Archer leaned over to his nearest classmate, Jake Spindler, and whispered, “Who’s this guy?”
Jake shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “Guest speaker?”
Archer shook his head. The kid had to be a student the way he was dressed: cargo shorts and a blazing green tank top that read, “I’m going crazy. Want to come along?” But he couldn’t be a sophomore. Not that tall. Not with all that facial hair. The guy had sideburns like Wolverine. In fact, he looked like a teenage version of the superhero. Square, rugged face; driftwood-brown hair that lay atop his head in a stylish flop; large, intense brown eyes; and a kind of sideways cool smirk that seemed to say to the world, Why yes, actually, I am smarter and cooler than the rest of you.
Archer glanced over at Kara and found her staring at the newcomer as well. Even Amy was staring.
“Sheesh, Amy.” Archer leaned across to her chair and whispered, “I think you fogged up your glasses with steam.”
“What?” she asked. Her cheeks went red.
“Umm, class,” Mrs. Sullivan said, using her formal announcement voice. “We have a new addition to our little society of brilliance.”
“This late in the year?” blurted Payton Kersh. “That’s dumb.”
Mrs. Sullivan shot Payton a withering glare. He pursed his lips and seemed to shrivel.
“I’d like you to meet Rigby Thames,” Mrs. Sullivan said, nodding to Mrs. Mears as the principal departed the classroom. “He comes to us from the Glennwood Institute. Please make him welcome.”
Glennwood Institute? Archer thought. The Glennwood Institute of Technology, or GIFT, as it was called, was a big deal. And it likely meant two things were true of Rigby: (1) he was rich and (2) he really was smarter than most everyone else. Tuition at Glennwood was higher than some Ivy League colleges, and they were extremely selective about the kids they accepted into their challenging program. Archer’s father had once looked into the school for Kaylie. She had all the intellect needed. But the Keatons didn’t have the money. GIFT was simply out of reach for regular folk. For crying out loud, the president’s daughter attended Glennwood!
Archer shrugged and went back to his essay. He was still a little mad at himself for dozing. Thankfully, it hadn’t been a deep enough sleep to trigger a Dreamtreading session. That could have been awkward.
Still, he’d cost himself time on his essay. He might have missed instructions too. As a Dreamtreader, he knew the critical important of intelligence. Every chance he got to build his personal knowledge, every opportunity to stretch his mind creatively, he seized it and never looked back.
I may not have been born a genius like Kaylie, he thought. But I will outwork anyone.
As he crafted his arguments and support from the text, Archer couldn’t help but be aware of Mrs. Sullivan trying to get the new kid up to speed. She seated him in the empty desk by the window, one desk to Kara’s left. Archer pressed the pencil a little harder to the paper.
“We’re drafting explanatory essays on a Nathaniel Hawthorne short story,” Mrs. Sullivan explained.
“Which one?” Rigby asked.
The way he said one, Archer thought. Something odd. Was it an accent?
“ ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter,’ ” Mrs. Sullivan replied. “But you don’t have to worry about this essay, we’re too far along—”
“I’ve read it,” Rigby replied. “Right brilliant piece. Poison garden and all. Essay, is it? I’ll give it a go.”
An English accent, Archer thought miserably. Rich, smart, and an English accent. Archer scanned the room. Every single girl in the room was staring at Rigby. Archer rolled his eyes and whispered, “Oh, brother.”
Lunch at Dresden High School came in three shifts. Archer’s shift, the one for freshmen and sophomores, was the first of the day. When he stepped into the cavernous cafeteria, Archer realized there was actually a little more storm damage after all. The chairs in the lunch courtyard outside had been blown all over the place, some lodged in the limbs of the courtyard’s trees. Others had apparently crashed into the lunchroom’s wall of windows. The glass had all been cleaned up, and cardboard panels had been taped in place, making the wall of windows look a little like a crossword puzzle.
The lunch line was unusually short. That suited Archer just fine. If Archer had a passion other than Dreamtreading, it was food, even school food. He took up his tray and considered his lunch choices with the seriousness of a chess grand master. Mystery meatloaf? No, I don’t think so. Mushroom and sausage pizza? Maybe.
Then he saw the Little Chiks—his all-time school lunch favorite. Small, square chicken sandwiches with a blot of spicy mayo and a pickle slice. Archer loved them, but they were so small.
When Archer finally came to the cashier, his tray had eleven Little Chik sandwiches, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and a large cup of brown gravy.
“Going light today?” Grandma Cho asked. The blue-haired woman had reportedly worked the cafeteria of Dresden High for more than twenty years. There had never been a gentler, kinder soul. She was everyone’s grandma. “Eleven? You sure that’s all ya need?”
Archer laughed. “It’s actually twelve,” he said, handing her his paid lunch card. “I ate one on the way through the line.”
“Son,” she said, “enjoy this metabolism while it lasts. It’ll catch up to ya one day, and bang! Every muffin and french fry goes right to the old hips.”
“I wish,” Archer said. “I’m trying to put on some muscle, but no matter what I eat, I seem to burn it off.”
Grandma Cho shook her head. “Have a cookie, Archer.”
“Nah, I’ve already spent too much of my card.”
“It’s on me,” she said. “I baked them myself.”
“Thanks, Grandma Cho!” He reached back to the cookie tray and selected a thick, lumpy chocolate chip cookie. It weighed heavily in his hand and smelled of paradise.
Archer ate the cookie first. Absurdly delicious, as advertised. Halfway through his chicken sandwiches, dunking each one in gravy, he noticed that his lunch table too was unusually empty. Short lunch lines and a half-deserted table, he thought, chewing absently. Hmph.
After a few more sandwiches, curiosity finally got the better of Archer. He scanned the lunchroom and figured it to be at about 50 percent. Was some meeting being held somewhere, but he’d missed the announcement? Or maybe yearbooks had finally gone on sale.
No. Something else. Archer jammed home the last couple of sandwiches, vacuumed down the rest of the mashed potatoes, and slurped his third chocolate milk empty. After returning his tray, Archer walked the lunchroom perimeter and found no answers . . . until he passed by the courtyard windows closely enough to see outside.
“There they are,” Archer whispered.
Outside, seated in thrown-together rows of chairs, at least sixty or seventy students surrounded someone. That kind of attention usually meant a fight in progress. But students didn’t bring chairs to a fight.
One of the courtyard’s trees kept Archer from seeing who had captured the attention of so many. He checked the cafeteria clock. Five more minutes left for lunch. Not much, but Archer had to know.
The sun was warm, perhaps fueling up the atmosphere for another round of evening thunderstorms. Laughter and buzzy conversation filled the yard. Archer drew closer to the others and finally saw the center of attention: the new kid, Rigby Thames.
A fresh round of laughs apparently signaled the end of a joke. Kevin Zoll said, “Nah, man, really . . . why’d you leave GIFT?”
“They ’ave standards,” Rigby said wryly. “You’ve got to ’ave a certain level of intellect to do well there.”
“So you flunked?” Kevin asked.
“No,” Rigby said. “As I told you, you got to be smart to get in. As it turns out, I’m too smart.”
Another laughter explosion.
“Did you meet the president’s daughter?” Ellen Stewart asked. “Did you know her?”
“Know ’er?” Rigby replied. “I dated ’er
.”
“You did not!” Bree Lassiter said. “I read all the magazines.”
“Do you really think the Secret Service allows magazines to print everything?” Rigby asked. “We didn’t date long, really. I got tired of the agents prying into everything I do. Seriously, you ’ave no idea.”
Archer found himself joining in the laughter and then chastised himself. After all, Kara was all too interested in this cool new “bloke” from England.
Raghib Muhammed asked, “So how long have you lived in America?”
“Four years,” Rigby replied. “When my uncle died, he left us ’is house. My family, well, we weren’t doin’ too well in Birmingham, so we came over. Big place now, full of secrets.”
“Wait,” Kara blurted out. “I think I know who you are now. You’re the kid who moved into the inventor’s mansion, the old Scoville house!”
“Enchanted,” Rigby said with a gallant bow. “That’s my Uncle Ebenezer, Dr. Ebenezer Scoville—off-the-charts genius . . . and lunatic.”
“Was he really crazy?” Bunk asked.
Rigby never answered. The bell rang. Like a pulsing amoeba, the entire group of kids in the courtyard slowly ambled back to the cafeteria and the hallways beyond.
It wasn’t over, though. Archer fell in just behind Rigby and saw the entire scene unfold in front of him.
David “Guzzy” Gorvalec emerged from the moving crowd. He was sickly pale but moved with an easy grace that was somehow serpentine and cool at the same time. He was strong too, white muscle contrasting sharply with his cut-off sleeve, black T-shirt. Strong and dangerous, feared by most students for any number of valid reasons. He’d repeated ninth grade and been suspended half a dozen times, more than once for carrying a weapon.
So when Guzzy slid over to Rigby, Archer knew that Rigby was in for a less than pleasant welcome.
Guzzy flipped the fence of black hair out of his eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Man, I know you got money, right?”
Rigby half turned but kept walking.
“Nah, man,” Guzzy went on, grinning so that the silver cap gleamed out from the rest of his yellowed teeth. “Nah, nah, don’t do me like that. I know you’ve got money, living in that great big old house.”
“So?” Rigby replied, his voice void of emotion and absolutely no change in his long stride.
“I’m the guy around here,” Guzzy said. “You need something, you come see me. If I don’t have it, I can get it. Know what I mean? Concert tickets, tablet computers . . .” He paused. “Test answers for any class.”
Archer cringed, slowing his pace a little. Rumors about Guzzy abounded in Dresden High’s hallways. More than once, Archer had seen something change hands between Guzzy and other students, but it had always been at a distance. Now, here it was right in front of him. How would the new kid respond?
“If I were the needy type,” Rigby said, his voice hardening, “I’d come running straightaway. But I don’t need your junk. I ’ave something much better.”
“Oh, is that how it is?” Guzzy asked. He exhaled a laugh. And just like that, his face went from Mister-Friendly, I’m-the-do-you-a-favor-guy to Cross-me-and-I’ll-ruin-your-world. “Don’t think you’re gonna sell in my territory. Don’t think you’re gonna step on my toes and get—”
Rigby kept walking, but he turned his head and cast such a hate-filled glare that Guzzy almost tripped over his own feet. Rigby’s voice became a simmering snarl. “Do not speak to me again.”
Guzzy laughed, but anger flashed in his eyes. “Best take that attitude back to England! I’ll—”
Rigby’s hand moved in a blur.
Had he made a fist or done some kind of thrust or karate chop? Archer couldn’t tell, but he watched Guzzy stagger backward. His smooth, cool expression had turned to wide-eyed terror. He clutched his throat with both hands. Then he fell to his knees and gagged.
The crowd kept moving. If any of the teachers on lunch duty had seen a thing, they didn’t show it. They hadn’t made a move to intervene. Clumps of students filed right on by the still-coughing Guzzy.
Archer didn’t want anything to do with a kid like Guzzy, but he couldn’t stand to see him suffering and no one helping. Archer took a few tentative steps back toward him. “Hey, are you okay?” Archer asked. “You want me to get the nurse?”
Guzzy looked away, angrily swiping his forearm across his eyes. “Be fine,” Guzzy said, coughing out his breaths. “But that new kid . . . he just messed up. I’m gonna hurt him. I’m gonna hurt him bad. Now, back up, Keaton!”
Archer hastened from the courtyard, feeling Guzzy’s stare hard on his back. Nothing good will come of this, Archer thought. Nothing good at all.
DREAMTREADER CREED, CONCEPTUS 1
The Waking Mind is a powerful thing in the Temporal world, but it has limitations. While awake, the Waking Mind is active, of course, but the Sleeping Mind is dormant. When you fall asleep, the Waking Mind slumbers, and the Sleeping Mind comes alive and with it come abilities, sensations, and thoughts unlike anything the Waking Mind could ever consider in . . . well, in its wildest dreams.
The Dreamtreader is master of the Sleeping Mind. Unlike the usual dreamer, you will be lucid and much more. Manipulate the Dream world around you, but build your strength slowly, a little at a time. Do not attempt a tree if you have not first created a single leaf. Dare not attempt a storm if you have not first created a single cloud. Create what you know and build from it. Err on the side of caution when you create.
But create you shall: anything and everything your mission requires. To face the minions of the Nightmare Lord himself, summon fire and sword. Run like the wind itself. Call down lightning.
In time, with practice, it will all be within your grasp. Remember this: a Dreamtreader must know his limits. Create too much, too soon, and you will falter. Flying is especially taxing. So many variables for your mind to manipulate. Even the seasoned Dreamtreader will use flight sparingly, for it is quite draining. To fall out of the sky due to exhaustion is not the chief danger as it might seem. Rather, it is the utter depletion of your mental resources, causing deep sleep.
You will slumber within the Dream and be vulnerable to all manner of dangers. Death might be the kindest of things that could happen to one asleep in the Dream.
And so, the Dreamtreader will live by this, the foremost of the Nine Laws: Anchor first. Anchor deep.
When you enter the Dream, resist any temptation that might distract you from anchoring. Your anchor is your tether to life. Lose it at your peril. Stray not far from it. For when you have the need, it is the only real safe place in the Dream. By it, you may return to the Temporal world. Anchor first. Anchor deep.
Be wary of Sixtolls.
Your Personal Midnight is the limit of a Dreamtreader’s stay within the Dream. Spend eleven hours in brave completion of your Dreamtreading goals, but note that there is no natural sixth stroke on your clock. The Nightmare Lord has stolen that. It has become his number now. Once every day and night, he overpowers even the ancient might of Old Jack and strikes Sixtolls. His time waxes then. For that hour, chaos reigns.
The hounds roam free.
FOUR
MASTER GABRIEL’S VISIT
ARCHER PUT THE DREAMTREADER’S CREED BACK INTO ITS protective case and surrounded it on the closet shelf with all of his trophies and shoeboxes. Armed with Dreamtreader lore and its powerful techniques, Archer flopped into bed and turned out the bedside light.
Turkey sandwich, check. Glass of milk, check. Ten cheesesticks, check. Archer had eaten his “lights out” meal an hour earlier. L-tryptophan should be powering up right about now, Archer thought, closing his eyes to the dark room and reveling in a deep yawn. All the unexpected events at school surrounding the arrival of Rigby Thames, the after-school chores, and several hours of Dreamtreader reading all made for an exhausting day. Archer was ready for sleep . . . and ready to report for duty.
But Archer’s thoughts came in a swarm, preventing him from drift
ing away. Kara certainly seemed interested in Rigby. She hasn’t sent me a text all day, Archer thought, absently clutching the edge of his pillow. How is that fair? Rigby’s from England, with the coolest accent known to mankind. He’s rich and lives in a mansion. He’s mysterious, the nephew of Mad Doc Scoville. He’s ridiculously smart. Oh, and he looked the school’s muscle-bound junior criminal in the eye and neutralized him with one punch . . . well, with one something.
Archer let out a slow sigh, loosened his grip, and felt his muscles relax. He began to think about his essay topic, about “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” how sad it was. The young Giovanni’s obsessive love for a poisonous Beatrice: tragic in so many ways. For her too. Beatrice was a victim of her father’s horrible, heartless experiments.
Thoughts of gardens led Archer’s mind to wander into the tomato plants growing in his dad’s garden in the backyard. Dad’s summer salsa, he thought. Summer. The annual trip to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. This year, I’ll make it. I’ll run to the boardwalk and all the way back to the beach house. That idea led to a flashlight tag manhunt with his cousins. And that thought led to . . .
“Oh, no you don’t!”
The voice, like thunder, snapped Archer from his presleep ramblings. But Archer didn’t leap from his bed and sprint for his door. He didn’t cry out for help or cower in fear. He recognized the voice.
“No sleep for you,” the voice continued. “Not yet. Not until I am through with you.”
Master Gabriel, Archer thought. A nice surprise.
Archer rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up in bed. His bedroom door was shut tight and bordered by ethereal wisps of bluish light—as usual when Gabriel came to visit. Those who came to Archer’s door and knocked would immediately forget why they had come, turn, and leave Archer—and Gabriel—undisturbed.
Archer looked away from the door and toward the brighter glow of his visitor. Archer’s mouth fell open.