In Heir Apparent there are as many ways to win as there are to get killed. "A stylish tale [that] addresses both fantasy gaming and censorship." ( New York Times Book Review) From Edgar Award–winning author Vivian Vande Velde comes a rollicking story that puts a high-tech twist on the classic medieval fantasy-adventure. In the virtual reality game Heir Apparent,   there are  way  too many ways to get killed—and Giannine seems to be finding them all. Which is a shame, because unless she can get the magic ring, locate the stolen treasure, answer the dwarf's dumb riddles, impress the head-chopping statue, charm the army of ghosts, fend off the barbarians, and defeat the man-eating dragon, she'll  never  win. And she has to, because losing means she'll die —for real  this time. Junior Library Guild Selection * New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age "Consistently entertaining."— Publishers Weekly "A testament to Vande Velde's storytelling magic."— The Horn Book "A stylish tale [that] addresses both fantasy gaming and censorship." — The New York Times Book Review   "Plausible, suspenseful. . . . Hilarious. . . . It's riveting reading for experienced gamers and tyros alike."— Kirkus Reviews (starred review) A Junior Library Guild Selection A New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age Vivian Vande Velde  has written many books for teen and middle grade readers, including Heir Apparent , User Unfriendly , All Hallow's Eve: 13 Stories , Three Good Deeds , Now You See It ..., and the Edgar Award–winning Never Trust a Dead Man . She lives in Rochester, New York. Visit her website at www.vivianvandevelde.com. Chapter one Happy Birthday to Me It was my fourteenth birthday, and I was arguing with a bus. How pathetic is that? Even before the bus had started in on me, my mood wasn't exactly the best it's ever been. Birthdays do that to me. This year I didn't even have a good excuse: I had actually received my birthday gift from my father on time, which might have been a sign he was making an effort to be a more considerate and involved dad. Of course, if he was really considerate and involved, he wouldn't have had his secretary call to ask me what kind of gift certificate I wanted for my birthday. Whatever. Birthday = don't-mess-with-me mood. So there I was, on my way to cash in my gift certificate, riding on a bus powered by artificial intelligence-emphasis on the artificial. I saw the picketers just as the bus paged me: "Passenger Giannine Bellisario, you asked to disembark at the Rasmussem Gaming Center, but there is a civil disturbance at your stop. Do you wish to continue to another destination, or would you prefer to be returned to the location at which you boarded?" The voice was kind and polite and only slightly metallic. I was not polite. I sighed. Loudly. "Are they on strike?" I asked into the speaker embedded in the armrest. There was a brief pause while the bus's computer brain accessed Central Information. "Rasmussem employees are not on strike," the bus reassured me, at just about the same time that I could make out the picketers' signs. "The demonstration is by members of CPOC." I sighed even louder. They pronounce it, C pock. It stands for Citizens to Protect Our Children. As a fourteen-year-old, I qualify-by society's definition-as a child. I am willing to accept protection from stray meteors, ecoterrorists, and my seven-year-old cousin, Todd. But I don't feel in need of protecting by CPOC, which strongly believes that only G-rated movies should be made and that libraries should stock only nice, uplifting books that promote solid family values-nice being defined as nothing supernatural, nothing violent, nothing scary. That about kills my entire reading list. I think there are a couple alphabet books they approve of. Still, as far as I knew, this was the first time they'd ever come after Rasmussem. I have excellent timing like that. As the bus passed by the patch of sidewalk the picketers had claimed, I could read their signs: MAGIC = SATANISM and VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE and INAPPROPRIATE FOR OUR CHILDREN. "Why can't you drop me off?" I asked. "Legally, they aren't allowed to obstruct anyone from going in." I'd learned that in Participation in Government class. "Rochester Transit Authority is prohibited from letting a minor disembark into a situation that might be hazardous," the bus told me. A little bit of artificial intelligence can be an annoying thing. "What are they going to do: smack me on the head with a pamphlet?" I asked. The bus didn't answer and kept on moving. I was not going to win an argument, I could tell. "Well, then," I said, "let me off at the next stop." "Not if you intend to return to the Rasmussem Gaming Center stop," the bus responded. I checked our progress on the real-time electronic route map displayed on the back of the seat in front of me and told the bus, "Of course not. I want to be dropped off at the art mu