The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(39)

He knew as well that he could never tell her of his love. Because she would totally kill him.

Oh, absolutely.

In a heartbeat.

So he would have to bury his infatuation deep down inside.

Risky leaned close. “I’ll tell you, Paddy: there’s a great deal that exists outside of that frame. Come. I’ll show you something.”

He followed her. He would have followed her anywhere.

She moved faster now, as though she was moving with new purpose, excited, anticipating.

“Oh, I’ll definitely show you something,” she said, and laughed in her delightfully demonic-psychopathic-creepy way.

Suddenly the tunnel came to an end.

They stepped out onto a plateau, a sort of mesa, or maybe just a broad, wide platform. Beyond the plateau the ground fell away out of view. But it glowed down there; it glowed with a rainbow of colors that sent wild shadows up to the vaulted stone roof far, far overhead.

Nine Iron had a sense of a space so vast you could have put all of County Grind there and had space left over for all of New York.

He had expected something out of Dante. Not that he had read Dante. But in any case, he’d expected dark and gloom and maybe glowing red lava.

He had not expected this manic swirling of color. It was darkness, yes, but very colorful darkness. And yet, none of the colors cheered him up the way colors were supposed to.

When he looked closer, he began to see the reason for this. The colors came from millions of tiny whirls, like small tornadoes each united in a swath of millions of similar tornadoes of light, all forming one impossibly vast swirl.

They moved closer to the edge of the mesa, and Nine Iron found it very strange that he was sweating, because it wasn’t that hot, really. And he found it strange that he was dragging his feet, because it wasn’t like him to be afraid of something he couldn’t see.

He certainly found it strange to feel his own heart, no longer an ignored source of rhythmic thumping, now like an animal struggling to pummel its way out of his chest.

“I don’t . . . ,” he said through lips now cracked, speaking with a tongue dry as dirt.

“Did you know that white light refracts into every other color?” Risky asked him.

“Um . . . My heart . . . it . . .”

In a singsong voice, Risky called out, “Mommy, Mom-meeee. I have a visitor.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Every soul casts its own light; did you know that, Paddy? Even the darkest of souls casts a light all its own.”

A whimper was swallowed deep in Nine Iron’s choked throat. How could he be so afraid and so in love? There had to be something wrong with him. (Well, duh.)

“Did you think she was the Pale Queen because she didn’t get enough sun, Paddy? No, no, no. She is the Pale Queen because she is made up of so many lost souls, all swirling together in their many hues to create one brilliant light.”

Nine Iron wanted to say something along the lines of “That’s great to know, thanks for the lesson, I’m outta here.” But he was in no condition to say anything at all because his heart was like the heart of a whale, filling his whole inside with an intolerable pounding.

“She can take any shape, my mother, any shape or form. A conquering worm, a spider as big as a ship, a creature of blades and spikes. But you, Nine Iron, you will see her as she is.”

He could no longer force his feet forward. So Risky, laughing gaily, grabbed his arm and hauled him mercilessly to the edge. Dread and infatuation were at war in Paddy’s poor, confused brain.

“Now gaze upon the Pale Queen,” Risky crowed.

Nine Iron did.

And he fell to his knees.

And from that moment forward there was absolutely zero chance that Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout would ever serve anyone but the Mother of All Monsters, or love anyone but Ereskigal.





Chapter Twenty-seven



It took Mack a few seconds to put what Dietmar had just said together in his head. “Wait, are you telling me that’s Thor?”

As if in answer, the bearded giant hopped up onto the stage and plugged his guitar into the amp.

“Okay, I’m not trying to say I’m Jimmy Page or Hendrix or anything, but I think I just about have this down.”

He waved a hand behind him, an almost careless gesture. And suddenly there was a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder.

A decidedly non-god-sized human appeared, perched on a stool behind the drum kit. He had a brown beard and long hair.

But the first sound was from Thor’s guitar. An urgent, insistent riff that built in intensity.

A bass player appeared, just popped into view. Added his urgency to Thor’s.

And then the drummer started in.

They rocked for about thirty seconds until Thor yelled, “No, no, no! That’s not it. Why can’t I get it right?” He held out his guitar and glared at it like it just wasn’t doing what he wanted it to do.

The music stopped. The drummer shrugged.

Thor looked embarrassed. “Work in progress,” he said to Mack and the others. “Work in progress. But wait. I have one for you; it’s, like, my theme song.” He looked over his shoulder at the drummer. “‘Immigrant Song.’ One, two, three, four . . .”

The drummer started beating out a tattoo.

Thor played a rhythmic riff.