The Candy Shop War

by Brandon Mull

  “Let me guess,” Nate said. “You read a lot of books about undertaking.”

  “I actually figured that one out through context,” Pigeon responded.

  “You’ll have to pry up the sealed lid of the burial vault,” Mrs. White said. “The Forty-niner should be able to handle it.” She handed Nate a dose of Proxy Dust, then gave Trevor a clear plastic container holding several white candies. “These are Frost Bites. They’ll make your body radiate intense cold while you suck on them. Water will freeze in your presence, and you’ll be immune to the effects of heat and fire. Using two at a time will heighten the results, but I do not suggest trying more than that.”

  “I’m not sure this is right, exhuming bodies,” Pigeon protested.

  “One body,” Mrs. White corrected. “Don’t fret, Pigeon, I didn’t forget about you. I thought you should carry some of my Sweet Teeth.” She held up a baggie with six candy corns in it. “The Sweet Tooth is a specialty of mine, so much so that it shares its name with my store. You’ll feel tempted to chew them—don’t. Just let them dissolve, and use only one at a time. While a Sweet Tooth is in your mouth, others will find it difficult to disobey or disbelieve your suggestions. There is an art to it. You don’t want to push people too hard or contradict reality too blatantly, or the spell will collapse. You’ll find that a little subtlety goes a long way. Different people will exhibit different levels of resistance. The Sweet Tooth does not work as well on those who are aware it exists—for example, you would find it tricky to influence Nate or Summer or Trevor, now that they know what the candy can do.”

  “How do we know you haven’t used a Sweet Tooth on us?” Pigeon asked.

  Mrs. White smiled. “I suppose you don’t, although most of my candy works only when used by children, so I probably couldn’t use a Sweet Tooth even if I so desired. In addition, I assure you that I would not share magic candy with youngsters whom I had to coerce into accepting it. There are plenty who would help me voluntarily. Can I entrust these to you?”

  “Sure, but—” Pigeon began.

  “I realize some of you may be uncomfortable with this new task,” Mrs. White interrupted, handing Pigeon the bag of candy corns. “Keep in mind, you are a treasure-hunting club, and treasure hunters often have to raid burial grounds in search of clues and artifacts, from the pyramids, to sunken ships entombing drowned sailors, to various necropolises around the globe. In this instance, we have permission from the deceased, who is a relative of mine, so you need not fret about ethics.

  “If any of you wish to back out, please take this opportunity to surrender your candy to those willing to undertake the adventure, keeping in mind that your refusal to cooperate will mark the end of our secret relationship. If none of you are willing to claim the next clue, please return all the candy and I’ll find others to assist me. Naturally, whatever our relationship, I’ll expect you to keep the secrets I have shared with you, not that many would give such preposterous notions much credence.”

  “Will all your tasks involve stealing from museums or graveyards?” Nate asked.

  “Not all of them,” Mrs. White assured him. “Although when it becomes necessary, you will find I am willing to bend the rules to accomplish my aims. Others are actively competing for the prize we are chasing. If you go by the museum, you will find that the memoirs of Hanaver Mills are now missing, along with his pocket watch.”

  “Do you know who grabbed the book?” Trevor asked.

  “No idea,” Mrs. White said. “Perhaps the same man who chased you the other night. At any rate, can I rely on your continued assistance? I have to get back.”

  “I’ll do it,” Nate said.

  “Me too,” Trevor said.

  Summer and Pigeon nodded, but Pigeon looked reluctant.

  “One more wrinkle that I wanted to withhold until you accepted the mission,” Mrs. White said. “Hanaver Mills is not buried under the headstone with his name on it. To throw off unworthy trespassers, he was interred under a tombstone inscribed ‘Margaret Spencer 1834–1893.’ You’ll find the monument not far from his own.”

  “All this was in the note,” Pigeon said.

  “Written by his own hand,” Mrs. White said. “Here is another Melting Pot Mixer for each of you. Be careful. Do your best to disguise the fact that you have disturbed the gravesite. Here are some extra Shock Bits as well for you to share. Sadly, I really am in a rush. Good luck Wednesday night. Please bring what you find to the shop on Thursday. I’ll be waiting with another reward.”

  Chapter Eight

  Unearthing Secrets

  Afternoon sunlight filtered through the overlapping branches above the Nest as Summer, Nate, Trevor, and Pigeon sat on the ground facing each other. Between them, on a weathered remnant of cardboard, sat all the magic candy they had collected to date: the Moon Rocks, the Shock Bits, and three leftover pieces of trick candy, along with the new candy they had just received from Mrs. White.

  Nearby stood the Forty-niner. After exiting the candy shop, the four friends had looped around back where Mrs. White had met them at an unmarked door. She had then entrusted them with the Forty-niner, bundled in a green bedsheet. The wooden figure was so heavy that Trevor and Nate had to share the load. The two of them had lugged the wooden miner directly to their hideout by the creek.

  Beside the Forty-niner sat two boxes of white fudge Pigeon had purchased for his mother.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” Pigeon announced, “the governing council for the Blue Falcon Treasure-Hunting Society is now in session. Our president, Summer Atler, presiding.”

  “I feel like such a nerd,” Nate muttered.

  “I appreciate all of you gathering on such short notice for this important discussion,” Summer said, ignoring Nate’s grumbles. “Pigeon requested we convene immediately, and, given the importance of the topic at hand, I seconded the motion. Pigeon?”

  “Thank you,” Pigeon said. “Guys, I’m worried that we’ve gotten in way over our heads. Candy that makes you float around is one thing. Candy that lets you create infernos and control people’s minds is another. Whoever Mrs. White is, she is very powerful, and I’m starting to really worry she might not be one of the good guys.”

  “Is it because of that drunk dude?” Nate said.

  “He’s part of the reason,” Pigeon said. “Remember how he warned us about robbing graves? What if he really did come from the future? We’ve seen magic candy that can produce equally impossible results.”

  “The psycho said he was me,” Nate said. “He didn’t look anything like me. There is no chance I’m going to look like that when I grow up.”

  “And maybe it was nothing,” Summer said. “But keep it in mind, especially since he somehow knew we would be robbing graves.”

  “Maybe he’s from Mrs. White’s competition,” Trevor said. “You know, trying to make us distrust her in order to slow her down.”

  “Another possibility,” Pigeon conceded. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m in no hurry to jump to hasty conclusions. I just want to make sure we’ve considered all the different possibilities before we keep helping her.”

  “But we have to do this mission,” Nate said. “We already took the candy.”

  “We could return it,” Summer said.

  “Tell me this,” Pigeon said. “If Mrs. White is so powerful that she can make magic candy, why is she relying on fifth graders to run all her errands?”

  “She said the candy only works well on kids,” Nate reminded them.

  “Shouldn’t there be some other way?” Pigeon persisted. “It seems irresponsible to send kids around trespassing and stealing stuff.” Nate folded his arms. Trevor shifted his feet. “It seems to me like Mrs. White doesn’t want to take any risks herself, and she thinks kids are easy to manipulate.”

  “Part of it might just be that she likes to see kids using her candy,” Trevor suggested.

  “She acted like that at first,” Pigeon said. “Have you noticed how she has gotten more and more demanding? How
she now spends more time threatening to take the candy away than offering to share it with us?”

  “Just because she wants to find this treasure doesn’t make her wicked,” Nate argued. “Sure, I think she really wants to find it, and yeah, she wants helpers who will do their part. But that doesn’t make the candy less fun, or the adventure less cool. And it doesn’t make her a villain.”

  “I agree,” Trevor said.

  “We’re not saying she’s evil,” Summer said.

  “Just that she might be,” Pigeon clarified. “How do we know what the message in the pocket watch really said? How do we know that she is truly related to Hanaver Mills? How do we know if there is actually a treasure? Or that she would share it with us if she finds it?”

  “Here’s the other question,” Nate said. “Is the candy so awesome that you would do all this just to be able to use it? The answer for me is yes. I’ve hoped all my life that something this cool would happen to me. I used to salvage broken appliances and collect little scraps of wire and metal in hopes that someday I would assemble it all into a robot. Guess what? I never got close. I used to mix magical potions out of ingredients from the pantry. They didn’t work, but my grandma was nice enough to buy them for a quarter and pretend to drink them. And I’ve had a million other daydreams that never happened either. But this is real. Magic candy that actually works. If I get treasure on top of it, that’s just a bonus.”

  “But what if Mrs. White really is dangerous?” Summer asked. “We’re not just concerned that she might not share the treasure. What if the white fudge is harming our families in ways she hasn’t told us? What if we end up helping her carry out some terrible scheme that hurts people?”

  “Don’t you think that sounds a little paranoid?” Trevor asked. “I mean, the lady makes magic candy. If she wants to cause harm, she’ll cause harm, whether we help or not. What reason would she have to lie to us? Why involve us at all?”

  Summer and Pigeon were silent. “I don’t know,” Pigeon finally said. “I just want to be careful. I mean, are we really going to go dig somebody up at the cemetery tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll be doing the digging,” Nate said. “The rest of you just have to keep watch and help collect whatever is hidden in the coffin.”

  “I’m not sure I totally trust Mrs. White,” Trevor confessed. “I have my doubts about her. But I definitely want to see what is in that grave. And think about this: If she is evil, wouldn’t it be best if we were in a position to keep an eye on her? Who else is going to stop her? The police? She has magic—she’ll just give them white fudge and send them away.”

  “Or hypnotize them with a Sweet Tooth,” Nate said. “I’m with Trevor—we need to watch her closely.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Summer said slowly. “In that case, I think we should examine whatever we find in the grave ourselves before we hand it over to her. I would have liked to have seen that note on the watch.”

  “For all we know, we may really be digging up Margaret Spencer,” Pigeon said. “This could have nothing to do with Hanaver Mills.”

  “You know,” Nate said, “Mrs. White could fake a note as easily as she could fake a story.”

  “Not if we had examined the watch ourselves when we first got it,” Summer said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’m fine with checking out what we find before turning it over to her,” Nate said.

  “Meet here tomorrow at midnight?” Trevor proposed.

  The others agreed.

  “Bring your bikes,” Summer suggested. “And don’t fall asleep this time.”

  *****

  Located on Main Street, the Colson General Store lacked gas pumps on the outside, and fell short of offering a broad enough selection for serious grocery shopping on the inside. It was an ideal place for snacks like doughnuts or chips or candy or jerky or soda or hot dogs or nachos, and certain essentials like milk, eggs, bread, pasta, and cereal. You could also find some auto supplies, a fair amount of hardware, and a decent assortment of over-the-counter medication. Liquor, cigarettes, magazines, paperback novels, greeting cards, helium balloons, piñatas, DVD rentals—the store boasted those as well.

  On Wednesday afternoon, shopping in the Colson General Store with his mother, Trevor found himself striving to avoid the attention of the man seated on the bench beside the newspaper stand. The man had a toothpick in his mouth, and was taking his time leafing through the Contra Costa Times. He wore an overcoat and a brown fedora with a black band. He was definitely the same man who had chased Trevor through the neighborhood behind the William P. Colson Museum.

  Trevor knew the man had only glimpsed him as a freckly redhead in the dark. There was no chance of his being recognized—Trevor was even wearing different shoes than he had worn that night. He knew that only by acting suspicious could he possibly earn any serious attention from the man.

  And yet Trevor could not resist spying.

  He dawdled at a rack of packaged fruit pies, brand name and generic, pretending to be torn on which to choose, handling a blackberry pie, then a vanilla pudding pie, then apple, then blackberry again. He stole glances through the rack at the profile of the man reading the newspaper on the bench.

  The man was indeed reading the paper—in fact, he would occasionally take out a pen to circle or underline an item of interest. But he was also spending a lot of time studying the passersby.

  From his position near the entrance the man could watch people as they came and went, as they waited in line with their purchases, and as they roamed the store. The man hardly moved his head, but his eyes were in constant motion, never lingering on anything: the page he was reading, the woman in the red coat, the young man stocking the sunflower seeds, the page he was reading, the little boy whining about wanting a doughnut, the page he was reading, the old guy in the outdated jogging suit, the young couple near the register, the page he was reading, and so on.

  The man was looking for something.

  Trevor felt an unsettling certainty that the man was looking for him.

  He realized how lucky he was that, so far, the man had not appeared to notice him peeking through the packaged fruit pie rack. Had they made eye contact, Trevor was certain the man would have become suspicious.

  Trevor chose the blackberry fruit pie and rejoined his mother. He managed to avoid looking in the direction of the man the rest of the time his mother shopped. He did not look at the man while he waited beside his mom in line, or while she paid for the groceries and his fruit pie.

  But, unable to resist, on his way out the door, Trevor glanced over at the man on the bench and found the man staring at him. The man’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. And then Trevor was out the door, helping his mom load bags from the undersized cart into the trunk of their car.

  He did not look back at the store.

  Deep down, he knew the man was still watching.

  *****

  Pigeon went through the sliding glass door into his backyard. His dog, Diego, a black Labrador, padded over to him. Pigeon crouched and petted the dog’s sleek coat for a moment before jogging around to the side of the house and wheeling his bike through the gate into the front yard. He normally stored his bike in the garage, but had figured that exiting through the side gate would be quieter.

  Not that subtlety mattered. His mom was a different person. She no longer asked how his day went. She no longer double-checked the clothes he selected in the morning. She paid no attention to what he ate, when he did his homework, or whether he brushed his teeth before bed. And she had not asked for the change from the white fudge, so he had kept the extra seventy-nine cents.

  His dad had always been low-key, letting Mom fuss over the details. If anything, he was mellower now. Pigeon probably could have driven away in the family minivan and nobody would have noticed or cared.

  Pigeon pedaled down Monroe Circle to the creek and found the others waiting on the jogging path astride their bikes. “Everybody made it,” Trevor
said. “Good job.”

  “You all have your candy?” Nate asked.

  The others nodded.

  Summer adjusted her backpack. “Did you get the Forty-niner to the graveyard?”

  “Yeah,” Nate said. “I stuck the Forty-niner in the trunk of our rental car, then told my mom I was supposed to find the grave of Hanaver Mills as part of a homework assignment.”

  “Rental car?” Trevor said. “That’s right. They never found your Explorer, did they?”

  “Nope. At least it was insured. Anyhow, my mom bought the story and drove me to the cemetery this afternoon. A lady on duty knew right where the grave was, not far from one of the little roads that wind around in there. Hanaver has a big gravestone.”