The Hunt for Dark Infinity

Chapter 35

The room was completely dark but strangely warm. Tick pulled the door closed behind him, fighting to calm his breath, standing still in the blackness. The floor beneath him was solid, smooth; the air smelled like… flowers. Like an old lady’s perfume. He sniffed, then scratched his nose.

“Hello?” he called out. Isn’t that what they always say in the movies when they walk into a haunted house? “Hello?” he repeated. His voice died as soon as it left his mouth, without even an echo.

The entire room abruptly flared with lights; Tick’s hand shot up to shield his eyes.

It came from everywhere at once: the walls, floor, and ceiling were made out of a rough material that glowed brightly. Tick turned around to see that the door had disappeared-and nothing looked anything like the inside of an old wooden shack.

Chu had already winked him to a new place.

The room was a perfect circle, thirty feet in diameter, bare of furniture except for several, almost invisible, clear plastic benches curving along the walls. That was it-no decorations, no signs, no light fixtures, nothing. Just glowing walls and invisible benches.

“Heaven’s waiting room,” Tick whispered.

“No, it’s not,” a soft voice said from his left.

Tick spun in that direction, stumbling backward two steps. Ten feet from him stood a tall woman, close to the wall, dressed in a tightly fitted yellow dress. Long, silky black hair hung from her head and framed a pale but perfect face; her red lips pulled tightly into a grim smile. Brilliant green eyes stared through horn-rimmed glasses. Tick was certain he couldn’t have missed her before. She had appeared out of nowhere.

“Who… who are you?” he asked.

The woman ignored him, scanning the room around her with a disgusted look, as if it were full of snakes and lizards and frogs. “This place is about as far from heaven as you can get in the Realities.” Despite her apparent anger, her voice still gave Tick goosebumps, as if he listened to someone playing the harp.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “Are you-”

“Yes,” she replied, finally focusing her eyes on him. “I imagine you saw a message similar to mine. My name is Mistress Jane, as yours must be Atticus Higginbottom.”

She walked over to him, her feet tap-tap-tapping as she did so. She stopped and held out a hand, which he took and shook quickly before letting go, a shudder of nausea trembling in his stomach. Master George’s most hated enemy stood inches from him.

Tick cleared his throat. “I… I thought you were bald.” He didn’t know what else to say, what else to do.

Mistress Jane smiled, though it was empty of humor or kindness. “Yes, I was bald for a very long time. So very long.” She stared past his shoulder as if remembering something sad from her past. “And it was quite… painful to grow it back so quickly. Painful, but sweet. That’s how the Chi’karda works in the Thirteenth, after all.”

Tick swallowed, fidgeted on his feet. He was so lost and confused and scared. His mind spun; his heart thumped.

Mistress Jane caught his eyes again, then continued. “So many things have changed, boy. I’ve changed. Do you understand?”

Tick couldn’t speak. He slowly shook his head.

Jane nodded. “Yes, we have a lot to talk about. A lot.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it. “Reginald wanted me to kill you, you know? That was my task.”

“Kill me?” Tick managed to say, almost a squeak.

Jane’s eyes closed and opened in a long, drawn out blink. “Yes, I was supposed to kill you. And I could have, easily-I crashed your spintrain to make Chu think I was at least trying. But I knew you’d survive.” She paused. “But you and I are going to turn the tables, Atticus.”

“What do you mean?” Tick pulled his hand away from hers.

Jane paused again before answering. “As dangerous as you and that baboon George may think I am, Mr. Higginbottom, Reginald Chu is far, far worse. Far worse. And you and I are going to stop him. Forever.”

Paul stared at the door for a full two minutes after it closed behind Tick, tempted to rip it back open and chase after his friend. But after all they’d been through-after all the things they’d seen Chu do to them-he knew the warning scrawled across the wood was for real.

Finally, he looked away, turned his back to the building. A fresh burst of pain exploded up his arm and into his shoulders, making him cry out before he could stop himself. For the hundredth time that day, tears welled in his eyes.

“Best be gettin’ on,” Sally grunted, glancing one last time at the door. “Better get that little sack of taters Rutger workin’ on dat nasty limb a’yorn.” His eyes fell to Paul’s swollen arm. “Dat don’t look so good.”

The lumberjack started walking away, making a straight line toward an area that looked just like the miles of dull nothingness in every other direction. “Come on, rug rats!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Sofia and Paul turned in unison to look at the door one last time.

“Wonder what he’s doing now,” Paul said.

Sofia touched Paul’s shoulder. “We’ll find him,” she whispered, barely audible. “Master George’ll help us find him.” She nodded, then ran off toward Sally.

Paul followed; every step felt like a sledgehammer against his forearm. My only hope now is a tiny, fat dude named Rutger. Great.

They probably walked half a mile before Sally stopped and turned to face the kids behind him. “Right chere seems ’bout right. Scoot yer buns on over here.”

Paul cradled his arm tightly against his body and stepped as close to Sally as he could. Sofia pressed in from the right until they were all squished together in a small circle.

“Great balls of turtle scat!” Sally bellowed. “You ain’t gotta get so close I can smell yer pits, now do ya!”

Despite the pain, Paul snickered as he backed away a couple of steps. Sofia did the same, but her eyes kept flickering back to the wooden building.

Sally reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, digging for a few seconds before he pulled it back out again with nothing in his hand. “Ol’ George’ll be winkin’ us right directly.”

“What did you just do?” Paul asked.

Sally scrunched up his forehead like Paul had just asked him what the color green looked like. “Triggered the nanobobbamajig, boy, what else?”

Before Paul could ask another question, he felt a quick chill flash across his shoulders and down his spine. The drab world around him vanished, replaced instantly by a room filled with leather couches and chairs, a warm fire crackling and spitting in a small brick fireplace. Master George stood in front of it, the Barrier Wand clasped in his hands and Muffintops the cat purring at his heels. Rutger perched on a floor pillow, leaning back against one of the sofas, his hands folded and resting on top of his huge belly.

“Quickly,” Master George sputtered, throwing all greetings and formalities out the window. “Have a seat and tell us everything, and I mean everything!”

“My arm,” Paul said, his voice breaking on the last word. “My arm,” he repeated. Now that help was so close, the pain seemed to intensify, flaring through his whole body as if more than one bone had been broken.

Master George looked down and noticed the ballooned arm, the skin stretched taut, bruised and bulging. “My goodness, man! Your arm is hurt!”

Paul said nothing, feebly attempting a smile.

“Rutger,” Master George snapped. “Take Paul to the infirmary this instant. Then wink in Doctor Hillenstat from the Second and tell him to deaden the pain, set the bone, cast it-what have you. We’ll follow you and have our discussion there. Chop-chop!”

Rutger rolled to his left, got stuck, then grunted as he tried rolling to his right. His body slipped off the pillow, his arms and legs flailing as he tried to find the leverage he needed to stand up. “Good grief, would someone give me a hand, please?”

Mothball entered the room, wiping her hands on her shirt and chewing on something. “What’s this?” she asked. “There’s a ruddy bowling ball loose, there is! Someone snatch it up before it breaks a vase!”

“Oh, go on and make jokes, then,” Rutger said, lying on the floor as his body rolled back and forth. “Poor Master Paul only has a severely broken arm-no big deal.”

Mothball’s face melted into a frown as her eyes fell upon Paul’s injury. “Oh, dear, terribly sorry. Quite nasty that, by the looks of it.”

“Yeah,” was all Paul managed to say. The room had started to pitch and spin in his vision.

“All right, then,” Mothball said as she reached down and yanked Rutger to his feet with a big roar. “Get the lad the help he needs.”

“Come on, Paul,” Rutger said, swiping at the dust on his round bottom.

Paul nodded and followed him as he heard Master George speaking to the others.

“Sofia, Sally-I need to know everything.”