Chapter 2

“I call it Gloppish.”

It didn’t happen like Spencer expected. A wake of visible magic flowed in the squeegee’s path. The glass turned fizzy and bubbly, glowing an eerie green. It stayed like that, a stripe of roiling magic down the door.

“I’m not stepping into that,” Spencer muttered.

“Professor DeFleur must be late.” Walter checked his watch. “Any minute now.”

As the warlock spoke, something happened to the squeegee mark. It changed color, growing darker and then fizzling out. In a flash, everything was different. The squeegee mark was now an open passageway, only a line of magic sizzling around it like a narrow door frame. The view showed a dim library, obviously closed to the public at this time of night.

Spencer jumped with fright when the face of a wizened old man popped into sudden view. He had some serious mad-scientist hair, all white and frizzy. A pair of round glasses slipped down his nose, and when he smiled, some of his teeth twinkled with gold fillings.

“Quickly!” he whispered hoarsely. “Come in!”

Through the squeegeed opening, Spencer saw Professor DeFleur hobble across the library, a thin wooden cane in hand.

Wordlessly, Walter stepped through the portal, Alan close behind. Daisy caught Spencer’s arm as he put a foot through.

“Do you think we can trust that guy?” she whispered. “He looks like he might be . . .” She twirled a finger around her ear, making the universal sign for “crazy.”

“He’s the leading expert on a made-up language,” Spencer said. “He’s got to be a little crazy.”

“He has nice hair, though,” Daisy said. “Same color as yours.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through his own hair, whitened from the shock of using his Auran powers. He followed his dad through the portal.

From the title, everyone assumed that the Manualis Custodem was written in Latin. But as soon as Walter had used his bronze nail to open the latch sealing the book, the Rebels realized they were up against something entirely different.

Walter had found a Rebel linguist who specialized in archaic tongues and made-up language variations. Until now, Spencer hadn’t learned much about the translator. He knew Professor DeFleur had worked his entire career for the BEM before they turned evil. Now the old man was a member of a retired janitors’ group who called themselves the Silver Swiffers.

Spencer had heard Walter mention the group before. Most were too old to help the Rebels. Many of them didn’t even know that there was a problem with the BEM. They were so nonthreatening that the BEM left them alone. Walter had known Professor DeFleur for decades, so when it came time to find a translator for the Manualis Custodem, the warlock knew just where to turn.

The retired professor stood before them now, hunched over a table in the dim library, beckoning the Rebels to come closer.

Spencer scanned the area, curious to find out where Professor DeFleur had used the squeegee. One end of the library was made up of side-by-side picture windows. The view through the glass showed a lawn lit by a streetlamp—except for one swatch the width of a squeegee. Spencer could still see into the Rebel janitor closet, Daisy standing only feet away, though they might have traveled several states in a matter of inches.

“Here we are,” muttered Professor DeFleur. Spencer hurried over to the table, immediately recognizing the leather-bound Manualis Custodem. Beside it was a blue three-ring binder, thick from the pages inside.

“This is the translation?” Alan asked, touching the binder.

Professor DeFleur nodded, his crazy white hair bouncing. “It was the trickiest of translations,” he said. “You see, the original was written in a language that never really existed. A complex, made-up variation on Latin.”

“Like Pig Latin?” Daisy shouted through the portal.

Professor DeFleur chuckled. “Something like that. Maybe more like Glop Latin.” He leaned his cane against the edge of the table and flipped open the Manualis Custodem. “I call it Gloppish. The base language was definitely Latin, but the Witches added these almost hieroglyphic symbols that—”

The terrible sound of shattering glass caused Spencer to double over in fright. He twisted around to see what had happened and realized with a pang of dread that the squeegee portal was gone! The picture window, where Daisy had stood only seconds ago, was broken into a thousand shards.

But far worse than the shattered window was the thing that had broken it. Spencer stared at it for a moment, unable to decide if it was a man or a Toxite. Then the sickening truth struck him.

It was both.

The man standing in the window wreckage wore the standard tan coveralls of a BEM worker. The Bureau seal was embroidered on the chest beside a name tag—Ted. His body was indubitably human, but his hands and face called that into question. His fingers were sharp hooks, like the black talons of a Rubbish. Ted’s face was pinched, the skin an unnatural reddish hue around his yellow eyes.

But the worst feature rose from the man’s back, where the coveralls were ripped. A massive set of leathery black wings stretched wide and then tucked close.

Spencer stood rooted, mouth agape, as Ted’s talon fingers flexed. Next to the deformed man, another large window shattered. A second figure rolled through the wreckage and into view. This was a woman, or, at least, half of her was. She had somehow merged with a Filth, so her face was hairy and her eyes were feral slits. Her BEM coveralls were tattered, as countless spiky quills bristled across her back.

Spencer immediately felt a wave of the woman’s Filth breath reach him. His eyes fluttered and his legs felt weak. His dad caught him by the arm, and Walter released a spritz of vanilla air freshener to combat the Toxite breath.

Professor DeFleur was scrambling for his cane, sweeping the Manualis Custodem and the translated manuscript under his arm.

“The squeegee!” Alan shouted. Spencer saw it lying amidst the rubble from the shattered windows. He didn’t know what had happened on Daisy’s end, but their only chance of escape was using the squeegee to reopen the portal on the last remaining library window.

Walter drew a pushbroom from his belt. A razorblade glinted in Alan’s hand. Spencer felt his dad’s breath as he whispered in his ear. “Use the squeegee and get Professor DeFleur out of here.”

His instructions were interrupted by the Filth lady. She opened her mouth, exposing jagged animal teeth. When she spoke, her voice was inhumanly deep and raspy. “We are the Sweepers,” she said. “Give us the book!”

Walter leapt forward, thrusting his pushbroom at the Rubbish Sweeper. Ted instantly took flight, his leathery wings unfurling and lifting him above the attack. The woman dropped to all fours and charged like a beast, quills raised.

Spencer didn’t wait to see what would happen. He grabbed Professor DeFleur by the scrawny elbow and dragged him away from the action. The old man was muttering incoherently as Spencer led him alongside a library bookshelf. They crouched in the shadow, watching Walter and Alan stand against those horrifying Sweepers.

“Wait here,” Spencer whispered to the professor. “I’m going to use the squeegee on that far window. Once the portal is open, come as fast as you can.”

Without waiting for a response, Spencer sprinted away from the bookshelf, his shoes crunching over shards of glass. He stooped to pick up the squeegee, catching it on the run. He had just lifted the rubber end to the last window when the glass exploded.

Spencer staggered backward as a new figure stepped into view. This man wasn’t a Sweeper, but, in so many ways, he was worse.

It was Mr. Clean.

The huge warlock stood before Spencer, white lab coat hanging over his broad shoulders. In that moment, stricken with fear, Spencer realized that he had never stared into Mr. Clean’s face. Countless times, he had seen through the man’s eyes as Spencer clung to a bronze vision. He’d seen those gloved hands and familiar lab coat, and he would know the warlock’s voice if he spoke. But Spencer had never seen his face.

The warlock was nothing like his trademark namesake. Mr. Clean’s skin was dark, a detail that didn’t really surprise Spencer. He had assumed some kind of ethnicity from Clean’s deep, resonant voice. His black hair was trimmed short, though it looked like it might be curly if he allowed it to grow out. There was no earring, no good-natured wink. Just a square jaw and a maleficent smirk on his face.

As Spencer stood, rooted in fear, the BEM warlock reached a gloved hand into his lab coat and withdrew a tiny bottle. His thumb uncapped the vial, the little cork landing at his feet amidst the shattered glass.

“Behold,” Mr. Clean said. “I drink to the future.” He raised the small vial as though he were offering a toast. Then he lifted the bottle to his lips and threw back his head, draining the mixture in one swallow.