The Call (The Magnificent 12 1)

Ten

“Have at you!” the green man said.

He lunged at Mack, needle-sharp point thrusting straight toward Mack’s heart.

But the man in green was very old. Very old. Probably not as old as the spectral Grimluk, but way old.

So the sword point didn’t exactly slice through the air. It was more a case of it trembling forward. Mack leaped to one side, and between the time when he leaped aside and the sword reached the place he’d been, he had time to stop and tie his shoe. Understand—he didn’t stop to tie his shoe. But he could have.

The man in green frowned. He stared at the place where Mack had been.

He turned rheumy green eyes left and right and finally located Mack, shrinking up against a stall door.

He began to swing the sword in an arc that would slice Mack right across the throat, if he stood there long enough.

Stefan stepped forward and grabbed the man’s sword arm. “Hey. Stop that, old man.” He took the sword and the walking stick and thrust the sword back into it. “Cool stick,” Stefan observed.

“Unhand me!” the old guy yelled.

“Whatever,” Stefan said, and released the man.

“Why are you trying to skewer me?” Mack demanded, outraged.

The old man started to answer, but then raised one finger indicating he needed a moment. He fumbled inside his green blazer and drew out a clear plastic tube that ended in a clear plastic mouthpiece.

He pressed the mouthpiece against his lips and nose and breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Five times.

Six times.

And…seven.

“Oxygen. I can’t take this altitude,” he explained.

“Should I call a doctor?” Mack asked.

“Ha!” the man said. “I’ll see you in your unmarked grave, you young…” He held up his finger again and took several more draws of the oxygen.

“You’ll rue the day you ever heard the name Paddy ‘Nine Iron’ Trout.”

“Actually, this is the first I’ve heard it,” Mack pointed out. “And that thing with the snakes was seriously uncool.”

“Snakes?” Stefan asked.

“This old dude put poisonous snakes in my window. They would have killed me, too, only they went for the golem.”

Stefan nodded as if he understood. He didn’t.

“You can run, but you cannot hide from the fist of the Nafia,” Nine Iron said. He made a fierce face, and Mack could kind of see where back in the day—like sixty, seventy years ago—it would have been a scary look. Now he mostly noticed the way Nine Iron paused between each word to either lick his lips or suck on his oxygen.

“The Mafia?” Mack asked. “Like Tony Soprano?”

“That was a great show,” Stefan said. “Like when Ton’ took out Christopha? Cold, man.”

“Not the Mafia, the Nafia,” Nine Iron said. And some time later he waved a dismissive hand. “The Mafia, ha! They got it all from us. Bunch of copycats. Why, when I was a whelp just coming up—”

The story was interrupted by a kid coming in

. Stefan jerked his chin at the boy, and they were alone again.