resist smiling.
“Yes?” Maker answered, enjoying the pompous address. “Can I help you, Pickafur?”
“I would very much appreciate it if Your Mightygrand Excellence could please stop that sniveling punk from stealing Esmerelda’s candy.”
Maker narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, clearly giving Pickafur’s request some thought. Tinker imagined he was making a similar face himself—he had no idea what issue in that sentence to tackle first.
“Esmerelda is…?” Maker asked.
“Our cow, Your Fabulousness.” Pickafur gave a quick bow. “The one you had stolen and put in my charge, so that there would always be cream in your coffee and butt
er on your apple cakes.”
“A fine decision, if I do say so myself,” said Maker.
“Just so, Your Holiness.”
“And exactly which ‘sniveling punk’ are you referring to? There are a lot of us here. I’m afraid you need to be more specific.”
Pickafur raised a baleful finger. One by one, goblins jumped out of the line of his accusatory finger, until one small goblin was left.
“Snot? Here, boy.” Maker’s command was only a tad less condescending than someone calling for a dog.
Snot wiped his nose on his sleeve and moved forward to stand on the other side of Esmerelda.
“Did you eat Esmerelda’s candy?” Maker asked pointedly.
“Yes, Yer Holiface.” Snot’s attempt at honorifics fell considerably short of Pickafur’s. “But I didn’t steal nuffin, honest. Essie don’t mind sharing ‘er candy.”
Tinker disguised his laugh as a strange sort of snort.
Maker gave Tinker a sideways glance, but otherwise ignored the outburst. “Pickafur, remind me why we’re feeding candy to the cow?”
“Her feed ain’t all candy,” Pickafur explained. “Just a few treats for dessert after every meal. ‘Round All Hallows’ Eve, some of the boys got it in their heads that feeding Essie candy bits would turn her milk rainbow colors. Well, it didn’t, but Aberdeen did say that the milk was sweeter. So I adjusted her diet, since we don’t second-guess Aberdeen when it comes to kitchen business.”
“No we do not,” Maker agreed.
“So you’ll punish the brat, then? Toss him in an oubliette? Dangle him off the parapet? Feed him to the trolls? Give him a right swift kick in the pants?” Pickafur shrugged. “I ain’t picky.”
Maker leaned back in his throne. “Such a wide range of delights to choose from! But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll pass this decision down to our king-in-training.”
“As you wish, Your Most Splendiforist.” Pickafur bowed.
Quick to follow suit, Snot curtsied.
“What do you say, heir apparent?” Maker asked.
When Tinker Met Bell Page 10
