The Hunt for Dark Infinity

Tick unfolded the paper with shaking hands then read it out loud:

Dear Master Atticus,

You hold in your hands the antidote to Reginald Chu’s nanoplague, which is causing people all through the Realities to go insane. We believe the plague can be destroyed by injecting this silver rod and its contents into the mechanism that controls the virus-like nanoparticles. You need simply to smash the antidote against Chu’s device—Dark Infinity—and let Rutger’s brilliant engineering do the rest of the work.

I need not tell you the incredible amount of danger you are about to undertake. I daresay, I almost feel tempted to abandon the whole thing. But alas, I think you’d agree that we have no choice. The fate of all the Realities may hang in the balance. Atticus, you must do this thing. You must do it, no matter the cost.

Once we see sign of your success, we will come and rescue you. This, my good man, I swear to you.

Your comrade in arms,

Master George

Tick held up the cylinder, studied it closely, ignoring his surge of panic. The odd object had no blemishes, no scratches, no smudges—it was perfectly smooth, perfectly shiny.

“Piece of cake,” he muttered with a pitiful attempt at a laugh. “Waltz into Chu’s house and smash this against something. Piece of cake.”

“Yeah, dude, piece of cake,” Paul said. Tick couldn’t help but wish he could trade places with Paul, broken arm and all.

“You heard him,” Sofia said. “You heard Master George. We’ll be watching your every move, and we’ll come save you as soon as . . .” She trailed off, and Tick wished desperately that no one would say another word.

“I’m going,” he said, pushing the fear away. Now or never. Just move. “I’m going right now. Sally, can I have that bag of yours?”

Sally nodded, then handed over the leather satchel. Tick put the cylinder and the message from Master George inside, zipped it up, then slung it over his shoulder. “I’m going right now,” he said again.

Without waiting for a response, Tick turned and walked up to the dilapidated wooden door. As he reached down and twisted the loose handle, the others spoke from behind him.

“We’ll be watching you, dude,” Paul said.

“You’ll be the only thing we care about until we’re back together,” Sofia blurted out.

“You be tough chickens, now, ya hear?” Sally shouted.

Tick pushed open the door and stepped inside. As he went through, a cold tingle shot down his back.

Chapter

35

Beautiful Black Hair

The room was completely dark but strangely warm. Tick pulled the door closed behind him, fighting to calm his breath, standing still in the blackness. The floor beneath him was solid, smooth; the air smelled like . . . flowers. Like an old lady’s perfume. He sniffed, then scratched his nose.

“Hello?” he called out. Isn’t that what they always say in the movies when they walk into a haunted house? “Hello?” he repeated. His voice died as soon as it left his mouth, without even an echo.

The entire room abruptly flared with lights; Tick’s hand shot up to shield his eyes.

It came from everywhere at once: the walls, floor, and ceiling were made out of a rough material that glowed brightly. Tick turned around to see that the door had disappeared—and nothing looked anything like the inside of an old wooden shack.

Chu had already winked him to a new place.

The room was a perfect circle, thirty feet in diameter, bare of furniture except for several, almost invisible, clear plastic benches curving along the walls. That was it—no decorations, no signs, no light fixtures, nothing. Just glowing walls and invisible benches.

“Heaven’s waiting room,” Tick whispered.

“No, it’s not,” a soft voice said from his left.

Tick spun in that direction, stumbling backward two steps. Ten feet from him stood a tall woman, close to the wall, dressed in a tightly fitted yellow dress. Long, silky black hair hung from her head and framed a pale but perfect face; her red lips pulled tightly into a grim smile. Brilliant green eyes stared through horn-rimmed glasses. Tick was certain he couldn’t have missed her before. She had appeared out of nowhere.

“Who . . . who are you?” he asked.

The woman ignored him, scanning the room around her with a disgusted look, as if it were full of snakes and lizards and frogs. “This place is about as far from heaven as you can get in the Realities.” Despite her apparent anger, her voice still gave Tick goosebumps, as if he listened to someone playing the harp.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “Are you—”

“Yes,” she replied, finally focusing her eyes on him. “I imagine you saw a message similar to mine. My name is Mistress Jane, as yours must be Atticus Higginbottom.”

She walked over to him, her feet tap-tap-tapping as she did so. She stopped and held out a hand, which he took and shook quickly before letting go, a shudder of nausea trembling in his stomach. Master George’s most hated enemy stood inches from him.

Tick cleared his throat. “I . . . I thought you were bald.” He didn’t know what else to say, what else to do.

Mistress Jane smiled, though it was empty of humor or kindness. “Yes, I was bald for a very long time. So very long.” She stared past his shoulder as if remembering something sad from her past. “And it was quite . . . painful to grow it back so quickly. Painful, but sweet. That’s how the Chi’karda works in the Thirteenth, after all.”

Tick swallowed, fidgeted on his feet. He was so lost and confused and scared. His mind spun; his heart thumped.

Mistress Jane caught his eyes again, then continued. “So many things have changed, boy. I’ve changed. Do you understand?”

Tick couldn’t speak. He slowly shook his head.

Jane nodded. “Yes, we have a lot to talk about. A lot.” She reached out and took his hand, squeezed it. “Reginald wanted me to kill you, you know? That was my task.”

“Kill me?” Tick managed to say, almost a squeak.

Jane’s eyes closed and opened in a long, drawn out blink. “Yes, I was supposed to kill you. And I could have, easily—I crashed your spintrain to make Chu think I was at least trying. But I knew you’d survive.” She paused. “But you and I are going to turn the tables, Atticus.”

“What do you mean?” Tick pulled his hand away from hers.