Everybunny Loves Magic Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Aaron Reynolds

  Cover art copyright © 2022 by Hugo Cuellar. Cover design by Jenny Kimura. Cover copyright © 2022 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: March 2022

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Rabbit and top hat silhouette vector © Ekaterina Shcheglova/Shutterstock.com; stars background © sunwart/Shutterstock.com; wrinkled paper © PrasongTakham/Shutterstock.com; ripped paper © Supatson Bannasri/Shutterstock.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Reynolds, Aaron, 1970– author. | Reynolds, Aaron, 1970– Incredibly dead pets of Rex Dexter (Series)

  Title: Everybunny loves magic / Aaron Reynolds.

  Description: New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2022. | Series: The incredibly dead pets of Rex Dexter ; 3 | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: Ever since he was cursed by an old carnival game, Rex Dexter has had the ability to communicate with ghostly animals, and this time he is confronted by a roomful of magicians’ rabbits who are suddenly dead and want to know why; the Astounding Isabel tells him that the problem was her malfunctioning magic hat, but she cannot understand why it keeps happening—and soon Rex and his friend Darvish are neck-deep in dead bunnies, and a mystery that just keeps getting more confusing with every passing day.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021039658 | ISBN 9780316105378 | ISBN 9780316120371 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Rabbits—Juvenile fiction. | Magicians—Juvenile fiction. | Magic tricks—Juvenile fiction. | Ghost stories. | Friendship—Juvenile fiction. | Humorous stories. | Detective and mystery stories. | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Rabbits—Fiction. | Magicians—Fiction. | Magic tricks—Fiction. | Ghosts—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Humorous fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.R33213 Ev 2022 | DDC 813.6 [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021039658

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-10537-8 (hardcover), 978-0-316-12037-1 (ebook)

  E3-20220203-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Mouse and Boo

  PROLOGUE

  Some people believe in the Abominable Snowman. Those people are nut muffins.

  Some people believe in the Loch Ness Monster. Chowderheads. Every one of them.

  Some people believe in Bigfoot. Those guys need to get their heads examined.

  Me? I believe in truth. Hard facts. Things I can see and touch.

  Like talking dead chickens.

  Wait a minute, you say, your mind racing, your heart beating fast with trepidation. Did you just say talking dead chickens?

  That’s right. You read correctly. Talking dead chickens.

  Confused? You should be.

  Lost? Join the crowd.

  Upset? Get in line.

  For your benefit, I will try to explain.

  Ready? Sitting down? Bracing yourself? Good. Here goes.

  I can see and talk to dead animals.

  Don’t roll your eyes at me. This is real, people. Not like Bigfoot.

  They come to me, bound to this world by some unfinished business. Seeking my help to right the wrongs that will allow them to move on to the great beyond.

  So, if you have a delicate constitution, it’s not too late to go find yourself a book about happy woodland creatures who frolic in the forest. Because you’ll get none of that in these pages.

  If you are someone who fears the mysterious and supernatural, beware, all ye who enter here.

  If you are one who cannot stomach the horror of hideous fuzzy mayhem, turn away now. For what lies ahead is not for the faint of heart.

  You have been warned.

  1

  This whole chilling dead-pet predicament began when I was supernaturally zapped by a creepy carnival machine called The Reaper’s Curse. Now I’m stuck being an unwilling conduit of the spirit world.

  Since that time, I have freed a dead rhino. I have released a crispy-fried panda. I have liberated a deceased gorilla, shark, and elephant respectively from the unseen forces that bind them to this earth. I know. It’s a lot for a sixth grader to deal with. What with homework and stuff.

  Only Darvish knows my secret. And though he cannot see the deceased beasts with his own peepers, he has chosen to believe the unbelievable. He has tried to assist as best he can. Through it all, he has been a good best friend. Possibly better than I deserve.

  Which might be why he is currently beaning me with snowballs.

  “Can you believe all this snow?” Darvish says, forming a fresh projectile in his mittened hands. “Dude, this is awesome!”

  Dude. This is not awesome. This is the end of April, t
hat’s what this is. This is us getting hit with an irritatingly unseasonable nine inches of snow, that’s what this is. This is a cry for help from a dying planet. That’s what this is.

  Don’t get me wrong. I respect a good snow day just as much as the next person. But I cannot condone such wanton winter frivolity with less than two months to go before school lets out for the summer. It is an abomination. A blatant disregard for the natural order of things. I expect sunshine, dang it, not snowstorms.

  Drumstick, my dead chicken, is oblivious to my chilly contempt for winter. He is happily putting the finishing touches on his snowman.

  He pulls a brownish thing out of a bag and stuffs it into the face.

  “What is that?” I ask him, shivering in the arctic April breeze.

  “Your dad was out of carrots,” he says. “I think this is a jicama.”

  I step back and examine Drumstick’s handiwork. By human standards, it is a rather Abominable Snowman.

  But for a dead chicken, it’s not half bad.

  I sigh and contemplate the state of my life. Two weeks have passed since Darvish and I conquered the Narwhal Enigma. Also known as the Snarbly Bay Brouhaha. Also known as figuring out who killed a narwhal and a whale shark, thereby freeing the creatures from this earthly coil and allowing them to drift away to that big coral reef in the sky. Darvish and I went through thick and thin together during that little escapade. We were molded by the crucible of nautical mayhem. Bonded by the hardships of life at sea.

  And I have been changed by it. That experience has brought out a kind and sensitive side that was lurking deep down in my nether regions.

  I am no longer the childish, self-absorbed boy I once was. I have become a man. Rugged, yet sensitive. Abrasive, yet gentle. I’m like high-quality dish soap. In fact, I can practically feel a thatch of chest hairs sprouting… right there, just above my soft and gentle heart.

  But in the two weeks since our seafaring adventures have come to a close, not a single dead animal has shown up on my doorstep.

  No wrongfully poached gazelles hogging my bed covers.

  No displaced penguins leaving haddock in my beanbag chair.

  Not so much as a windshield-splatted butterfly.

  Is it conceivable that maybe, just maybe, this jinx from the underworld has hit its supernatural expiration date? That I am free at last from the nagging presence of demanding spirits? That Darvish and I may move forward with our previously scheduled existence, unencumbered by the weighty cosmic issues of the afterlife?

  Fat chance.

  2

  My father is perched on a ladder in our living room when we finally take refuge from the frigid tundra.

  We stand there thawing on the rug. But he is heedless to our frozen discomfort.

  “Dad,” I hint. “It is colder than a Siberian winter out there.”

  “I doubt that,” he says, holding a light bulb in his teeth. “Siberia gets pretty cold. But it is unseasonably chilly this spring.”

  “Please don’t quibble,” I tell him. “We are frozen to the core.”

  He removes the light bulb from his mouth and looks down from his perch. “You look it,” he says. “You guys should make some hot chocolate.”

  “Hot chocolate is a child’s beverage,” I say. “We are practically adults. Grown men. Strong, yet sensitive. Right, Darvish?”

  “Actually, hot chocolate sounds really good,” says Darvish. “With marshmallows.”

  “Marshmallows are not strong yet sensitive, Darvish,” I whisper to my friend. “They are soft yet squishy. Trust me on this.” I crane my neck up at my dad. “We’ll both have coffee,” I tell him. “Black as the night.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says, shooting an arched eyebrow down upon us. “When did you start drinking coffee?”

  “It is a recent development,” I tell him. “I am having an emotional growth spurt. Therefore, I have decided that it is time to put away childish drinks.”

  “Well, I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee,” he says, screwing the light bulb into the ceiling fixture. “Your mom and I don’t do caffeine.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” I say. “We’ve just come in from whiteout conditions. I may well have hypothermia. I believe it’s your constitutional duty to have a hot beverage waiting. I’m almost certain we learned that in social studies.”

  He climbs down. “I don’t think so. But if you want, I could soak a brown crayon in some boiling water for you.”

  “I’ll take the hot chocolate,” says Darvish.

  “With marshmallows,” says my father, shooting Darvish a thumbs-up. “Sounds good. Follow me.”

  They saunter into the kitchen, my chicken trailing behind.

  “And where are you going?” I ask Drumstick.

  “That brown crayon drink sounds incredible,” he says over his shoulder.

  I let out the sigh of the defeated. I have a father who cares nothing for his civic responsibilities. A best friend who is holding on to his childhood. And a dead chicken who wants to eat art supplies.

  Being a grown man is hard work. I’ve been one for less than two weeks and I’m already exhausted.

  3

  I once trusted technology. I once appreciated things that go beep and boop as much as the next guy.

  And then I met a machine with the face of a skeleton and a heart of darkness. A contraption called The Reaper’s Curse. This seemingly innocent carnival game lured me in with its flashy lights and pushy buttons. And then it wrecked my life.

  I have learned the hard way: Technology is not our friend.

  There it lurks, quietly waiting for its chance to wreak its vengeance on us. To overthrow humanity with its superior intellect and electric reflexes. Plus, machines have all that wire. Enough to tie up every man, woman, and child ten times over. We all should watch our backs. Because if our video games and toasters ever decide to get truly cranky about their lot in life, we don’t stand a chance.

  So, what has my dad just brought into our happy abode? More technology.

  “Hey, you two. Guess what I’m doing,” my dad says as he shoves two mugs of hot chocolate our way. But he’s so excited, he doesn’t give us a chance to guess. “I’m turning our house into a Smart Home! I just changed the last of the light bulbs!”

  It’s the beginning of the end, people. Mark my words.

  Drumstick looks around. “Doesn’t look any smarter to me,” he squawks.

  My chicken is not wrong. Nothing looks any different. Factoring in my continued coffee-less state, our home seems to be just as dumb as it’s always been. But to hear my father tell it, major upgrades have been made.

  “I’ve installed the AI and it’s ready to go!” he says excitedly. “Oh, sorry. I’m talking tech lingo. AI is an abbreviation. It stands for—”

  “I know an abbreviation when I hear one, Father,” I tell him sternly. This man. Still treating me like a child. “AI,” I muse. “It obviously stands for Alligator Intestines.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I haven’t installed alligator intestines in our house.”

  “Alphabetical Igloos,” I say.

  “No,” he says.

  “ANTHROPOMORPHIC IGUANA!” I proclaim with authority.

  “Um… no,” says my dad.

  “‘AI’ stands for artificial intelligence,” says Darvish.

  “That’s right, Darvish,” says my dad, impressed.

  I decide to play along. See where it leads.

  “So,” I ask. “What does this AI do exactly?”

  “Her name is Alfreda,” says my dad proudly. “Here, let me show you how it works.”

  He excitedly waves his hands around in the air. “Alfreda! Turn on the kitchen lights!”

  “Okay,” says a disembodied voice. And then the lights turn on. All by themselves.

  Like magic.

  “Isn’t that great?!” my dad hoots. “Give it a try! Just say her name and tell her what to do. And she does it!”

  Despi
te my reservations, my mind races with the possibilities. After all, if this Alfreda character can turn the lights on for my father, imagine what she’s capable of in the hands of somebody who knows what to ask for.

  I step forward. I clear my throat. And I speak. “Alfreda!” I command. “Give me a million dollars!”

  Nothing happens. Not a dang thing.

  “Hmmm,” says the voice, thinking it over. “I’m not sure how to do that.”

  No million dollars appears. No sacks of silver doubloons materialize. The couch doesn’t even cough up any loose change.

  My dad smacks his forehead with a palm and sighs.

  As well he should. This is what comes from trusting machines. Disappointment. Cold, bitter disappointment.

  I confess, I’m somewhat relieved. After all, if technology cannot even deliver on cold hard cash, how can it possibly hope to conquer mankind?

  I pat my dad on the arm soothingly as I leave the room. Poor guy. His grand experiment is an abysmal failure. His faith in computers has let him down. His abbreviation has backfired.

  Because his AI is not an artificial intelligence at all.

  His AI is an absolute idiot.

  4

  The South Pole is one of the coldest places on Earth. But right now, its frigid temperatures are being outdone by my upstairs hallway.

  “It’s freezing in here,” Darvish points out. “Why does your dad keep the heat so low?”

  I check the thermostat as we pass. It’s set at a balmy seventy-two degrees.

  And yet, the kid is right. Because as Darvish, Drumstick, and I approach my bedroom, mugs of hot cocoa in hand, the chill seeps into our very bones. A coldness in the air that has nothing to do with the unseasonable April weather.

  It is the spine-tingling shudder that accompanies the deceased.

  Though Darvish cannot see the dead, it is possible that time spent with me is rubbing off on him. His senses are becoming increasingly attuned to the spirit world. I may have to promote him from sidekick to full partner.

  It is a big day for him. I just hope he doesn’t expect business cards and custom letterhead.

  But as I open my bedroom door, thoughts of office supplies leave me.

  I once told you that this story you’re reading features no frolicking woodland creatures.