Inkling Page 13

  “He’s there!” Ethan cried. “He’s in a jar!”

  Vika tapped on the glass impatiently.

  “Looks like she’s talking to him,” said Soren, leaning closer to the screen. Accidentally he nudged one of the copter controllers. The camera made a little sideways tilt.

  “Oh no,” Soren breathed.

  Vika’s head whipped round. She stared right at the quadcopter—

  And them.

  Vika put down the jar and walked toward the bed.

  “Fly! Fly!” Ethan shouted.

  Soren jiggled the controls. “Where?”

  “Anywhere! Up, up!”

  Ethan saw Vika grab for the quadcopter, but it jumped right off the bed, nearly hitting the ceiling.

  “Where’s the window?” wailed Soren.

  “Right, right . . . too far, back to the left . . .”

  Vika loomed into view again, this time holding a tennis racket.

  “Go, go!” said Ethan. “Left—”

  The screen image became a swirl, and Ethan glanced up to see the quadcopter come spinning out of control through Vika’s window.

  Vika stuck her head out and looked around furiously. “I know it’s you, Ethan!” she shouted, and slammed the window shut.

  Soren fought to control the damaged quadcopter, and brought it limping back across the street.

  “Barnaby’s going to kill me,” said Soren as he landed it clumsily. One of the rotor blades was crooked.

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” said Ethan.

  “It’s bad.”

  “I’ll pay for the repairs,” said Ethan. “I promise.”

  At least now he knew where Inkling was.

  But he had absolutely no idea how to get him back.

  Chapter 16

  From his jar, Inkling watched as Vika lugged an old fish tank into her bedroom. She cleaned the glass surfaces carefully, then took a moment to stand back and admire her handiwork. She grabbed Inkling’s jar, unscrewed the top, and dumped him into the tank.

  Still clinging to the crumpled piece of paper, he looked all around. There was no top to this tank. Quick as a cockroach, he darted off the paper and skidded across the glass floor. He hit the wall and, with all his might, strained for the top. He rose only a few inches before sliding back down and spinning helplessly along the bottom of the tank.

  Vika was peering in at him. “You hungry?”

  A silly question. Of course he was hungry. He was starving! He hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday. He watched as Vika went to her desk and ripped out a bright page from a comic book. She dropped it into his tank. He climbed onto it like a drowning man hauling himself into a lifeboat. But then he hesitated. It reminded him how he’d been caught, how foolish he’d been. But . . . those colors! That ink! In a second, he’d absorbed the entire page.

  “Tasty, huh?” Vika said.

  He made no reply. He hadn’t said a single word to her.

  “Do you want to draw something for me? Please, Inkling.”

  He peered around the tank. The walls were too high to scale. All the seams were watertight. There was no getting out on his own.

  On the piece of paper he wrote:

  WHERE IS ETHAN?

  He saw her eyes widen at his first written message. Then she looked away guiltily.

  “He’s not here right now. He loaned you to me for a while.”

  Inkling felt a pang, even though he knew she must be lying. Ethan would never do that. He was sure he’d heard Vika yell something out the window at Ethan a few minutes ago: “I know it’s you, Ethan!” Did that mean Ethan was nearby? Had he tried to rescue him?

  IF I DRAW, WILL YOU LET ME OUT?

  “Yes! I’ll let you out. But I need my dad to see, too.”

  Inkling didn’t trust her, but he had a plan.

  Vika disappeared and returned with her father. He was holding a comic book and looked annoyed.

  He pointed at Inkling in the tank. “What’s all this about?”

  “Just watch. Okay, go ahead, Inkling, draw us something wonderful!”

  Inkling gathered his thoughts, then whirled into action. He sent out twenty tendrils, all of them drawing on different parts of the paper. He was vaguely aware of Vika and her dad watching in astonishment—and confusion, until finally all the lines and colors met up and they were staring at a double-page spread.

  Exhausted, Inkling crouched tensely at the edge of the paper, waiting.

  “See!” Vika shouted at her father. “See what it does!”

  Mr. Worthington just stared, then started looking up at the ceiling and waving his arm above his head.

  “What’re you doing?” Vika demanded.

  “This is some kind of projection system, right? You’re projecting onto—”

  “Dad, this isn’t a trick!”

  To help out, Inkling wrote:

  THIS IS MOST CERTAINLY NOT A TRICK.

  “I can’t believe it . . . ,” Mr. Worthington said.

  And then he did exactly what Inkling hoped he’d do. He reached into the tank and grabbed the piece of artwork.

  “Dad!” Vika said. “Don’t—”

  But Mr. Worthington had already lifted the paper out of the tank and was peering at it.

  Instantly, Inkling darted across the paper and onto Mr. Worthington’s hand.

  “He’s on you!” Vika cried. “He’s going to get away!”

  “Where’d it go?” Mr. Worthington said, and then spotted Inkling on his sleeve. Vika’s dad swatted at him like a mosquito. Inkling darted to his shoulder, then streaked straight down his shirt to his pants, and then off his shoe to the floor. In the distance towered a stack of books—a good hiding place! He bolted toward it.

  The jar came down on top of him so hard that for a few seconds Inkling couldn’t even move. Stunned, he looked at the glass rim surrounding him—and not just surrounding him but . . . cutting through him.

  Most of him was inside the glass, but a small hunk of him was outside. Was it even connected to him anymore? Before he could try to slide himself back together, Vika scraped the jar hard across the floor, tipped it right side up, and lifted it into the air.

  Inkling slid to the bottom of the jar, still too bewildered to move. But he could see a little severed piece of himself lying lifelessly on the floor! Getting farther and farther away.

  Vika screwed on the top and placed the jar on the desk. Inkling kept staring. All he could think about was getting that little piece of himself back! It already looked so pale! Dimly, he was aware of Vika and her father talking, fast and excited.

  “This is incredible!” Mr. Worthington said, gazing at the artwork again. “It’s so much like Peter’s work! How long do you think he’s been using this thing?”

  “Hey, look at this.” Vika knelt down and peered at the small ink splotch on the floor.

  “You cut a bit off,” her father said, poking it with his finger. It didn’t move. “Huh. I think it’s dead.”

  Dead? Inkling felt a strange, hollow feeling inside himself. Pushing against the glass, he strained to see.

  “No, look!” Vika said. “It gave a little shiver!”

  Inkling had seen it, too. Yes, it was definitely quivering, pale as ink mixed with water.

  “It needs food,” Vika said.

  “Food?” her father asked.

  “It eats ink!”

  “Wow. Okay. Here, try this,” said her father, handing her the comic he’d walked in with. Inkling caught a glimpse of the cover. It said Exterminatrix.

  Vika found a page with lots of colors. She slid it across the floor so just the edge touched the ink splotch. Inkling watched and waited. The pale splotch didn’t move at first, but then shifted the tiniest bit onto the page.

  “It moved!” Vika shouted.

  Jerkily, the splotch pulled itself onto the page. Vika carefully lifted the comic off the floor, as if she’d just captured a very delicate and rare beetle. She deposited the comic in the fish tank.


  At least, thought Inkling, she’s being gentle with it.

  It. Was it an it now? Wasn’t it part of him anymore? It was doing something without him! It was eating, and he didn’t feel a thing! Something had been taken away from him. It was a small something, but its loss filled him with great sadness.

  “It’s eating!” Vika said to her father excitedly.

  Slower than a snail, the pale splotch moved across the page, leaving a blank trail.

  “It erases,” said her father.

  “Yeah, that’s how it eats. And learns, I think. Once it eats something, it knows how to draw it.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. Worthington went quiet a moment. “So it would be able to duplicate this comic, if it ate it all?”

  Vika nodded. “Maybe.”

  “If it survives,” said her dad.

  The ink had stopped now, like it was already exhausted.

  “It doesn’t look quite so pale,” said Vika.

  Mr. Worthington looked back at Inkling in his jar. “At least that one’s fine.”

  “He tried to escape,” Vika said. “I don’t think he wants to draw for us.”

  Mr. Worthington walked closer to the jar and tapped the glass.

  Inkling glared back. He wanted to write rude things, but there wasn’t even any paper in his jar, and he couldn’t draw on the slippery glass.

  “If Inkling draws for Peter Rylance,” said Mr. Worthington, “I don’t see why he wouldn’t draw for us, too.”

  “I’m calling Karl right now,” Dad said after Ethan told him that Vika had stolen Inkling. “This is outrageous.”

  “Maybe she hasn’t even told her dad.”

  Ethan knew how ambitious Vika was. She wanted to be a famous artist. She was already really good, but would she be able to resist using Inkling, and passing the work off as her own? Ethan let out a breath. Just like he’d done. And his own father.

  “You think they’ll give him back?”

  “Of course! It’s simple theft.” Dad dialed and held the phone to his ear. “There are laws! Intellectual property! The rights of an artist!”

  “What about kidnapping!” Ethan added, because Dad didn’t seem to be thinking from Inkling’s point of view at all.

  There was a knock at the door. Beyond the glass window, Ethan could make out Karl and Vika.

  “Well, that was easy,” Ethan’s dad said, putting down his phone and walking to the door.

  “Peter,” said Mr. Worthington as he and Vika entered the house. “Vika just told me what’s going on, and I wanted to set things right.”

  “I appreciate it, Karl,” said Dad.

  Mr. Worthington grinned and shook his head. “What an amazing thing!”

  “It certainly is.”

  Ethan watched Vika, trying to figure her out. She was silent, and her face was serious and closed, like someone who’d just been punished. She had a backpack slung over her shoulder, and he really hoped Inkling was inside.

  “So where did it come from?” Karl asked as they all sat down in the living room.

  “He,” Ethan said. “Not it. He came from Dad’s sketchbook.” He felt like this was his story to tell, since he’d heard it directly from Inkling. “One night, all the ink ran together into a big blob, and he pulled himself off the page.”

  “Wow,” Mr. Worthington said. “If I hadn’t already seen it . . . him . . . I wouldn’t believe a word of this. I couldn’t.”

  “Believe me,” said Dad, “I had the same reaction.”

  “So how long have you had him?”

  “Not very long.”

  Mr. Worthington raised his eyebrows. “You haven’t been using him all these years?”

  “What?” Dad looked offended.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” said Mr. Worthington, lifting his hands. “Maybe every artist has one of these things, how do I know? I’m just a publisher.”

  Ethan heard the anger in his father’s voice. “I can assure you, Karl, this is a very recent turn of events.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that his work looks so much like yours.”

  “Because he came from Dad’s ink!” Ethan told him.

  “That makes sense,” said Mr. Worthington, but Ethan couldn’t tell if he was truly convinced. “So he’s come free from the sketchbook and now has a life of his own.”

  “So it seems,” Dad said. He took a breath. “I appreciate you guys coming over.” He looked at Vika. “Thanks for bringing him back.”

  “Oh, we’re not bringing him back,” said Mr. Worthington.

  “What d’you mean?” Ethan demanded. His eyes snapped from Mr. Worthington to Vika, and he now understood the expression on her face: not shame, but cunning.

  “So where is he?” Dad asked.

  “Somewhere very safe,” said Karl. “He’s a slippery fellow.”

  “You kidnapped him!” Ethan shouted. “We want him back!”

  “You’re talking about him like he’s a real person,” Mr. Worthington said, smiling.

  “Yeah, he is!”

  Dad put a calming hand on Ethan’s arm. “Karl, he doesn’t belong to you.”

  “But if he’s a person, how can he belong to anyone?”

  Dad sniffed in impatience. “Karl, he came from my sketchbook. He’s made of my ink, my imagination!”

  “And Vika stole him from my backpack!” Ethan added. “That may be,” said Mr. Worthington, “but it doesn’t mean you own him. And maybe Inkling wants to do his own thing now. A change. He drew for you, but he’s already drawn for us, too.”

  A cold surge went through Ethan’s veins. Was it true? He’d known Inkling longer than anyone had. Inkling was his friend. He’d said he didn’t want to leave. So how could he go and draw for someone else, especially Vika?

  “It seems he just likes to draw,” Mr. Worthington went on.

  “I knew it,” Ethan said to Vika. “You just want him to draw for you!”

  “As if you don’t,” she retorted.

  “I have bigger plans than that,” Mr. Worthington said, “and they include all of us. I see a wonderful collaboration ahead.”

  “You’ve got him trapped in a jar!” Ethan said. “I saw it.”

  “Yes, the spy copter,” said Mr. Worthington with a little wince. “I wasn’t going to bring that up. That’s trespassing and invasion of privacy. You can get in a lot of trouble for that.”

  “Just like stealing,” said Ethan’s dad.

  “You’re very welcome to call the police,” said Mr. Worthington.

  Ethan and his dad were both silent. He knew how crazy it sounded. They could never go to the police.

  “It would make a great headline,” said Mr. Worthington. “Blocked Artist Accuses Publisher of Stealing Magical Ink. And even if anyone believed you, then you’d have to fess up that you never actually created your own books.”

  “That’s such a lie!” said Ethan.

  Mr. Worthington ignored him. “Peter, I’m not taking Inkling away from you. Of course you can have access to him to finish your project. I’ll be moving him to the Prometheus office soon, and you can work with him there. But Inkling never leaves the building. Also, whatever Inkling produces with you will be published by me. As will anything else Inkling might make on his own.”

  “How’s that fair?” said Ethan.

  Mr. Worthington scarcely glanced at him. “Ethan, let me and your dad do the talking, okay? Why don’t you guys go watch TV.”

  “No!” said Ethan and Vika at exactly the same time, then glared at each other.

  “We want him back!” Ethan said.

  “You seem pretty attached to this little guy. And you both obviously have a great working relationship with him. Maybe you can oversee some other projects for Inkling—ones of our choosing, of course.”

  Ethan saw his father’s chest rise and fall heavily. “Karl, we’ve known each other a long time. We’ve had a lot of success together—and more than that. You and Celine were so great to us when Olivia died. But this, this is no
t right.”

  Mr. Worthington dipped his head thoughtfully and was silent for a moment before saying, “We see things differently, Peter. This is an opportunity for both of us.”

  “Right,” Dad said dubiously.

  “We both need Inkling,” said Mr. Worthington. “Admit it, Peter: you need him, too. But the brutal truth is, we don’t really need you anymore. Now that we have Inkling. He’s an amazing content creator. Those comics I showed you, the ones you were too high and mighty to do, I bet Inkling won’t have any problem doing them.”

  “He won’t do them!” Ethan said. “Not for you!”

  “Well, maybe you can help convince him.”

  “You’re stealing, Karl,” Ethan’s dad said.

  “That word again,” said Mr. Worthington. “How can you steal something that doesn’t belong to anyone?”

  “Let him out of his jar, then!” Ethan said. “Let him out and see what he does.”

  Karl smiled calmly at Ethan’s dad. “You have my offer. It’s a good one. I really hope you take it.”

  He put his hand on Vika’s shoulder, and they stood and let themselves out, closing the door softly behind them.

  “They can’t do this!” Ethan fumed. He wanted to smash things. He settled for smacking his hand against the wall until it stung with pain. Dad took his hand in both of his to stop him.

  “It’s not fair!” Ethan said, and realized his face was wet.

  “It’ll be okay,” Dad said. “We’ll figure something out.”

  Chapter 17

  All through the night, Inkling tried desperately to escape.

  He sloshed himself up and down the sides of the jar, hoping to tip it over. But he weighed so little that even when he really got going, the jar barely wobbled. Eventually, Inkling was too tired and seasick to keep going, and he slumped to the bottom, and was still.

  Across Vika’s bedroom, in the fish tank, the pale little bit of Inkling was still eating its way through a big stack of Exterminatrix comics. With every pixel, it grew. It darkened. It became quicker. It gobbled every page clean. There was so much red in the comic—explosions, blood, oh so much blood!—that the splotch actually developed a faint reddish tinge.

  When Inkling saw it in the dawn’s first light, he was astonished.