Another Pan (18 page)

Wendy tried pulling on it. It was jammed.

They turned down a dark hallway and stopped, frozen by a movement in the shadows. Something unseen crept past them. It was close — close enough to make Wendy’s hair flutter and leave her fingertips cold. Almost involuntarily, her head snapped toward the motion. Had someone rushed past? The hairs on her arm were standing up as if they had almost been touched. Yet when she turned, there was no one in sight.

Then Wendy noticed something strange.

“John,” Wendy muttered, “was
that
there before?”

Wendy was looking at the staircase that led up to the second-floor classrooms. She had walked past this staircase a thousand times before. It was one of her favorite spots, an elegant staircase made of marble flanked by two thin white marble columns with beautiful Roman-style designs encircling them. But now one of those two columns was different. It looked much older, as if it was made of mud. In fact it looked exactly like one of the columns they had seen on their trip into the world beyond the broom closet.

Wendy approached it. As she got closer, she realized that the column wasn’t entirely transformed. Patches of marble peaked out from underneath the mud. It was as if the old, ugly column was overtaking the marble one, eating it up, transforming it into something different. Inside the mud, Wendy spotted the carcass of a moth, trapped, dead, and mounted into the structure.

“Whoa,” said John. “This has
got
to be a trick.” All around the infected pillar, tiny vines were beginning to grow, just like the ones in the other world.

“I . . . I want to leave,” said Wendy, taking John’s hand. She had spotted something else. John followed Wendy’s gaze toward the stairs. It was such a small detail; no one would notice it in this dark. But one of the steps, the third one from the top, was different from the rest. It was no longer made of marble but of rough stone.

Wendy and John turned back down the hall, toward the back exit. As they crept quietly along, Wendy’s eyes kept darting back and forth, trying to spot the source of that feeling of almost being touched. Suddenly, in the shadowy far end of the dark hall, a hooded figure seemed to appear. Someone small, a woman or a girl, glided into their line of vision gracefully, like a witch, then just as quickly disappeared into one of the classrooms. Before the phantom was gone, Wendy thought she saw her turn, and she glimpsed a broken blue eye — like one she thought she had seen somewhere before . . . but where? Maybe on TV? Or on someone she had forgotten, someone unremarkable and small . . . someone easily forgettable in the course of her important daily routines. An eye not quite human. The sight of it made all the blood in Wendy’s body go ice cold, full of jagged edges pricking from the inside. She wanted to scream, but she held back. They stumbled backward into the main corridor toward the barricaded door.

It seemed that ever since they had entered the world beyond the broom closet, everything felt so much gloomier. Even the hallway seemed gray — every object grungier, every sound more muffled. Taking a step felt like a chore, and the once pristine Marlowe School actually looked
dirty
. Above the lockers, Wendy saw gray gunk, the kind of grime that builds up in cracks, and then, mingling with the filth she saw something move . . . were those more
moths
?
Didn’t they kill them all?

As Wendy and John approached the other end of the corridor, the point where they would have to decide to take a left or a right, John heard a rustling and some muffled whispers. He was about to speak when a hand reached out and pulled Wendy into a classroom. She let go of John’s hand, screamed, and began thrashing about. Whoever it was had her by the waist.

John shouted, “Wendy!” and dove after her into the classroom.

“Stop . . . making . . . all . . . that . . . noise,” whispered a familiar voice. The room was dark, but after a few seconds, their eyes adjusted, and they could make out Peter and two of the boarding boys, still in their Marlowe uniforms.

“Peter!” gasped Wendy. “There’s something there — some seriously messed up — I dunno, something.”

Peter slapped his hand over her mouth. “Shhhh,” he whispered. He quickly pulled John and Wendy inside and shut the door. They all crouched together, staring into the hall through a small window in the door frame. The only sound now was Wendy’s frantic and John’s asthmatic breathing.

Through the dark corridor, the hooded figure passed slowly by the window. She walked deliberately but elegantly, noiselessly, like a demon tracking, like a spirit that somehow sees all, so there is no need to crouch or hide or hold your breath. She moved so subtly, so smoothly, that they could only sense her presence through the deep ghostly gloom that hung over them when she was close. Her steps were as quiet as a snooping nanny or a mother looking for guilty secrets. For ten long seconds, they held their breath. The intruder turned toward the classroom, touched the glass of the window, her hood still obscuring her face. She brought a pale hand to her invisible mouth, as if clearing her throat or coughing. Wendy squeezed her eyes shut. John shivered. None of them knew why this figure was so scary. Even Peter seemed frightened. Then the figure was gone.

“Nice going,” said Peter when the intruder was out of sight. His voice was unconcerned, almost elated. “You shouldn’t go playing around with six-thousand-year-old portals to the underworld.”

There was a second of silence, and then John and Wendy spoke simultaneously.

“We only went the once!” said Wendy.

“What do
you
know about it?” said John.

The boys gave a mocking laugh, revealing the matching gaps in their mouths where a tooth had been pulled. Since that day when Wendy had first seen Peter, Wendy’s curiosity had led her to eavesdrop on the boarding boys — just once or twice, in the hallways, in class, outside the dorms. She had learned that this tooth was the price of becoming one of Peter’s boys. Among their gang they called it the Peter tooth — top row, left canine. Peter, too, had a wry smile on his face, and he nodded to one of the boys. It was one of those lazy half nods, the kind where the head moves upward only once. She knew it infuriated John.

There was a rhythmic knock on the door. Three knocks, then two, then two more. One of the boys opened it, and Tina rushed in. She was wearing her usual RA crested polo shirt and holding the twisted stick that had been barring the door.

“How’d you —?” Wendy looked at the stick that had left welts on her hands and still refused to budge.

“Cornrow,” said Peter, “go watch the halls.”

“We’ll text you,” said one of the boys, the famous Marlowe criminal with pink skin, three blond cornrows, and an affected street-thug accent, “if we see anything else.”

“Good,” said Peter as the two boys left the room. “Just one more thing.” He turned to Wendy and John. He pulled the teacher’s rolling chair toward him, then flipped it around and plopped himself onto it. “You have to tell me where the book is.”

John snorted. “No way,” he muttered. “Who the hell are you to tell us what to do?”

Wendy noticed Tina creeping toward Peter, her dark eyes sparkling with curiosity. Or maybe it wasn’t curiosity. She sat on a desk immediately behind Peter and leaned over to put an arm across his shoulder, resting her head in the crook of his neck. He stroked her arm absentmindedly and stared intently at Wendy.

“So the poor little rich kids have gotten into trouble,” crooned Tina, with a bit too much sarcasm and disgust for an RA. “What would Mommy say?”

“For your information,” Wendy hissed, “we’re not rich, and we don’t have a mom.”

Peter caught her glance, but Wendy looked away. She wished she hadn’t said that. But Peter was smiling sympathetically and then he changed the subject.

“So you had some fun with the
Book of Gates,
” he said. “Great. I don’t blame you. But I need that book now, if we’re gonna fix the leak.”

“What leak?” said John, his eyes narrow with suspicion. “How do you even know about this stuff?”

“The wall that separates the underworld from Marlowe,” said Peter. “When there’s a leak, that means the underworld takes on more and more qualities of the overworld, and vice versa, until you can’t tell them apart. Our friend out there . . . she’s from the underworld, and I’m pretty sure you two unleashed her into the school. You’re lucky no one’s dead.”

Wendy drew a breath. “How . . . ?”

Tina cut her off. “You went snooping around the labyrinth, that’s how,” she said. “And you left the door open.”

“No.” Wendy shook her head. “No, it wasn’t us. I’ve seen that eye somewhere before.”

“What eye?” Peter sat up, his voice was suddenly harsh. “You’ve seen her eye before? Where? When?”

“I don’t know!” said Wendy. “But I don’t think it’s our fault. . . . I’ve definitely seen it.” Wendy tried to remember. She tried so hard, but a place as large and busy as Marlowe is so full of unimpressive faces.

“Well, if you didn’t cause a leak,” Tina snorted, “then how do you explain the
physical
changes to the building in the last two days?”

“Now
you’re
an expert, too?” John said.

Peter had been rubbing Tina’s arms for seventeen seconds now, not that Wendy was counting. But Peter didn’t seem to care. He was mumbling something about the eye.

Then Peter abruptly looked up and said, “Your call. It’s the book in exchange for getting rid of the leak. I’d say that’s a fair trade, especially since you don’t even have a clue about how to use it.”

Tina started rubbing the tip of her nose on Peter’s neck.

Wendy (who wasn’t looking) shouted, a bit too loud, “No deal.”

“Suit yourself,” said Peter. “I’ll just be on my way, then.” He got up from his chair and started toward the door.

“No,” said Wendy, and Peter stopped. “You get rid of the leak
and
tell us how the book works, and then you can use it . . . along with us. Otherwise, I call my dad, get you two fired, and put the book through the shredder.”

“And if I say no?” said Peter. “You’ll let all your friends get killed?”

“I don’t have any friends,” said Wendy, her tone unflinching. “I don’t care what happens to the school.” She felt guilty for saying that, but she had to play tough here. This was her father’s exhibit, and it was her job to protect it, to protect her father’s career. Not to mention the fact that she wasn’t about to let Peter the RA out of her sight. And even if she didn’t get involved, she was pretty sure that John would, not only to impress the LBs, but also because he was crazy about all this Egyptian stuff.

“This doesn’t make sense,” said John. “What does an RA want with —?”

“Fine,” Peter interrupted, looking bored. He eyed Tina. “Out!” he said. Tina shot Wendy a murderous glance as she headed for the door. Wendy beamed back, relishing the idea that she was about to share a secret to which, evidently, Tina wasn’t privy.

Peter dropped into one of the student chairs. His legs were too long, and he pushed the desk away from him and leaned back. “So clearly, one of you speaks ancient Egyptian.”

John and Wendy exchanged glances, a dumb, confused look on both their faces.

“You have to say a word in Egyptian. The name of the hour,” said Peter. He was picking the gunk out from under his dirty nails.

“Yeah, yeah,” said John, pulling his father’s list from his pocket and studying it. “The fourth one from the top. We said it like ten times. It only worked the once.”

“Did you try any of the others?”

“All of them. So?” said John. He mouthed the names from top to bottom. He had practically memorized them.

“Aren’t you two supposed to be the spawn of the genius professor?” said Peter with a wink to Wendy. John clenched his fists. Peter continued, “You have to say the name of the
current
hour of the night. So if you said the name of the fourth hour, you must have said it during the fourth hour of the night.”

Wendy shook her head. “Nope,” she said confidently. “It wasn’t night. It was right after school.”

Wendy thought she saw Peter suppress an eye roll. A sharp sting ran through Wendy’s chest. He was still laying on the charm, but he looked almost annoyed. “The current hour of the night in
Egypt
. Egypt is seven hours ahead. So three o’clock would be ten o’clock at night there. The sun sets at six thirty this time of year. So ten o’clock is the fourth hour. See?”

Now John was practically salivating. “I can’t
believe
I didn’t figure that out!”

Wendy was chewing the polish off her pinky. Her next words were a little less confident, a little more hushed. “But we’ve tried all of them. We tried all of them all at once. Why didn’t that work?”

Peter shrugged, sinking lower into his seat. He put his thumb under his belt. “It could be a bunch of reasons. Pronunciation. Proximity to the book. But most likely, you did it during the Egyptian daytime, which wouldn’t correspond to any of the twelve night hours.”

John was pacing and nodding furiously. “Right,” he was mumbling. “Sunset to sunrise. Those are the only hours in the
Book of Gates
.”

Wendy blushed. Shouldn’t she have figured this out? “Yeah,” she mumbled, “it was before school . . . mid-afternoon in Egypt.”

“OK, so then what?” John said.

Peter sighed. “You say it aloud . . . and you have to be close to the book, as if you’re speaking the hour
to
it.”

John began biting his lower lip.

“Then”— Peter got up from his seat, walked toward the door, and turned the knob —“you just open a door — any door that’s closest to the book. You’ll know it because it will be marked with the Eye of Ra. But once you’ve opened the door, it’s an active portal until you shut it and the eye disappears.”

“What if someone shuts the door while you’re inside?” asked Wendy.

“You just say the name of the hour again,” said Peter. “You can open a portal pretty much anywhere inside the underworld. But you have to be careful, because every location in the underworld corresponds to a place in the overworld. So if you open a portal in one place, you end up in the matching spot.”