The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,10

I hear behind me. My heart races as I twirl around, staff at the ready.

I’m face-to-face with my old pal, Sailor Cap, who clacks his big grinning teeth at me, then plunges his sword through my heart. Though I feel no pain, the force knocks me backward, and I drop my mage staff.

Fy fæn.

Score one for the boneheads.

As I slump to the stone floor, my ear trans starts beeping at me, summoning me back to real life. I can’t believe thirty minutes have passed so quickly—I would have guessed no more than fifteen—but then again, it’s easy to lose track of time in battle.

When I open my eyes, my parents hover over me, staring into my face. I nearly jump out of my skin. “Jeez!” I yell, sitting up on the couch. “That’s totally creepy! What are you doing?”

My parents look at each other, like they’re trying to decide which one of them should answer. As I try to back away from their looming faces, I notice that Chang and Moose are still asleep on either side of me.

“Did you guys override my ear trans?” I ask, irritated by the parental intrusion. This really isn’t their style. “And why are you back already?”

Mom clears her throat. “Phoenix, our boss just called—”

Uh-oh, I think. Too much unauthorized bounty hunting. They’re shutting me down. “Little boss or big boss?” I ask, turning to my dad.

“The boss,” he says. “Very very big big boss.”

“Diego Salvador called?” I ask. My mind is whirling. Surely the MEEP’s head honcho doesn’t deal with small-fry levellers like me. That’s what minions are for. “So what did he want? Are you both getting huge promotions?” I ask and fake a smile, though I know that’s definitely not the case. My parents look way too serious for this to be good news.

Mom shakes her head. “It’s his son . . . Mr. Salvador’s only son has gone missing in the MEEP.”

So I’m not busted. I shrug as the relief washes over me. “Tell them to send in the MEEP-O Men,” I say. “Kid’s probably hiding out in some virtual tiki hut surrounded by topless hula dancers. They’ll find him soon enough.”

Dad frowns. “It’s not that simple, Nix. Apparently they’ve been trying to reach Wyn for days, but he’s managed to barricade himself in.”

“Well, that was asinine,” I say. “But he’ll surface soon. His real body’s gotta be pretty hungry by now.”

My parents exchange a grim look.

“That’s just it, sweetie,” says Mom. She takes my hands and kneels beside me. “He left behind a suicide note.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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DIEGO SALVADOR’S PRIVATE JET IS SO SWANK I KEEP REACHING INTO my pocket for my phone. I’m dying to take a photo of myself reclining in the leather lounge chair, sipping ginger ale from a crystal glass, so Chang and Moose can see what they’re missing. But then I remember that this is all supposed to be TOP SECRET, like we’re on some James Bond spy mission to Russia. All that’s missing is an exotic-looking woman with a bountiful rack named Anita Shelferdeez and we’ll be set.

Unfortunately, I’m not able to share these thoughts with anyone else on this fancy tin can because I’m surrounded by furrowed brows: Dad next to me, who’s squinting into his laptop, and Kora Lee across from us, who’s grimacing at her phone. Kora is Diego Salvador’s personal assistant, sent to collect us at the heinous hour of six this morning at the small airfield outside of town.

After my parents broke the news to me yesterday about Salvador’s missing son, things went a little crazy. Chang and Moose were shuffled out the door with Tupperwared leftovers, my mom answering their puzzled faces with nondescript murmurs: “family emergency, nothing to worry about, Great-Aunt Martha . . .”

Once they were gone, Dad dialed up Diego Salvador on his laptop, while I combed my fingers through my hair and grumbled a bit. Here we were, about to videoconference with the richest, most powerful man on the planet, and I was wearing an old Zelda T-shirt with a fresh gravy stain on the chest.

I don’t think Mr. Salvador noticed. When his face popped on the screen, it looked just like it had on the cover of Time magazine last year when he was declared Man of the Year: tan, handsome, slightly graying hair, a jaw that meant business. He greeted us tersely, managing a polite nod of the head for my mom, but clearly in no mood for small talk.

“Phoenix,”