“Peter?”
“Correction,” he says in a strained voice. “You spend the rest of rehearsal doing what you’re supposed to be doing. I need . . . I need to sit down.”
I help him over to a nearby metal folding chair.
“What’s wrong?”
He leans over and rests his forearms on his thighs. “That thing . . . even stronger than I thought. I really am still feeling it on my skin. It’s still . . . draining me . . . something . . .” He shakes his head. “I need to . . .” He turns his hands over, palms up, and I see a flare of red demon energy.
Then he slides out of the chair and onto the floor.
“Peter!”
I kneel beside him. At first I think he’s unconscious, but then his eyes flutter open. “Got it,” he says. “Done. That was a nasty trick. Evil bastard.”
“Are you going to be okay? What happened?”
“I’ll be okay. It left behind a sort of delayed-activation poison. Something in those wiry fibers on its legs.”
I shudder, remembering all too well what those legs felt like when I was fighting them off in the portal.
Oh.
“Will it . . . I touched it, too, last night . . .”
He shakes his head again. “No. Just a demon thing. You’re fine. And I’ll be fine. I just have to remember not to touch it again without protecting against that.”
He seems to be regaining some of his strength, but he still needs my help to get back up into the chair.
“What can I do?” I ask.
He smiles up at me weakly. “Find some excuse to get Celia and Darleen back here. Tell them it’s something about one of their songs. That should get them going.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I wasn’t kidding about the drama thing. I’ll need it to recover from this.” His smile disappears suddenly and he looks at me like he’s just thought of something. “It doesn’t . . . it doesn’t hurt them. If you were thinking that. I mean, I’m not taking anything from them in the way Mr. Gabriel was sucking out students’ life energy. I only take what they already put out into the world around them. I just encourage them to put out a little more sometimes.”
“I didn’t —”
He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. “I swear, Cyn. I’m not like that. I’m not doing anything to hurt them. I want you to understand.”
I give his hand a tiny squeeze. “I understand. It’s okay. I’ll send them back here.”
He releases me and nods in relief. “Thanks.”
I go out into the theater proper. Fortunately, Michael’s running a scene that neither Darleen nor Celia is in, and they’re both sitting in the audience, several rows apart, studying their scores. I talk quietly to one and then the other, and they both head backstage. As they get closer to the stairs, I can see them speeding up, both trying to be first.
After a moment, I head backstage myself toward where my summer minions are working on set construction. I want to be doing something about Mr. Gabriel and his deranged spider-brother, but it seems clear that we’re going to need some outside help to deal with them, and Peter’s in no shape to do anything right now, anyway. But as soon as he’s better, I’ll ask him about contacting Aaron to see whether the demoness might be willing to help us. I don’t want to wait for his other friends to get back in touch, and I realize the only reason I’ve been reluctant to bring in Aaron is because I know Ryan would hate it. But Ryan has removed himself from the situation and has therefore lost his vote. So I am not going to care about what kind of plan he would or would not like. At all.
Nope.
I feel a sad sigh coming on and fight it back down instead. The only cure for grief is action, as one of my few nonmusical favorite inspirational quotes goes. (George Henry Lewes, nineteenth-century English dramatist, novelist, actor, philosopher, scientist, etc. Seems like a smart guy.) So I’m going to take action. As soon as Peter is strong enough to help me.
In the meantime, I might as well see how the platforms for Act 2 are coming along. That counts as action, too.
By the end of rehearsal, Peter is looking much better. Darleen and Celia had a brief blowup and had to be separated by Michael, again, but everyone’s come to expect that from them by now, and so the disruption didn’t last very long. Peter is going to check in with Hector to see if any brilliant ideas have come in from any of his sources, and we will reconvene after lunch. Ordinarily I would suggest skipping lunch under these circumstances, but Peter says he still needs a bit more rest, and I’m actually kind of starving, since I didn’t end up eating anything at breakfast.
I stop back at bunk 6 on the way to lunch, hoping maybe Susan will be there so I can walk with her to the dining hall instead of all alone, and I notice Annie’s letter still sitting unopened on the milk crate that serves as my night table. With everything else going on, I’d forgotten all about it. I sit down on the bed and carefully tear open the envelope without beheading or de-footing or otherwise maiming any of the glow-in-the-dark cats. This is exactly what I need. I am going to just take a little break from today’s fresh new dose of horrors and lose myself temporarily in some entertaining stories about sweet, sweet William and all the other happy and demon-free news from back home. Just for a few minutes.
But the first line after her bouncily penned “Dear Cyn” nearly makes me drop the letter in shock.
Guess what???? We are all coming up to see your show!!!!!!
No. No no no no no.
Annie can’t come here. Not now. Not when Mr. Gabriel is here. Him and his horrible brother. This — she can’t — I won’t —
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm down. My heart is pounding faster than a Gilbert and Sullivan patter song being sung by a real show-off, and my legs feel shaky and weak even though I’m already sitting down.
This can’t happen again. He cannot get at her.
He cannot.
HE CANNOT.
I just wish I knew what we could possibly do to stop him.
Once again my first impulse is to run to Ryan, but there is no way I’m going to let myself do that.
Anyway, this is not really an emergency. The show is still more than a week away. Maybe we’ll have fixed everything by then and it will all be fine.
Old Cyn snorts derisively in the back of my brain.
It could happen! I retort angrily. I don’t think the time issue is the greatest part of this challenge. If we’re going to figure out some way to stop Mr. Gabriel and his horrible brother, it could happen tomorrow as easily as next week. So stop with the attitude, please. If you don’t have anything useful to contribute, you can just be quiet.
Silence. Which is too bad, because I was kind of hoping maybe she would have something useful to contribute.
Because I’ve got nothing.
I could write back to Annie and tell her not to come . . . but she would immediately be suspicious and insist on knowing why. And I can’t tell her why. It’s been so hard for her to even begin to feel safe. I can’t let her know that Mr. Gabriel is still alive, and here, and still wants her.
I could try to come up with some alternative believable reason (a lie, you mean, Old Cyn says in my head, sounding suspiciously like Ryan, but I ignore her) . . . that the show was canceled, or something . . . but . . . I guess I don’t have to decide that just yet. There’s still some time.
Right now . . . I don’t know what to do right now. I’ve completely lost my appetite for lunch, so there’s no reason to make myself face the dining hall. I could go to find Peter, but if he admitted needing rest, he probably really does.
I decide to do the one thing that almost always makes me feel better when things are crap. I dig out my headphones and my music and go outside.
Nature is there, bright and beautiful, all green and brown with sunlight dancing on the leaves, and there are no giant spider monsters immediately visible anywhere. I head off on one of the paths into the trees, scrolling through my albums. As
much as I love Sondheim and his dark and complicated masterpieces, today I think I need something a little . . . happier. I stop on Guys and Dolls and press play. Good, old-fashioned, smart music and snappy lyrics and a sweet, wonderful ending where everything turns out okay for everyone. That’s what I need right now.
I walk, and listen, and try not to think too much about anything. When the lunch period is over, I’ll go find Peter, because that will just have to have been enough resting, and then I will ask him to contact Aaron and then I will do whatever I have to do to get the demoness to help us again. Until then, I am just going to try to regain my equilibrium.
And for a little while, that actually seems to be happening.
It’s not until I’m up to “If I Were a Bell” that I even see another person. It’s a man, approaching my path from one of the connecting paths up ahead. After a second I realize it’s Michael, asshole-director extraordinaire.
I am resolved that not even Michael will disrupt my carefully achieved and probably extremely temporary mental stability. I’m about to turn around and find some other direction to walk when I notice how strangely blank his face is. He hasn’t seen me; he’s looking straight in front of him and is far enough ahead of where I am that he wouldn’t be able to see me unless he turned his head. But he doesn’t turn his head. He walks steadily forward, not looking around, not seeming to be looking at anything at all, really.
Something feels wrong about this.
For a moment I’m tempted to ignore the sense of wrongness and stick with my original plan of turning around and walking away. But . . . I don’t. Instead, I pause the music and take off my headphones and tuck everything into my pocket. And then I follow him.
He walks on, leading me deeper into the camp trails than I’ve yet explored on my own. He’s not going in the direction of any of the theaters or activity buildings or offices.
The sense of wrongness gets stronger and stronger.
This can’t be good, Old Cyn mutters in the back of my brain.
I could not agree more.
I hesitate, torn over what to do. Then I take a breath and jog forward.
“Hey, Michael?”
No response.
I reach out to take his arm and try to pull him to a stop, but he shakes me off without even glancing at me and continues walking. His expression doesn’t change.
Crap. This definitely can’t be good.
I try pulling his arm harder. I try standing in front of him and physically blocking his way. Finally, I try slapping him across the face.
At first nothing happens. His face remains blank, and he keeps trying to walk forward.
Then he stops and turns toward me, and his eyes become alive again.
I can instantly tell it’s not him on the other side.
“I wondered why it was taking him so long,” Mr. Gabriel says through Michael’s mouth. “That’s what I get for leaving him on autopilot, I guess.”
“What are you doing to him?”
He smiles one of his terrible smiles, which looks extra hideous on Michael’s hijacked face. “What do you think?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly very dry. “You’re not going to kill him.”
“Oh, no. No, of course not.”
I don’t relax, because obviously this is not the end of the story.
There’s a rustling in the trees, and then Little Brother creeps out onto the path.
“He’s going to kill him,” Mr. Gabriel goes on.
Of course.
Crap.
“But . . .” stalling, not that I expect my brain will come up with any brilliant ideas for what to do in the next few seconds. “But what will happen to you if Michael dies while you’re inside him?”
“Michael? Oh, good. You know him! That’s even better.” His smile gets wider. It’s very disconcerting to see Michael’s face wearing such a pleased expression. He never looks that way at rehearsal. “I won’t still be inside, of course. I’m just helping him get to where he’s going. Then my brother will kill him, and I will feed on the terror and pain and death.”
“Couldn’t you . . . couldn’t you just drain off some of his life force like you did with the kids at school? Do you have to kill him?”
Mr. Gabriel throws his/Michael’s head back and laughs. I can’t really blame him. But again: stalling.
“I’d forgotten how amusing you could be, dear Cynthia.” He shakes his head, still chuckling. “I don’t have to do anything. I could just siphon off some of his energy and leave him alive. I could take it all, killing him, but in such a quick and painless manner that he wouldn’t suffer before he died. But I want him to suffer before he dies. I want to watch him realize what’s happening, and scream, and try to run but not be able to get away. I want to watch my brother drag him, screaming, closer and closer until he can feel the nice man’s fists flailing against his head, and the limbs frantically struggling to break free. I want to watch as my brother slowly reaches forward with his sharp, shiny pincers and rips off the nice man’s screaming face and eats it.” He leans forward and adds in a low voice, “Do you want to watch, too?”
“First of all,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. That was a very horrible vivid picture he just painted in my mind. “Michael is not a nice man. So if that’s what you’re expecting, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. He’s a total asshole. Second of all . . .”
Mr. Gabriel waits patiently, eyebrows raised in expectant invitation.
“Second of all, you know I can’t just stand here and let you kill him. Asshole or not.”
“And how exactly are you going to stop me?”
Such a good question.
“I’ll use my super-roach powers,” I say spontaneously. “I’ll share them with Michael to protect him.”
Mr. Gabriel laughs again. “First of all,” he says, mockingly, “your powers don’t work that way. And second of all, your powers can’t even protect you. Not from my brother. Not physically. Not if he really wants to kill you. And especially not from the two of us together.”
“Can we kill her now?” the brother asks eagerly. “She is irritating and would be better dead. I want to taste her blood.”
Mr. Gabriel’s smile disappears as he whips his head around to face his brother. “What did I say?”
The monster shrinks back abruptly, seeming to become smaller. “She . . . this one dies last.”
Mr. Gabriel walks Michael forward several steps. “And what will happen if you disobey me?”
The monster shrinks down even more. “Punished,” he says in a barely audible voice.
Mr. Gabriel waits a moment, as if to be sure the reminder has sunk in properly, then turns back to face me.
“So, really, your choices are to watch or not watch. Up to you.”
He turns back to face his brother, and then Michael’s eyes go blank again. And then he blinks, and looks around in confusion.
And then he focuses on the spider monster.
“What — wh —” He loses the rest of the word as Little Brother takes a step toward him, front legs rising slowly into the air.
Then he starts shrieking.
Before I can think too much about it, I hurl myself forward and deliver a full-body slam, knocking Michael (and myself) into the bushes at the edge of the path.
Little Brother screams in anger and whirls toward us.
“Go! Go go go!” I scream at Michael. I push him stumbling to his feet.
He goes, still not really seeming fully coherent. But that’s fine, as long as he gets out of here. Better than fine, probably. He runs, head down, legs pumping, back toward civilization.
Leaving me there in the bushes, alone.
With the demons.
I know Mr. Gabriel is there somewhere, although of course I can’t see him. I wonder if I would be able to see him if he weren’t hiding his halo, floating around like a poisonous red cloud or something. Then I decide that is not the thing I should really be focusing on right
now.
Because Mr. Gabriel’s little brother is pissed.
“I told you stay away!” he screams.
“Well you are not the boss of me!” I shout back. It’s not my best line, I’ll admit. But I’m under a significant amount of pressure here.
Little Brother does not like being shouted at, apparently. He surges forward, and I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten all about Mr. Gabriel’s recent speech regarding how he’s not supposed to kill me yet. I scramble backward on my elbows deeper into the bushes, but the demon is coming at me like the runaway cart from Les Misérables, and, sadly, there is no Jean Valjean handily nearby to show up and save me.
And then suddenly something comes out of the trees and throws itself at the demon.
I have one crazy lunatic moment of thinking Jean Valjean has actually materialized in response to my desperate last thought before I realize that it’s Hector.
I have no idea what he’s doing here, but, man, am I glad to see that giant bear-shaped acne-faced boy.
Except . . . he’s just a giant bear-shaped acne-faced boy.
He’s going to get himself killed.
“Hector!” I scream. What is he doing here?
Mr. Gabriel’s brother recovers all too quickly. He wraps his many disgusting legs around Hector and draws back his bull-bug head to strike.
“No!” I scream. But obviously no one is listening to me.
Hector screams in agony as the monster drives his pincers into his neck and chest. He struggles and fights, tearing at the demon’s face and legs, and apparently manages to connect with something, because Little Brother hisses in pain and pulls one of his legs swiftly out of reach.
Hector punches the demon in his furry bovine chest and shiny spider abdomen, fists flying, but it’s clearly no contest. The demon regroups and attacks again, and again, and soon it’s all over. Hector lies motionless at the demon’s too-many feet.
Little Brother’s head whips up as though he’s listening to something, then he cringes in fear and perhaps pain. Awkwardly he crawls off, dragging his damaged leg behind him.
Revenge of the Evil Librarian Page 15
