The Trap (The Magnificent 12 2)

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.