The Afterlife Academy (11 page)

T
he door at the top of Hoonga's staircase opened, and a hooded figure covered in dark-green robes stood in the entryway. Hoonga watched him approach the desk, turning his head from side to side in search of a chair, his eyes lingering on the wriggling, rolled-up carpet. At last, the figure shook his head and sat on a footrest.

“Not very polite,” he commented.

Hoonga shrugged. “You caught me at a bad time. Business, you know.”

“
Unfinished
business, from what the shades tell me.”

Hoonga's upper lip curled as a snarl hung in his throat. “Don't believe everything a shade tells you,” he said, controlling his temper. “Shades are imbeciles.”

The cloaked figure made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Yours may be, but mine are well trained. And they tell me you've failed, not once but twice now, at your task.”

“I wouldn't call it failing. Not exactly.” Hoonga shifted in his chair.

“Hoonga, I hired you because I was told you were one of the best at this line of work. But by the looks of things, I see you've only found time to play.” The hood tilted toward the box containing the game of Bones.

“What's wrong with a little recreation now and then? It keeps my head clear. Besides, these things take time.” Hoonga drummed his clawed fingers across the desk and then shoved the game of Bones into one of the drawers. “What are you so worried about?”

“What kind of pathetic, worthless—”

“Watch your tongue!” Hoonga rose from his chair, muscles rippling in his arms. He leaned across the desk, lunging for the cloak, but the figure reacted more quickly. He rose and extended his hand from the robe, revealing a large, glowing stone clutched in his fingers.

Hoonga roared in pain and shielded his eyes, retreating back to his seat. “All right, you win. Put that away!”

The figure held the stone out for a few seconds before tucking it back inside the cloak. “Next time I'll stick it in your eye! Don't you get it? This is not just some menial assignment. This is
The Summoner's Handbook
! An opportunity like this only comes around once in a thousand lifetimes, and I'm not going to allow you to sit and squander it away. This book can open the Gateway so that your kind can enter the world outright at full strength. No more being invisible. No more slinking in the shadows. No more cowering away from human beings in your weakened forms!” He stomped his foot on the carpet roll. Whatever was trapped inside released an unnerving cry of pain, thrashed about, then rolled sideways until the carpet collided with the refrigerator.

Hoonga reclined in his chair and yawned. “You're not telling me anything new. What I still don't understand is how you'll gain from this book. You're not from here. You're not one of us.”

“I have my reasons.” The figure took a cautious step away from the rug and returned his focus to the Cyclops. “You just make sure you follow through with the plan. I need
both
the boy and the book for this to work, and we're running out of time. There are already too many eyes watching my every move. You need to strike again tonight!”

Hoonga shook his head. “Can't. It's not going to be raining in that area for at least a week.”

The figure hissed. “So you're not even going to try?”

“I thought you knew the rules. Demons need the atmospheric changes brought on by rainstorms to manifest aboveground. Without it, I can only send shades, and what are they going to do? Whisper the kid to death?”

“What about a wraith or a lesser demon? Can't they go to the surface whenever they want?”

“Some can.”

“Then why haven't you sent one?” the figure demanded.

“What good would that do? A full-fledged demon had trouble with the boy. You expect a wraith or a lesser demon to be more successful?”

“What about the banshee? You can use the shades to summon one of those, can't you?”

Hoonga shook his head adamantly. “Only in a thunderstorm. Besides, the boy's Agent is far more troublesome than you led us to believe. As long as the two are linked, we can't use a Dark Omen to bring him to the Underworld.” Hoonga picked some meat from his teeth and examined it in the light. “To be honest, I don't see why you can't just go and take the book yourself.”

The figure's hands dropped to his sides. “Are you out of your mind? For starters, I would be spotted for sure. And secondly, do you have any idea what is required in order for a non–Underworld dweller to open the Gateway? Even with my stone, it is all but impossible without a demon present.”

Hoonga raised his eyebrow.

“As it is, we must entrap a human soul within the pages. The Gateway won't open without it. You know that
The Summoner's Handbook
makes a connection with the first living human it contacts. That bond can't be broken or substituted by anyone else. That's why it was so critical that you use the banshee to bring Charlie
and
the book directly to the Underworld.”

A low purr emitted from Hoonga's throat. He blinked his eye slowly and rubbed a thumb along one of his tusks. “Then I guess you'll have to wait for the next thunderstorm.”

“Just be ready to do your job when the time comes.”

With the visitor gone, Trutti returned to the room and scampered onto the desk. “May I ask you a question, master?” the bat-eared creature asked.

Hoonga's eye still lingered on the office door, his upper lip noticeably quivering. “You may.”

“Why don't you just kill it?”

Hoonga's eyelid snapped shut and then opened again with rapid speed. “What?” He stared down at Trutti. “Kill
him
?” He pointed to the door.

“Yes.” Trutti gave a curt nod. “I've never heard of any creature above or below that gets away with saying such degrading words to you. Kill it and then…let's eat it.” Trutti scratched an itch on the end of his nose.

Hoonga released a deep, low growl, which transformed into belly laughter. He smacked the desk with one gigantic hand, an action resulting in Trutti bouncing to the ceiling. “Oh, you make me laugh! I do want to kill him. But for now, I will tolerate his insolence because he's approached me with an intriguing opportunity. Don't you think it would be nice to run around above ground with full strength? Terrorizing everything in our path? Rain or shine?”

“Yes, but”—Trutti's tiny chest inflated with a sad sigh—“I don't like it. With its robes and its demanding voice. Kill it, please.”

“I don't know that I
could
kill him. Not while he controls that large shard of Celestial stone.”

“Where did it find such an awful trinket?”

“I don't know, but believe me, if he drops that stone for even one minute, I'll make a move.” Hoonga placed his hands behind his head. “But I don't think I'd kill him outright.”

“No?” Trutti looked shocked. “Why not?”

“Well, I'd want to have a little fun with him first, of course. Wouldn't you?”

“Ah, yes.” Trutti rubbed his hands together quickly.

“Now!” Hoonga reached into the desk drawer. “You'll be pleased with the new assignment I'm giving you, Trutti. It will be fun, I assure you.”

Trutti's ears perked up slightly. “Fun? What kind of fun?”

“All in due time. But first, I believe we have a bit of a tournament to finish.” Hoonga once again pulled out the Bones game box.

Trutti's ears drooped until the tips grazed the desktop.

“I
still think you should've said you were sick,” Walter grumbled as they arrived at school. “It's too risky.”

“Well, it's not any safer at home. And my mom never lets me stay home unless I have a fever,” Charlie whispered. He shoved his locker closed and tightened the strap on his abnormally heavy backpack. The one thing the boys had agreed on was that they shouldn't leave
The Summoner's Handbook
lying around unguarded. “Anyway, there's nothing for us to do until we hear back from Wisdom.”

Just then, several pretty girls rounded the corner clutching their textbooks tightly in their arms, with Melissa Bitner walking at the center of the group.

Walter whistled, and Charlie turned an alarming shade of pink. Occupying his time fidgeting with a random combination lock on one of the lockers, he hummed quietly to himself until the girls were out of earshot.

“Why did you do that?” Charlie snapped. “Did you whistle at girls when you were alive?”

“Yeah,” Walter said.

“You're lying. I know you're lying.” Charlie meandered through the hallways, lugging the heavy load on his back.

“Okay, I never whistled to a girl's face. But those girls are cool! Why don't you ever talk to them? Get to know them?”

“Why would I waste my time? I've got more important things to do.”

“Like make videos of shopping malls?”

“Or exorcise a demon out of my head.”

Walter laughed but stopped short. “Hey, I'm not a demon.” He actually sounded offended.

“Close enough.”

During lunch, Charlie nibbled on his pimiento cheese sandwich and thought about
The Summoner's Handbook.
He thought about how he had suddenly been able to read the words, and he wondered what sorts of things he could do with it. He thought about how excited Wisdom Willows had become when he learned that Charlie had found the book. The memory made him chew his sandwich with vigor.

“Please tell me you've been paying attention,” Walter said, breaking Charlie out of his deep pondering.

“Paying attention…” Charlie stopped when he realized he had started to speak out loud. He quickly covered his mouth with his hand and spoke discreetly while chewing. “Paying attention to what?”

“Your buddy at table number three. No! Don't stare at him!” Walter groaned as Charlie turned to look. Mo Horvath made eye contact, and a satisfied grin spread across his face. Oswald, Vincent, and Wheeler were smiling as well.

Charlie swallowed the gooey mass of pimiento cheese. “Great.”

“Yep. Recognize that look?” Walter asked. “That's the look someone gives when they plan on pounding somebody. I've given that look many times.”

“Mo always has that dumb expression on his face.” Charlie stuffed his uneaten Doritos and carrot slices into his crumpled paper bag and dropped it on top of
The Summoner's Handbook
in his backpack.

“You're as good as dead, my friend,” Walter said.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Charlie hissed.

“I could help you. I actually have a plan.”

Charlie stared longingly at the cafeteria exit, but knew he wouldn't have a chance to escape before Mo caught up with him. And running would make him look even more ridiculous in front of the school. “Fine. I'm listening. What do I do?”

“For starters, don't give them access to your juice box,” Walter instructed.

“Brilliant.”

“Do you really want my advice?”

Charlie nodded.

“Okay. Do and say exactly as I tell you. No exceptions. Can you do that?”

Charlie hesitated with his answer. “I'll try.”

“Right, because here they come.”

Charlie started to turn around.

“Don't do anything yet,” Walter said. “Just…just act like you're bored, and don't be afraid to throw out a few insults. I'll tell you what to do when the time comes.”

Mo draped his arm over Charlie's shoulder, and his awful breath wafted across his face. The other three goons sat down around them. Mo sat practically on top of Charlie.

“I need some money,” Mo said as his hand dug painfully into the pressure point on Charlie's shoulder. “You got any money?”

Wheeler's sniveling voice chattered next to Charlie's right ear. “Get 'im, Mo,” he said. “Get 'im!”

Charlie could never figure out why Wheeler had been allowed to go this far through life without receiving similar treatment. If Charlie could be classified as a dork because of his looks, so should Wheeler. He had a heavily freckled face, or maybe they were zits. Whatever they were, Wheeler had a lot of them. Plus, he was practically cross-eyed. But he was mean.

“You don't have any money, do you?” Mo whispered. Charlie slowly shook his head, crumpling from the pain on his shoulder. “You live in those dumpy apartments over on the boulevard, don't you? The ones by the pound?”

“Pound?” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean the veterinarian clinic. A pound is something completely different.”

“Is that right?”

Charlie nodded. When was Walter going to share his brilliant plan?

The other boys sneered, and Wheeler piped up once more. “Hit 'im, Mo. Hit—”

“Shut up, Wheeler,” Mo ordered, then turned back to Charlie. “How is it your dad can transport all that money every day, and yet you and your dumb family never get any of it?”

Charlie closed his eyes. He was having a very difficult time acting bored. Insulting his family was going too far.

Charlie cleared his throat. “My dad drives an armored truck for Carmichael. He just delivers the money to banks and stuff.”

“Did I tell you to talk?” Mo ground his teeth together.

“You asked me a question.” Charlie tried to sound tough.

The goons' lips poked out in shock, and they mouthed the words “Oh no,” followed by hysterical laughter.

Charlie wished he had held his tongue. Why hadn't Walter spoken up yet?

“I've got an idea. Why don't we take a walk after school to your place? You could show me where your dad parks his armored truck.” Mo peered over Charlie's head, hamming it up for the amusement of his buddies.

“He doesn't park the truck at the apartments. He has to get it from the garage at work.” Charlie stared at a smidgeon of cheese stuck to the cafeteria table. Was that cheese from his sandwich, or was it there from a previous lunch? Charlie began to wonder how often the janitor cleaned the tables.

Mo released his pinching grip on Charlie and leaned back in his chair. “You think you're pretty smart, don't you?”

Charlie shook his head quickly. “No. I'm not smart. Oh, wait. Were you comparing me to you?”

Mo's lips curled upward, but his smile wavered. “I guess there's no point talking to you about your worthless dad and his pathetic job. So why don't we just take a walk to the bathroom instead?”

“You ready to do as I say?” Walter piped up. “Okay. Slowly turn, and stare Mo right in the eyes. Don't blink!” he instructed.

Charlie flinched. There was no way he could do that without blinking.

“I'm serious, Charlie. Do it!”

Charlie gulped and followed the command. Mo, laughing at some inside joke Oswald had shared, had his eyes closed. Charlie found himself staring at the pimple-pocked cheek of the overgrown orangutan.

“Whoa, Mo, check him out!” Vincent said. “You made him mad. Look out!” He drumrolled his hands against the table as the suspense began to build.

Mo's eyes leveled with Charlie's.

“Now, repeat after me,” Walter said. “Do you think you actually scare me?”

Charlie's jaw felt like it was wired shut, but he pried it open. “Do you think you actually scare me?”

Mo looked baffled. “Yeah, I do.” He grabbed Charlie's shirt collar with his free hand and yanked him forward. “In fact, I know I do.”

“Grab his hand,” Walter said. “Don't hesitate!”

Walter was going to get him killed. But he had gone too far to turn back now. Charlie limply took hold of Mo's hand, and Mo cackled.

“Look, he's trying to hold my hand!”

“Squeeze it, Charlie. Don't hold back,” Walter instructed confidently.

Charlie took a deep breath and squeezed.

Crunch.

The sound carried across two cafeteria tables. Several of Charlie's classmates turned to look because of Mo's shriek of pain. He clamped his mouth shut, and his eyes darted back and forth from his hand to Charlie's own shocked face.

“Let…go!” Mo gasped.

Charlie wanted to. But Walter wouldn't let him. Just like the night before, Walter was channeling his own energy through Charlie's body. Only now their strength had combined to form a death grip on Mo's hand.

Mo's face turned from white to green to purple. He pulled back his fist that had been gripping Charlie's shoulder for a punch, but appeared to lose momentum. Wheeler slung his arm around Charlie's neck in a tight headlock, trying to wrench him away from Mo.

“Tell them to back off!” Walter ordered.

Charlie immediately obeyed. “Tell your friends to back off, or I'll squeeze harder!” The pain in Mo's eyes scared Charlie, but filled him with confidence.

“Back…off,” Mo whined. “Back off!”

Wheeler scooted back, letting go of Charlie's neck, unsure of what to do with his hands.

The table crowded with people watching, whispering, and pointing.

“Okay, Charlie. Just so you know, there's a teacher coming over here,” Walter warned. “I think it's time to let go.”

Charlie could see the cafeteria aide parting the wave of students. Just before she arrived at the table, Charlie squeezed Mo's hand extra hard. “Next time you touch me, I'll snap your hand off!” Both he and Walter released their grip. “And yours, too!” Charlie turned and pointed at Wheeler's confused face.

Mo stood, clutching his hand close to his chest, his eyes a mixture of pain and rage. Charlie noticed tears in his eyes. Part of him actually wanted to apologize.