The War for the Waking World by Wayne Thomas Batson Page B

limply from one hand, stood Rigby Thames. But he was not alone. Shadows swirled around him.

NINE
    B ENEATH
    â€œY ESSS, MY QUEEEEEN ? ” ONE OF THE SHADOWS HISSED .
    â€œNeed us for mischief?” rasped another. There was a glimmer of furtive, darting eyes. The Scath were humanoid, possessing a head, torso, limbs, but they were also fluid: pouring, spilling, and swirling like liquid darkness. They could move like cats or spiders or bats, whatever type of locomotion suited the moment, and their voices slithered with a raspy, stumbling cadence.
    â€œGrowing weary of taunting this one.”
    â€œLittle left of the fleshling but a shell.”
    â€œWe’ve done as you asked.”
    â€œMight we go free?”
    Kara leered at the Scath. “Be patient,” she said. “I’ll have errands for you soon. Now, hide yourselves away for now. I wish to speak to Rigby . . . alone.”
    The Scath hissed but obeyed. They whirled between Rigby’s legs, around his torso, his neck . . . and then departed. Rigby stood in the threshold of the chamber. He smiled, but his shoulders drooped, and very dark circles hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. Slowly, with chains jangling, Rigby lifted his top hat and placed it upon his head.
    â€œWhy don’t you just get rid of me?” Rigby said, his English accent not so charming with such a weak, raspy voice. “Those beastly Scath won’t let me sleep.”
    â€œAwww,” Kara said. “Poor Rigby. Maybe you’d sleep better with some reading material.” She reached into her coat and removed the courier’s mailing tube. “Here.” She tossed it in the air, and then willed it to Rigby’s hands.
    â€œWhat’s this, then?” he asked, popping the cap off of the tube and shaking it until the document slid out. “Your last will and testament, I ’ope?”
    â€œLast will?” Kara laughed. “No, Rigby, I’ve only just begun to will things into being.”
    â€œWhat is it then?”
    â€œOpen it.”
    Rigby sighed. He tore open the envelope and removed the document within. With a flaming glance at Kara, he began to read. His grip on the document tightened, and tiny streaks of red lightning flickered around his eyes. “You revolting, backstabbing letch! You’ve stolen the company!”
    â€œStolen is hardly the appropriate word, Rigby,” she said. “This is business. Call it a hostile takeover.”
    â€œYou can’t do this,” Rigby growled. “I founded Dream Inc. Without me, there is no company. Frederick will—”
    â€œFrederick helped me put this document together,” Kara replied curtly. “And it’s a done deal, I’m afraid. You’re out. I’m in.”
    Rigby let the documents fall from his hands and, for a moment, Kara thought he might try once more to use his mental will. After all, he had been a formidable Dream Walker once upon a time. But Rigby tried no such thing. Pain from the cobalt manacles made for a pretty intense teacher. He’d learned, apparently. A shame, she thought.
    When Rigby spoke, his words were quiet, reserved. “Why’d you do it?” he asked. “Why, Kara? We ’ad a good thing going. We ’ad plans.”
    Kara shot up from the throne, her eyes ablaze. “ We had a good thing going?” she spat. “You wouldn’t even let me sit in your chair! You were always about yourself . . . you and your beloved Uncle Scovy. And, after the Rift was complete, I suppose you and your uncle wouldn’t have just cut me right out?”
    â€œOf course not,” Rigby shot back. “I knew I needed you. I knew we’d need each other to ’elp the world adjust . . . to a new reality.”
    â€œYou were always an awful liar, Rigby Thames,” Kara said dismissively. “Turns out, helping the world adjust isn’t so terribly hard. I’ve already done