The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(2)

But people seldom questioned Stefan.

Certainly not more than once.

Anyway, the flight to China was relatively normal, although Mack spent the entire time gripping the armrest and whimpering. He had no fear of flying but he had a morbid fear of oceans and of sharks, and there’s a lot of ocean between Australia and China.

At one point Stefan smacked Mack on the head to get Mack to whimper more quietly. Mack didn’t really resent this much because if Stefan hadn’t done it, the rest of the passengers seated nearby would have. There’s just something about a sweating, trembling, teeth-gritting, seat-gripping, weeping, I-don’t-want-to-die-whining kid that gets on people’s nerves.

But now Mack, Jarrah, and Stefan were off the plane and at the Beijing airport waiting for their luggage to come down the conveyor belt. They were surrounded by passengers who’d been on the plane from Australia with them. Everyone was bleary and tired and leaning on luggage carts and checking their watches and trying to get more bars on their cell phones.

And standing well apart from Mack.

Mack was thumbing through the Chinese currency he’d gotten from an ATM upon landing.

“I don’t understand this money. I’m going to end up paying someone a hundred dollars for a soda,” Mack muttered.

And that’s when Stefan poked him. “Dude,” Stefan said. “Over there.”

A very old man, dressed almost entirely in green, was coming toward them. He was still a hundred yards away and did not move briskly. So Mack had plenty of time to say, “Paddy ‘Nine Iron’ Trout? Here?”



“Paddy Wacky,” Stefan growled. He smiled then and interlaced his fingers in order to crack his knuckles and stretch his arm muscles. Stefan knew that before you engaged in the strenuous activity of beating someone up, it’s best to stretch. It saves you getting cramps in your biceps.

“You know that old git?” Jarrah asked.

“He’s a Nafia hit man,” Mack said.

“What? Mafia, like Tony Soprano?”

“Not Mafia. Nafia,” Mack said.

“Ah,” Jarrah said, as though that clarified the situation for her. (It didn’t.)

Mack looked for his bag. There were plenty of bags going by slowly on the carousel, but none were his. Annoying, because if the bag were there, he’d have time to pick it up, place it on the luggage cart along with Jarrah’s backpack and Stefan’s bag, and leave at a leisurely pace.

Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout? Not a fast-moving guy.

But Mack knew about the sword in Nine Iron’s walking stick. So although Nine Iron was probably almost a hundred years old and therefore slow, slow, sloooow, you didn’t necessarily want to hang around and wait for him. If you stood still long enough, he would absolutely stab you.

“You want me to go beat him up?” Stefan asked, with the kind of hopeful expression you might see on the face of an eager puppy who thinks you have Pup-Peroni.

“Not unless he starts something,” Mack said. “How would you explain it to the cops? You can’t just beat up a hundred-year-old guy.”

Nine Iron made his way to the far side of the carousel. He stood there like any other person waiting for a bag. Except that as he stood there, he stared with sunken, bleary, borderline-crazy eyes at Mack.

Mack almost felt he should wave.

Apparently Nine Iron spotted the bag he was waiting for. It had a jaunty plaid pattern. Nine Iron leaned over and struggled to grab it. Except no, no, he wasn’t really trying to grab it. He was . . .

Mack heard the sound of a zipper.

Nine Iron smiled, revealing teeth like those of an unhealthy horse. He laughed, a creaky sound filled with malice.

“I warned you not to—” he said, but then held up a finger, indicating he needed a moment. He reached inside his green blazer and pulled out a clear plastic tube and mouthpiece.

Nine Iron sucked oxygen once, twice, three times.

“—defy me!” Nine Iron finished.

The plaid bag came around the carousel. Unzipped.

It popped open! The top was pushed back by a tiny, scabby hand that appeared to be missing a couple of fingers.

As Mack saw the contents of the suitcase, he squealed. So did Jarrah. So, actually, did Stefan. Not squeals of delight. More like squeals of “Eeew!”

“Ah-ha-ha!” Nine Iron cackled. “Arise, my Lepercons! Arise and—”

He paused to take several more deep breaths from his oxygen tank while everyone—Mack, Jarrah, Stefan, and the Lepercons—waited.

“ —kill! Kill for the Pale Queen!”

The suitcase was full of what were definitely living things, but not like any living things Mack had ever seen before. They were about the size of fat house cats. They were more or less human shaped, but with legs too long for their bodies. They didn’t wear clothing, but their torsos were discreetly covered by black-on-white spotted fur.

They looked a little like dalmatian puppies. Except not cute. The Lepercons didn’t make you want to say “Aaaw”; they made you want to say “Aaah!” Largely because they had leprous, disfigured faces that reminded Mack of wadded-up gym socks with down-turned doll mouths.

They appeared to have started life with the usual number of fingers and toes and noses, but the bare flesh visible beyond the fur was all eaten at, chewed up, and missing things that ought to be there.