Death's Academy Read Free Page A

the backseat. “This is a real unfortunate incident. I was looking forward to the Reapless this year, and I can only imagine how much you were looking forward to it too. But you know how those pesky rules can be.” I just notice a slight smile jump across his lips. “I imagine we’ll be seeing you in a couple weeks then, Magnificus?”
    Demien shuts the door behind me and then opens his own door to hop in.
    “Wait! Wait, Demien!” he calls out, rushing forward.
    This time I’m not imagining it; Demien has a real smile plastered across his face.
    “What is it, Magnificus? I’m in a hurry. Lots and lots of paperwork to do.”
    Magnificus comes up short and rubs his hands together with a look of consternation on his face.
    “You know, Demien, I guess there was no harm done. If you can promise me that he will get a harsh talking-to and any other punishments you can dole out, without, of course, any further involvement from me, I would consider the matter closed,” he says.
    “Really?” Demien asks.
    “Yes, yes.” Magnificus replies and then turns to me. “Just make sure you don’t come slinking around this neighborhood again, boy, and we’ll consider it all forgotten.”
    I nod several times. If I never see this part of town again, I’ll be the happiest hoodie this side of the river Styx.

    “You’re the boss, Magnificus,” Demien says, and the coach lurches forward.
    I’m thrown back into my seat, and my skull hits the hard leather headrest. I grimace and squint in pain atmy surroundings. It’s a typical Sickle coach, an unholy union between an eighteenth-century horse-drawn hearse and a station wagon. Certainly not the most becoming of vehicles, and it leaves a sour impression upon those that see it.
    In the interior, iron bars extend from the roof to the floor, dividing the prisoners from the driver and crisscrossing over the windows. The seats are made from some type of animal hide dyed the color of pitch and smoothed from centuries of use.
    We zoom around a corner and barely dodge a shorty school bus parked on the side of the road. The kids press their faces and “ooh” and “aah” at us as we race pass them with the siren blaring. You see, to you shorties, our vehicles look just like your everyday motorcycle, truck, or—in this case—police car.
    It’s all part of the big inoculation. Our dark world is all around you, but you’ve been “immunized” so you can’t recognize it for what it really is. To you, what looks like a cement truck might actually be a spike-covered chariot carpooling a group of hoodies to work, or it may just be a cement truck. That’s the beauty of it—you’ll never know. To you, it looks like a cement truck, and it sounds like a cement truck—heck, it even smells like a cement truck.
    How did we do it? Have you ever eaten a piece of chocolate, licked an ice cream cone, guzzled a soda, or, for you real weirdos, ever muscled down a brussels sprout? If so, then you’ve been immunized. We put a special concoction into those foods and countlessothers that numb three percent of your brain. Why else do you think babies cry all the time? You would too if you saw all of this crazy stuff around you.
    With each turn, I skip across the backseat and slam into the iron bars with a clank.
    “Ouch! Take it easy,” I protest.
    Demien glances over his shoulder at me and smirks.
    “Just because the halo isn’t pressing charges doesn’t mean you’re off the hook, kid,” he says, and then takes the next turn even sharper than before.
    This time I think my backside actually takes flight, and I hit not only my head, but also my kneecap on the iron bars.
    “Come on! That really hurts!” I yell.
    Demien’s smirk widens into a grin, but he seems to be placated. He doesn’t take the next turn quite so fast. He peers into his rearview mirror and squints at me.
    “Why do you look familiar? You gotten in trouble before?” he asks.
    “No. I mean, I’ve been grounded before by my