The Villain Keeper

by Laurie McKay

  Suddenly, Caden felt uncomfortable. Tonya seemed scared. He realized that Mr. McDonald could be anyone. He could be a minion of Rath Dunn.

  Mr. McDonald glanced up. “Eyes on your computers, people,” he said.

  Ward sat with his muscles tense. Tonya turned back to her work. Caden peered at his screen and hit the button called the space bar. Another symbol flashed on the screen.

  “Y,” said the mystical monotone.

  Caden frowned. Why indeed? He lifted the muffs from his ears. In his quietest tone, he asked Tonya, “Why are you afraid? Is Mr. McDonald a pawn of Rath Dunn?”

  Her brow drew up, and she blinked behind her glasses like she was trying to place the name and failing. After a moment, she looked to Ward. Caden had believed Ward was ignoring them. But after a few seconds, Ward turned. In a soft, serious voice he said, “No. He doesn’t like Mr. Rathis.”

  Ward looked like a boy from Asheville. He looked like the keyboard was an extension of his being, like a boy of computers and televisions, who knew nothing of Razzon, magic, or the Greater Realm—nothing of Rath Dunn. Yet, he seemed to recognize Rath Dunn for who he was.

  “Then why are you afraid?” Caden said. “And how is it you know of Rath Dunn when everyone else claims ignorance of his true name and nature?”

  Ward glanced to Tonya like she was his voice.

  She feigned working on her lesson. Hesitantly, like she feared the man at her back, she shifted closer. “Ward’s father is the janitor,” she said. “He knows everything.”

  “About who? Rath Dunn?” he whispered.

  “The t-teachers.”

  Behind them, Caden felt Mr. McDonald moving, heard him lumber up from his seat.

  Ward motioned for Caden to put back on his earmuffs. Deftly, he reached across to Caden’s computer. His fingers seemed sure as he punched buttons. “The teachers are all evil,” said the mystical voice in Caden’s magical earmuffs. Ward pressed more keys. “But they are scared of HER.”

  Mr. McDonald hovered near them for the rest of class. Ward and Tonya seemed afraid to say more with him nearby and hurried away when class ended.

  When Caden met Tito in science class, Mrs. Belle greeted him warmly and smiled. With her blouse buttons misaligned, it was hard to imagine her as evil or feared. Still, a future Elite Paladin was ever vigilant, ever cautious. Besides, he noticed Mrs. Belle had painted her nails bloodred. It seemed contrary to her demeanor. Maybe she was something worse than she appeared.

  Caden leaned toward Tito. “Ward and Tonya believe her evil,” he said.

  Tito neither looked up nor agreed. “Don’t talk again until lunch,” he said. Although not compelled, Caden did as he said.

  Lunch, unfortunately, did not come quickly.

  Like the day before, Caden stood in line with a tray. His thoughts felt heavy, and his gaze drifted to the teachers at the back table. One by one, he took in their mannerisms, their appearances. Mrs. Belle had spilled sauce on her blouse. The English teacher—he’d learned from Tito his name was Mr. Frye—wore gloves as he ate. Caden could almost picture his likeness framed in the Hall of Infamy portraits, but he couldn’t place him.

  Another stout man, whose name Caden had yet to learn but who he thought also taught English, glowered out at the students like their existence sickened him. The others were equally odd—a long lean man who could pass for a necromancer, a woman with jet-black hair and sharp-looking features. Rath Dunn sat in the middle. He noticed Caden looking, and a slow smile crept over his lips. Was he afraid of someone at that table? Were they all villains?

  Behind the lunch counter, Ms. Aggie stirred a thick red sauce in her huge pot and cackled. There was the distinct smell of tomatoes. Were they poisonous? The old lunch man, who Caden had learned was called Mr. Andre, sneered from the back. His hands trembled as he lifted the bread tray.

  “Spaghetti?” said Ms. Jackson, the youngest, prettiest, and most suspicious of the lunch witches. Certainly, she might be worthy of fear. Ms. Aggie and Mr. Andre watched, their attention unsettling, their faces full of envy.

  Caden wouldn’t trust the lunch witches. He would trust no one at the school. Rath Dunn was here, and if Tonya and Ward were right, he was one of many to be feared. He pulled back his plate. “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s watching his girlish figure, Ms. Jackson. Isn’t that right, Goodwill?” Snickering erupted in the line. A few spaces behind Caden stood Derek—the boy Tito had ordered Caden not to fight. But Caden no longer had to follow orders. At least, he didn’t until the next half-moon. He pushed that uncomfortable fact away for the time being and turned back to Ms. Jackson.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Caden said. “I’ll take the food.”

  Ms. Jackson glanced between Caden and Derek, and piled the spaghetti high on his tray. The sauce steamed.

  Caden stepped toward Derek. “I won’t tolerate your ridicule,” he said.

  The tray grew hot from the mess of sauce and noodles—very hot. Sadly, Caden set it on the counter. His intent was to teach this commoner a lesson, not scald him.

  “My ridicule?” Derek said. “When you talk like that, you bring it on yourself.” He pushed past Caden, grinned at the surrounding students, and held out his tray. “Spaghetti, please.”

  Derek’s spaghetti steamed. No doubt it was hot like the embers of the red thunder springs. Caden noticed that his tray, however, had cooled when he picked it back up. The chilly air had sucked the warmth away. The red sauce looked tacky and viscous.

  Caden grabbed Derek by the shoulder, twisted him around, and smashed the tray with his sticky, slightly warm spaghetti into Derek’s shirt.

  Derek stood frozen. In one hand, he held his tray of steaming spaghetti. The other was balled into a fist. Sauce dripped from his shirt and, with a heavy plop, landed on his too-white sneakers.

  No one in the cafeteria made a sound. Then excited murmurings filled the air. Derek’s face turned the same color red as the spaghetti sauce. With a scream, he flung his tray of hot spaghetti at Caden’s face.

  Caden ducked. The tray whizzed over his head and clattered against the granite wall.

  “You really are a freak,” Derek said. “My mom’s a lawyer. She’ll get you expelled.” His sneakers slipped on the sauce and he fell to Caden’s feet.

  “I do not fear this mother of yours,” Caden said, and crossed his arms. “And if you don’t want a fight, coward,” he said, “don’t start one.”

  Derek got to his feet and wiped the red sauce on his hands on his jeans. “You’ll regret this,” he said, but Caden doubted it. Matter of point, Caden found this all very fulfilling.

  His glee, however, was short-lived. His arm began to sting. He felt the stitches that were keeping his dagger wound closed begin to pull apart, and blood seeped through his coat, indistinguishable from tomato sauce. It was the power of magical item number forty-three: the blood dagger.

  Caden looked up, and there stood Rath Dunn. His pants were a dull tan, his shirt a starched white, but his jacket was bloodred velvet. “What happened here?”

  Caden raised his chin. Derek remained silent.

  It seemed Mrs. Belle had also come to see the incident. She peered over Rath Dunn’s shoulder and tapped one red-painted nail on the counter. “An accident, certainly.”

  Rath Dunn looked from Ms. Jackson to Derek’s spaghetti-stained shirt, and Caden’s trayless hands. “Vice principal’s office. Both of you,” he said.

  Mrs. Belle tried to argue for Caden, but Rath Dunn grabbed Caden’s injured arm. He dug his fingers into the flesh, further opening the wound. Caden flinched, but he did not cry out. That’s what Rath Dunn wanted. Mrs. Belle retreated back to her table. Her attempt to help had been weak at best.

  Rath Dunn led Caden to the stairs like that, his grip strong and painful. Derek followed like an angry shadow. At the top of the steps, Rath Dunn released him.

  “Show Caden to the office, Derek. I expect better from both of you,” he said. With a gleeful laugh,
he added, “Good luck, son of Axel.”

  His footfalls echoed down the steps, growing fainter and farther away. Finally, Caden and Derek were alone in the long hall. Down its expanse, the messy tiled floor and the dull pink lockers disappeared into the dark depths of the mountain.

  They trudged a long way down the corridor. “This better not go on my record,” Derek said.

  The vice principal’s office was deep in the school. At the end of the long hall sat a wiry man at a metal desk. The wall behind him was a large carved door. The man’s hair was slick and black, his eyes deep set. His arms and legs were long and thin, and he reminded Caden of a spider.

  “Derek,” the man said, and it sounded like a hiss.

  Derek stepped back. “Yeah, hi, Mr. Creedly. Mr. Rathis sent us.”

  Mr. Creedly pointed a too-long finger to the door behind him. His sneer could have broken glass. “One at a time.”

  Derek went first. Before pushing open the heavy door, he paused. He slunk inside with his head down and his steps slow. His acting abilities far surpassed Brynne’s. Whatever he told this vice principal would be of no benefit to Caden.

  Mr. Creedly stared at Caden, and something about him jostled Caden’s nerves. His stomach danced; his wound stung.

  “You’re new,” Mr. Creedly said.

  Caden was no babe. “I’m twelve.”

  “Not to life, to the school.”

  “And you’re not.”

  Slowly, Mr. Creedly smiled. His teeth were straight, white, and looked sharp. “I’ve been here since near the beginning.” He bent forward. “She likes you.”

  It was unclear whether he thought that was a good thing or not, or who “she” was. “That doesn’t surprise me,” Caden said.

  Mr. Creedly laughed, but his face and body didn’t so much as twitch. The sound pushed out harsh and unnatural. Caden kept the long-armed secretary in view while he waited.

  Derek soon returned. His face was pale. The scent of spaghetti hung off him like crumpled armor. There was another smell lingering in the hallway, too.

  Roses.

  “Your turn,” Mr. Creedly said.

  The office was long and narrow like the hall, and the smell of roses grew stronger as Caden entered. The walls were filled with shelves. But instead of books, the shelves held bowls in which shiny rocks, buttons, and cheap jewelry were displayed like treasures—color sorted and polished. There were no smears on the furniture, no cobwebs in the corners, no mud tracks on the floor. There was no dust or fingerprints anywhere. The room was the cleanest he’d seen at the school, the cleanest he’d seen in Asheville. To the side, a large window looked out to a towering wall of rock and ice.

  At the back was a gleaming mahogany desk. A vase of pink flowers sat on one corner and a bowl of shiny silver beads sat on the one opposite. There was no place for students or visitors to sit.

  Behind the desk sat Ms. Primrose.

  “I’m disappointed, Caden,” she said. “Two days and you’re already in my office.”

  He’d not expected to see her. Was Ms. Primrose the she who all the teachers were afraid of? Was she the one who chained them and forced them to teach middle school math and science? What was she? Was she evil? Caden was unsure. He stood in front of her desk and lifted his chin. “I thought you were the placement counselor.”

  For a moment she looked surprised, like she hadn’t expected him to notice. Then she clasped her gnarled hands and said, “I’m whatever I choose to be, dear.”

  If Ms. Primrose could be whatever she chose, why would she pick an overly sweet, aged woman who smelled like flowers and worked in a school? Caden stared at her warily. She wore a spotless rose-red dress, and her hair was pulled into a tight silver bun. Now that Caden was sitting so close to her, her skin seemed to have the texture of smooth, pebbled leather.

  She pulled a sheet of pink paper from her desk drawer and scribbled on it. “I gave Derek detention,” she said. “But I’m willing to let you go with a note home this time.” She held the note out. “Return it signed.” When he didn’t reach for the paper, she waved it back and forth.

  With a careful nod, he took the note and tucked it in his coat pocket with his compass. What was she? Of course, he couldn’t ask her. That question might offend a normal old person, let alone whatever she was. “Is that what you do here?” he said instead. “Hand out punishments?”

  She reopened the desk drawer. He saw it was filled with rows of colored pens, neat stacks of the pink punishment sheets, and other neat stacks of different colored paper. With precise movements, she put the pen away. “That’s the vice principal’s job,” she said. “Discipline.”

  “For students and teachers?”

  “Well, no, vice principals don’t discipline teachers.”

  “But you can choose to be something that can punish them?”

  She looked at him sharply. “That,” she said, “is none of your concern. You need to worry about learning to read and passing your classes. I don’t like it when students don’t pass. It makes me hungry.”

  “Hungry?” Caden asked.

  “Did I say hungry, dear? I meant angry.”

  She shook her head like she was tired of explaining things and moved her gaze to the door behind him. When he didn’t leave, she cleared her throat and pointed to it.

  Caden held his ground. He needed her favor and he needed information. Walking out would get him neither.

  From the large window, cold sunshine broke into the room. On the office shelves the bowls of stones shimmered and the plastic jewelry glittered.

  Before Ms. Primrose could tell him to go, Caden motioned to the shelves. “Your collections are—” It was imperative to use the right word. Adjectives danced—“tacky,” “odd,” “cheap,” “shiny”—but none were good enough. He had to be sincere. Any creature that could intimidate Rath Dunn deserved that respect. “Clean,” he said.

  Though she seemed to fight it, she puffed up a little. “Few people appreciate such things. Oh, they say this and that, but they never mean it.” She ran her fingers through the bowl near the desk corner. “I spend hours polishing my treasures.”

  He glanced at the shelves, at the cheap trinkets glittering in the sun, and didn’t understand. Nonetheless he noted her pride. She liked to collect things. There were certain powerful beings that did, and if she was who Rath Dunn feared, he had no doubts she was powerful. Also, it didn’t matter if he understood why she collected what she did. He wasn’t trying to exploit her connection to the trinkets. He was trying to exploit her connection to their care.

  “I’ve wiped down unlucky locker twelve-four twice today,” he said. “The other students keep smearing fingerprints across the door.”

  “Few understand the importance of spotlessness,” she said.

  Common ground established, he flashed his most charming smile. “Or honor. I believe your teachers are behaving badly.”

  For a brief moment, she peered at him like she would agree with whatever he said. Then she turned her lips down and became pensive. “It’s quite something, dear, that gift of yours.” Then her words turned hushed and musical, “But you’d be better if you practiced more.”

  It took him a moment to understand what she said. He rubbed at an ache in his temple. When her meaning became clear, her comment still seemed strange. He tried to answer in the same way. The effort made his tongue feel clumsy, but he spoke the lyrical language. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “It seems to me you do,” she said. All the musical qualities of her speech were replaced with the soothing drawl of the Ashevillian tongue. “And don’t play dumb. It’s ill-mannered.” She shook her head and sighed. “Your gift of speech, dear.”

  “You know about that?” he said.

  “Yes, and I’m impressed.” She looked at him, gaze unwavering and unamused.

  It felt as if she was testing him again, like she had with the computer that first day. It also seemed he’d done better this time. Caden tried to un
tangle his sore tongue and considered those things. The dull ache in his temple faded. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak again. “Well,” he said, unsure of what had just happened. He set it in the corner of his mind. He’d think more on it. “I’m good with words,” he said for now.

  “I know. And you’ve been trying to charm me since you walked in the door, don’t deny it.” She waggled her finger at him. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  There was no doubt she was old. And, yes, he did want her favor, however— “What does that have to do with my gift of speech?” She didn’t answer, and an uncomfortable feeling settled through his bones, like maybe he did know what she meant but had never truly admitted it. “My gift of speech lets me speak all languages.” Even English and Spanish. “That’s all.”

  She fixed him with a serious gaze.

  “Oh there’s much more to it than that, dear,” she said. “Haven’t you figured that out?”

  Truth be told, Caden had figured it out. Gifts were layered. His sixth-born brother, Chadwin, had been gifted with agility. He was nimble of body but also of mind. Among all his brothers, Chadwin had been the best at strategy, the best at understanding the pieces before everyone else. Caden’s gift also was layered. His skills with languages were only part of it. He was also good at talking people into things. It was a talent of conmen and charlatans.

  Caden felt shame creep up his cheeks. “My father doesn’t like it,” he said softly.

  “Then he’s a fool; such a gift is a jewel, charm and tongues,” she said, and waved him off. “Now back to class chop-chop.”

  Caden missed his father; he believed in him. His father’s opinions were never foolish. He, for one, would never employ a tyrant of the realm as a math teacher. Caden felt his patience crack. “My father’s a great man.” The wound on his arm stung, held together only by the veterinarian’s stitching. His tongue and head still ached, but he tried to speak respectfully. “Unlike Rath Dunn. I want to report him. He’s my enemy. I believe he’s stolen Jane Chan.”