Spencer let out a breath he didn’t notice he’d been holding. If only their plans were ever that simple! If only their plans ever played out the way they were supposed to! Spencer had a feeling in his gut that nothing about this was right.
They took a moment scouring the large room for the bronze nail. Spencer knew it wouldn’t be there, so near the entrance to the lab and out in the open. He knew his companions sensed it too, and their searching seemed halfhearted.
Soon the Rebels were gathered at the far side of the room near a set of elevator doors. No one said anything as Alan pressed the button and the elevator opened. They moved silently in. After the cramped confines of the Port-a-Potty, the elevator seemed almost spacious for the seven Rebels.
There appeared to be six floors to the lab. But this building was different from city skyscrapers. The Rebels had entered on the top floor, and the other five levels seemed to descend deeper into the ocean floor.
Walter pushed the button for the bottommost level. “We’ll start there and work our way up,” he said softly. The doors to the elevator closed, and Spencer felt a little hiccup in his stomach as the elevator moved downward.
For a moment, Spencer felt as though he were in a fancy hotel. He wished they were somewhere ordinary. The depths of the lab made him feel claustrophobic. He watched the numbers change as they passed each floor.
3 . . .
4 . . .
5 . . .
The elevator jolted to a halt. Alan pressed the button to open the doors, but nothing happened. Quickly growing desperate, he pressed a few more buttons at random.
“We must be stuck between floors,” he said. “We’ll have to—”
But Alan was cut off by a voice. It spoke slowly through the speaker in the side of the elevator.
“Welcome to the experimental laboratory of the Bureau of Educational Maintenance.”
Spencer recognized the voice immediately, so slimy and rich, even through the intercom. But how was it possible? Mr. Clean was supposed to be behind them. How could he have beaten them to the lab when the Rebels had been occupying the Port-a-Potty?
“It is indeed a rare visit,” Mr. Clean said, “to have Rebels come so deep. You are the first. And you will also be the last.”
Walter had drawn a plunger from his belt and clamped it onto the elevator door. He pulled, hoping to wrench open their escape, no matter where it led. The Glopified plunger made good suction, but the door held fast.
“There has to be another way out,” Alan whispered to his Rebel companions.
“The elevator is quite secure,” said Mr. Clean over the intercom. “The time for daring escapes is past.”
Penny reached up toward the top of the elevator. Spencer saw what she was reaching for; it looked like a small hatch. Once, Spencer and Daisy had squeezed into the air vents at Welcher Elementary School to escape Garth Hadley. But here, the opening above looked too small even for them.
“The hatch is locked,” said Mr. Clean. “I would advise you to leave it alone.”
Penny lowered her arms. Spencer could tell that she wasn’t giving up. She just needed to think it through and weigh Mr. Clean’s subtle threat.
“Don’t listen to him,” said Dez. “He’s the bad guy, remember? I can handle this.” He leapt up, wings fanning to give him an extra boost as he knocked the other Rebels back. His taloned fingers punctured into the hatch covering, and he tore it away.
Something dropped when Dez pulled the hatch open. The small object fell past the bully and struck the floor in the center of the elevator.
It was a chalkboard eraser. And it was already venting paralytic dust by the time anyone realized what had just happened.
“Look what you did!” Spencer yelled as Dez touched back down.
“Oh, man,” Dez said. “I hate this stuff!” He bent down, trying to use his large wing to cover the chalk bomb, but the white cloud billowed out too quickly.
“Tisk, tisk,” Mr. Clean said. “You should not have opened the hatch. Luckily, we have security measures in place in case an emergency like this should arise.”
The Rebels were all covering their faces, breathing shallowly, trying to postpone the inevitable paralyzing effects of the chalk dust.
“There is a small cubby below the elevator buttons,” Mr. Clean continued. “You will find something inside that will provide pure air in any situation. It will protect you from the chalk cloud.”
Spencer’s eyes darted to the spot that Mr. Clean had mentioned. Sure enough, there was a small slide-away door just below the buttons. He wondered why no one was moving to open it. His dad and Walter shared a glance full of distrust at Mr. Clean’s suggestion. Spencer saw the stubbornness in his dad’s eyes, and he knew that Alan would rather fall paralyzed than play into Mr. Clean’s game.
It was Walter who caved, after seeing Daisy gasp and choke. The old warlock reached out and slid the small door away. Through the haziness of the elevator, Spencer saw Walter retrieve a construction worker’s dust mask. It was of simple design, made to cover the nose and mouth with a single elastic to hold it on behind the head. But there was a major problem.
“Oh,” Mr. Clean said. “Something I failed to mention . . . there is only one dust mask.”
Walter held it out, his face reddening from anger and lack of pure air. He ran his other hand through the cubby, but this time, Mr. Clean had not lied.
“Who’s it going to be?” asked the BEM warlock.
Walter held it out, too noble to take it for himself. “One of the kids,” he gasped.
Spencer, Daisy, and Dez looked at each other.
“I’m taking it!” Dez said. He lunged for the mask that dangled from Walter’s hand.
“I don’t think so!” Spencer said, reaching into his janitorial belt. If one of them was walking out of this, it wasn’t going to be Dez. Spencer tossed a Funnel Throw of vacuum dust, catching Dez in the small of the back and suctioning him to the floor.
Spencer crawled over to Walter and pulled the mask from his hand. But he didn’t put it on. If one of them deserved to escape, it should be Daisy. She was here because of him, and Spencer wasn’t going to let her suffer for it.
“Here,” he managed, holding the mask out to Daisy. She was curled on the floor and didn’t look up. White chalk dust had gathered on her head, and, for the moment, her thick hair was as white as Spencer’s.
“Take it, Daisy!” He nudged her, but she still didn’t stir. He felt the panic begin inside him. He was too late. Daisy had already faded.
He sat beside her, his back pressed to the cold metal wall of the elevator. There was nothing he could do about it. Hating himself for being the one, Spencer lifted the mask until it covered his nose and mouth. He pulled the elastic band around the back of his head and took deep breaths of pure, refreshing air.
Spencer’s eyes welled as his friends collapsed around him. They drifted off, one by one, growing helpless and paralyzed, until only he remained.
Chapter 24
“What do you want from me?”
The elevator lurched. The number above the door changed to six, and a chime announced his destination. The door slid open.
“Spencer,” said Mr. Clean, his voice cutting through the thick fog of the elevator. “I knew they’d pick you.” Spencer was angry about the statement. It was supposed to be Daisy!
“Now,” instructed Clean, “take off your janitorial belt and step outside.”
Spencer rose slowly to his feet. His fingers felt numb as he unbuckled the belt and dropped it heavily to the floor. Obeying Mr. Clean seemed like the worst idea, but he didn’t know what else to do.
He checked the pockets of his coveralls, but he didn’t have even a single pinch of vac dust hidden. Haltingly, like a sailor walking a plank, Spencer shuffled out of the elevator. The door closed behind him, trapping most of the chalk cloud so that only a ghostly wisp filtered out into the hallway.
Two Filth Sweepers were waiting for him, standing side by si
de and blocking any chance Spencer might have had to run. One held a Glopified mop; the other clutched a garden rake in his clawed hands.
“Go ahead,” rasped the Sweeper with the rake. “Try to run.”
Spencer took a step back, bumping into the closed elevator doors. He eyed the new tool, wondering what a Glopified rake would be capable of. Spencer tried to keep his face steady and brave. There was obviously no point in running.
“Aww,” moaned the Sweeper, disappointed by Spencer’s submission. “It’s more fun when they try to run.”
“Hurry up and cage him,” the Sweeper with the mop said to his companion. “The boss is not a patient man.”
Before Spencer could react, the Filth man swung the rake around like a fighting staff and slammed the handle against the floor at Spencer’s feet. In the blink of an eye, the metal tines at the top of the rake flowered outward with a whir. The Sweeper stepped back, withdrawing his hand just in time as dozens of metal prongs closed around Spencer.
The rake didn’t hold him tight, like the strings of a Glopified mop would have. When the effect was finished, Spencer found himself perfectly enclosed in a cage. At the center of the cage, the rake’s handle stood upright beside him. From the top, the metal tines curved downward above his head, like a domed birdcage. In the speed of the magic, Spencer barely noticed that the rake’s prongs had also slid beneath his feet, securing into the base of the wooden handle and closing him completely inside.
Wordlessly, the two Filth Sweepers grabbed opposite sides of the cage and hoisted Spencer into the air. They lumbered down the hallway, leaving Spencer to cling to the center handle as his rake cage rocked back and forth with the gait of their spiky bodies.
They’d carried him several yards before Spencer realized that their breath wasn’t affecting him. He’d been so worried about the new Glopified rake that he hadn’t thought twice about the nature of his enemies. Two Filth Sweepers at close range should have had him fast asleep, but the dust mask he was wearing seemed to be blocking their exhalations.
They moved swiftly along. There were many Sweepers on this level, and they all broke from their various tasks to stare at the Rebel boy with the white hair, borne helplessly along in a giant cage. Then they arrived, the Filth Sweepers setting Spencer down as they came to a halt before a set of double black doors.
One of the Filth Sweepers stepped forward and knocked on the door. Mr. Clean’s deep voice resounded from within. “Bring in the boy!”
The Sweepers flung open the doors and hoisted Spencer’s cage once more. When they set him down again, Spencer was clinging to the metal tines of the rake cage, taunted by the fact that he could reach through the bars but wouldn’t be able to squeeze out. With a nod, the two Sweepers that had carried Spencer moved back to secure the doors.
The office was plain. There were no paintings or fixtures of any kind, just a lamp in each corner that cast the room in long shadows. At the center of the room was a desk, adorned only with the simple intercom system that Mr. Clean had been using.
The Sweeper warlock sat reclined in an office chair. His sticky, Grime fingers were steepled below his chin, and his serpentine tongue kept flicking out to taste the air. Behind Mr. Clean’s head was a large, circular window. Spencer couldn’t imagine how thick the glass must have been to hold against the pressure of the water. An exterior light illuminated the deep sea around the window, and Spencer thought that Mr. Clean must have the world’s largest fish tank in his office.
But it wasn’t the round sea window that caught Spencer’s attention. It was the glittering bronze nailhead sticking out of the wall above it. Spencer took a deep breath. It was all within reach—Belzora tucked into Mr. Clean’s lab coat, and the nail just above his head. If only Spencer weren’t caged . . .
Spencer decided to begin the conversation, not wanting to leave that advantage to Mr. Clean. “How did you beat us down here?” he asked, his voice muffled through the dust mask he still wore.
“Oh, the simplicity of youth,” said Mr. Clean. “Do you really think the Port-a-Potty is the only entrance to this facility? Ever since your warlock created a Glop formula for the squeegee, coming and going has been quite simple. As you should know.”
“You stole the squeegee formula?” Spencer asked. He hated the thought of Mr. Clean being able to step out of any glass surface.
“What I stole, and what I didn’t, is no concern of yours,” said Mr. Clean. “Let us begin by talking about what you stole.” He leaned forward. “Where is the Manualis Custodem” Mr. Clean asked.
The question took Spencer by surprise. How did the BEM know about the original Janitor Handbook? He let go of the cage bars and found himself leaning against the rake’s handle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Clean chuckled softly. “Don’t lie to me, boy. I saw you with your father and Walter Jamison, retrieving the translation from that old man.”
Spencer remembered the horror of seeing Mr. Clean swallow Professor DeFleur in one single gulp. He thought of the old, leather-bound book. The Manualis Custodem was lying vulnerable in Walter’s desk drawer in the janitor’s closet of Welcher Elementary. He had to keep it a secret.
“Walter wouldn’t tell me where he hid the book,” Spencer said. “And he destroyed the translation when he thought we were trapped at New Forest Academy.”
Spencer was pleased by the way his lie came out. In truth, the translated binder was also at Welcher. But Walter had duct-taped it down, so only the old warlock’s fingerprints could remove it.
Mr. Clean made a soft gurgling sound deep in the back of his throat. “I will find the book.”
“Even if you do,” Spencer said, “you won’t like what it says.” The Manualis Custodem was the key to bringing back the three Founding Witches. Only they would be powerful enough to set the BEM back on its proper course in fighting Toxites.
“I do not like to leave a task unfinished,” said Mr. Clean. “My search for the Auran landfill began years ago. You have swiped the prize, but I shall reclaim it.”
“If you’d done half as much work as my dad, then maybe you’d have found it,” Spencer said. He was feeling defiant. If Mr. Clean had planned to hurt him, he reasoned, the warlock would have done it already.
“Yes,” Mr. Clean said. “Your father did much of the work in solving the clues to find the Auran landfill. And alongside him was that unfortunate Rod Grush. Did you ever meet him?”
Spencer shook his head. His mom didn’t like Rod and wouldn’t permit him at the house. She said he was a man obsessed by his work, a phrase she later used to describe her own husband after his disappearance.
“Rod was a thinker,” Mr. Clean said. “But he was flawed. Your father grew to know him well as they worked through the clues. But they were both blind followers. They trusted the Bureau and never even thought to ask where the first clue came from.”
Mr. Clean reached under the desk and picked something up with one hand. It was an old wooden box. It would ordinarily have been too big for a single hand to hold, but Mr. Clean’s Grime fingers gripped it well, and he dropped it on the desk.
“This is the Warlocks Box,” said Mr. Clean. “The Witches made it, hundreds of years ago, and knowledge of the Box has been passed down from warlock to warlock.”
Spencer stared at it curiously. Walter had never mentioned anything about a Warlocks Box.
“The Founding Witches prophesied of a Hopeless Day,” Mr. Clean continued. “They said that a day would come when there would be no good left in the world—only corruption and sin. In that day, the three active warlocks were to use their hammers and nails to open the Box.”
Mr. Clean tipped open the lid and angled it so Spencer could see that there was nothing inside.
“The Box is empty now. The prophesied day is upon us.”
“You opened the Warlocks Box?” Spencer said.
“A little more than two years ago.” Mr. Clean nodded his slimy head. “The world is full of wickedne
ss, Spencer. It rages around us like wildfire. That which was good has been forced into darkness. That which was joyous has been dimmed.”
Spencer shook his head. He was thinking of his family and friends. There was plenty of good left in the world! This couldn’t be the prophesied Hopeless Day. Mr. Clean had opened the Warlocks Box too soon!
“Carlos Garcia believed as I did,” said Mr. Clean. “And the third warlock, who wielded Ninfa, was a man named Gerald Hunter. We were united in our view of the world. This was the only way to open the Box.”
“What was inside?” Spencer had to know.
“The first clue,” answered Mr. Clean. “The first clue in a series of thirteen that would lead us to the hideout of the Auran children. If we could reach them, the Aurans would tell us how to proceed.”
Spencer bit his tongue. The Aurans had given him the Manualis Custodem and told him that he needed to find the source of all Glop and bring back the Witches.
“We decided to send capable civilians to solve the clues,” said Mr. Clean. “We settled on Alan Zumbro and Rod Grush. But they worked too quickly, and we were not ready to meet the Aurans at that time. Unforeseeable setbacks were holding us up. Gerald Hunter was questioning the Hopeless Day, regretting the decision to open the Warlocks Box.”
“What happened to him?” Spencer asked. He’d never heard of the man before this conversation.
“Walter Jamison learned his identity and attacked,” said Mr. Clean. “Your old Rebel stole Ninfa and made himself a warlock. After that, Gerald Hunter was of no further use to us. I took care of him . . . the Clean Way.”
Spencer shuddered at a memory from earlier that night. “Just like you did to Director Garcia?” Spencer said.
Mr. Clean smiled. His hand strayed to his belt, and when he lifted it again, there was a dirty rag dangling from his grasp. He laid it on the table, an unspoken threat hanging in Spencer’s mind.