Sometimes, monsters are hard to see.
—FROM THE TEXTBOOK MINION SPECIES, BY DR. D. CRITCHLORE
What video?" I asked.
"I don't know," Frankie said. "But everyone's saying it could ruin the school."
Frankie stood in front of me, frantically twisting one of the bolts in his neck, back and forth, back and forth.
Frankie was Dr. Frankenhammer's twenty-fifth attempt to create a superhuman. Even though he was as skinny as a grasshopper, he was faster and stronger than a full-grown man, or even a full-grown ogre. If he'd thrown that chunk of stone, we probably wouldn't have a wall above our window. He had a flattop of black hair, caveman eyebrows, and bolts on the side of his neck that he fiddled with when he was nervous, which was always.
The three of us had been roommates for two years. I felt a little guilty for wanting to move out, but I didn't belong with them. Sometimes I wondered if they'd make it as minions. My foster brother, Pierre, a human, graduated five years ago and wasn't recruited by a single evil overlord. Now he worked in the kitchen with my foster mother, Cook.
Frankie and Darthin were both looking at me. I knew what they wanted, but I had to fix my dorm assignment.
"It's the only place we can watch it," Darthin said.
"I'm sorry, but I have to go see Miss Merrybench," I said.
"What if it does ruin the school?" Frankie said. "What will happen to me? I don't have any other home."
I didn't either, but I thought Frankie was overreacting.
"Everyone's talking about it," Frankie said. "So it's got to be bad, right?" He started pacing. Twisting his bolts and pacing.
"Higgins," Darthin whispered. He nodded at Frankie, and I knew what he meant. Frankie was losing it.
"Daddy's already working on a new model," Frankie went on. He had stopped twisting and was holding the top of his head down, which was a very bad sign. "What if he doesn't want me anymore?"
He let go to hug himself, and when he did—
Pop!
His head shot up into the air, landed with a thump, and rolled under his bed. And then, just like a chicken in similar circumstances, Frankie's body began to race around the room, arms outstretched. Blood spurted out: a fountain of red that almost reached the ceiling before his strong neck muscles contracted to slow the gush to a gurgling trickle.
"Quick!" I said, slipping in blood as I reached for him. "I'll grab his body. Darthin, you get his head."
I grabbed the squirming, headless body in a tight bear hug. As blood dribbled over me, I thought it was a good thing Frankie didn't bunk with the vampires. He'd never get his head back on.
Re-heading Frankie was really a four-person operation: one to hold the head, one the body, and two to peel down the neck skin and hook all the tubes back together. It was risky, but I decided to turn off Frankie's blood pump, which stopped his body from squirming, making it easier for Darthin and me to reattach his head. Once we got it all hooked up, I flicked the switch back on and Frankie collapsed in my arms.
"C'mon, buddy," I said. "Wake up."
At last he opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times as he tried to figure out what had happened.
"We'll go watch the video, Frankie," I said, before he could get worked up again.
"Thanks."
The library was located in the West Wing of the castle, on the other side of the foyer from the cafeteria. They were the same size, but where the cafeteria was bright and loud, the library, with its metal bookshelves, heavy carpeting, and thick drapes, was gloomy and quiet. It smelled like neglect: a collection of musty odors that had aged and melded together over decades.
The library was unappealing for a reason. Uncle Ludwig, the librarian, didn't like to be bothered while he worked on his own research. He also kept library operating hours short—and changed them every day, so they were impossible to remember.
I could get us inside, though, even when it was closed.
We approached the double doors, and I peeked in through one of the decorative glass inserts, tapping lightly.
"Uncle Ludwig?" I called. He wasn't really my uncle, but he'd asked me to call him that since forever. "You in there?"
I heard a scuffling of feet, a lot of mumbling, and then the door opened.
"Mumble, mumble … Dogsbody Higgins!" Uncle Ludwig peered down his nose and through his glasses at me. He had a habit of mumbling his thoughts out loud, like he was talking to an invisible person standing next to him. He looked to the side. "The Ice Shelves of Dorn, of course." Then he looked back at me. "Have you been assigned to me again? I need help reshelving books."
Before I became a student two years ago, I was an all-around helper at the school. They called me "Dogsbody," probably because of my werewolf-ness. I'd worked in the kitchens, cleaned labs, swept out animal stalls, and done just about any other grunt work you can think of. I knew every living thing, every dark hallway, and every brick of the castle. I'd also spent a lot of time reshelving books for Uncle Ludwig.
"No, Uncle Ludwig. I'm a student now." I pointed to my jacket.
"Of course, of course," he said, turning around and snapping his fingers for me to follow. "The books are over here … Or the Etarne Cliffs, mumble, mumble."
I chased after him, my friends following. "I'm not here to reshelve books. I was wondering if I could use a computer."
"Good luck with that." He sat down behind a desk piled so high with papers and books that he nearly disappeared behind it. "The network's been sabotaged three times this week. Can't get any online research done. Not that it matters. As soon as I find a useful site, the EO Council takes it down. Hmmph." He picked up a stack of papers. "Maybe Wickerly's Half Domes. Why didn't I think of them before?"
"Is it okay if my friends come too?"
He looked up at me and ran a hand through his tangled brown hair. "Hagritano, maybe. Hmm? Yes, you can all reshelve books."
"Uncle Ludwig," I said, looking him in the eye, "my friends and I want to use the computer."
"Yes, yes," he said. "You'll help me reshelve books before dinner, then?"
"Sure."
"Fine." He shooed me away. "What are you bothering me for? Honestly. How I get any work done is a mystery. Mumble, mumble."
I waved my friends inside. Frankie had the computer up and going in no time. He found the MonsterTube video site, one of the few sites not blocked by the Evil Overlord Council. Darthin and I stood behind him as he searched for "Critchlore ogres" and scrolled through the list.
"There it is," Frankie said. " 'Epic Minion Fail.' "
Oh no! It had gone viral. Suddenly it felt like I had a thousand bats flitting around in my stomach. Frankie clicked on "Play."
Trees framed the opening shot: a group of minions standing at the edge of a cliff in a defensive position. From the camera's point of view, we could only see the minions. Whatever they were facing was out of sight, behind the cameraman, who was hiding at the forest's edge. We could hear his frantic breathing as the camera shook in his unsteady hand.
"Look, there's Reggie Clobberman," Darthin said. He reached over Frankie to point. Reggie had graduated last year. He and the rest of the minions were ogre-men, which meant they were huge, cruel, and hideous, like ogres, but smart, like humans. It was an excellent mix of traits for a minion.
Those ogre-men were everything we strove to be: fearsome, powerful, and vicious. But on-screen they were cowering, frightened, and feeble.
"What's attacking them?" Darthin asked.
"Some kind of monster, I bet," Frankie said, still fiddling with the bolt in his neck. "Something huge."
"Or a pack of werewolves," I said.
As the video played, the minions held up swords and clubs, swinging them at the air. Some glanced behind, looking for an escape. They were terrified, and my heart thumped in frantic sympathy. One ogre-man threw down his club and begged for mercy.
Suddenly the band of minions jumped in fright. The ones in the front accidentally shoved the ones in back off the cliff. We heard screams, and the video shook as the cameraman moved to a safer location.
Five ogre-men remained. Their heads swiveled as they looked down at their fallen comrades, back at their attacker, then back down. At last, they jumped, preferring a painful, deadly plunge to fighting whatever stalked them.
I bit my lip and blinked fast. Those poor guys.
Frankie sighed. "That was pitiful."
"What could do that?" Darthin asked.
"Doesn't matter," Frankie said. "It could have been a battalion of vampires riding armored dragons, followed by a pack of werewolves. There's no excuse for cowardice."
That was true. Last year we'd taken a class called There's No Excuse for Cowardice.
"Don't remind me," Darthin said. He'd failed the class. Darthin could find lots of excuses for cowardice.
"Look," Frankie said, pointing back to the screen.
The attackers had come into view. It had been a pack, all right. The video stabilized as they entered the field of vision, moving forward as one, right to the edge of the cliff. They wore matching uniforms: brown shorts, vests covered with small round badges, berets perched jauntily over ponytails.
They were Girl Explorers—little human girls who did crafts projects, sold cookies, and manufactured explosives.
They threw cookies at the fallen minions, and I heard faint screams. I was so relieved the ogre-men weren't dead that it took me a moment to realize what this video meant.
A minion school depended on its reputation more than anything. Those ogre-men were last year's graduates—and they'd just been scared to death (or, rather, scared to injury) by a group of girls in kneesocks. This could ruin the school, no doubt. The guys were quiet, too shocked to breathe.
"It's got to be some sort of trick," I said. "A video mash-up or something."
I looked at Darthin, who knew more about this stuff than any of us. And by "this stuff" I meant "everything." Darthin's hobby was curiosity. He started nearly every sentence with "I wonder …" And then he'd find out.
He shook his head. "I don't know. It looks real."
"I can't wait to see what Critchlore does about this," Frankie said. He giggled. "Somebody's gonna pay, and pay big."
Darthin nodded. "Nobody embarrasses Dr. Critchlore and lives to laugh about it."
"True," I said. "He once flooded an entire town when someone there said his banshees wailed too quietly." The evil overlords who ruled the countries around Stull had nothing on Dr. Critchlore.
"Let's go," I said. "I've got to see Miss Merrybench."
"After reshelving!" Uncle Ludwig called.
"Okay, Uncle Ludwig." I turned back to my friends. "You guys go to dinner. I'll catch up later."
I walked over to Uncle Ludwig's desk. He didn't look up, just pointed to the reshelving carts. There were six of them, stuffed full of books. Flea dip, what had I agreed to?
It took me ages to reshelve two carts, and in that time Uncle Ludwig filled two more.
"I've gotta go to dinner," I said. "I'll finish the rest later."
"Right, right," he said.
My stomach rumbled with hunger, or maybe it was worry. Put in the wrong dorm, and now this horrible video. My third year at Dr. Critchlore's School for Minions had gotten off to a terrible start. I told myself it could only get better from here.
