The Mind Thief

By Trish Hammond

Augustus Sneed knows that he can't master an empire on his own. When he discovers the FIGs' ability to infiltrate human minds, he forms a partnership with the Figments of the Imagination trapped in the dark mines below. In return for freedom, the FIGs agree to trespass into the minds of the Regulators of the cities he chooses to control, making him the ultimate Puppet Master. He is then free to create miniatures of his conquests and place them inside glass orbs, where he can keep a watchful eye.

All is going well until a group of meddling teens uncover a series of secrets. Ed and his friends, known as the Quack Pack, discover that their city is not the paradise it claims to be. Growing suspicions set them on a dangerous path as they seek to discover the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645367253

Trish Hammond

Trish Hammond is an elementary school principal with diverse experiences in the field of education. In addition to writing young adult fiction, she is the author of three children's picture books that explore the issues of emotional literacy. She is a member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators.

Book preview

Twenty-Five

About the Author

Trish Hammond is an elementary school principal with diverse experiences in the field of education. In addition to writing young adult fiction, she is the author of three children’s picture books that explore the issues of emotional literacy. She is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.

Dedication

For my daughter, Charmaine, who always believed that I could.

Copyright © Trish Hammond (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s cataloguing in publishing data

Hammond, Trish

The Mind Thief

ISBN 9781641827614 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781645367253 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019937084

The main category of the book — Young Adult Fiction / Fantasy / General

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Prologue

He didn’t see her watching him from the corner shadow inside his esteemed office.

Believing he was alone, Augustus Sneed reclined in his leather chair and propped his neatly crossed ankles on the mahogany desk. He angled his face from left to right and admired the polish on his wing-tipped Oxfords. Ah, yes. These are striking indeed.

He pulled his gaze from the shoes and eyed the five glass orbs displayed on the credenza across the room. Like an intoxicating drug, he was lured to the live scenes unfolding beneath their domed surfaces.

Sneed kept close tabs on the cities he’d captured. So, when he’d thought of placing miniatures inside glass spheres, he’d viewed himself as brilliant. His ingenious innovation gave him the ability to be an outside spectator—much like a window to the soul—while those living under the glass remained oblivious to their own surveillance.

Some might have called this stalking. Sneed just considered it good management.

He’d begun to build his empire when he’d realized that six proximal cities could be interconnected through a central hub. If he controlled the hub, he would be the gatekeeper of all activity passing through its nucleus. This had pleased him.

Right from the beginning he’d known that he couldn’t accomplish this alone. When he’d considered the cities’ locations on a map, a masterful scheme had developed, weaving together the neural connections he’d needed to formulate his plan.

The pictorial layout resembled a clock. At number six, right at the bottom, sat the Fig Mines. Like a buried treasure, the Fig Mines held rich resources, just waiting for someone to tap into their potential. And tap, Sneed did.

He’d stoked the Fig Mines like a compost pile, unleashing an army of mythical figments that were at his beck and call. Figments that had the power to enter human minds and take control. Figments that had successfully conquered five of his six chosen cities.

The Ice Fields sat left of the Fig Mines, at number seven. He’d had second thoughts before invading the winter wonderland. Glaciers and wind were not amongst his list of likeable things. Not to mention how much he hated boots. But if he were to control all the spokes of this rudimentary wheel, he couldn’t afford to be choosey.

He folded his hands behind his head. His mind continued to turn clockwise and settled at West Harbor, location number nine. It boasted the quaintness of a foolish melodrama. Boats in harbors. Fish markets. Endearing gift shops and jellybean row houses painted in colorful hues. It had been an easy conquest.

At number eleven, Sage Woodlot offered its residents year-round camping experiences. The people there found a tortuous pleasure in making life as effortful as possible. They lived in archaic log cabins, depended on campfires for warmth, and relied on natural daylight for the most mundane tasks.

Sneed observed the lamps emitting soft light in his below grade-level office and shuddered.

Sunlight indeed.

Old Towne at number one, was the city that gratified him the most. Populated with medieval castles and cobblestone streets, he could mentally transport himself back in time. He envisioned himself as a handsome knight astride his horse, conquering the land for the ladies in distress. Realistically, of course, he would have had others conquer the land for him. He wouldn’t have run the risk of being wounded. He also didn’t participate in activities, physical or otherwise, that stimulated the sweat glands.

A smudge on the toe of his left shoe disturbed his musings. Oh dear, how did I miss that? And these are brand new. He licked the back of his thumb and gave it a firm rub. A look of dismay shadowed his face as the smudge remained fixed in its spot.

With the orbs’ seduction now interrupted, he felt compelled to closely examine the first orb on the left, number three on his imaginary clock. He set his new Oxfords on the floor, pushed back the oversized chair and made his way across the office. His apprehension rose with each closing step.

The scene waiting for him inside this particular orb, would be a direct indication of his competence as the Puppet Master. And while he was confident in his skills, a snippet of uncertainty niggled at the base of his skull. This city was his first acquisition—his pride and joy.

Its success was critical.

He now stood at the credenza and cupped the sides of the globe. His face held a sardonic smile as he mocked the players’ cameo performances on the inside. The residents of Eden City blindly carried out their daily rituals, blissfully unaware of the smoke and mirrors that shielded them from the truth. He was wise to create a utopia after its capture. A place of comfort and nostalgia. A place no one would want to leave.

At least not forever.

Eden City, as the inhabitants saw it, was nestled at the base of four majestic mountains. The weathered peaks of one mountain blended seamlessly into the next, falsely hinting at a wall of refuge. Cool, glassy waters beckoned those looking to squander their time in leisure at its shores. The soft mossy knolls catered to the younger crowd.

The people were happy. They were well-fed, housed, educated, and entertained. They had all the sustenance the human body required and as a result, were exceedingly content. The only thing the people didn’t have was control over their own faculties. Unfortunately for them, they were ignorant of their limitations.

Fortunately for Sneed, he was all too aware.

Eden City, as Sneed saw it, conveniently buried its branch of COVE headquarters deep within the belly of the mountainside. Cool, glassy waters served as illusions, designed to camouflage the tunnels hidden beneath their surfaces. Soft mossy knolls were kept green and lush through the cyclic release of toxic fertilizers, designed to leach undetected through exposed skin. And the Council of Voices Executive, doled out just the right amount of food, housing, education, and entertainment to deter any unwelcomed questions.

Sneed raised the orb for a closer look. A voice broke the stillness. Sir?

His head snapped around and he found himself in the personal space of his assistant, Dr. Penelope Petch. Angry that he was caught in what should have been private moments of gloating, he barked at her. How long have you been here?

Not long, sir.

Heat rose in his cheeks. He cleared his throat and continued. What do you want? And must you always stand so close? He waved her back with his hand.

Dr. Petch didn’t appear surprised at the harsh tone as she stepped back. She’d worked with Sneed for over seven years now. He knew that she’d grown accustomed to, and some might even say fond of, his surly demeanor.

I just wanted to let you know that the competition is set to begin. They’re waiting for you at the pit, sir.

She immediately glanced down, her gaze landing on the loose button dangling from her lab coat. Averting her eyes reassured Sneed that he was receiving the respect he deserved. It also left no doubt in his mind that she was astutely aware of her position in the corporate hierarchy.

Instead of responding, Sneed intentionally stalled—partly to establish blame for being spied upon, and partly to let the embarrassment dissipate from his face.

He used the awkward moment to study the angular frame of Dr. Petch’s jawline. He concluded that it wasn’t a feature he would describe as feminine. His eyes lingered on the corners of her temples, pulled tightly back by the invisible strings of a bun strictly woven at the nape of her neck. She really should consider a less severe hairstyle.

He set down his prized globe with unnecessary force and raked a hand through his slicked hair. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together to check for greasy residue, he brashly exhaled. All right then, don’t just stand there. Follow me.

He brushed past her and pulled open the heavy double doors with grandeur. The dank air from the other side burrowed up his nostrils and settled at the back of his throat. He was unmoved by the contrast between the posh trappings of his office and the putrid stench of the tunnel stretched out in front of him.

Dr. Petch took longer to acclimatize. She discreetly pushed her nose into the collar of her lab coat. Sneed felt her eyes locked on his Oxfords as he swiftly glided across the cement.

The elevator waited for them at the end of the dimly lit passageway. They stepped through the open door and stood side by side despite the ample space inside.

Take your nose out of your collar, Sneed said, without so much as a sideways glance. You look absolutely ridiculous. He pushed the button that would take them to the pit, number twelve.

Dr. Petch decided to withhold her offer to take care of that smudge she noticed on the toe of his left shoe.

Chapter One

Figments of the imagination. FIGs for short. They were thin slices of illusion that seeped into the human mind.

Then they took root.

Malice didn’t mind being called a FIG. As a matter of fact, he found it catchy. It was when his presence was referred to as a disorder of the mind that he became offended. He might concede to being a bit intrusive, but he wouldn’t classify himself as a disorder. He was just a FIG with a big personality. Nothing more. Nothing less.

His sharp claws now gripped the chock stones on the cavern’s walls. He was making the climb from the Fig Mines to the Competitors’ Stage, a concrete platform halfway up between six and twelve on Sneed’s clock. It ran horizontally just above the nucleus scaffolding West Harbor on the left, with Eden City on the right. The stage’s central location was the optimal spot to house the starting arenas for the HOST competitions.

The very coveted HOST competitions.

He caught his breath, relieved to arrive with minimal injury at his assigned spot, the third ring from the right. The fetid atmosphere was already inundated with FIGs. They were all eager for the chance to compete and then capture Salty Shores—the sixth and final city for Sneed’s orb collection.

A puny FIG sat on his haunches near his feet. Watcha staring at? Nosey lifted his gaze to lock eyes with Malice. Feeling a little nervous? His head gestured towards Malice’s sweaty palms pivoting at their joined centers. Under a bit of pressure to salvage your rep? He popped his lips together to emphasize the final p.

Malice scowled, but Nosey didn’t let up. He circled gleefully around Malice’s legs. "I bet it’s pretty embarrassing to lose grip on a mind as quickly as you do." His grin exposed two long yellow teeth.

How would you know, you bug-eyed, scabby FIG? Malice flared his nostrils. Why don’t you return to that compost bin you crawled out of?

Sensitive overheard. Ouch. That was a little harsh don’t you think? He bit the inside of his cheek.

Malice glowered at him and then rounded back on Nosey. "I don’t recall you ever winning a competition for even the chance to invade one of Sneed’s cities and latch onto a HOST. Maybe I like getting ousted. He jabbed his boney finger against Nosey’s chest. Maybe, I like to re-live the thrill of these contests. Have you ever thought of that?" The final jab shoved Nosey down on his backside.

Malice rubbed his temples with the base of his gritty palms. Who was he kidding? Weak mind-manipulation skills led to eviction from the HOST’s mind. That led to expulsion from the city and a return to the Fig Mines. He couldn’t hold on to a HOST long enough to stay out of the mines for good. His only chance now was to start this derisory process all over again.

Should he win this competition—and he knew he would—there would be no room for failure with his next prey. As Nosey pointed out, his rep depended on it.

Meddlesome waddled towards him. She spittled like a leaky garden hose. Raiding Salty Shores is going to be a breeze. Inhaling deeply, she quoted Sneed’s words, Subdue the government and tether the strings of the citizens. Then relinquish control to the Puppet Master. She gathered the spikey hairs on the top of her head and cinched them together. Piece of cake!

Malice didn’t have patience for her today. He shifted his gaze upwards to the lifeline dangling from the base of the pit. Each arena was allocated only one rope. That would result in the majority of FIGs losing critical body parts in their efforts to gain access. A remaining few would be functional enough to climb. A handful would make it to the top, number 12 on Sneed’s clock.

Becoming one of the final eight victors wasn’t an option.

He rolled back his shoulders and entered an adjacent ring. Meddlesome’s voice rose above the swelling noise of FIGs. Scouting out the competition, Malice?

She knew him well.

He loitered near a stone column and eavesdropped on Motivation and Modesty’s hushed conversation.

You’re going to make it this time, Motivation said. He stroked Modesty’s upper arms. Just try your best. You’ve got a really good shot at this.

Modesty fingered the folds in her neck. Oh, I’m not as skilled as some of the other FIGs. Do you really think I might…?

No worries there.

A few FIG piles over, Vanity caught his eye. She leaned against Optimism while keeping one foot elevated. His affirming nods gave Malice the impression that she was offering him advice. When she lowered her foot, she yelped. Optimism quickly supported her elbow to reduce the pressure.

Poor thing appeared to be in pain.

That was another one down.

In the far arena, he noted that Sedentary had carved out a space for himself amongst the rock pile. He was napping. Chances were good that he’d sleep through the start-up pistol and miss the climb altogether.

His main irritation at the moment was Whin the whiner FIG, who shadowed him through the arenas like an escaped gas bubble.

Beat it, Whin. Malice clenched his jaw. I’m working here. He cocked his head to the side and observed Pessimism and Anger push Anxiety to his limit.

Those ropes are so cheap, they’ll never hold the weight of all of us that make it, Pessimism informed Anxiety. He gestured an arm-span to illustrate evenly spaced intervals on the rope. You see where the threads get a little bare? About every 10 meters? Anxiety squinted his eyes to focus. Those, my friend, are potential snap points.

Anxiety looked up the rope, then down to the ground.

Yup, Anger added. You’ll go from there, he said, pointing straight up, to there, and pointed down. And then, you’ll be like this… Anger and Pessimism threw themselves on the ground. They twitched and writhed in mock pain.

Malice snickered as horror unfolded across Anxiety’s face.

His delight bolstered when he saw two members of Sneed’s Security detail strut over to Impulsive and drag him out by the tail; he’d started the climb before the signal.

The last arena on Malice’s circuit sat closest to the edge of the stage’s surface and farthest from an accessible rope. A small waterfall ran through a fissure in the adjacent stone wall. Next to the waterfall, a live wire emitted intermittent sparks. Next to the wire stood Fearful.

Malice’s mouth turned up ever so slightly at the corners.

Fearful lightly touched the wire with his spindly fingers. He jumped back.

Malice offered to give him a hand.

You know, Fearful, I think you might be on to something. He pulled a snort through his nostril. "You could probably scale up this wire here, while everyone else is battling for that rope over there. He pointed to the neighboring arena. They’d be too busy to notice and you could be at the top in no time."

Do you really think I could make it without falling? Fearful asked warily. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and added, And I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was cheating.

Don’t you worry, Malice said. He studied the wire, giving Fearful the idea that he’d do it himself if he wasn’t so thoughtful. We’re all under pressure. Besides, you deserve a break. How many times has it been for you now? Three, four tries in a row that you haven’t made it to the top?

Fearful stared at the cracks in the concrete at his feet.

That’s what I thought. He patted him on the back. Tell you what—I’m going to share a little secret with you that’s going to get you up that wire, lickety-split. He looked up and down the wire. If you wet your palms first, like so, he demonstrated by wetting his hands in the waterfall, you’ll get a lot more traction.

Fearful smiled at Malice. He approached the waterfall and rubbed both hands with water.

I’d give it a little more, Malice said.

Fearful stepped into the waterfall and drenched himself. After a nod of approval from Malice, he stepped out and clutched the wire with both hands. An electrical charge surged through his body, triggering convulsions. He propelled off the platform.

Malice peered over the edge to witness the swift descent to the Fig Mines. Such a shame.

With renewed confidence, he swaggered back towards his own arena while tracking his eyes along the top edge of the pit—the finish line. The fact that it was even called a pit, despite being three hundred meters up a vertical incline, perturbed Malice to no end. He chose to overlook the stupidity of the planning committee.

The COVE’s Signal Starters readied their pistols and stood on their mark in the arenas. Malice’s chest tightened. He’d wandered off too far. No, no, no, no, this can’t be happening. He sprinted across the stage, hurdling FIGs’ heads, crushing bones beneath his heavy feet.

Weight like a prisoner’s anklet slowed down the approach to his own arena. A quick downward glance confirmed that Whin hadn’t left his side.

Get off me, you leech. He flailed his leg to shake Whin free.

Whin didn’t budge.

He used his two sharp claws as pincers to pluck Whin off his leg. Then he hurled him into the crowd.

Malice slid back into his own arena and fixed his gape intently on the rope above. He ignored the gurgle in his bowel threatening to joust with his sphincter muscle.

Bang! Mobs of FIGs thrust themselves towards the closest rope, painting a mosaic of chipped fangs and severed body parts. Guttural screams echoed off the stone walls of the stage. Neighbor trampled neighbor, tossing aside all sliver of decorum deemed possible by a FIG.

Malice bared his teeth, lowered his head and barreled straight ahead. The key was to not look up, but watch the feet.

Step, step, stomp. Step, step, stomp. Step, step, stomp.

He was in the lead, seconds away from the rope. His jubilance rose.

His jubilance fell.

Pessimism’s hefty frame crushed his arm at the same moment he strained his finger tips to grab the rope. An agonizing howl rose above the thundering FIGs. He jerked out his hand from the hairy under-belly. The pain was excruciating. The middle claw of his left hand—most critical for climbing—now dangled by one fragile ligament.

He cursed under his breath and pushed through the agony. Then he threw his bulky frame at the swinging lifeline. Seizing it with his good arm, he leapt onto the rope and wrapped his legs around its base. He shimmied up the rope and didn’t stop to examine his injury until he’d put enough space between himself and the FIGs riding his tail.

A rhythmic pulse of pain consumed his left hand, yet the climb had just begun. A feeling of dread threatened to negate his stamina.

Attempting to minimize the friction between his wounded hand and the shards of rope, he contracted his belly muscles and hurled up a healthy dose of spit. A generous amount landed in the palm of his injured hand. He massaged it against his leg, allowing the warm liquid to anesthetize his skin.

With no time to spare, he grabbed hold of the rope again and continued his race to the top.

Hey, Malice, Whin puffed. The pesky FIG had reappeared, surprisingly bearing no grudges. Could you help me to the top? Maybe I could ride on your back? Word in the mines is that you’re the best at these comps, you know, the BIG FIG— He stopped mid-sentence to catch his breath. I mean, we could be a really good team. You and me.

Malice tuned him out. He focused his lazy eye on the edge of the pit above to avoid thinking about his throbbing finger or the returning itch growing across his backside.

Whin’s nattering straddled his last nerve.

You wanna be partners, eh, Whin? Malice looked down over his shoulder. You mean like head and toe? He slammed his foot on the top of Whin’s head, pushing him further down the rope. The Council of the Voices Executive HOST competitions were life-changing opportunities. Malice wasn’t about to let an inferior, groveling Figgie such as Whin claim one of the few winning spots.

Assured this time that Whin was out of the way, Malice chanced a sideways glance to determine his standing in the race. The sight of Meddlesome scurrying up the rope a good fifty meters ahead of him jarred his nerves into relaxing his grip;