“We’ve been here before,” Nate said.

  “We’re right by the Fun House exit,” Summer said.

  The floor carried Nate, Summer, and a few other people along an endless circular route, like a record on a turntable. Nate knew from experience that it sometimes sped up or slowed down. He also knew where to jump off to pass through the curtain of tinsel that led to the exit.

  Summer went first, and Nate followed her into the afternoon sun. Outside the Fun House, it looked like an ordinary day at the carnival. Nate smelled caramel popcorn and saw a clown juggling boxes for a circle of onlookers. Groups of kids moved about, some taking their time and enjoying snacks, others scampering to the next ride.

  “Let’s hurry to the Swindler’s place,” Summer said, taking off her Clown Lips and returning to her normal form. “We need to find a spot nearby where we can watch for the cloud.”

  “The roustabouts are probably still hunting us for busting up their special club,” Nate said.

  Summer glanced at the sky. “No poodles yet.”

  They set off toward the Swindler’s attraction. After his intense experiences over the past few hours, Nate found it strange that people were still going about their day. He stayed vigilant as they crossed the park. He noticed no roustabouts, but he did see several kids from school.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  Summer pointed out a clock. “One thirty.”

  “We only have half an hour before we’re supposed to bus back to the school,” Nate said.

  “Looks like we’ll be finding our own way home,” Summer said.

  “Sure,” Nate replied. “We’ll have to watch out for teachers rounding up stray kids.”

  When they reached the Crafts Tent, Summer pointed out a little stand selling smoothies. “We can probably kill time at those tables until the cloud shows up if we drink our smoothies slowly.”

  “It has a good view of the Swindler’s place,” Nate said.

  They approached the counter, and Nate ordered a berry smoothie while Summer went with peach. They chose a circular table set back from the walkway. As they waited, Nate’s attention alternated between the crowd and the sky.

  “What if the cloud doesn’t show up?” Nate asked.

  “I don’t want to think that way,” Summer said.

  “We’d need a new plan.”

  “We’d need to rescue Trevor and Pigeon first.”

  When the smoothies came, Nate was disappointed by the taste of the artificial flavoring. Mr. Stott’s smoothies and shakes always used real ingredients. At least the drink was cold. He was thirsty enough to ignore the tang of chemicals. He made an effort to take it slow.

  Summer grabbed his arm. Nate looked to the sky first, then saw a troop of at least thirty roustabouts forming up in front of the Swindler’s attraction. Most carried weapons of some sort—tire irons, chains, blackjacks, baseball bats. The strongman was with them, curly brown hair brushing against muscle-bound shoulders.

  Some onlookers backed away, seeming concerned by the show of force. Others watched curiously, as if expecting a performance to begin.

  Nate and Summer turned away from the mob to avoid getting spotted.

  “They know something is up,” Summer whispered. “Trev and Pidge must be doing well.”

  Nate noisily slurped the last of his smoothie.

  Summer glared at him. “Are you trying to draw attention?”

  “Sorry.”

  The roustabouts remained alert, but nobody noticed him or Summer. Nate rolled a Cannon Blast between his fingers. “Can we handle that many?”

  “We have to find a way,” Summer said. “We don’t have to beat them. Just get through them. In and out.”

  Nate nodded. Glancing up, he saw a large cloud shaped exactly like a poodle in a sitting position.

  “There’s the signal,” he said.

  “Not very subtle,” Summer remarked.

  The strongman had taken up a position right outside the Swindler’s front door. Roustabouts flanked him and filled the ramp. Many others patrolled the walkway in front of the establishment.

  “Should I blast at the door?” Nate asked.

  “You’ll hit it at a sharp angle from here,” Summer said. “I wish we were straight across from it.”

  “At least it would surprise them.”

  “The strongman is enormous,” Summer said.

  “I hope he’s full of sand,” Nate said. “Otherwise, I could seriously hurt him.”

  “If he’s protecting the guy who is trying to destroy the world, that’s the risk he takes,” Summer said.

  Nate put the Cannon Blast in his mouth. “I see no reason to wait.”

  “They’ll just bring more reinforcements,” Summer agreed. “Keep extra Cannon Blasts ready to go. You’ll have to keep moving.”

  Nate knew she was right. When in motion, nobody stood a chance against him, but between the blasts, he would be vulnerable. “Ready?” he asked.

  Summer put new Clown Lips up to her face and transformed into a clown.

  With three Cannon Blasts in his hand and more in his pocket, Nate focused on the strongman. His best bet would be to aim directly at him and try to ram him through the door.

  Nate bit down and launched. He streaked forward above the heads of the roustabouts milling out front. His knee clipped the railing of the ramp, crunching the wood to splinters. The strongman looked right at Nate and caught him in a big bear hug. The impact of the collision lifted the strongman off his feet, his huge body glancing off the door, then rolling to a stop on the platform out front, Nate still in his embrace.

  Nate struggled, but his arms were pinned to his sides, which meant he couldn’t get another Cannon Blast to his mouth.

  “I have him,” the strongman declared in a deep voice. He stood up, Nate firmly in his arms.

  Summer charged the roustabouts, and they swarmed her. She produced a baton from inside her jacket and swatted at the security men, nimbly dodging until they overwhelmed her.

  As Nate thrashed, the strongman squeezed him painfully in response. His magical durability was gone, and the embrace felt like it could break bones, so Nate went limp. At least the candy was still in his grasp. All he needed was a moment of freedom.

  The strongman carried Nate down the ramp. Summer was pinned to the ground by four roustabouts. Her clownish body stretched and contorted in their grasp, but she failed to wrench free. The strongman brought Nate to a roustabout wearing a brown corduroy suit coat with a heavy pipe wrench resting against his shoulder.

  “Where do I take him, boss?” the strongman asked.

  “Follow me,” the jacketed roustabout said.

  Unexpectedly, an arm reached around the roustabout from behind, a hand grabbed his face from the other side, and the assailant twisted in opposite directions. The roustabout’s neck cracked, then his head came off, dumping sand. When the body dropped, John Dart stood behind him, a Battiato brother at either side.

  “Hi, Nate,” John said. His hard gaze went to the strongman. “Set down the boy.”

  “You tore his head off,” the strongman said.

  “Ordinarily I can’t play so rough,” John said. “But like you, I’m a physical projection from Dreamland. For the first time in a long time, I can do my work unrestrained.”

  One of the Battiatos leaned his head to one side and popped his neck. “Now?”

  “Almost,” John said. “Last warning. Release the kid.”

  The other roustabouts watched, weapons ready. They seemed to be waiting for a signal.

  “Stay back,” the strongman said. “I can crush the boy at my leisure.”

  “You know what the problem is with big, strong guys?” John asked, stepping forward so he was within reach of Nate, looking up at the strongman.

  “What?” the strongman asked.

  “Joints,” John said, crouching and whipping his leg into the side of the strongman’s knee. The big man buckled. John struck the guy’s elbow and yanked Nate free.

  “Get them!” bellowed the strongman from the ground.

  John brought his elbow down on the big guy’s neck, and sand poured everywhere. “Now!” John said.

  The Battiatos waded forward eagerly. One had retrieved the pipe wrench, the other wore brass knuckles. The roustabouts charged, but the Battiatos met them with gruesome efficiency, staying close, working together, dodging swings, then busting the roustabouts open like sandbags.

  “Use your candy,” John reminded Nate. “Go. I’ve got Summer.” John joined the Battiatos. The roustabouts were clearly amateurs trying to challenge professionals.

  Nate glanced to the Swindler’s shop, then back at Summer. He saw an opportunity that would let him nail several roustabouts and take him above Summer. It would also leave him with a better angle to attack the door.

  He popped a Cannon Blast into his mouth, focused on his destination, and bit down. He rocketed forward, roustabouts exploding like piñatas, spraying sand instead of treats. Tearing through so many of them slowed his progress enough that Nate continued only about twenty feet beyond the crowd, rolling to a stop against a cinder block wall.

  Nate put another Cannon Blast into his mouth. His flight had freed Summer from the roustabouts holding her down. She was now on her feet, bashing one with a croquet mallet while the others fought John and the Battiatos.

  Nate was directly across from the Swindler’s front door. He bit down on the candy and zoomed forward, crashing through the door and slamming into the back wall of the room beyond.

  The Swindler stood alone at the counter, games spread out before him, his cane in one hand.

  “Hello again,” the Swindler said casually. He snapped his fingers and both the door Nate had penetrated and the door leading to his vault vanished, leaving blank walls. “You need to work on your manners.”

  Nate moved to put another Cannon Blast into his mouth, but the Swindler snapped his fingers again and the candy vanished. Nate patted his pockets. There was more candy inside.

  “I can get rid of it all,” the Swindler said, his fingers poised to snap again. “Why are you here?”

  Nate held his hands away from his pockets. “I think you know. I came for the Dreamstone.”

  The Swindler whistled. “You’re aiming high. I can respect that. Do you realize what will happen when the Dreamstone is reunited with its dreamscape half?”

  “It means I can take it,” Nate said.

  “In theory, yes,” the Swindler said. “It also means I’ll become more powerful than ever. This room, so close to my power source, is the wrong place to challenge me. We’re technically in the physical world, but I can manipulate it almost as easily as a dream.”

  “Is that how you win your contests?” Nate asked.

  The Swindler shrugged. “One of the ways.” Cocking his head, he looked around. “We’re being watched.”

  “All of the dreamers see you,” Sandra’s voice said.

  Nate scanned the room for her, but she did not appear to be present.

  The Swindler spread his arms wide, cuff links glittering. “I love an audience,” he exclaimed warmly. “My boy! The Dreamstone would be quite a prize, and I would be reluctant to part with it. But I’ve always been a sporting man. How about we resolve this with a contest?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Contest

  Nate weighed his options. If he reached for a Cannon Blast, the Swindler would make it vanish. The doors were gone. And the Swindler made a career out of winning every game he played.

  “A contest would represent your best chance at this point,” said Sandra’s unembodied voice.

  “Hear that, son?” the Swindler pressed. “Let’s give the people what they want!”

  Nate swallowed. “Fine.”

  “Standard format,” the Swindler said. “You pick the game, then we agree to rules and terms.”

  “All right,” Nate said.

  “That’s my boy!” the Swindler exclaimed. “I’ve been longing for some truly high-stakes action. What will be the nature of the contest?”

  Nate scoured his mind. If there was a way for the Swindler to win, he would. What kind of contest would let Nate win even if he lost? Sandra had made sure this interaction would be seen by many others. Was that to prevent the Swindler from just killing him? Or was there an advantage in having an audience for the contest?

  “We’re all waiting,” the Swindler said.

  A possibility entered Nate’s mind. There wasn’t time to study every potential implication, but he had a question that might put the Swindler in a tight spot. How would he phrase it? He would have to keep planning as they conversed.

  “I’ll ask a question,” Nate said.

  The Swindler gave a slow nod. “Interesting. Trivia. Or a riddle. I agree—provided it has a factual, definitive, verifiable answer.”

  “That’s fair,” Nate said.

  “An impartial judge would be useful,” the Swindler said. “Under the circumstances, that might be hard to come by.”

  “What about the Dreamstone?” Nate proposed.

  The Swindler pursed his lips. “That could work. It has a consciousness. I can hear it. Some on your side can hear it. I accept. Rules and terms. You want possession of the Dreamstone. If I fail to answer your question, or if I answer incorrectly, it is yours. If I supply a correct response, you voluntarily enter Dreamland. How’s that for a fortunate deal? If you lose, all your dreams come true.”

  Nate knew that a loss would mean imprisonment in the dream realm, maybe forever. But what else could he offer? He had to win. “Let’s do it.”

  “As to the rules,” the Swindler said. “You must acknowledge that there may be acceptable answers to your question that you fail to anticipate. Any answers that our judge deems accurate still count as a win.”

  “I agree,” Nate said.

  “And I should have three tries at answering,” the Swindler said.

  “I only get to ask one question,” Nate pointed out.

  The Swindler cocked his head. “All right. One question. One answer.”

  “There should be a time limit,” Nate said. “You have one minute to respond. If you don’t answer, I win.”

  The Swindler chuckled. “That one works in your favor. If you ask me a puzzler that takes me more than a minute to figure out, you deserve the victory. Can we also agree that once we begin the contest, you have one minute to pose the question? All in good faith, mind you. We can’t be blamed if the other person somehow silences us.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Nate said.

  “Any other provisos?” the Swindler asked.

  “I can’t think of any,” Nate said.

  The Swindler held out a hand. “Let’s shake on it. This is a simple contest, but we have a lot riding on it.”

  Nate crossed to the Swindler and shook his hand.

  “Are you ready?” The Swindler produced a stopwatch from an inner pocket of his jacket.

  Nate took a deep breath. “Sure.”

  “You have sixty seconds,” the Swindler said. “Once you pose your question and I confirm that I understand it, I will restart the timer for my answer. Ask away.” The Swindler clicked a button, and the stopwatch started ticking.

  Nate did not want to flirt with disaster by taking up most of his sixty seconds, but he checked and double-checked the question in his mind. Was there a better way to phrase it? Were there multiple, unforeseen answers that would avoid the trap he was setting?

  After thirty seconds went by, Nate cleared his throat.

  “Who owns the Dreamstone?” he asked.

  Something behind the Swindler’s eyes faltered. For a moment, surprise cracked his polished façade. Then he was back in control. The Swindler stopped the timer. “You mean who owns the Dreamstone right now? Presently?”

  “Yes,” Nate said. “Who currently owns the Dreamstone?”

  The Swindler started a fresh minute on the stopwatch. “Allow me to muse before I answer. Ownership of mystical objects can be a counterintuitive subject.” He scratched the side of his jaw. “Do I have the Dreamstone in my possession? Is it under my control? Do I function like an owner for all practical purposes? Yes, absolutely. But what would the Dreamstone accept as an accurate answer?” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I’ll admit this much—that was a more penetrating question than I expected. And I’m almost out of time.”

  The stopwatch showed ten final seconds.

  “Technically, everyone owns the Dreamstone,” the Swindler said at last.

  “Wait, everyone owns it already?” Nate asked, emphasizing the answer. “Then was it yours to offer as a prize in the contest?”

  The Swindler chuckled. “You agreed to it. We con men have a proud tradition of selling things we might not technically own to suckers willing to buy them. Care to put a down payment on the Brooklyn Bridge?”

  “You’re talking about a lie,” Nate said. “This was supposed to be a fair contest.”

  “We made an agreement,” the Swindler said. “You asked your question, and I answered it correctly. Now you have to fulfill your end of the bargain.”

  “No, I don’t,” Nate said. “Your prize was a fraud. If your answer is right, the Dreamstone wasn’t yours to give. Also, it means there is nothing to prevent me from taking it. Either way, you’ve kept it for yourself long enough.”

  “You’re right, Nate,” Sandra’s voice said. “The Swindler’s hold on the carnival is all pretense. None of his claims or bargains are valid. The Dreamstone founded and supports the carnival, and it does not belong to him. It belongs to everyone.”

  The walls of the room began to tremble. The floor quaked.