The Call (The Magnificent 12 1)

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Mack said, backing away. “I’m not supposed to take rides with strangers. And if there was ever a day for me to listen to that warning, this is it.”

“I think you may change your mind,” the woman said.

“Nah. Not today. Ma’am.”

“Look behind you,” the woman said.

Mack did. So did Stefan, who said, “Whoa.”

Running with strange, bounding leaps, impossibly fast, impossibly impossible, were two very large grasshoppers standing upright and carrying wicked-looking battle-axes in their middle pair of legs.

“Aaaahhh!” Mack yelled.

“Whoa,” Stefan agreed.

Both decided they would enjoy a ride in a limo. They snatched open the door and leaped, practically flying over the woman to land in a confused heap on the carpeted floor.

The door slammed. The window rose. The engine gunned.

One of the big insects was all over the car. It smashed its ax down on the hood. The car kept going and sideswiped the bug.

Through the darkened window Mack saw the insect thing spin, twist, fall, and bounce right back up.

The second bug had managed to jam a hand, a claw, a whatever-it-was, through the window, which was closing with frustrating slowness.

The limo burned rubber out of the school driveway.

The window shut tight as the car took off. There was a snap like a not-quite-dry twig. The insect hand came loose and hung from the window.

The grasshoppers chased the limo for a few blocks, and if there had been any traffic, they would have caught up.

Fortunately the driver wasn’t too concerned with stop signs. The bugs receded and finally gave up the chase as the limo tore through the once-safe streets of Sedona and headed for the desert.

They were well out of town before Mack lowered the window just enough to pull the bug’s arm into the car.

“Can I have that?” Stefan asked.

Eleven

A REALLY, REALLY LONG TIME AGO…

“What know you of the conjurer’s tongue?” the man in mismatched armor asked Grimluk.

“Is it missing?” Grimluk asked.

The man in the mismatched armor—so-called because he wore a helmet that was obviously too large for his rather small head and a chain mail shirt so small it was tied together in the back with pieces of yarn—stared at him as if he were mad. Crazy mad, not angry mad.

“The tongue, fool. The language. Vargran, the tongue of power.”

Something about the phrase the tongue of power struck Grimluk as funny. He grinned, revealing his five intact teeth.

This proved to be a mistake. The man in the mismatched armor socked Grimluk in the mouth, hard, with an armored fist.

“Not so toothy now, are you?”

“Hey!” Grimluk found the detached tooth heading down his throat. He stopped it by gagging and then spit it out into his hand. “You had no right to punch me!”

“You stupid bumpkin,” the man snarled. “Do you think this is some mummer’s game?”