Chapter 13

“The time has come at last.”

It wasn’t a pretty place, and Spencer instinctively drew his hands to his chest in order to avoid touching anything.

It was basically one large room, with a kitchenette against the back wall, adorned with a heap of leftover-crusted dishes. Towers of empty pizza boxes stood like crooked architectural columns. Lumpy-mattress bunk beds were stacked three high, and experimental cleaning supplies littered the entire room. Boxes and crates were piled up everywhere, with empty jars and bottles strewn about.

“What’s that smell?” Daisy asked.

“I don’t think they shower much,” Spencer answered. He slipped his dust mask over his face again, but it didn’t help with the smell.

“Do they even have a bathroom?” Daisy asked.

Spencer simply pointed to the only other room in the dwelling—a bathroom that looked so germ-infested, he didn’t want to go within ten feet of it.

“That’s probably the best place to find a Witch hair,” Daisy said.

“You check it out,” Spencer said, relieved that she seemed to be volunteering. “I’ll look around out here.”

Daisy skirted around a dingy couch with holes in the upholstery and slipped into the bathroom. Spencer moved around by the triple-decker bunk beds, careful not to touch the blankets and sheets that appeared to be falling off. He would have inspected the pillows from a safe distance if something hadn’t caught his eye.

In the center of the room, previously hidden by a tower of wooden crates, was a pedestal sink. It stood like a centerpiece in the lair, its porcelain stand rising out of the floor. But more amazing than the sink was the vast pile of soapsuds bubbling up out of the drain.

The suds blossomed over the edge of the sink like a cloud. Countless soapy bubbles, piled high and stagnant, seemed to shine with an unnatural light.

Spencer stepped closer to the shimmering sink, intrigued by its prominent placement in the cramped living quarters. He squinted at the suds, noticing what he thought was a reflection in the glossy surface of the bubbles. But it was more than a reflection. It was movement.

Spencer bent closer, until his nose was only inches from the puff of suds. He couldn’t believe it. Every single tiny bubble held a scene. Some displayed buildings, others showed parks and playgrounds. People walked in and out of view, like miniature humans seen through the fish-eye lens of a surveillance camera.

In one cluster of bubbles, Spencer saw a location he recognized. It was the main building of New Forest Academy, somewhere right above them. Students were making their way through the hallways, carrying books on their way to class.

“No way,” Spencer whispered, as he realized what he was looking at. It was a security system. The soapsuds were like tiny cameras scattered all around, relaying live video to the corresponding suds in the Witches’ sink. No wonder the old hags never had to leave their lair. The Witches could keep an eye on the entire world from their living room!

Spencer watched the cluster of soapsuds that monitored the Academy. There was at least one tiny bubble displaying every room. Several of the larger areas were being observed from multiple angles.

His curiosity piqued, Spencer reached out and touched one of the bubbles. It stuck to his finger as he pulled it away from the other suds. Gently, he held it between his index finger and thumb. When he moved his fingers apart, the bubble grew until he could read the titles of the textbooks in the Academy students’ hands. Then he pinched his fingers together again and the bubble shrank back to its miniature size.

Spencer shook his head in utter amazement at what the Witches had created. He wondered what other locations were under surveillance. Welcher? The landfill?

Daisy entered the room, a hairbrush in her hand. “I found a . . .” she started to say. But Daisy paused when she saw the sudsy sink. “What’s that?”

“This is crazy,” Spencer said, pulling the dust mask down around his neck again. He stuck out his finger and replaced the tiny soapsud into its cluster of bubbles. “These are all cameras, Daisy.” She stepped up to the opposite side of the sink as Spencer continued scanning. “The Witches have been watching everything.”

“Bernard!” Daisy cried. Spencer hurried around the sink as Daisy carefully extracted a bubble. She zoomed in by spreading her fingers the same way Spencer had done.

The soapsud showed a dim room with a single cot in the corner. The Rebel garbologist, Dr. Bernard Weizmann, sat on the floor, his aviator cap clutched in both hands and his expression worn.

“Where is he?” Daisy asked.

“I don’t know,” said Spencer, “but he looks like a prisoner.”

Daisy’s spirits seemed to fall. “They got Bernard, too. . . .”

“Which part of the sink did you get that soapsud from?” Spencer asked.

Daisy answered by shrinking the bubble back to its minuscule size and setting it back into the cluster where she’d found it.

Spencer leaned closer to the group of soapsuds surrounding Bernard, using his body to shield what he was seeing from Daisy. If her parents could be seen in the soapsuds, Spencer wanted to make sure Daisy didn’t know about it. She moved around to scan the other side of the sink.

Each camera showed a simple jail cell with a different occupant. They were Rebels—all of them. Spencer couldn’t count them all. There must have been hundreds, some cells housing multiple prisoners.

He saw Earl Dodge, the cowboy janitor who had helped them in Colorado. He saw so many faces he didn’t know. Then he saw Daisy’s parents. Mr. and Mrs. Gates were seated side by side on the wobbly cot in their scant cell. They looked tired and afraid, thrown so suddenly into the world they had tried to avoid.

Spencer didn’t pause there. He kept searching the soapsuds, desperate to find his own family. At last, he saw the faces he was hoping for. Snatching up the bubble, he expanded it between his fingers. His mom was seated on one of the cots, Max asleep in her arms. His dad was crouched, talking to Spencer’s other siblings, who sat in a frightened huddle.

Spencer shrank the soapsud and returned it to its place. He couldn’t bear to watch any longer. And he couldn’t afford to let Daisy search the suds. This would not be a good time for her to discover that her parents had been taken too.

Spencer grimaced. Their families were imprisoned and he didn’t even know where they were. Somewhere in that cluster of soapsuds there had to be a clue to the location of the prison. But there simply wasn’t time to scrutinize every bubble.

Spencer had an idea. He didn’t know how long the soapsuds could exist apart from the Witches’ sink, but it was worth a shot. He found an empty jar on the floor, a bit of red liquid dried on the side. Mustering his strength against the germs, Spencer picked it up and returned to the sink.

Cupping his hand, he scooped up the entire cluster of soapsuds that displayed the Rebel prisoners. Trying not to pop any, he slipped the shimmering suds into the jar and twisted the lid on. The soapy bubbles ran down the inside of the jar, pooling in a fluffy mound at the bottom.

“Did you find a hair?” Spencer asked, remembering what they had come for.

She held up a pink hairbrush, clogged with gnarly black hairs. “More than one,” she answered, tucking the brush into her belt.

“I don’t know how you picked that thing up.” Spencer shuddered. “You’re braver than I am.”

“I’m sterilizing myself when we get back,” Daisy said. She cast one last glance at the sink of soapsuds and froze.

“What is it?” Spencer said, taking a step toward her. Wordlessly, Daisy pointed into the shimmering camera lenses.

It was a cluster of suds displaying Welcher Elementary School. Spencer saw multiple angles of the gym and cafeteria. He saw Mrs. Natcher in her classroom, still hunched over her desk even though school had been out for nearly an hour.

Then he saw the drinking fountain—the source of all Glop. The garbage sack that had covered it was ripped away, and the caution tape and out-of-order sign were crumpled on the hallway floor.

Spencer plucked out the soapsud and zoomed in by expanding his fingers. Standing before the source were the Founding Witches and Dez Rylie. They stared into the gurgling mess of Glop, the fake bronze nails still clutched in Belzora’s hand.

“They haven’t done it yet,” Spencer muttered, wondering what kind of delay Dez had provided them.

“Make it bigger,” Daisy said. Spencer couldn’t stretch his fingers any farther. Daisy reached out with both hands and gently took the soapsud from him. The sudsy bubble clung to both of her palms, and when she spread her arms, the image grew with it.

The display was so large now that Spencer could see a bead of sweat on Dez’s forehead. He saw a tuft of whiskers jutting from Holga’s chin and a mat of spiderweb in Ninfa’s hair.

“The time has come at last,” Belzora said.

Daisy jumped at the sound of the Witch’s voice. It sounded hollow and far away, but at this magnitude, the soapsud seemed capable of relaying sound.

Belzora lowered her head, arm extended to drop the nails into the Glop source. Her voice was low in recitation.

What mighty power was in these nails

Shall be for stories and for tales.

For hither comes the greater power,

With wands we’ll shape this final hour.

The Witch took a deep breath.

“I like that poem,” Ninfa said.

Holga nodded in agreement. “It rhymes.”

Belzora dropped the bronze nails into the fountain.