The Key (The Magnificent 12 3)

Xiao said, “Sometimes people think that I think I am superior. That, too, is not how I feel.”

“And people think I’m crazy,” Jarrah admitted. “You know, reckless and dangerous.” She shrugged. “Well, I am, a bit. But I’m normal otherwise.”

“We are all strange creatures,” Dietmar said. “I have always known I was to be part of something important. For a long time I did not know what.”

“The way I understand it,” Stefan said, “it’s all or nothing. It takes twelve. All twelve. So you’re all in this together.”

One by one they nodded.

“So we can’t lose anyone. Not even the pipsqueak here.”

Dietmar frowned. “What does he mean, pipsqueak?”

“Get your spells or whatever ready,” Stefan said. “I’ll bring you some witnesses.”

With that, he strode off manfully in the direction of the road.

“He is a bully,” Dietmar observed.

“Mack says he’s the greatest of all bullies,” Jarrah said. “Let’s get ready. The sun will be coming up soon.”

“How do you suppose Mack is faring?” Xiao wondered aloud.

“I’m sure he is fine,” Dietmar said.

“He’s brave,” Xiao said.

“Yeah, the boy will be all right,” Jarrah said.

None of them really believed it.

And with good reason, because at that very moment Mack was huddled in a corner of his tiny cell, pulling himself into as small a space as he could, as if that would make the rest of the cell seem larger. Less coffin-like.

He stared mostly at the skull lamp. It was just about the only thing there was to stare at. The alternative was staring at the chamber pot. That wasn’t a great alternative, although the porcelain did have a pleasant blue flower pattern. And the firelight did re

flect like a second small flame from the shiny …

Hold up.

There was something other than firelight reflected in the chamber pot. Mack badly needed something to take his attention off the whole buried-alive thing so he conducted a small experiment: he moved his hands to block the skull light from reaching the chamber pot.

Sure enough, there was an entirely different glow in the porcelain. It was a whiter light.

Mack scrambled forward on hands and knees and stuck his face right close to the pot. Not a good choice if you were looking for a pleasant smell. But, as it happened, useful in a way that made Mack’s heart leap. For there in the porcelain was the tiny, dim image of Grimluk.

“Grimluk!”

“Is that you, Mack of the Magnifica?”

“Of course it’s me!”

“Can you turn up the lights? It seems awfully dark where you are. And my time is short … my power … fades....”

“Whoa! No no no. None of that power-fading baloney! I’m in a dungeon!”

Grimluk was one of the original Magnificent Twelve. He was no longer 12, of course; in fact he was 3,012. How he had managed to cling to life for better than three thousand years, Mack did not know. Nor did he know where Grimluk was. Presumably some distant cave. Or possibly a secret compound. Although it occurred to Mack that, for all he knew, Grimluk might be sitting by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel drinking mojitos.

In which case Mack really hated him, because he would have loved to be there with Grimluk.