The Trap (The Magnificent 12 2)

Nine Iron sucked oxygen once, twice, three times.

“—defy me!” Nine Iron finished.

The plaid bag came around the carousel. Unzipped.

It popped open! The top was pushed back by a tiny, scabby hand that appeared to be missing a couple of fingers.

As Mack saw the contents of the suitcase, he squealed. So did Jarrah. So, actually, did Stefan. Not squeals of delight. More like squeals of “Eeew!”

“Ah-ha-ha!” Nine Iron cackled. “Arise, my Lepercons! Arise and—”

He paused to take several more deep breaths from his oxygen tank while everyone—Mack, Jarrah, Stefan, and the Lepercons—waited.

“ —kill! Kill for the Pale Queen!”

The suitcase was full of what were definitely living things, but not like any living things Mack had ever seen before. They were about the size of fat house cats. They were more or less human shaped, but with legs too long for their bodies. They didn’t wear clothing, but their torsos were discreetly covered by black-on-white spotted fur.

They looked a little like dalmatian puppies. Except not cute. The Lepercons didn’t make you want to say “Aaaw”; they made you want to say “Aaah!” Largely because they had leprous, disfigured faces that reminded Mack of wadded-up gym socks with down-turned doll mouths.

They appeared to have started life with the usual number of fingers and toes and noses, but the bare flesh visible beyond the fur was all eaten at, chewed up, and missing things that ought to be there.

“Did he say leprechauns?” Jarrah asked.

“Lepercons, you stupid—” Nine Iron squinted. He growled. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Jarrah Major,” she answered. “Pleased to . . . Well, maybe not.”

There looked to be about a dozen of the Lepercons packed into the suitcase like sardines. Diseased, unhealthy sardines.

They unpacked themselves very quickly.

And Nine Iron laughed again as he unzipped a second plaid suitcase.

Lepercons leaped from both suitcases.

They leaped, and paused there for a moment on the carousel to unzip an outer pocket on each suitcase. From which they extracted bundles of sharp implements like knitting needles, handed them around, and then, armed, they launched themselves at Mack, Jarrah, and Stefan.

Chapter Two

Mack did the smart thing, the thing anyone would do when attacked by a dozen knitting-needle-wielding, diseased minipeople who looked like dalmatian puppies with mismatched fingers and deformed legs.

He yelled, “Yaa-ah-aaah!” And ran.

The Lepercons were quick. At least, the ones who still had both feet were. Some were chasing him on stumps. Or on one stump and one regular foot. Or on one whole leg and a partial leg.

These were slower.

Mack felt a needle jab the back of his left calf. It didn’t penetrate his jeans, but it hurt and he yelled, “Hey, cut it out!”

Because normally that works.

A second jab caught him in the right butt cheek.

Mack spotted a small woman hauling a large wheeled suitcase. He snatched the bag, yelled, “Sorry!” then executed a running pivot and flung the suitcase at the charging Lepercons.

Three of them went down like bowling pins and let out howls of outrage.

“Agara! Agara! Agara!” Which is probably the traditional Lepercon howl of outrage.