by Sheila Grau
I gulped. “Who deleted the video? And why?”
“Probably the Girl Explorer Organization,” Syke said. “That sort of behavior is bound to hurt their cookie sales.”
That couldn’t be true.
We were nearing the lake, and I noticed movement in the bushes. Spooked by Syke’s story, I froze, grabbing her arm.
There was more rustling, and then Pismo jumped out onto the path. He ran in front of the zombies, waving his hands in the air.
“Whoa, fellows,” he said to the zombies. “Back to the castle. Go on.”
“Pismo, what are you doing?” I yelled.
Pismo spotted me and put his hands down. He looked at the zombies, then back at me. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your henchman test?”
“I’m waiting my turn. We’re taking these explosive minions to the lake, so they don’t blow up the castle. Why are you shooing them back?”
“Um … They look like something that belongs in the dungeon?”
“They’re too dangerous. Once one of them blows, they all will,” I said. Pismo seemed really squirrelly, so I asked again, “What are you doing out here?”
He frowned. For a second, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “I can’t believe you would risk my classmate’s life like that.”
“Your classmate?”
“Yes, uh”—he turned to look at the back of a zombie’s shirt—“Fifteen. I can’t believe you would put my friend Fifteen in danger. Why does he have to carry an explosive minion? What if he blows up?” Pismo put his fist to his mouth, like he was about to cry. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to Zombie Fifteen.”
“He’s full of it,” Syke said.
“Mind your own business, tree girl.” And with that, he ran off.
“He’s up to something,” Syke said.
“He’s obnoxious,” I said, watching him jog away. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Syke shrugged, and then she pointed to the dock. “The zombies are ready.”
They stood by a small dock that jutted out into the water like a long, floating T. I sent the zombies to the end, and we watched as they made their way along the dock.
“I feel kinda bad,” I said. The zombies looked so tender with their explosive minion babies. “I don’t think I can do it.”
Syke rolled her eyes. “Zom-beees!” she whined. “Put the explosive minions in the water!”
The zombies gently lowered the little black porcupines into the water.
“Will it kill them?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” Syke said. “It just deactivates them. Look.”
One of the explosive minions was floating, its claws slapping the surface. It seemed to be gulping down water. I ran down the dock toward it; I couldn’t let it drown. It wasn’t its fault it was an explosive minion. I leaned over and pulled it out of the lake. A stream of yellow water leaked out its backside, landing on the dock and burning a hole right through it. I held the minion out over the lake as the toxic pee continued to stream out of it. It wriggled and wriggled in my grasp until it got free, climbed over my back, and jumped off me.
Syke and I immediately ducked down, expecting to be blown to bits, but it didn’t explode. It burped.
The rest of the explosive minions swam around and then headed for shore. We went to meet them. All of us except Zombie Fifteen. His explosive minion swam to the middle of the dock. I watched him pull it out of the water, but it didn’t leak yellow fluid like the others.
It started wriggling, like the rest had done.
“Throw it back in the water!” I screamed, momentarily forgetting to whine. “Throwwww it baaack, Zom-beeee Fifteen.”
It squirmed over his shoulder.
“Get awaaaaay!”
We covered our heads.
I’m not sure if Zombie Fifteen tried to throw it or not. We heard a bang, and when I looked up, the end of the dock was gone. Zombie Fifteen lay on the shattered edge, not moving.
Oh no!
If something happened to him, it was my fault. How could I have so carelessly risked their lives? Well, their second lives?
I ran out and knelt down next to him. “Oh, Fifteen, you were so brave to carry that explosive minion,” I said. “You saved the castle.” I hated it that I didn’t know his real name. Calling him “Fifteen” seemed so impersonal.
His mouth was slack and he didn’t move. The other zombies crowded behind me. I put a hand on his shoulder. He felt clammy and cold, like usual. Then he raised his hand and clamped it on my wrist.
“Higginsbrains,” he said.
I nearly cried. “Yes. Yes, Fifteen. You get brains.” I hugged him tight, but then felt a bit of skin on his shoulder come off, so I let him go and tried to put it back on.
I curse thee! Your firstborn child shall die before he reaches his sixteenth year.
—A WITCH, REALLY UPSET ABOUT SOMETHING
I asked Syke to get the zombies some brains, and then I raced back to my test. My heart sank when I saw everybody at the base of the mountain. The test was over. I stopped running and walked the rest of the way.
Coach Foley was covered in white dust, and his expression told me he was ready to lead the charge against an army of trolls that had insulted his mother. I approached him warily.
“There you are, Higgins,” Professor Murphy said. “What happened to you?”
“I saw a bunch of explosive minions crawling up the side of the castle. I had the zombies take them to the lake. But one of them blew. Didn’t you hear that explosion?”
“There were quite a few explosions,” Professor Murphy said, nodding to the junior henchman applicants, half of whom were covered in white dust. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Um.” I wanted to say that I had just saved the castle from some expensive damage, but that sounded a little braggy, especially since it was the zombies who had done the dangerous work.
“You abandoned the test,” Professor Murphy said. “Coach Foley went to check on you, and he triggered three bombs trying to find you.” He turned to Coach Foley. “Again, I’m sorry, Gunner, I should have told you where they were.”
Coach Foley stood with his arms crossed, looking stern.
“Disqualified,” Professor Murphy said, marking something on the tablet.
“Mistress Moira? Do you think Dr. Frankenhammer would hurt the school, out of spite?” I asked during my first-period class. The fountain burbled and a cool breeze drifted through her wide windows. I sat on the couch in her airy room while she watered her carpet.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I just stopped some of his explosive minions from crawling into Dr. Critchlore’s office and destroying it. Frankenhammer was convinced that Vodum sabotaged his minions, and then he seemed furious that Dr. Critchlore would do nothing about it. Plus Darthin told me that Dr. Critchlore takes credit for Frankenhammer’s work. Maybe he’s had enough of that.” I noticed a pile of sweats in the corner. “Hey, are you making some Critchlore Shape-Shifter Snap-Free Sweatpants™? ’Cause I could use a pair. I’m an adult small.”
“Excuse me?”
“All right, youth large.”
“Did you say Critchlore Shape-Shifter Snap-Free Sweatpants?”
“Yes,” I said. “Isn’t that what they’re called?”
“No. They are Moira’s Morphing Pants. I invented them.”
“I thought it was Critchlore,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because they say ‘Critchlore’s Snap-Frees’ on the tag.”
“Higgins, Dr. Frankenhammer would never do anything to harm Dr. Critchlore, but I certainly will.” She lifted both arms in the air and chanted something I couldn’t understand. It sounded like “Fingleton Yaw Yaw Finglemore Bep.”
I reminded myself never to make Mistress Moira mad. She looked fierce. But then she smiled and sat down. “See how he likes his own Snap-Frees,” she said. Then she giggled.
“W
here were we?” she continued. “Oh, right. Frankenhammer. Fifteen years ago, when Dr. Frankenhammer was just Cyril Frankenhammer, janitor, he met Dr. Critchlore at a lecture. Dr. Critchlore was so impressed with Cyril that he made him give up his janitorial dreams and go back to school. Dr. Critchlore paid for everything: his tuition, his room and board, his books and supplies. Dr. Frankenhammer owes everything he has to Dr. Critchlore.”
“Wow,” I said, giggling. “His name is Cyril?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Runt.”
I stopped giggling.
“But if it wasn’t Dr. Frankenhammer, then who? It’s hard to believe that all these catastrophes are just accidents. Or bad luck. Oh,” I gasped as another option entered my brain. Maybe it wasn’t me that was cursed; maybe it was the school. “Do you think we’ve been cursed?”
“I don’t think so,” Moira said. She stood up, spread her arms, and chanted again: “Blakuvia Wangton Felp,” or something. She repeated it three times, then looked out the window with the most intense stare I’d ever seen. It made my skin bumpy.
She sat back down. “Nothing new,” she said. “Just the same old curses.”
“What?”
“I can detect curses,” she said. “I can’t do anything about them, but I know when they’re present.”
“There are curses present?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Six at the moment. There used to be a seventh, but the witch who cast it probably died. That one was a doozy. Dr. Critchlore neglected to pay the subcontractor who built the bathroom in one of the back rooms in the East Wing. The subcontractor hired a witch, and she cursed the toilet to flush outward every fourth flush.” She shook her head. “Very nasty.”
“And the other six?”
“Mostly minor stuff. Cursed objects and protected places—the dragon hex, the billy goat curse, and the book curse. There’s one biggie, which is a timed-death curse. You know the type: A certain someone will die on their sixteenth birthday, or twentieth, or thirtieth.”
“Who?”
“That I cannot say.”
“So no curse is causing all these incidents?”
Moira shook her head.
I slouched. Something sinister was afoot, as my classical literature novels always said. And if it wasn’t Dr. Frankenhammer or a curse, what else could it be? Who could be causing it?
Dr. Critchlore had enemies. It came with the job. There was Dr. Pravus, our rival school’s headmaster. There was Dark Wendix, the overlord who’d lost a good chunk of land during the “Epic Minion Fail” debacle. There might be other disgruntled customers, for all I knew.
But how could any of them attack our school? We had every security measure imaginable. High walls with towers surrounded the school grounds. Nobody—nothing—got in or out without being scanned, photographed, and questioned. The perimeter was patrolled night and day by minions practicing their perimeter patrol skills.
I thought out loud. “Who is sabotaging the school? The cemetery, the lab, and now Dr. Critchlore’s office. And every time an attack happens, there’s nobody around. No witnesses. In the cemetery, the explosion happened at the same time that Vodum called a meeting of the necromancers in the castle, and they are the only ones who work in that area. And then in the dungeon, there was the gas leak, which turned out to be a harmless chemical, but it cleared out the place before the carnivorous cockroaches were released. And this morning, the fire alarm before the explosive minions.”
“Interesting,” Moira said. She placed her pointer finger on her temple and closed her eyes. After a moment she said, “I see three possibilities. One, a saboteur, if indeed these are acts of sabotage, wanted to create a distraction before attacking, so he or she wouldn’t get caught. Or, two, our saboteur didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“What’s the third possibility?”
“Coincidence,” she said. “Never rule out coincidence. We are always looking for connections between events, and most of the time there is no connection. Trust me, I know connections.”
I sat and thought again about all these events being unrelated instances of “bad luck.” Was it possible?
“On the other hand,” Moira said, “sometimes when we search for connections, that leads us to our answer.”
I sighed. Moira was sort of the opposite of helpful.
I tried to see what these tragedies had in common. Cause and effect. First, I looked at the causes:
Minion fail: Caused by badly trained minions. Or a video trick of some sort.
Cemetery explosion: Caused by a bomb?
Dr. Frankenhammer’s lab: Caused by a bug infestation.
Dr. Critchlore’s office: Escaped explosive minions.
Not much connected the events. What about the results?
“Epic Minion Fail” hurt our reputation. We’d lost some new recruits when they’d opted to go to other minion schools.
Destroying the cemetery meant no new “dead” minions.
Destroying Dr. Frankenhammer’s work meant no new “invented” minions.
I was beginning to see a pattern, but then I reached the explosive minions outside Dr. Critchlore’s office. Why would someone place a bomb there when Dr. Critchlore was outside? He was in plain view.
If not to kill him, then what was the saboteur trying to accomplish?
Destroying Dr. Critchlore’s office would throw him deeper into depression. It would ruin his office, his files, his collection of shrunken heads, and his books.
I gasped.
His books.
The Top Secret Book of Minions! The saboteur could have been trying to destroy it. Another potential source of minions!
But who?
If we didn’t have any new minions, the school would close. There was only one person I could think of who could benefit from putting the school out of business, and that was Dr. Pravus. What if he had planted a mole right here in our school? It wouldn’t be the first time a minion school has planted a spy at a rival school. It could be anybody: a guard, a groundskeeper, anybody.
Or it could be a student—someone who didn’t quite fit in, but could inflict a huge amount of damage.
A student with a bad attitude.
Pismo had taken off for the cemetery right before it blew.
Pismo had tried to steal the Top Secret Book of Minions.
Pismo had ditched me in the dungeon right before the carnivorous cockroaches were released.
Pismo had tried to shoo the explosive minions back to the castle.
It had to be him.
Critchlore minions: For when you get the urge to conquer large parts of the world!
—AN ADVERTISEMENT IN THE EVIL OVERLORD DAILY NEWS
During my junior henchman class, I had trouble paying attention to Professor Murphy as he lectured about how a henchman never abandons his task. Once again, he said this while glaring at me.
Third period I had Study Hall, but instead of going to the library, I headed straight for Dr. Critchlore’s private elevator. I had to tell him about Pismo.
Miss Merrybench wasn’t at her desk. Dr. Critchlore wasn’t in his office. Where could they be? I thought about leaving a note, but I didn’t know what to write. No, I’d have to come back later.
I noticed a package on her desk for Professor Vodum, and that reminded me of something else I’d meant to do. I didn’t like calling the zombies by their numbers. I wanted to know their real names. Professor Vodum could tell me what they were. And since I was going there anyway, I could save Miss Merrybench the trip and deliver the package for her. I picked it up and headed out.
I nearly ran into Miss Merrybench at the door.
“Oh,” I said. “I was looking for Dr. Critchlore.”
“He had to return to his quarters, due to a clothing mishap,” she said. She smiled briefly, looking into his office. I followed her gaze and saw a pile of ripped-off clothes on the floor. Was that what Mistress Moira meant by “See how he likes his own Snap-Frees”?
Mi
ss Merrybench looked at the package in my hand and raised her eyebrows. I hoped she didn’t think I was stealing it.
“Oh! This package is for Professor Vodum, and since I’m going to his office anyway, I thought I’d save you the trip because I know how busy you are, you are probably the hardest-working person in the whole school, I’m always thinking, ‘What can I do to make life easier for Miss Merrybench?’ and this seemed like a good thing to do.”
Her eyebrows didn’t budge from their raised suspicion, and she didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“Well, don’t just stand there looking stupid,” she said. “Go already.”
I raced out of there.
The Necromancy Building was quiet. Marcia, the secretary, wasn’t in the little anteroom, and the offices behind her desk were empty. Maybe they’d closed down the whole department, now that the cemetery had been destroyed.
I walked over to Professor Vodum’s door and peeked in. “Professor Vodum?” I called, thinking he might be somewhere out of sight. Nope, empty.
Rats.
Marcia’s phone rang. I waited, but nobody came to answer. The machine picked up.
“Vodum, Dr. Evans here. Got your message about moving up the meeting regarding Critchlore. The board of directors is very concerned, given the stock price plunge this year. I’m backing Critchlore, as you know, but if there’s another incident at the school, the other board members want his head. Not literally, of course. That business with Headmaster Colving was a special circumstance. But nine A.M., then.”
Oh no! Things weren’t looking good for Dr. Critchlore. The board of directors was losing patience. “Another incident?” It suddenly struck me that if we did have a saboteur (Pismo) in our midst, he could be planning another attack right now. I was going to have to find Mrs. Gomes at lunch and warn her.
I turned to leave, but as I opened the door, I bumped into Professor Vodum, who had his head down, reading something he held in his hands.
I couldn’t help it: I yelped.
“Higgins. For goodness’ sake, what do you want now?” he asked.
“Package for you, sir,” I said. “And I have a question.”
“Package?” He grabbed it out of my hand, reading the label as he stomped over to his desk. “Reliable Potions Corporation?”
