The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(35)

Mack’s first impression was that they looked like a small surviving part of some bigger structure. Like an architectural ruin, a segment of the walls of Troy, or a slice from a Mayan pyramid.

Imagine a row of those giant smokestacks you see sticking up out of power plants. Now imagine they’re white. And then imagine they’re all cracked and crumbly.

And you’re standing right where it would all crack and crumble down.

They looked broken. Worn by time. They cast very long shadows in the early, slanting sun. It was in the pattern of those shadows that Mack could see that the pillars were in roughly ascending heights, with the tallest pillar right up against, and even somewhat in, the lake.

The lake was nothing special—a pond, really. The water was dark and cloudy green.

“This is an ancient place,” Xiao said. “I feel long memories touching this place. Strangeness. Danger. Evil. But faith and hope, too.”

“It has a certain Uluruness about it,” Jarrah admitted.

“There are stairs climbing up. A walkway. Do we go?” Xiao asked.

Nine Iron stood between them and the start of the ascending path. Tourists from the bus were unlimbering their cameras, stretching, looking around anxiously for a restroom.

“I don’t see any Lepercons,” Mack said. “And if we run—or even walk quickly—we can get around Nine Iron.”

Stefan, however, was not interested in getting around Nine Iron. He strode with manly purpose straight toward the ancient man in green.

“You and me, old man,” Stefan said.

Nine Iron grinned wickedly with his unhealthy horse teeth and his pale, bloodless lips. He slowly drew his cane-sword.

Stefan waited. “First thing I’m going to do is shove that cane right up your—”

And that’s when someone stepped out from behind Nine Iron.

He couldn’t be more than twelve. He was a smallish kid. He had skin the color of caramel, big dark eyes, long black hair with lots of body, tied in a thick ponytail.

He was dressed in loose-fitting, even billowy white trousers. His shirt was a close-fitting embroidered jacket of a strange pinkish, salmonish color.

Around his waist was a green satin sash. Two jeweled scabbards were stuck into that sash. And in his hand was a staff maybe five feet long.

This rather incredible-looking boy twirled the staff in one hand with practiced ease.

Nine Iron said, “May I present my apprentice.”

“Valin,” the boy said. And he bowed from the waist, just a slight inclination, and an arrogant one at that. He smirked at Mack, ignoring Stefan.

“Step off, kid,” Stefan warned.

Valin laughed delightedly. “I am well-versed in all manner of combat, mayhem, brawling, and assassination.”

“Good for you,” Stefan said. He reached to shove the boy aside.

That’s when the stick whirled in Valin’s hand and knocked Stefan’s hand aside, spun, smacked Stefan in the side of the head, and ended by jabbing at Stefan’s stomach.

Stefan landed flat on his behind, but he was up in the blink of an eye.

“Little weird dude, stay out of my way,” Stefan warned. “Or I might kill you by accident.”

“That would be a very . . . ,” Nine Iron began. Wheeze. Wheeze. “. . . bad idea. You see, my apprentice here is one of you.”

“It’s true,” Valin said. “I, too, have the enlightened puissance. But unlike you hopeless fools, I serve the Pale Queen.”





Chapter Twenty-four



What?” Mack said.

“You can’t be on her side!” Jarrah cried.

“That is cheating!” Dietmar cried.

Valin shrugged. “If you kill me, you will never assemble the full Magnificent Twelve. And if you don’t kill me, then I will kill you.”

“Wait a minute,” Mack said. “You’re twelve and you’re already evil? That’s impossible!”

“Really?” Valin asked smugly. “Think about it.”

So Mack did think about it. And when he thought back over the many twelve-year-olds he knew or had known, he was a lot less sure that none of them were evil. Still, actually working for the Pale Queen and being an apprentice to a Nafia assassin seemed a little much. He said so.

Mack was stalling. First because it seemed crazy, even by the new and lower standards of crazy he had come to accept. He wanted some explanation.

But he was also stalling because Stefan was edging away unnoticed by the arrogant and flamboyantly attired stranger. It was absolutely impossible that Stefan would be fleeing, which could only mean that Stefan was up to something.

“Did you have, like, a bad childhood or something?” Mack pressed.

Valin made a phony sad face and said, “It’s been a hard life for me. Boo-hoo.”

“Maybe we could get you some counseling.”

Valin’s smirk evaporated. “You know nothing, fool. You don’t know who I am. Or where I come from. Or why it is that I must destroy you.”

“I’ve got some free time,” Mack said. “You could tell me all about it.”

“I think not,” the boy said. “I will only say that when I have destroyed you, my family will be avenged for an ancient injustice done to us by your family.”