Kingdom Keepers VI(24)

“Nothing big enough,” Maybeck told Finn in a whisper.

“Agreed.”

They passed a ten-foot tower of stacked tables, all fitting together like a puzzle. “But this is cool, right?” Finn said.

“Totally.”

“How about inside one of the alphabet blocks?”

“I guess it’s possible,” Maybeck said, “but he’d be squished.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care if he’s in torpor. We could try to move them. Test how heavy they are.”

“Solid.”

The boys reversed direction just as Philby spoke into Finn’s ear. “Red alert!”

“Hide!” Finn hissed.

The two boys slipped behind the alphabet blocks as two stagehands walked past the prop storage, silhouettes against the big screen. Their gait was stiff-legged, like robots or soldiers.

Maybeck sneezed, causing Finn to jump. One of the stagehands turned.

Finn spun away and slapped his back to the wood block. Maybeck’s face glowed bluish in the dark; he looked thunderstruck by his mistake.

“Dust,” he said.

“Not good,” Finn said.

* * *

Willa and Charlene huddled at the bottom of the backstage stairs. Every surface of the hallway was painted black and dimly lit by blue neon to keep stray light from infiltrating backstage.

Male voices echoed throughout, giving little hint as to their source or direction. To the right, the hallway dead-ended in a T; to the left it ran straight, clear across the area beneath the stage and to the other wing.

The girls knew from their earlier attempt to find Chernabog that two of the rooms off this corridor accessed substage service rooms, where the elevator lifts from the stage’s three trapdoors were loaded and unloaded. But there were other doors as well. Chernabog could be in hidden on the other side of any of them.

Twenty feet down the corridor, the sounds became clearer.

“We are walking toward the voices, Willa,” Charlene hissed.

“I’ve got that,” Willa said. She tried a door. Locked. She waved the crew member ID card supplied by Wayne. Unlocked. They stepped inside and switched on the light.

Four green-metal electric panel boxes on the wall, each the size of a washing machine, produced a loud humming. They carried stickers warning of electric shock—the stick figure lying down apparently symbolizing death. Metal conduits crisscrossed the ceiling. The room was small and was absurdly hot. It was not even close to being big enough to hide Chernabog.

The next door would not open to Willa’s credentials. It was labeled SERVICE BREAKERS—NO ADMITTANCE. They took it at face value.

A door to their left was familiar to them both as the larger of the two substage service areas. Some of the voices were clearly coming from within this room. Willa shook her head, but Charlene moved the lever anyway; the door opened. Charlene poked her head inside.

“Oh!” she said, feigning surprise. “Sorry; I’m looking for the washroom.”

Four guys wearing the all-black uniforms of stagehands, each holding a water bottle, sat on upturned crates.

“Two doors down,” said a potbellied. “On the right.”

Charlene took a mental snapshot of the space. The lightbulbs were turned down lower than candlelight, the blue neon painting the room in an otherworldly way. Chernabog’s smashed crate was nowhere to be seen. As before, the space was immaculately clean and tidy—shipshape—despite the dozens of props and pieces of furniture it contained. Every square inch was thoughtfully organized and accounted for. If Chernabog was still in here somewhere, it was far from obvious where he might be hidden.

“Your entrance isn’t for another twenty.” The man who spoke had sharp, angular features like a mouse’s; narrow-set, suspicious eyes; and the weight of distrust in his voice. He checked a clipboard. “Greenroom’s at the top of the stairs, starboard.”

“Go easy on her, Dixon,” the heavy guy said.

“There’s a washroom off the greenroom,” said Dixon. “But you know that.”

The subtext: What are you doing down here?

“Got it! Thanks!” Charlene said. She pulled the door shut.

Willa looked upset. Charlene made a face as if to say: So shoot me, I had to look! They had a mission to fulfill, and Charlene was more a field agent than an analyst; she liked action.

Not much bigger than a kitchen pantry, the next room smelled of engine oil and was filled with machinery. Again, no room for something Chernabog’s size. This was the trouble for the Keepers: any space identified as backstage and therefore away from guests was filled and utilized; there wasn’t an unused or unoccupied square inch on the ship.

“Trouble following directions?” A man’s voice.