Candy Shop War (29 page)

“What’s going on?” Nate asked, stepping inside.

“I want to introduce you to a colleague of mine.” Mr. Stott closed the door. He led Nate down the hall and paused outside a door across from his bedroom. “We magicians sometimes employ engineered apprentices. Assistants whom we imbue with power to make them more useful.”

“Like the fat guy full of orange goop who works for Mrs. White,” Nate said.

“Precisely. I don’t as a rule tamper with my assistants, but many years ago, a loyal man who served me contracted a terminal illness. As the end neared, he urged me to preserve his life. The only hope within the parameters of my abilities was to drastically alter his physiology. I explained the hazards, and still he beseeched me to make an attempt.

“In many respects, the procedure went wrong. Although I succeeded in sparing his life, it came at the price of his humanity. Physically he was ruined, and mentally he had changed as well, grown simpler. I can still communicate with him, which is why you are here. He renamed himself the Flatman. I tell you about him in advance because his appearance is unsettling. Upon seeing him for the first time, two people, to my recollection, have passed out, and others have become nauseated.”

Mr. Stott opened the door. Nate walked into a dim room. Heavy drapes obscured the windows. A solid table stood in the middle of the room beside a wicker rocking chair. On the table sat a shallow aquarium filled halfway with fluid that reeked of formaldehyde. The Flatman floated on the surface of the fluid.

Half curious, half disgusted, Nate drew closer. The creature looked like a cross between a human being and a fried egg. About the size of a Frisbee, the Flatman was sheathed in pale human skin, complete with pores and faint wrinkles. He had one large eye, one small eye, and three misshapen slits—presumably two nostrils and a mouth. Four translucent fins flapped languidly, their form eerily reminiscent of hands and feet. The larger eye had a fleshy lid that opened and closed, while the smaller one perpetually stared. Nate could appreciate why people might pass out upon meeting the Flatman.

“Can he hear me?” Nate asked.

“Most assuredly,” Mr. Stott said.

“Can he talk?”

“Not as you or I speak. After completing the botched transformation, I assumed my assistant would not want to continue in this state. But his will to live was extraordinary—to this day he claims he is glad to be alive. Along with all he lost, he did acquire some new abilities. One side effect of the changes I wrought is that his consciousness drifts across time, allowing him to glimpse the past and the future.”

“Can he see outside this room?”

“He can see only places where he was or will be, and he has no conscious control over the ability. At times he becomes confused. The past is constant, but the future is always in motion. Some of the futures he glimpses never come to pass. Lately he has been observing a future without me in it to feed and take care of him. He has seen himself anonymously starving, unable to seek help. And then this afternoon he adamantly insisted I needed to give you the most powerful confection in my possession.”

“Give it to me?” Nate asked. “Does he know me?”

“Perhaps he overheard your name during a prior visit. More likely, he has observed you in the future. He stubbornly maintains that giving you the Grains of Time will be my only hope for surviving the looming hostilities. When he acts this resolute, I have come to rely on his predictions.” Mr. Stott held up a small hourglass on a silver chain. Ornately decorated, the hourglass contained blue sand in one chamber, red sand in the other, with a tiny yellow pellet plugging the gap between the two.

“What does it do?”

“I created the Grains of Time with the help of my master, who has since passed away. I do not believe I could devise another like it. Back then we took more pride in packaging our formulations, before the world fell in love with all things plastic and disposable. To function correctly, the grains must be consumed in the proper order—first blue, then red, then yellow. The blue will take you into the past, the red into the future, and the yellow will give you temporary dominion over the present. The three types of sand must be consumed in rapid succession or the spell will fail. Use the contents of this hourglass only in the moment of your most dire need. You will get only one chance.”

Mr. Stott handed Nate the hourglass.

“Do I wear it around my neck?”

“That would seem sensible,” Mr. Stott said.

“Are you sure you want to give this to me?”

“Sure enough. Tell me, has Pigeon had any luck locating the
Stargazer?
”

“I haven’t heard back yet,” Nate said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

Mr. Stott scratched his beard and shifted his feet awkwardly. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly into his fist. “Nate, if something should happen to me in the coming days, I’m wondering if you might keep an eye on the Flatman for me. He eats fish flakes and canned cat food. The mixture he floats in is three parts water, one part formaldehyde. He can help you learn the details. If other forms of communication fail, one blink means yes, two means no. Could you do that for me?”

Nate looked over at the Flatman. A fleshy pancake with a disfigured face was about the last pet he would ever choose, but he supposed he could get used to it. “Okay. But let’s try to avoid the need. You take care.”

“Count on it,” Mr. Stott said. “I simply prefer to cover my bases. If ever you require access to the house when I am not around, there is a way to bypass the defensive spells. Swear to me you will keep it private.”

“I promise,” Nate said.

“Ring the doorbell twice. Say, ‘Archmus, I am a friend indeed.’ Then ring the doorbell again. You should hear the locks in the door unfasten themselves. At that point, the house is yours. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Do it only if your need is dire and I am not answering the door.”

“Okay,” Nate said.

“You had better run along. If you can get the ship tonight, do it. The sooner we find the map, the sooner we can free Trevor. I’ll continue narrowing down Haag family candidates.”

“All right. See you later, Mr. Stott. See you, Flatman.”

One of the fragile fins seemed to wave good-bye.

*****

Summer counted her Flame Outs, ending up with a pile of fourteen. She knew how many she had, but wanted to conduct a careful inventory in preparation for breaking into the mayor’s house. Summer, Pigeon, Nate, and Trevor each maintained a personal stash of candy. In addition to her Flame Outs, Summer had three doses of Shock Bits, eight Moon Rocks, six sticks of Peak Performance gum, and the extra Sun Stone.

Since she had so many, she frequently considered sharing her Flame Outs with the others, but worried that Mrs. White may have been right not to trust the boys with such potentially destructive candy. She could envision Nate and Pigeon burning down the entire town.

The telephone rang, and Summer picked it up. Her dad was not home yet, so she reached for a pen to take a message. “Atler residence.”

“Summer, it’s Pigeon.”

“Wow, you’re already done! Any luck?”

“I just got back from the town library.”

“The library?” She started doodling a sailboat on the notepad by the phone.

“Mrs. Colson donated the ship to the library. And she wrote me a recommendation asking the head librarian to help me find it. I caught the librarian as she was leaving. She was really nice, maybe because the Sweet Tooth was helping, and we spent almost half an hour searching through three storage rooms. In the end, we found the
Stargazer.
”

“Yes! Great job. Do you have it?”

“I tried to talk her into letting me take it home for the night, but she resisted the idea. I used a few different approaches, but quit when she started getting angry. In the end, she said I could come take videos or pictures of it whenever I want. It’s pretty big, more like a ship in a jug than in a bottle. But I know right where it is. The only problem is, I’m going to look pretty guilty after we steal it tonight.”

“Have you talked to Nate?” Summer asked.

“Not yet. I just got home. I’ll call him. Let’s meet on the path at one. Bring your bike.”

“Okay. If I don’t hear back, I’ll assume that’s the plan.”

“Right. Oh, and Summer, the Brain Feed is amazing. I had this really coherent conversation with a cat. You won’t believe it.”

“That’s cool.”

“See you tonight.”

“ ’Bye.”

*****

Nate sat on the edge of his bed winding a yo-yo. He was trying to get the yo-yo to sleep, but it refused to hang and spin at the bottom of the string, and kept getting tangled instead. He tried again, throwing the yo-yo down, popping his wrist just before it finished unwinding. He timed it wrong. Not only did the yo-yo fail to sleep, it wound back up only halfway.

The failure was not too upsetting. Larger issues loomed in his mind. He and his friends were about to undertake another mission. This time they were invading a library. Each new mission felt more dangerous. Once Trevor had gotten trapped in the mirror, any semblance of fun had vanished. Magic candy was now only a tool to hopefully help undo the trouble they were in.

On prior occasions when Nate had felt overwhelmed by anxiety, he had always eventually ended up talking it over with his parents. They tended to be understanding and helpful. Sometimes they could make major worries fade away with simple reassurances or advice.

But he couldn’t get help from his parents on this one. He had tried to broach the subject of Trevor in the mirror with his mom twice already, but she became instantly distracted. The white fudge created a daunting communication barrier.

Nate wondered what would happen if he pressed as hard as he could, doggedly compelling his parents to recognize what was happening. In a way, he was afraid to try. He did not want to learn that no matter how blunt he was or how hard he pushed, he was cut off from parental support when he needed it most. At the same time, if there was a chance of getting any help from them, the hour had arrived. He had never yearned more for his parents to intervene and bail him out of a predicament.

Setting the yo-yo down, Nate walked resolutely out of his room and down the stairs. He entered the family room, where his dad sat watching sports news.

“Dad, can we talk?”

Nate’s dad snapped out of his television trance. “Sure, son, what’s on your mind?”

“I’ve gotten involved in something really dangerous,” Nate said. “I’m in way over my head. I need your help.”

“Tell me about it,” his dad said, eyes wandering toward the television screen.

“It has to do with the Sweet Tooth Ice Cream and Candy Shoppe,” Nate said.

“Love that fudge.”

“Dad, the white fudge is addictive. Not just because it tastes good. The fudge makes the people who eat it lose their focus and blinds them to what is going on around them.”

“I gave some to my boss,” his dad said. “He wants me to pick him up ten boxes of the stuff.”

“Which you shouldn’t do,” Nate urged. “The lady who runs the candy shop, Mrs. White, is some kind of magician. The white fudge is unsafe. Dad, I think she might try to hurt me.”

“Nothing wrong with eating fudge,” his dad said. “Just don’t go overboard. A little goes a long way.”

Nate frowned. His dad had switched his attention to the baseball scores flickering across the screen. “Dad, Mrs. White is trying to kill me. I’m not talking about eating too many sweets and having a heart attack. I’m talking about murder.”

His dad shifted in his seat and rubbed the side of his face. “Nate, I’ve had a long day, I don’t have time for your stories.”

“It isn’t a story,” Nate said, putting a Moon Rock in his mouth. He hopped into the air, twisting so that his body pressed flat against the ceiling before drifting down to the carpet. “Did you see that?”

“I told you, Nate,” his dad huffed, “I’ve had a long day.”

Nate leaped toward a wall, kicked off, and glided across the room. “Can you explain how I’m doing this?” Nate asked.

“Is there a show on you want to watch?” his dad asked impatiently. “Am I in your way? If you want the TV, you can ask me directly. I’m not a tyrant.”

Nate spit out the Moon Rock. He stood watching his dad. Through word or action, there appeared to be no way to pierce the fudge-induced fog. “Never mind, it’s no big deal.”

“Okay, don’t forget your homework,” his dad advised.

“My teacher forgot to give us homework,” Nate mumbled, walking from the room.

It was official. He was on his own.

*****

The cool night air ruffled Nate’s hair as he coasted down Monroe Circle. He saw Pigeon waiting on the path astride his bike. As Nate hopped the curb and skidded to a stop, he saw Summer peddling down the path.

“Nice work finding the ship,” Nate said to Pigeon.

“Thanks,” Pigeon said. “The only hard part is, the library has an alarm system. But I can guide us straight to the
Stargazer.
I saw the key Mrs. Wagner used to open the supply room, and I saw the drawer in her desk where she keeps her key ring. Her office has a window on the ground floor, so if we break in through the window and snag her keys, we can be in and out in a couple of minutes.”