Like a dark flame, Inkling had crackled across it—and then suddenly knocked against something hard and slippery. Glass! Startled, he pulled back and hit more glass behind him. He spread himself in all directions, but every part of him hit more of the same. Feeling himself tipped and lifted, he realized he was inside a jar with the piece of comic-book paper that had lured him. The top of the jar was screwed tight.
Then he’d been dropped into a backpack—and darkness, until this moment.
“Look,” Vika said to the man behind her.
Inkling stayed still on the paper. During the afternoon, he’d nervously eaten all the ink, so the crumpled page was completely blank, except for him.
“Dad, right here,” Vika said, pointing at Inkling in great excitement.
Her father squinted. “It’s ink spilled on paper.”
“It’s not normal ink,” she said. “I saw this stuff at Ethan’s house. This stuff can draw anything!”
“Vika, come on. This is a joke, right?”
Inkling stayed frozen. He could hear the impatience in Mr. Worthington’s voice.
“No, I saw it! Ethan’s been using this thing to draw his project at school. It’s like intelligent ink. And I watched Mr. Rylance using it in his studio.”
“He showed you this? When?”
“Well, no, I was watching through the window—”
“You were spying on him?”
Inkling was glad to hear her father getting angry.
“Dad, just listen! This stuff draws and paints in color. And it’s amazing. It was making a new comic book for him.”
For a second, her father seemed to forget his anger. “So he is working on something!”
“Yeah, but he’s not doing it himself! This thing does the work! Look, I’ll show you.”
Vika moved her face close to the glass. “Draw something, Inkling.”
How did she know his name? He stayed motionless on the paper. He didn’t like Vika, and he especially didn’t like being kidnapped. He needed to get back home. He needed to help Peter Rylance—and not just with his graphic novel. Inkling hadn’t had the chance to tell Ethan about what he’d found in the studio closet. He needed to get home and lead them to it.
“I know you can understand me,” Vika said. “Draw an octopus, whatever you like.”
Why on earth would he draw for them?
Vika’s eyes narrowed in anger, and she shook the jar. Inkling held tight to every pore in the paper, but he was afraid he might have shifted a bit.
“Dad, see that?” Vika said. “He’s in a different position!”
Inkling froze.
“Looks the same to me,” Mr. Worthington said.
“Dad, this thing could draw you an entire comic in one day! Anything you wanted. Those Exterminatrix things you were talking about. You said your company needed a hit. This could do it!”
Inkling saw Mr. Worthington’s face soften. He touched his daughter’s head tenderly. “Honey, you don’t need to worry about any of this. The company’s going to be fine—”
“That’s not what you said to Mom a few nights ago.”
He smiled tiredly. “We’re fine, all right? Now look, where did you even get this?”
“Ethan’s backpack,” she mumbled. “He brought it to school.”
“I think he’s been playing a trick on you, Vika. But that doesn’t make it okay to sneak around their house. Or steal. Monday morning, I want you to give this back, okay?”
Inkling waited for her to say yes, but she didn’t.
“Look,” Soren said, “let’s just go through the steps one more time.”
“I’ve already told you everything!” Ethan said.
It was Saturday morning, and they were sitting on the floor of Ethan’s bedroom, eating cookies right out of the package. The cookies were all smashed into little bits because Sarah had been the one to pick them off the supermarket shelf and hurl them into the cart.
“In movies,” Soren said, “whenever people retrace their steps, they usually find vital clues. Or, well, get horribly mangled and eaten.”
“Okay, fine,” Ethan said, and once again told his friend everything that he’d done yesterday since finishing the drawings with Inkling.
“Your backpack,” said Soren, nodding at it. “You’re sure you checked every pocket?”
“I dumped everything out, yeah.” He pointed at the pile on the floor.
“Have you touched it since?”
“No.”
“Excellent. So the crime scene is, we can say, uncontaminated.”
“Crime scene?”
Soren held out a hand for the empty backpack. “May I?”
Ethan was impressed by Soren’s sudden calm command. Soren unzipped every single pocket.
“Now, the inside of your backpack is black, and Inkling is also black, so he could easily blend in.”
Soren took out a small penlight. He always carried one in case there was a power outage and he was trapped alone in a threatening environment, like a sewer or an abandoned factory. Carefully he inspected every inch of the backpack.
“Okay, I agree, it looks clean,” he said. “Now let’s examine the contents.”
He shifted his attention to the pile of stuff. It was a big pile. Ethan was not organized. Things tended to stay in his backpack for a long time. When he needed to find something, he just dumped everything out till he found it, then crammed everything else right back in.
Methodically, Soren sifted through the mess. “A Twinkie wrapper with an expiration date of”—he squinted at the wrapper—“nine months ago. A crumpled piece of paper, which is . . . a math test from last month. You got six out of ten, by the way.”
“This is a waste of time.”
“Another crumpled piece of paper, which is . . . nothing.”
Ethan squinted. “Hang on.”
This wasn’t regular lined paper. It was newsprint. He looked closer. A blank piece of newsprint, about comic-book size, ripped out carefully . . . and there, along the sides, a few traces of red.
“Inkling ate this!” Ethan said. “There was a lot of red and he gobbled it. But I never put this in my backpack! I don’t give him comics anymore.”
“So what we’re saying,” Soren began, “is someone else put it in there.”
“To lure him out!” Ethan exclaimed. “To steal him!”
He looked at his friend and they nodded meaningfully at each other.
“It’s got to be her,” said Ethan.
“Heather Lee,” Soren said.
“What?”
“Come on, she’s always looking at you. She’s a crazy super-fan!”
“What’re you talking about? Heather’s nice!”
“In movies, it’s always the nice people,” Soren pointed out. “You think they’re nice and then they turn out to be supervillains, or aliens cloaked in human flesh, or—”
“Soren!” Ethan said. “It’s Vika, all right. Vika!”
“It seems too obvious,” said Soren, sounding a little disappointed. “But yeah, I think you’re right.”
Ethan couldn’t believe he hadn’t suspected Vika sooner. Inkling wouldn’t just run away. He’d been kidnapped! “She saw Inkling in my bedroom that night, and she’s been suspicious ever since! I’m going over there right now!”
“Wait, wait,” said Soren. “If you confront her, she’ll just deny it.”
And she’d get angry, Ethan thought. And when she got angry, she kicked. He was pretty sure she had a few more black belts by now.
“We need another plan,” said Ethan.
Soren nodded. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”
Chapter 15
Ethan sat on a park bench, nervously digging his fingernail into the chipped paint as he waited for Soren. Most of the park here was grassy and open, but past the fenced dog run there were lots of trees and bushes—right across the street from Vika’s house.
Here came Soren now. His steps were jerky because he was carrying a
large black case, and it was obviously heavy. He kept switching hands. It was the kind of briefcase that might contain all sorts of things—a trumpet maybe, or a small doomsday device. As he entered the park, Soren glanced nervously all round, which made him look incredibly suspicious.
With a big sigh, he sat down on the bench beside Ethan.
“Mission accomplished?” asked Ethan.
Soren said, “I have the package.”
He put the case flat on the grass and opened it. His brother’s quadcopter lay nestled in black foam.
“The Phantom Hawk,” Soren said reverently. “Its blades are almost noiseless.”
“That’s good,” said Ethan. “We don’t want noise.”
Soren carefully removed the quadcopter, and Ethan helped him attach a tiny camera to its underside.
“There’s an appon my phone,” Soren said, “so we can see whatever the camera sees.”
Soren switched on the camera and moved the copter around with his hand. On the phone, Ethan could see the image nice and clear.
“Last thing,” said Ethan. “Just in case we get close enough.” He impaled a single page of a comic book (lots of red) on one of the copter’s landing struts. “Good?” he asked Soren.
“Shouldn’t affect the aerodynamics,” Soren said wisely, taking the controls in his hand.
“It was super nice of Barnaby to lend us this,” said Ethan.
“Hmm,” said Soren.
“Hang on, he doesn’t know you have it?”
“It’s fine, it’s fine.”
“So you’re good on how to use this thing?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah, I’ve . . . he’s let me take some test flights.”
“How many?”
“One. That he knew about. But I snuck in a few more.”
They moved across the park, crouched behind some bushes, and shuffled around until they had a clear view of Vika’s house.
“The range is good,” said Soren, “and I have clear sight-lines of the windows, front and side. You’re sure that’s her room on the second floor?”
“Pretty sure.” Ethan squinted, then smiled. “And the window’s open, see?”
“Whoa,” said Soren. “Okay. Let’s do it. You need to buy me as much time as possible. Keep her downstairs.”
Ethan walked across the street to Vika’s. It was a nice two-story brick house with a dark green veranda. He marched up the front steps and knocked. It was Mrs. Worthington who opened the door, a sheaf of papers in one hand. Her face lit up with a big smile so warm and genuine Ethan had to smile back.
“Ethan! How nice to see you.”
She’d been really kind when Mom was sick; it all came back to him now. She’d left tons of meals for them. She’d also come over to the house several times when Dad needed someone to watch Sarah—and him. He was younger then. She’d played games with them, and made them interesting teas. He’d found her very comforting.
Awkwardly, he stood on the doorstep, tongue-tied.
“Come inside.” She shook the papers in her hand. “I’ve been marking essays all afternoon, but I was just about to make a snack for Vika. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“Thanks,” he said, and followed her into the kitchen.
“Take a seat. Do you like oatmeal cookies? How about some juice? Vika! Ethan’s here.”
Like her husband, Celine Worthington had no idea that he and Vika were archenemies. How could grown-ups be so clueless?
Ethan sat on one of the stools. This was all going according to plan. He heard footfalls on the stairs and Vika appeared. Just the way she avoided his eyes confirmed his suspicions. Inkling was probably upstairs in her room right now, in some kind of jar.
“Are you two working on a project together?” asked Mrs. Worthington.
“Sort of,” Ethan said.
“Vika didn’t tell me. But she doesn’t tell me much about anything,” her mom said lightly, but with a point.
Vika hoisted herself onto the stool opposite Ethan.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Pretty good,” he said.
Through the kitchen window, Ethan could see Mr. Worthington mowing the back lawn. He still had plenty left. Perfect. The noise would cover the sound of the quadcopter. Ethan just hoped Soren kept it away from the downstairs windows.
Vika’s mom poured herself a cup of tea. “Well, I need to get back to my fun, fun marking,” she said, and returned to the living room.
Ethan nibbled at a cookie. It was a good cookie, but right now it tasted like the stalest cracker in the world.
“How’s your project going?” he asked Vika.
He needed to keep her downstairs as long as possible: that was the plan.
“You mean the graphic novel?”
He nodded, taking a tiny sip of juice.
“My part’s been done for ages,” she said. “I finished over a week ago. The other guys are still coloring and lettering. They better not screw it up.”
He nibbled a bit more at his cookie. “Yeah, yours looked really good. I mean, you’re the best in the class for sure. I was telling my dad about it. He never said that thing, by the way, about you having no talent. I just made that up.”
“I figured,” she said.
“So, I was wondering,” he said, “if you wouldn’t mind giving me some drawing lessons.”
She looked at him in total disbelief. “Me?”
“Mm-hmm. I really like the way you draw.” This was completely true. She glanced away as her cheeks flushed at the compliment. In that moment, she looked almost like a . . . normal person. But when she looked back at him, her eyes were narrowed like those of an archenemy.
“Your father’s a famous artist. Why doesn’t he give you lessons?”
“Too busy.”
“Your work looked just fine to me,” said Vika. “If it was your work.”
“So, you won’t give me lessons?”
“Ethan, why are you here?”
“I think you know why I’m here.”
“Mom!” Vika called out. “Ethan’s going.”
“No I’m not,” Ethan said.
Vika smiled coldly. “Take another cookie if you like.”
Mrs. Worthington came in, looking surprised. “That was a short meeting. Ethan, say hi to your father for me. And how’s Sarah?”
“She’s fine, thanks.”
He got up from his stool. What else was there to do? He hoped he’d given Soren enough time.
“Bye,” he said.
“Vika,” Mrs. Worthington said with a tilt of her head, which meant she should see Ethan out.
Vika walked him to the front door.
“Okay, see you,” she said robotically.
“Yep. Thanks for the snack, Mrs. Worthington!”
“Anytime, Ethan,” she called out from the living room.
The door closed hard behind him. Ethan bolted off the porch and crossed the street to the park. Behind the bushes, Soren sat cross-legged, his eyes flicking from the copter controls in his hand to the phone in his lap to the quadcopter itself—which Ethan could see hovering outside the open window on the second floor of Vika’s house.
“It’s her room, all right,” Soren said. “It’s got martial-arts posters all over the walls.”
“Can you see Inkling?”
“Not yet. Take the phone. You’re my eyes now.”
Ethan picked up the phone. On the screen was the interior of Vika’s room—everything curvy and a bit distorted from the camera’s fish-eye lens. Also, Soren wasn’t exactly keeping the copter steady, so it was hard to focus. He knew they didn’t have long. Vika might be walking upstairs right now.
“Go inside!” he told Soren.
“What if I can’t get out?”
“We have to go inside!”
If Inkling was inside, and they could somehow get close enough, Inkling would grab hold of that bright red comic page dangling beneath the copter. They’d carry him right out.
“But my
flight skills aren’t—”
A sudden gust of wind rustled Ethan’s hair, and on screen the image of Vika’s room wobbled violently. When he looked up from the screen, he couldn’t see the quadcopter outside the house anymore.
“What happened?” he asked.
Soren’s words came slowly. “I am—inside—the—house!”
Ethan looked back to the screen. Everything in Vika’s room was now clearer and closer.
“Okay, it’s okay,” said Ethan.
“I no longer have visual contact with my copter, Ethan!” said Soren, who sounded ready to freak out.
“I’m your eyes now,” Ethan told him. “This is good. Just keep her steady. You’re doing great.”
“What if I can’t get back out the window?” Soren squeaked.
“Let’s just take a look first. Do a slow circle, turn, turn, keep turning. . . .”
Ethan’s eyes were glued to the screen, looking for Inkling while also making sure Soren didn’t crash into a lamp or desk or bed.
“I’m flying blind, Ethan!”
“Just a little more to the right now!”
He realized how crazy his plan was. If Vika did have Inkling, would she just leave him out in the open?
“Under the bed?” he said, seeing it right in front of them. “Can you go down low?”
“How low?”
“Lower, lower . . .”
The quadcopter lurched forward and skidded to a halt on Vika’s tangled sheets.
“What’s happened?” Soren asked, craning his neck to see the screen.
“You’ve crashed on the bed. It’s okay. It’s soft.”
“I’m going to lift off.”
In the bedroom doorway, Vika suddenly appeared.
“Wait!” Ethan said. “Don’t move. She’s in the room!”
In a high-pitched voice, Soren said, “In the room?”
“She hasn’t noticed us,” Ethan whispered. Luckily, the quadcopter’s white body and blades blended in with the sheets.
Ethan’s eyes were locked on the screen. Vika closed the door and walked to her bookshelf. She reached behind some books and pulled out an old jam jar. A black shadow swirled round the bottom, trying to climb the sides.