Last Shadow Warrior Read online

  “Have fun in detention,” I replied.

  “Ms. Beckett?”

  I turned to see Doc glance from Chase back to me before he spoke again. “I apologize that I haven’t been able to formally welcome you to Vale yet. I’m sure you don’t remember me from your mother’s funeral?”

  I tilted my head, struggling to recall any of the blur of faces that had paraded before me that day as I’d stood in a state of mute shock.

  He adjusted his glasses and nodded. “No … no, I didn’t think so. Well, your mother and I actually attended Vale together many years ago. I knew her quite well. I was particularly saddened by her passing, and indeed to hear the further news recently of your father’s condition.” He paused and looked at me with that intense gaze of his. “I expect that you’re feeling a bit lost at the moment?”

  I looked down at my notebook. Lost. Scared. Angry. So many different emotions. “I guess you could say that.”

  Doc chuckled. “I assumed as much.” He slipped his hand into the front pocket of his shirt and extracted something, which he held out to me. “Which is why I thought having this might be particularly useful in starting to get yourself, let’s just say … unlost.”

  I took the item in my hand and studied it. It was a shiny black plastic card about the size of a credit card with “G39” stenciled on it in gold letters. I looked up at him. “What is it?”

  He glanced toward the classroom door before replying cryptically, “Simply the key to everything.”

  The key to everything? That didn’t seem simple at all.

  Noticing my skeptical look, he winked. “But you might find that the gold frame is an excellent place to start seeking the answer to that question.” He tilted his head toward the door. “And, if I may make the suggestion, your friend Mr. Grimsby may serve as an excellent fellow seeker.”

  So many questions sprang to mind. But just as I was about to reply, a pair of students entered the class. Doc’s gaze shifted to the clock on the wall. “Let me not keep you from your next class. We’ll talk more later. Welcome to Vale.”

  Two periods later we emerged from our British literature class with an assignment to write the first draft of our own sonnet by the next class.

  “Brit lit, how do I despise thee?” Grimsby groaned. “Let me count the …” He glanced over at me. “Oh. Sorry, I think you said your dad teaches that.”

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. I know he’ll be back to terrorizing students with twenty-page essays on Old English etymology soon.” I wasn’t sure I really believed that, but saying it out loud made me feel like it was somehow more likely to happen.

  “Um, yeah, I can hardly wait.” Grimsby laughed. “Anyway, on to the best period of the day: lunch.”

  I put my hand on my stomach. “Finally. I forgot Bryn’s croissants, so I could probably eat a horse.”

  “Sorry, that was on yesterday’s menu,” he deadpanned. “But maybe horse soup today if you’re lucky.”

  When we entered the school cafeteria, I was immediately reminded of the great feasting halls of Norse legend. The room’s wooden rafters swept gracefully upward to a vaulted point supported by pillars as thick as trees. At either end of the hall, fires roared in enormous hearths, and more of those strange sconces ringed the room, filling it with flickering orange-and-yellow light. Great rectangular wooden tables arranged in three rows each at least a hundred feet long were filled with students chatting and laughing or scrambling to finish their homework before their next class.

  “I almost forgot,” Grimsby said. “What did Doc want earlier? When he talked to you after class?”

  I shrugged. “I guess he just wanted to welcome me to Vale.” Then, remembering the black card, I slid it out of my pocket and held it out toward him. “Also, he gave me this.”

  Grimsby studied the card. “What is it? Some sort of high-end credit card?”

  “I was hoping you’d know. At least, Doc seemed to think you could help. He called it ‘the key to everything.’ ”

  “Sounds mysterious,” he said, frowning.

  “Yeah, no kidding. Oh, and he said something about a gold frame. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “A gold frame?” Grimsby rubbed his chin and then shook his head. “Sorry, not a clue.”

  I slid the card back into the pocket of my blazer. “Okay, well, if any inspiration hits you, let me know.”

  As we scanned the crowd for empty seats, I spotted the infamous Chase Lodbrok. “What’s the deal with that guy anyway?”

  Grimsby sighed. “You’ve got your three main social classes at Vale.” He pointed as we passed by the tables. “Sports types, spoiled rich kids, and the basic criminal element. Or as I like to call them—jocks, jerks, and juvies.”

  I studied the kids at the tables. Even most of the juvies had three-hundred-dollar designer jeans.

  “Chase Lodbrok,” he continued, gesturing with his chin at the blond kid surrounded by a group of adoring fans, “has the unique distinction of belonging to all three. Which, I guess, is why he’s the most popular kid in school.”

  “Oh great, so I just hosed my social status in one morning?”

  He shrugged. “Basically.” He flopped his backpack into a chair at an empty section of one table near the trash cans. The air was ripe with the scent of old banana peels and discarded tuna fish sandwiches. I could see why this corner was empty.

  We joined a line of kids waiting to get lunch, and Grimsby handed me a tray. “Stick with the pizza. It’s your best bet.”

  But when we got to the front of the line, another familiar scent transported me to a vivid memory of my five-year-old self, a yellow plastic tablecloth spread over a kitchen table, eating dinner with my mom and dad. We were all smiling and laughing.

  “Wait, is that … ?” I slid my tray down the stainless-steel rails and stopped in front of a steaming pan of food. My eyes teared up. Partly because of the toe-curling odor. But mostly from the memories.

  “You know lutefisk, dear?” a voice asked in a thick, vaguely Scandinavian accent. I looked up at an elderly woman dressed in a standard-issue white apron and hairnet over purple hair. Her face was beaming like I’d just made her day. She poised her ladle over the steaming dish. “You like?”

  “Yes, please!” I nodded enthusiastically and held out a plate for her to scoop a large serving onto it.

  Grimsby reappeared at my side shaking a bottle of strawberry milk as I headed back toward our table. His face screwed up in a look of revulsion, and he pinched his nose with his free hand. “Pizza, dude. I said stick with the pizza.”

  “No, this is good stuff,” I said. “Really. My mom used to make it for my dad and me all the time. It’s sort of like fish Jell-O. You want to try some?”

  “Fish. Jell-O.” Grimsby’s face turned a distinct shade of green as he stared at the gelatinous lump on my plate. “No thanks. I’m, uh, trying to cut back.”

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  When we arrived back at our table, I did a little stutter step and nearly dropped my tray. An Asian American girl with a rainbow unicorn backpack and dark hair with multicolored tips was sitting across from where I’d left my bag. Her head was bent over a textbook that lay open in front of her, and the fork in her hand slowly moved across the page, tracking her reading. It had to be the same girl who had rescued my dad and me when we’d arrived at Vale. She’d changed clothes, but her backpack and hair were unmistakable.

  Grimsby dropped into the seat next to her, then fished around in his backpack and pulled out several items. Ignoring a neat little Tupperware with something that looked like a salad inside, he lined up the bottle of strawberry milk, a bag of neon-orange cheese puffs, and a giant blue-frosted cupcake on the table in front of him.

  “You know you have the worst eating habits, right?” said the girl, looking up for the first time from her book at Grimsby’s food selections. She pulled a small salad closer to herself and stabbed her fork into it.

  “It’s all abo
ut colors,” Grimsby said to her. “The more colors on your plate, the healthier you’re eating. It’s in all the nutrition books.”

  She sighed and adjusted her position to accommodate her backpack.

  “Why don’t you ever take that thing off?” asked Grimsby, pointing a neon-orange-dusted finger at the unicorn-themed bag on her back.

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?” she shot back before forking a piece of avocado into her mouth.

  I stood there stunned as I witnessed this exchange. Surprised that this girl I’d only briefly glimpsed during one of the darkest moments of my life, who I’d started to believe was either an angel or a figment of my imagination, was suddenly sitting there across from me. Eating a Cobb salad.

  “You two, uh, know each other?” I finally said.

  Grimsby glanced up at me across the top of his cupcake. “Are you planning to eat standing up?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.” I hooked a chair leg with my foot and pulled it out, then sat down.

  Grimsby swallowed a large bite of cupcake, then tilted his head toward the girl. “Sorry, yeah, this is my mother. Or at least she acts like she is.”

  The girl stuck out her tongue at him. “Also his best friend, Gwynndolyn R—”

  “Gwynndolyn R….” Grimsby singsonged. He rolled his eyes. “It’s just Gwynn.”

  My eyes bounced from Grimsby back to Gwynn. “Well, I’m, um, just Abby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Just Abby,” said Gwynn, shooting a look at Grimsby. “Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

  Surely she recognized me. Unless there was some other rainbow-haired girl at the school who wore a unicorn backpack.

  “Yeah, well, I think we … actually sort of met when …” I started, but her eyes darted toward Grimsby, and she gave a little shake of her head. “Oh, oh, right,” I said quickly. “Yeah, this is my first day.”

  She smiled. “Well, welcome to Vale. Is that lutefisk you have there? Looks good.”

  “See?” I said to Grimsby. “I’m not the only one.”

  But he was already distracted, watching as Mr. Wendel, the science teacher I’d met earlier, yelled at some kids nearby to quiet down already.

  Gwynn flipped her book closed, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “Well, it’s useless trying to study with all this racket. I’m gonna find someplace quiet before next period. See you around?”

  I stared up at her, wanting to ask so many questions. “Definitely. And thanks for … you know.”

  “Don’t mention it.” She smiled, then turned and strode across the cafeteria.

  I watched her disappear out of sight, then swung my head around to see what had Grimsby so transfixed. Mr. Wendel was now leaning menacingly over a pair of boys. A big vein throbbed in his forehead like he was about to blow. I mean, it was pretty loud in there with everyone talking over each other. I’ve noticed that old people—like maybe thirty and over—seem to have a thing about loud noises.

  Noticing me watching, Grimsby said, “Mr. Wendel is probably the last guy who should be doing cafeteria duty. I heard one time he went so nuts he actually duct-taped a kid who fell asleep in class to her desk and left her there. All weekend.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “No way. You’re just yanking my chain, right?”

  He shook his head. “No, true story. Like I told you earlier. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”

  I blinked and shook my head. As I looked down for my fork, a muscle spasmed in my shoulder, probably from sleeping in a chair all night. I rolled my shoulders, then raised my hands over my head and stretched, trying to work out the kink.

  That’s when it happened.

  Out of nowhere, a projectile hurtled through the air. With a loud slap, it splattered wetly across the front of Mr. Wendel’s shirt. As the pieces slid slowly down his tie, I could smell it even from where I was, like a putrid scent grenade loosed in the cafeteria. Lutefisk. I couldn’t believe some kid would nail a teacher with a lump of that stuff. Poor Mr. Wendel. Actually, poor kid as soon as he figured out who did it.

  Mr. Wendel stared while the fish chunks left greasy gray skid marks down his navy-blue tie, then raised his head, slowly scanning the deathly silent cafeteria.

  I realized then that my arms were still in the air, frozen in midstretch. I also realized that this could possibly, just maybe, look incriminating. So I jerked them down to my sides.

  But it was too late.

  The quick motion attracted Mr. Wendel’s attention. He turned his red-faced, furious gaze directly on me.

  A sick feeling hit my stomach as Mr. Wendel’s stare dropped to my tray and the bowl of smelly fish in the middle of it. My eyes darted frantically around the cafeteria. Surely there had to be someone else with this stuff on their plate. That’s when I noticed Grimsby’s seat was empty. Had he really ditched me again? Some friend he was turning out to be.

  Then I saw Chase and his friends a few tables over, purple-faced and doing their best not to explode with laughter. He was holding something under the table. Even without seeing it, I knew immediately what it was.

  And I knew I was dead meat.

  Mr. Wendel stalked wordlessly toward me. I stared transfixed at the throbbing vein on his forehead, feeling my own pulse racing faster and faster. Soon he stood right in front of me. Looming over me with a maniacal glint in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak. I cringed.

  Then just at that moment, a screech of static filled the air, and from the overhead speakers came a loud voice. “ABBY BECKETT. WILL YOU PLEASE REPORT TO THE HEADMASTER’S OFFICE. REPEAT. ABBY BECKETT. TO PROFESSOR ROTH’S OFFICE. IMMEDIATELY.”

  Looking like a cat that had just been cheated out of a particularly delicious mouse, Mr. Wendel stared at me, then wordlessly lifted his arm and pointed in the direction of the headmaster’s office.

  Maybe I imagined it, but as I rose to go, it seemed like everyone’s expressions were the same as you’d see on people watching a funeral procession. Then the deathly quiet was suddenly broken by a high-pitched, repetitive squeaking noise like a shopping cart wheel that needed oil.

  Eee. Eee. Eee.

  I looked around and saw an aging janitor in a gray jumpsuit pushing a trash can–and–bucket combo with a mop handle protruding from it. He smiled at me kindly across the sea of heads, then pulled the mop out of the water and started swabbing circles on the floor where the fish juice had splattered in a puddle at Mr. Wendel’s feet. Mr. Wendel was still staring daggers at me, but I shifted my gaze to the floor and wordlessly continued out of the cafeteria and into the hall he’d indicated.

  Eventually I came to a sign reading “Office of the Headmaster” at the foot of a flight of stairs leading upward. At the top was a long hall with both the walls and ceiling covered in polished oak paneling and lined with oil paintings of what I guessed were past headmasters. Each pair of stern eyes seemed to regard me disapprovingly as I passed. I could almost feel the walls closing in around me. I didn’t know why I’d been summoned to Professor Roth’s office, but I had the distinct impression of escaping the frying pan only to land right in the fire.

  At the end of the hall, a bronze placard beside a closed, solid oak door read “Professor Roth—Headmaster.” Just as I was building up the nerve to knock, I heard a scuff of shoes behind me. I whirled around to see Grimsby taking a great interest in one of the oil paintings of a past headmaster.

  “You’d think the artist could have left out that giant, hairy mole on this guy’s forehead,” he said.

  “There you are,” I said. “Thanks for bailing on me back there.”

  He turned to look at me and put his hands up in mock surrender. In his left hand was a drinking glass from the cafeteria. “Whoa, what do you mean? I probably just saved your life. You should be thanking me.”

  I crossed my arms. “Thanking you? For what? I—”

  He held the cup over his mouth and said, “Abby Beckett, will you please report to the headmaster’s office?”


  My eyes widened in surprise. “Wait … that was you? But how?”

  Grimsby grinned. “Let’s just say my first airtime on KNUT came a little earlier than expected.”

  I continued to stare at him as the pieces fit together, remembering him stopping off at the school radio station earlier in the day. He’d probably risked getting in big trouble to help me out. “Wow, that was … huge. Thanks. Really.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?” he said.

  I laughed, then swiveled my head to look up and down the hall. Empty, if you didn’t count the gallery of glaring headmaster paintings. “We should probably get out of here before …” I trailed off as something clicked in my brain.

  “Something wrong?” Grimsby said.

  I studied the portraits all around us. “No, I … just remembered how Doc said something about a gold frame being an excellent place to start looking for answers, or something like that.”

  “Oh, interesting. You think he meant one of these? There are plenty of gold frames here.” He stared around the hallway. “But which one?”

  I suddenly had a sinking feeling. There were probably fifty paintings of former headmasters lining the walls. And they all had gold frames. “I don’t know.” I turned to the one closest to me. “Maybe there’s something peculiar about one of them?”

  “Like what?”

  “Not a clue. I guess look for anything unusual.”

  We did a quick search down the hallway, studying each frame as we passed. Grimsby leaned so close to inspect one of the frames, his nose nearly touched it.

  “Speaking of unusual,” he said casually, “what did you mean earlier when you said to Bryn, and I quote, ‘You’re a Viking too’?”

  I stared at him blankly for a few seconds. “I thought you said you couldn’t hear anything.”

  “I lied.”

  Fantastic. I lowered my head and pinched my nose to ward off the headache that suddenly throbbed at the front of my skull.

  “Look,” he said. “You seem like you kind of need a friend. And even Doc suggested I might be able to help somehow. You can trust me. Really.”