The Rejects of Haron: Fantasticademy, #4

Copyright © 2023 by D.J. Edmiston

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written consent of the author or author’s representative, except for brief excerpts used in reader reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons, events, locations, business entities, Rejects, or Mordimians, living, dead, or otherwise, is coincidental or used fictitiously. Because it’s fiction.

Cover, illustrations, and interior design by Leaky McCreaky. Select fantasy map and desert icons by Ralf Schemmann. Rainbow angel wings image by Ihor Veselskyi (dreamstime.com). Angel earring image by DRN Studio (shutterstock.com.) Interior fire background © Can Stock Photo/dvarg. Cover fire image by fluke samed (shutterstock.com). Cover grass image by Liliya Linnik (shutterstock.com).

ISBN (Ebook): 979-8-9889151-1-9

Published by edmistories

www.djedmiston.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Map of Lumintasia

Map of Mordim

Chapter 1: Air

Chapter 2: Cumulus Castle

Chapter 3: Hawktopus

Chapter 4: The Hyacinth

Chapter 5: The Soul Cell

Chapter 6: Through the Inferno Wall

Chapter 7: The Gallery

Chapter 8: The Charleston

Chapter 9: The Whisperer

Chapter 10: The Refuge

Chapter 11: The EagleLynx

Chapter 12: The Oasis

Chapter 13: Char

Chapter 14: Tag

Chapter 15: The Killer’s Cube

Chapter 16: The Battle of Haron

Chapter 17: Puer Lucis

Chapter 18: Alumni

Author’s Note

Appendix (Characters, Magical Objects, and Places)

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also in this Series

For Deb, eternally or whenever

Chapter 1: Air

It wasn’t every day you knew you were going to die.

Twelve-year-old Raymond Dillon cracked open the front door to the Cane Street Home for Boys, wiping the dried tears from his cheeks. His breath pinched into a feeble wheeze—nothing new, of course, but worsened with the anticipation of his coming beatdown by ‘Billy Club’ McGee. The head of a gang called ‘The Team,’ Billy often wore a baseball cap and jersey to fool unsuspecting adults into thinking he was a sports-loving tyke, but it was merely a cover to smuggle a bat inside the orphanage. While not an athlete, Billy possessed an undeniable talent. He could hit a home run with your face.

Step it up, Dillon, shot the director’s voice behind Raymond. It’s twenty minutes to supper.

Right away, Mr. Tom, Raymond said, slipping into the foyer. The Home’s director, Tom Berg, brushed past him on the way to the office. Raymond scanned his surroundings for threats. Old hardwood floor. Hissing radiator. Three doorways, leading to dimly lit corridors. This was the school’s Free Time, the only period of the day when residents roamed the grounds at will, and the gang could lurk in any shadow. It was odd, Raymond thought, that everything in the universe, even death itself, paled next to the fear of getting thrashed by Billy Club McGee. Such were the priorities in the Boys’ Home.

He stepped forward, his dirty leather shoe tripping on the floor. Dratscabbed feet! he thought. Of his countless imperfections, Raymond hated his feet the most. Narrow and stubby, they protruded awkwardly from his ankles like dried-up onion bulbs, allowing him the grace of an ice-skating elephant. Granted, his other deficiencies were more extreme—knock-knees made him trip, the pudge around his middle threatened to burst every button on his patched-up cotton shirt, and asthma closed his lungs whenever he got too worked up. But his feet were the worst. Normal feet made you run from danger and helped to keep your balance during a panic attack. They encouraged you to stand tall and set a powerful example for others. Best of all, feet could dance. But there would be no more dancing today. The doctor had made sure of that.

A sudden motion in the hallway jolted him in place—Hank Staples, the language and drama instructor. Raymond hurried to him, grateful for the added protection against Billy. 

Hello, Mr. Hank! Raymond said. Recently, the children were allowed to call teachers by their first names, as long as it was preceded by the respectful Mr., Miss, or Mrs. This was a compromise between the Home and its state supervisors, who wished to update the institution to the current 1928 standards and make the facility less prisonlike. But the bars on every window spoke otherwise.

Dillon. Back so soon? Mr. Hank said.

Raymond struggled to keep up with the teacher’s pace, who walked more briskly whenever annoying students were around. Yes, Mr. Hank. Thank you.

No need to thank me. It was a question, not a compliment. Shouldn’t you be setting up for dinner?

On my way to the kitchen now. And oh—do you still need help with the Shakespeare play?

Help?

Yes. You said you were looking for volunteers to put up the set.

Oh. That was only for students who finished their English papers, Dillon.

I did finish.

How? You’ve been at the doctor’s all day.

I finished it three days ago.

Mr. Hank’s eyebrows lifted. All twenty pages?

Yes. And thirty sources with a Works Cited page. So can I help? I’ll carry the flats, pull out the risers...

Is that a joke? You wouldn’t last five seconds without passing out.

I’ll be careful.

Save your energy, Dillon. We don’t need you hurting yourself. You’re a burden enough as it is.

Raymond’s heart fell. A burden.

Mr. Hank rolled his eyes. Look, don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s just that some kids help best by keeping out of the way. But you can watch the play in a couple of days with everyone else. First row, even. Sound good?

Sure, Mr. Hank.

Excellent. The teacher slapped him on the shoulder and rushed away. Now hustle to the kitchen. That food won’t serve itself.

Thank you, Mr. Hank.

It wasn’t a compliment, Dillon.

No kidding, Raymond thought. He shuffled down the hall, adjusting his suspenders. In keeping with the Home’s prisonlike environment, all the residents dressed alike, although not in official uniforms, which proved too expensive. Leather shoes, tall socks, knickers, and buttoned white shirts were the norm, but mercifully, Mr. Tom had approved Raymond to use suspenders, due to his knickers constantly slipping below his substantial waistline. Also like inmates, every child had a list of daily chores. Raymond had been designated Meals Server, one of thirty kids bringing food to the Home’s two hundred residents every mealtime. It was a wonder that the managers allowed him to keep the job. He always broke at least a couple of plates a day, an embarrassment worsened by the fact that talking was prohibited in the dining room. A dropped spoon would echo. A shattered plate was an earthquake.

He reached a split in the hallway, peering around the corners for Billy. The next door ahead lay the utility room, a shortcut to the kitchen. If you could ignore the creepy equipment and midnight-black corridor, it was generally safe from gangs. He creaked open the wooden door, using the spilled-in light to reveal any bat-wielding thugs. Finding only dust and random spiderwebs, he stepped inside. An aisle led through the center of the room, with four corridors branching off its sides, filled with furnaces, pipes, and fuse boxes. Raymond inspected the halls as he tiptoed past them. Empty. Empty. But the third corridor stopped his heart. Something had moved! With a burst of adrenaline, he sprinted toward the kitchen. But his shoes tripped him up, and he slapped face-down on the concrete floor.

Dratscabbed feet...!

He hurriedly pushed himself up. No billy club connected with his skull, but a strange sound froze him in place. He listened to make sure he had heard it correctly. A few seconds later, it repeated.

Meeerowww...

He frowned. A cat in the utility room? But how could that be? No pets were allowed in the Home, and for one to get this far into the orphanage was nearly impossible. He sneaked into the corridor, searching for the animal. Nothing. Losing your mind, kid, he told himself. But as he turned away, a caterwaul came from the height of his ear.

Mrowl!

Raymond jumped. The cat was crouched inside the furnace, through a football-sized opening that housed the pilot light. The animal stared at Raymond with wild eyes. Despite the intense blue flame beside her, she didn’t appear uncomfortable. One wrong move, however, and she might get startled, leaping into the fire and turning an odd situation tragic.

Hey, Miss Kitty, Raymond whispered. What are you doing in there? You’re gonna burn yourself. He carefully reached into the furnace, trying not to touch the hot metal casing. The cat arched her back and growled. Choking on his fear, Raymond grasped the scruff of her neck, pulling her free from the furnace. The animal spat, but he rested her safely on the floor. Matted black fur sprouted from her malnourished body, and several bare spots exposed her rash-infected skin. Her feral gaze darted about as if searching for threats, but sometimes in opposite directions, as though each eyeball had its own hyperactive brain. But it was a feature on her left shoulder that drew his attention the most.

Oh! You’re missing a leg, he said. There was no dried blood or obvious injuries. She must have been born that way or had suffered an amputation long ago. So how did a three-legged cat get inside the orphanage? he asked. He waited for an answer, which didn’t come. Because you’re a cat, he reminded himself with a snicker. Well, we should put you outside, he said. No pets allowed. You don’t want to be a rule-breaker, do you?

She batted the air with her paw, then sprang upward, landing softly on her feet. Just as suddenly, she twisted onto her back, scratching herself on the floor. Raymond giggled.

Well, you’re an odd one. Maybe you don’t care about the rules. Too bad I do. I’ll carry you, okay? She hissed, and Raymond froze. Okey-dokey. We’ll walk, then. He gestured for the animal to follow him. Instead, she chased her tail in circles, then stumbled with dizziness. As if defeated, she lay down to mope. Wow. Have you always been this...interesting, Miss Kitty? Before the cat could answer—which she couldn’t, because she was still a cat—a door slammed, followed by a few boys’ voices. 

Where’d it go, Billy?

It’s in here, I bet. Can’t get far on three legs.

Sneaky little booger, huh, Billy?

Not when I’m through with it. It won’t be sneakin’ nowhere.

Shadows played along the aisle, getting larger as the boys drew nearer. Raymond backed against the wall, concealing the cat behind his shoes. The animal didn’t mind, distractedly grooming her face with her front leg. At the end of the corridor, Billy appeared, flanked by two members of ‘The Team,’ Jack Jacobs and Earl Walsh. Both boys held losing tickets in the likeability lottery, Jack with a screeching cackle that would throw a dolphin off course, Earl with body odor that could peel the paint off the Mona Lisa. Billy had fared only slightly better. He was loathed purely for his violent tendencies, reflected in the baseball bat he now clenched in his fist.

Well, lookie here, Team, Billy said, glaring at Raymond. We ain’t found a cat. Only a weasel.

Earl scoffed. We should break his face for that stunt he pulled this morning. Throwing juice in your face.

Billy waved him off. We got bigger fish to fry. You seen a cat around here, limp lungs?

Raymond shook his head. No. It’s just me, Mr. Billy.

Then what’re you doing in here?

Checking the furnace.

Yeah? You a handyman now? Billy clapped the bat against his palm. You ain’t lying to The Team, are you?

Raymond stepped back, pinning the cat against the wall. She wriggled, and he feigned a cough to distract the boys. But the fake cough triggered a real one, and soon he was having a full-on hacking fit. This was how the breathing attacks began. Next would come the wheezing, and finally, a blackout. Billy smirked.

Here he goes again, boys. The gasper’s back.

What a wheezer, chuckled Earl.

Yeah! Wheezer! Jack piped in with a shriek. He stunk at trash talk and usually repeated whatever had just been said.

Billy leaned forward. You ain’t gonna croak on us, are you, gasper? Catch pneumonia and die like your parents?

It’s...almost dinner time, Mr. Billy, Raymond sputtered. You should...go to the dining room. You might get in trouble.

Trouble! Billy grinned, exposing his cracked front tooth. I never get in trouble. I’m untouchable. You hear me? When Raymond didn’t respond, Billy screamed. Hear me?! Flinching with surprise, the cat jerked from her hiding place behind Raymond’s shoes.

There it is! Earl said.

Another cough blew out of Raymond’s mouth.

Leave her alone!

Billy scowled. It’s only a stray. No one’ll miss it.

I will.

Earl pretended to cry. So sad! Is Waymond gonna wose his wittle fwiend?

Wittle fwiend! said Jack.

Billy’s eyes narrowed. If you don’t hand over the stray, this is gonna go way worse for you, gasper.

You’re not gonna...hurt her, Mr. Billy.

She won’t hurt for long, Billy said. But you will.

Leave us alone, Raymond tried to say. But his throat had pinched shut. The wheezes came fast and deep. As the world spun, Billy and the gang blurred, then doubled in number. They might as well have been a mob.

Whoa, look at his eyes flutter! Billy laughed. You’re like a flapper, flirtin’ with the joes!

The joes! Jack said.

Raymond slipped to the floor. Billy’s taunts grew muffled, but one phrase came through loud and clear.

Get the cat, boys...

The Team pounced. Raymond screamed, pulling the stray to himself. But the animal writhed free, and in a single swoop, leaped off his shoulder, scratching Billy’s cheek and landing on the furnace, dangling from the ledge with her paw. She struggled to pull herself up, but Raymond scooped her into his arms, sprinting from the corridor. Billy’s furious voice pursued them.

You’re dead, Raymond Dillon!

What else is new, Raymond thought. He tossed open the kitchen door, finding half a dozen children boiling soup and chopping potatoes. His vision turned sideways, and he collided with Walter Walsh, an orphan carrying a stack of dinner plates. As the porcelain smashed to the tile floor, Raymond called back, Sorry, Mr. Walter! then flung open the first door he came to—instantly regretting his decision. It was the outside storage area, the worst place he could have gone. Enclosed space. Fence topped with razor wire. No makeshift weapons to grab, only two garbage cans and a barrel of dirty cooking oil. The cat struggled in his arms, and Raymond tried to climb the fence to hoist her over the top. But with his wheezing, not-thin weight, and dratscabbed feet, he didn’t stand a chance. Maybe if he moved a garbage can, stood on top of it and—

Too late. Billy, Jack, and Earl spilled through the kitchen door, panting from the pursuit. A bloody scratch ran the length of Billy’s face.

We tried to...warn you, gasper, Billy said.

Raymond clutched the cat, consoled by its soft fur. With his beatdown inevitable, he was free to speak his mind. Sorry, Mr. Billy, I can’t hear you through your huffing. Do you have limp lungs?

Billy sneered. Laugh it up. When we’re finished, you’ll be lucky if you’re breathing at all. Batter up, Team.

Billy raised his club, and as he swung, Raymond dropped to the ground, shielding the cat with his shoulder. But no strike came. He peeked over his arm, and in surprise, fell against the oil container. The gang had frozen in place, their furious expressions hardened like statues made of wax. Behind them smiled a thin, elderly woman in a wheelchair, with two gray wings extending from her back. She held a wand between her fingers.

Hello, Raymond Dillon. It’s fantastic to meet you. My name is Barb.

She gazed at him with a fondness he had never experienced, a far cry from the look of pity most people tossed his way. He lost himself in her wings’ feathers, fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Are you... an angel? he asked.

What gives you that idea? she said, eyes twinkling playfully.

But what kind of angel has a wheelchair?

One who was injured by another angel. I got off lucky. Not only did I survive, I lived long enough to find you here on Dearth.

Dearth?

My word for ‘Earth.’

Doesn’t ‘dearth’ mean ‘shortage’?

She grinned. I’ve always admired your vocabulary skills, Raymond. I call Earth ‘Dearth’ to express the human desire for meaning that is often elusive. Take you, for instance. I understand you’ve had a challenging life. I wondered if I might improve it for you. Shall we start by ridding ourselves of disagreeable company?

She waved the wand, and in a swelling orb of light, Billy and the Team disappeared. Raymond’s mouth fell open.

Where did they go? he asked.

You’ve heard of magic, I presume? I teleported the boys to separate places around the orphanage. The play yard, the gathering room, the director’s office. They shall be quite startled, I imagine. Especially since they won’t remember the last five minutes and will wonder why they’re wearing diapers.

Diapers!

Colorful ones, too. I thought a hearts-and-unicorns pattern might settle them down a bit.

Raymond giggled. Billy, Jack, and Earl, wearing diapers? Who was this woman? So if you’re an angel, why are you here?

Three reasons. The first is in your arms. She gestured at the cat. You risked your own safety for the well-being of an innocent animal. That shows compassion. You also stood up to the gang. That shows bravery. Last, you’ve faced a heartbreaking life without demanding sympathy or special treatment. That shows integrity.

But how did you see all that?

"I have my ways. Namely, a magic lantern