by James Riley
“You don’t have to do this,” Owen told him, backing away. “You’re supposed to be a good guy. You’re supposed to be a Holmes! You just said that your reputation was everything. Well, taking over the fictional world and becoming a tyrant is the last thing a Holmes should do! You’re better than that. You’re better than this!”
Doyle raised a finger and beckoned Owen to come closer.
“No,” Owen said quietly. “I won’t let you hide me away down here.”
“I need you to see this,” Doyle said. “I need you to understand what I’ve done.” He beckoned again with his finger, and Owen swallowed hard.
What choice did he have, though? Doyle could just electrocute him again through the band on his wrist if he didn’t do what the detective said. So Owen stepped forward slowly, dreading what he was about to find. The bones of Sherlock Holmes? A jar for Bethany’s essence? A robot W.A.T.S.O.N. with a mustache like the real Watson?
Owen passed Doyle and put his face up to the bars, peering into the darkness.
Two eyes filled with hatred glared right back.
Owen gasped and stepped away as the boy stood up and moved to the front of the cage. A gag covered his mouth, so he couldn’t speak, but the boy’s eyes were filled with rage as well as something else. A cold, dead, calculating stare. A stare that looked right through Owen, that took in every detail and spit out secrets.
“This can’t be,” Owen said, barely able to breathe.
“Meet Doyle Holmes, Mr. Conners,” said the boy in the mask. “I’m sure he’d like to introduce himself, but he’s far too smart for me to take off that gag while I’m not wearing earplugs. I hate when he deduces strange things about me. It’s creepy.”
Owen turned around and stared at the question-mark mask. “If he’s Doyle . . .”
The boy reached up and took off his mask, revealing a very familiar face.
“I’m so disappointed in you,” Fowen said, shaking his head. “How did you not figure this out?”
CHAPTER 38
How are you here?” Owen asked, backing away from his fictional self. “I thought you gave yourself up to the police?”
Fowen snorted, holding up the question-mark mask. “I had the mask on the second I was out of the manhole, Owen. Catch up here. How are you this slow?”
No. No. “Did you . . . did you beat Doyle? Is that how you have his mask?”
“Are you kidding?” Fowen shouted. “I’ve been Doyle. At least, the only Doyle you ever met. I was the one who found what I figured were other stories and messed them up, just to bait you guys in. The real Doyle’s been down here since a few days after he came by the library.”
Owen turned around to look at the ordinary boy in the jail cell, who now was glaring at both of them, his eyes burning, his nostrils flaring as he breathed hard over his gag. “You were Doyle . . . this whole time?”
“Try to follow along, Owen,” Fowen said. “You’re making me embarrassed for us both. Don’t you get it? This was all me. I set this up. I told Bethany I wanted to be paid in fictional books. I framed you and Kiel for the library burning down, which I did.” He snorted. “How did you not see through me? You think the real Doyle is actually smart enough to know where you are at all times? I was alerting the police because I was standing next to you! I even told you that your own fingerprints were on the gas cans. How did you not suspect me when you found out that I existed?” He shook his head. “They’re right about you. You are useless, aren’t you. I’m doing you a favor with all of this, I really am. I’m doing us a favor.”
Owen tried to breathe, but it felt like an anvil was sitting on his chest. He backed into a wall and slid down, not looking at his fictional self. This couldn’t be true. He was dreaming. “Why . . . why would you do this?” he said, his heart pounding in his ears.
“Why?” Fowen’s eyes widened. “Have you seen everything I did? I was amazing, Owen! You stole Kiel’s story to live it out, but I built you a story. I created this for you, and gave you the chance to fight a really great villain! Sure, it happened to be you in disguise, but you didn’t know that. I gave you that! I gave you one of the greatest adventures of all time, and you sit there asking me why? If you’d done this for me, I’d be thanking you!”
“You burned down your library!” Owen said, finally able to look at Fowen. “You almost drowned Bethany. You stole Kiel’s magic. All just to give me an adventure?”
“Oh, not at all,” Fowen said. “I just thought you’d be a little more grateful. No, I did all of this because I wanted to be the hero, and to do that, I needed a big, awesome adventure to hero in. And when Doyle showed up, I realized I’d found one.”
Fowen slowly walked toward the bars, where Doyle stood, giving him a look of death. “Only, Doyle gave up,” Fowen said softly. “Doyle, boy genius and famous detective, up and quit. He recognized Bethany from Story Thieves and was all offended by the whole family-secret thing getting out. But once he realized that James Riley, the author, didn’t exist, and he couldn’t find any trace of who’d actually written the book . . . well, he just decided that this was all a waste of time. He just wasn’t smart enough to see the whole story.”
Abruptly, Doyle launched his arms through the bars of the cell, but Fowen leaped backward, grinning. “Nice try, smart guy,” he said, then gave Owen an almost embarrassed look. “He tries that every time I bring him his food. See, Doyle was all lonely up in this school and wanted a friend. A Watson to his Holmes, someone who’d tell him how great he was and how smart his deductions were. So I played that for him, I became his Watson. And he told me everything, all of this school’s secrets. Even how to access the camera system.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t hard to find out where he kept his safe after that, and even zoom in for the combinations. It was all in the security recordings.”
“You’ve kept him imprisoned down here because he didn’t do what you wanted?” Owen said, pushing himself back up to his feet.
“You make it sound so petty,” Fowen said. “I put him down here because Doyle gave up on the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Someone made up a whole story about me, Owen, and I needed to find out why, and who, and most importantly, what if it were actually real? I needed to meet Bethany, Owen. And if she really was real . . . then that left me only one option.”
“Drown her?” Owen asked.
“You’re so melodramatic,” Fowen told him. “She was never in any danger. I was watching her the whole time. I had to be, after all. I had Kiel’s magic working on her.”
Owen’s eyes widened. “You were—”
“Magistering her? Yup. I was stealing her power, little by little. Took me a few minutes to locate the spell the Magister used in Story Thieves, but I found it and stole some of her power just like he did. I haven’t tried it just yet, but I can’t wait to!” Fowen looked straight up and sighed. “Can you imagine where I’m going to go? Fantasy lands, space, the past, the future, shrink down to the size of nothing . . . so many options.”
“But why torture her?” Owen said. “Why almost drown her?”
Fowen shrugged. “I had to make her think I really wanted her to jump out, so she wouldn’t. Reverse psychology, Owen. I suppose I could have just told her that, but death traps are so much more villainous, and she’s going to need to believe Doyle’s truly bad for all this to work.”
“The Magister used up her power,” Owen told him. “So will you. And then you’ll be stuck in whatever book you jumped into.”
“Nah,” Fowen said. “Because she’ll be close by whenever I need a charge.” He turned to Owen and slowly grinned.
No. “You’re not—”
“That’s right!” Fowen shouted. “I’m taking over, Owen. I’m stealing your story. I’m going to be you, and you’re staying here. Haven’t you always wanted to live in a fictional world?” He frowned. “I do feel a little bad about the whole framing you for the library-burning-down thing, but I can’t just have you running after me, or telling anyone what I did. So
‘Doyle’ will speak to the police. You’re going to stay here, at the school, to pay for your crimes.” He shook his head sadly. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll meet all kinds of interesting kids. It definitely won’t be boring! And plus, I’ll leave you a copy of all the fictional books. I can make one easily enough. I just needed them so I could pass for you, since you’ve read everything anyway.”
This was all too much. How could it be real? How could he be doing this to himself?! “Why? Why would you do this to me?”
Fowen sighed. “Don’t you see, Owen?” he said, giving him a pitying look. “You’re wasting what could be the greatest life any person could ever live! You could keep jumping into stories with Bethany and Kiel forever, and having the biggest adventures possible. You could be a hero, you could learn magic, you could fly spaceships! But instead, you got all mopey because Charm was in danger and stories were hard, and suddenly you’re not into it anymore?”
“I had just had my heart taken out,” Owen pointed out quietly, wincing through the pain.
“I wouldn’t have let that stop me,” Fowen told him. “Look at what I was willing to do, Owen! I made Doyle a villain, I framed you and Kiel, I almost drowned Bethany, all so I could be the one to save everyone. Well, not save Doyle, but you get the point. I made up this story, and now I’m going to be its hero.”
“But it’s not just a story!” Owen shouted. “That’s what I didn’t get before. This is people’s lives. You can’t just go in and mess with them because it sounds fun. You need to take them seriously!”
Fowen leaned in and looked Owen straight in the eye. “I burned down my mother’s library, Owen,” he said. “You don’t think I’m taking this seriously?” He stood back up, shaking his head. “It’s honestly embarrassing, reading about you as the bumbling sidekick, the comic relief. I’ll take care of things. I’ll make a name for us both, a heroic one. And you can benefit too! Just tell people the book was written about you, and everyone will love you.”
“I don’t care about that. You’re trying to steal my life!”
Fowen made a face. “I can, though. But don’t worry. There aren’t any hard feelings on my end. Really, I think this is all for the best.”
Owen stared at him for a moment, then leaped straight at Fowen. Before he made it two feet, though, the band on his wrist sent a powerful jolt through his entire body. For a moment he completely forgot what was happening and just wondered why he couldn’t stop jerking around on the floor. Somewhere close by he heard a muffled groan of pain, and something hit the floor, but he couldn’t concentrate on that while he was twitching out of control.
He felt hands under his shoulders, and someone dragged him a short distance. Finally, Owen looked up to see Fowen close the cell door in front of him, with Doyle’s unconscious body now outside. “Relax here for a bit,” Fowen told him. “I have to go get the guards to help me carry this guy upstairs. You’ll enjoy this . . . I’m going to have it set up in his office so when Bethany and Kiel finally get in, they’ll see me, Owen, having just defeated Doyle all by myself. I’ll be the hero that you never could be, and we’ll go back to your home dimension and have the coolest, most awesome adventures ever. Maybe I’ll even come back and tell you about them.”
“You’re a monster,” Owen whispered, struggling to sit up.
“No, I’m you,” Fowen said, and grinned.
“You’re not me,” Owen said. “You’re the evil version of me.”
“I’m the better version of you,” Fowen said. “Speaking of, I brought my cat, Spike, with me here. I couldn’t bear to leave him home without me. Would you mind taking care of him? It’s the least you can do.”
“It’s the least I can do?!”
Fowen gave him an annoyed look. “He’s a cat. Don’t take out your issues on him.” He turned and started to drag Doyle to the door, then stopped. “Oh, one last thing. See if you can figure out this mystery, at least. Who actually wrote Story Thieves? Who’s the real James Riley?” He grinned. “I’m pretty sure I know, but you’ll have plenty of time here to figure it out. Let me know what you come up with!”
And with that, he took Doyle’s unconscious body and closed the door behind him, locking it. Owen tried to call out Fowen’s name, but an enormous pain hit him in the face like a hammer.
What, a flashback? Now?! NO, this was the worst—
MISSING CHAPTER 9
Yesterday . . .
Just because Doyle let us in, doesn’t mean we should trust him,” Owen whispered to Bethany and Kiel as an enormous guard with an English accent led them down the full hallways of the Baker Street School for Irregular Children. Everywhere he looked, kids walked quickly to class, their eyes shifting nervously at the slightest sound.
“I don’t like how scared they are,” Kiel said. He stopped near one and stuck out his hand. “Hello,” he said, grinning widely.
The boy, an enormous fourteen-year-old with more muscles in his arms than Owen had in his entire body, gave Kiel a terrified look, then sidestepped the magician and hurried away, not looking back.
Kiel frowned, his eyes going up to the moving cameras above them.
“Please don’t speak to the children,” the guard in front of them said. “It interferes with their rehabilitation efforts.”
The guard turned around, and Kiel stuck out his tongue at him, which caused a nearby student to snort. The student immediately clamped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. Something beeped, and a teacher stepped out of the nearest classroom, beckoning the student in. The girl dropped her head and followed, and the teacher, flashing a suspicious look at Kiel, Bethany, and Owen, quietly closed the door behind her.
“How exactly are they rehabilitated?” Bethany asked the guard.
“Very carefully,” the guard said, then smiled. “Shouldn’t keep Mr. Holmes waiting.”
During the rest of the walk, Owen made sure not to even look at the students, for fear of getting them in trouble. Sure, these were all criminals of one kind or another, but still, he wasn’t comfortable with any of it. None of this had been in the book.
And it didn’t explain how Doyle was crossing over into other stories, either.
“Remember the plan,” Owen whispered to the other two as they approached the double doors at the end of the hall, doors that said HEADMASTER’S OFFICE. “We grab him and jump out. No messing around. We’ll deal with whatever he’s done from the real world.”
“Nonfictional world,” Kiel murmured.
“Shh, both of you,” Bethany said, shifting from foot to foot. “And forget the plan. Don’t do anything until I say so, okay? I’ll handle this.”
Huh? Owen glanced over at her, but Bethany’s eyes were focused on the door. This was odd. She had barely said a word when they were discussing how to handle Doyle—had just nodded along. And now she wanted to take care of things?
And why were her hands shaking?
The guard knocked lightly on the door, then opened it and waved for them to go in. All three stepped into the headmaster’s office, and the guard closed the door gently behind them.
And then the lock clicked. That wasn’t a great sign.
“Come in,” said a voice from the far end of the room, and Owen turned his attention to the enormous wooden desk and a high-backed chair that was turned away from the door.
“Mr. Holmes?” Bethany said, stepping forward. “We’d like to speak to you about some of your latest . . . cases.”
“I know why you’re here, Bethany Sanderson.”
Owen gasped at her name, but Bethany looked more . . . guilty than anything.
“Mr. Holmes,” she whispered, “please tell me you found my father.”
Owen’s eyes widened. What had she done?
“What did you say?” Kiel asked, giving her a shocked look.
She didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the chair. “Tell me what you found, Mr. Holmes,” she said, her voice wavering, her hands shaking even worse. “Everything else can wait.”
Was that what this was all about? Doyle had crossed stories. Why would he do that if not looking for someone lost throughout the fictional world? Bethany had hired him to look for her father and caused this whole mess to begin with. Maybe her showing up here in the first place had done it. Doyle Holmes could probably tell she was half-fictional just by looking at her!
“I do have information for you,” Doyle said, and he swiveled around in the chair, a boy wearing a question-mark mask, a Sherlock Holmes hat and coat. The books made it sound almost like a superhero costume, but in person it felt like something out of a horror movie. “But first, let’s discuss the matter of my payment.”
Payment? Not only had she broken all of her own rules, she’d promised to pay the guy?
“I brought what you asked for,” Bethany said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a tiny black device. She laid it on the desk, while Doyle stared at her with his fingers steepled before reaching out and taking it.
“Before we continue, I’ll need to confirm this is what you say it is,” Doyle said, plugging the device into his desk.
Behind Doyle a bank of monitors had been showing classrooms full of kids. Now, though, the monitors began displaying book covers, real books, switching so fast that Owen could barely keep up. There were so many . . . what had Bethany given him?!
“It’s a copy of every e-book that the library had,” she said, sounding miserable, and Owen gasped loudly. She’d given a fictional character real books? But why? What use could he have for them? This was insane!
“Bethany, jump him out now!” Owen shouted, then moved to grab Doyle.
“I wouldn’t,” the detective said, raising a hand to stop him. “Not if Bethany wants to know what happened to her father.”
The room went silent, and Owen slowly turned toward Bethany, who had grabbed his arm and was pulling him away from Doyle.
“Please,” she said. “I need to know. I shouldn’t have done this, I know I shouldn’t have, but I had to. Don’t you get it?”
