The Trap Read online

  MICHAEL GRANT

  THE MAGNIFICENT 12

  BOOK TWO

  THE TRAP

  Dedication

  For Katherine, Jake, and Julia

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Before Chapter One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Grant

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Before Chapter One

  Grimluk—looking as grim as ever—said the following while appearing as an indistinct image in a shiny chrome object in a bathroom in Sydney, Australia:

  “I cannot guide you much further, Mack of the Magnifica. You must learn the secrets of this world. Find the ancient ones . . . the great forgotten forces. Some will help you. Some . . . not so much. But above all: Learn the ways of Vargran! Assemble the Twelve!! Time is shooooort!!!”

  Grimluk usually didn’t use that many exclamation points. Nor did he typically draw a word out that way by adding unnecessary vowels. He tended to be grim rather than excited. So Mack paid close attention. This involved leaning nearer to the shiny chrome object in question, which if you’ve ever been in a public restroom, you’ll know is not considered appropriate behavior.

  “How short?” Mack asked.

  “Short. Very shooooort.”

  “But I mean, like, days? Weeks?”

  “Thirty-six days from today is the end of the three thousand years of the Pale Queen’s sentence of banishment. The spell that binds her—already weakened—will end. And she will be free.”

  “Say what? You’re telling me I have thirty-six days to find all the Magnificent Twelve? It’s just two of us so far! We’re just the Magnificent Two!”

  “Thirty-six days to assemble the Twelve and destroy the Pale Queen!”

  “You didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

  “I didn’t have my calendar handy.” Then Grimluk’s wrinkled, haggard, drawn, worn, not-exactly-cute-little-Justin-Bieber face frowned. He rolled his white eyes up as though trying to remember. “Wait,” he said. “It’s thirty-five, not thirty-six. I always get seven minus four wrong.”

  “I’ve already lost a day?” Mack shrilled.

  “Go to the nine dragons of Daidu,” Grimluk whispered.

  To which Mack replied, “The what?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself,” Grimluk snapped. “This apparition thing isn’t easy. Each time I do it, I lose power. I weaken . . . I . . .”

  And then he faded out. And Mack was left to stare at the chrome pipe with the same frustrated expression he got when the cable went out.

  A man standing two urinals down shot him a worried look. “You all right, kid?”

  “Yes, sir. Sometimes I talk to toilets. It . . . Well, they seem to like it.”

  “Is that so?” The man thought about it for a minute. Then he said, “Hello, toilet.”

  Mack was giving up on Grimluk and turning away when the ancient apparition came back into view. But now his voice was a whisper. An urgent, sketchy whisper: “. . . dragons may help . . . the Egge Rocks . . .”

  “Daidu, nine dragons, egg rocks?” Mack repeated. “Egg Rocks? Is that a band?”

  “Egge Rocks!” Grimluk whispered. “Teutoberg Forest. There . . . the eyes show!”

  “Daidu, nine dragons, a band called Egg Rocks, toityberg . . . and an ice show?”

  “Eyes!”

  “Ice?”

  Grimluk shook his head slowly, rolled his eyes up, and gasped, “Close enough . . .”

  In a faint whisper, so quiet that Mack had to lean close—which looked extremely not-normal—Grimluk said, “Beware of . . .”

  Mack listened intently and stared at the chrome for a while longer. He tried flushing a couple of times, banging on the handle on the theory that sometimes it helped to bang on things when they didn’t work.

  But Grimluk was gone.

  Again.

  Which was very inconvenient because Mack had the impression that the last word Grimluk had said was “trap.” And that’s the kind of word you want to hear clearly enunciated.

  “Grimluk has got to get himself a phone.”

  It was irritating. Frustrating. Because Mack had quite a few questions.

  He would have to answer those questions the hard way.

  He clicked on his iPhone. Opened the browser. Opened the Google search window. And typed in Daidu.

  Chapter One

  For David MacAvoy—who all his friends called Mack—the flight to China went much better than the flight to Australia had.

  The flight to Australia had ended when a beautiful shape-shifting evil princess named Ereskigal—who all her friends (she had no friends) called Risky—turned into a monster and yanked Mack out of a jet at thirty thousand feet and dropped him into the ocean.

  On this flight, the one from Sydney to Shanghai, they’d had some turbulence, the first-class bathroom ran out of hand towels, and the meal they served was fish. But none of that was quite as awful as a five-mile fall through thin, freezing air into the shark-infested Pacific. Then they had transferred in Shanghai for a flight to Beijing.

  Mack was accompanied by Jarrah Major, the second member of the Magnificent Twelve. And by his former bully and current bodyguard, Stefan Marr.

  Stefan could pass for an adult because although he was in the same grade as twelve-year-old Mack, he was fifteen and had the muscular development of one of those guys who sell exercise equipment on cable TV.

  In case anyone asked, they were telling people that Stefan was the “big brother” of Mack and Jarrah. How a dangerously handsome, muscle-bound blond thug had become the brother of a very average-sized, average-looking kid like Mack, let alone the brother of Jarrah, who had the skin tone of her Indigenous Australian mother, was anyone’s guess.

  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 Australi
a 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.

  “Did he say leprechauns?” Jarrah asked.

  “Lepercons, you stupid—” Nine Iron squinted. He growled. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Jarrah Major,” she answered. “Pleased to . . . Well, maybe not.”

  There looked to be about a dozen of the Lepercons packed into the suitcase like sardines. Diseased, unhealthy sardines.

  They unpacked themselves very quickly.

  And Nine Iron laughed again as he unzipped a second plaid suitcase.

  Lepercons leaped from both suitcases.

  They leaped, and paused there for a moment on the carousel to unzip an outer pocket on each suitcase. From which they extracted bundles of sharp implements like knitting needles, handed them around, and then, armed, they launched themselves at Mack, Jarrah, and Stefan.

  Chapter Two

  Mack did the smart thing, the thing anyone would do when attacked by a dozen knitting-needle-wielding, diseased minipeople who looked like dalmatian puppies with mismatched fingers and deformed legs.

  He yelled, “Yaa-ah-aaah!” And ran.

  The Lepercons were quick. At least, the ones who still had both feet were. Some were chasing him on stumps. Or on one stump and one regular foot. Or on one whole leg and a partial leg.

  These were slower.

  Mack felt a needle jab the back of his left calf. It didn’t penetrate his jeans, but it hurt and he yelled, “Hey, cut it out!”

  Because normally that works.

  A second jab caught him in the right butt cheek.

  Mack spotted a small woman hauling a large wheeled suitcase. He snatched the bag, yelled, “Sorry!” then executed a running pivot and flung the suitcase at the charging Lepercons.

  Three of them went down like bowling pins and let out howls of outrage.

  “Agara! Agara! Agara!” Which is probably the traditional Lepercon howl of outrage.

  But the others leaped clear of the bag and were all over Mack in a heartbeat.

  Knitting needles jabbed at jeans and T-shirt without much effect, but one caught him in the palm of his left hand, and that drew blood.

  A particularly persistent Lepercon climbed onto Mack’s shoulders from behind. He felt the tip of the needle enter his ear. He jerked away, but the needle jabbed, jabbed, jabbed again.

  “Hey! That hurts!”

  Mack reached around, grabbed a handful of spotted fur, and yanked the creature up over his head. He held him by one leg and swung the little monster like a club, beating at the others.

  Thumpf!

  Mack nailed one of the Lepercons pretty well, but then the leg he was holding came off—just detached. He stared stupidly at it. There was no blood, no hanging arteries or gore.

  In fact, the detached end of the leg looked like a piece of well-aged blue cheese. Possibly Stilton.

  Although it may have been Gorgonzola.

  Mack wanted to throw up. It wasn’t a good thing to see. Or smell. And if it was blue cheese . . . No. No, it couldn’t be! He hated blue cheese. Worse yet: he had a deep and awful terror of blue cheese.

  “Jasnafar’s been legged!” one of the Lepercons screeched.

  “Avenge Jasnafar!”

  “Agara! Agara!” the now one-legged Jasnafar cried. He hopped on his remaining leg, oozing gooey blue cheeselike product from his stump, and stabbed busily at Mack’s foot.

  “Get off me, get off me!” Mack cried. “Noooo, nooooo! Get it off me! Nooooo, it’s Roquefort!”

  Jarrah and Stefan were both busy with their own Lepercon problems. Mack caught a
flash of Jarrah tossing a Lepercon so hard it went spinning across the floor and smacked into a Chinese boy, who kicked it away with a reflexive soccer kick.

  Stefan had one of the Lepercons in his teeth. He chomped down hard and spit out a Lepercon hand. Stefan also had a knitting needle either stuck into his head or his hair—hopefully his hair—and was too busy to run to Mack’s rescue.

  “You fools!” Nine Iron cried. “Go for the boy! The boy!”

  The old man had to sit down after that and inhale more oxygen from the tube. He sat on the carousel and was swept slowly away, wedged in between a large black garment bag and a gray duffel bag.

  Mack punched one of the Lepercons. Right in the face.

  Pumpf!

  Blue cheese product shot from the creature’s nose, mouth, and ears.

  Mack felt a sharp pain. The knitting needle just sat there, sticking out of his neck. “Hey!” he yelled.

  He snatched the needle out and stared at the single drop of his own blood.

  Now Mack was mad as well as terrified. “Okay, that’s enough!”

  In one fluid movement he jammed the needle into the nearest Lepercon. It went easily all the way through. Goo squeezed out around the puncture.

  Mack kicked, punched, and generally flailed away like a panicky kid in the midst of a phobia meltdown—although it was all very Mortal Kombat in his head. But flailing didn’t help much, and now more of the Lepercons were heeding Nine Iron’s fading, wheezing shouts and leaving Jarrah and Stefan in order to come after Mack. They were all over him. The sheer weight of them made him stagger.