The Trap (The Magnificent 12 #2)(50)

“Bring it, blondie,” Risky snarled.

Jarrah pulled out her phone and began frantically dialing.

Xiao switched to dragon.

Dietmar yelled that everyone should be careful, Stonehenge was a priceless cultural treasure.

Mack measured the distance from where he stood to safety. But since Stonehenge is in the middle of nothing but farmland, he couldn’t even guess which way to run.

“Mom?” Jarrah said into the phone, covering her ear with her hand to block the noise of Thor bellowing and Risky snarling and Mack whimpering and Nine Iron gasping for breath and Valin cheering himself on with admiring “Hah! Hee-yah!” sounds.

Thor hurled Mjolnir. It caught Risky in the stomach. She flew backward and smacked one of the rocks so hard the lintel was knocked loose.

It fell—tons of stone—on Risky’s head.

But by the time it smashed down on her, she was no longer her usual lusciously evil self. Instead she had become a giant, stocky woman with a long blond braid on one side of her head and a kind of twig ponytail on the other.

In fact, she looked half bad and half good. On the right side she was a blond Viking amazon—powerful, shiny, as healthy looking as a model in a yogurt commercial.

The left side of her looked like what the right side would look like if you killed it, buried it for a thousand years, and then dug it up. She was half alive and very Xena Warrior Princessish, and half animated corpse, complete with bits of exposed bone, hanging flesh tatters, and cavorting worms.

It was the corpse hand that stopped the lintel stone and tossed it aside as if it were no heavier than a Wheat Thin.

“Ah, now there’s the Hel I know,” Thor said. Mjolnir had returned to him.

“Yes, Mum, I know it’s the middle of the night there,” Jarrah shouted into her phone. “But I’m having a bit of a situation here and I need some Vargran words.”

Valin advanced on Mack, still slashing away like he was cool. Mack was helpless. But Valin hesitated.

“Just surrender to Nine Iron, and I won’t have to slice you up,” Valin said.

“Maybe you’re not a total cold-blooded killer,” Mack said, hoping he was right.

“It’s Stefan, Mum,” Jarrah said. “I’ve shrunk him and he won’t stop.”

“Nice try,” Valin said, and rushed at Mack.

Mack bolted.

Valin chased and Mack ran, weaving in and around the stones, dodging crazily. Mack was quick and had long experience fleeing. And Valin was slowed somewhat by his insistence on slashing away all ninjalike.

Risky held up her dead hand and grinned a grin that was half Crest whitening toothpaste and half the picture your dentist uses to scare you into flossing.

From her upraised clawlike hand shot not a beam but a sort of swirling mist of blue-black light. This struck Thor on his recently stabbed and hastily bandaged leg.

Thor cried out in pain. The deerskin leggings curled and crisped like plastic wrap in a fire. The skin beneath peeked through and then it, too, began to shrivel and boil with pustules that popped and oozed black goo.

But Thor wasn’t done. He feinted, pretending to throw his hammer, but at the last minute he leaped high and stabbed downward with his sword.

Risky dodged, but too slowly, and the sword went through her stomach.

Shfoomp!

Unfortunately it cut the left side—the dead side, in case you’ve lost track—and rather than killing the evil princess, it released a swarm of spiders.

The spiders poured in a black and gray mass from the wound. Like some kind of hideous death vomit. Like the worst flavor of yogurt ever squishing out of a Go-Gurt tube. Like if you did time-lapse photographs of your nostrils over the entire course of a two-week cold. Except instead of mucus it was spiders.

The point is: spiders.

You may recall that Mack did not like spiders. He didn’t like them the way dry straw doesn’t like fire.

“Aaaah-ah-yaaaah!” Mack said.

He couldn’t stop quickly enough and went crunching crunching crunching across the spider stream.

Then Valin yelled, “Aaaah-ah-yaaaah!”

“Spiders!” Mack cried.

“Spiders!” Valin agreed.

And yet Valin would not stop chasing him and so Mack couldn’t stop running and both of them were running and shrieking and alive with terror.

“You’re breaking up,” Jarrah said into her phone. “I can’t use ‘grow,’ I already used it. I need, like, ‘restore.’ Please, Mum, hurry, I have to go! You’re breaking up! Text me!”

Dietmar was unperturbed by the spiders. He waited patiently for Mack and Valin to do a complete panicky squealing circuit around the henge. Then, as they passed close by, he scooped up a handful of spiders and flung them at Valin.

That was it for Valin. He’d had enough. A person with arachnophobia may be able to stand stomping on them, but they sure can’t stand having spiders in their embroidered jacket or their pantaloons.

Valin lost it and ran madly away, beating at his clothing like a crazy person.

Meanwhile, Nine Iron just about had his blade out.

“Thanks,” Mack gasped to Dietmar.

Thor stumbled past as his pustulated leg folded beneath him. Risky was on him in a heartbeat. She yanked Thor’s sword from her side and pressed the point against Thor’s muscular throat.