Chapter #67The New Puppetmasters by: Seuzz   "What work, sir?" you ask the old man. "I thought it was all over."
"Once the Libra is our hands it will be. I'm staying up, in fact, until it arrives. But there is still much to clean up."
"You mean reversing the spells?"
"I hope so. But in the meantime there are still many hundreds of golems out there."
"They can still cause problems?"
"Possibly, though they are at rest when they do not have the Libra. They fill the lives they have stolen, and wait. But they still have an organization. It needs managing, to prevent them from getting up to mischief. The girl you were meant to impersonate--" He gestures at Kim's mask, and the pile of clothes beneath it. "It would be best if you or another continued to play her part. Or, at the very least, took over the account she used to manage your school."
"Me, you mean?"
"Yes. As yourself, or in the guise of another."
"You mean as-- But wouldn't that be wrong, sir?"
"They already have false faces, many you know. There is no great wrong in putting yourself behind them, so long as you cause them no harm while in the disguise. It might even be better to manage the lives they have usurped by shifting between guises. We want to return those lives to their owners, once we have learned how to reverse the spell that has been laid upon them."
"I understand, sir. I think."
"Your friend, James Lamont, will help, taking a similar responsibility. Frank and Joe will also remain. The others have tasks elsewhere. But you will not be alone."
"Thank you, sir."
He smiles, and again you're reminded of a retired Santa Claus. He seems so kind that you can't imagine--
It's none of your business, but you don't think he'd mind. "What will happen to Professor Blackwell, sir? He's afraid that you will--"
"The professor has nothing to fear. I've spoken long with him. He will return with me."
"But what will--?"
The old man touches your knee. "Don't fret, son. He is happy now. Happier than he has been in many years, and rather anxious to leave town, in fact. You'll understand one day."
"Okay, sir."
The fireworks have faded now, and you're very sleepy. The old man gives you a key, and tells you to get some sleep.
It's dark in the hallway as you pad down it, but not entirely silent. As you pass a door you hear Frank's muffled voice. "Pick it up, Joe. Pick it up or by Lurga I'll--" There's a hard thump.
Your room is much like the other, but done in blues rather than browns. After slipping off your shoes you fall onto the bed, and know nothing more until--
* * * * *
"Wake up, lazybones!"
You bounce up sharply, and recoil from the terrifying apparition. Joe presses his face close to yours and grins. "Half the day's already gone and you're missing the best part!"
"What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty, and there's cinnamon rolls down in the dining room. Dad says I can't have one until you're dressed and down there with us! Up, up, up!" He slaps at you.
You struggle off the bed and into shoes while Joe barks at you. You run fingers through your hair, and then Joe grabs you by the neck and hauls you out the room.
The dining room is open and airy, with tall, wide windows on three sides. A long, dark table runs down its middle, with a dozen or so chairs around it. There's another table off to the side, holding chafing dishes and plates and bowls. That's where Nash and Rick are, both looking as disheveled as you feel. Frank and James are sitting next to each other at the table; Frank has his head cocked and is listening with quizzical interest to whatever James is saying. At the far end Charles Brennan and Aubrey Blackwell sit facing each other. They seem utterly absorbed in their topic as well, and are talking with great energy over each other.
Joe urges you over to the serving table and piles his plate high with scrambled eggs and greasy sausage links, two cinnamon rolls, a pancake with syrup, a cluster of round, firm grapes, and something that is either a very large orange or a rather small grapefruit. You content yourself for the moment with a single cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee, which you desperately need now that the adrenaline from Joe's wakeup call has worn off. You've just raised it to your lips when Joe nudges you hard in the ribs, sending it sloshing all over the place.
"So are you-- Hey, sorry 'bout that." He mops up the puddle with one of his rolls and takes a bite from it. "Stayin' or goin'?"
"What?" How can someone be so awake so early on such little sleep?
"Are you stayin' in town or goin' back with Dad?"
"Oh." You take a deep breath and look down the table at Charles Brennan. "I really like your dad."
"He is awesome, isn't he? He's the reason we got out of Blackwell's."
"What?" you say again. You put the coffee down and rub your eye.
"He was the reinforcement I brought in. You felt it settle around the house, right, just as we left?"
That "spirit"? "That was him?"
"Yeah. Glundandra. Big-ass thing, bigger than all the rest of us put together. Froze the things outside in their tracks, and they could only stare as we went sauntering past. I wanted to tie a bunch of their shoelaces together, but Rick--" Joe shovels some eggs into his mouth. "Anyway, so you're going with Dad?"
"Actually, I was thinking of staying here. He said something about cleaning things up."
"Sure, that's what the rest of us are going to be doing. So you're staying?" He looks at you, an expression of absolute delight on his face. "Excellent! You hear that, Frank--?"
"I can't hear anything with you making all that noise, Joe."
"Will's staying here with us!"
"Good. We could use the manpower." That pinched and worried look you're used to seeing on his face is back.
"Pfft. Manpower. More like 'funpower'! We get to wear disguises!"
"Like you didn't have enough of that over the last two days," Frank says severely.
"Oh, that was work. This is gonna be more like--" Joe drops his silverware and grabs you by the shoulders. He whispers in your ear: a tickling sensation. "We've got to keep them happy. And when it's boyfriends and girlfriends, best way to keep 'em happy is with the ess-ee-ecks." He releases you, but grins madly in your face.
"What are you plotting over there, Joe?" Frank demands.
"Plotting? Moi? I don't 'plot,' Frank--"
"Good, and don't start. There won't be much call for it in the middle schools."
Joe has picked up his fork, but he drops it with a clatter. "What do you mean, middle schools?"
"I'll be managing the city services and Fort Suffolk. Will and James will be managing the high schools. That leaves the three middle schools to you."
"Middle school?! I don't wanna run around with a lot of snot-nosed, squeaky-voiced--"
"You'll fit right in, even without a mask."
"Frank!"
"Joe!"
"Boys!" That's their father.
Joe glares at his brother. "Frank, that's junior-grade work, and--" He claps his mouth shut and looks between you and Lamont. "Well, I don't wanna be a dick about it--"
"So don't be a dick. Dad says I'm still in charge, and you get to handle the middle schools."
Joe stares sullenly down into his plate. "And it started out as such a nice day."
"I could take middle school, Frank," you say.
"No, I want you in a high school. To start with, anyway. If this thing lasts more than a few weeks, we'll probably switch around, check each other's work. But for now do you want to handle Eastman or Westside?"
You look at Lamont. "You got a preference, man?"
He hesitates. "It's probably going to be rough either way." He licks his lips. "They got Carson, you know. And Caleb and Keith."
Yeah. It would be hard looking at them, and knowing they're fakes.
"There's also the wresting team," he continues. He winces.
You look around the table. "What about the wrestling team?"
"Didn't you see that part of the news?" Frank asks. "When you and Rick escaped. You can't throw that much water with that kind of force at a human body without it doing bad things. Most of them-- Well, if you can kill a golem, that's what Rick wound up doing to most of the wrestling team."
"Fuck!"
"Yeah. So, it's a shit scene over there. Lots of grief counselors for things that can't grieve, along with those that can. The media--which the golems still control, of course--is calling it a terrorist act, linking it to the cell that escaped from Blackwell's house."
Yes, you think. That would make being at Westside very hard. Especially as the student council president.
You're still mulling this when a man in a military uniform marches smartly in and asks for "Charles Brennan." The old man raises his hand, and the officer hands him a package and withdraws. Brennan opens it just enough to glance inside. "And that's the end of it," he says to rest of the company, which has gone quiet.
And then cheers erupt.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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