Still, the whole thing was close. Too close.
It’s late morning by the time Lincoln and I head over to the warehouse. The place is a huge long box made of corrugated metal and lined with shelves from floor-to-ceiling. The many aisles twist around in a way that reminds me of the hedgerow maze back at the Ryder mansion. Large wooden crates are stacked everywhere, all of them stuffed with magical junk. Like compasses that always point to Hell. Enchanted pens that’ll only write praises about the ghouls. And my personal favorite, a box of old Scala robes that either belonged to Maxon Bane or were doused in ‘eau de old guy’.
We find Cissy, Walker, and the Alchemists in a nearby aisle. Erik’s the first guy I run into, which is cool since he’s the head honcho of this mission. We say our hellos and chitchat for a minute before I realize there’s something off about his face. His skin looks as white as Walker’s.
“Erik, are you sick or something?”
“No, I’m not. Guess what’s different.” A mischievous gleam appears in his eyes.
Lincoln warned me about this. Erik and his pranks.
“Come on. What’s the joke?”
Erik pulls on his ears, removing what ends up being a magical stone bust of himself. “Is this awesome or what? You wear it once, and then you have a living, talking statue of yourself forever. You can wear it as a mask, too. That’s what I was doing. Cool, huh?”
The statue-Erik winks at the original. “Quite cool,” it says. And dang, it even sounds like Erik.
“Put that thing away, now. We need to find the Orb.”
“Fine, fine.” Erik sets the bust onto the floor and then rests his hand atop the statue’s head. “Sleep, friend.” The fake-Erik closes its eyes and starts to snore. I’m beginning to understand why Lincoln stopped hanging out with these guys after age ten.
Lincoln approaches us, spies the statue on the floor, and half-rolls his eyes. “Let’s get started.”
“We were only waiting for you two,” explains Erik. “We can start any time.” He pulls the small tin bluebird from the pocket of his white lab coat. “Who’s got the rest of the stuff we need?”
Three other Alchemists step forward, each holding one item: the torquetum, the old-fashioned spectacles, and the Thigh Master. Lincoln and I share a sly look. The Thigh Master guy looks really embarrassed-slash-confused. Those things don’t seem to be standard parts of the medieval lifestyle in Antrum.
Erik steps over to the torquetum. “This is the first link in the magical chain that leads to the Orb. We’ll start off the bird here, and then it should follow the path of magic through all the warehouse until it reaches the Orb at the end.” He twists the key in the bird’s side and sets it free. The tiny tin creature hops onto the torquetum and pecks around its flat, circular surface. After that, it jumps onto the spectacles and flaps it wings. Finally, it paces along the Thigh Master before taking off in flight.
Erik bobs on the balls of his feet. “It worked!” He and Walker exchange a high-five.
“Looking good,” I say. “How long before it finds the Orb?”
Walker purses his lips. “By my calculations, tomorrow morning at 6:17AM.”
“Really?” My eyebrows rise with surprise. “How can you be so certain?”
Walker scratches his neck with his right hand. “Do you want a lesson on stuff like energy signatures and the laws of probability, or do you want to take my word for it?”
Walker can be such a smart-ass sometimes. “Your word is fine.”
“How likely is it that you’ll really find this thing tomorrow?” asks Lincoln. “Give me a percent chance.”
Walker makes a great show of rubbing his sideburns as if he’s lost in thought. “Oh, one hundred percent.”
“Yeah, Walker!” My tail does a happy-dance over my shoulder. If Walker says one hundred percent, you can take that to the bank. The mood in the warehouse turns downright giddy.
“We should make this an diplomatic event,” says Cissy cheerfully. “An inter-realm gala, even. Invite the press to the warehouse. The people will love it.” She opens her arms like she’s picturing a new sign above the warehouse door. “Lucifer’s Orb, the Grand Unveiling.”
I hate to burst her bubble, but that’s so not-going-to-happen. “I like the way you think, Cis, but it’s too risky. Let’s just find the Orb and get that shizz out of here.” Once we find it, Dad’s agreed to transfer it personally to some super-safe vault in Heaven. “Sorry to ruin your fun.”
“No worries, quasi girl. Once this is all over, I’ll think of another Diplomatic-something to celebrate our victory.”
Our group launches into excited chatter about finding the Orb, restarting Soul processing, and my first iconigration as the Great Scala. We’re so loud, it’s hard to hear someone pounding on the warehouse’s back door. Erik and I don’t miss it, though.