The Trap (The Magnificent 12 2)

“Yes, of course; we’ll talk about it later.”

Nott must have noticed something, too, because she said, “Don’t trust her, you big oaf. She’s lying.”

Again a slight flicker, quickly hidden by a narrowing of the princess’s eyes and a baring of her teeth, which grew sharp and long and positively vampirish. “I keep my bargains.”

She snapped her fingers. The nearest of the pool-portals switched from the movie-theater view to a view of the park at the base of the Externsteine. More than a dozen blue-and-white police cars, and two orange-and-white ambulances, and a lot of cops and tourists—all agitated, many snapping pictures of the transformed monument, and some eating sandwiches—appeared and floated hologram-style.

There, in one corner, sucking on his oxygen while his flamboyantly dressed apprentice chatted with two girls, was Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout.

Risky’s left arm began to grow. It stretched and turned serpentine. Or more accurately, octopoid (which is a real word). There were suckers lining the bottom of this fantastic appendage.

Risky extended her octo-arm into the hologram, wrapped it around Nine Iron, and pulled. He disappeared from the hologram and appeared, dazed and breathless, before them.

Risky didn’t waste time on pleasantries or explanations. “Paddy, the money.”

Nine Iron’s eyes—yellowish and evil—flitted left and right. He gulped. He fumbled for his oxygen. And for just a moment Mack had the impression that Nine Iron was blushing. Like a little girl. A little girl with very bad skin.

“The money, Paddy,” Risky said in a low voice.

“The money, is it?” Nine Iron stalled.

“Yes. The money.”

“Ah, well, as to the money . . . My apprentice put it all on one of these newfangled cards.”

“Your apprentice,” Risky said.

“The lad with the pantaloons.”

Using her octo-arm, Risky yanked Valin into the room.

“Gee-ah-ah-aaah!” Valin said upon seeing Odin, Thor, Nott, the Magnificent Four, the Asgard TV room, and Risky.

Risky held out her hand. Her actual hand. “The money.”

Mack was pleased to see that Valin fumbled repeatedly in his effort to extract what turned out to be a debit card.

“What is this?” Odin demanded.

“It’s the way they do things now,” Risky said. She was clearly impatient. “Can I take my prisoners now?”

Odin looked unhappily at the card, turned it over, flicked it with his fingernail, and said, “Strange money.”

“Yes, time marches on,” Risky said. It was clearly a struggle for her to remain polite. But just as clearly, she didn’t want to be distracted by a fight with Odin and the others. “It’s the money, Odin. I don’t lie.”

“I doubt that,” Dietmar said. “You are evil, and evil creatures would not hesitate to lie.”

This time Mack kind of appreciated Dietmar’s bluntness. Because Odin was obviously unconvinced, and Thor kept looking around anxiously, like he was waiting for someone or something.

Finally Thor asked, “Where are they?”

An impatient growl escaped from Risky’s perfect white throat. “They are waiting for you,” Risky said smoothly—too smoothly. “In fact, they are very excited to meet you, Thor.”

“Are they?” The god of thunder looked pleased.

Mack smelled a rat. “Who?”

Thor grinned. “Led Zeppelin. I’m playing a real gig with Led Zeppelin.”