march forward. The male answers, “Him,” and strains his head to look up.
“No! Wrong.” Willa repeats the riddle. Under her breath she tells Philby, “Get ready…”
The second challenge does the trick. The demons stop to ponder.
“Now!”
Philby and Willa run. The former studio back lot is laid out like a small town or community college, with city blocks of buildings separated by lanes. Philby leads Willa down Donald Avenue, between a building marked PLUMBING to their left and one marked TEAM to their right. He heads for a barnlike structure marked THE MILL .
At the door, Philby stops, out of breath. He and Willa glance back and see the demon duo coming at them, flying like puppets. They’re not like Superman or Iron Man—there’s nothing glamorous or cool about their form of levitation. They look like floating corpses, with their arms held stiffly at their sides as if they were still lying in their coffins. The sight turns Philby’s stomach. These monstrosities can’t possibly represent anything good. They are black holes in the world of good. They don’t belong here.
“What was the answer?” Philby asks Willa in a whisper.
“Tomorrow.”
“Intriguing!”
Willa pushes through the metal barn doors just as the demons arrive, flying insanely fast despite their awkward posture. The demons crash into the door with a screeching thud; Philby makes sure it’s locked, but an ominous scratching sound echoes through the space, followed by the unmistakable noise of metal tearing.
“They’re ripping through the door with their bare hands,” Willa says.
At that moment, a bony finger punches through the metal, nearly poking Willa in the eye. She screams and falls back.
“Told you we didn’t want to conduct tests,” Professor Philby says.
Willa’s fall knocks some lumber loose into a tangle on the floor. Willa glances around. “If we were looking for tools—”
The hand tears through the metal skin of the door and scrabbles down, trying to unlock the doorknob.
“—we’ve come to the right place.”
A carved wooden sign on the wall reads: THE MILL . There are workbenches and suspended light fixtures, and every available square inch is dedicated to storage or tools. Willa realizes that they are in a workshop for fabricating objects from all kinds of materials—wood, metal, glass, plastic, everything.
Philby slips one of a dozen wood chisels from its leather sheath. He stabs it into the hand. There’s no reaction, no apparent pain. He stabs it again. And again. Some brown powder leaks out, like flakes of rust.
“That’s disgusting,” Willa says.
The hand tries to work the doorknob, but it’s broken; nothing is working properly. Fingers flutter every which way in a comical dance.
A different hand—the female’s—punches through the concrete wall and turns the knob. Philby attempts to stab it, but the hand moves too quickly: an instant later, the door is unlocked and open. The demons lurch inside.
“How do we kill them?” Willa shouts.
“That could be a problem,” Philby says, “since they’re already dead.”
The two Keepers run to the far end of the room, where a group of handmade bows strung with nylon hang from a hook. On the worktable is a quiver of arrows. But the arrowheads are plastic and therefore useless.
Philby launches a hammer end over end—and misses the demons by a good five feet.
“That was effective,” Willa says drily, taking hold of a bow and stringing an arrow.
“Are you any good with—?”
But Willa answers Philby’s question before he can finish asking it, driving an arrow into the chest of the male demon. He doesn’t flinch.
“With demons…you have to remove the curse,” Philby says. “We aren’t strong enough! ”
The male demon takes the near side of the workbenches; the female, the far side. They lumber steadily forward.
“Look at me,” the male says. His voice is distant, like the echo of claws scratching stone a very long time
“No! Wrong.” Willa repeats the riddle. Under her breath she tells Philby, “Get ready…”
The second challenge does the trick. The demons stop to ponder.
“Now!”
Philby and Willa run. The former studio back lot is laid out like a small town or community college, with city blocks of buildings separated by lanes. Philby leads Willa down Donald Avenue, between a building marked PLUMBING to their left and one marked TEAM to their right. He heads for a barnlike structure marked THE MILL .
At the door, Philby stops, out of breath. He and Willa glance back and see the demon duo coming at them, flying like puppets. They’re not like Superman or Iron Man—there’s nothing glamorous or cool about their form of levitation. They look like floating corpses, with their arms held stiffly at their sides as if they were still lying in their coffins. The sight turns Philby’s stomach. These monstrosities can’t possibly represent anything good. They are black holes in the world of good. They don’t belong here.
“What was the answer?” Philby asks Willa in a whisper.
“Tomorrow.”
“Intriguing!”
Willa pushes through the metal barn doors just as the demons arrive, flying insanely fast despite their awkward posture. The demons crash into the door with a screeching thud; Philby makes sure it’s locked, but an ominous scratching sound echoes through the space, followed by the unmistakable noise of metal tearing.
“They’re ripping through the door with their bare hands,” Willa says.
At that moment, a bony finger punches through the metal, nearly poking Willa in the eye. She screams and falls back.
“Told you we didn’t want to conduct tests,” Professor Philby says.
Willa’s fall knocks some lumber loose into a tangle on the floor. Willa glances around. “If we were looking for tools—”
The hand tears through the metal skin of the door and scrabbles down, trying to unlock the doorknob.
“—we’ve come to the right place.”
A carved wooden sign on the wall reads: THE MILL . There are workbenches and suspended light fixtures, and every available square inch is dedicated to storage or tools. Willa realizes that they are in a workshop for fabricating objects from all kinds of materials—wood, metal, glass, plastic, everything.
Philby slips one of a dozen wood chisels from its leather sheath. He stabs it into the hand. There’s no reaction, no apparent pain. He stabs it again. And again. Some brown powder leaks out, like flakes of rust.
“That’s disgusting,” Willa says.
The hand tries to work the doorknob, but it’s broken; nothing is working properly. Fingers flutter every which way in a comical dance.
A different hand—the female’s—punches through the concrete wall and turns the knob. Philby attempts to stab it, but the hand moves too quickly: an instant later, the door is unlocked and open. The demons lurch inside.
“How do we kill them?” Willa shouts.
“That could be a problem,” Philby says, “since they’re already dead.”
The two Keepers run to the far end of the room, where a group of handmade bows strung with nylon hang from a hook. On the worktable is a quiver of arrows. But the arrowheads are plastic and therefore useless.
Philby launches a hammer end over end—and misses the demons by a good five feet.
“That was effective,” Willa says drily, taking hold of a bow and stringing an arrow.
“Are you any good with—?”
But Willa answers Philby’s question before he can finish asking it, driving an arrow into the chest of the male demon. He doesn’t flinch.
“With demons…you have to remove the curse,” Philby says. “We aren’t strong enough! ”
The male demon takes the near side of the workbenches; the female, the far side. They lumber steadily forward.
“Look at me,” the male says. His voice is distant, like the echo of claws scratching stone a very long time
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