“Still, it’s the easiest solution. Creep in, creep out, no problem. And we haven’t got much time. We have to think of Sooz and her situation.”
Dirk frowned in thought. Then he nodded. “No, Christopher, you are right; I cannot afford to be safe. We need to take some risks. Sooz is in trouble and we have to do what we have to do. I’ll do it, tonight, when you and your parents are asleep.”
“Okay, sounds like a plan. Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” said Chris.
“Not much, I would think, Christopher. But thanks for the offer anyway,” said Dirk.
“Could I have some of the homemade strawberry jam?” said a voice. They looked up. A middle-aged man was standing there, pointing at a jar of jam. Beside him, little hand in his, was a boy about seven years of age.
“I love strawberry jam!” said the little boy.
Chris and Dirk stared at them for a moment, their minds still full of spells and enchantments and how they were going to steal some of the preserved remains of a two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old corpse.
Christopher nudged Dirk. “Hmm, what?” said Dirk. “Oh! Oh yes, of course, sir, that will be a dollar fifty.”
Dirk handed over the jar. “All proceeds to go to charity,” he said. But then he couldn’t help himself and added, “Pointlessly, of course! Why give money away? Bah, use it for the greater good—well, my good at any rate. Raise an army! Conquer the world! There’ll be no need for charity when I’m in charge, oh no!”
Christopher turned away, trying not to laugh out loud while the man stared at Dirk as if he were insane. Then Dirk grinned up at him and he literally flinched in horror.
Dirk blinked as the man hurried away. He realized he may have sounded a little … odd … so he tried to make things right.
“Enjoy the jam, you nitwit,” he said at the top of his voice.
Several adults all turned to stare, including Mrs. Purejoie. At the sight of Dirk her shoulders slumped, and she put a despairing hand to her forehead. Meanwhile Chris was doubled over with helpless laughter.
“What?” said Dirk. “What?”
August Souls-of-the-Doomed 9
Last night I was woken by a strange tapping on my window. Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap. For a moment I was seized by fear—my feeble body reacting, as would that of any pitiful human child. But then I remembered who I truly was, and resolve filled my heart …
Whatever was doing the tapping, it was they that would be filled with fear, for I am the Great Dirk, Master of the Dark! So I yanked open the curtains.
And there, tapping on the windowpane with its beak was a bird. And not just any kind of bird, but a black crow. Black as blackest night. Its feathers were covered with a kind of oily sheen and its eyes glowed with a baleful red fire. How beautiful it was. At the sight of me, the bird cawed—ah, what a sweet sound, that desolate cry! Echoing into the empty night like the cry of a lost soul condemned forever.
I opened the window. With another desolate croak, the crow hopped inside.
And then onto my shoulder … I think I have found a new friend.
August Souls-of-the-Doomed 10
I have established what the bird is. It is a Black Storm Crow, usually found only in the Darklands. But I believe I know what has happened. This bird was probably once a sparrow or a pigeon or some other lowly earth bird but it ate all of my black, oily Essence of Evil that I coughed up when I fell to earth in that supermarket parking lot. The Essence obviously turned the little bird into a magnificent Storm Crow. And what would such a bird try and do? Well, find me, of course! It is drawn to me, drawn to the Dark Lord, as are all such beasts. What a stroke of luck! It could prove to be a most useful pet indeed—they make excellent messengers, among other things.
I must be careful though. I cannot let the Purejoies or any other adults know of its existence. They might try and take it from me.
The White Wizard, Hasdruban, sat at his great desk of living oak, staring at the painting on the wall. It was a painting of the Dark Lord of the Iron Tower of Despair, the Nameless One, the World Burner, the Sorcerer Supreme, etc., and Hasdruban’s Arch-Archenemy. He had to be destroyed once and for all, along with all his works.
A knock at the door interrupted his flow of thought. “Ah, here she is,” said the Wizard, his voice hoary with age and wisdom. “Enter!”
A strange apparition walked into his Inner Sanctum. She was dressed from head to foot in long, flowing white lace, an ornate headdress on her head, her face completely hidden behind a veil. Not an inch of her flesh was exposed.
“Ah, the White Witch of Holy Vengeance. Welcome.”
The White Witch merely inclined her shrouded head in acknowledgment.
Hasdruban continued. “It seems our foe, though he has been trapped in the body of a human child and is weaker and more vulnerable than he has been in a thousand years, was still able to thwart our last attempt to destroy him—he defeated the White Beast of Retribution. This time, we must try harder.”
He paused, hoping the White Witch would speak, but she didn’t. In fact, as far as Hasdruban could recall, she had never spoken. Not a word.
“So, I am sending you this time. You will masquerade as something the humans of that strange plane call a ‘nanny.’ I believe their task is to look after other people’s children and their families. In this case, the child in question is the Nameless One himself. Though actually, he has a name over there. They call him Dirk. Dirk Lloyd.”
The White Witch stood there, silent.
Hasdruban went on. “You will beguile the family he lives with, the Purejoies—they know nothing of the viper they nurture in their midst—or rather they choose not to believe what is obvious. You will … persuade … them that they need a nanny. They will put you in charge of the Dark One. Find out what he is up to, and if you can, destroy him. But be warned! Though he has no sorcerous powers to speak of and inhabits the body of a mere child, he still has his cunning, his endless malice, and his evil genius!”
The White Witch inclined her head in acknowledgment. Then she bent low, draping her long veil over her arms, and began to do something under her robes.
Hasdruban raised a hairy white eyebrow. After a few seconds, she handed Hasdruban a note written on black paper in white ink. Hasdruban scanned it.
“Ah, how will you get to that plane the inhabitants call earth? Well, I have some rather special magic for that! Let me show you, my dear …”
The Darkphone
August Souls-of-the-Doomed 12
Mwah, ha, ha!!!
Dirk sat at his desk in his room, an open book in front of him. It was a dictionary. This is the entry Dirk was reading:
Nitwit NOUN, informal—a stupid person
Synonyms—idiot, numskull, fool,
simpleton, bonehead, dork, doofus,
dweeb, lamebrain, dipstick, dimwit …
And so on.
Dirk narrowed his eyes. That Christopher, he would … What though? Dirk looked at the ceiling, various possible revenge plots and spells going through his head—the Charm of Sudden Baldness, the Cantrip of Uncontrollable Flatulence, the Hex of Hideous Hives, or the Malediction of Unmoving Obesity? Oh, if only they worked here on earth! Perhaps something different then. Hmm … Just then, there was a knock on the door.
“Who dares disturb the Great Dirk?” he said in his best imperial darkness voice.
“It’s me—Christopher.”
Dirk snapped the book shut, put it in a drawer, and pulled out a small knife.
“Enter,” he said.
Chris opened the door and walked in. “How’s the phone coming along?” he said.
Dirk gestured to the seat beside him, and Chris sat down. Dirk picked up a dirty brown sliver of bone, held it up to the light, and began shaping it with the small knife.
“There,” he said. “A little bit of the Fetbury Swamp Man. Deadbury Swamp Man, I mean.”
“Did you have trouble getting it?” asked Christopher as he looked at the bony frag
ment, face wrinkled in disgust. The thing stank.
Dirk stared at Chris for a moment.
“What?” said Chris, brow furrowing in puzzlement.
Dirk made a decision. Payback would be delayed for now—he needed Chris until they had resolved the situation with Sooz. Anyway, revenge is a dish best served cold, as the saying goes.
“No, no trouble. Straightforward enough,” said Dirk, as if everything was perfectly fine. “Well, unless your name’s Alex Marshal, of course, heh, heh!”
“Who’s he?” said Chris.
“A security guard at the museum. He—oh never mind, he’ll get over it … Probably.”
Chris glanced at Dirk’s left arm. There was the telltale greenish scar near the elbow where the Sinister Hand had been detached. He shuddered. He still couldn’t really get his mind around that unpleasant spell. Still wasn’t sure if it was even real. When he’d first met Dirk, he hadn’t believed any of the stuff about being a Dark Lord from another world and all that; he’d thought he was just a weird, deluded kid, and it was all for fun. But after what he’d seen with the White Beast, with Sooz disappearing, he knew it must be true. Then he shuddered again—this time because of the damp air.
Dirk’s window was wide open.
“Can we close that please?” said Chris.
“No, I am expecting someone,” said Dirk as he carefully inserted the sliver of bone into the phone’s SIM card slot. It clicked into place perfectly.
Suddenly there was a loud cry and a black flurry of feathers burst into the room. Chris leaped back in shock.
“What the … ?” he stuttered as a black crow, as black as blackest night, flew in through the window and alighted gracefully on Dirk’s shoulder.
Dirk didn’t bat an eyelid and continued to work on Chris’s phone.
“Hello, Dave,” he said. “Meet Christopher.” The Black Storm Crow cocked its head and eyed Chris with evil intent, its red eyes glowing. It lifted one claw and extended its talons in his direction.
“Now, now, Dave, Christopher is a friend. Do you understand? Friend!” With that the crow gave a disappointed caw, and settled down on Dirk’s shoulder.
Chris just stared, gaping. Dirk looked over, a mischievous grin on his face. “He’s a Black Storm Crow. They are drawn to the Dark, to those such as I.”
Chris shook his head in amazement. Yet another freaky Dirk thing! And what had he called it?
“Did you just call it Dave?”
“Yeah! Dave. Dave the Black Storm Crow.”
Chris stared at Dirk, unsure whether this was some kind of joke or not. Dirk kept working on the phone as if nothing unusual was going on.
“Beautiful, isn’t he?” he said, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Chris looked at it. A black crow. Ugly beak. Red eyes. Razor-sharp, gnarled claws. Called Dave.
“Beautiful … Riiight …”
Suddenly Dirk cried out in pain, his face a mask of agony. The crow hopped off onto the desk with a caw of alarm.
“What is it?” said Chris. Had the crow turned on him or something, sunk its claws into his shoulder?
Dirk was huddled over, massaging his scarred left arm. “It’s the Sinister Hand spell. I have used it too often and I may have caused some permanent damage—there is always a price to pay when you use dark sorcery. And this puny human child’s body is so weak …”
“Do you want Dad to take a look at it? He is a doctor, you know,” said Chris.
“No, no, human medicine won’t do any good. Anyway, it doesn’t matter—it’s worth it. For Sooz. To get her back.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” said Chris.
“Yes, I’m sure. It’ll get better eventually, though if I use that spell again any time soon, I risk not being able to reattach my arm. Or worse. But the important thing is that the DarkPhone has been created.”
“Can we call Sooz then?” said Chris.
Dirk chuckled. “Not yet. The DarkPhone will take time to morph into its proper form, to take on its powers. To get charged up, I suppose you’d say.”
“How long will that take?” asked Chris.
“A few days I would think,” replied Dirk.
“Have we got a few days?” said Chris.
“Possibly not. For all we know, Sooz might already be dead, but this is the best that we can do …”
My Friend’s a Huge Monster from Another World, No Really, he Is …
Sooz looked around the gray desolate emptiness of the Darklands. She frowned. She was thinking about what Dirk had told her of this place. When she’d first met Dirk she’d thought he was making it all up for fun—all that stuff about Dark Lords, White Wizards, and spells and everything. But then she’d started to believe him. And now she knew it was true. And that made her scared. Very scared. According to Dirk, here there were Orcs and Goblins and Dragons and Nightgaunts (whatever they were) and Vampires. Sooz was a Goth girl through and through, it was true. She loved Vampires and moons and black stuff and pale skin and all that. But real Vampires? Actual real Vampires that lived forever and drank your blood and lived in places called Sunless Keep? No, thank you!
And she was on her own. All alone, and lost. Maybe lost forever.
It was too much for her. She put her face in her hands and sobbed. She wanted her mom.
But then Sooz felt something odd, something that felt hot against her cheek, and it wasn’t her tears. It was something on her finger. She glanced down at her hand. Dirk’s Ring. It was really very warm. And red runes writhed around it as if alive, coruscating with pent-up energy! She stared at it in amazement. It began to glow with an eerie radiance, a kind of dark light. Not exactly darkness, but not exactly light either. The radiance intensified. She was bathed in it, and it made the skin on her hands glow with a perfect gothic paleness. Quickly Sooz reached into her bag and took out her compact mirror. Her eyes, hair, and lips seemed to shine with a purplish blackness in the bone-pale moon of her face. How beautiful she looked! Like a queen, a beautiful, magnificent Dark Queen of the Night!
“Heh, heh,” she chuckled to herself. Then she caught something moving in the mirror behind her. She turned—it was her shadow! And what a shadow. It was huge. And it looked like she had some kind of ornate spiked crown on her head, a weapon or staff in her hand, and robes of regal majesty!
Perhaps the magical shadows revealed what the wearer would look like if they were a Dark Lord or a Dark Lady. How cool was that! Sooz jumped up and down in excitement. Her shadow responded with great, majestic leaps.
But then reality came crashing back. She wasn’t a Dark Queen, she was just a teenage girl, even if she was a Goth, and the shadow wasn’t real, it was just a magic trick.
Still, it wasn’t all bad. Dirk’s Ring was obviously powerful here in the Darklands. If she could figure out how to use it, she wouldn’t be totally at the mercy of whatever creatures or people she might find here. Maybe she could even become some kind of Dark Queen. She held it up, examined it against the backdrop of the pale moon in the sky. How beautiful it was, the runes burning with dark energy. As she gazed at the glowing runes, she noticed something out of the corner of her eye, on the skyline. Atop a range of low hills stood some kind of tall tower and … well, was it her imagination or was it pink? Bright pink!
Hmm, a pink tower. Doesn’t sound like it would be dangerous, does it? I mean, if you were an evil Orc lord or something, you wouldn’t paint your castle pink, would you? she thought to herself. It didn’t seem that far away either. Sooz resolved to investigate further. So she set off toward it.
Slowly, oh so slowly, the distant tower grew larger and larger as Sooz slogged across the darkling plain.
Suddenly a large dark shape rose up out of the shadows from behind a nearby pile of tumbled rock. Sooz screamed. Before her stood some kind of hideous demon, at least seven feet tall, covered in scaly skin, with a horned head, talons, and huge fangs. A great leather belt at its waist seemed to have shrunken human heads hanging from
it. The thing shrugged—from its shoulders great bat wings extended with a leathery snap. It leaned down and hissed at her—plumes of foul-smelling smoke spewing from bony nostrils.
Sooz cowered, falling to the ground, her hand raised in futile defense. She was just a kid! A mere wisp of a girl lost in this terrible land. How could she fight such a monster? Oh, how she wished Dirk was here to help her. But then a thought struck her. The demonic figure looked familiar. She narrowed her eyes and stared. Then she got up, and stared some more, looking the strange thing up and down. This seemed to surprise the huge demon—a look of puzzlement passed across its evil face.
The creature reminded her of something. Or someone … Oh yes, that concert she went to with Chris and Dirk, where Dirk thought the lead singer was his … What did he call him? Yeah, his Dread Lieutenant Gargon, Captain of the Legions of … of … Well, bad stuff. Dirky stuff.
“You look like the lead singer of that band Chris likes so much. What were they called? Morti—that was it,” she said.
The demon blinked.
Sooz stared at it. It looked a bit raggedy around the edges, half-starved and filthy. Its feet were scratched and sore. She eyed it suspiciously, not so scared now.
The demon looked back, bemused. Little human girls were supposed to be terrified of him. They weren’t supposed to talk back! Then the girl took a step toward him. They certainly weren’t supposed to do that!
Sooz frowned up at the demon. Suddenly she extended a hand, and spoke: “Hello. You must be Gargon. Dirk gave me this Ring.” She held up her finger. The Ring seemed to respond, as if it knew that it was time to reveal some of its power, and it glowed more intensely with an unearthly light, bathing Sooz’s face in a vampiric glow. Mighty runes began to writhe and coruscate around the Ring, glowing with crimson fire.
The demon’s great fanged jaw dropped and a look of joy crossed its unholy features.
“It is the Great Ring! My Lord lives! My Lord lives!” said Gargon, in a dark, gravelly demon’s voice, for it was indeed him, Dirk’s lieutenant, Dread Gargon, the Hewer of Limbs, Captain of the Legions of Dread.
Dark Lord, School's Out Page 2
