Free Mister Monday by Garth Nix Page A

one o’clock.
    “I don’t know,” mumbled Arthur. Desperately he looked around. He could hear the Fetchers coming up from behind, and the flaming sword was close enough for him to wince at the heat. Sweat was dripping down his face, stinging his eyes. But at least he could breathe, though he was pretty certain that would stop as soon as he let go of the Key.
    “Give me the Key!”
    “Come and get it!” shouted Arthur. He spun like a discus thrower and hurled the Key across the hall at the nearest door and threw himself after it.
    The very tip of the flaming sword caught him on the left arm as he ran, burning a line of intense pain from his shoulder to his elbow. Noon shouted something, but the boy didn’t hear. His lungs had frozen as he let go of the Key, and suddenly he didn’t have any breath at all, perhaps not even enough to last a few steps.
    He’d expected the Key to bounce off the door for him to pick up, but the clock hand had flown like a thrown dagger straight through the paper-thin gap between the door and the wall. So Arthur crashed into the door instead, and once again his expectations were confounded. It should have been locked, but instead of bouncing off and back into the path of Noon’s flaming sword he went slam-bang through it and rolled onto the floor beyond. His open hand fell on the Key and his fingers closed on it as tightly as they could. With the Key in his grasp he felt blessed breath come back and the burn on his arm fade into a dull ache.
    “There is really no point to your ridiculous acrobatics,” said Noon as he stepped through the doorway. “Give me the Key and I shall allow you to crawl away. Otherwise I shall cut off your hand and take it.”
    Arthur looked at his watch. The second hand was sweeping towards the twelve. It was almost one o’clock. His watch was very accurate, and he had set it only a week or so ago.
    Slowly, he began to loosen his grip on the Key, as if he were obeying Noon’s instructions. As he let go, he felt his lungs tighten again, and the burn on his arm began to return.
    “Hurry up!” shouted Noon. He raised his sword and the flames upon it roared into brighter, hotter life.
    The second hand was on eleven. Arthur gulped as he realized that he was about to bet his hand—his life —on a guess. A guess that Noon could only be here in Arthur’s world for the single hour between noon and one.
    “No!” shouted Arthur. He snatched the Key back and recoiled, shutting his eyes. The last thing he saw was Noon’s eyes reflecting red and the flaming sword hurtling down towards his hand.
    But no pain came. Arthur opened his eyes. The second hand of his watch was past the twelve, the hour hand and minute hand on one o’clock. There was no sign of Monday’s Noon, and the Fetchers were silent, though slavering, just beyond the door. There was a smoldering line of ash along the floor, an inch from Arthur’s fingers. He stared at it and wondered how Noon could have missed.
    The fire alarm was still ringing, and the siren still sounded its steady whoop. In the distance, Arthur could hear other sirens growing louder as fire engines converged upon the school.
    Arthur slowly got up and looked around. He was in the back of the refectory, in fact in the staff and delivery entrance for the kitchen. There was no one around, though it was clear from all the partly made meals, readied ingredients, still-steaming pots, and rotating microwave platters that the kitchen staff had only just left, responding to the evacuation alarm.
    He looked back at the Fetchers through the open door. They were silent now, standing in ranks. Somehow they had gotten their bowler hats back, and their black suits were restored. Once again they looked more like very ugly men and less like dogs.
    One of them stepped forward and opened its mouth, showing large canine teeth. Then it made a curious repetitive grunting noise. It took a moment for Arthur to realize it was meant to be a laugh. But what