by Sheila Grau
I went straight to Dr. Critchlore’s office. He was the only one who could persuade Dr. Frankenhammer to let me talk to the monster.
I was surprised to see Professor Vodum behind the secretary’s desk. Professor Vodum had recently been in the necromancy department, but it’d lost its raw materials (dead bodies) in a cemetery explosion. Prior to being in necromancy, Vodum had bounced around many positions, doing a horrible job at each of them. He was married to Dr. Critchlore’s cousin, so Dr. Critchlore had to find a job for him somewhere.
Vodum’s attention was focused on a pad of paper. I stood in front of the desk, waiting for him to notice me, but he didn’t. I glanced at the paper and read:
Positions I am best suited for:
1. Assistant headmaster
2. Professor of advanced topics in strategy
3. Director of business development for Critchlore-trademarked products
He looked up as he thought of a fourth position, and we made eye contact. He quickly looked down to ignore me again.
“Excuse me, Professor Vodum?” I said. “Are you Dr. Critchlore’s secretary now?”
“Temporarily,” he said. Then he leaned toward me. “Runt, did you know that my wife and Dr. Critchlore are cousins?”
“Yes.”
“First cousins,” he said. “They are both grandchildren of Nicholas Critchlore. Dr. Critchlore doesn’t own this school—it’s a family business. But he’s appointed himself headmaster, while my wife has no say over operations at all. It’s outrageous.”
Nobody knew the school’s history as well as I did. “It was Dr. Critchlore’s idea to open the school,” I said, wanting to defend him.
“I should have known you’d take his side,” Vodum said. “You’re such a suck-up.”
“I need to see Dr. Critchlore, if that’s okay?”
“Fine with me.” He returned his attention to his list.
Dr. Critchlore’s expansive office/library/study was dim, his shades drawn. He liked to work surrounded by darkness, saying it increased his focus. A desk lamp provided the only light in the room, shining on a large poster board he was studying. I approached, edging around Pizza (his chocolate Labrador retriever puppy), who was sleeping on the rug in front of his desk. The rug hid a trapdoor, so I was happy to stand to one side.
I looked at the poster, a blown-up picture of the front gate, but with something added beneath the school’s name as it arched over the entrance gate. Now the sign read: “Dr. Critchlore’s School for Minions and Models.”
“Are you changing the school sign?” I asked.
He glanced at me. “VODUM!” he yelled. “You useless pile of dragon droppings. I said NO INTERRUPTIONS!”
“My bad!” Vodum yelled back. “Perhaps I’d be better at another position!”
“Should I leave?” I asked.
“Hmm? Hand me that gold pen,” he said, pointing to the edge of his desk.
When I did, he added some fancy edging to the letters.
“ ‘And models’?” I asked.
“A temporary adjustment. We have visitors coming to see their children. It’s such a bother, first the hamadryads checking on Syke, and now this.”
“Who?”
“The Siren Syndicate.” He shivered.
“But why change the sign?”
“When I recruited the sirens, I might have given their parents the impression that I ran a modeling school.” Dr. Critchlore shrugged, like he’d made a tiny mistake and not outright lied. “It was the only way I could lure them away from that hoity-toity finishing school they usually attend.”
“That’s crazy,” I said. “You’re famous for running a minion school. How could they not know?”
“Well, businesses are always branching out. And surprisingly, some parents will believe anything if you tell them you’ll make their children famous.”
“But they must have talked with the girls in the two years they’ve been here.” Most of the sirens were third-year students, like me.
“Sirens aren’t really the nurturing type,” he said. “Which is one of the reasons why I selected their girls. I could have gone with elves; they are just as pretty, though not as good at singing. I need good singers. Evil Overlords love a pretty girl who can sing. Wingut Thrasher once paid a famous singer her weight in gold to perform at his birthday gala. And I didn’t lie; they will be famous when they sing at the Evil Overlord Council in the spring, right before I petition for a license to sell my line of Critchlore Minion Apparel and Weaponry products. Imagine the press I’ll—er—they’ll get. It’ll be fantastic.”
I had no doubt.
“But first we must prepare for the visitors,” he continued, placing his own to-do list on top of the poster. “They’re expecting a fashion show. I need to check on Mistress Moira. She’s making dresses for the girls to model.”
“All the girls? That’s a lot of dresses.”
“No, just the sirens, maybe a few other third-years. Whoever’s interested. Syke will be in the show. She’s my ward; it’s only proper.”
Syke wasn’t going to like that. I don’t think she’d ever worn a dress.
As shocking as this development was, I needed to focus on why I’d come.
“Dr. Critchlore—” I said.
“Shh,” he said, holding up a hand as he added more things to his list, softly mumbling as he did. “Reception for the sirens, school tour, security . . .”
I had to see the monster, and quick. Standing there quietly was torture, like when you know the answer in class, but the teacher won’t call on you anymore because, in her words, “your enthusiasm borders on annoying.”
At last he looked up at me.
“You know that minion Dr. Frankenhammer caught?” The words raced out of my mouth like bats leaving the dungeon at sunset.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Dr. Frankenhammer has the beast in his lab. I told him to dissect it before Pravus comes to reclaim it.”
“What? No! You can’t.” I put my hand on his paper so he wouldn’t ignore me again. “She knows where I’m from. And she won’t hurt anyone—I promise.”
“I’m sorry, Hilton,” he said, removing my hand, “but I trust Dr. Frankenhammer’s opinion. If he says she’s dangerous, then she’s dangerous. Now, please, I have a lot of work to do.”
I was about to remind him that I’d saved his life and his castle, and he owed me a favor, but Mrs. Gomes, the school’s head of security, hustled into the office. She’d been frazzled by all the sabotage in the past weeks, but she seemed to be back to her normal take-charge self. Her hair was once again a perfectly styled helmet of poufiness.
“Before you say anything,” she said, “I assure you, gate security is now reinforced.”
Dr. Critchlore raised an eyebrow at her.
“Yes, it was a lapse,” she said. “But I have girls of my own, and I like to support these types of fund-raising activities.”
“But she wasn’t a Girl Explorer selling cookies,” Dr. Critchlore said. “She was an enemy agent. This was a dangerous mistake on your part.”
“I agree,” Mrs. Gomes said. “Which brings us to our arriving guests. Measures must be taken to protect the school from the sirens. I have some ideas.” She looked at me in a way that said this was none of my business, so I left.
Frustrated, I stopped in the anteroom, wondering how I was going to talk to that monster.
Mrs. Gomes’s voice drifted out of the office: “. . . added patrols for the perimeter; aerial surveillance, probably using dragons, preferably Puddles or Tinkles, not Plopper. The safety stations should be equipped with earplugs, in case the sirens start singing.”
“Professor Vodum?” I said. When he looked up, I asked, “Why are they so worried about the siren mothers visiting?”
“Really, you don’t know?” He shook his head. “Other than the EOs, the members of the Siren Syndicate are the most powerful people on the Porvian Continent. Over the centuries, the sirens have taken their abilit
y to make ships crash on rocks and turned it into a complete monopoly on ocean and river trade. They control who gets what and when. The Grand Sirenness herself is on many EO Council Committees and regularly hobnobs with the big EOs.”
“Why would Dr. Critchlore lie to them about this school?”
“I asked him the same thing. His answer: ‘Without great risk there is no great reward.’ ” Vodum shook his head. “I think he may have seriously miscalculated here. The Critchlore family is very concerned.” He leaned closer to me. “If a majority of family members decide they have no confidence in Dr. Critchlore, they can get someone new to take over.”
He smiled, and then added a fourth position to his list: “Headmaster.”
Farmers in Torvay report that attacks on their livestock, in which the animals were stripped to their bones, have ended. The culprits, nicknamed land piranhas, were never found. Some believe that a minion school was illegally training the beasts outside of Stull.
—ARTICLE IN MINIONS TODAY
I headed down the stairs to the castle foyer, intending to continue down to the dungeon so I could beg Dr. Frankenhammer to let me talk to the monster. Once I hit the steps, I saw Syke running my way.
“Runt,” she said, breathing hard. “I was just in Dr. Frankenhammer’s lab—”
“But you hate the dungeon,” I said.
She waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. I wanted him to let you talk to the monster, but she went berserk. The lab is a mess. He sent her to the holding cells.”
“The holding cells. Rats.”
Seriously, there were tons of rats on the lower level. It was way creepy.
I pointed to her hand. “What’s in the can?”
She held it up so I could read the black label: “Dr. Critchlore’s Tornado in a Can™.”
“I found it on the floor and decided to pick it up for him,” she said.
“And steal it?”
“I thought it had been opened and that’s why the lab was such a mess. I only just realized it’s a live one.”
“Really,” I said, not believing a word of it.
She stashed the can in her backpack. “Hey, I was trying to help you.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“And, Runt? Dr. Frankenhammer is furious. He said . . .” She looked away, unable to finish.
“What?”
“He said he’s going to dissect her as soon as he cleans his lab.”
Oh no. I whipped out my to-do list, moving “Save the Monster” to the number one spot. I underlined it twice and put some stars and exclamation points around it.
“I’m going to the holding cells,” I said.
“I’m coming with you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I do. Runt, I meant it when I said I’d do anything to help you find out where you’re from. So let’s go.”
The lower levels were as dungeony as the dungeon got: rocky walls, spiderwebs, the hallways heavy with darkness, and the dank, musty smell of centuries-old skeletons.
“Hey, Gilbert,” I said to the skeleton carrying a bucket of fish to the grotto.
He lifted a bony hand to wave at us, and then continued on his way.
We headed for the holding area, a long hallway lined with small cells. The holding cells weren’t used anymore, ever since we got a visit from the People for the Ethical Treatment of Minions (PET-M, pronounced “Pet ’em”). They’d inspected the castle and called it inhumane to punish minions by locking them up. Now punished minions got detention. Don’t get me started on which is worse: detention or dungeon imprisonment. If I had a choice, I’d pick the dungeon over spending the afternoon with Professor Vodum.
Three ogre-men guards sat on stools in front of the holding-area entrance. Two were playing cards, while the third read a book.
“Hi,” I said.
“Scram, kids,” one of the card-playing guards said.
“I just want to see the prisoner. She knows who I am,” I said. “She won’t hurt me.”
They laughed. “Only person getting in is Dr. Frankenhammer. Critchlore’s orders. Run along.”
He stood up, filling the hallway. Syke and I took a step back. She nodded to her backpack and whispered, “It could get windy down here. Just say the word.”
I shook my head and pulled her out of there.
At dinner, Frankie, Darthin, and I sat with Eloni Tatupu, who was as huge as an ogre-man but 100 percent human, and Boris Tumblewrecker, who had the brain of an ogre, but was puny, like me.
I couldn’t eat. I was so nervous about what was going to happen to the monster.
“Higgins, she’s dangerous,” Darthin said. “Dr. Frankenhammer knows what he’s doing. We need to know more about her in case Dr. Pravus uses one on us again. As far as we know, he has a team of them. Do you know what that means?”
“The Pravus Academy is going to crush our Mixed Monster Arts team,” Frankie said. The Pravus Academy had crushed us in just about every interschool athletic competition lately: MMA, tackle three-ball, stealthball. Even the Dead Games, which were played by zombies, mummies, skeletons, and ghosts (Pravus had excellent ghosts). Waterdragon polo, combat archery, and chess too.
“No, Frankie,” Darthin said. “Worse than that. Dr. Pravus is going to run us out of business.”
“But the monster has answers I need,” I said. “I have to talk to her, but she’s in a guarded cell.”
“Then break her out,” Eloni said.
I gulped. “I can’t . . . can I?” Breaking her out would be an Act of Disobedience. Minions do not disobey. It gave me the shakes just thinking about it.
“ ’Course you can. Pravus, Critchlore—they break rules all the time,” Eloni went on. “Look at the mess we’re in right now. Do you think it’s because Pravus follows the rules? As we say on the island—if you’ve got a problem, it’s up to you to resolve it. Nobody’s gonna help you but you.”
“I’ve got to break her out,” I said, trying on the words to see if they fit. They didn’t. I needed more convincing. And then I repeated something Dr. Critchlore had said. “ ‘Without risk, there is no reward.’ And I can’t just let her die.”
Boris kept munching on his food. “Boris thinks you should do it,” he said.
I smiled at him, but inside I cringed. Boris was kind of an idiot. His agreeing with me didn’t really seal my case.
“It’s an Act of Disobedience, Runt,” Frankie said, twisting his bolt. “If you got expelled, where would you go? You don’t have another home. Don’t do it.” I felt bad for stressing him out, but despite his thin frame, Frankie was stronger than ten men, and faster than a cheetah. If I was going to break the monster out, I would need his help.
“I’m not saying I’m going to, but if I was”—I turned to all the guys—“how would I get by the guards?”
“Hypothetically?” Darthin asked.
“Sure.”
“Well, Critchlore knows you’ve been asking to free the monster. If she escapes, you’re going to be the prime suspect. So first off, you need an alibi. It’s movie night. You should go to the movie with Syke, as usual. Make sure everyone sees you. When the lights go down, get Boris to take your spot.”
“Syke won’t like that,” I said. Boris looked so much like me it was eerie, but he was an ogre-man, and had the manners to prove it. Syke would do it, though. She owed me. She owed me big for not telling me I wasn’t a werewolf.
Darthin continued to explain a very elaborate plan, one that I probably should have paid attention to. Unfortunately, I saw Dr. Frankenhammer leave the teachers’ dining room with a wicked smile on his face and his trusty scalpel in hand.
“Gotta go,” I said.
I caught up with Dr. Frankenhammer in the castle foyer. I thought he’d be heading for the dungeon, but he walked straight for one of the two curving staircases that led upstairs.
“Dr. Frankenhammer?” I called.
He turned, one hand on the railing. “Yes, Higginsss?”
> “I was wondering—um . . .” I stopped. He looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Are you going to dissect the monster now?”
Dr. Frankenhammer smiled. “You want to watch? Earn yourself a little extra credit?”
Ew, no. Even the thought of watching that made me dizzy, but he took my silence as a yes.
“You’ll have to wait. I’m exhausted after all that cleaning. I was just going to my quartersss to read before bed. I like to do my dissectionsss when I’m fresh.”
I tried to mask my relief as disappointment. “Okay.”
“Good night, Mr. Higginsss,” he said, and continued up the stairs.
We dream of a world where everyone is treated equally.
—PET-M MISSION STATEMENT
See? They’re a dangerous bunch of nut jobs out to ruin the world.
—THEIR DETRACTORS
Movie night was held in the ballroom for the regular-sized minions, while the minions of impressive size watched outside on the giant screen by the boulderball field. That night’s movie was a classic horror tale called Beauty and the Beast. It’s the story of an awesomely cruel and angry monster who takes a pretty girl prisoner, but she ends up turning him into a human through singing and romance. It is so tragic. I’ve seen monsters leave the theater shaking in fear after watching it.
I met Syke in the foyer. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Runt, you’ve never broken a rule in your life, and you don’t do anything without asking an adult if it’s okay. I’ve heard you ask permission to turn your homework in early.”
“She called me family, Syke,” I said. “She knows where I’m from. I will die unless I find out who I am, and who cursed me.”
“I know,” she said. “I just wish there was something more I could do.”
“You do know I’m going to sneak out and you’ll have to watch the movie with Boris, right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I meant to say, I wish there was something different I could do.”
We laughed, but really, we were both nervous. I took my seat, saying hi to as many classmates as I could, so they’d remember I was there. I wore my black cargo pants, boots, black T-shirt, and dark gray Critchlore tackle three-ball sweatshirt. I put on a beanie that Cook had knitted for me last winter. It had the logo of my favorite tackle three-ball team, and earflaps with dangling strings.
