Van Bender and the Burning Emblems (The Van Bender Archives #1) Read Online Free Page A

was empty. Just a couch with its back to me, a TV with an Xbox, a dresser, and a few chairs.
    No CMI.
    Numb, I stood there, back toward the door, breathing hard. Mom had foiled the plot—whether through her security procedures or some other way. Maybe she knew everything and had cut it off it without my even knowing.
    I leaned my back against the door, closed my eyes, and let out a sigh.
    “Well, Richie, glad to see you managed it.”
    My eyes shot open. There was the CMI.
    And he was way cooler than Marti Walker.

Chapter 4: The coolest guy I’d ever met
I always thought Richie was cooler than his parents. I mean, besides being a way better musician, he was also willing to take chances. Insane ones.
-Nick Savage
    Nick Savage stood on the opposite side of the couch.
    The Nick Savage, who’s sold more than sixty million albums and done something much harder—had chart-topping albums through the 80s, 90s, and fifteen years into the new millennium. Last year, he published his thirty-sixth album, Death Slayers of Symbolic Dementia (and the Classical Music that Torments Us) . I listened to it constantly while doing homework.
    Nick Savage.
    Of course, Savage wasn’t his real name. It was his stage name. I couldn’t remember his real name.
    He stood between the couch and the 70-inch TV, grinning.
    “We did it!” he said. Yes, Nick Savage spoke to me. Directly to me.
    Only a moment before the place had been empty. Mom had verified it. But here he was. I tried to ask him how he’d gotten in the dressing room, but only gibberish came out of my mouth. The shock had simply taken control of my brain and started to squeeze. Really, really hard.
    “I’ve waited a long time to meet you,” he said.
    So had I. For weeks Nick Savage had worked with my friends to arrange this secret meeting. He wanted to meet with me. He had something to give me.
    Holy. Freaking. Cow.
    Plus—and this caught me completely by surprise—he spoke with a Southern accent that didn’t match the black leather he wore from head to toe. His voice contrasted with the chains wrapped around his chest and waist, and the brushed metal rivets decorating the cuffs and collar of his jacket.
    And his accent certainly didn’t go with his hair, which stood at least nine inches in every direction off his head, purple in some places, green in others, and orange in yet others. At the front, a red spike stood out like a rhino’s horn. In one of his music videos he’d pierced the armor of a medieval knight with his hair. Awesome video.
    He smiled and stepped around the couch toward me, past the dresser and mirror. Again, gibberish spewed from my mouth.
    Nick Savage— Nick Savage —was in my dressing room!
    He looked me up and down with a critical eye. “You’re shorter than I thought, son.”
    Of course. The cancer had stunted my growth—my body had focused on saving me rather than growing me, and so I’d stopped extending skyward for a time. I’d grown since, but despite my hopes it seemed I would stop at five foot six. I guess living at five foot six is better than dying.
    “But,” he said, “your hair is perfect for a concert.”
    Rather than color it, I’d left it blond. It hung down both sides of my head, past my chin, relatively combed—but not too combed. Just enough to look unkempt in a carefully manicured way. And I hadn’t sculpted it into spikes or gathered it into a ponytail because I needed it loose, so that when I pounded my head up and down during one of my favorite songs— Take This, Cancer —my hair flew appropriately.
    I tried again to ask him how he’d gotten inside, but not even I understood the babbling that came out of my mouth.
    He moved to my dresser and picked up a black box about the size of a game controller. He went to the couch and motioned for me to join him. I did, and my body thanked me. Its weariness must have grown stronger than I’d thought.
    “I wanted to meet you face to face,” he said. He tapped the box. “I