The Stolen Chapters (16 page)

“I want
books
,” Doyle said simply.

Books? Bethany's mind began screaming at her to jump out, to come back with Kiel and Owen. “What books?”

Doyle reached behind him and took a book off his desk. “All of the books in your friend Owen's library.”

It took Bethany a second to accept that she'd really heard what she thought she had. “
Whose
library?” she whispered.

“If you want to find your father,” Doyle said, stepping closer to her with the book in his hands, “then you will get me a digital copy of every single book in Owen's library. You can ignore the nonfiction. That means nothing to me. I want the
fiction
.”

“Who . . . who's Owen?” Bethany said, stepping back away from Doyle. “I don't know anyone by that name.”

“Oh, but you
do
,” Doyle said, and he held the book in his hand out to her.

Bethany shook her head, taking another step back, only to run into the door.
Jump!
her mind shouted.
Jump now!
But if she did, Doyle would see it all.

He stepped closer, holding the book out to her. “Take it,” he said. “This one you can have for free.”

Bethany reached out a trembling hand and took the book from him, then brought it close enough to read the title in the flickering candlelight.

“
Story Thieves 
?” she said, then glanced down at the drawing of two kids leaping into a book. The girl had red hair, and the boy wore all black and carried wand-knives.

“Oh, didn't you know?” Doyle said, his voice sounding like it was a million miles away as Bethany stared at the cover, not believing what she was seeing. “The fictional world's been enjoying your exploits for a few months now. None realized it was a true story, of course. Not even me. Though I did wonder how exactly this author, James Riley, knew of my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's claim of being saved by a flying man.” He paused. “Turns out, my family's embarrassment was all thanks to you.”

Bethany couldn't speak, could barely breathe. This book was about her? How was that possible? She wasn't fictional! Half, maybe, but she wasn't living in the fictional world. How could someone see what she was doing? People were reading about her? People knew her secrets?

“I know where your father is, Bethany Sanderson,” Doyle continued. “I know what you and your friends are doing. And I know what you
are
. So now you're going to provide me with all the books in your library. That is the payment I require. You'll pay it, or you'll never see your father again. Now, please: Jump out of my book. I'd rather not look at you a moment longer than I have to.”

And with that, he turned his back, and Bethany immediately jumped straight out of the book, screaming at the top of her lungs.

00:46:02

I
come here all the time!” Owen said, pointing at the Napoleon Bakery storefront. “You're telling me this is just a front for the mob?”

“Nah, they're not mob, SP,” Moira said, crinkling her nose. “Your town isn't really that big, so they're unaffiliated. But they're trying, so you have to give them that! They've made a few big moves, just enough to get on the radar.”

“Like trying to kill your mother,” Owen said, giving Kiel a glance. The boy magician, though, barely seemed to notice where they were, and just kept looking at the countdown watch. Owen nudged him with his shoulder, and Kiel looked up and winked, but then he got the same faraway look in his eye.

“On the bright side, they would have had to know where she was in order to off her!” Moira said, pushing the door open. “So let's see what they know, shall we?”

“The sign says ‘closed,' ” Owen pointed out. It was after midnight, after all.

“That's for the regular people,” Moira said, sticking out her tongue at him. “You're with me now, you adorable little monkey. And besides, the door's open. They
want
us to come in!”

The inside of the fictional Napoleon Bakery looked exactly like the nonfictional version that Owen had been to so many times, just darker, considering that most of the lights were off. Small white metal tables filled the front of the bakery, each with two or three chairs around them, while a large display case filled the back, empty now, but usually complete with every possible sweet or baked goodie you could ever want.

Lights shone in from behind the case, and fun smells drifted in from the kitchen. They were probably up baking already for the next day.

Was his version a front for a crime boss too? Did his hometown actually
have
a crime family, or was this just the fictional world? So much of this was confusing!

“I'm going to do the talking, okay?” Moira told Owen and Kiel. “Usually I love hearing what you two crazies come up with, but in the hopes of at least one of us getting out alive, let me handle things.”

“This is such a bad idea,” Owen told her, wondering if he'd ever have been willing to go along with this in the real world. Did it feel less dangerous just because it was fictional, and things tended to work out in this world? Or was he just so tired and headachy that following Moira just seemed easier?

She blinked at him and Kiel. “A wink for each of you!” she said, then shoved them forward through the door to the kitchen. “Pretend you're my bodyguards!”

As Owen passed through the door, all action in the kitchen stopped, and ten different bakers, all in white, immediately stopped what they were doing and pulled out guns, each one aimed at them.

Owen swallowed harder than he had in his life, struggling to not just collapse in a heap. “Bodyguard,” Kiel whispered, and Owen fought through the terror to try to look tough and bodyguard-like, then just as quickly realized he had no idea how to do that.

“Tell the Piemaker that Moira Gonzalez is here to see him,” said a dangerous voice behind Owen, and he turned to find Moira, a deadly calm look on her face, staring the kitchen down. The excited girl from a minute ago had completely disappeared, and again Owen remembered that in spite of her demeanor, this girl was a criminal.

No one moved in the kitchen for a moment, then Moira snapped her fingers, and Kiel shoved a cart full of pans over. The clatter made Owen almost jump out of his shirt, but he wasn't sure which was more surprising . . . the noise, or that Kiel had embraced his role so quickly.

“The lady said to move!” Kiel shouted, then turned to wink at Owen, his face still filled with anger. At least he was having some fun.

From a room toward the back, an enormously fat man in a chef's hat and a business suit emerged, drying his hands on a towel. He glanced in their direction, then snorted. “Back to work!” he shouted, and immediately the kitchen jumped to it, the bakers putting their guns away and returning to whatever it was they were doing. One baker even started picking up the pans that Kiel had just knocked over.

“Sorry about that,” Owen whispered, and Moira smacked him.

“Moira Gonzalez,” said the man in the suit. “This is a surprise. And what might you be doing here?”

“I'm here for information, Piemaker,” Moira said. “I hear you're the one to talk to in this pathetic little town.”

Hey!
Owen wanted to yell, but kept his mouth shut to avoid getting smacked again.

“And why exactly would I help you?” the Piemaker said, walking toward them slowly while glancing over the shoulders of his bakers. “Seems to me I ought to bake you and your little guards there into a pie and send it to your mother as a warning, instead.”

“She lets you operate because you're not a threat,” Moira said, dipping her finger into one of the baker's chocolaty bowls and tasting it. “Not bad. No, you're not going to touch me
or
my friends. And you're going to give me exactly what I want. Or you and this bakery will disappear in twenty-four hours like you never existed.”

The Piemaker laughed. “Not a threat? Tell your mother that next time we sink her boat, she'll be chained to it.”

Moira paused, then turned to the Piemaker, her eyes burning. “
Enough.
I was going to let you bluster to impress your people here, but that's all over now.” She pulled out her phone and began dialing.

The Piemaker's eyes widened, and he leaped forward, only to stop short as Kiel grabbed a knife from the counter and held it almost casually between them. Behind them, Moira began to murmur into her phone. “Yup, he's not cooperating. I think his bakery's about to go bankrupt.”

“No!” the Piemaker shouted. “I'm cooperating! This was all just a big misunderstanding!”

Moira paused, then said, “Hold on,” into the phone. She turned to the Piemaker. “Apologize.”

The large man looked around at his bakers, who were staring at him. “I can't—”

“Apologize.”

The Piemaker swallowed hard, then nodded. “I'm deeply sorry if—”

“On your knees.”

The man started to protest, but Moira just put the phone back to her ear, and he immediately sank to his knees. “I'm deeply,
truly
sorry if I offended you. I am happy to help in any way I can.”

Moira nodded, then put the phone to her ear. “Okay,” she said, then hung up. “My mother says that she's now bored of this game where you try to disappear her. One more attempt and
you
go away. Am I clear?”

The Piemaker nodded vigorously. “
Crystal
clear, Ms. Gonzalez.”

“Good,” Moira said. “Now, get me a croissant or something. You've got two minutes.”

Exactly two minutes later, the three of them all had pastries and coffee, while the Piemaker sat across from them at one of the small metal tables, visibly sweating. “Of course I've heard of Doyle Holmes,” he said, after Owen filled him in on their questions. “The families are watching him, just to make sure he doesn't get too far in his family business. But he's mostly stuck to little stuff. He was here a few weeks ago, but that's the last I heard of him.”

Doyle was here a few weeks ago? That was news!

“Oh, he's back,” Moira said. “And he's got a friend of mine. What was he doing here before? Give me something, Piemaker, or my mother's going to be
very
disappointed.”

The man started breathing hard, and despite the fact that the Piemaker was a criminal, Owen still felt bad about all of this. “Nothing, I swear! All he did was go to the local library. That's it!”

The library? Why would he have gone there? Maybe to get it ready to burn down? But that was ridiculous, Owen's mother, or her fictional version at least, would have noticed something.

“What did he do there?” Owen asked.

“Just talked to some kid, that was it,” the Piemaker said. “They left together. Guess he's the son of the librarian or something. We looked into him but didn't find anything. And Doyle left soon after. So I'm sure it was nothing.”

Owen's hands began to shake, and he had to grab the table to stop them. Doyle Holmes had spoken to his fictional self a few weeks earlier? What was
happening 
?

00:35:12

A
re you sure meeting yourself is a good idea?” Kiel asked for the fourth time as they hid in the bushes outside of the fictional Owen's house.

“Nope,” Owen said. “But if Doyle spoke to this Owen, then he's involved somehow. His mom's library just got burned down, and he and I are being blamed. If Inspector Brown is right, Doyle even got our fingerprints on the gas cans. Doyle must have put us in the library for a reason. Maybe it was just to throw us off and make us think we were in the nonfictional world, but maybe not. Either way, right now this is the only clue we have.”

“I just feel like we're losing time and are no closer to finding Bethany,” Kiel said, shifting from foot to foot. Owen glanced at him, not sure how well the magician was holding up. His books had always given Kiel a clear goal, with the Magister telling him what to do, and then Charm helping him get there. Now, though, everything was so nebulous, and nothing was certain. That and not having his magic must be making the magician crazy.

At least Kiel
had
power when he had his wands and spells. The best Owen could do was let a criminal genius get the clues for him, and then question a version of himself.

Like he didn't question himself enough already.

“What do
you
think?” Owen whispered to Moira.

“I love this plan, Sad Panda!” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I suggest we hang this kid outside his window by his ankles until he talks. If that's uncomfortable for you, I'm happy to do it.”

Very helpful, as always.

“Follow me,” Owen said, and crept toward the back door. His . . . fictional Owen's mother
should
be down at the police station by now, but who knew when she'd be back. For all he knew, there'd be police cars on their way to the house, too.

Fortunately, there was no need to break in, as Owen had a key. Assuming his nonfictional key worked in the fictional lock.

He pulled his keys out quietly and began to slip the key into the door, before Moira excitedly shoved him out of the way and unlocked it herself, then pushed the door open.

“Sorry, I
love
picking locks,” she said, grinning at him. “There's just something so satisfying about it.”

Owen stared at her for a moment, desperately missing Charm, then slipped inside a very familiar-looking kitchen.

Everything looked exactly the same as the house he'd left just . . . well, who knew how many hours earlier. The same stove, the same report cards and photos up on the refrigerator, the same nicks in the countertop where he'd learned to slice potatoes years ago. How could it all be so similar, but so different? How connected
were
these worlds?