Chris and Risa burst out of the water ten yards away. They paused, hovering about ten yards in the air.

“You okay, Roman?” Chris called.

“Like you care,” Roman spat.

“If we didn’t care, we wouldn’t ask,” Risa shot back.

“Have you guys seen Nate and Lindy?” Chris wondered, looking around.

“We knocked them out,” Roman said. “Give us the statue

. . . and we’ll tell you . . . where to find the bodies.”

“Nice try,” Chris said. “We know they flew up out of the water.”

“They went back toward Tiburon,” Summer said.

“Why that way?” Risa asked.

“Probably to help these guys,” Chris said. “Sorry about almost drowning you, Rome. It took us a bit to realize you were spending more time underwater than it seemed thanks to your super speed.”

“You guys are geniuses,” Roman said darkly. “I don’t need comfort. Either give us the Protector or get out of here.”

“Suit yourself,” Chris said.

He and Risa flew away.

“I hate them,” Roman mumbled.

“It was nice of them to check on you,” Summer said.

“It’s easy to act nice after you’ve won,” Roman griped.

“You’re sounding better,” Summer pointed out.

“Failure must agree with me,” Roman replied. He struck the water with his fist. “I didn’t think about them using tools to drag us down. Nets, ropes—I should have been ready for that!”

“Here,” a voice called from above. It was Nate. He didn’t pause. He and Lindy swooped over the Tanks, each dropping a boogie board.

Derek and Ruth retrieved the flotation devices.

“This will make it easier,” Ruth said, giving hers to Roman.

“Or more pathetic,” Roman said. “I hope they crash into a helicopter.”

“You need to grow up,” Summer said. “And you better start acting nicer to them. Soon they’ll be flying Tanks.”

Chapter Nineteen

Rescue

Trevor tossed the last of his six darts at the target across the room. The dartboard had two sides—one consisted of a circular grid with numbers around the perimeter; the other displayed a simple target of concentric rings with a bull’s-eye at the center. The complicated side involved calculations to determine the score. This time Trevor had opted for the simple target.

His final dart missed the center circle by a finger width. Two of the previous darts had already hit the bull’s-eye. Only one had strayed beyond the second innermost ring. After all the recent practice, his aim was getting reliable.

Trevor had not left the room since coming for help from Mr. Stott. The sanctum had a small bathroom, and Mr. Stott brought him meals. He slept fine and ate well, but he often felt bored. Tonight, although it was getting late, he couldn’t settle down. The confinement was making him increasingly restless.

After a quick knock, the door to his room opened and Mr. Stott entered with the Battiato brothers. Victor and Ziggy nodded their greetings.

“What are you guys doing here?” Trevor asked happily. “I thought you steered away from lairs.”

“We generally do,” Victor agreed. “But any port in a storm. Jonas White has started actively targeting us. Some of his sideshow henchmen mixed it up with us earlier tonight. We had crossed paths with a few of them since our arrival, but it never came to blows. Any unspoken truce between us has officially expired. And now we have an opportunity that will leave one of us defenseless.”

“They got a message from Pigeon,” Mr. Stott said.

“His tracking button went dark after he disappeared,” Ziggy reported. “But tonight the signal returned long enough for us to pinpoint a location. He’s being held somewhere below Arcadeland.”

“The tracker had been dark too long for it to suddenly function without a reason,” Victor said. “We assume he got help from a fellow prisoner.”

“Almost certainly Mozag,” Ziggy added.

“Unless Jonas White is being sly,” Mr. Stott murmured. “Could he be using Pigeon’s tracker to lure you into a trap?”

“Possibly,” Victor said. “But this late in the game, I don’t think we can afford to ignore the signal.”

“How do you get the signal?” Trevor asked.

Mr. Stott held up a stocking cap and a pair of mittens. “By wearing these. Mozag enchanted them.”

“A single mitten is enough,” Ziggy explained, “but wearing everything clarifies the signal.”

“With one mitten, we can feel the direction of the various trackers,” Victor said. “With both mittens, we can feel the distance. Add the stocking cap, and we can almost see the location.”

“Did Pigeon break the button?” Trevor wondered.

“I’m not sure,” Victor said. “The signal didn’t last long. The mittens vibrate a lot if the button gets broken. That didn’t happen, but interference from the magical barriers around Arcadeland could have blocked the effect.”

“What’s the plan?” Trevor asked. “Are you going in?”

“The Battiatos came straight here after pinpointing the signal,” Mr. Stott said. “Victor intends to go after Pigeon. Ziggy will rest here in his depleted state. But you might be able to accompany Victor.”

“Really?” Trevor asked.

“Let me see the back of your hand,” Mr. Stott said. Trevor extended his arm, and Mr. Stott took a close look at the stamp, probing the ink with his fingertips. “It’s as I suspected. The stamp recently became inactive. When were you last stamped?”

Trevor considered the question. “About three days ago. Does this mean I can use candy?”

Mr. Stott produced a small box. “Bestial Biscuits,” he said. “My latest invention. A blending of Brain Feed, Mrs. White’s notes on Creature Crackers, and my general interest in shape-shifting.”

“What do they do?” Trevor asked.

Mr. Stott shook a biscuit from the box. “I’ve wanted to attempt something like this for years. Mrs. White’s notes together with this emergency provided me with the means and the motivation. Ideally, I’d like to produce a broader variety at some point. For now, six variations will have to suffice.”

“Same question,” Trevor said. Sometimes Mr. Stott could get a little long-winded.

Mr. Stott held out the biscuit to Trevor. “What does this look like?”