At least this will be the fastest way to Cicero, thought Anthony, glancing at the art that decorated the hallways. Beautifully printed photographs of Cicero’s various attempts at world domination. There was Cicero laughing hysterically at the top of Big Ben. There was the Destructo-Bot, hanging on Burj Khalifa, right before he toppled over and fell. Anthony would have liked a closer look at the photograph of the Spud-marine—the underwater potato meant to break California off into the ocean. Sharks and rays surrounded the little potato; Anthony should have been in the middle of the fray in scuba gear, but it was hard to tell while walking at a brisk pace without a second glance.
The double doors at the end of the hallway opened as the guards approached. Anthony caught a flash of purple cloak as Cicero yelped and scurried up the steps leading to the stage at the far end of the cavernous room. It was a fairly long walk down to the stage; Anthony was a quarter of the way inside when Cicero finally had settled on the enormous throne—because there was no other suitable name for the chair. It was overly large and ornate, almost ostentatious in its décor. Cicero’s cloak spread out behind him, glorious and impressive—but he’d sat with such speed, he’d clearly forgotten to adjust it, and Anthony watched, impassive, as the man shifted, desperate to relieve the pressure of its clasp wedged up against Cicero’s neck.
The guards stopped halfway through the room. Cicero said something—but given the distance between them, and the way his own costume choked him, it was impossible to understand, let alone hear, what Cicero said.
“I’m sorry, it’s very hard to hear you,” said Anthony politely. “Do you mind speaking up?”
Cicero was practically pink, but the guards understood what he choked out, even if Anthony didn’t. They shuffled Anthony closer, until he was at the base of the stairs, while Cicero hopped in his seat, trying to release the cloak out from under him, coughing lightly only because he was undoubtedly holding back from coughing as fully as he wanted.
“Do you need some water?” asked Anthony politely.
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” gasped Cicero, finally freeing his cloak. He took a deep breath, settling himself—and then instantly snapped back to what was probably his most imposing position. “So, Anthony Dare—I see you’ve fallen for my little trap?”
Anthony frowned. “Trap?”
“Oh, Anthony Anthony Anthony Anthony,” sighed Cicero, spinning on the throne and kicking his legs up over the armrest as he reclined. “You and I both know: there’s a mole in the DVM.”
Anthony let himself relax a little into the comforting familiarity of their bantering. “No. There are moles in the woods. Or the zoo. I’m not sure where moles live, to be honest. But the DVM?”
Cicero snapped his fingers; a guard obligingly poked Anthony’s leg with his stick.
Anthony expected a shock of electricity, powerful enough to knock him over. But the shock was barely a tickle, though it did send Anthony into a fit of giggles.
“You’re not an idiot, Dare,” snapped Cicero. “I’m tired of these games of cat-and-mouse with you. I know your mission—your actual mission.”
Anthony tried to stifle the giggles that hadn’t stopped forcing their way past his lips, but it was proving to be much more difficult than he’d expected. “Better that way,” he said, giggling. “Fair fight and all.”
Cicero leaned forward on his knees. “I’m glad to hear you say it. I admit, it disappointed me that you took the mission, Dare. I always thought you were a man of honor. Just as I am.”
Anthony scoffed—but with the laughter, it sounded more like he was trying to choke up a hairball. “Honor? How many people have you murdered in your quest to rule the world, Cicero? How many lives have you laid to waste? And you dare imply—”
It was no use; Anthony couldn’t continue as the laughter bubbled up, even more forcefully than before. He couldn’t stop it; he couldn’t even hold it back. It was only when he stopped trying to talk that the laughter subsided back into the persistent giggles that at least let him observe and listen.
“Curious, isn’t it?” said Cicero, smiling slightly. “The more you try to defend yourself, the more ludicrous your argument. You can’t even speak for laughing.”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do to me?” he spit out.
“It’s a new invention. Clever, isn’t it? Instead of debilitating electrical impulses, these specifically target the areas of the brain that control laughter. I’ve hit you with my new Taze-a-Laugh.”
Anthony’s face twisted as he tried to parse the word. “Laugh-Taser?”
Cicero brightened. “Oh, I like that one—write that down!” he barked at a guard, who promptly typed it into their wrist-tablet. Cicero turned back to Anthony. “We’re still workshopping the name. The winning suggestion earns a gift card!”
Anthony tried to scowl. “You tase me, and try to claim honor?”
Cicero scowled—it was much more effective. “I’m not trying anything. Do you think I wanted people to die in my quest to give them quality leadership and a more technologically advanced society where everyone is on equal ground? Of course not! What would be the point of that?”
“Peter. Anna. Enrique,” spat out Anthony. “You’re going to tell them they didn’t die by your hand?”
Cicero sighed. “Worthy adversaries, all. Their loss is regrettable. But not my fault. Blame the person who began it.”
“You!”
“NOT. ME!” roared Cicero, leaping to his feet. He lunged down the steps, grabbed a laugh-taser from the guards—and without even stopping, plunged it into Anthony’s stomach.
Anthony burst into howls of laughter which bordered on screams—and then everything went black.
Chapter Nineteen
It was a lovely dream. The only problem was that Anthony knew he was dreaming.
“Elliot,” he said, as Dream-Elliot occupied himself with twisting all the hair on Anthony’s chest into braids, “you shouldn’t be here. I left you at the safe house.”
“You’re dreaming, Anthony,” Elliot reminded him. “I’m still at the safe house.”
“Oh, okay,” said Anthony, and rested his head back against the rock. “You need to stay at the safehouse, Elliot. Cicero wants to kill you.”
“I didn’t think I was that important.”
“You are to me.”
Elliot snorted. “And therefore Cicero wants me dead? Yeah, I kinda figured that goes with the territory of being your partner.”
“No, he wants you dead because you’re too smart,” said Anthony. “Nothing to do with me or being my partner.”
“Oh. That’s better then,” said Elliot, sounding oddly pleased. “I think.”
“This is a very odd dream,” mused Anthony. “Why aren’t we on a bed right now?”
“Dreams are tricky,” agreed Elliot. He abandoned Anthony’s chest and started running his hands around Anthony’s arms and wrists, up, down and over, like he was tracing something. “I need to tell you something before you wake up, though, okay?”