Toast

By Valentino Mori

Eleven-year-old Henry stumbles through a portal and into the clutches of the sinister Mr. Mason. Trapped on Mr. Mason's country estate, Henry quickly realizes he is one of many boys stolen from their homes by dark magic. Mr. Mason's captives are forced to compete against each other in a weekly game where the price of losing is death

Henry is determined to learn Mr. Mason's dark secrets. Why does one boy die every week? Where does Mason get his magical power from? Can Henry figure out how to stop Mason's sorcery, or will Henry and his friends be trapped forever

Join Henry as he tumbles through a world of magical wheelbarrows, slumbering ghosts, ancient magic, true friendship, and ultimate sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Jul 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370876600

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

Chapter One - My Runaway Brother & The Don of Quartz

I was nine when my brother ran away from home.  Dylan had been fed up with fifth grade for a long time, what with the weekly vocabulary quizzes and flute practice every Wednesday.  And then his teacher, Mrs. Channing, informed him that he was too old to still dream about becoming an explorer.  In the note he left on the kitchen table, Dylan promised to prove Mrs. Channing wrong, declaring that he was off to India, to live in the jungle and befriend the tigers. 

My devastated parents searched everywhere, asked everyone, and offered huge rewards for just a hint of Dylan's whereabouts.  Nothing came of it: Dylan had vanished without a trace.  But this isn't a story about my runaway brother––it's the story of my kidnapping.

Without Dylan, there were no more cardboard forts or lizard hunts in the garden.  My parents made sure I was never out of their sight.  For two years I never went to a sleepover, I had two parent chaperones on every field trip, and my pleas to go to summer camp were totally ignored.  When my mother took me shopping, I had to stay within ten feet of her at all times.  And if I were to, for example, wander off through the department store in search of the toy section while my mother spoke with a red-vested employee, I would be in serious trouble.

So there I was, eleven years old and strolling through Target with a pack of Pokémon cards, trying to find my mother before she blew her stack.

Are you lost, my boy?

I glanced up at the smiling employee.  The word beefy didn't cross my mind then, but now, writing this all down, beefy is the best way to describe him.  He had a flushed face, fat cheeks, and a waistline that strained the buttons of his uniform.  His hair gleamed golden blond, and his eyes were blue like a blood vein.

I'm not lost, I said to his shoes.  The old-fashioned key ring at his belt caught my attention.  Even I knew that a department store would have modern locks.

What's your name? asked the man. 

Henry.

Well, Henry, your mother is looking for you.  She asked me to come and find you.

Am I in trouble?

Oh no, she's just worried.  But let's hurry so she doesn't get mad, shall we?

He led me to a gray metal door marked Employees Only, which seemed like a strange place for my mother to be.  The man took his old-fashioned keys from the belt and stuck a shiny silver one into the lock.  When he opened the door, I didn't see a dingy corridor filled with mops and spare vests, but a carpeted hallway with colorful tapestries and sunlit windows.

Before I could turn my confusion into a question, the man shoved me from behind and I stumbled onto the carpet.  A polished wooden door slammed behind me, leaving me alone with the strange man.  His department store uniform had become a gray suit with glittering golden cufflinks.

Thank you for your cooperation, he said serenely, clipping his keys to his belt.

I stopped being shocked and started panicking.  Whoever this man was, he was bad news.  I yelled for help, hoping my mother would hear me.

Enough of that, said the man.

He reached for me and I ducked under his arm, grabbing the doorknob and pulling it open.  But there was no department store on the other side.  I stared into a closet at a neat row of suits and hats.  The only indication of where I had come from was the pack of Pokémon cards still clutched in my sweaty hand.

Perhaps I should introduce myself, Henry, said the man, putting his palm on my shoulder and pulling me back from the closet. My name is Mr. Mason.  Welcome to Verdant Corner.

I turned to face him, my fists trembling. Let me go.  Take me back.

There is no going back––the sooner you understand that, the easier this will be for everyone.

I backed up from him and stopped in front of a window.  Outside I saw sweeping lawns, a bristling pine forest, and a mountain range beyond.  I was a long way from home, with a man who was probably going to kill me.

Mom!  Where are you? I screamed. I'm here!

Oh, do stop with the melodrama, Henry.  Your mother is still in that store, hundreds of miles away.  She can't hear you, no matter how shrill you are.  You will never see her again.

A spark of anger flared within the tide of my terror.  I was not going to just accept this.  I lunged at him, grabbing his keys and trying to pull them off his belt.  Mr. Mason shoved me back effortlessly and tutted his disappointment.

Dear me, your etiquette is abysmal.  I do hope that improves with time.

I screamed in frustration.  I ran for the front door, determined to escape, but Mr. Mason caught me before I could unlatch the brass lock.  He dragged me into a sitting room as I continued to yell.

Wait here.  Your peers will explain the way things work on my estate.  They are adept at answering all your trifling questions.  Now please, calm down and stop screaming.  I would very much appreciate it.

With that, he nimbly stepped out of the room, snapped the door shut, and locked it.  After throwing my shoulder against the wood a few times like I had seen in detective shows, I investigated the window.  Unfortunately, it was barred with ornate metalwork.  I glanced around, seeing oil paintings and plenty of furniture, but no way out.  So I settled myself on the edge of a plush couch, crossed my legs, and tried to think of an escape plan.

I did not know where I was or how to get home.  For some reason, I couldn't remember where exactly home was.  I didn't know the name of the town or even the state.  It was as if someone had taken a rag and rubbed out my memory of home like a stain.

After five endless minutes, I heard footsteps and voices outside.  I slid off my seat and crouched, ready to make a run for it.  The knob turned, the door swung open, and I lunged forward, only to collide with an athletic teenager.

Whoa there, hotshot, he said, as he reversed my momentum and tossed me back into an armchair. We've got a feisty one today.

Six teenagers filed in behind the first one––all boys, all older than me.  They all wore bandanas, in addition to white polo shirts and black shorts.  Each bandana was a different color.

Yeah, I'm not wasting my time on this newbie, said one boy. He's scrawny and looks like he's pissing his pants in fear.

Agreed, said another. Have fun with this twerp, Achilles.

Three teenagers filed out, leaving four.  The one who had caught me, Achilles, let out a sigh of annoyance.

I prefer welcoming newcomers with all seven Dons present, he said.

Seven Dons all at once is a bit daunting though, said the youngest, taking a seat. No need to overwhelm the newbie and freak him out right away––you're not freaking out, are you?

I was freaking out, but if I admitted it there was a good chance I'd start crying, so I just shook my head.  The youngest of the teenagers furrowed his thick eyebrows and studied me with the air of someone evaluating a museum exhibit.  He had a checkered bandana tied around his neck. It's been a while since we've had a Saturday arrival.  I half-hoped we'd get to Sunday without a newbie.

Mason would never let that happen, said Achilles, straightening the couch cushions.  He glanced over his shoulder. Hey, Pharaoh, would you knock it off?

A third boy was sitting on the floor, lifting his left leg and licking his ankle.  It was such a weird sight it was almost not disgusting––but it definitely was disgusting.  He had fastened his bandana over one eye like an eyepatch, and when he noticed me watching him, he grinned and scrambled to his feet.  In the next second he was perched on the arm of my armchair.  I tried not to flinch because that would show weakness.

Pharaoh... warned Achilles.

With great reluctance, Pharaoh slid down and rolled onto his back like a dying insect.  He twitched from time to time.

Achilles sighed. Wonderful.  Are you staying, Murmillo?

The last boy had not moved from his initial position.  He watched me with inscrutable eyes.  He had the poise of an African prince.

I am, he said, finally.  He didn't sit, but stood beside Achilles, watching me carefully.

Good. Achilles turned to me. My name is Achilles, and I'm the Don of Slate Dungeon.  You're in a place called Verdant Corner.

The youngest one winked at me. My name's Darjeeling, Don of Marble Dungeon.  A pleasure, I'm sure.

And I'm Murmillo.  Don of Quartz Dungeon.

Achilles now looked towards Pharaoh, who was still curled on the ground, muttering to himself and giggling.  I could see shiny burn marks on the back of his neck.

That's Pharaoh, said Darjeeling, when it became clear that the boy on the ground was not going to introduce himself. He's in charge of Lapis Lazuli Dungeon, believe it or not.

What's going on? I asked them. Who are you people?  Where am I?  And what does that creepy man want with me?

Save your questions for later, said Achilles.

No, I want to know now!

Pharaoh began cackling, rolling around with his bandana between his teeth.  I stared at him, but the other three were pointedly ignoring him.

When new boys arrive, said Achilles, they join one of the seven Dungeons here.  There's Slate, Marble, Quartz and Lapis Lazuli––our four dungeons.  Then there's Jade, Topaz and Obsidian––those Dungeons are represented by the Dons who left.  Your Dungeon, whichever it is, will be your home, your family––your team.

I don't want to be in a dungeon, I shouted. I want to go home!

That's not an option, said Achilles. You can't leave this place.  I'm sorry.

None of us can leave, said Darjeeling. We're all in the same boat.

Why can't we leave?  What's wrong with everyone?

Achilles shook his head. Your Don will explain, once you're assigned.  You three––any questions for him before we start the lottery?

Darjeeling leaned in, eyes scanning me with ample curiosity. How do you feel about fractions?

I hate fractions, I told him.

Good at any sports?

Does handball count?

How many siblings do you have?

I opened my mouth, not sure I wanted to mention my missing older brother to these strangers.  Before I could answer, Murmillo spoke.

I don't want this done by lottery.

Achilles and Darjeeling looked taken aback.  Achilles frowned and asked, Why?

I have my reasons, said Murmillo. I'd like him to join Quartz.

Pharaoh moaned from the floor, like a jackal with a toothache.  Darjeeling merely shrugged.

If it means that much to you, Murmillo, go for it.  He's all yours.

Murmillo nodded. Thank you. Then he turned to me. Welcome to Quartz.

Meeting adjourned, said Achilles. I'll inform Mr. Mason.  Good luck, kid.

Achilles left the room with Darjeeling following close on his heels.  Pharaoh got close to me, poked my cheek, and licked his lips.  Then he scampered from the room too, leaving me with Murmillo.  Murmillo didn't speak until Pharaoh's footsteps had receded.

What's your name?

I started hyperventilating but Murmillo put his hands on my shoulders until I calmed down enough to introduce myself. Henry.

Murmillo slowly sat back. I see.

He didn't speak for several seconds, so I asked a tentative question. Is your name really Murmillo?

A nickname.  We all have nicknames here.  You'll get one too, soon enough.

Why's that?  Does that Mason man give people new names when he kidnaps them?

Murmillo shook his head. No––he will keep calling you by your real name.  No one else will do so.

Why not?

"Because he does. Murmillo's jaw clenched. You'll understand."

How many kids are trapped here?

Just under fifty.

Fifty!  And he kidnaps all of them?

Kidnaps us or lures us here––boys who run away from home tend to end up at Verdant Corner.  Some runaways around here think they're better than those who get kidnapped, but don't believe it.  We're all under Mr. Mason's control.

My pulse started racing. Is my brother here?  He ran away from home two years ago.

Murmillo was expressionless. Your brother?

Dylan?  He kind of looks like me––but taller and with a scar on his cheek from when he crashed his bike into a parked car.

Murmillo shook his head. I know few people by their real name at Verdant Corner, and none of the boys here match that description.  I'm sorry.

Oh. I tried not to sound disappointed.

For a moment he gave me a look of controlled pity.  Then he stood up. Let's go to Quartz.  Time to meet your new family.

Chapter Two - Caligula & The Christening

Murmillo led the way outside, through a rose garden, and toward an open meadow.  We passed boys who were gardening, carrying firewood or playing soccer on the lawn.  Most of them stopped and whispered when they saw me.  I stood out in my khaki shorts and green long-sleeved shirt.  Everyone else wore the same uniform: white polo shirt, black shorts.

They don't look like prisoners to me, I said, watching two boys turn somersaults on the grass.  I thought Darjeeling said everyone is trapped here.

We are, said Murmillo. You were brought here by magic, and you are kept here by magic.  You can't escape this place by running.  To be precise, you can't escape this place at all.

We rounded a grassy hill and stood at the mouth of a tunnel.  An elegant stone arch reinforced the opening and lamps lit the way inside.  It might have been a mineshaft, but the walls were made of brick and fancy tiles covered the ground.    Murmillo entered the dark tunnel and I tentatively followed him inside.  When the passage hit an intersection, we took a left.

Wow, how deep does this go?

Hard to say, said Murmillo. It used to be a quarry, but that was long ago.

We walked along the curving passage and soon reached a boy sweeping the tiles.  When he noticed me, the boy dropped his broom, hurried toward us, and promptly tripped over his dustpan.  He flipped over and landed on his back, dust settling on him.  I had never seen anything so cartoonish in my life.

Who you got there, Murmillo? he asked, scrambling to his feet and shaking the dust out of his hair.

If he was older than me, it wasn't by much.  He was Asian, with spiky hair and a smile that needed braces.  Like Murmillo he wore a pink bandana, but his was dirty and frayed around the edges.  There were scabs on his shins and a bruise on his cheek.  Both injuries pre-dated his magnificent stumble.

New arrival.  He's joining Quartz.

You haven't named him yet, have you?  Because it's my turn for the christening.  You promised, remember?

I remember, Kiwi.  Take him to the Dungeon.  I'll join you in a moment.

No problem, Murmillo, you can count on me.

Murmillo didn't look convinced, but patted my shoulder and jogged back up the tunnel, towards sunlight.

Once we were alone, Kiwi scratched his chin thoughtfully.

Is there anything interesting about you? asked Kiwi, walking around me in circles, like a horse inspector at a horse convention.

Hey!

Kiwi put an arm around my shoulder.  Thanks to my hair, I was an inch taller than him.  I had always been short for my age, so even a slight height advantage was very exciting.  After a while, Kiwi heaved a sigh.

Well, we'll think of something.  Let's go, it's this way to Quartz––

Kiwi led me around a corner and was immediately barreled over by an older boy.  This guy wore his black bandana as a headband, which separated his greasy hair from his fiendish yellow eyes.  The teenager loomed over me, biceps rippling as his fists clenched.  He'd probably been called fat in elementary school, had a growth spurt over the summer, and returned to middle school eager to make his tormentors pay for their words.  He looked old enough for high school now.

Watch where you're going, idiot, he growled.

With a little help from me, Kiwi was on his feet. I'm so sorry Caligula, my mistake––won't happen again, sir.

I glanced between them. "But you're the one who knocked Kiwi over."

Kiwi muffled a squeak, but Caligula ignored him.

What did you say? he demanded.  I doubted eleven-year-olds like me ever talked back to him.

I moved in front of Kiwi. You ran into Kiwi.  I think you should say you're sorry.

He gets in my way, and you want me to apologize? Caligula's voice was soft and menacing.

He's joking, Caligula, said Kiwi quickly, grabbing my sleeve. He didn't mean––

Caligula––is that a girl's name?

Kiwi let go of my sleeve.  I was now beyond saving.

Caligula leaned in close.  He smelled like nosebleeds and garlic. I have a policy for newbies like you.  First I break an arm or a leg––then I crush you in the Games.

I was supposed to be intimidated, but some of the tunnel dust had flown into my nostril and I sneezed a league of boogers onto Caligula's shirt.

My bad, I said.

Caligula grabbed my collar and slammed me up against the wall. You're about to set a new record for the shortest lifespan at Verdant Corner, you little––

Do we have a problem here, boys?

The voice felt like spiders scuttling through my ear canal and I shivered.  Immediately, Caligula released his grip on me.  The man approaching us was slender, bony, and luminously pale.  His eyes bulged with red blood vessels and his hands ended in sharp, triangular nails.  When he turned his gaze upon Caligula, I could see the bumps of the man's spine through the back of his trench coat.

You do know the rules, don't you? he asked the older boy, in an unplaceable accent. No rough play in the Dungeons.

Of––of course, sir, stammered Caligula.  Was he afraid?

See that you remember, or I will inform Mr. Mason.  Final warning.

He slunk away from us.  Caligula, Kiwi, and I all remained motionless until the man rounded the corner.  Then Caligula relaxed enough to glare at me.

You caught a lucky break, but don't worry––I'll still make you pay.  You're toast.

With that, Caligula turned and walked away.  I was still shaking.  Adrenaline had me pulsing with energy.  I didn't realize how scared I had been.

Wow, you're really stupid, said Kiwi, grinning. To pick a fight with someone from Obsidian Dungeon––with Caligula of all people––yikes.  He really holds grudges.  Plus, it's only a matter of time before he becomes the Don of Obsidian.

I shrugged. I don't really care.  I'm not hanging around here for long.  I'm going to escape this place.

Kiwi giggled. Haven't heard that in a while.  You're giving me a lot of material for your nickname.

I glanced back down the passageway. Who was that man?

Kiwi gave a shudder. Well, I'm not sure he's actually a man.  His name is Mr. Locke, but we call him the Locust.  He's the caretaker here––and if you can, stay away from him.  That's what I try to do.

Okay.

He leaned in conspiratorially. Listen old pal, if you ever need advice of any sort, don't bother with Murmillo or Parsley––come to me.  You can always count on your wise friend Kiwi.

If you're so wise, why didn't you help me against Caligula?

"I was wisely not riling Caligula up.  You should have followed my example.  But now, if Caligula has already said you're toast, then–– Kiwi's eyes went wide with a sudden epiphany, and he immediately stubbed his toe.  He grimaced at the pain, dropped a curse word, then smiled. I've totally got it.  Caligula's own words––aw, this is perfect."

"What's perfect?"

Kiwi didn't respond.  We had reached an old wooden door, flanked by two columns of pink quartz.

This is Quartz Dungeon, said Kiwi with the flair of a circus ringmaster. Please, step inside.

He pushed the door open, and after overcoming my hesitation, I entered.

My idea of a dungeon was a damp, dark room deep within a castle, brimming with skeletons and cobwebs and maybe even a few rats.  Quartz Dungeon turned out to be an underground dormitory without any skeletons whatsoever.  Four bunk beds stood against the walls, a washbasin sat in the middle and through a narrow side door I could see a toilet seat.  Three boys sat in the lamplight.

The youngest––several years younger than me––bounded forward and beamed in my direction.  With his round cheeks and sparkling eyes, girls would probably say he was adorable––but I hadn't seen any girls at Verdant Corner so far.

Who’s this, Kiwi? he asked my companion. Is he in Quartz?

Yes, Hiccup, he's our newest Dungeon mate.  Gentlemen, may I introduce you all to Toast.

I blinked. What did you just call me?

Kiwi shot me an annoyed look, then cleared his throat dramatically. Didn't you hear me?  Your name's Toast.

That's definitely not my name.

Kiwi's impatience broke his spell of grandeur. "It's your new name, got it?"

I don't like it, though.

Who asked you for your opinion?

Before I could respond, a voice from the far side of the room cut in.

It's a stupid nickname, Kiwi.

"Shut up, Splinter.  He just got into an argument with Caligula, and Caligula said that he was toast.  It's perfect."

Splinter was older than Kiwi but younger than Murmillo––I'd say fourteen.  The way his hair fell messily into his eyes told me we shared a similar philosophy on haircuts.  His long fingers held a carving knife in one hand, and a sharpened piece of wood in the other.  His bunk was covered in little wood chips and shavings.  He shot both of us a look of utter disdain.

Say it, Kiwi.  Toast.  Toast.  It's tough on the tongue, really slows your verbal momentum.  It's no good.

You're crazy.

Splinter put down his knife and sat forward. And anyway, one syllable nicknames are no good––you need two syllables: dogs respond better to a double syllable name.

Hey, I'm not a dog!

Trying to reach a reasonable compromise, Kiwi pointed out, He can go by Toastie if he wants.

"I am not going by Toast or Toastie!"

Still sounds pretty dumb, agreed Splinter.

The third boy set down a stack of folded shirts and came over.  He was probably the same age as Splinter, but his round glasses made him look older.  A multitude of freckles spilled over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks.

Perhaps we should all just calm down.  Is that okay with everyone?

Kiwi and Splinter scowled at each other.

I'm calm, said Splinter.

Yeah, me too!

The boy with glasses rolled his eyes, turned to me and smiled––not in a knowing way, but the way a family friend or older cousin might. I'm Parsley.  Welcome to Quartz.

"Parsley?"

He nodded. That's me.

Why do they call you Parsley?

I'll tell you the story some other time.  Let's find you a bed.

Make sure you keep away from my bunk, threatened Splinter.

Hiccup and I have this one over here, and you should probably let Murmillo have his own space, said Parsley. Kiwi, would you be okay with a bunk mate?

On one condition, said Kiwi.

What condition?

First, that you accept the name of Toast without complaining, and second––

I thought there was only one condition.

"And second, if anyone asks, let them know it was my brilliant