The Journal of Curious Letters (The 13th Reality #1) (16 page)

A box, wrapped in an odd paper with pictures of fairies and dwarves and dragons, was snuggled between two branches, held up by a string of lights. The words, “From M.G.” were clearly scrawled across the box in blue ink. Tick looked around one more time before he snatched the unopened present and stealthily placed it with his other things. Then, grabbing a big armful of stuff, including the mystery box, he headed upstairs to his room.

He sat on his bed and stared at the strange wrapping paper. The present itself was very light and he felt certain the next clue must lie inside. But who had put it there, and when? He ripped the paper off a plain white cardboard box. After flipping open the lid, Tick saw exactly what he’d expected.

The fifth clue. He pulled out the cardstock paper and read the message.

Everything will fail unless you say the magic words exactly correct. It behooves me to remind you that I cannot tell you the words, nor will I in the face of any amount of undue pressure you may apply toward me. Which, of course, would be quite difficult for you to do since you don’t know who I am and since I live in a place you cannot go.

Best of luck, old chap.

Tick read the clue a couple more times, then glued the cardstock into his journal. He thought about the trick used in the fourth clue with the word
between.
Something similar could be happening here.

Everything will fail unless you say the magic words exactly correct.

Say the magic words exactly correct.
Could “exactly correct” be the magic words? Tick thought it would be really dumb if that were the answer; plus, he’d been told the first letter from M.G. would reveal the special words, not one of the later clues.

Tick closed the book, frustrated. This new message told him nothing he didn’t already know, only that he had to say something specific when the day came, something
magic.
Other than that, M.G. just seemed to be rubbing it in that he wouldn’t tell Tick what the words were—neener, neener, neener.

Disappointed, wondering if he was missing something obvious, and still baffled at how the present had gotten into his family’s Christmas tree, Tick went downstairs and
e-mailed Sofia about the fifth clue. Knowing she probably wouldn’t respond for awhile, he joined his dad in the kitchen, sharing the news as he started snacking on everything in sight.

~

Sofia wrote him back that night, which would have been early the next morning her time. His heart lifted when he saw her name in the INBOX and he quickly clicked on the message.

Dear Tick,

I got the Fifth Clue, too. Doesn’t say much, does it? I think your idea that the magic words are “exactly correct” is just what you say. Stupid. No way, too easy.

I’m sure you’re excited for the big trip to Alaska with your dad. You’ll probably get lost and eaten by a polar bear. Your funeral will have the coffin closed because all that will be left is your right pinky finger. Just kidding. I hope you escape alive.

I thought I saw a man spying on me yesterday. He looked mean, but disappeared before I got a look. Not good.

Have fun in Ice Land. Write me as soon as you return.

Ciao,

Sofia

Tick reread the sentences about the man spying on her. Sofia threw that in like she was telling him she’d bought a new pair of socks. If some creepy-looking dude was watching her, chances were he’d be coming after Tick next. Unless someone was already spying on Tick and he hadn’t noticed? He felt the familiar shiver of fear run up and down his spine, once again reminded that this M.G. mystery business wasn’t all fun and games.

He wrote a quick note back to Sofia, telling her to be careful and that he’d write her again the second he got back from Alaska. He was just about to log off when he heard the chime of his e-mail program. When the new e-mail message popped up, Tick felt like an icy fist had smashed his heart into pulp.

From: DEATH

Subject: (no subject)

His stomach turning sour, Tick clicked on the e-mail. It only had one line of text.

See you in Alaska.

~

Two days later, Tick and Edgar sat in their seats on the airplane, thirty-thousand feet in the air, soda and stale pretzels making them look forward to a much better meal once they landed in Anchorage. Tick sat by the window, his dad’s oversized body wedged into the aisle seat like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon stuffed into the back of a pickup truck. The steady roar of the plane’s engines made Tick feel like his ears were stuffed with cotton.

The two of them had discussed the fifth clue and the strange e-mail from “Death” many times over, with no progress. Tick didn’t know who was more determined to figure everything out—him or his dad. They’d gotten much braver—or dumber—with every passing day, to the point they were willing to ignore an obvious and outright warning like the one received in the e-mail. They were going, and that was final.

“We need to keep a sharp lookout,” his dad said through a mouthful of pretzels. “If either one of us sees something suspicious, yell it out quickly. When in doubt, run. And we need to stay in public as much as possible.”

“Dad, I’d say you sound like a paranoid freak, but I agree one hundred percent.” Tick took a sip of his drink. “I think I’m half excited and half scared to death.”

“Hey, we’re committed, right? There’s no turning back now.”

“Cheers.” They clicked their plastic cups together.

In two hours, they’d be in Alaska.

~

Seven rows back, a tall man with black hair and razor-thin eyebrows crouched in his tiny seat as best he could, reading the ridiculous in-flight magazine, which was full of nothing but advertisements and stupid articles about places he’d never care to visit. This spying business was deathly boring, and he hated it. No action, no results, boring, boring, boring.

But all of that would change very soon. The Spy would become the Hunter.

His name was Frazier Gunn, and he’d worked more than twenty years for Mistress Jane. He despised the woman,
loathed
her, in fact. She was the cruelest, most selfish, despicable, horrifying creature he’d ever met, and yet, his devotion to her was absolute. An odd mixture of feelings, but that’s how it had to be when you served someone who planned to take over the Realities. They needed a leader like her, ruthless and without conscience. He didn’t have to like her—he only needed to
pretend
to like her.

Because someday he planned to replace her.

Of course, if he ever failed even one of his assigned missions, she’d feed him to the Croc Loch near the Lemon Fortress with no remorse. But he was safe for now and had been promised a great reward if he could unlock the secret behind the bizarre series of letters Master George had sent out to kids all over the world. He had only recently discovered the identities of several recipients, enabling him to further his investigation with stealth and caution. But finally, the time for intimidation and action was at hand.

It’d been a fun trick sending the “Death” e-mail to the boy named Atticus, quite clever in fact. It was the dumb kid’s own fault for putting his information about the letters on the Internet for anyone to find. There’d been a slight risk that Atticus might’ve chickened out and not gone to Alaska, thereby ruining a chance to learn more for Mistress Jane, but Frazier couldn’t resist the calculated threat.

He reached into his pocket to feel the reassuring lump of the special
thing
he’d brought along to perform the important task he planned. He couldn’t wait to activate it; the devices they’d retrieved from the Fourth Reality were so much fun, futuristic and deadly. The spectacle would make all the hours of spying on the brats around the world worth every minute.

And if it didn’t work, there was always Plan B. Or C.
Or D.

Giving up on the magazine, Frazier Gunn leaned back and closed his eyes. The boy and his father couldn’t very well disappear on an airplane, now could they?

~

Tick felt so relieved when he and his dad were finally in the rental car, bags safely stowed away in the trunk, heading down the frozen freeway to Aunt Mabel’s house. Even though it was still mid-afternoon, the land around them had grown dark, the sun’s brief journey above the horizon having ended an hour ago.

Tick held a map in his lap, navigating for his dad. Mabel lived on the outskirts of Anchorage in a small suburb that seemed pretty easy to find. Most of the way followed one main road that stretched endlessly before them, the faded yellow lines of the lane markers seeming to flash then disappear beneath the car.

“Well, Professor,” Dad said. “Prepare yourself for Aunt Mabel. She’s quite the character and full of more ideas on how to save your life than you’ll probably care to hear. Just know that she means well and do a lot of nodding.”

“I’m excited to meet her.”

His dad laughed. “You should be, you should be. Trust me, if you want entertainment, we’re going to the right place.”

They’d eaten at a fast food restaurant before heading out from the airport, and Tick still had his soda, from which he took a big long swallow. “You think she’ll mind when we go exploring out to Macadamia?”

“You can bet your life savings she’ll mind, all right, but, oh well. We’ll tell her we didn’t want to waste such a good opportunity to see the sights of this beautiful land she calls home. That’ll get her, I hope.”

“When do you think we’ll drive out there? Tomorrow morning?”

“Sounds good to me. That’ll give us the whole evening with Mabel tonight, and breakfast tomorrow—she makes a mean plate of eggs, bacon, the works. Hopefully, we can figure some things out and return to her place tomorrow night.”

“I just hope Macadamia isn’t a dead end.”

His dad reached over and patted Tick on the leg. “No, we’ll find something. It couldn’t have been a ghost that sent that letter, now could it?”

“Judging by what I’ve seen lately? Maybe.”

“Good point.”

Tick studied the map. “Looks like you turn into her neighborhood up there to the right.”

Edgar flipped on the blinker as he slowed the car.

~

A mile or so behind, Frazier Gunn pulled off the road and stopped, not wanting to take any chances of being spotted. He’d wait an hour or so, then find himself a discreet parking space where he could watch the house. The boy and his father would probably spend the night, saving their planned expedition to Macadamia for tomorrow.

Frazier wanted to see what they discovered there before he put his plan into action. Every little bit of information on what Master George was up to might help Mistress Jane’s cause, and Frazier meant to find out everything he could. When the two adventurers drove back to Anchorage after their investigation, he’d implement the device that sat in his pocket, ready and hungry to get to work.

He grinned at the thought.

~

Tick and his dad stood in front of the door to Aunt Mabel’s home, staring at the plastic flowered wreath that must’ve hung there for two or three decades—its every surface covered in dust. The house itself was a cold and weary pile of white bricks, but the warm light shining through colorful curtains in the windows made it seem like the coziest place on Earth. However, neither of the Higginbottoms moved to push the doorbell just yet.

“Well, here we are,” Dad said. A thick layer of snow and ice covered the yard around them; it looked like a miserably frigid wasteland that hadn’t seen the full sun in years.

“Here we are,” Tick repeated, gripping his suitcase.

“Now, one last warning.” Dad looked at his son. “Aunt Mabel is at least one hundred and fifty years old, she laughs like a hyena, and she smells like three tubes of freshly squeezed muscle ointment.”

Tick grinned. “Good enough for me. I love ancient history and watching nature shows, and I don’t mind the smell of peppermint.”

His dad nodded. “That’s the spirit. Let’s do this thing.” He reached out and pushed the doorbell button.

Three seconds later, Aunt Mabel pulled the door open.

~

Little Edgar!” she yelled, a shriek that sounded like fighting cats. The intense smells of peppermint and homemade cooking wafted out of the house with the warm air, and Tick had to suppress a laugh.

Aunt Mabel looked as ancient as Tick’s dad had indicated, her heavily wrinkled but thin face covered in at least three pounds of makeup, capped off by bright red lipstick covering a lot more than her lips, as if she’d been jumping rope when she applied it that morning. Her small body seemed too frail to support the loud burst of excited salutations that came from her lungs as she hugged both Edgar and Tick.