Chapter 13

“What more can you lose?”

The visions didn’t bother Spencer at all anymore. When his eyesight returned, Spencer got an immediate fix on Mr. Clean’s location. The tall warlock had just entered the Arts Building at New Forest Academy. He moved with silent, serpentine grace as his half-human Sweepers scuttled down the dark hallway behind him.

Clean’s slime-covered hand pushed open the band room door. In a flash, he was staring into the face of Director Carlos Garcia. The Latino man was pressing a red hand against the bloody gash on the side of his head. His face was pale and his fingers trembling.

Despite all the evil that Garcia had done, Spencer hated seeing him so helpless and terrified. Spencer instantly shifted his perspective, his vision fading to white for just a moment before returning through the eyes of Garcia. It was more frightening from this angle, looking up at Mr. Clean’s Sweeper face. But at least Spencer didn’t have to see the panic in Garcia’s eyes. Now he was seeing through them.

“You have failed me again,” Mr. Clean said.

“But I thought . . .” Garcia began.

“Why have you not taken the Sweeper potion?” Clean bellowed. “Were my instructions unclear?”

“They were very clear, sir.” Garcia’s eyes dropped to the floor. “The potion . . .” he stammered. “I may have lost the Sweeper potion.”

“Lost the potion, lost the Rebels, lost your warlock hammer,” Mr. Clean said. “What more can you lose?”

“Please, no,” Garcia said, his hands raised in pleading. “You still need me. What about the Academy?”

“You think the Academy needs you?” said Mr. Clean. “You think I need you?” He laughed, a deep gurgling sound in his slime-choked throat. “Soon the Academy will have a new director.”

Garcia took a staggering step backward as Mr. Clean reached into his white lab coat. When his strong hand withdrew, he was holding a dirty rag by one corner.

“As a child, I enjoyed vexing my younger sister,” Mr. Clean said. “Of all my methods, she hated this the most.” As he spoke, he slowly wound the rag, twisting it from end to end. “A simple dishrag, when flicked just so, would leave a terrible mark—a bright welt that would have her whimpering for hours.”

Director Garcia tried frantically to back up, but Clean’s Sweepers had ringed him in, hissing and crowing with unnatural sounds.

“And so I thought,” Mr. Clean said, striding a step closer, “if a simple rag would leave a welt, what would a Glopified rag do?”

“You cannot do this!” Garcia shouted. “You cannot do this to me! I’ve been your companion! Your friend from the beginning!”

“You were never my friend, Carlos,” said Mr. Clean. “Only my puppet.” He lifted the twisted rag. “And now I must deal with you. But I can assure you, your death will be clean. Because if there’s one thing I hate—it’s a mess.”

The Glopified rag whipped outward, glistening and rippling with magic. A scream escaped Director Garcia’s lips, and then the tip of the rag cracked against his chest with a sound like a gunshot.

Then nothing.

No fading vision into pinpricks of white. No change in perspective. Spencer was suddenly sitting in the garbage truck, seeing through his own eyes, with Holga still resting in his palm.

“What happened?” Daisy asked.

Spencer shook his head. He couldn’t form words. He tried to jump back into Director Garcia’s vision, but there was nothing there. So he did the next best thing, and when he focused on Mr. Clean, Spencer made the link, seeing through the Grimelike eyes of the tall warlock.

Mr. Clean was still standing in the band room, just tucking his terrible Glopified rag back into his lab coat. Before him, in the space where Garcia had stood only seconds ago, was nothing but a wisp of vapor, clinging in the air like mist after a summer storm.

Mr. Clean waved his hand dismissively, sending a current of air rippling through the immaterial remains of Director Carlos Garcia.

“What now, sir?” rasped a Filth Sweeper at Clean’s side.

“We must return to the laboratory,” Mr. Clean said. “The Rebels have taken Garcia’s hammer. We must assume they will be coming for mine. But first . . .”

The warlock’s gaze searched across the room until he found two of Garcia’s Pluggers huddled against the back wall, their Extension Toxites lost after the fight with the Rebels.

Mr. Clean turned to his gang of Sweepers. “No one must know what happened here,” he said. “Feast yourselves on those Pluggers. They are not worthy of the beasts they ride.”

The Sweepers shrieked and croaked, their sounds of delight causing Spencer’s stomach to turn. He dropped Holga into his lap and returned to the cab of the garbage truck.

“Well?” Alan asked. “Did you catch his plans?”

But Spencer couldn’t talk about it yet. Director Garcia was dead. Spencer pressed his hands against his face and tried to forget what he had just seen.