Ethan thought he heard genuine affection in Dad’s voice. That was a first. And he thought how happy Sarah would be in the morning when she saw her beloved Lucy.
On the table Inkling was writing:
THERE IS SOMETHING I NEED TO SHOW YOU.
“It’s late,” said Dad. “Can you show us in the morning?”
I WOULD RATHER DO IT NOW.
Ethan looked at his dad, who nodded. It seemed pretty important to Inkling.
IN THE STUDIO. WATCH OUT FOR RICKMAN, PLEASE.
Ethan chuckled. “Okay.”
He let Inkling flow onto his hand and walked down the hall with his father. Inside the studio, he flicked on the light. Rickman stirred on his favorite chair, then buried his head in his paws and closed his eyes. On Ethan’s hand, Inkling wrote:
THE CLOSET. THE VERY BOTTOM SHELF. BACK RIGHT CORNER.
Ethan slid the door aside and knelt down.
THE BLUE PLASTIC BIN.
When he glanced at Dad, he was startled by how pale his father was. He stood very still, as if dreading something.
“You know what’s in here?” Ethan asked.
His dad just nodded.
Ethan saw the blue bin and pushed stuff out of the way so he could lift it out. He set it on the floor. Inside was a scattering of things, and he had a sickening suspicion of what they were.
“Is this Mom’s stuff from the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’re you showing us this, Inkling?” Ethan demanded.
WAIT.
Inkling flowed off his hand and headed straight for the battered paperback copy of The Secret Garden. Ethan knew it was one of Mom’s favorites. She’d read it to him once long ago when he was sick. She’d said when she was little, she read it whenever she was ill, and it always made her feel better.
Inkling flowed onto the book’s spine and with a slim tendril pointed at the tiniest corner of something sticking out between the pages.
“What is that?” Dad asked, bending and taking hold of the book. When he opened it, a small, handwritten note fluttered to the floor.
Ethan stared, but didn’t touch it. The writing was Mom’s.
Dad picked it up, inhaled, and then pressed it between both palms, like he wasn’t ready to read it quite yet.
“You’ve never seen that?” Ethan asked.
Dad shook his head. “Afterward,” he said, his voice thick, “when I had to go and clear away her things, the nurses had already put them in a storage bin, and I never looked at any of it. I just couldn’t. I shoved it into the closet. But I don’t know how I missed this.”
Then he sat down on the floor and read it.
Ethan wanted to read it, too, but it didn’t seem right. Instead, he watched his father’s face. After a few moments, Dad began to cry silently, and when he was finished reading, his mouth was open, like he wanted to breathe but couldn’t.
Instinctively Ethan went and clung onto him, and squeezed hard, like he was trying to keep him from flying apart. Dad shook with terrible, hoarse sobs. Ethan held tighter, and felt the firm weight of Dad’s arms, hugging him back.
After a moment, Dad pulled away and got a box of tissues from his desk. He blew his nose, took another to wipe his face.
“I wasn’t there when she died,” he said. “She was alone.”
Ethan had never heard about this. He thought of that terrible picture Inkling had drawn, of Mom by herself in the hospital bed. The image that had been haunting Dad’s sleep.
“It was sudden,” Dad said. “I’d been at the hospital most of the day, but you guys were at home, and the babysitter had to leave, and I couldn’t find anyone to take over. So I came home, and after you were in bed, I just fell asleep. It shouldn’t have been like that.”
“What did the note say?” Ethan asked.
His father took a moment before answering. “Toward the end, I was just angry with everything. I was worried about you guys, and how we’d be without her. I was all twisted up. I worried she might think I was angry with her. I wanted to make sure she knew I wasn’t, and that I loved her, but I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye properly.”
Ethan waited. His father nodded at the note.
“I worried about it so much. But she already knew. She understood everything, even things I didn’t.”
Ethan couldn’t stop himself from reading the last line of the note. The handwriting was crooked and faint.
You have so many wonderful stories to tell, but please don’t forget the most important story of all, going on under our own roof.
When Ethan looked up, his father was watching him tenderly. “Haven’t been doing such a great job, have I?”
Ethan didn’t know what to say. On the floor, Inkling wrote:
YOU WERE JUST STUCK.
Dad read the message and gave a small laugh. There was no bitterness in it, just relief. “Yeah. Stuck. That’s it exactly. Thanks, Inkling.”
CAN I READ THE SECRET GARDEN?
Ethan smiled. “Absolutely.”
He was about to stand when something dark oozed out from underneath his sneaker.
“Dad . . .” He pointed, fear jolting through him. “It’s Blotter!”
Frantically he kicked off his shoe. Blotter darted across the floor like a huge rat and disappeared into a far corner of the studio. Ethan let Inkling flow onto his hand, then scrambled to his feet and stood beside Dad.
“He must’ve gotten onto my shoe!” Ethan said. Back at the office, Blotter must have pulled free of the sponge and caught up to him. When he fell, probably.
From his chair, Rickman stood up and hissed.
“Where is he?” Dad croaked, peering into the shadows of the studio.
“He wants to eat Inkling!”
“How do we stop him?” Dad asked.
“Water!” Ethan said. “Lots.”
“I’ll get a bucket,” said Dad, running for the kitchen.
Shadows seeped suddenly up all four walls, throwing the room into twilight even though the overhead light was on. Blotter was huge. He coated the walls completely and then converged on the ceiling, extinguishing the light altogether.
Before Ethan could run, a thin, inky stalactite shot down toward him. He threw himself out of the way just in time. If Blotter got on him, he could cover his face again and suffocate him this time. But Blotter wasn’t really interested in Ethan—a second needle shot down, aimed right at Inkling on his hand.
Ethan dodged again and burst out into the hallway. He looked over his shoulder to see a red-tinted shadow boiling along the wall after him like molten lava. Dad barreled toward him, a sloshing bucket in his hand. He hurled the water. It hit Blotter head-on, and instantly the ink sluiced off the wall and pooled in a dirty gray mess.
Ethan felt a cool breeze on his hand and looked down to see Inkling writing:
IT WON’T LAST LONG!
Already the puddle was stirring and getting darker—or rather, the ink was separating itself from the water, pulling free across the floor.
At that moment, Sarah appeared in her bedroom doorway, her sleepy face haloed by tousled hair. Against her chest, she held one of her favorite soft toys, a black dog called Rexy. She looked at the messy puddle on the floor, then up at Dad, and said:
“Oh, Dada, she is very disappointed with you.”
“Sarah, go back to bed!” Ethan said. Against her white pajamas, her soft toy looked very black, and very much like an ink splotch.
Blotter must have thought so, too, because with a giant pull, he surged free of the water and went boiling across the floor straight for Sarah.
“No!” Dad shouted, and planted himself in front of her.
“Lucy!” Sarah cried out.
“Over here!” Ethan shouted, waving his arms.
In confusion Blotter swirled on the floor, like a hunting dog who’d momentarily lost the scent. And then he must’ve found it, because he lurched around to face Ethan.
Ethan ran down the hallway and into
the kitchen, Blotter nipping at his heels. He streaked past the poster of King Kong, glimpsed the biplanes, and had an idea. He bolted into the kitchen and, without slowing, swiped one of Sarah’s drawings off the fridge. Into the dining room, the living room, back into the hallway, all the while folding the drawing into a paper airplane.
“Get on!” he whispered to Inkling, making the last sloppy folds. “Hold tight!”
Ethan felt a hot, sweaty grasp around his ankle and knew Blotter was on him now.
“Ethan!” his father shouted, his face creased with worry.
“Get ready!” he said as he ran past.
He felt Blotter’s clammy grip climb his leg, then spread out around his waist. It was hard to breathe. When he was nearly at the bathroom, Ethan looked over his shoulder and launched the paper airplane. It sailed back down the hallway to his father, who caught it. Inkling was safe—and Blotter hadn’t noticed yet.
Ethan felt Blotter’s heat clamping down on his chest, almost at his neck. Ethan burst into the bathroom and suddenly couldn’t breathe. Blotter had seeped over his mouth and nose, suffocating him, and then—
He was plunged into total darkness as Blotter covered his eyes.
Desperately he reached out with his hands. Sink. Toilet. He felt Blotter swirling around his head, prodding into his armpits, searching for Inkling.
Ethan was starving for air. His hands found the walk-in shower. He stepped inside and pulled the door shut tight behind him. Wildly he patted the wall for the faucet.
Where are you?
His fingers found it and turned it on full blast. The water was icy cold and he let it wallop him full in the face. He thought he was going to faint. He still couldn’t breathe—
Then suddenly he could.
And see! He could see again! He gave a hoarse cheer and looked down. At his soaking feet he saw a grayish swirl.
Blotter was washing off him . . .
And swirling down the drain!
Ethan turned round and round in the shower, making sure the water struck every part of him. The water darkened at his feet as more and more ink ran off him. He could see Blotter sending out tendrils, fighting to climb the walls of the shower. But Ethan aimed the nozzle and blasted Blotter back down. Down the drain he went.
Shivering violently, Ethan made the water warmer. He soaped his skin and clothes all over. Rubbing every inch of himself, until the water at his feet was entirely clear. He kept the water going a bit longer just to make sure, then turned it off. He stood there, panting.
“He’s gone!” he shouted.
Dad burst into the bathroom, holding Sarah by the hand. In his other hand was the paper airplane.
“It worked!” Ethan hollered. “He just washed down the drain!”
He stepped out, his clothes heavy and sopping.
“That was quick thinking!” Dad said, throwing a big towel around his shoulders and squeezing him tight. “Amazing!”
They watched the drain. Ethan’s heart was still thumping. The last of the water swirled down. A few drips from the faucet hit the tile.
“What have you done with Lucy?” Sarah demanded, scrunching her nose in annoyance.
“He’s right here,” Dad said, and opened up the paper airplane to reveal Inkling, already in the shape of a puppy, wagging his tail. Dad held the paper to the wall so Inkling could flow off and gambol about near the floor. A speech bubble appeared from his mouth:
SARAH!
“Lucy! You came back!”
WOOF! WOOF!
“Where have you been, you naughty puppy?” Sarah said.
From the shower drain came a mournful faraway whisper. Ethan glanced nervously at Dad. A tortured slurping sound echoed up from the pipes.
“No . . .” Ethan grabbed a rubber plug and jammed it hard into the drain. Through the floorboards came a terrible gurgle, like ten toilets flushing.
Before Ethan could step back, the plug exploded from the drain and hit the ceiling. And then came Blotter. Like an oily geyser, he spewed up, spattering the walls of the shower, then sliding down the tile. In a wave, he crested the lip and poured onto the bathroom floor.
“Ethan, come on!” said Dad, pulling Sarah into his arms and rushing out.
Ethan backed out, but Inkling didn’t flee. He slid down onto the floor.
“What’re you doing?” Ethan shouted. “Get out!”
Inkling made himself as big as possible and edged toward Blotter, who had pooled outside the shower, greedy tendrils waggling in front of him like those of some enormous bug.
Inkling lunged. Blotter lunged. The two ink splotches slammed into each other. They shoved and twisted and wrestled, and it seemed to Ethan that each was trying to crush the other into himself. But again and again, they pulled away, only to lash out at each other with greater intensity. Blotter was bigger, no question, but Inkling was nimbler. Blotter slugged with huge, inky limbs; Inkling dodged and jabbed.
“Inkling, watch out!” Ethan shouted, because he saw that Blotter was sneakily spreading himself out to either side, trying to outflank him.
Inkling tried to fall back, but too late. Blotter had closed the circle around him. In a split second, the circle thickened and started to fleshily contract.
“No!” cried Ethan.
Blotter swallowed Inkling whole.
Ethan thought he could see Inkling’s black body within the red tint of Blotter’s. It was like seeing a mouse swallowed by an anaconda and forced down its throat.
Blotter swelled triumphantly. Ethan could almost hear his cry of victory as the reddish ink flexed his muscles and bristled with monster fins and spines.
It’s over, Ethan thought in despair.
His dad appeared with another bucket of water and made to throw it.
“Wait!” Ethan told him, because Blotter had just flinched. His inky surface puckered, like a ripple moving out from a thrown stone. Somewhere in the middle he seemed to bulge, as though something under the surface struggled to break free. Ethan pointed.
“It’s Inkling!” he shouted as the ripple reached the edge of Blotter and pulled himself out—a solid black splotch.
But Inkling didn’t pull free entirely. He stayed connected to Blotter—
And pulled.
“He’s trying to drag him!” Ethan said.
“Is he strong enough?” Dad asked.
“Look!”
It was like a tiny tug hauling an ocean liner out of the harbor. Blotter fought, trying to break free, sending inky fingers everywhere, digging into the floor, the wall, the doorframe, to slow himself. But nothing slowed him. Jerkily, Inkling kept pulling, heading for—
The studio.
“What’s he doing?” Dad asked.
Ethan had no idea. But he could see that Inkling was getting slower, and Blotter was starting to drag him back a little bit now.
“We need to help him!” Ethan said. “Food! He needs pictures and words! The best you can find!”
“Help Lucy!” Sarah cried out from the doorway to her room.
“Yes!” said Dad. “On it!”
He bolted to his studio and raced back, a single book in his hands—a beautifully illustrated collection of stories Ethan remembered from when he was younger. Ethan grabbed it and opened it in front of Inkling. A woman in shining armor. Inkling slid over it, absorbing it and swelling a little. As quickly as he could, Ethan turned the pages. People chanting to end injustice, a dog protecting its owner from a bear, children slaying demons. Inkling ate them all. Bigger and stronger now, he struggled onward, dragging Blotter right into the studio.
“Go, Inkling!” Dad shouted.
“Inkling, drag him into this!” Ethan said, grabbing an empty vase and laying it on the floor.
But Inkling went around the vase.
“What’re you doing?” Ethan asked in confusion. If Inkling could drag Blotter into the vase, and get out fast, they might be able to trap Blotter inside.
But Inkling obviously had his own plan.
When he’d hauled Blotter all the way to the drafting table, Ethan began to understand. He felt a huge heaviness on his chest.
“No . . . ,” he breathed.
He tried to put his hand in front of Inkling, but Inkling just flowed over him.
“Inkling, stop!” he begged.
Up the leg of the table, Inkling yanked Blotter, but near the top he began to falter. Blotter, with his massive bulk, was dragging him back.
With a bloodcurdling yowl, Rickman lunged at the table leg and sank his claws into Blotter. Blotter’s entire body went watery with panic, and in that moment, Inkling heaved himself and Blotter onto the tabletop.
ETHAN. HELP ME! OPEN THE SKETCHBOOK!
Ethan shook his head.
IT’S THE ONLY WAY!
Peter Rylance stepped forward and, before Ethan could stop him, opened his sketchbook.
The book did the rest.
Neither Inkling nor Blotter could resist its pull. Blotter struggled and farted and belched and spewed ink. He dug in with a thousand inky insect legs, but the gravity of the sketchbook was too great. These thick, creamy pages were Inkling’s birthplace, and they wanted every bit of him back.
Blotter, with his greater mass, got pulled in first. Faster and faster, he was dragged onto the paper. The moment the ink touched, it was fixed.
“Inkling, let go!” Ethan shouted, for Inkling was still attached to Blotter.
But he, too, was snapped up onto the pages of the sketchbook.
Everything was suddenly still, like after a thunderstorm has passed.
Beside his father, Ethan stared in amazement at the sketchbook, where two ink splotches, one large and reddish-tinged, the other smaller and intense black, were fixed on the paper, motionless.
Chapter 21
In the supply room of Prometheus Comix, Karl Worthington stood before the open doors of the cabinet, staring at the two empty glass tanks.
Blotter gone. Inkling gone.
He made himself take slow breaths. For a brief moment, he wondered if Blotter had simply escaped—after all, he was getting too big for that tank—and eaten Inkling.
But the ink couldn’t have opened the cabinet doors by himself—and wouldn’t have needed to. He could just slip right through the cracks. No, this was obviously a theft. Karl didn’t know how Peter Rylance had managed it, but he was sure it must have been him. Somehow Peter had gotten hold of a key and the passcode, and now he had Inkling and Blotter.