Invasion of the Blanche (Strange Totems Book 2) by Corey Mariani (book recommendations based on other books txt) 📗

out by the Prime Nabob at the assembly for helping Blanche achieve her dreams had not made me a popular man in Arampom it seemed.

I wandered the hallways, with their steel-pipe columns and peach, stucco walls, until I came to double-doors, propped open, and saw bookshelves inside. Warm air wafted into the hall, carrying the smell of dust and old books. People stood in line in front of the check-out desk. I took my place at the back of the line. The few people that made eye contact with me quickly looked away. My curt nods were ignored. I was a pariah.

So be it. I had Zelda on my side, and soon Kaliah. The three of us could defeat the Friends on our own, or so I told myself, trying to inject myself with a little courage.

Be posigetiful.

Truthfully, I was terrified of reentering the cheese danish whorl. Even if I got my hands on a sourdough totem that worked, I didn’t know if I could endure that type of pain.

I scanned the library. It was small—a handful of tables with chairs, six tall bookshelves in addition to the bookshelves lining the walls. I spotted indoor plants, a fern first, then a palm, then, in the far corner, the telltale waxy leaves of a ficus in a pot by a door. I thought about going in the room right then, but the note said “after orientation,” so I stayed put.

I overheard whispered conversations between the others in line, mostly about their new living situations. One person spoke of the Friends forcing Mummer Wardens out of retirement to build the Wall of Blanche.

When I reached the front of the line, the woman behind the desk was curt with me, said I was late, and they had already sent out my escort to find me. Out of habit, I almost apologized, but caught myself and righteously remained silent. She gave me directions to my orientation room, and I followed them to an open, red steel door. The classroom inside had thirty or so empty school desks and a variety of flags from Hispanic countries hanging on the wall, along with posters of Mexico City, a Dia de los Muertos celebration, Frida Kahlo, and random Spanish phrases buffeted by polarized exclamation marks. A few piñatas hung from the ceiling.

Brad’s bond, Meadow sat on top of the teacher’s desk, her sandals dangling a foot above the checkered floor. She wore a gray wool cardigan with oversized wooden buttons and a thick collar. She had flowing auburn hair, round spectacles, and the patient and patronizing smile of a seasoned kindergarten teacher. She opened her arms in greeting and said, “Welcome, Mr. Allison. Please take a seat. My name is Meadow.”

Ignoring her outstretched hand—which was difficult for me, with my background in the hospitality industry—I sat at a desk in the front row and rested my crossed arms on it while Meadow smiled down on me.

“It is an honor to give orientation to Blanche’s grandson,” she said.

“Where are all the children that used to come here?”

“The children are on Christmas break and have been relocated to the more populated areas of the county, where they will be of better use to the cause. There are children still in town, but they are mummer children, and they are with their parents in the new monastery.”

“What new monastery?”

Meadow tilted her head. “I’m sorry I forgot you weren’t born into a Lodge. Arampom had a monastery in another town north of here where mobiaks who violated the laws of cackle were sentenced to rigorous lessons. Those who ran the monastery had children who attended school. Mummers who were predatory toward mobiaks also populated this town, and they were made harmless, of course, by the Mummer Wardens. Arashanikas each one, who took shifts providing the personalities of their ancestors to the mummers, which kept them happy and docile, living out lives of long-dead mobiaks. But none of that is necessary in this new town where the mobiak and mummer prisoners were relocated. Because of Blanche, there is no need for cackle laws anymore. Because of Blanche, dangerous mummers will no longer be coddled, and monasteries all over the world will soon be converted to holding barracks to keep their greedy little bourgeois mummer minds from soiling Blanche’s dream.” At the end of her little speech, Meadow’s otherwise pleasant and smooth delivery turned halting and vitriolic, leaving tiny drops of spittle caught in the fibers of her wool collar, like dew in a spiderweb.

I needed to know more about the holding barracks where Bruce and Pam were being held. If the plan to make a sourdough totem didn’t work, I would have to break them out somehow. “Are the mummers locked up?” I said. “Are we safe?”

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” Meadow said with such condescension I worried my questions had been transparent. “Brad is doing a phenomenal job with the mummer problem. Now . . . .” Meadow grabbed a file from a stack next to her and held it out to me, but it was too far to reach. She shook it as if she expected me to get up and take it from her. I didn’t move. She sighed, slid off her desk, and dropped the file in front of me, then shimmied back on top of her desk with a grunt—a petty victory, but a victory all the same.

“Those are instructions from Blanche on how you can best succeed here in Arampom,” Meadow said, her patronizing smile back in place. “You are to run your own bakery, in honor of your late sister, May. A building has already been picked out for you and furnished with all the supplies you need. Blanche expects you to channel your rage and grief into your baking. For example, if you harbor any revenge fantasies, she would like to see them reflected thematically in your menu. However, she does hope that, with time, you will come to understand her actions, and