The next day, Saturday, Mark got up early and told his parents he was going to take the train into New York City to go to a science museum. He was old enough to do that on his own now. Taking the train into the city was easy. The station was at the bottom of Stony Brook Avenue, a short distance from Mark's house. He checked the schedule and planned on catching the 8:05 local that would get him into Grand Central Station around 9 a.m. He figured that would leave him plenty of time to go to the address on the note and be back home before dinner.

He was hoping to get a call from Courtney, but that call didn't come, and he wasn't going to beg. So he found himself early Saturday morning standing on the train platform, alone, ready to begin the next chapter in the adventure that had begun so long ago when Bobby first left home.

The train pulled into the station and the doors opened quietly. During the week this train would be packed with commuters headed in to work. But on Saturday not many people took the train, so Mark pretty much had the car to himself. He picked a seat directly in the middle because he knew it was the smoothest ride. He threw his backpack in the overhead rack, then plunked down into the seat.

"What's the matter?" came a voice from the seat behind him. "Don't want to sit with me?"

Mark spun in surprise to seea Courtney.

"I called your house," she said. "Just missed you. Your mom told me you were catching this train. I got on one stop back."

"You sure about this?" he asked cautiously.

"No, but who else is going to watch your back?" she answered with a smile.

Mark broke out in a huge grin and moved into the seat next to her. For the time being, they were a team again. As the train took them into the city, they talked about everything except the mysterious note. It wasn't that they were avoiding the subject, it was more that they had no idea what to expect on Amsterdam Place.

They arrived in Grand Central Station and went right to the subway. Courtney knew that Amsterdam Place was on the upper East Side of Manhattan, so a quick scan of the subway map showed them the trains they had to take. The ride took twenty minutes, with only one change. Soon enough they found themselves emerging from the underground station on Amsterdam Place. Mark double-checked the building number, 429, and they walked two more blocks north.

Finally they found themselves standing in front of an old, brick apartment building. It looked like a pretty nice neighborhood, with a view of the East River. There was a park across from the address with little kids running around and a bunch of guys playing touch football. Since it was September, the leaves were just beginning to show autumn colors. But the air was warm and the sky was the kind of deep blue that only showed up in the fall. The whole scene was about as normal and safe as could be.

Except that Mark and Courtney now had to find out what was waiting for them in apartment 5A. With a quick look at each other, they climbed the cement stairs that led to the entrance. The double door looked like it had about five hundred coats of black paint on it. Mark grabbed the brass handle and pulled it open, letting Courtney go in first. Inside was another set of doors, but these were locked. The only way to get in was to be buzzed in by a tenant. On the right wall was a gray metal panel that listed all of the occupants of the building. Mark and Courtney eagerly checked for 5A.

"*Dorney,'" Mark said, reading the typed name. "Nothing weird about that."

"What did you think it was going to say?" asked Courtney. "Acolyte Headquarters?"

In spite of his nervousness, Mark laughed. The two stood staring at the name. Next to it was a black button. Neither was quick to push it.

"What are we going to say?" Mark asked.

"How about: *Hi! We're here to interview for the acolyte position.'"

Mark gave Courtney a smirk. Before he could change his mind, he pushed the button. They waited. Nothing happened.

"Maybe they're out doing acolyte stuff," Courtney offered.

Mark hit the button again. Still nothing. Mark then said, "I guess we should come back-"

"What?" came a man's gruff voice from a speaker near the names.

Mark and Courtney shot each other a look. Courtney got her head together first and said, "Uh, Mr. Dorney?"

"Who is it?" the gruff voice demanded.

"Uh, my name's Courtney. I'm here with my friend Mark. We were wondering if-"

"Go away!" the man barked, and the speaker went dead.

"Now what?" Courtney asked.

Mark hit the button again.

"Whatever you're selling, I don't want any!" the voice growled at them.

"We're not selling anything," Mark said politely. "We're here to talk to you abouta uha Bobby Pendragon."

No response. Mark and Courtney exchanged looks again. Mark reached forward to hit the button one more time, but was jolted by the harsh sound of a buzzer.

"What's that?" Mark said nervously.

Courtney glanced at the door, then pushed it open.

"He just buzzed us in," she answered. Courtney stood in the doorway, holding the door open. "Last chance," she said.

"Don't say that," Mark threw back. "I might change my mind."

He took a quick breath, then turned and walked quickly past Courtney, through the door. Courtney followed, letting the door close behind them.

Next stop, apartment 5A.

(CONTINUED).

The creaky elevator took them up to the fifth floor. Mark and Courtney anxiously watched the numbers above the door light up as they ascended.

"What if it's Saint Dane?" Courtney blurted out nervously. "He could be, like, luring us in."

"I thought about that," Mark responded, almost as nervously. "But why would he bother with us? We're just a couple of kids."

"Yeah," said Courtney. "Two kids he could use to get even with Bobby."

Mark shot Courtney a look. He hadn't thought of that. The elevator clunked to a stop and the doors slid open. Should they keep going?

"If he wanted to get us," Mark said, trying to sound confident, "he wouldn't have to go through so much trouble."

Courtney nodded and stepped out of the elevator. Mark was right behind her. The hallway was carpeted and pleasant looking. There were windows on either end that glowed with warm, autumn light. Under each was a table with a pretty flower arrangement. They were probably fake, but still made the place look homey. It wasn't a fancy place, but it wasn't run down either. There looked to be around a dozen apartment doors spaced evenly on either side of the corridor. All were painted glossy black like the front door. Each had a brass knocker with the apartment number engraved on a metal plate. Mark walked right and Courtney looked left in search of 5A. The "A" apartment was right next to the elevator.

"Go? No go?" Courtney asked.

Mark's answer was to reach for the brass knocker. He rapped twice. Not too hard as to sound insistent, but strong enough not to appear wussie. They heard the sound of footsteps inside shuffling toward the door. The person stopped, probably to peer out at Mark and Courtney through the peephole. Both of them sensed this, so they stood up straight, trying to look sincere. A moment later the door was unlatched and pulled open a crack. Just a crack. Mark and Courtney looked to each other as if to say: Now what? Courtney stepped forward and cautiously pushed the door open.

The first thing they saw was the back of a man shuffling away from them-an old guy, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants. His hair was gray and clipped short.

"Close the door," he called without turning around.

Mark and Courtney stepped inside the apartment and closed the door. But not all the way. With a silent look, Courtney showed Mark that she was leaving the door open a hair, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

"Come on!" the man shouted at them impatiently. "You got this far, don't be shy now."

Mark and Courtney walked cautiously after the man, staying close to each other for support, ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.

The apartment was normal enough. It looked exactly like the kind of apartment one would expect an old man to live in. The furniture was old, but in good shape. There were oil paintings of landscapes on the walls and framed photos of smiling people on polished mahogany tables. There wasn't a single modern touch to the whole place.

Two things stood out though. First was the books. There were thousands of them. In bookcases, on tables, in stacks that reached the ceiling. Whoever this guy was, he liked to read. The other thing was the plants. The apartment was like a greenhouse. There were dozens of potted plants, as well as viney tendrils, that traveled along the walls and across the bookcases every which way, with no beginning or end.

The apartment in general looked very clean, even with all the plants. This wasn't some slobby old guy who couldn't take care of himself. So far, Mark and Courtney learned that the guy was neat, he read a lot, and had a green thumb. None of that helped to solve the bigger mystery of who he was though.

"Sit down," the old guy said while pointing to an overstuffed couch. He then shuffled over to an easy chair and slowly settled into it. Courtney and Mark didn't take their eyes off him. As he sat, he had to hold on to the arm for support, as if his legs weren't strong enough to do it on their own. The guy wasn't frail, but he wasn't going to run a marathon either. Mark and Courtney did as they were told and sat next to each other on the couch. Both thought it had the vague smell of mothballs. Neither mentioned it.

Now that they were facing each other, they saw that the old man wore small, wire-rim glasses. His short gray hair was almost military in style. He sat with incredibly great posture, which made both Mark and Courtney sit up straight as well. He stared at them with a steady gaze, as if sizing them up. The guy may have been old, but he looked sharp.

Mark got the ball rolling. "I'm M-Mark Dimond "And I'm Courtney Chetwynde."

A long moment went by. The man kept staring at them. Finally he asked, "Why do you care?"

Mark and Courtney exchanged confused looks. "About what?" Courtney asked.

"You're here, aren't you?" the man said. "Why do you care?"

Mark said, "W-We got your address-"

"I know that," snapped the old man. "You wouldn't be here if you hadn't. What I want to know is, why?"

There was no nonsense about this guy. He didn't care about being polite or pleasant or anything else that would have put a visitor at ease.

"We're here because we want to help our friend, Bobby Pendragon," Mark said.

"Good," said the man quickly. "Why?"

"He's our friend," Courtney chimed in. "Isn't that enough?"

"Depends," answered the man.

"On what?" Courtney shot back.

"On whether or not you're willing to die for him."

Whoa. The tension in the room had just jumped a few dozen notches. The old man didn't even blink. Mark and Courtney didn't know how to respond.

And then Mark's ring began to twitch.

He quickly looked at his hand. Courtney saw it too. The gray stone was beginning to change color. Mark shot his other hand over the ring to hide it.

Too late.

"Take it off!" ordered the old man.

Mark looked at him, his panic rising.

"I said take it off! Put it on the table."

Mark didn't have a choice because the ring had already begun to grow. He pulled it off his finger and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. Bright light blasted from the stone, dazzling the apartment. The ring quickly grew until it was the size of a frisbee, revealing the dark hole inside. Then came the musical notes. After a final blast of light and music, the ring returned to normal.

Mark and Courtney looked to the table to see what the ring had delivered. Sitting there was another small, silver hologram projector. Bobby had just sent his next journal. It was a totally awkward moment. Mark grabbed his ring, swiped up the journal, and stood up.

"This was a mistake," he said nervously. "We're outta here" Mark turned for the door. Courtney didn't know what else to do, so she followed him.

"Stop right there!" the old man demanded as he struggled to his feet.

Mark turned and faced him head-on. "L-Look, mister," Mark said with passion. "We came here for answers, and all we're getting are questions. Well, you know what? I don't trust you. Why should I? If you think we're going to sit here and get grilled and threatened, then you'd better give us a good reason why, or we're gone."

Courtney gave Mark a quick look, as if surprised he had that in him. She looked back to the old man and added, "Yeah!"

The old man held their gaze, then slowly nodded. He turned away from them and walked over to a cabinet that was built into the wall.

"My name is Tom Dorney," he said firmly. "I've lived in this apartment for near fifty years. I'm not married. Never was. I have two sisters and three nephews." Dorney took a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the cabinet door. He swung it wide to reveal several metal boxes, each about two-foot square.

92 101 "I served in the military for twenty years," he continued. "Saw action in World War Two. South Pacific." He pulled one of the boxes out of the cabinet and carried it over to the coffee table. It looked heavy, but neither Mark nor Courtney made a move to help. He didn't look like he wanted or needed any.

"These boxes are fireproof," he explained. "This whole place could burn to the ground and nothing would happen to what's inside." Dorney took another key from the ring and unlocked the box. He gave one more look to Mark and Courtney, as if debating whether or not to open it.

He then said, "And I'm an acolyte. You want proof of that?"

Mark and Courtney nodded dumbly.

Dorney lifted the lid on the box to reveal it was full of papers. Some were in folders, others were rolled up scrolls that were tied with twine. Mark and Courtney stared down at them in wonder.

Mark said, "Are those?a"

"They're the journals of a Traveler," Dorney answered.

"Which Traveler?" Courtney asked.

"They were written by my best friend, Press Tilton."

Dorney then raised his hand to show he wore a ring just like Mark's. "I brought you two here because I'm getting old, and need help. Now, my question still stands. Why do you care? If I don't get the right answer, you can walk right back out that door. I don't care what that Pendragon kid thinks about you."

VEELOX.

Hey, guys. Getting used to watching me like this yet?

It's weird, after Lifelight, the idea of recording myself as a hologram seems pretty low tech. Lifelight is an incredible inventiona that's also incredibly dangerous. The thing is, I'm afraid Saint Dane knows that, and we may not be able to stop him from taking advantage of it. I'm serious. We may already be too late to save Veelox. But I'm not ready to give up yet. Aja and I have come up with a plan. To pull it off I'm going to have to jump back into Lifelight. To be honest, it scares the hell out of me because this time it won't be the wonderful, fantasy visit back home like before.

This jump is going to be hairy.

I know, I'll bet you're thinking: How hairy can it be if it's all taking place in my mind? Well, the mind is pretty powerful. So is imagination. Trust me. I've just seen what can happen when things go bad. It isn't pretty. I don't want to risk jumping again, but I don't see any way around it. I've got to go back in. I know what has to be done.

I think.