The Power, Page 3

  Twilight fans were assigned a new bully—the old one had been found actually reading one of the books,18 which was totally against the spirit of things.

  Camaro had also brought a new level of humaneness to the organized bully system that Stefan had created. For example, she had set limits on the amount of lunch money that could be extorted (20 percent for most kids, 40 percent for rich kids).

  More revolutionary still, Camaro had created the brand-new position of Popular Mean Girls Bully. The PMGs had never liked Camaro, and Camaro could hold a grudge. The Popular Mean Girls’ bully, whose name was Jennifer Schwarz, was not especially big or strong, but she made up for it by being incredibly obnoxious and absolutely relentless. She bullied through nagging and refusing to go away, and it was quite effective. In fact, Jennifer Schwarz had set up a nice little business on the side selling the lip gloss, earrings, and cell phone skins she extorted from the PMGs.

  Anyway, before we got distracted by the politics of bullying, we were at a dance. Camaro was a pretty good dancer. The golem was . . . Hmmm. Well, as a dancer, the golem was . . . What’s a good word? He was . . . original. Yes, original. For one thing, he took up a fair amount of room when he danced. In fact, it was best to stay at least ten feet back because the flailing, falling, plunging, and temporary body-part loss could endanger innocent bystanders.

  Everyone kind of liked the way he could dance up the walls, but most folks thought dancing on the ceiling was just show-offy. And, too, he yelped at odd times.

  But no one said anything or even looked at him funny because he was Camaro’s boyfriend. And in case it isn’t clear by now, Camaro was not a girl you messed with. For her part, she liked the golem’s exuberance. She alone knew that he was not really Mack. She alone knew that there was something supernatural about him. And that he had secrets. And that he could, if controlled by the wrong person, become very, very dangerous.

  Risky had placed a cell phone in the golem’s mouth at one point hoping to use texts to reprogram the golem from playing the part of Mack to becoming the Destroyer.

  Camaro had put a stop to that. But she was not foolish enough to believe that Risky was done with the golem.

  For now, though, it was all good from her point of view. In fact, Camaro was having a really nice time dancing with the golem.

  Happiness. Warm, sweet, gentle happiness.

  But how long was that going to last with the Pale Queen nearing the date when she would emerge to trouble all of humanity?

  Not long, that’s how long.

  Camaro looked out over her queendom, out at the two hundred or so kids—some dancing, most standing awkwardly and gawping, or staring fixedly down at their smartphones—and it was then she noticed that some of the kids were unfamiliar to her.

  Some were kid-sized in terms of tallness, but broader, thicker, more muscular, and very strangely dressed in lederhosen.19

  Now that she noticed, some of the chaperones were a little unusual, too. They had a distinctly insect-like aspect to them. As if the moms and dads had been replaced by large grasshoppers wearing human clothing.

  Camaro stopped dancing, although the golem kept right on. Her eyes narrowed and she cracked her knuckles just the way Stefan would have.

  Something disturbing was happening in the queendom of Camaro Angianelli. She didn’t yet know of the treasonous Tong Elves, who, coincidentally, were about the size of middle-schoolers but broader, thicker, creepier, and more muscular, and very strangely dressed.

  Nor did she know of the foul Skirrit species with their unwholesome similarity to grasshoppers.

  But she soon would.

  She took three bold steps, yanked the golem down off the wall, pinned his arms so he would stop flailing (dancing), and said, “Give me your phone: I need to talk to Mack.”

  Four

  There was a time when a hundred-foot-tall twelve-year-old with a scimitar and a Nafia hit man in his pocket would have scared Mack.

  But Mack had learned a few things. He’d been in a few fights. He’d stood up to Skirrit, Tong Elves, Lepercons, even Gudridan. He’d been yanked out of a jet over the South Pacific. He’d been fired through the air by a crazy old Scotsman.

  Most of all: after much stalling, he’d actually finally studied some Vargran from the Vargran Key.

  The giant Valin raised his scimitar, this time shifting his grip so that rather than readying to bring it down in a broad sweeping cut he could stab it down, point first. Valin could see Mack now; he could see him through the hole in the roof, and his beef was specifically with Mack.

  He wasn’t an indiscriminate killer, after all. He wanted to kill Mack, not a bunch of innocent airline passengers.

  “Lom-ma poindra!” Mack cried.

  Why did he yell that? Because those are the Vargran words for “disappear sword!” In the imperative, or “or else!” tense that is unique to Vargran.

  Mack was pretty sure this would work, so he was upset when instead of disappearing, the gigantic scimitar came stabbing straight down at him.

  He jumped back, tripped, fell on his butt, and had to scoot away like a dog on a carpet.

  The point of the scimitar hit the floor, threw up a spray of broken tile, and plunged clear down through the floor into the underlying dirt.

  “What the heck?” Mack asked.

  Valin yanked the weapon skyward again. “It’s not a sword, moron,” Valin said in a giant voice. “It’s a scimitar!”

  Yes. Well, it was a scimitar, which is a kind of sword, but Vargran spells do require some specificity.

  And now Mack could feel that in his panic he had used up his enlightened puissance. He felt the emptiness, the slight sadness (slight because sadness has a hard time competing with terror) that came from the expenditure of power.

  Down came the swor— the scimitar.

  Mack was so upset he didn’t even move. Fortunately Stefan was not so depressed. He ran, took a flying leap, and hit Mack like a sixteen-pound (the largest size) bowling ball knocking into one wobbly pin.

  “Oooof!”

  Followed by, ker-RAAASH!

  It was a close call. The scimitar passed so near that it actually sliced through the tail of Mack’s T-shirt. Had Stefan been even a millisecond slower, Mack would have been impaled. He would never have survived long enough to have ants bite his eyeballs.

  “Thanks,” Mack gasped. He shot a look at his stunned fellow Magnifica and yelled, “A little help?”

  Dietmar was quickest to respond. “What is the word for scimitar?”

  “Never mind the sword, go after Valin!” Jarrah said, which was a pretty reasonable suggestion, especially since Mack was now running to get out of Valin’s line of sight.

  Ker-RASH!

  Down came the scimitar again.

  “Give up, Mack! Surrender before innocent people are hurt!” Valin cried in a voice that rattled the shattered glass like BBs on a drum.

  Mack had ducked under a bench. He was gasping for breath, looking beseechingly at his friends. Really: time for them to do something, because maybe Valin couldn’t see him here but he could still randomly—

  Ker-RASH!

  The scimitar came stabbing down through a previously undestroyed section of the airport, and this time the point landed just between two little kids. Neither was hurt, but it was too close. Too close by far.

  “Okay, stop!” Mack yelled. “Stop. I’ll surrender!”

  He rolled out from under the bench. Mack held up his hands.

  It was Xiao—she was always a studious one—who came up with just the right Vargran spell. But she knew she’d need help to pull off something this hard.

  So as Mack was holding up his hands and Stefan was glaring helplessly up at giant Valin, Xiao joined hands with Jarrah, Charlie, and Sylvie—it felt like a spell that four people could manage—and together they chanted, “A-ma Mack exel-i Valin.”

  Or in English: “Make Mack bigger than Valin.”

  Yeah. Bigger.

  They did
not specify a time frame. So it happened with remarkable speed. One second Mack was holding his hands up in surrender, and about three seconds later those hands hit the ceiling of the airport and pushed it up and literally tipped it right off. The airport at Amritsar is a simple rectangle, with a lid-like roof atop plate glass windows, so the roof came away almost as a single piece, a huge steel-and-glass rectangle.

  You thought the noise of the scimitar was loud? This was even louder, because all the way around the roof were steel beams held in place by thick rivets and welds, and breaking all that was noisy.

  But break it Mack did, and as he rose, as he grew, as he soared high up into the air, he pushed the roof off. It crashed atop a parked jet—empty aside from the cleaning crew, who managed to survive by cramming into the tiny bathroom.

  Mack grew and grew. It was a painless process, but a potentially embarrassing one since Mack’s clothing was human-sized. He was concerned he might have a sort of Incredible Hulk clothing issue, but, fortunately for all concerned, his clothing grew along with him.

  There was quite a view from a hundred feet up. Mack saw farm fields, and a small city, and the bigger city of Amritsar off to the south.

  He also saw a small private jet coming in for a landing and flying directly toward him right around eye level. The pilot was staring with disbelieving eyes, too transfixed by the bizarreness of two gigantic twelve-year-olds to steer away.

  Mack dodged aside, ducking low, which was very good luck because at that very moment Valin swung his scimitar horizontally as if he meant to cut off Mack’s head.20

  The scimitar passed harmlessly over Mack’s head but sliced the tail right off the private plane.

  This was bad. The reason planes have a tail is that it allows them to turn. Also it keeps them from either pitching straight down to the ground or straight up in the air and actually falling over backward and then heading straight for the ground.

  That’s what happened.

  “Hey!” Mack yelled. “The plane!”

  But Valin was already preparing for a second scimitar swing.

  Mack made a desperate snatch for the plane. It was very strange, like trying to grab a badminton shuttlecock in midair. He learned something surprising: like the feathers of a badminton shuttlecock, actual airplane wings aren’t all that strong if you grab them with a giant fist.

  He also learned: jet engines are really hot.

  “Ahhh!” he yelled.

  The three passengers on the jet also yelled, “Ahhh!” but with an Indian accent.

  Mack swung with the direction of the jet, trying desperately not to crush it as it went from two hundred miles an hour to zero miles an hour in a single second.

  The scimitar swung!

  Too late to duck!

  “(Ch)on-ma Mack i poindrafol!” was shouted with a German accent.

  Dietmar!

  In a millisecond a huge shield appeared in the air between Mack and the flashing scimitar.

  CLANNNNNNNNG!

  The blade bit into the shield but not through. Instantly Mack slid his forearm into the straps of the shield, even as he carefully held the jet with his other hand. He knelt, laid the jet on the ground—upside down, but hey, it was better than crashing.

  Valin was breathing hard—swinging a scimitar the size of a sequoia isn’t easy, especially if you’re not a practiced swordsman.

  Mack, for his part, stuck his now-giant fingers into his giant mouth and winced at the pain from the jet exhaust.

  “What is your problem?” Mack yelled at Valin, mumbling because of the fingers in his mouth.

  “There is bad blood between our two families!” Valin cried.

  Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout wheezed, “Yes, an ancient blood feud of . . .”

  He reached for his oxygen bottle, but Mack was not in the mood to wait politely.

  “Whatever it was, I apologize, all right?” Mack said.

  “Ah, so you admit that your great-great-great . . .” This went on for a while, so for brevity’s sake let’s just cut to: “. . . great-grandfather dishonored my family and destroyed my ancestry!”

  “What the . . . Look, I don’t even—”

  “My ancestors swore to Guru Hargobind himself that they would never rest until the insult was—”

  “Guru Hargobind?”

  “Aha! So you do know! And so, you die!”

  Valin stabbed at Mack and missed, but dodging had put Mack off balance. He would not be able to avoid the next sweep of that terrible sword.

  Suddenly a new creature appeared on the scene. It was as big as Mack and as big as Valin. But this giant was Stefan—magicked into existence by the combined Vargran efforts of three of the Magnifica below.

  “Give me that,” Stefan growled to Mack, and yanked the shield from his arm.

  Valin raised the scimitar high as if to strike at Stefan, but Stefan wasn’t having it. Not even a little. He raised the shield over his head and charged straight at Valin like an enraged bull, yelling, “Gaaaahhhhh!”

  Valin swallowed hard, clapped a protective hand over Paddy “Nine Iron,” still peeking out of his pocket, and ran away, waving the scimitar ineffectually over his shoulder. “This is not over! I will force you to face your guilt!”

  Huge Mack and huge Stefan stared at each other.

  “Should I go after him?” Stefan asked.

  “No. We’ve already destroyed the airport. We could end up crushing cars and houses.”

  “Huh,” Stefan said, and he was not happy about it. Most likely because he had always been a great admirer of Godzilla and would have relished crushing some houses with Mack.

  But Mack had a better idea. He looked down at tiny Xiao and said, “That treaty that says you can’t be your dragon self in the lands of Western dragons . . .”

  Xiao nodded, grinned, and said, “This is no longer the West.”

  In seconds she had left behind her human form and taken on her own, true form as a wingless turquoise Chinese dragon. She slithered into the air—a remarkable thing to see—and, flying low to the ground to avoid being spotted by Valin, went after him and the Nafia assassin.

  EVEN LONGER AGO THAN EVER BEFORE

  The Pale Queen had been feared and worshipped since human beings first learned to walk erect. In fact, the Pale Queen had helped that process along. Anytime she saw an early human—whether it was a Homo erectus, a Homo habilis, or even a Homo neanderthalensis—who was leaning too far forward or knuckle-walking, she would say, “Hey! Stand up straight!” And if they didn’t, she’d kill them with an energy bolt or by dropping rocks on their heads.

  She was like a very strict teacher.

  After many, many years of this, there weren’t all that many early humans knuckle-walking anymore. Standing fully upright turned out to make a lot of sense in terms of survival.

  The Pale Queen needed early humans to walk upright because that would free their hands to do the important work of writing about the Pale Queen, building temples for the Pale Queen, and sacrificing sheep and maidens to the Pale Queen. It took her quite a while to get humans to that point, and her efforts earned her a lot of respect in the primitive ancient cities of Ur of the Chaldees, Nineveh of the Assyrians, Sumer of the Akkadians, and Indianapolis of the Pacers.

  But when Babylon came along, the Babylonians chilled the Pale Queen. The Babylonians thought they were all that, and they saw the Pale Queen as being last year’s model when it came to godding. So there was no temple to the Pale Queen, and no cult of shaved-headed priests, and no sheep or maidens being sacrificed.

  Which was totally unacceptable to the Pale Queen.

  But you know how kids are supposed to help around the house? How they are supposed to have a list of chores and just do them without being nagged ten times? Well, same thing in the Pale Queen’s house. Her daughter expected to have everything handed to her: goddess robes, flying sandals, chariots drawn by unicorns, parties with her friends (she had no friends), and she didn’t want to have to do any of t
he work.

  “Listen to me, young lady, I’m giving you a chore to do. You will make the Babylonians worship me. I want a main temple and two smaller—”

  “Why are you picking on me?” Risky demanded.

  “I’m not picking on you. I’m telling you what I want you to do.”

  Heavy sigh. “Okay, what? Gah!”

  “I want a main temple and two smaller ones. The main one has to be bigger than Astarte’s. I want a cult. I want sacrifices. And I want some kind of invocation.”

  “What’s an invocation? Am I supposed to know that?”

  The Pale Queen gritted her thirty-six teeth because Risky was grinding her last nerve. “An invocation is like when someone says, ‘Praise Astarte!’ or ‘Zeus, that hurt!’ or, ‘Where the Baal are my keys?’ That kind of thing.”

  So Risky rolled her eyes and promised to do it next millennium. But the Pale Queen wasn’t having it and insisted her daughter get out right now, young lady, and get started.

  So verily did Risky go forth into the land of Babylon. Babylon was watered by two rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates. In those very early days Babylon was still a bit scruffy. Some of the best buildings were made of stone, but a lot were just mud smeared over sticks.

  Risky was walking through the ox-poop-strewn streets, threading her way past lepers and refusing offers of souvenirs from the many shopkeepers.

  And then she saw him.

  Yes, him.

  He was the strongest, handsomest, most armored-up guy she had ever seen in her life.

  To be honest, Risky hadn’t dated much during the first thousand years of her existence. What human males she had even seen had been in the process of being eaten by her mother. Or occasionally by Risky herself. And it’s hard to get a good impression of a guy who is crying and begging for his life, only to be gobbled up.