Search for the Shadow Key

  “Nor have I,” Mr. Gamber said. “I don’t understand what this is, why it happened, where we are, or what we’ve done wrong.”

  Mr. Keaton felt around until he found the wall. He slid down and took a seat next to the teacher. “I have a theory,” he said. “But you’ll probably laugh.”

  “I’ve had a few of those since I’ve been here,” Mr. Gamber said. “Lay it on me.”

  “Well, I was born in the South, in a good Christian family, and I guess I always believed, y’know? But when . . . when my wife died of cancer, I said some pretty horrible things to God. Those things . . . those shadows with eyes . . . well, I’m wondering if maybe that’s God’s way of telling me something.”

  There was no reply.

  “Phillip? I guess I was hoping you’d laugh at me.” Mr. Keaton waited and still no reply. Then he heard a very long sigh, a dreadfully dry sound full of regret and no small amount of frustration.

  “I didn’t laugh,” he said. “Because it’s not funny. God’s not like that, Brian. No, definitely not. Whatever those things were, they are not Godsent.”

  “That’s a little encouraging, I guess.”

  “Yeah, and we can’t dwell on the why stuff, you know?” Mr. Gamber said. “We’ve got to think of a way out of here. You aren’t chained?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Mr. Gamber said. “You any good with your hands?”

  “Actually, yeah,” he said. “I am.”

  “Archer.”

  Archer froze. He had barely left his room when the whisper came out of the dark hallway behind him. He took one more step.

  “Archer, where are you going?” Amy whispered from her room’s doorway. “It’s four o’clock in the morning!”

  “Would you believe that I’m going to the bathroom?” Archer asked, already sure of her answer.

  “When people go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, they don’t tiptoe like they’re trying not to get caught.” She stepped out of her room and crossed her arms. “Now, what are you up to?”

  “I might ask you the same,” Archer said. “Look at you. You’re wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Going somewhere?”

  “Wherever you are,” Amy said. “Yep.”

  “You aren’t going to let me say no on this, are you?”

  “Nope,” she said, falling in behind him. “Now, where to? I want to leave a note for Mom.”

  Archer spun on his heel. “A note?” he said. “Are you crazy?”

  “Not here,” she whispered, giving him a little push down the hall. Together, they sneaked down the spiral staircase, past the sprawling living room, and into the kitchen, where a small light gave a fluorescent glow.

  “Okay,” she said, “we can talk here, but not too loud.”

  “Right,” he said. “You want to leave a note for your mom, but you’re worried that she’ll hear us sneaking out.”

  “It’s not like that,” Amy said, slowly opening a drawer. She removed a piece of stationery and a pen and went to work on the note. “Look, Archer, I don’t know how you do things with your folks, but, after my dad left us, my mom and I vowed we would never break each other’s trust. If I go somewhere, I leave a note or a text or something. You’re the crazy one if you think I’m going to run off at night and not let my mom know, with all these kidnappings or whatever they are. No way. Now, where are we going? Are we going to bust into Rigby’s place and steal his secret dream whatcha-ma-jigger?”

  “Uh, no,” Archer replied, rolling his eyes. “We’re going to my house.”

  “Your house?” Amy stopped writing and blinked at him through her owlish spectacles. “Why?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” he said. “Master Gabriel told me I need to look around for something?”

  “He, the chief Dreamtreader?”

  “You know about him?”

  “Kaylie told me.” She shrugged. “Hey, we’re girls. We share.”

  “Great,” Archer replied, wondering what else Kaylie had told Amy. “Anyway, yeah, that’s him. He didn’t tell me what to look for but said I’d know it when I see it.”

  “That’s mysterious,” she said. “Yep.”

  The Lurker had given Kaylie very clear directions to Xander’s Fortune. She flew most of the way across Forms, barely getting tired, so great was her mental strength. But northeast of Direton, she figured she’d better conserve as much energy as possible for the dangers ahead. She gave Number 6 Rue de la Morte a wide berth, sprinting along the tree line of Drimmrwood and darting from thicket to thicket, keeping low and out of sight.

  “So Rigby let the Scath out,” she muttered as she leaped down a hillside and raced toward the ruins ahead. “And he wanted them to stay out too, if he tried to throw the key into a volcano. Too bad he messed up.” She leaped from stone to stone, passing through Xander’s stronghold without leaving so much as a footprint, until a fuzzy blur passed so close to her face that she blinked.

  Her next step was less than accurate. She slid off a corner of stone and tumbled into a thicket of brambles. She will-summoned a pair of electrified machetes, hacked her way out, and crouched, ready to fight.

  “I’ve finally found you!” came a squeaky voice from behind.

  A pair of tiny feet lighted for a moment on the top of Kaylie’s head, leaped away, and then there was Razz, hovering just a few feet in front of her.

  Kaylie sighed and willed away her machetes. “You’re lucky I didn’t cut off one of your tails,” she said.

  “They grow back,” Razz replied offhandedly. “But where have you been? You left me at the library in Garnet, and I had to fight a couple of Scath. I followed your scent all over Verse and into Archaia in the Pattern District. What were you doing there? You weren’t messing around with the Lurker, were you?”

  “I can’t stand here and talk,” Kaylie said. “I’m on a mission.”

  “A mission?” Razz squeaked. “We were already on a mission, remember?”

  “I’m sorry,” Kaylie said. “I’m not on that mission anymore.”

  “What?” Razz blurted. “You’re a Dreamtreader!”

  Kaylie shouldered past Razz. “You’d best get back to Archer,” she said.

  “Without you?” Razz asked. “No way! Why do you think I’ve been looking for you for so long? Archer sent me to keep you safe, and I lost you. If I go back to Archer without you, he’ll kill me!”

  “I’m not the Kaylie you once knew,” she said. “But I’d like you to take a message to Archer. He deserves that at least.”

  Razz shot toward Kaylie’s face and put a little paw on her forehead. “Are you sick?” Razz asked. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “Please tell Archer I’m sorry I failed. Tell him I ate some gort.”

  Razz gasped. “No!”

  “It was in a brownie, and I ate it. Tell Archer I said that, please, Razz.”

  “Who gave you the gort?” Razz squeaked.

  “The Lurker,” Kaylie said. “He tricked me. I serve him now, and I am on an errand for him. Tell Archer.”

  “No, Kaylie,” Razz said, sniffling. “No, no, no . . . you can’t serve him.”

  “I cannot do anything but serve him,” Kaylie replied, looking toward the mountain and the lightning-streaked sky behind it. “Now go, Razz.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “You have to,” Kaylie said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I can use my will. If you won’t take my message to Archer, I can put you in a little box so you’ll keep out of my way.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Razz said indignantly. She crossed her arms. “Hmph! Well, I guess you’re going to have to do it, then, because I’m not leaving you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Kaylie said. She reached into her rich imagination and called a glowing cube that was just Razz’s size. It shimmered and pulsed, and then suddenly, a gap in one side opened. It darted toward Razz and scooped her up.

  “Big deal!” Razz said, her head appearing briefly on one side
of the box. “I’ll just go POOF!”

  “No, you won’t,” Kaylie said. “The Lurker has taught me some things.”

  Razz nodded, winked, and blinked. She snapped her fingers and bounced up and down, but she was not able to POOF.

  “I’m sorry, Razz,” Kaylie said again. “But this is good-bye. And don’t worry; this box thing won’t last forever. When I’m sure you can’t mess with my plans, I’ll release you.”

  “No, wait!” Razz cried. “Wait!”

  With a wave of her hand, Kaylie sent the mini-oubliette soaring across the terrain until she was certain it was out of range of the lightning that struck almost constantly in Xander’s Fortune.

  Then Kaylie looked up at the mountain. “Time to get back to work,” she said, leaping across a small fence of white stone. As she hit the upslope, she noticed the two wisps of white mist that had been following her ever since she left Archaia. The Lurker’s wraithlings, but they weren’t keeping up anymore. In fact, they seemed to be turning back.

  It’s about time, Kaylie thought, and she raced toward Xander’s Fortune, where she hoped to find the Shadow Key.

  Archer and Amy ducked under the yellow police tape that surrounded the Keaton’s home.

  “What if the police come back?” Amy asked. She followed close behind Archer as they disappeared into the shadows of the carport.

  “They won’t,” he said. “I guess they’ve found all the clues they’re going to find here. Besides, what are they going to do? Arrest me for breaking into my own house? We’re not even breaking in, really.” Archer clambered up onto a two-seater bench, reached into the birdhouse, and took out the spare key. “See?” he said.

  Even though it was his own home, Archer still felt a little sneaky as he turned the key in the lock. The two of them slipped inside as fast as they could.

  “What do you think Master Gabriel wants you to find?” Amy asked.

  “I really don’t know,” Archer said. “It’s been driving me crazy. I can’t imagine what we could find that the police missed. And . . . I can’t imagine anything that’ll help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Bringing Kaylie back,” Archer said. “My dad too . . . and Mr. Gamber. So many things have gone wrong.”

  “I know,” Amy said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” Archer said, closing the door behind them. They passed through a narrow laundry room, and from there, to a wide den. Archer had been in there in the dark before, many times, but it seemed strange and somehow threatening now. The couches, chairs, end tables, cabinets—all had a blue-gray tint from the predawn twilight ghosting coming in through the picture windows from outside. Nothing moved. It was absolutely silent, the kind of silence that lets you know that no one else is in the house.

  Amy’s hand on his shoulder made Archer jump.

  “Sorry!” she whispered. “Jumpy much?”

  Archer exhaled in a puff and shook his head. “C’mon,” he said as he led her past his father’s favorite chair and out of the den. He paused at the stairs going up to the bedrooms. A wave of nostalgia slammed into him. He was little again, waiting at the bottom of the steps with Buster and watching his father and mother coming down those steps. His mom carried baby Kaylie and was as relaxed as could be. But, as usual around the baby, Dad was moving his hands and arms every which way, just in case.

  Then it was gone, the warmth of remembering replaced with an empty cold. Archer shivered. It was more than emotion. It really was cold.

  “The temperature in here just dropped,” Amy whispered.

  “Did you leave the side door open?” he asked.

  “No way,” she said.

  “I don’t think we should stay here too much longer,” he said. “Let’s get to it.”

  The door to the basement stairs was just around the corner. Archer reached for the knob and then jerked his hand away: it was freezing. His hand throbbed, especially where the strange red scar had formed.

  “What’s wrong?” Amy asked.

  “Cold,” he said. “So cold it burns.” He turned toward Amy. “It’s like—” He felt his voice catch in the back of his throat. “Amy . . . Amy don’t move.”

  “Not funny, Archer!” she hissed. “You’re scaring me.”

  Archer stared over Amy’s shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  A shadow form was nosing around in the kitchen. Its red eyes glimmered as it half walked, half slithered, half shambled closer.

  “There really is something there?” Amy squeaked.

  Archer dove, sprawling hard on the kitchen floor. The Scath slipped through his fingers and darted away. Away toward Amy.

  “No, you don’t!” Archer growled, rolling onto his back and throwing his arm forward. There was a faint crackling sound. Archer’s hand tingled and an honest-to-goodness bullwhip appeared in his hand. In that single motion, it was suddenly there, and he snapped it, wrapping the leather cord around the Scath’s neck. Archer yanked back on the whip and jerked the snared Scath with it.

  “Not fair!” the Scath hissed. “You can’t do that here, Dreamtreader! Scath rule here.” The shadow form’s eyes glowed vicious red. The creature reared its head back and clamped its jaws down on the whip. It struggled with the leather, bit through it, and wriggled free.

  Archer, still stunned from the whip’s appearance, hesitated, allowing the Scath to make another play for Amy. “No!” Archer cried out, but he wasn’t fast enough.

  The Scath coiled around Amy’s right leg. Instantly, another Scath appeared from the hallway and slithered around her midsection. A third came out of the ceiling and went for Amy’s neck and began to pull.

  Archer scrabbled to his feet in time to watch as a rippling bog of ashen, black, and gray mud pooled in the air behind Amy. It was a constantly moving, writhing blog, spreading and growing as if it might swallow Amy and the Scath.

  In that moment, something came over Archer. It had the shrill electricity of fear, coursing across his shoulders, down his back, and in his limbs. It wasn’t terror. It was rage.

  This—what was happening right before his eyes—was so utterly wrong that something seemed to snap in Archer. All of it, the troubles of his family: his mother dying of cancer, Buster’s concussion, his father being taken, Kaylie trapped . . .

  Troubles in the Dream: the multiplying breaches, Bezeal’s treachery, the Scath . . .

  And troubles in the Waking World: Rigby, Kara, Dream Inc.’s army of Lucid Walkers . . .

  It was all undeniably, impossibly, wretchedly wrong. And Archer was going to put a stop to it . . . right . . . now.

  The Dreamtreader took a deep breath, felt his will surging like never before, and—in one mighty effort—stomped his foot down to the ground as he shouted, “No! ” A thunderclap sounded in the word and shook the house.

  The Scath not only lost their hold on Amy but were blown back into the whirling sludge portal. Archer reached out with his hand spread wide and then made a sudden fist.

  The portal collapsed and vanished, the Scath with it.

  Eyes wide with fright, lips moving soundlessly, Amy looked like a fish out of water. She managed a little communication at last. “What . . . what, how? How did you do that?”

  Archer figured he looked pretty much like a fish himself. He said, “I don’t know.”

  Amy fell toward Archer and embraced him. “They were trying to take me, weren’t they?” she asked. “Like Mr. Gamber . . . like your dad.”

  “Those were Scath,” Archer said. “Rigby set them free in the Dream. And . . . yeah, I think they were trying to take you.”

  “Those were the shadow things I saw that night,” she said, “the night Mr. Gamber was taken.”

  Archer nodded.

  “Why?” Amy asked, stepping back. “Why me? What have I done?”

  “Not you,” Archer said. “Me. Rigby has tapped into some new kind of power in the Dream. It’s a long story, but he’s found a way to control the Scath. If they hurt you, they hurt me.
”

  Amy blushed. She’d never had a friend put it so plainly before. She mattered to Archer. It was time to change the subject. “But what about Mr. Gamber?” she asked. “Why take him?”

  “He was my teacher in elementary school,” Archer muttered, thinking aloud. “Buster and Kaylie’s too. He even tutored Kaylie for a little while, until she outgrew him, at least.”

  Amy squinted and nudged her glasses to rest higher on the bridge of her nose. “But . . . if Rigby was trying to hurt you, I don’t see . . .”

  “You said you saw the Scath that night,” Archer suggested. “I think they came for you, but you scared them off.”

  “Hey!” she muttered. “My bedhead’s not that bad.”

  “Maybe it was your night breath,” Archer said.

  Amy gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. But then everything about her demeanor softened. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for what you did. You were very brave.”

  Archer looked away, looked at his hand, looked at his feet—anything to avoid the vulnerable, melting-ice look in Amy’s eyes.

  “That was Dreamtreader stuff, huh?” she asked. “The whip . . . the shockwave and thunder?”

  Archer was slow to nod. “I’ve never done that before.”

  “Huh? I thought you did that kind of stuff all the time. Isn’t that what Dreamtreaders do?”

  “In the Dream,” he said. “We’re in the Waking World. I’ve never done anything like that here before.”

  “Well, you knocked the snot out of those Scath critters.”

  “Yeah,” he said absently, his mind reeling. Decay. That was the word. The fabric of the Dream was degrading, unraveling. That had to be it. The details seemed to fall perfectly into place.

  The first sign of the Dream fabric weakening had been more than a year ago when Archer brought back the Tokens of Doom, the first physical objects he’d ever carried back. Then Rigby had supernaturally disarmed Guzzy Gorvalec, the school bully, turning his knife into a bouquet of daisies.

  Now, as the fabric frayed even more, the creatures in the Dream showed will, showed the ability to create. The Scath were able to manifest in the Waking World and physically drag people into the Dream. And lastly, Archer’s sudden outburst of Dreamtreader power—outside of the Dream—taken together, it could only mean one thing: a Rift was near.