Then?
Wah-wah!
His stomach clenched into a knot.
Logan’s character had single-digit hit points but the tank was dead. Dead. Gone. TPK. And his fragile dungeon core had survived every single dungeoneer the game had thrown at it. Supposedly, something called the Tree of Souls was now safe from the raiders. Logan wasn’t sure what that meant—great game play, but the world building lacked the substance of some of the more modern dungeon crawlers out there on the market. The game was over, though. He grabbed his beer and raised the tip of the bottle in a salute.
“Debbie. Shelly. We did it.”
His eyes narrowed. The screen was flashing, almost like the dang thing was glitching. That would suck—to beat the game and be denied the endgame cutscene. At least he hoped there was an endgame cutscene.
Suddenly, the cube went crazy with blips and bloops, and then a new song started, the victory song. Logan let out a sigh of relief as he waited for the end credits to roll. But something else happened. A purple glow slowly filled in the room. The cube looked like a radioactive bomb about to explode.
The screen itself went black.
Words formed in the darkness, growing larger and brighter. Congratulations, Neophyte. Welcome to the Shadowcroft Academy for Dungeons!
Huh? That was a strange message. Why did it say welcome when he’d just beaten the game?
The cube wasn’t just glowing purple anymore, it was twitching, shaking, and rattling on the shelf next to his Xbox and Playstation.
Uh-oh. Seriously, what in the heck was going on?
Blisters bubbled across the plastic of the cube, and plumes of fine gray smoke curled up.
No, no, no. It was overheating. Catching fire maybe. Logan wasn’t about to lose his TV and his other gaming consoles. He threw himself off the sofa and hit the carpet, lunging forward to try to knock the boiling plastic away. He was too late.
Tentacles exploded out of the purple cube. His TV careened backward as the cube grew and split the shelf and smacked away the other consoles.
The cube itself, now the size of sofa, was covered with a slick purple skin. The horror, whatever it was, opened like a mouth as wide as his woodchipper. Too many jagged teeth filled that glowing maw.
Logan skittered back, hit the chair, and used it to stand. He was moving so slow—he’d taken his leg off! The pups were still outside. Thank goodness for that. But things were looking bleak.
No, he couldn’t afford to think like that.
The battle was only over when you gave up, and he wasn’t going to do that. Not ever.
Resolve hardened, he hopped toward the bedroom to get to the Mossberg 500 shotgun by his nightstand. That would put a damper on the purple monster in his living room—tentacles, teeth, that garish purple glow.
He would grab the Colt 1911, his father’s pistol, as well as the scattergun, but that meant getting there. He got three hops in before a tentacle whipped around his single leg and pulled it out from under him. He hit the ground with a thud, teeth biting into his tongue in a bright flash of pain.
Logan spit out a mouthful of blood, dug his fingers into the carpet, and began to pull himself forward. The air had a hot, fetid smell, like a dead raccoon stuck in a truck engine on a hot summer’s day. He couldn’t see the creature now—his eyes were fixed on the door at the end of the hall—but he could feel it looming over him.
With a jerk, Logan was yanked across his carpet. He felt teeth sink into his good calf, a jagged lance of pain shooting through his body. The mouth opened and chomped back down, ripping into both his thighs. When he felt the teeth rise for a third bite, he turned and kicked at it. He wouldn’t be taken by this monster cube without a fight.
The thing had grown a single eye—in the same place where the power button had been. It roared in defiance, flinging greasy saliva into Logan’s face.
Logan grimaced then roared back. He lashed out again with his remaining leg, but the kick felt weak and uncoordinated. He was losing blood, and his vision was narrowing. Tentacles slithered out, wrapping around his arms, his neck, and what was left of his legs. Logan struggled and thrashed, still fighting toward his bedroom, determined to get to the gun. He was losing consciousness.
The last thing he saw was the thing’s fangs, and then it was all darkness.
Chapter Two
LOGAN BLINKED HIS EYES open. He was glad he still had eyes, but having a head wasn’t so great. A migraine banged away on the inside of his skull.
Where in the hell was he? What happened?
Things were sort of hazy in his head. He remembered teeth, glowing purple tentacles, and a single large eye. Was it a nightmare maybe? It wouldn’t be the first.
Surviving Iraq often meant nightmares.
He glanced down and saw he was sitting on a padded leather chair with ornate wooden armrests. For reasons he couldn’t even begin to guess at, he wore a rough-spun cotton tunic. At least he wasn’t naked. Everything felt strange enough as it was.
The place smelled like lemon oil and wood polish. Brass lanterns hanging from the wall cast the room in a soft light. It kind of looked like a waiting room, but this was no doctor’s office. This reception area belonged in a fantasy novel—sort of medieval, from the stone floors, to the long ebony tables, to the brass lanterns attached to the corners of the square room. Four tapestries covered the walls: a snarling blue dragon, a crimson phoenix in flight, a crystalline tiger ready to pounce, and a gleaming black tortoise with chin raised high.
The blue dragon tapestry curled up as if on its own, and a heavy door, impossibly tall and covered in brass rivets, swung open. Something strolled in. And it was definitely a something, not a someone, since it wasn’t even remotely human. It was a giant tree creature, at least eleven feet tall, wearing flowing robes, blue cloth with gold runes. Guy had a very wizardly look about him. A light-green mossy beard swung from a creased and weathered face made of bark. His nose was a sharp branch. Wild green grass, full of flowers, sprouted from his head. Golden specks floated in curiously bright blue eyes.
Logan was beyond flabbergasted. He didn’t know if he should fight or run.
The wizened old tree man noticed Logan’s sweat.
“Be calm, Logan Murray,” the creature said, his voice deep and sage. “I’m Headmaster Shadowcroft, and you are safe.” As he spoke, swirls of colorful light filled the air, settling over Logan like a cloud of pollen. Had those lights come from the flowers on Shadowcroft’s head?
Suddenly, Logan felt strangely at ease, his worry melting away in an instant. Had the tree wizard just done something to him? Sedated him somehow? The thought seemed curiously unimportant and drifted away. Instead, Logan found himself thinking about the name. Shadowcroft. That named seemed familiar.
The tree-like wizard continued with a nod. “That’s better. Should be a little more at ease. Now, I’m sure you have many questions, Mr. Murray, the first of which is usually... where am I? I do appreciate that you aren’t yelling, shrieking, or weeping. I get that a lot.” He paused and frowned. “It is very sad, but you seem to be taking your death in stride. Quite remarkable, all things considered.”
The words stopped Logan cold. Taking your death in stride. No, that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be dead. He was here. Sitting here. Alive. Yet he couldn’t forget the feel of slashing teeth and curling tentacles. Couldn’t forget the creature looming over him.