Chapter 4: Reader Beware

While waiting in the dean’s office, nervousness and paranoia hit me. Many things filled my mind, but I was sure of one thing.

The Lovable Bubblegum Myles had stolen caused my delusions. This campus teemed with creatives who loved edibles infused with hallucinogens. I just so happened to be the lucky recipient of a strawberry microdose.

Come to think of it, the effects must not have worn off. I swore I had been sitting for five minutes. Yet, half an hour had passed when I looked at the clock.

Where had my mind gone? What is taking so long? It’s stupid that I’m even here.

The office was busy. I did my best to keep my head down, but the not-so-subtle glances from Miss Bakirtzis, the dean’s secretary, and a few student assistants, in addition to an odd number of security guards present, made me paranoid. I tried to calm myself, but I remembered that as soon as I had left Mrs. Nelson-Perkins’s classroom, I noticed a security guard in glasses seemingly—or was it intentionally—following me across campus to the office building. What was up with all the security guards? Were they there to escort me to the police?

Do I look like I’m on drugs? I feel like I’m on drugs.

In one of my nervous outward glances, I noticed Teena Aoki, a Dean’s Student Advisory Council member. Her recruitment skills, especially her ability to organize major successful school events, made her well-known across the campus—the upcoming We! Not Me! Rally! was her brainchild. However, Teena’s skills, gorgeous looks, and socially spellbinding attitude put her on the unattainable list. Before I dropped out of my pursuit of academic excellence, she and I had worked on at least two social campaigns, but I kept my distance. I didn’t want her to see me crushing.

I wouldn’t have minded her looking over at me at that moment, but she never glanced my way. Then, after a short while, she left the office, and I returned to my paranoia.

Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users sat on my lap. Under the illumination of the dean’s office’s fluorescent lights, there was nothing remotely scary about it—more reason to buy into my Lovable Bubblegum theory.

Sure, its eleven-and-a-half by nine, thick, leather-and-wood frame cover added to its ancient allure. The side latches were also a nice touch. But the title and accompanying graphic engraved on the cover had no artistic merit. All in all, it looked like an old-school textbook from the seventies.

I flipped the book to its side, popped both latches, and scanned the parchment pages from back to front. Only one word came to mind. Scratch that, make it two—effing badass!

I instantly became consumed with skimming the whole book. Every randomly viewed page blew my mind. I sensed myself slipping into a zone, like discovering a graphic novel with the perfect fusion of art and words for the first time.

What a fantastic expansion pack.

This guidebook was unlike anything I had ever seen for The Lords of Omni: kickass art, occult-looking diagrams, info charts, story factoids, hundreds, no, thousands of spells, and an off-the-charts listing of monsters and demons. The illustrations of the strange and wondrous beasts fueled my page-turning frenzy. But one beast made me pause.

Daemon Canis Infernalis Familiaris.

Bold black letters crowned the title. The word cracked beneath my breath as I whispered it, “Hellhound.” There was something completely majestic, mesmerizingly familiar, about this creature. I felt compelled to brush my hand across its image. Almost as if I desired to pet it.

It wasn’t just a drawing. It seemed alive to me—its eyes were inked in such a way that they appeared to know me. The fur was exquisitely detailed, as if the artist had delicately woven it together from tangible shadows and smoke. From somewhere deep within, I knew this creature—an echo, maybe a fragment of a dream. Yet I had never laid eyes on anything like it in my life. After lingering far too long, I finally worked my way back to the beginning of the volume.

I only stopped because I read the words: READER BEWARE.

This is why you start at the front of a book instead of skipping around. So what is that warning for? Is it supposed to scare the reader? And this—why is a small envelope attached to the page below it?

My paranoia flared again as I moved my fingers to lift the flap. This time, it was accompanied by a shaking hand and a dreadful feeling to scan my surroundings. I soothed my inescapable urges and looked up, catching several students swiftly averting their stares. I latched the book and zipped it back into my bag.

Damn it! Here comes a security guard. They must think I’m tweaking.

I exhaled slowly—

But he walked past me.

This is crazy. Why are all these rent-a-cops here? Something’s off!

“God! Billy, you are an unfolding tragedy.”

The voice of my cousin, Becca Bramwell-Gates, set my nerves on a different path—one that led straight toward irritation. I felt justified stashing away the book.

She stood right before me—way too close to my personal space. I couldn’t help but notice, and I hated to admit it. Becca never failed to impress. Unlike me, she was a shining symbol of our family’s social status—beyond kempt, dressed in only designer clothes, and with makeup and hair that looked as if she had walked off the set of a big-budget film. Before I could respond to her opening dig, she sat down beside me and pressed her index finger to my lips.

“Wait! Take a mint before you respond.”

Becca handed me a mint, which I flicked to the ground without hesitation. I’m not stupid. It had to be some sort of enchanted poison. Back in the day, she used to role-play with me, and she was a very nasty sorceress.

“No thanks, Becca. If I’m lucky, my bad breath might ward you off.”

“If not that, the slight dungeon musk that seems to accompany you might. Why haven’t you been to the mansion in a while? What’s the matter, Billy? Aren’t you glad to see your dear cousin?”

“You want the truth or the cordial family sentiment?”

“It would be nice if you addressed me with your proper family upbringing.”

“Okay. Eff off.”

“Billy, your dismissive banter was a bit intimidating when you gave me an academic challenge in high school. But I’m number one in this institution. So, one word: inefficace.”

“Don’t you have an after-school activity to lord over? Why are you bothering me?”

“Just to give you some advice, cousin. I heard what happened to you. You know, I get that you are a geek. Look at you. Tacky. Dirty sneakers. The typical faded t-shirt with a fissured animation decal. And the hair—don’t get me started. Seriously, you are not cute enough to work the druggie look. You just look like one. Go against type and clean yourself up. Maybe people would stop picking on you.”

“Negative hits followed with complimentary advice—classic seduction! So drop the save-a-geek spiel and cut to the chase. What do you want?”

“Ah, what the hell? You know me too well. So, where’s the book? I want to see what caused all the commotion.”

“Mrs. Nelson-Perkins kept it.”

I betrayed my lie when I instinctively tightened my arms around my backpack. I had to be careful. Becca had a way of getting things from me.

“Stop lying. Let me see it.”

The metaphorical tug-o’-war nature of our relationship turned into a literal one.

“Give me the bag.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Stop it, Becca.”

“What? Are you going to tell Mr. Shulenmeyers, you little brat?”

Her words instantly dragged up a memory of Becca and me as kids. Where she had stood, I saw a grinning miniature version of her, playfully saying, “Lil brat.” And I remembered—her crooked smile had been the beacon of my day. But now, it was just another reason I chose to avoid her so often. I wanted to forget. But much like The Nameless One, she would never let me.

Then—poof—the mirage of my favorite cousin gave way to the self-serving debutante she’d become, so obsessed with the elite game. I never understood why she caved to our family’s garbage. We were supposed to change things.

In that brief drift of reminiscing, Becca struck.

“I want to see that book!”

Her hands lunged at my backpack. I’ll give it to her—it was a solid effort. But all she managed to do was tear my left strap a bit. Her aggression was a stern reminder: I always needed to keep my guard up around her.

“Why the hell do you want to see a Lords of Omni guidebook so bad? You don’t even role-play anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed, flickering with desperate curiosity and a hint of confusion. Then the creak of a door opening drew our attention to Mr. Shulenmeyers, the dean of Bramwell-Gates Arts Institute.

Our match was over. Becca lost.

We sprang apart, wide-eyed and innocent. I imagined we must’ve looked like children trying to hide a scuffle from their parents.

Becca quickly produced a small handheld mirror in front of her face and fixed a slight imperfection in her hair.

“Hello, Mr. Shulenmeyers. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“It was until Billy got my golf trip canceled.”

“Sorry to hear. I’m not sure why he just can’t be the model student he used to be.”

In unison, they both shared a disapproving glare in my direction. Or was that just my paranoia? It seemed like forever, but Becca redirected her small talk back to Mr. Shulenmeyers.

“Oh. Don’t forget our appointment tomorrow. The student council has—”

“Right. Tomorrow. I have some serious business to discuss with Billy here.”

“Looking forward to our discussion. Have a good rest of the day.”

A friendly but off-putting vibe was shared between them—something in the shadows. I started to examine it, but I shifted away. No doubt it concerned the precious Bramwell-Gates name.

Pulling away from Mr. Shulenmeyers, Becca leaned into me and whispered, “I’ll see that book one way or another. Bye, loser.”

She whipped around and, coyly, walked off.

Mr. Shulenmeyers motioned for me to come in. I could sense, from his taut demeanor, that he was operating fully as the Dean, not the man who had helped me through the dark years after my mother’s death.

I entered and slipped into the chair by the window. It was my favorite spot in the office. Over the years, I’d sat there on many occasions—sometimes as a youth sponsor, sometimes as an academic achiever—but mostly to visit my mother, Lauren Bramwell-Gates, former dean of the institute.

I believe it was the warm sunlight filtering across the room that evoked my vision of her, seated behind the baroque wooden desk, calmly giving orders. She had commanding yet lovely features, and I could hear her voice, stern but soothing.

Not to throw shade at Mr. Shulenmeyers, but his time in administration was mainly spent as a headpiece for the board and the student council.

“I must say, Billy, this is new territory for you. Every other time you have been in this office, it was to accept academic accolades. But to everyone’s disappointment, you fell off the achievement horse. Now it looks like you are trudging in muddy water. What’s this about you creating anarchy in Mrs. Nelson-Perkins’s class?”

“I was set up by He Whose Name is Not Spoken.”

“You can say Dane. It’s much easier.”

“Um, no.”

Mr. Shulenmeyers knew The Nameless One and my complicated history. He had been there for all of it. Our friendship. Our rivalry. The betrayal. And he thoroughly washed his hands of it.

“Shh. Shh. Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“Listen. It’s a scratching noise, maybe a dog scratching. Hear it. Did you hear it?”

Mr. Shulenmeyers lifted a fancy pen from its tray, clicked it, and started walking through his office. It appeared he was trying to track the noise, clicking and walking. I was a little freaked out by his odd behavior.

“Back to the matter at hand. Where were we?”

Once again, I attempted to finish my recounting of the previous events, but I could tell he wasn’t listening. Instead, he was feverishly shifting items around on the bookshelf, so I stopped speaking.

After a beat, I guess the silence got to him. He shifted my way awkwardly and scooped up a jar of candies.

“Jelly bean? Jujube? Lemon drop? How about a hot red one? You love those.”

I passed on each confection and continued.

“Just because I implied that The Nameless One was stupid, he orchestrated the prank with the book.”

“Ah. The book. Do you mind?”

I pulled the book out of my backpack and handed it to Mr. Shulenmeyers. He abruptly stopped chomping the candies he’d taken for himself, tilted his head, and read the title.

“Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users. So this is the book.”

Before he finished his sentence, he’d turned pale. Then, his urbane presence cracked into fidgety discomfort, and he tossed the book back at me as if it were going to give him a virus.

If that wasn’t enough, he turned, scanning side to side. A panicked expression shot across his face.

“You had to have heard that just then. It’s louder.”

“Uh. No.”

“No? No?”

He refocused on the book. Click. Click. Click.

“Put it away. I don’t see the fuss.”

His words shortened my breath. No way would I have called that from his weird reaction, but I played it cool. “I want you to know… it’s not mine.”

“I love it when students tell me ‘It’s not mine,’ especially when they are caught red-handed. The campus druggie: ‘No, Mr. S., it’s not my pills.’ The campus pervert: ‘No, Mr. S., it’s not my camera filled with upskirt shots.’ And now the campus wizard. Do you get me?”

“But—”

As Mr. Shulenmeyers talked, he paced around and clicked the pen. I could tell he was still trying to locate the scratching noises. I honestly heard nothing.

Wait, maybe it’s the book. Perhaps he’s having the same reaction as I did.

“Are you seeing any dark clouds filling the room?”

“Huh, what? Look, son, between you and me, I have my hands full with administrative minutiae, overseeing this ridiculous We! Not Me! Rally!… and boosting security to fend off panic.”

Mr. Shulenmeyers gestured to the scattered files and documents dressing his desk, then twisted his computer monitor toward me. Right there on full screen, the trending story of the recent campus muggings, complete with an ominous rendering of an obscured person in a hoodie holding a bat.

The headline read, “Living in Fear of the Campus Slugger.”