The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(43)

Plus one very giant wolf.

“You’re trying to reach the observatory?” Thor said, smirking. “Well, go ahead. I’m not as quick as I used to be when I worked out in battle every day. Run for it.”

Mack had no particular phobia involving giant gods. And he’d had quite a bit of experience dealing with bullies. But this wasn’t like the old days of trying to outthink or outrun Stefan.

“Any of you guys have anything?” Mack whispered.

Xiao said, “Vargran spells will not work on gods. Except indirectly. If you had a spell to turn yourself into one of them, and a spell to give yourself a big magical spear . . .” Xiao blushed. “I realize that’s not very helpful.”

“We must not let them push us around,” Dietmar added stoutly.

“That’s even less helpful,” Mack said.

He took a deep breath. He had an idea. But it wasn’t a very good one. He turned to face Fenrir. The wolf was as big as an elephant.

“Hey, Fenrir, are you one of those wolves who like to dress up in women’s clothing and try to pass as Grandma?” Mack asked the world’s largest wolf.

Fenrir’s yellow eyes narrowed to slits.

“I mean, it’s amazing, really, how lame wolves are,” Mack went on. “Outsmarted by Little Red Riding Hood. Killed and cooked by the Three Little Pigs.”

“Lies,” Thor said. “Myths.”

“Dude, you’re a myth,” Mack said, turning back to him. “I mean, what a disappointment. You’re supposed to be all crazy-tough and dangerous, and instead you’re some pitiful Guitar Hero wanna-be.”

Then, back to Fenrir. “And what’s even more pathetic is your big dog.”

A growl pitched somewhere around the sound a jet engine makes when it sucks in a goose escaped from Fenrir.

“Don’t call him a dog!” Thor cried. The concern in his voice was genuine; Mack was sure of it. He was already putting his hands out in a calming gesture.

Yes, that was it: the pressure point, the thing he could do to really infuriate the wolf.

“Can you do any tricks, Fenrir? Can you roll over? Can you shake hands? Can you play dead?” In a low murmur to his friends, he said, “When he jumps, go through Thor’s legs.”

The growl deepened, the ruff of fur on Fenrir’s shoulders stood up, and he seemed to swell in size. But still Fenrir did not attack.

“My friend has a dog just like you,” Mack said. “And you know what? He eats his own poop.”

Fenrir’s leap was so sudden and so powerful, Mack was almost caught standing.

It was stunning to see something so large move with such shocking speed.

Mack bolted. Jarrah, Xiao, and Dietmar reacted with speed that almost equaled Mack’s. But frankly, no one could beat Mack when it came to bully dodging. And Stefan had no experience at all with running away.

So what happened was this: Mack leaped for the gap between Thor’s tree-trunk legs. He cleared the obstacle and was flying down the polished stone hallway at about the speed of sound when he realized that Xiao, Jarrah, and Dietmar had collided trying to squeeze through.

And Stefan was still standing around. He was just not any good at terrified fleeing.

And Fenrir was flying through the air.

So Mack yelled, “Look out!”

Stefan crouched beneath Fenrir’s hairy belly; the wolf flew over him and slammed into his master, who was yelling in a scared god voice, “Fenrir, down! Down, boy!”

The wolf, the god, the three kids—well, two kids and one dragon passing as a kid—wrapped themselves into one big bowling ball of deerskin, fur, sword, and tangled limbs.

Jarrah was quickest to recover. She yanked Dietmar to his feet and hauled butt toward Mack. Stefan jumped atop Fenrir, bounced off his back, avoided a wild grab by a prostrate Thor, and landed—grinning hugely—on the safe side of the gaggle.

Only Xiao was still trapped. She was sort of squashed beneath one of Fenrir’s shoulders.

Mack’s every instinct told him to keep running. But in that terrifying moment he came to realize a really dreadful truth: it was the Magnificent Twelve. Not the Magnificent Eleven. Or Ten. Or any smaller number.

They were like the Three Musketeers, except there would be Twelve Musketeers. So instead of all-for-one-and-one-for-all times three, it was going to be all-for-one-and-one-for-all times twelve—which meant not losing anyone. Not Xiao, not Jarrah, not Dietmar. Not even that traitor Valin. And managing all that was going to be really difficult.

One other thing he realized. He was one of the Twelve and he, too, was not expendable. Stefan, on the other hand . . .

“Stefan! Get Xiao!” Mack yelled.

Stefan spun like an athlete and ran straight back at the god-wolf tangle.

Stefan didn’t grab Xiao’s up-stretched hand. Instead he grabbed the hilt of Thor’s sword.

He pulled. And pulled. Straining his muscles.

Thor was fourteen feet tall. His sword was a good six feet—longer than Stefan was tall—and it was not made of some lightweight space-age polymer. This was old-fashioned steel and gold and bronze and other heavy things.

Stefan was strong. But he was not god-strong. He could draw the sword but, beyond that, all he could do was drag it across the floor.

“Huh,” Stefan remarked.

Fortunately Jarrah had something more intelligent to say. She said, “Esk-ma belast!”