The Minions of Time (19 page)

Owen felt a new strength as he walked Clara through the old streets. Still, something about coming back made Owen feel small again. He had been through so much and learned even more, but now he was treated like his old self—not royalty but rabble.

A new wave of minions flew in as he and Clara reached her house. Owen pushed her behind him as he raised his sword.

“He's found the girl!” a minion shouted, and the news echoed throughout the horde. “The Dragon will not like it! Attack!”

But as they dived toward him, one by one they were drawn into his sword like moths to a flame.

When the onslaught was over, the pile of minions was up to their ankles.

“How did you learn to do that?”

Owen took her hand. “Come inside. I have a lot to tell you.”

Clara's parents were not at home. Owen went through the house making sure the windows were closed and there was no way the minions could get in.

He wondered what the minions had meant calling Clara “the girl.” And at the restaurant the minion commander had referred to her the same way. A shudder ran through him. Could Clara be his bride? And if so, how would he explain? How could he even begin to tell her all that had happened?

Securing the windows in her room, he saw a nicely made bed and two waitress uniforms among the clothes in her closet.

Owen paused at her small desk, where she had written on a tablet:

I fear change, but I know I cannot grow without it. And it seems a great change is coming. The darkness encroaches. I feel it seeping in every day. I've tried to talk with Mom and Dad about it, but they do not have the same feeling. Or perhaps they do not want to admit it.

Owen tore his eyes from the page. He felt guilty reading her thoughts, yet something drew him. Some connection—something familiar.

Where do I start? Will she believe any of it?

The teakettle whistled, and Owen hurried down to where Clara had set out two cups for them.

“So where have you been?” Clara said. “Your father has been accused of terrible things. We even did an article about you in the school newspaper.”

“Who wrote it?”

“I did.” She retrieved a paper from a stack in the corner. On the front was his picture—his hair frighteningly out of place and a huge red zit on his chin.

No News of Missing Student

The disappearance of Owen Reeder has students, faculty, and the administration concerned. Authorities are investigating the events leading to his vanishing, but police admit they have few leads.

The story went on to quote friends and acquaintances, including Owen's teachers. One name caught his attention.

Mrs. Rothem, one of Reeder's former teachers, was reassigned to another school shortly before Reeder went missing. She says he was one of her favorite students.

“Owen is unique,” she says. “He has such strength and power of mind. I've seen that kind of intellect only a few times, and it usually consumes the person. They become puffed up because of it. But there is a great humility in Owen, and I don't doubt that he'll go far. I just worry that something terrible has happened and that we'll never know how great he can be.”

“How did you find her?” Owen said, taking a sip of tea.

“It wasn't easy, but what good thing is?”

“Where did you hear that?” Owen said, his heart racing.

“From Mrs. Rothem. She said I should keep searching. That one day you would return. She asked me not to put it in my story, but she talked as if she knew you'd return at the right time. What she didn't say was where you went. She didn't know.”

“If I told you, you wouldn't believe me.”

“Try me.”

Owen took a deep breath. “I used to think this was the only world—that there was nothing other than us.”

Clara squinted. “You haven't been abducted by aliens, have you?”

Owen laughed. “In some ways I wish I was. No, there is more than you can imagine out there, another world much like ours and yet so different. There is also unspeakable evil there.”

“Like here. A hideous man has been watching the restaurant. The police chased him off once. He just stands and watches.”

“What does he look like?” Owen said, setting down his teacup.

“He's tall, but he stays in the shadows. One of our customers says he has severe burn scars on his face and neck.”

“It's him,” Owen whispered. “He didn't die after all.”

“Who?” Clara said.

“He's talking about your enemy,” a voice said behind them.

Owen turned to see a man and a woman.

“It's him,” the woman said.

On your feet,” the man said. He clearly held a weapon of some sort beneath his long coat.

“Dad,” Clara said, “this is my friend. Don't hurt him.”

“He is no friend of yours or ours,” the woman said. “He means to destroy what we've worked to preserve.”

Standing straight and staring at the woman, Owen fought the old, familiar feeling of smallness. “I've not come to destroy anything but the enemy. And I have no thoughts but safety for Clara.”

“What have you tried to preserve, Mom?” Clara said.

The woman looked pityingly at Clara, and Owen wondered if this was the way a real mother would treat her child.

“Don't you understand?” the woman said. “This one was sent to herald the coming of the new system. And if that is true, we lose everything.”

“What could you possibly lose if the true King is on his throne?” Owen said.

The man sneered. “Our daughter. She is to be returned to us.”

“Returned?” Clara said.

“We can't possibly explain,” he snapped. “You must trust us.”

Owen ran a hand through his hair, searching for words. “Clara, the other world I spoke of . . . I believe it is a mirror of sorts. I don't understand it all yet, but these are not your real parents.”

“Of course they are! I've grown up with them.”

“Get away from her!” the man said, revealing a gun.

Owen pulled the sword from his belt.

“That won't help you,” the man said.

“It's protected me from them,” Owen said, nodding toward the back door. Minions circled the window, peering in. “Clara, do you have any childhood memories of being taken away in the night, snatched by some being? Anything like that?”

She looked astonished. “I have had dreams, nightmares—”

“Don't listen to him!” the woman said. “We are your parents, and we have sworn to protect you. Don't let this scoundrel fill your head with nonsense.”

“What were the dreams about, Clara?” Owen said.

“I remember fire and terrible eyes.” A tear coursed down her cheek. “I thought it was simply a bad dream. I thought . . .” Owen could tell she had moved to a new realization. “But that really happened, didn't it?”

Owen nodded. “You were taken from the other world. The Lowlands.”

“Preposterous!” the man shouted.

“Shoot him!” the woman said.

“For what purpose?” Clara said, her eyes locked on Owen's.

“For a destiny you do not yet know,” Owen said, voice trembling. “You are Clara in this world, but in the other—”

An explosion rocked the room.

The man moved like a phantom, seemingly unconcerned about the minions, coat flowing with the windstorm that brewed overhead. Why did the minions not attack him? Did they somehow sense his true identity?

At first glance, this man looked like a lonely street person, a vagabond in search of a meal. But upon closer examination, a child could discern from the fiery eyes that something bigger, something much more important drew him.

The man peered into the dimly lit dining room of the Briarwood Café, deliberately scanning the faces. Like a child passing over certain colors of jelly beans, he moved away. Did he not care for those inside? Did this scar-faced, coldhearted man just leave people to their fate?

He turned down Clara Secrest's street as if he'd been there many times. He moved to the back and peeked into the small kitchen window just in time to see a flash and hear a loud pop.

Clara screamed as he rushed in behind the man and woman, knocked the gun from the man's hand, and kicked it away.

Still holding his glowing sword before him, Owen had somehow suspended the bullet in midair a foot off the ground.

The man couldn't help but smile. Owen had grown into quite a young man since he had last seen him, since he had passed along
The Book of the King.

“Good work,” the man said.

Owen slowly lowered the sword, and the bullet hit the tile with a clink and rolled.

“You've learned to use the sword well,” the strange man said. It was Mr. Page.

“I thought you were dead,” Owen whispered.

The man gave a wry smile. “The news of my passing was greatly exaggerated.” He looked at Clara. “I hope I didn't frighten you at the restaurant.”

“Get out of our house,” the woman spat.

Mr. Page faced the couple. “You have done a worthy job of protecting the girl,” he said, plainly working to control some emotion deep within. “However, your job is complete. I will care for her now.”

“You?” the woman said. “By what authority? She doesn't want anything to do with someone so hideous.”

Mr. Page drew closer, and the woman shrank back. “First, she is not your daughter. You've known that all along. Second, I will not take orders from you. I have her best interests at heart and will see that she fulfills her destiny.”

“Destiny?” Clara said.

“All in good time,” Mr. Page said. “Let me get you to safety, and then we will discuss your future.”

A buzzing sounded behind them as two minions streaked through the open door and attacked the man and woman, biting their necks.

Mr. Page knocked the minions to the floor, swept them from the room, and closed the door. He grabbed Clara's hand. “We must hurry.”

Owen stood openmouthed until Mr. Page looked back. “Are you coming?”

“In a moment,” he said.

The woman screamed as Owen lowered his sword onto her neck. The man snarled and reached, trying to stop Owen. But Owen gently placed the blade against her skin, immediately healing the bite wound. He did the same for the man.

“You will receive your child back at the right time,” Mr. Page said. He turned to Clara and Owen. “Now come. Time is short.”

Clara hesitated, eyes downcast. She looked back at her parents.

“Come, child,” Mr. Page said softly.

Owen held his sword high as Clara huddled between him and Mr. Page. They hurried into the night, and the minions screeched overhead.

“What are they saying?” Clara said.

“That he has found both of us,” Owen said. “That the Dragon will be furious.”

“Dragon?” Clara said.

“The enemy of us all,” Mr. Page said. “The one who sent these beasts.”

“And caused the scars on your face?” Clara said.

“A small price. Soon the Dragon will be defeated but not without a terrible fight,” Mr. Page said. “Follow me.”

Owen was kept busy protecting Clara from diving minions. He stunned them with his sword, and then Mr. Page tossed them aside.

They walked until the streets ended and they were on dirt and grass. In the woods at the edge of the mountain they came upon a deserted shack in good enough condition to keep the minions out.

A passage from
The Book of the King
came back to Owen, and he said:

“For though he is high and lofty, yet will he make his home with the poor. Like a beggar he will dwell with a humble spirit, so that he might revive the hearts of those who need forgiveness.”

Mr. Page looked back at Owen. “Go on. Say the rest.”

Owen tried to remember, but his mind was blank.

Mr. Page said:

“It is for the sick he has come. And the needy. And the downtrodden. And all those whose hearts did once burn within them, who are now but shadows of what will be.”

“You memorized it?” Owen said. “Before you brought it from the King, you memorized the entire book?”