Storymakers: Wanted Part 4

I turned away, making myself ignore the pitiful, "Rex," since I already felt enough guilt misleading the others. I didn't need to add someone else's disappointment. Tracing the tree line, I scanned for where I'd stashed the bow (after Hydra had been taken off it) and hidden my pack, the one I'd crammed with enough supplies that it would have been a dead giveaway that I wasn't planning a quick store run in the middle of the blasted night.

"It's all about survival," I reasoned to myself. As long as I stayed in the clearing, smothered by the bond, waiting to die again, trying to be good enough for Dorthea, Kato, and the rest of them-for the compendium-my life would never be my own. I would be no better than DumBeau. How long before my "friends" were arguing if I was more useful without my head?

I took a deep breath, adjusted the supplies on my back, and started walking. It was done. They were better off without me. And I was gonna be better off without them. As for DumBeau, when I didn't come back, Kato or someone else in the group would go looking and find him in the morning. Probably.

"Rex."

Or sooner.

Verte stood directly in my path, holding the Grow-A-Beau by the rope I'd tied around him like a leash. "Well, it looks like you done gone and swiped everything you could carry, but I think you forgot something."

Being caught escaping brought back some unpleasant memories that Morte hadn't confiscated. One in particular, from just after I'd turned twelve, when I broke into the Emerald Palace and boosted a certain gem dragon to prove my worth to the gang. Swiping the gem hadn't been a problem, but even now, six years later, I needed to work on my exit strategy.

I froze. "Look, I can explain."

"Don't bother." In the dark of the forest, Verte looked like a shadow, dimly lit by the soft glow of the carved eye in her belt. I felt like it was glaring at me. "I'm surprised you didn't try to run off sooner."

"Look, you have to let me-"

"Save yer beb.u.g.g.e.red energy," she interrupted. "I'm not gonna stop you."

"You're not?"

"Nah," she said, stepping forward, DumBeau's leash in one hand, a ball of slime in the other. "I've done did all I could for you. It's time we see if it was enough."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You'll know when you know."

Yep. Clear as mud.

"Great, well, good luck with the whole 'end of the world' thing." I pulled the straps on my pack tighter and moved to walk past her.

"Said you could go. Didn't say I was done with ya." She put out a hand, and her red, pointy fingernail stopped me in my tracks. "You were given to me to pay off a debt. Do one last thing and you will have paid in full."

"Define 'thing,'" I said carefully.

Morte had called me a puppet, and I could feel those strings tightening, forcing me to dance to Verte's tune.

"If Hydra doesn't have a new body to finish the swap by morning, her essence will decay with the head she's in." It was then I saw what the gurgling puddle of slime in Verte's other hand really was.

It was Hydra.

Or what was left of the Baba Yaga head.

"How you do it is up to you." Verte handed me the end of DumBeau's leash, which brightened his face immediately. He looked at me with adoration, and even though it was probably the result of some love spell for the first thing he laid eyes on... I knew I couldn't do it.

"I'm not cutting off his head-and you can't take mine either." I added the last part for good measure.

"Didn't expect you to, and if we're gonna have a chance of surviving the switch with Gwennie, she's gonna want a body with curves more like that bow you done stoled." Verte moved her hands in arch then and wrinkled her nose at me. "An' arrows got more curves than you and Dimples."

Relief at not being decapitated warred with being offended at being called flat chested. I was going to have to break into Nottingham p.a.w.n and get the right body this time. But if I brought it back, I'd have to explain to Dorthea that I was leaving again. For good. She'd either get all gushy and beg me to stay, or suck me dry. It depended on the day.

A speck of glitter rained down with a ribbit, landing on my nose, and gave me an idea.

"It's not enough to be evil for evil's sake. The best villains always have a strong why-or at least a very tragic backstory that makes them understandably criminally insane."

-Seven Habits of Highly Evil People.

7.

Sense of Dred.

"No good deed..." I mumbled and picked myself off the forest floor after tripping for the fifteenth or sixteenth time. The ironwoods still had a bit of that chaotic wish in them, and they seemed to be pulling up roots to catch us on purpose. Behind me, the lead line had become taut. DumBeau struggled, thrashed, and snagged on something.

Pulling the newly grown hot dope on a rope tied around his waist was taking three times longer than it should have. Bad enough that I was rusty when it came to spotting traps set by the merry morons of the Sherwood Forest, but even when I found a safe trail, the brain-impaired DumBeau kept walking into tree trunks.

It was so tempting to leave him to whatever fate had planned. But the thought of abandoning someone in the forest, even someone not technically a person-I couldn't put my finger on it, but it made my stomach feel like it was being eaten by night crawlers.

That and he made an excellent pack mule, carrying all my supplies.

"Mrmph," he mumbled my name with his lips pressed against the ironwood he'd just collided with.

I sighed and started back to help.

A twig snapped and a horse whinnied.

I dropped the leash and took to the trees. Sure, maybe I was being paranoid, but that doesn't mean there weren't all manner of wicked whatevers waiting to haul me up a beanstalk or feed me some sort of poisoned fruit or vegetable.

No sooner had I perched on a branch than a man called out, "Who goest there?"

I knew the voice wasn't Morte's; he hadn't whispered to me since the last sun went down. And this voice was rich and full. The sound carried like it owned the air. A rogue or crusty bandit perhaps?

My gaze was drawn first to the glint off the ax he carried on his back, then his figure. The rider was dressed in dark leathers with hair like ebony wood. I couldn't see his face from my squirrel's eye view, so I couldn't guess his age, but given his size, he was certainly a man, full grown. He jumped off his horse so he could examine DumBeau.

"Ho there," he said and picked up the end of the leash.

DumBeau didn't answer, so he couldn't give me up. The tree, however...

Though they were still creepy at night, Verte and Oz had bespelled the ironwoods so they were no longer murderous. Usually. Unfortunately, this one took issue with having me up its branches, so it shook me loose. I landed solidly on the stranger. Making a quick decision, I acted as if I'd meant to ambush him all along, grabbing his ax and pressing it against throat.

"Who are you are and what do you want?"

Up close, I could see the man was not a crusty bandit, as I'd first guessed. Or near as old. Rather, he was a young man who had a few years on me and a few notches of rugged gorgeousness on DumBeau. A rush of tingles spread through my chest and a niggle of recognition wiggled into the back of mind.

Which was stupid. How do you recognize someone you've never met?

His dark eyes burned like coals as he said, "For sport, I shall give thee ten seconds to yield. Then, all bats are off." Aside from butchering the cliche, his words were formal without an ounce of familiarity or concern that I was straddling him, trying to shave the stubble off his chin with his own ax.

"It's bets. All bets are off. Are you pixed in the head?"

"Nine. Ten." Before he even finished saying the number, he bucked his hips, twisted, and, just like that, our positions were reversed. "I confess to being new to these phrases, and thus have no knowledge of this pixed, but I believe you, young huntsman, mayhap be."

I gulped and closed my eyes, ready to meet Morte for the whatever-th time, but the weight on my chest disappeared as quickly as it came. When I opened my eyes, he was climbing back on his horse, his ax already in place upon his back.

"You're not gonna kill me?"

"Time runs short while the grail quest goes long. And despite my reputation, I prefer not to slay lads still unblooded."

The words popped out before I could clamp my mouth shut. "Lad? You must be blinder than all three mice, and you talk like you have a stick up your-"

"b.u.t.ton your lips, boy, or you shan't keep them." The rider huffed. "Now, go before I change mine mind."

Run, moron, the smart part of my brain screamed. Normally I would have agreed and been well on my way. Who he was, why he felt familiar, or where he was going-so not my problem. But something about this guy rubbed me the wrong way. Or maybe playing the part of a huntsman was going to my head.

It was easy to be brave when I knew, if worse came to worse, my deaths were only temporary.

Nocking an arrow, I stood in front of the stranger's horse. "Maybe you've got an ogre earwax problem, so I'll ask again: Who are you are, and what do you want?"

Tilting his head, the guy pulled the reins to make his horse stamp her feet. As she did, bright flames flicked down her mane and tail. Her eyes flared red, the mark of a night mare. Her hooves smoldered and steamed, coming close to crushing my feet.

"Rex," DumBeau blurted in a higher pitch. I'd almost say he sounded concerned.

Join the club.

"Rex, huh? A very n.o.ble name to live up to. Aye, you might be amusingly brave, I'll grant, for such a small lad who can't even hold a bow proper."

I fell for it and checked my stance while the rider chewed the side of his lip, keeping it from turning up into a smile. "The gra.s.s is green on both sides of the fence, so as I have your name, boy, you might as well have mine. Mordred. Hiya," he yelled and spurred his horse, galloping away.

I froze. Unable to correct his rotten turn of phrase. Unable to bark about being mistaken for a boy. Unable to do anything.

The name along with his weird speech finally made me recall why the surname Pendragon was familiar. The "Merl" Verte mentioned must have been short for Merlin. The man-hungry head "Gwennie" short for Gwenevere.

Kato and Dorthea were from the land of Fairy Tales and wouldn't know. But I was a child of the forest that separated Myth and Fairy Tales. And these trees were steeped in legends.

But legends were called that for a reason-because they were stories that had already been penned into the compendium, pa.s.sed down from a different age.

My father used to sit in these treetops with me and tell of how the ironwoods of the Sherwood Forest came to be-born from a battle that littered the forest with blades and blood. A battle where Mordred, the young dark prince, the traitor, the usurper, was killed.

The moon moved out from behind a cloud, and as its light shone down and cast a shadow behind me, Morte's inky voice whispered, "You should know best of all, little hero. Not all who die stay dead."

"Rule #9: Dysfunctional families are a cornerstone of fairy tales. If you want to be a happy ever after, it's imperative that you get an evil stepparent. If your parents are perfect, try getting cursed by an evil fairy and raised by strangers."

-Definitive Fairy-Tale Survival Guide, Volume 1.

8.

Hoodwinked.

I wanted no part of this. I was ready to run as far and fast as I could in the vain hope I could get clear of whatever had brought back Arthur's bane. But before I could leave these woods forever, I had one last task to perform for the House of Emerald.

In my experience, rich men became that way because they miserly lorded over their treasures, or they took whatever they wanted to replenish their stores. The p.a.w.nbroker of Nottingham was both, apparently.

This late, I expected him to be fast asleep-just not in the back of his own shop, wearing velvet jammies and drooling on a pile of glittering inventory that would make Aladdin squeal in delight. Pressing my nose to the window, I could just make out some of the open boxes on a nearby table. They said things like "Recall," "Expired," and "Sample: Not for Individual Sale." There were also brand-new, plain, brown boxes nearby for the old goods to be repackaged in.

"Well, that explains your defectiveness," I said as DumBeau b.u.mped into my back. Including lack of brains, he seemed to have a personal s.p.a.ce issue. This was particularly problematic since his ears now stuck out about as far as his shoulders, whacking things as he went by. "There's no way I can sneak you in there without waking up the Shyster of Rottingham. So you are getting doorbell ditched."

Just without the doorbell part, I thought and tied his leash to one of the posts supporting the roof. I took my pack off him and laid it by the exit in case I needed to make a hasty getaway.

After reaching into the bag, I felt around for something suitable to pick the lock. I had bread crumbs, an ivory comb with wiry hairs stuck in its teeth, a little black dog figurine I'd swiped from Kato, and my newest addition-a pewter b.u.t.ton that had fallen off Mordred's ax holder. Finally, I found one of Dot's hairpins.

Something sharp bit into my finger. I pulled out the fairy frog messenger with a little squeeze to keep it from biting me again. First I'd get in, then I'd rely on the fairy frog to get the body out.

Charming that you think it will be so simple, little hero.

With a quick suck of breath, I shoved the frog into the pocket of my Hunstman coat and knelt down in front of the locked door. I tried to remember all the things the Sherwood thieves' guild had taught me while I was growing up-details far more useful, in my opinion, than Dorthea's junk lessons on princess slaps and manners.

"First jam the pick to the upper left," I said quietly to myself. I didn't make it to the next step because the door swung open under that slight pressure. No, I wasn't that good. The broker had left the door ajar. Odd for a guy who felt the need to outfit his front perimeter with guarding gnomes. But they'd all been asleep too.

Ugh. I had a bad feeling this was going to end like the palace heist. That door had also opened with ease. How could I have known that blasted emerald dragon would come to life and start shrieking like a milkmaid when I swiped it?

I shook my head. No. This time would be different. In and out. And while the p.a.w.nbroker and his snoring were somewhat intimidating, he was no Verte. Thank Grimm she was one of a moldy kind.

Going slowly, I pushed open the door enough to slip inside, ready to scram in case the bolts creaked. Silent as the swan princess, not wanting to linger, I went straight for the shelf labeled "Miracle Grows."

Near the sole lit candle, a capsule in a vial lay out in the open. No box. No label. I kept looking for one that I could be sure would be the right fit, but the unlabeled vial may have ended up in my pocket. I couldn't really say. It was dark, and I was busy skimming the ones with boxes.

Grow a Pet. Grow a Heart. Grow a Conscience. Grow a Pair. Ah...Grow a Body. This time I picked the box that had the actual picture on it instead of the cheapo stuff. I couldn't remember which model I was supposed to grab though.

"Eh. Anything would be an improvement over the last one," I mumbled, thinking about the lumpy, humpbacked body Hydra used to have. I reached into the coat pocket and pulled out the fairy frog, pinching its lips before it started ribbit cursing me. "You wanna get paid, don't you?" It stopped trying to glitter bomb me, so I took that as a yes. "Then fairy-ferry this back as fast as you possibly can." I used the ribbon to tie the box to the flying frog and pitched it out the door for a head start.

And with that, my debt to the House of Emerald was paid. I was free.

"A p.a.w.n is never really free."

I blew out the candle on the shelf, effectively banishing Morte and my shadow with it. "Now, just one last thing." I pulled the bow and arrows off my back and blindly felt around for the empty corner.

I had a soft spot for unwanted things, so I usually only took small trinkets that had been discarded or that no one would miss. I don't know what had possessed me to take the bow earlier. Homesickness caused by temporary insanity of repeatedly croaking probably. But I had no need for them. As Mordred'd pointed out, I wasn't good with a bow; I'd been lousy at archery growing up, despite practicing until my fingers bled. And the years in the palace kitchens had made me handy with a knife but had done zero for my bow work. With a sigh, I placed the bow set back where I'd borrowed it from.

"Now, this is a first. You've got some raw talent, boy, but the basic tenet of thieving is taking rather than returning."