The Ghost’s engine whirred to life, leaving an angry flurry of ravens in our wake as Trista and I sped from my house. Thankfully, Vogler was nowhere to be seen…yet. Even so, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he would find me soon. After all, he had all the resources of the entire Destiny Police Department at his disposal. By now, every cop in the county would be on high alert, looking for a boy on a conspicuously white bike with rimless tires and neon lights. Though I had the black one now, it still was not exactly your perfect getaway vehicle.
Our only chance of remaining unseen was to stay off the main roads and quickly find a safe place to hide. The Underground was my best hope, but without Simon or Desi to help guide me, I’d never be able to navigate the riddle of train tunnels again.
I tried unsuccessfully to reach Desi on my Symbio device, but nothing seemed to work. Eventually, I gave up and Trista and I settled on Plan B, heading to Rob’s house. At the fairgrounds, Rob had told us his family were all Codebearers. We needed allies and we needed them fast. I only hoped that the tracking system was still in place and Desi would be able to find me.
Keeping to back roads and alleyways, we wound our way through town toward the address Rob had scribbled out for Trista earlier that day. We soon came to a street lined with single-story ramblers. Each home looked about the same as the others: beige, brown or grey. The only exception was the home that Rob had identified—the only purple house on the block, and quite possibly the entire town, for that matter.
But the color was only the start of the differences. The garage had been replaced by bay windows and a larger addition to the structure had been made in the backyard as well. The fifteen-passenger van parked in the driveway looked like it was twenty years old or more but had been custom painted with the Author’s mark boldly displayed on both sides. As if it weren’t loud enough, a wooden carved sign hung over the door that read: The Way of Truth and Life.
“You sure this is the place?” I asked jokingly as I pulled the bike up the driveway and around the side of the house to hide it from view. Even before we reached the porch, we could hear the rowdy buzz of activity indoors.
Trista rang the doorbell, but she might as well have poked a stick at a beehive. The commotion inside whipped up into an even greater frenzy than before. With shrieks, squeals and pounding footsteps, an apparent stampede of small elephants raced to be the first to answer the door.
The curtains in the narrow side windows were moved aside by little hands as the deadbolt clicked and the door was tugged open as far as its chain lock would allow. A little girl’s face squished into the gap and peered out at us through purple-rimmed glasses. As soon as she saw me, her eyes widened and then narrowed.
“You again!” she exclaimed, none too pleased.
It was the precocious, red-haired girl I’d met at the library this morning. Before I could say a word, the door slammed in my face, followed by a shout.
“Mom, it’s that weirdo from the library!” Sabrina shouted.
“Wow,” Trista laughed, “should I even ask?”
“No,” I said, “but you wouldn’t happen to have a dollar on you, would you?”
The mother of the house finally managed to shoo away the barricade of kids and answered the door with a diaper in one hand and a dishtowel in the other. I recognized her at once as the woman from the library—tan, short, curly black hair and a slight Hispanic accent. We introduced ourselves as Rob’s friends and she invited us into the chaos with a welcoming smile.
At least a half dozen kids were racing through the house, all of them differing in age and ethnicity. None of them looked like the other, but they all were clearly Bungles. How Rob had ever failed to mention being adopted before was beyond me.
“It’s really great to finally meet both of you…properly,” Mrs. Bungle said after inviting us inside. She gave me an amused smile, clearly not forgetting our memorable encounter at the library. “Rob hasn’t stopped talking about you two all weekend, although I’m sure there’s more to tell. I hope you can stay for dinner and we can hear your side of the story.”
We graciously accepted the offer though I realized I’d have nothing to share. Perhaps hearing Rob’s side of the story would reignite some of my memories.
Mrs. Bungle reached down and scooped up her youngest son: a bashful little guy, clinging to her pantleg and a well-loved blanket. As soon as he was hoisted up, he tenderly leaned his mop of blond hair against her slender shoulder and melted into her embrace as only a child could. It struck me how, despite their obvious differences, they were unquestionably a family.
“I’d apologize for the mess,” Mrs. Bungle continued as she artfully kicked aside one of the many wayward toys obstructing the hallway, “but with the Bungles, what you see is what you get. Come on back. I’ll show you to the basement—that’s where Rob and his dad are.”
As we followed her back past the kitchen and family room, Mrs. Bungle gave us a quick introduction to the other Bungle girls and boys who happily looked up from whatever activity they were engaged in to wave. Sabrina was the only one who didn’t smile back, preferring to keep her arms crossed in a bitter reminder of the dollar I owed her.
Having reached the door to the basement, Mrs. Bungle yelled down the stairs, “Rob! I’m sending down visitors!”
She stepped aside and motioned us down the low-ceilinged staircase. “I’d take you down myself,” she politely offered, “but some of these trouble-makers just can’t be trusted to themselves.” As if on cue a skirmish between two of the kids suddenly broke out in the other room. Mrs. Bungle smiled, then dutifully snapped her head around to hurry off in the direction of the trouble, her voice trailing as she went, “No, no, Shane. Mommy said no eating Sarah’s crayons!”
Trista and I left the happy chaos behind us and headed down into the much quieter basement. The switchback stairs led us out into a surprisingly large recreation room beneath the house. Blue padded panels covered the typical cement basement floor and walls. Except for a row of supporting posts down the middle, the room was wide open.
Looking through the posts towards the back right corner, we could make out two men dressed in martial art uniforms, slowly circling each other in disciplined stances. One of them was a stocky, but powerfully built Asian man (Mr. Bungle, I assumed), dressed in white; the other, suited up in dark red, was Rob. Both were too engrossed in their lesson to notice us watching from the stairway.
“It is written,” Mr. Bungle’s impressive voice sounded every bit like the measured, authoritative voice of a real sensei, “His feet will be swift, his strength will not falter…” Then, in a blur of unnatural speed, he surged toward Rob who deftly countered the move with his own flourish of speed as he recited, “…whose mind is fixed on truth,” completing his father’s words.
The elder nodded his head in approval and calmly readied for his next attack. Unleashing a powerful sequence of punches and kicks, he began forcing Rob backwards. “It is written: Every word of the Code has been given for teaching…”
Rob met each of his teacher’s blows with practiced skill, continuing the recitation, “…for challenging…”
“…for correcting…” Mr. Bungle added.
“…for training in the Way of Truth,” Rob finished.
In defending himself, Rob had not noticed how close to the wall he’d allowed himself to be steered. Mr. Bungle didn’t hesitate to take the advantage. With an artful swipe of his hands, he suddenly had both of Rob’s wrists locked between his own. Pressing in with his full strength, he attempted to pin Rob against the wall.
“It is written: As physical training increases strength…”
I could see Rob’s arms giving in under the pressure. He couldn’t possibly expect to hold off his dad for long, but Rob wasn’t giving up that easily. Determined, Rob dug deeper. “…so hope remembered…” he grunted, “…produces endurance!” Rob ended with a shout, sending his father sliding backwards by some unseen force.
While evident fatigue was showing in Rob, his dad appeared remarkably unaffected, even energized from their match so far. Mr. Bungle reached for his belt and brandished a Veritas Sword. It was unlike any I’d seen before. The transparent, blue blade of light that flashed to life was long, straight cut and thin, curving slightly back at its chiseled tip. The gold forged hilt was longer as well, its handle wrapped with black leather strips to create a diamond pattern where the gold was exposed. Unlike the winged design on mine, the hand guard on his was a much smaller, flat disc atop which rested an artfully sculpted version of the Author’s mark. The three, interconnected Vs curled around the handle, repeating the design on both sides.
Mr. Bungle assumed an attack stance, calling out to Rob, who was still catching his breath, “It is written: The sword is made ready for the day of battle…”
Instead of reaching for his own sword, Rob flung a tired hand out in the direction of his father’s, “…but victory comes by the Author’s hand.” The sword was suddenly wrestled out of Mr. Bungle’s grip, flying across the room and into Rob’s outstretched hand.
Just like that, the tables had been turned. A cocky smile spread across Rob’s face. With renewed resolve he made ready his own attack now.
Ever the picture of calm, Mr. Bungle continued unfazed, “Consider carefully the path of your feet…”
“…and your way will be sure!” Rob shouted, charging at his unarmed father. “Whoa!”
Before he knew what had happened, Rob was airborne, landing hard on his back. His father caught hold of his sword in midair and in one fluid motion spun it around to point down at his fallen opponent’s neck.
“How’d you…?” a bewildered Rob began to ask, looking past the blade to his triumphant father.
Mr. Bungle just smiled and held up the corner of a floor mat that he’d yanked out from under Rob’s feet a moment earlier. Rob groaned and let his head fall back to the ground, his dreadlocks splaying out in all directions.
“Excellent sparring, son,” Mr. Bungle said, relaxing his stance and returning his sword hilt to his belt. He offered one of his strong hands to Rob. “It is written: As iron sharpens iron…”
“Yeah, yeah, we sharpen each other. I know,” Rob said with a hint of attitude, taking his Dad’s hand. “But last I checked iron doesn’t bruise like I do.” He rubbed at a sore spot on his backside.
Mr. Bungle wrapped a friendly arm around Rob’s shoulders and broke into a hearty laugh that Trista and I couldn’t resist joining. Hearing our laughter, the dueling Bungles finally noticed their audience.
“Hunter? Trista?” Rob said with surprise. A huge smile spread across his face. He didn’t waste any time rushing over to welcome us. “Come on in, you guys! This is great! Dad, these are my new friends I was telling you about.”
“It is an honor,” Mr. Bungle bowed his head twice in our direction. “I have heard many good things about you both. A friend of the Author is a true friend indeed.”
Rob looked to be nearly bursting at the seams with pride over being able to present us to his father.
“It’s good to meet you too, Mr. Bungle,” Trista said.
“Please. You must call me by my name, Kim.”
Of all the names I could have imagined for a tough guy like Rob’s dad, the name “Kim” was not even on the list. Kim snapped his attention toward me, his thick crop of black hair springing to follow. “My son tells me how well you fight, Hunter. Would you do me the honor of sparring with me?”
“Maybe another time, Dad. I’m sure they came over for other reasons besides running through drills with us,” Rob said.
Kim ignored his son, his piercing coal-black eyes pressing me for my own answer.
“Well, actually, Mr. Bung…I mean, Kim,” I began, “my sword has been a little out of whack lately. I’m not sure it’d be a good idea to….”
“May I see it?” Kim asked abruptly.
I wasn’t about to say no. “Uh, sure.”
I took off my backpack and retrieved my sword hilt, careful not to grab the twisted black one. Kim eagerly accepted the sword from me and gave it a thorough inspection, sighting down its every curve and assessing the balance of its weight.
Gripping the handle firmly in his hand, he commanded the blade to life, swishing it expertly through the air.
“The sword is perfect,” Kim proclaimed, releasing the blade and offering the hilt back to me with both hands. His intense gaze locked back on me now. “The trouble you speak of will lie elsewhere.” I suddenly got the sense that he was mentally turning me over just as he had done with my weapon, inspecting me down to my very soul, if that were possible.
“Produce your blade,” he challenged.
I hesitated, fearing the pain that had come before.
“Yes, sir. I would, but there was actually something else I was hoping you could help us with….”
Kim ignored my attempt to talk my way out of his challenge and narrowed his eyes. He glanced over at the bow Trista still carried slung over her shoulder.
“May I?” he inquired.
Trista looked over at Rob. He shrugged his shoulders and silently motioned with his eyes that she hand it over. Lifting the bowstring over her head, she handed the weapon to Mr. Bungle.
Kim gently plucked the string, invoking a pleasant tone from its vibrations. The effect of the note in my head was anything but pleasant. I winced from the momentary discomfort.
Kim noticed and commanded me once again, “Produce your blade.”
I jumped. This time his voice had risen to a level of intensity he had not even approached while sparring with Rob. Kim raised the bow and pulled the string back taut, his penetrating eyes still boring into me. I gulped, uncertain of what he intended to do if I failed to follow his order. Breathing deeply, I tightened my grip and tried to draw upon the code I had found so much strength from before: By fear a man appoints his master, I repeated to myself.
In that instant an explosion of mind-numbing pain blasted inside my head once again. I dropped my sword and fell to my knees, screaming in agony as more confusing images fired through my brain.
I was aware of Trista and Rob racing to my aid, but Kim shouted for them to stand back before yelling, “By Truth the Way will be made clear!”
I looked up through my pain just in time to see Mr. Bungle, bow drawn with its fiery arrow of light pointed straight at my head. There was nothing I could do to stop him. He let go of the string. A streak of light pierced my skull and everything around me disappeared into a brilliant white.
The flash had only lasted a moment, but amazingly, despite being shot point blank, I felt no pain when at last my vision returned. In fact, the excruciating pain felt moments before the shot was fired was completely gone now. In its place was a remarkable flood of memories, rushing back to me in one massive wave. Suddenly, I could remember everything from the fair. I could remember escaping to Solandria in the flying gondola, even the school fire. Every lost and fragmented memory was filing back into place. Finally, things were making perfect sense again…as much as the strange and sometimes inexplicable truth of my post-Solandria life ever could.
“Ew! What is that thing?” Trista shrieked, backing away from me in terror. From the look on his face, Rob’s infamous weak stomach was about to make a comeback.
I whipped around and saw what they had found so repulsive: the writhing form of some kind of slimy, oversized centipede. A smoldering hole had been shot through its body. The splattered trail of some of its gooey innards left a streak across the floor.
“That,” Mr. Bungle said factually, “was your problem, Hunter. A Quell. It is a Shadow parasite that blocks all recent memory of truth.”
This squirming thing had somehow been living inside my head? I felt nauseated, watching its countless legs grope about for its missing host, knowing they were once comfortably wrapped around my brain before Kim’s arrow severed their hold. Looking me straight in the eyes, Kim nodded to the disgusting Quell.
“Produce your blade,” he said once again in a much friendlier tone.
Needless to say, I didn’t hesitate to follow his orders this time. The powerful blade of light coursed effortlessly from my sword and finished off the revolting creature’s struggle. Trista was the first to speak up.
“Ohhh-kay. That was just about the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.” She shuddered, looking back at my head. “You didn’t drink lake water or something, did you?”
“What? No!” I said in protest. “I don’t know how it got there, but everything about our mission—I remember it now! The Quell must have been what was blocking my memory and preventing me from using the sword.”
“It is true,” Mr. Bungle said. “Quell can cause serious problems such as these.”
“Man that sucker was big!” Rob said, “I didn’t know they could get that size.”
“What do you mean?” Trista asked.
“The Writ describes them as being super small—almost germ-like. There are probably millions of them between the four of us here.”
Trista looked horrified. Seeing Trista’s reaction, he quickly qualified, “Sure, we all contract them, but they can’t live very long in anyone who regularly uses the Code of Life. It’s like a pesticide with them—kills them off while they’re young. You’ll be fine.”
“So, how do you explain Quell-zilla?” Trista asked skeptically.
“The Black-Eyes,” I answered.
The others looked over at me curiously.
“After the fire, when the ambulance took me,” I continued, reliving the moment aloud for the first time, “those emergency workers who took me weren’t real. I saw their eyes—they were black. I mean all black. They had to be Shadow. I don’t know where they took me, but it wasn’t the hospital. They were talking about a chamber, saying they found ‘another one’ and then….”
“What?” Trista asked breathlessly.
“And then I don’t know. They drugged me with something.”
“All of that so they could feed your brain to the giant Quell?” Rob asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Nor do I,” Rob’s dad said, his brows furrowed in deep thought. “It is no secret that the Shadow are a constant threat to our ways, but I do not consider them as a likely source for this terror. Their methods in the Veil have always been ones of stealth. This type of aggressive assault is too risky, more likely pointing to someone else.”
“Someone else like who?” Rob asked.
Trista caught my eye with a knowing look and said, “Tell them about the Watchers and your family.”
I took a deep breath. There was so much to tell, but I touched on the highpoints, briefly explaining my encounters with Vogler, his association with the Watchers, and the background Simon and Desi had provided about my missing father being a target.
“And now...” I choked up, “the Watcher, Vogler…he’s taken the rest of my family. He’s after me too.”
Kim sighed. My story had hit a soft spot in his heart and he looked as if he might tear up.
“Family is one of the greatest gifts a man can have. Please, allow us to do all we can to help you in recovering them. You are welcome to stay with us here until your family is found. Have you notified the police of your trouble?”
“No!” I almost shouted. “I mean…you can’t. Not the police. They’re in on this somehow.”
Kim shot a curious glance at me.
“There have been many myths and speculation surrounding the Watchers,” Kim said. “While the Writ does confirm the existence of these beings, there is little that is known for certain to validate what you have been told. I would caution against drawing conclusions too soon. The truth will always set you free.”
“They took my family tonight!” I almost yelled. “I’m lucky they didn’t nab me and Trista too. There’s no arguing with that, is there?”
“No,” Kim said reservedly, “I suppose not.”
The discussion was interrupted when the doorbell rang once more. The commotion upstairs ended in a hush as Sabrina shouted loud enough for all of us to hear—even in the basement.
“Mom, that big, scary black man from the library is at the front door.”
“Vogler!” Trista and I said in unison.
Somehow he had managed to find us. There was no escaping this man.