The Trap (The Magnificent 12 2)

“ . . . . !” He said in a voice so tiny it can’t be shown using visible letters.

Jarrah’s phone made a fruity little chime indicating a text message.

Jarrah stared at her phone. And said, “Can that be right?”

Risky jumped up and slapped Xiao away with her dead hand. With a weary groan, she fumbled for and found Thor’s sword. The thunder god looked too tired and stunned to do much about it.

Risky/Hel raised high the sword of Thor. And she smote him the deathblow!

Or would have. Except that at that moment Mack realized if Thor lost and Risky won, he, personally (and the whole world) was toast.

So in a moment of total crazy that was his own personal version of berserk, he grabbed Risky’s braid (the blond one) and yanked her head back hard.

She spun around. Her face, half living beauty and half dead encrusted zombie, froze him to the marrow.

“I . . . ,” he managed to sob. “I really should have taken some time to learn more Vargran.”

That non sequitur gave Risky just a second’s pause, during which Thor leaped, passed one arm around her neck and the other behind, and trapped her in the kind of headlock Stefan had often used on Mack.

Mack breathed a sigh of relief, retreated hastily away, tripped, fell hard on his back, and looked up dazed, only to find that Nine Iron had his blade out and pressed against Mack’s very heart.

The problem was that although Nine Iron was slow, there wasn’t really any way for Mack to move that didn’t involve impaling himself.

“For the Pale Queen,” Nine Iron croaked, and leaned forward. “And for my one true love!”

“Well, let’s give it a birl,” Jarrah said.

Chapter Thirty-three

Jarrah gave it a birl, which is Australian for “gave it a try.”

“Arb harid fie-ma!” Jarrah shouted.

And instantly nothing happened.

“Arb harid fie-ma!” Jarrah cried again.

And still nothing.

“My enlightened puissance is run down!” Jarrah cried. Which was a sentence she had never imagined she’d say. “Mack! You try it!” Jarrah shouted.

Nine Iron said, “Now ends the . . .” He paused, fumbled with his free hand for his oxygen line.

“What is it again?” Mack cried.

“Arb harid fie-ma!”

“. . . last hope of . . .” Nine Iron wheezed.

“Arg?”

“Arb!”

“. . . humanity!”

“Arb harid fie-ma!” Mack cried.

And Nine Iron shoved the blade into . . . Well, we’ll have to assume he shoved it into the ground. Because Mack was no longer staring up at a triumphant Nine Iron.