The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1) (36 page)

Tick nodded, scratching his neck through his scarf, nervous and afraid like never before. Another explosion rocked the building, throwing everyone off balance; a brick fell from the mantle of the fireplace, a poof of dust billowing out. Master George almost dropped the Barrier Wand but caught it just in time.

Paul cleared his throat. “And how’re we supposed to steal a Barrier Wand from the most evil woman in history, as you put it?”

“We have a spy named Annika in place. All you have to do is meet her and she will help you retrieve it.”

“Is that all?” Sofia said.

“Listen to me,” Master George said, all semblance of his normal, cheery, quirky self gone. “You have all shown tremendous resolve and courage in making it to me, and I am proud as buttons to know you. But you must do this one last thing before officially becoming Realitants. Show me you can do this, and a life of adventure and intrigue awaits you, I promise. Do we have an understanding?”

The building rumbled again as Tick made eye contact with Sofia, then Paul. They looked as scared as he felt, which for some sick reason made him feel better.

“Let’s do it,” Paul said.

“Yeah,” Sofia agreed. “Psycho Jane’ll be sorry once I get my hands on her.”

They both looked at Tick, waiting for his answer. “You know I’m in,” he said.

“Splendid,” Master George said. “Sato?”

Everyone looked over at the disgruntled boy on the couch. He stood up, trying to bring the scowl back to his face but failing; he was just as scared as everyone else. “I’m only going because I don’t trust Master George and I want to make sure you three don’t mess up.” He walked over and joined the small group standing around the Barrier Wand.

“Sato,” Master George said, in an unusually kind voice for someone who had just been insulted. “I know more about you than you understand, and I feel no anger. When you succeed in this mission, I hope to gain your trust, and may I daresay, to become your friend.”

Sato said nothing in reply, looking at the floor.

A horrible sound of crunching metal came from the hallway where Tick had first entered the building, followed by another rocking explosion.

“Best be gettin’ a move on, don’t ya think?” Mothball said.

“Quite right you are, my dear friend!” Master George said, holding the Barrier Wand out in front of him, his arm rigid, so the golden rod stood upright in the middle of the group. “All of you, hands on the Wand! It’ll be much easier if you’re touching it!”

Mothball was first, wrapping her huge hand around the very top of the cylinder. One by one, the others followed her example, clasping the Wand in quick succession—Paul, Sofia, Tick. All eyes went to Sato, who turned and spat on the ground. Then, with all the enthusiasm of putting his hand into a cage full of rattlesnakes, he grabbed the lower edge of the Wand.

“I’m very sorry indeed we didn’t have more time to talk,” Master George said, his tone solemn. “I expected a few more hours at least, but we must move on, mustn’t we? Remember the plan, and remember your courage. May the Realities smile upon you, and may we see each other again very soon.”

Without waiting for a response, Master George pushed the golden button.

~

Mistress Jane sat on her throne, eyes closed, deep in thought as she waited for her next visitor.
What a life mine has become.
So many people hated and despised her, wished she were dead. But they simply did not understand. All of her cruelty and harsh rule had a purpose, and someday the Realities would know of her goodness.

All she wanted was to make life better.

What a poor existence the wretches of Reality Prime eked out from day to day. It was a marvel they continued on despite the drab bleakness of their lives—no power, no joy, no
color.
Jane would change all of that. The new and improved version of Chi’karda made every second a wonderful moment, and it must be shared. It must be
spread.
The Realitants had always talked about finding a utopian Reality someday, a paradise on Earth; Jane could make it happen.

She was so close to implementing her plan. One by one, she would fragment and destroy the branching Realities until only Prime and the Thirteenth remained. Then, with an army such as never before witnessed in all of history, she would take over Reality Prime, consuming it with the mutated Chi’karda. Only then could the universe be rebuilt, one world at a time, a better place for all.

In a million years, her name would still be remembered with love and worship.

She needed help, of course. She’d sent a letter to a very important person, setting up a meeting on May thirteenth—a meeting that represented the final and most important part of her plan.
Only one more week,
she thought. If Reginald Chu agreed to her terms at that meeting, nothing could stop her. Nothing. Especially not the pathetic and laughable Master George and his dwindling Realitants. Just hours earlier, she’d finally initiated the attack on his headquarters, an act for which she’d shown much patience, having wanted to do it for years.

One more week until the meeting with Chu. The final piece of the puzzle.

Jane opened her eyes. It was time to speak with Gunn.

~

Frazier felt sweat seeping into his eyebrows from his forehead, as if the skin itself were melting.

He stood before the huge wooden door with its iron bindings and handle, barely able to breathe as he waited for the horrible thing to open. He had failed, miserably, and there was no telling how Mistress Jane might react. Sometimes she was very merciful to her failures—allowing them to die with a quick snap of her odd abilities in this place. At other times, she displayed much less kindness. Jane had immense amounts of control over the mutated Chi’karda that existed in the Thirteenth, and she loved to . . . experiment.

A muted thump sounded from the other side of the door, followed by the odd sound of something
dissolving,
like the scratchy rush of poured sand or the amplified roar of a million termites devouring a house. A hole appeared in the middle of the door, expanding outward like a ripple in a pond, devouring the wood and iron of the door as it grew until the entrance to Jane’s throne room was completely open.

Why can’t she just
open
the door,
Frazier thought to himself.
Always has to show off her twisted power.

Frazier steeled himself, promising himself he would remain dignified as he met his fate. He knew he had only one chance to redeem his folly and perhaps to save his life. Smoothing his filthy shirt, he stepped forward into the gaudy and ridiculous throne room of Mistress Jane.

From top to bottom, side to side, the room was a complete sea of yellow.

Tapestries of yellow people on yellow horses in fields of yellow daisies. Yellow padded chairs on yellow rugs on top of yellow carpets. The walls, the couches, the paintings, the pillows, the servants’ clothing, the lamps, the books—even the wood and bricks of the fireplace had been painted yellow. It made Frazier sick to his stomach, and reminded him once again that the woman he’d chosen to follow was completely insane.

But Frazier knew one day Jane would snap, and someone would need to replace her.
That’s where I come in,
he thought.
If I can only survive this day.

A buzzing sound from above made him look up to see two large insects flying down toward him.

Snooper bugs,
he thought.
Could she be any more paranoid?

The enormous winged creatures flew around him in a tight circle, their cellophane wings flapping in a blur, their elongated beaks snipping at his clothes and poking at his skin. Frazier winced, but kept still and silent, knowing the vicious things could get quite nasty if you didn’t submit completely. Finally, after inflicting dozens of tiny wounds all over his body, the two Snoopers flew back to their nests. They didn’t need to communicate anything further to Jane—if Frazier had been holding any poisons or weapons, he’d be dead.

“Come forward,” a gruff voice said from the side. Frazier looked over to see a grotesquely fat man who looked like a hideous cross between a dwarf and a troll, hovering ten feet in the air, his plump legs dangling. His head, face, and chest were covered in dark, greasy hair, and he wore nothing but a wide skirt around his middle, proudly displaying his disgustingly bloated skin. “The Mistress will see you now.” He held out a flabby arm, gesturing deep into the throne room. “Hurry. She is a busy woman.”

Frazier shuddered and followed the guard’s instructions, staring straight ahead. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the Kneeling Pillow of Mistress Jane, where he did as countless others had done before him, dropping to his knees and kissing the ground before him. Then, daring to show some boldness, he leaned back on his legs and looked up at the preposterous throne.

It was black.

Mistress Jane had never explained to anyone why her throne was made from completely nondescript, heavy, black iron, nor had anyone ever dared ask. But Frazier thought it must be a symbol that her seat of power was so important, she wanted it to stand out among the world of yellow.

She sat on her black throne, dressed from head to toe in the color she so dearly loved. She wore a hat embroidered with lace and daffodils that stretched a foot above her bald head. Her sparkling gown fit her body tightly, covering every inch from the middle of her neck to her shiny yellow heels. Horn-rimmed glasses sat atop her nose, her emerald eyes peering through like focused lasers.

Everything about this woman is just . . . weird,
Frazier thought as he waited for her to say something.

“I don’t know
why
we rescued you,” Mistress Jane said, her voice taut with barely veiled anger. “We could just as easily have destroyed the complex of that
buffoon
Master George while you still sat inside, bawling your eyes out.”

“Yes, Mistress Jane,” Frazier replied. He knew better than to say anything else—yet.

“We finally had a hope of knowing George’s plan once and for all—and you threw it down the drain in exchange for a little fun with your Chu Industries toy and a car. You better hope the attack on George takes care of any loose ends. SPEAK!” She belted this last word, causing several nearby servants to gasp.

Frazier stumbled on his words. “Mistress Jane . . . I
n-never intended to k-kill them. I only meant to scare them enough to t-talk. I failed, and I’m sorry.”

Jane stood up, her reddening face all the fiercer against the yellow background of her hat and dress. “They did not
die,
you blubbering sack of drool!”

Frazier couldn’t hide his shock at hearing this.
How in the world did they escape before the car . . .

He knew that now was not the time to wonder, now was the time for apologies and groveling. “I am very sorry, Mistress Jane.”

“Listen to me well, Frazier Gunn,” Jane said as she sat back down on her throne. “And let my servants put this on record. I give you one spoken sentence—one sentence only—to convince me why I should not send you to your death at the hands of the scallywag beasts. And not the nice ones that only take a week to digest their food.”

Frazier closed his eyes, throwing all of his mental powers into quashing the rising panic and constructing a single sentence that could save his life. He had nothing. Nothing! But then a single word popped into his head, giving him an idea. It was desperate, but his only shot. Quickly, in his mind, he visualized each word of a sentence one by one, going over them several times. Finally, he opened his eyes and spoke.

“Master George has a spy in your presence, and I know who it is.”

Jane’s eyes screwed up into tight wrinkles, her brow creased. She folded her arms, studying Frazier for a long moment. “Nitwit!” she suddenly screamed, causing even more servants to gasp.

Frazier jumped, his heart sinking to the floor. “But—”

Before he could utter another word, a young girl dressed entirely in yellow zoomed through the air from the back of the room, stopping to hover directly in front of Frazier, facing Jane. No one had figured out how Jane used the mutated Chi’karda to enable flight, but seeing people flying always gave Frazier the creeps. It seemed so . . . unnatural.

“Yes, Mistress?” a high-pitched voice asked.

“Fetch me a banana sandwich.” Jane leaned to the side, peering down at Frazier. “We have much to discuss, and I’m hungry. And make it quick!” She clapped her hands, a booming echo that shook the walls.

As the little servant flew off to obey Jane’s orders, Frazier tried to regain his breath after that frantic moment when he’d thought for sure he’d be killed, all the while in disbelief that Jane could stoop so low as to rename a child
Nitwit.
Of course, the last one had been named Nincompoop, but
had been disposed of once Jane got tired of yelling “Nincompoop!” every time she wanted something.

“Frazier!” Jane snapped.

“Y-y-yes, Mistress?” he stammered.

“Start talking.”