The Road to Nevermore (12 page)

As Billy and Pete were sorting out the state of emergency, members of the High Council were planning actions of their own.
Their chamber floated in a place of honor, well above Celesdon. It was the shape of a glowing orb, covered in a network of
silver supports and crystal windows. For many years it had been the Afterlife’s symbol of truth, but lately its sheen had
dulled.

Inside the vast dome, council members’ desks were set in a ring, and a circular opening in the middle gave a spectacular view
of the skyline below. Marble benches rimmed the room. This gallery was usually packed with civic-minded citizens, but now
the seats stood silent.

Miss Chippendale and her supporters favored one side of the chamber. Oversecretary Underhill and a wrinkled old wraith—the
only other honest soul left on the council—sat on the opposite side. The wraith stared at Miss Chippendale with unwavering
disdain.

Behind the council members, their assistants busily scribbled notes and passed them to waiting cherub pages. The pages buzzed
through the dome, dispensing and retrieving council messages. Air traffic was especially thick on Miss Chippendale’s side
of the room.

“All rise,” said the Sergeant at Arms.

Everyone stood as a blindfolded woman in sheer white robes materialized in a throne. This was Justice. Her hair and robes
wafted about her as if stirred in a cup of ghostly tea. She hung her scales on the side of the throne and nodded almost imperceptibly
to the Sergeant at Arms. “Be seated,” he intoned.

“First order of business.” Miss Chippendale jumped to her feet.

“The council member from the Investigative Branch is recognized.” The Sergeant solemnly banged his staff.

“I move the chambers be sealed for a members-only secret session,” Miss Chippendale proclaimed.

Oversecretary Underhill instantly clacked up on his bony feet. “I move that the chamber remain open! How can Justice be served
behind closed doors?” Council members looked away; some even snickered up their sleeves. “How?” His shouts echoed around the
chamber.

In a voice neutral as a line down the middle, Justice answered the skeleton. “I cannot pretend that I am happy by the direction
that some in this chamber have taken lately”— the manifestation turned to Miss Chippendale’s side of the room —“but these
decisions are arrived at through a vote of the majority. Lord Underhill, while I laud your intentions, I am powerless to oblige
you.”

Justice sat back and the proceedings continued. The chamber was emptied of all assistants and pages; then the crystal dome
dimmed—obscuring any view of Celesdon.

When the Sergeant at Arms pounded the council back to order, Miss Chippendale stood for her next bit of business. “Today we
are faced with an almost inconceivable danger! Earthly time has made an unscheduled stop, threatening the very foundation
of the Afterlife itself. We’ve been caught unprepared. Small power outages are already dotting Celesdon.” A murmur echoed
through the chamber. “Eternal energy, the source of all Afterlife magic, has been cut off by
this
traitor”— Miss Chippendale scowled at Underhill —“and his chief field agent, Grim!”

“LIES!” Underhill slapped his bony hands on his desk.

“Isn’t it true that time has stopped on Earth?” Miss Chippendale smirked.

“Yes, but —”

“Isn’t Grim Bones the only one with the proper credentials to stop time,” Miss Chippendale thundered on, “and isn’t the length
of this time stoppage unauthorized?”

“Yes, but —”

“Isn’t he under your direct command? And didn’t he, under your command, contact Glass-Eyed Pete, a known anti-Afterlife operative?”

Lord Underhill stood in stunned silence.

“I have proof. Several letters with Grim Bones’s private address were found by my agents at Endmoor Castle.” Miss Chippendale
held up the parchments in a victorious fist.

“Where is your warrant? You broke into his castle without one!”

“There’s a state of emergency. I don’t need one! We must issue a subpoena immediately!” Miss Chippendale urged her side of
the council. “If Grim Bones doesn’t appear before this council within the half hour next, we should brand him an outlaw along
with his ill-bred master—Oversecretary Underhill!”

For the longest time the skeleton gravedigger kept to his business and paid Millicent no mind. Inside the crypt, Tongs stood,
paws up, on the window ledge, staring through the bars. Every so often, a drop of his shadowy drool plinked on the stone floor.

Millicent wished the big lug would get out of the way. He was blocking her view. She shoved her hands into her dress pockets
as she drifted around the crypt’s small perimeter—thankful at least that in her semisolid state Gloom hadn’t been able to
lock her in the vault below.

Something rustled outside the door. Millicent called out, “Who’s there?” not altogether sure she really wanted to know.

The tip of a pickaxe smashed through, sending splinters dancing across the floor. The next strike shattered the lock and the
door creaked open. Standing outside was the gravedigger. The dread atop his head burbled and sparked. Its tentacles stretched
greedily toward Millicent and Tongs.

The skeleton dropped his pick and lurched forward. Tongs licked his chops and sprang, latching on to an arm bone. Burbling
something that sounded like “yum!” the dread shot a mass of tendrils out, lassoing the dog. By the time Tongs hit the floor,
the dread had pulled its gelatinous body over his head and was ravenously feasting.

The skeleton tottered a few steps. His eyes slowly creaked open. “L-l-lucky dog is a delicacy in these parts.” He offered
Millicent a thin smile, then leaned heavily against the door, examining his hands as if they’d been lost in the post and had
just turned up on his doorstep. “Gosh it’s good to be free of that thing and under my own steam again!”

Millicent bent down for the pickaxe; she could only lift it a few inches before her fingers slipped through the handle. “Bother!”
she grumped. “Grab that pick and let’s go!”

The skeleton groaned as he staggered over to the pick and dragged it out of the crypt. Millicent drifted behind him, wishing
every second she could run.

“Can you jam the door, to trap the dog?” she asked.

The skeleton looked around. “With what? The pick?”

“No, we’ll need that to free the others.”

An ornamental statue stared down at Millicent from atop the crypt. It looked as if it wanted to escape the place as much as
Millicent.
Sorry,
she thought sadly,
but you’re needed here.
“How about that statue? Can you tumble it down?”

“Looks doable.” The skeleton gauged the angle of the roof, but after clattering topsides, he called down, “Got a bit of trouble
heading our way!”

Millicent spun around. Sure enough a group of dread-headed groundskeepers was a block away and stumbling closer.

“Not much time for introductions,” he said, scuttling up to the roof’s peak. “But what’s your name? Mine’s Bartemis Brittleback.”

The name sounded familiar to Millicent. She struggled to place it. “Mine’s Millicent Hues.”

“Pleasure, Millicent. Say, I think I read about you in the
Eternal Bugle
last year.” He windmilled his arms, fighting to rebalance. “Something to do with Commissioner Pickerel. Grim Bones was involved
… and a boy. Weren’t they?”

Millicent was surprised by her notoriety in the Afterlife, and then remembered where she’d heard his name. “You’ve been in
the paper, too. You’re in charge of the Skeleton Guild.”

“Guilty as charged.” He chuckled as he latched on to the statue. “Although not altogether sure why I’ve been sentenced to
this
place.”

“My mom and dad are here, too,” Millicent sighed. “We need to save them.”

“So long as we save ourselves somewhere along the way.”

Mr. Brittleback put his shoulder to work, rocking the statue on its base. It crashed to the ground. He scampered off the roof
and then, with an effort that nearly popped off his shoulder blades, propped the statue against the door.

Mr. Brittleback glanced at the closing groundskeepers. “I suggest we find someplace to hide, then sneak back when it’s safer
to see about your parents.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Being sure would be a terribly good thing right about now.” He stopped and looked back. “They’re just about in our laps.”

“You’re pretty handy with a shovel.” Millicent gestured to the grave. “I think we should make a stand.”

“We?” Mr. Brittleback looked at her wispy form. “You mean
me.
”

“I would love to have a whack at those things”— Millicent stamped a ghostly foot—“but you’ll just have to do with me cheering
you on.”

“You are a bossy little bee, aren’t you?” Brittleback grinned as he clattered over to the grave. “Dreads,” he said, limbering
up with a few swings of the long-handled shovel, “prepare for the realms down under.”

The Gate of Darkness closed behind Billy. The squeal of its hinges sounded like cutting laughter, as if finding humor in his
mission.

“Well done, me boy. Ye got us out of a real scrape.” Pete tossed his disguise behind a nearby boulder.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have shown quite so much ankle.” Roger chuckled.

“I got me sword now. It would be a shame if all yer fine hair got a sudden trimmin’,” Pete cautioned.

Roger’s chuckle bloomed into a hearty laugh.

Billy didn’t hear any of this. He was too busy with the view before them. Diabolis.

The capital city of the Dark Side—the place was horrifying and yet mesmerizing at the same time. It stood on the other side
of a mile-wide pit. A narrow bridge, whose arcing supports were lost to darkness, stretched to the main gate.

Behind city rooftops, the air was ablaze with flames, pouring into the sky as though they were illuminated curtains. The buildings
were made of marble columns and low-pitched roofs, but there wasn’t a straight line to be found anywhere. Every angle was
more wicked than the next.