“Ah. Wang.”
By the time they reached the cavern, the wand had slid out from under her waistband and started down her right leg. It would have slid farther, but one of the points got caught on the leg elastic of her underwear. Diana half expected Hell to say, Is that a wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me, but the pit remained silent as they were marched toward it.
She’d only get one chance.
One.
As the meat-minds released them, the Shadowlord stepped back and wrapped long pale fingers around their upper arms, dragging them to the edge.
Diana could feel Hell watching her. She was going to need a diversion. Meanwhile, there was no point in cowering. “So…” Given the way the hair was raising off the back of her neck in reaction to Hell’s attention, bored was a bit more than she could manage but—thank God for being seventeen—insolent was no problem. “…what are you going to do with us?”
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
“Don’t tell me. Not the virgin sacrifice again.”
APPARENTLY NOT.
Hell sounded put out about her moral failings? “Oh, ha ha.”
THANK YOU. I’VE ALWAYS PRIDED MYSELF ON MY SENSE OF HUMOR.
“That explains a whole lot about Comedy Central.”
HEY, DON’T BLAME JON STEWART ON ME. I DON’T EVEN GET CABLE.
“Well, it’s Hell.”
AND YET YOUR LOT ALWAYS SEEM SO SURPRISED WHEN I TRY TO EXPAND MY HORIZONS.
“You’re trying to take over the world for cable?”
NOT JUST CABLE. YOU MAKE IT SOUND SO PETTY.
“Sorry.”
NO, YOU’RE NOT.
Diana sighed. “You’re right. I’m not sorry.” She tried to yank her arm free without success and sighed again. “Could we get on with it?”
IT?
“The part where you gloat about what you’re going to do to us.”
YOU’RE IN A HURRY?
“I just thought we should get it out of the way.” She leaned forward far enough to catch Kris’ eye around the Shadowlord’s black-clad body. “It’s in the Rules.”
“Gloating?”
“Yeah.”
“I always wondered. And the giant snow-cone machine?”
Diana grinned. She was so definitely in love. “That’s optional.”
YOU’RE BAIT!
That’s what she’d been half afraid of. But this was not the place to let fear show. “Sorry?”
YOUR SISTER WILL COME FOR YOU AND THE IMMORTAL KING WILL COME FOR HER. UNPREPARED TO FACE ME, THEY WILL BE DESTROYED.
There was her diversion.
While Hell’s attention was on the destruction of Arthur and Claire, she’d take her one shot with the wand and pour everything she had into closing the hole.
And it would take everything, too.
As plans went, it sucked—worst case scenario left the ground littered with bodies—but at least now she had a plan.
* * *
“I’m after having second thoughts about this plan. That is one pissed-off basilisk!”
Austin smacked at another bit of rolling canvas. “You’re surprised? You don’t go zipping mythological creatures into hockey bags and expect them to be pleased about it.” He dug his claws into the upholstery as Dean turned the truck into the guest house driveway. “Later, when we’ve got the time, remind me to tell you about what happened when Claire stuffed a pixie into her purse.”
“Messy?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The truck rocked forward and back, the jerky stop giving Austin some indication of the state of Dean’s mind. He didn’t really care about the state of Dean’s mind, but he had a pretty good idea of what was going on up there. “You’re wondering if you can go through with this.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re concerned because, sure she’s an evil, life-sucking mummy, but is that any reason to turn her to stone.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re thinking that a life-sized statue of a reanimated corpse is not only going to destroy the ambiance of the guest house but will probably gouge the hell out of the hardwood floors when you try to move it.”
“I’m not thinking ambiance!”
Austin took a swipe at the immaculate white fur on his shoulder. “Too many syllables for you?”
“I’m thinking…”
As the pause extended, he looked up to see Dean clutching the sides of the steering wheel, his head bowed and resting against the top curve. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop thinking.” He stood, stretched, smacked the hockey bag again, and put his paw on Dean’s thigh. “Look, you’re just a Bystander and you should never have had to deal with anything stranger than laundry instructions. That said—although I’ll call you a liar if you ever repeat this—you’re dealing with it admirably. Just keep dealing with it and you’ll be fine.”
“I don’t look like a man who’s in over his head…OW!”
Austin retracted his claws and muttered, “You look like a man with blood on his jeans and a basilisk in a hockey bag. Get over yourself and let’s get on with this. I’m hot, I’m hungry, and I’m missing Oprah.”
* * *
The guest house was cool and quiet as Dean pushed open the back door. With the curtains pulled across the dining room’s big windows, the sun hadn’t had a chance to heat things up. And that was good because the air outside was rapidly approaching dry roast. He wasn’t so sure about the shadows, though; they made the place look mysterious, spooky even and, all things considered, that wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Grunting as a tail or a foot or a wing or something caught him in the stomach, he heaved the hockey bag up onto the dining room table. Then grabbed it as the basilisk’s struggles sent it skittering across the highly polished surface. Okay, maybe he had gone a little overboard with the wax.
“Dean.”
Heart in his throat, he whirled around. “Jaysus, Dr. Rebik, don’t be sneaking up on me like that!”
The old man managed half a smile. “Sorry.”
Old man.
They’d been gone for—Dean glanced down at his watch—just over two and a half hours. In that time, Dr. Rebik had aged a good thirty years. Actually, a bad thirty years.
He blinked rheumy eyes. “What’s in the bag?”
“You know, word was, Dean McIssac couldn’t lie to save his life.”
“Well, it’s uh…”
“Personal,” Austin snapped. “Just a little cat business Dean’s helping me out with.” He stalked past the professor, tossing an imperious, “Let’s go, Dean,” back over one shoulder.
Dean shrugged
