It took the better part of an hour for Oz’s sister to put on her makeup. Bryan waited for them on the porch swing and texted Oz, informing him of what he was thinking and where they were headed. Oz texted back that he had already guessed where they were headed, he just wasn’t sure why.
To rescue the princess, Bryan texted him.
He didn’t get a response.
The cherry-red Guzman-family Grand Caravan pulled up into their drive fifteen minutes later. Oz’s eighteen-year-old sister yelled through the passenger’s-side window.
“I don’t have any extra booster seats, so you’ll have to grab one from your car.”
She was funny that way. From inside the van he heard Oz tell her to shut up, starting a volley of “you shut ups” between them. Bryan zipped up his black hoodie and opened the passenger door. “Thanks, Carla,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
Oz’s sister scowled at him and jerked her thumb backward.
“No one sits in front. I can’t risk being seen with you guys.” Bryan crawled into the back next to Oz. “Also no farting, fake farting, vomiting, fake vomiting, burping, or telling stupid jokes. I choose the radio station. And no comments about my singing. And use whispers when you talk so that your inane conversation doesn’t drive me to cross over the median and kill us all. You buckled?”
Bryan nodded. Oz leaned close and whispered. “So it’s not over?”
“It’s not over.”
Oz nodded thoughtfully, then reached into his pocket for his phone. “Oh, I almost forgot. I got this about fifteen minutes ago. It’s a response to my message. The one I sent to the developers of Sovereign of Darkness? I’m afraid it’s not much help.”
Oz handed his phone to Bryan. The e-mail was short and polite, thanking them for being fans of the game and assuring them that they took all customer inquiries seriously.
It then went on to explain that there was absolutely no hidden level in Sovereign of Darkness, suggesting that maybe they had gotten their hands on a pirated copy or that someone had hacked into Bryan’s computer and messed with the software somehow. It stated that any additional content they perceived as coming from the game was not licensed by the designers or the manufacturer and that GameThrottle Inc. could not be held liable for any consequences resulting from the play thereof.
It added that studies had shown that excessive video game playing had been known to cause or inadvertently contribute to a variety of physical symptoms, including eyestrain, carpal tunnel syndrome, muscle fatigue, stiffness, soreness, blurred vision, and, in very rare cases, seizures and heart attacks, and recommended that Bryan and Oz take frequent breaks in between gaming periods and to cease gaming altogether when such symptoms started to manifest themselves.
It concluded by thanking them again for their feedback and wishing them a happy resolution to their quest.
“So what does it mean?” Oz asked, taking his phone back.
Bryan shrugged. “It’s basically telling us to get a life.”
“Oh,” Oz said, clearly daunted by the idea. “So what are you going to do if we get there and she’s with Landon?”
“I don’t know yet,” Bryan said.
“What if Missy doesn’t let us in?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What if Tank and his buddies are there?”
Bryan hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t know, Oz. We’ll figure it out.”
Oz patted the pockets of his jacket and grinned. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got you covered this time.”
When they turned onto Missy’s street, they could already hear shouting coming from her house. There were only four residences on the block, each with its own long, winding private driveway, each surrounded by a wrought-iron fence or high stone wall and an electronically sealed gate. Bryan was suddenly aware of how poorly dressed he was. His Breeches of Enduring Stiffness still had giant grass stains on them. His Boots of Average Walking Speed were caked in mud. He had, at least, thought to brush his hair.
“Jeez, what do you think one of these houses costs?” Oz said. “At least a million bucks?”
Carla stopped at the end of the street. She didn’t even bother turning off the engine. “Call Mom when you are ready to be picked up. I’m not coming to get you. If you get in trouble, find a bus or have your new friend’s chauffeur drive you home. I’m sure she has one, judging by the looks of this place.”
Bryan thanked her again. She smiled at him, then rolled her eyes at Oz. “Now get out of my van.”
“I hate sisters,” he whispered as the van pulled away.
Bryan and Oz walked to the gate at the end of the Middletons’ drive. It was at least ten feet tall and topped with black spikes. Bryan thought maybe he could get over it if he was careful, but he was sure Oz would skewer himself like a campfire marshmallow. So instead he pressed the button on the intercom. It was at least twenty seconds before anyone answered.
“Who is it?” It sounded like Missy’s voice, or one of her clones’. Bryan thought about lying, using the name of one of the more popular kids, but he had no way of knowing who was already there and who wasn’t. Besides, he shouldn’t have to lie. He had been invited.
“Bryan Biggins,” he said, then looked at Oz. “And guest.”
He heard an audible groan through the speaker. Then some conversation. Someone laughed. There was another voice, a guy’s voice saying, “Whatever.” Then the intercom abruptly shut off.
“I don’t think they’re going to let us in, R2,” Oz said, staring at the gate. “Should I try to call my sister and get her to turn around and come get us?” But before Oz could even get to his phone, the electronic latch on the gate released and it swung open, revealing a long, curving road leading up to Missy Middleton’s mansion.
Bryan started up the driveway, Oz right beside him, looking even more out of place. He had at least thought to put on a jacket to cover the armpit stains. The party was in full swing. The air was crisp, the grass still damp. The temperature had dipped, but that didn’t stop a few dozen Mount Comforters from congregating outside, cups and plates in hand, laughing and teasing, or pointing and looking disgusted. It was already dark out, which was good. Maybe he and Oz could just sneak in and find her without drawing too much attention to themselves. That’s what Kerran Nightstalker would have done. Infiltration. Subterfuge. Stealth.
Except Bryan was no Kerran Nightstalker. This wasn’t Sovereign of Darkness. Just one of those crazy, once-in-a-lifetime days where almost anything could happen.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Oz said, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, nervously shuffling his feet up the blacktop.
“I have to do this,” Bryan whispered. “If I don’t do it today, I don’t think I’ll ever do it at all. And besides. You still owe me for saving your life.” Oz didn’t argue with that. He and Bryan made their way up the drive. Scattered across the lawn, the few groups of kids turned their heads and stared. Bryan could feel their eyes. He looked around for Jess, but he knew he wouldn’t find her. She was here—he was certain of it. But she was inside the house that looked almost like a castle, or big enough to be one, at least.
They made it halfway to the house before they were stopped.
It was Zach Rollins, from the baseball diamond, and three of his buddies, standing shoulder to shoulder. A wall of muscle, blocking the way.
“That’s far enough, Bryan,” Zach said.
They actually used his real name, Bryan thought. That was a first.
“I’m just here to see Jess. Then I’ll leave. I promise.”
The four boys looked at one another, then back at Bryan. He could feel Oz tensing beside him. The gate at the bottom of the drive was already shut and locked again.
“Who says she wants to see you?” Zach said.
“I just want to talk to her. Five minutes.” Zach had his thick brown arms crossed, but Bryan noticed none of the four boys moved any closer. Surely, they weren’t scared of him. “If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to throw me out,” Bryan said. Oz glanced at him with a worried expression.
“We can probably manage that,” Zach said, then nodded to his friends, the cue for all four of them to advance, spreading out so that they could get on both sides.
Oz leaned in close and whispered in Bryan’s ear: “Told you, man. I’ve got this.”
“Oz?” Bryan hissed back in warning. “Whatever you are about to do—” He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought.
“You might want to stand back,” Oz interrupted, then he suddenly leaped forward, pulling both hands out of his jacket pockets. Each of them held a small black device, slightly curved, with metal prongs—like rounded fangs—jutting out from the end. Bryan had seen enough action movies to know what they were.
“Do not take another step!” Oz bellowed.
Zach and his friends froze.
“What,” Bryan whispered, taking a step away from Oz as well, “are you doing with those?”
“They’re my mom’s,” Oz said out of the corner of his mouth, clutching a stun gun in each hand. “She’s deathly afraid of parking lots at night. She keeps one in the car and another in her purse. Now listen, when I charge, you break for the house. Got it?”
“What do you mean, when you charge?” Bryan said through clenched teeth, glancing nervously at Rollins and his posse, then back to the stun guns in Oz’s hands, but his best friend ignored him. Oz raised both hands high into the air, and suddenly two arcs of blue electricity erupted from them, piercing the evening sky, illuminating Oz’s wide, wild eyes.
“Behold,” he boomed. “It is I! Oz, the great and terrible! Tremble at my power and kneel before me!” His voice carried across the lawn, getting the attention of almost everyone outside. Bryan stared for a moment at his friend, silhouetted against the night sky, face bathed in the blue glow of the electric arcs that crackled from his fingertips.
Then Oz charged the group of boys, the stun guns still sparking and zapping from both fists like cracked lightning. Zach Rollins grabbed the shirt of one of his friends and spun him around, all four of them scattering as Oz chased after them, letting out a war cry.
“I said ‘tremble’!”
Bryan stood stupefied and watched the Wizard of Elmhurst Park amble across the lawn, electricity dancing in his palms, scattering the crowd like a charging rhino escaped from the zoo. He considered chasing after him, afraid he might electrocute someone—himself, most likely—but then he looked at the house again.
She was in there somewhere. Waiting for him.
“Thanks, Oz,” Bryan whispered, then ran up the rest of the drive to the house. He paused at the door for a moment, feeling in his jeans pocket.
He still had one continue left.