Demons and Druids, Page 2

  One at a time.

  If I had been able to move the rest of my body I would have reeled in shock. Staring right into my eyes was Dana, her mouth twisted into a circle of horror. But here’s the really strange thing: she was totally motionless.

  I tried to speak, struggled to touch Dana, but my body, my head, my face, were immobilized. Not just paralyzed, but completely frozen.

  That’s when I realized something that was easily as fascinating as a meeting with the Dalai Lama. Not only wasn’t I suffocating, but I wasn’t breathing. Then it hit me.

  Time had stopped.

  My father’s voice rang out again in my skull, stronger this time. “Very good, Daniel. I knew you hadn’t forgotten. Even though you were only two when I taught you how to dive below the surface of the flow of time. Well, I’ll see you later, champ.”

  Wait! I thought. What do I do now? But my dad’s voice was gone.

  I had no idea how I’d made time freeze, but my father’s words had stirred something—a distant memory. Rotating stars, spinning planets.

  I remembered Dad hanging a mobile over my crib. A model of Earth’s solar system—spinning, slowing, stopping. And then it started to spin in the opposite direction—in reverse. It was all coming back to me, the knowledge slowly trickling in like an Internet download.

  Imagine that your brain is a spotlight that casts a sharp focus on whatever you’re looking at, or thinking about, or feeling. I had to defocus, widen that beam until it shone on everything. It’s even harder than it sounds, and I was out of practice.

  Usually when I use my powers, I have to concentrate, but this time it was just the opposite. First I relaxed, let my mind go limp—not an easy feat when the girl you care about most is going to die right before your eyes.

  Hold on, Dana.

  I felt my brain detach itself from all my sensations right down to the taste of sweat in my mouth. And that’s when I saw Dana’s left eyelid flicker. Her expression was changing, becoming less terrified, but not in a way I’d ever seen a face change before.

  I was turning back time.

  Chapter 6

  AS DANA’S FEATURES lost their deer-in-the-headlights look, the walls that had been crushing us pulled back into their original shape. The tentacles withdrew from our necks, the poison from our bodies. The sensation in my ears was unexpected, like the twisted sounds of music playing backward. I could actually feel the vibrations of the van’s motor, as well as my friends’ and the little old homicidal lady’s voices coming out of my ears.

  Then everything started to speed up.

  Joe’s snores were returning, traveling back into his mouth. I felt Dana’s breath near my ear and considered pausing things there—you know, just for a second—but as the thought hit me, the moment was gone, and we were all traveling backward out of the van.

  Before I knew it we were standing in the road watching it drive away in reverse. Now I had to refocus my mind, to restart time flowing forward again.

  I was fully prepared for a mental battle, but as soon as I stopped relaxing my thoughts, I felt a jolt, like an elevator stopping too fast in the middle of a thousand-story building. When I turned around I saw Willy, Joe, Dana, and Emma staring at me expectantly from the shadows at the side of the road. They seemed oblivious to the fact that we’d nearly been the alien equivalent of goulash.

  I couldn’t believe it. I’d actually gone back in time. On my first try!

  “Is everything all right, Daniel?” asked Dana. “You look a little pale.”

  “Yeah, you look a little disoriented, you know, like you just saw an alien,” Joe quipped. He wiggled his fingers beside his head and started singing the theme from The Twilight Zone in a high-pitched falsetto.

  “Give him a break, Joe,” said Emma. “It’s still not too late for us to ditch you here. I hear Whaddon is famous for its delicious pork pies. You’ll be in pig heaven.”

  “Hey, I think somebody’s coming,” Willy announced, pointing at a set of headlights.

  And there it was: the vehicle of death. From here on out, things would be easier without having to worry about my friends—or explaining how I knew exactly what was going to happen next.

  Chapter 7

  I CUPPED my hands out in front of me and concentrated. I’m no chemistry major, but I’ve read some textbooks. A few hundred, actually. I quickly visualized the chemical compound I wanted. Two parts nitrogen, oxygen, and hydrogen, and one part carbon. A dash of dioctyl sebacate, a bit of polyisobutylene. There.

  In my hands, I held a fist-sized lump of explosive.

  Even my friends looked a little concerned.

  “Uh, Danny Boy? What are you doing there, buddy?” asked Willy.

  “I’ll tell you guys later. Trust me, it’ll be a real blast.”

  “Huh?” said Willy.

  “Daniel—” Dana tried to protest as I made all four of them disappear. (I’ll have to explain that trick to you later.) It was all I could do not to conjure up a bazooka and simply wait for the van to get within range.

  As soon as the explosive was secure, I walked back to where we’d been standing before. The van slowed, and the window rolled down.

  “Here I am! Come and get me!” I taunted in my most maniacal voice. “Dinner’s ready!” I hooted as I tore down the road toward the tree.

  The old hag must have floored it because the vehicle lurched forward and roared toward me. And right toward my trap.

  Using my lightning-fast reflexes, I was able to slip out of the way right before the van smashed into the tree.

  And then I half leapt, half fell backward, just out of range of the expanding fireball.

  For a moment, vivid geysers of oranges, reds, and yellows hung in the air—and at the center was the van, burning, vaporizing into atoms. There was a grating, scraping sound under the roar of the shock wave—the alien screaming. And then there was only smoke, and silence, like in a cemetery at three in the morning.

  Leaves and ash rained down through the haze. All that was left of the tree was a charred stump a foot or two high. Of the van, nada. Well, almost nada. A hubcap rolled toward me, dissolving into a puddle of mush before it reached my feet.

  Thanks, Dad, I thought to myself. You saved my life. And we got Number 43.

  Chapter 8

  AFTER the carpooling disaster, we got smart and took the train to London. I know it sounds anticlimactic, but when we finally arrived there, the big city looked pretty much how I expected.

  Of course, before I left the States I’d speed-read through about twenty travel guides as well as a couple of history textbooks, plus the complete works of Shakespeare for good measure. Frankly, at this point I probably knew more about London than the prime minister or, certainly, the mayor.

  But it was thrilling to see in person all the things I’d only read about, like the Tower of London (not technically a tower, but, even better, it’s more like a castle). Let me debunk a few other common misconceptions for you. Big Ben—actually the name of the clock’s bell, not the clock itself. Hyde Park—London’s version of Central Park (or, actually, vice versa)—is not named after Dr. Jekyll’s alter ego. Piccadilly Circus—not nearly as fun as it sounds. Turns out it’s just a big intersection. Which was where all five of us were currently cruising around on a double-decker bus.

  Emma was kneeling on the seat behind me. “The driver says we’ll be at Oxford Circus in a couple of minutes.”

  “And you’ve pretty much missed all of the sights since your nose is still buried in that laptop,” Dana noted.

  “So who’s next on our hit list?” Willy asked.

  “Not a Lapillajade, I hope,” Emma commented, referring to the most intelligent species in the universe. “They’re pretty tricky.”

  “Absolutely not. Most of them are good guys,” I said. In fact, Lapillajades are often disguised on Earth as astronomers and scientists, including dudes like Copernicus, Galileo, and Sir Isaac Newton. Humankind would pretty much be in the Dark Ages without the
m.

  I looked back down at the open laptop I had balanced on my knees. If you didn’t stare too closely, you might think it was the newest, slimmest iBook. It wasn’t much thicker than a sheet of paper, but its technology housed information on every known extraterrestrial outlaw on the planet. Just for the heck of it, I’d even run a search on the van-emone and found out its real name: Ziquechyx Philbin. With a name like that, no wonder the beastie was so angry.

  But the reason I’d come to London in the first place was to hunt a sinister alien force who was the polar opposite of a Lapillajade. Primitive, fierce, uncontrollable—and with no intellect whatsoever. And he was the number three most-wanted alien on Earth.

  Name: Phosphorius Beta

  Human Aliases: Bayswater Burnie, The Fleet Street Flamer, Jack the Zippo

  Area of Infestation: London and surrounds, United Kingdom, Terra Firma

  Arrived on Terra Firma: Unknown. At least half a century ago, but some speculate earlier. Without a witness to verify the presence of the “Dark Heart,” as its “soul” is legendarily known, it is often impossible to distinguish Phosphorius Beta from natural fire sources.

  Illegal Activities: Arson, Smuggling, Vandalism, Homicide

  Planet of Origin: Cyndaris

  Alien Species: Phosphorian

  Special Abilities: Possession of Human Bodies/Minds, Manipulation of Flame (see Phosphorians)

  The file photo that was up on the screen was indistinct, to say the least. In fact, it looked like a distant shot of a field, ablaze with red-tinged flames.

  I guess that was to be expected; according to my notes, no human had ever come into close contact with Number 3 and survived—at least in human form.

  But that was also to be expected, wasn’t it? The List described Phosphorians as follows:

  The Phosphorians are the dominant sentient life-form on the volcanic planet of Cyndaris, which orbits the red dwarf star Gliese 876. Not much is known about them, as Cyndaris is utterly inhospitable to organic life. Average surface temperature on the planet is approximately 2000 degrees Kelvin, hot enough to melt titanium.

  Phosphorians who venture off-world invariably destroy nearly everything they come into contact with through the process of combustion. Current intelligence indicates that this is due to their physical makeup, which is suspected to consist solely of an exothermic and self-sustaining chemical reaction.

  Translation? By The List’s account, the Phosphorians were made out of pure flame.

  The data went on to describe Beta’s rap sheet here on Earth. Most of it, predictably, involved burning things: buildings, crops, vehicles, even people, even pets. The London newspapers had attributed his crimes to three or four different arsonists, but according to the information in front of me, Number 3 was Earth’s worst firebug.

  I was nervous about facing him, and not just because of my recent encounter with the Death Van. The last time I had a seriously close encounter with fire was when I was three, when the alien named The Prayer killed my parents and burned down our home.

  Trust me, that tends to leave an impression that lasts.

  Chapter 9

  ON ACCOUNT of our house being burned to the ground, the only thing my mom and dad left me—besides The List of Alien Outlaws on Terra Firma—was my new day job: I am the Alien Hunter. Or, as Dana playfully refers to me, “Space Cop Numero Uno.”

  I guess that deserves an explanation.

  Before their murders, my mother and father were Alien Hunters here on Earth, where alien outlaws have lived and created havoc for millions of years. The aliens have been responsible for a few minor mishaps—like one of the ice ages, the extinction of several animal species, and, more recently, the Great Chicago Fire, the fire that destroyed most of the Coney Island amusement park in the early 1900s, countless kidnappings and missing persons—especially kids and, for some reason, dogs. I guess these creeps never read Marley and Me or watched any Lassie reruns or movies.

  There are a couple of other things you need to know about me, too.

  First, my four best friends: Willy, Joe, Emma, and Dana (who I’m kind of crazy about). Tragically, my friends died years ago on our home planet Alpar Nok as a result of a ruthless planetary annihilator known as Number 6.

  Rewind, you’re saying. Didn’t they just star in the whole beginning of this story here in the present day?

  Okay, brace yourself for this one: I can re-create them pretty much at will—for companionship, fun, safety, to help pry open sticky jars, and so on and so forth. And Mom and Dad show up sometimes too—along with a little sister (Brenda, affectionately known as Pork Chop) that I never truly had but always wanted.

  You see, I happen to have the greatest superpower of them all: the power to create.

  And no, I’m not God, or a god, or the son of a god.

  At least I don’t think so.

  Chapter 10

  “I’M TIRED of driving to all these circuses that aren’t really circuses,” complained Joe as we disembarked at Oxford Circus. “Let’s find somewhere to crash and have a snack. I could eat a horse! Oh, I mean, ‘Scuse me, guvnor, but Oi declare Oi could eat a ’orse!’”

  “Don’t be disgusting, Joe,” said Emma, giving him a look. Emma was fanatical about animals of all kinds, unless they were deadly alien life-forms.

  “Yeah,” I added. “And your cockney accent could use some work. Try watching Mary Poppins again.”

  At Oxford Circus we were near the center of town, and the heart of the action: just a few blocks from the West End, where the theaters are, and Soho, which is full of restaurants and nightclubs. I figured even an alien and his imaginary friends wouldn’t seem too weird in the middle of a bunch of ravers, actors, and dancing fools. This, I had decided, was where we should set up our home base.

  We split up in order to find our perfect abode. I told my buds to look for something empty but not derelict. Over the past couple of years we’d done this many times, so they knew what to look for.

  The best part about doing things this way was that, even though we were scattered all over the area, we could talk to one another telepathically. It’s like a chat room in your head, and everybody’s invited.

  Twenty minutes passed, and then I heard Willy’s voice coming over my mental intercom. “How would you feel about staying in a youth hostel, Daniel? I hear they’re supercheap.”

  “Stay with a bunch of grungy backpackers? No, thanks,” Emma jumped in. “Those folks don’t ever shower. Sorry. I’m a prude about cleanliness. You know me.”

  “Hey, I found a little office building that’s condemned,” said Joe. “Looks cozy.”

  Dana chimed in. “Yeah, Joseph, if you like floors that have more holes than Swiss cheese. Listen, guys, meet me at the corner of D’Arblay and Berwick. I think I found something really interesting.”

  It took me a couple of minutes to get to the building Dana had found. It was a two-story town house covered top to bottom with tarps and scaffolding. One look at the place and I could tell that construction had been halted for quite some time.

  “And this is better than my condemned office building because… ?” Joe scoffed.

  “Because, let’s face it, girls have a better sense of interior design,” Dana shot back. “I’m not game to sleep in icky gray office cubicles if I don’t have to. You’ll see what I mean.”

  REFURBISHED 2-BEDROOM! CONTACT OWNER FOR DETAILS! screamed a faded sign in the window. Underneath it were the words READY FOR MOVE-IN ON… and a series of dates that had been crossed out. The last one was over three months ago.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, concentrating, visualizing. Iron and carbon, beaten thin. When I opened them, I was holding two of my favorite tools, a lock pick and a tension wrench.

  “Guys,” I said, as I leaned under a tarp and popped the lock, “welcome to our humble abode.”

  Chapter 11

  AS A SIDE DOOR swung open silently, I was hit with a blast of stale air. I’ve been in a lot of abandoned buildi
ngs, and with the help of my eight alien senses I can tell a lot by taking one whiff of a place.

  “Hmm… atmosphere’s dry. I guess we’re mold-free,” I said. “Overtones of wood polish. Slight bouquet of musty cotton stuffing. Can anyone tell me what that means?”

  “Yeah, baby! We’ve got furniture!” cried Joe delightedly, running across the room and throwing himself sideways onto a richly upholstered couch that had gold claws for feet. “So, do I look like Rose from Titanic? ‘Oh, paint me, Jack, paint me—’”

  Joe broke off into a laughing and coughing fit so violent that he rolled off the couch and onto the floor.

  “I still don’t see why we can’t just rent a normal place, Daniel,” said Willy, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “That’s what we did in LA, remember?”

  I hesitated. I had told them about the van-enome and my discovery of time travel, but I hadn’t mentioned just how close we’d all been to becoming alien hash.

  “I just want to make sure we’re off Number 3’s radar. Totally off the radar,” I replied with a little too much emphasis on the dangerous aspects of this gig.

  “But—”

  “Look,” I continued, “call me paranoid if you want, but I’m talking complete stealth, okay? You guys gotta promise me,” I added. “Seriously.”

  There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Dana. “Daniel, do you want to talk about it? Maybe you should…”

  I didn’t really, but I gave a nod anyway. I ignored the slight feeling of guilt creeping up on me as I made Emma, Joe, and Willy vanish from the scene. Where exactly do they go? I don’t know; they won’t tell me.

  Then I followed Dana upstairs into one of the bedrooms.

  Wow, I thought, we hit the jackpot, didn’t we? In the center of the room was a gigantic four-poster bed, complete with lush red curtains. A wardrobe roomy enough to hold the clothes of a total shopaholic stood off to one side; next to it hung a luxuriously tall and wide mirror. On the other walls, a series of large sun-bleached tapestries depicted knights endlessly hunting a white stag.