Good Curses Evil (2 page)

I didn't have much time to think about Plots or the field trip to Mistress Morgana's because at that moment, the Great Clock—a huge, monstrous thing with scaly and clawed creatures frozen in hideous, leering poses all around it—struck the hour. Midnight. I was late.

 

CHAPTER TWO

A Plot

Rune, Rune, Rune,” the Dread Master said.

I stood at the door to his study, waiting for the old man to invite me in. That wasn't really fair. I mean, he was
my
old man, but he wasn't all that old. Warlocks don't age like humans. He looked a lot like me, actually. He could've been my much older brother. Not as many zits as me, though. That must be a preteen thing as opposed to a warlock thing.

“You're late,” he said. He didn't move aside. Instead, he made me stand in the doorway. He liked it when I showed fear. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

“I slipped in the hall,” I said. This wasn't a lie. The stupid giant slugs had slimed up the halls so badly that everybody was tripping over themselves between classes.

“Yes, I suppose we should do something about all that slug slime,” he said, smiling. Most people looked nicer when they smiled. Not Master Dreadthorn. It made him look even more menacing.

“Is that my punishment, then? Cleaning slug slime?” I asked, almost relieved to get off so easily. I knew a great spell for cleaning up slime. Chad taught it to me. In addition to baking spells, he was also great at cleaning spells. We had the cleanest room in the dormitories. Beyond that, Chad pretty much reeked at Spelling.

“No, I think we'll save slug slime for someone who wasn't drawing cartoons during my lecture,” he said, stepping aside and motioning for me to come in. Drat.

He stopped behind an imposing desk, the top of which was an enormous slab of black onyx stone. On it were various teacher things: some leaves of parchment, a few books and ink and a quill. There were also stranger things, like a jar with eyeballs floating in some kind of gelatinous fluid, a deathwatch beetle ticking down the time to somebody's death, and a human skull that was currently doing double duty as a candleholder.

A quick glance around the study revealed dark, cobwebby shelves spilling over with dusty spell books, charms, and jars. The room was lit mostly by candles, although an eerie red glow always emanated from the Dread Master's crystal ball, which was locked in a glass case behind his desk. There were no windows, as we were underground. Yet, somehow, the night seemed to seep in, filling cracks and corners with its inky presence.

“You've been having problems in class, Rune,” Master Dreadthorn said. I was still standing even though there was a leather chair next to me. I hadn't been invited to sit. And it didn't really look like I was going to be anytime soon.

“You can't really qualify doodling as ‘problems,' ” I answered. That was stupid. Why couldn't I just keep my big mouth shut?

Master Dreadthorn glared at me with his dead, black shark eyes.

“No, I don't suppose,” he answered in a cool, even tone. “However,” he said, pulling out a few leaves of parchment. I recognized them at once as the notes my other Masters had given me. They were supposed to be handed to a parent. Of course, I had just hidden them under my bed. It wasn't really the most original hiding place. Still, I wondered how the Dread Master had gotten his hands on them.

“Your other instructors are also having problems with you, Rune. Problems that go beyond mere doodling.” He shuffled through the pile. “Master Igor said you warned a fellow classmate of an attack during a sneaking exercise.”

Master Igor was our Stealthmaster. In his class, we learned how to be secretive, sneaky, and sly—all the traits of a Master villain.

“That exercise wasn't even fair. Igor pitted the hoofed kids against the padfooted kids. I was just evening the odds.”

“And here,” Master Dreadthorn continued, unimpressed, “Mistress Helga writes that you shielded a girl during weapons training.”

“It was Jezebel … uh … that is … the countess. We were throwing wooden stakes. She's a vampire. Someone could've gotten hurt.” I was starting to sound like Chad.

“Enough. Rune, you are not taking your villain training seriously. You are twelve years old. Almost all the other kids in your age group have advanced to Fiend Level or beyond. You're still a Rogue, for badness' sake!”

That kind of stung. Mostly because it was true. We didn't progress through grades at Master Dreadthorn's School for Wayward Villains (like kindergarten, first, second). Instead, we had achievement levels called Educational Villain Levels (or EViLs). The first level was Crook. The second, Rogue. Then Fiend, Apprentice, and finally, Master.

“Master Stiltskin says I could be Fiend Level in Spelling,” I said on the defensive.

“That's because Stiltskin's a softhearted fool. He's as much a villain as Little Bo Peep was.” I couldn't really argue with that. I loved Master Stiltskin, but he was a total softie. And with my Spelling skills (or lack thereof) I barely merited Rogue Level, let alone
Fiend
Level.

“It's time for you to be challenged, Rune. Intelligence isn't your problem. It's discipline. You get bored. You're not one of those villains who likes to plot in dark corners; you're more suited for fieldwork.”

I perked up at the mention of
fieldwork.

“It's time for you to have a Plot. And I've already got a few things in mind. I think this will be just the kind of challenge you need to whip you into shape. If you succeed, you'll advance to Fiend.”

Sweet
, I thought. I came expecting slug slime and ended up with my very own Plot!

“But …,” Master Dreadthorn continued. Oh, no. Heavy, ominous
but
s were never good. (Orksy Toren—that troll kid—could attest to that. He had to endure a heavy butt for three hours.)

“But?” I asked.

“If you fail in this Plot, you will be exiled. Cast from the school and hunted by both villain and hero alike.”

Then Master Dreadthorn smiled a truly evil, villainous smile. I knew then that my exile was exactly what he anticipated. I was a thorn in his side, an embarrassment, and he had found a way to successfully rid himself of me once and for all. What a jerk. What a scoundrel. What a villain! I couldn't help admiring the old man even as I loathed him.

*   *   *

“A Plot?” Chad asked after I returned to our dorm. “What is it?” He sounded fascinated and also a little frightened.

“I don't know yet,” I answered. “He said a messenger would bring it to me this week. But that's not even the best part. If I succeed, Master D. says I'll make Fiend Level!”

“No way!” Chad said.

He was hanging over the top bunk of the bed. I was sitting below him, biting off gingerbread heads just to watch the frosting ooze out. Chad was one of the few kids my age who hadn't reached Fiend Level yet either. “No more scullery duty!” he said.

Some kids were naturally motivated to rise in their villain levels. After all, ambition and greed are common villain traits. However, some of us need more motivating. So the lowest levels were given the foulest chores to do until they reached a new level. The chores became less and less revolting until one achieved Master Level. Then the villain graduated and went out into the world to pursue his or her evil interests—or in the case of the school Masters, stayed at school to teach.

The lowest level, Crooks, got bathroom duty. They were also pretty much slaves to the rest of us—forced to do the bidding of advanced-level kids until they reached Rogue. Then it was kitchen duty … peeling potatoes, scrubbing pots and pans. I hated that.

“Fiend Level would be nice,” I said. And I meant it. As a Fiend, all I had to do was some light dusting and feed the animals we kept for Spelling and PE (Potion Extracting, not Physical Education—although gathering dragon fire to light the hall torches would
definitely
count as Physical Education).

“I wonder if anyone will get to Plot with you,” Chad said. He tried to sound casual, but I could hear the eagerness in his voice. He was sick of being Rogue Level too.

“If I get to choose someone, I'll ask for you,” I said.

It was a total lie. No way was I letting a screwup like Chad ruin my one chance to prove myself to Master Dreadthorn. I mean, I liked the guy okay, but seriously? Inviting Chad to Plot would be like inviting Dracula to tea. It just wouldn't work.

“Really? Thanks, man!” he said, oblivious.

I was completely confident. Books and classes really weren't my thing. I craved action. There was nothing that could stop me from reaching Fiend Level. Then, two days later, my Plot arrived.

*   *   *

The school day (or in this case, night) started with the official announcement of the full moon field trip to Mistress Morgana's School for Exemplary Villains. Then the big news:

“As all of you know, this is the harvest moon,” a tinny voice echoed from a hole in the wall. A network of hollowed-out holes connected to the school office, where Miss Salem—a hag—read the announcements each morning. “In celebration of the harvest moon, names will be drawn by lottery for participation in a Plot of the Master and Mistress Villains' choosing. If your name is drawn, you will be excused from class responsibilities for the duration. Participation in the Plot is mandatory. You will be expected to scheme, connive, and conspire until the Plot is completed or upon your failure or demise.”

A series of cheers could be heard throughout the dungeons. That was until Miss Salem announced that supper would be raw sheep liver, spinach (thanks to Ivan's jolly green dad), mac and cheese, and a choice of chocolate milk or blood to drink. It was impossible to please so many different breeds of villains, so meals usually consisted of a wide variety. But no matter what kind of villain, kids were mostly grossed out by the spinach.

At supper, Chad and I sat at a table with Wolf Junior, Jezebel, and a few other villains our age. I traded Wolf most of my sheep liver for his mac and cheese. Jez tried to talk me into giving her a sip of my chocolate milk. She still wasn't keen on a vampire diet, but she always took the blood to keep up appearances. Chad—being a total freak—actually traded a bunch of his gingerbread men for everybody's spinach.

“They would've just given it to you, man,” I said.

Chad shrugged. “I've got lots of gingerbread. So, any word about you-know-what?” he asked with an overkill of winking and nudging.

“What?” Jezebel asked. “What's he mean?”

“Can I tell her?” Chad asked.

“Tell her what?” Wolf Junior chimed in.

All three of them were leaning toward me, eyes wide, mouths open. It was perfect.

“Nah, they're not interested,” I said, hiding a smile.

“Rune!” all three of them said together.

“Geez. It's no big deal,” I said, but I really hoped Chad would spill the beans. Getting my own Plot was just too cool to keep secret. Everyone would be so jealous.

“Rune's dad is giving him a Plot,” Chad squeaked like a girl.

“No way!” Jez and Wolf said in unison. Little flecks of sheep liver landed in my mac and cheese from Wolf's stupid, lolling dog tongue.

“Gross!” I said, picking them out. “Say it, don't spray it, Wolf!”

“Rorry,” he said through another mouthful of sheep liver.

“So, uh, is anybody … you know … Plotting with you?” Jez asked. She tucked her hands under her chin and tilted her head, batting her lashes at me.

“Yeah,” Wolf Junior said, assuming the same girly pose and talking in a high-pitched voice, “because you're so
dreeeeamy
, Rune.”

Jezebel's face went from sweet to scary as she turned and hissed at Wolf.

“He doesn't know yet,” Chad answered for me. “Besides, if he does get to choose somebody, it'll be me.”

“No way he'd choose you over me, right, Rune?” Jez said.

“Wait, don't I get to go?” Wolf asked.

They all looked at me. Luckily the bell rang, and I dashed out before things got ugly.

In the hallway after school dismissed, all the kids buzzed and gossiped about the upcoming field trip. Who would be chosen for the Plot? What would it be? But I hardly cared anymore. After all, I had a Plot of my own.

I ran into Chad on the way down to the kitchen, where we would wash dishes with the other Rogues. Just as we were descending the stone steps leading to the cafeteria, a cat-a-bat landed on my shoulder, digging its claws into my flesh. Cat-a-bats look like cats, only smaller, with bat wings, forked tongues, and elongated fangs. They're almost always black, except for an occasional freak calico. I was drawing one in my dad's class the day I got busted.

Anyway, cat-a-bats were useful for sending villain messages, and I knew this one. She belonged to Master Dreadthorn. Her name was Tabs. Dad sometimes used her to spy on people. I think that's where the phrase “I'm keeping Tabs on you” came from.

“Ouch, Tabs!” I said. “Do you mind? My shoulder is still bleeding from your last visit.”

Tabs retracted her claws, and I reached up to her fanged mouth, where she held a black envelope delicately between her sharp teeth.

“This is it,” I told Chad, who just stared in awe.

I reached into my pocket for a chunk of sheep liver I'd saved from supper just for this purpose and handed it to Tabs. She perched on my shoulder, munching and purring, then licked her paws and flew off.

“Aren't you gonna open it?” Chad asked. Other Rogues were filing past us into the kitchen; some had noticed Tabs and the letter.

“Not until later, when we're alone,” I said, tucking the letter beneath my velvet cloak.

I'd never washed dishes so quickly in my life. My speed was only slightly slower than Chad's, who was an exemplary dishwasher under normal circumstances (it went along with baking and cleaning skills, I suppose). He finished his own chores, then helped me finish up mine. Once Cook—an old, gnarled, one-eyed pirate—approved our work, we were dashing off to our dormitory. We rounded a slippery corner, lost our footing, and nearly tripped over a couple Crooks who were scrubbing slug slime in our hallway. Neither one of them looked older than six or seven.