by Nic Saint
“I know, I know,” said Peter, licking his lips nervously.
“Dad? Mom?” asked Fee again. “What’s going on?”
“Yeah, who is this guy? Isn’t he one of Reece’s friends?” Alice asked.
Bianca Bell seemed just as awestruck and uncomfortable as her husband, for she merely stared at Severin, not even bothering to answer her daughter’s or Alice’s question. But then Peter turned to Fee, and said, “This is the guardian of Princess Tabitha of Allard, honey. The woman who helped found Bell’s in 1938. She worked with your grandfather to make sure that the business was strong from the start, and would provide our family with prosperity for generations to come. Isn’t that right, Severin?”
Severin nodded. “And then your father went and played a fool trick on us. He went to Mortdecai and handed him the ring, biting the hand that fed.”
Peter frowned. “No, Dad never gave away the ring. Never. I’m sure of it.”
“Then where is it?”
Peter shook his head. “I have no idea. It got lost those first years after Dad opened the store. He looked everywhere for it, and so did I, but we never found it. I started to think that it might have been a mere myth.”
“That’s not the story I heard,” said Severin. “I think your father hoped to keep the ring and use it to create his own realm with the help of Mortdecai. To claim dominion over his very own empire, just like Mortdecai has done.”
“No, that’s not true,” said Peter, shaking his head. “My dad never even mentioned this Mortdecai. Not even once.” He shrugged. “The ring simply got misplaced. Perhaps it’s still somewhere at Bell’s. If you want you can look around as much as you like. But Dad only ever dealt with Tabitha, Severin.”
Severin seemed surprised by this, which in turn surprised Gardenia, for she’d figured the man was Godlike in his superior knowledge of all things.
Then a thought seemed to occur to Peter. “You don’t think Marcel Le Corbusier played us all for a fool, do you? He set up shop around the same time Dad did, and he’s been around just as long, his store, like ours, seemingly protected against any upheaval, economic or otherwise.”
“Marcel Le Corbusier,” said Severin, fingering his chin. “The name does ring a bell. Yes, I remember him now. He was a fixture at the bakery.”
“He worked with dad before he met Tabitha. He was his helper, and then suddenly Marcel decided he wanted to be his own man and opened up a store just across the street, becoming our main competitor. He still is, to this day.”
“Is he still alive, this Marcel Le Corbusier?” asked Severin.
“Yes, he’s very old now. He must be almost a hundred, but if you see him you wouldn’t think so. He looks hardly a day over sixty.”
Severin and Peter Bell shared a look of comprehension, or so Gardenia thought, then they both said simultaneously, “Mortdecai.”
“Your father never betrayed our trust?” Severin asked.
“Never,” said Peter with conviction.
Severin regarded the man for a long time, then finally nodded. “I believe you. Now lead me to Marcel Le Corbusier so I may have a word with him. If what you’re saying is true, I have directed my ire at the wrong target.”
“Maybe you could return Chief Whitehouse now?” asked Peter.
“And my Virgil!” cried Marjorie.
But Severin shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. My powers have diminished greatly over the years, due to the absence of the ring. I can sentence people to prison but I cannot set them free. I’m afraid Virgil Scattering, Curtis Whitehouse and Traci, Shepherd and Randy Number are lost forever.” Ignoring the outcries of despair from Alice, Marjorie and the police officers still gathered around, he addressed Peter. “Take me to Marcel Le Corbusier. If he’s in cahoots with Mortdecai, I will make short shrift of this opposition and retrieve the ring from him. Follow me, Gardenia.” Then he eyed her curiously. “Unless you have changed your mind?”
“Oh, no, I haven’t,” she assured him. “I want nothing more to do with this world, Severin.”
“Good,” the gold-clad man said, then flicked his fingers, and suddenly she saw that she was decked out in a gold onesie, just like the man himself!
She swished around happily, and said, “Thank you, Severin!”
“No need to thank me. Once you arrive on Allard—provided we retrieve the ring—these are the kinds of clothes you will find waiting for you.”
And with these words, he set out after Peter Bell, who seemed to be their guide on this expedition, followed, as they walked along, by the entire HBNWC and a squadron of the HBPD. And as Severin flicked his fingers again, suddenly the gigantic metal disk that he used as a transportation device, evaporated, disappearing inside a hidden pocket of Severin’s suit.
“Can you teach me that trick?” she asked now. “It would solve a lot of parking problems.”
He laughed, the first time she’d ever heard him do that, and said, “On Allard you’ll never experience parking problems, Gardenia. Trust me.”
Chapter 20
Marcel Le Corbusier was sitting on his porch and whittling away at some old piece of wood he’d found behind his house. He lived on the outskirts of town, a hardened man with impressive whiskers and a protruding belly, courtesy of all those years of tasting his own baking goods. He’d been a baker since 1938, when he’d opened his own store, and in that time had fed Happy Bays many times over.
Though he’d retired years ago, and so had his son, his grandson kept him up to date on the business, even though he’d told him not to. He’d handed them the keys to the store and that, as far as he was concerned, was that.
He was greatly surprised, therefore, when his grandson suddenly came racing up in that silly Porsche he liked to drive around in, stomped on the brakes and skidded to a stop right in front of the house in a cloud of dust.
“Gramps!” he cried, hurrying up to him. “He’s coming!”
“Who’s coming?”
“Severin Lobb!”
He frowned. The name sounded familiar, but where had he heard it before? “Who’s he? A tax collector?” The only time he ever saw his grandson in such a tizzy was when the IRS people showed up for an audit.
“No, he’s the guy from Allard, remember? The golden one.”
“Oh, right,” he said with a chuckle. “Mr. Gold Tights.”
He’d only met the guy once, when he’d shown up at Pete Bell’s store.
“What does he want with me?”
“Can’t you imagine?”
“Oh, sure I can,” he said, nodding. “Sure I can.” Then he grinned again. “But showing up to badger me won’t do him any good, son, you know that.”
“Still, I suggest you get Mortdecai up here.”
He hesitated. Even though he owed Mortdecai everything, he was loathe to come face to face with him again after all these years. “Hold your horses. Mortdecai is not exactly pleasant company. And besides, I’m not so sure he’ll even show his face around here again. Not after what happened last time.”
“Why? What happened last time?”
“He almost got his block knocked off by the gold tights fellow.”
“We’re going to get our block knocked off if you don’t call in Mortdecai!”
He sighed again, and finally put his whittling work down. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. He hated to do this, but then if you make a deal with the devil you need to face certain facts, like the fact that you will never be fully rid of him.
So he went into the house and came out with the present Mortdecai had handed him at his last and final visit, forty years ago. If he ever needed to get in touch with him he simply needed to take this ring, put it on his finger, and whisper his name out loud three times, and he would appear. Like a genie from the bottle. But he’d warned him only to summon him when it was absolutely necessary, for Mortdecai hated to be summoned by a mere mortal.
But it seemed as if this time the need was indeed high, so he slipped the ring
on his finger and muttered, “Mortdecai, oh great one, if it behooves you now to join me and my family, I’d be most obliged.” He repeated this three times, feeling like a complete moron, and then waited.
“And? Is he coming?” his grandson asked, looking extremely rattled.
He held up a wrinkled hand. “Patience, my boy. Patience.”
Patience was a virtue acquired over time, he knew. He himself was almost a hundred years old now, though he felt a few decades younger, thanks to Mortdecai’s sorcery, for which he was grateful, of course.
Lucien was pacing the porch nervously, then suddenly there was an unmistakable darkening of the skies and the wind picked up, blowing away some of the dust on his porch. There was a crash of thunder, and when he looked up at the churning clouds, he chuckled. “Yup, looks like he’s coming.”
And just then there was a kind of commotion on the street, and some kind of procession approaching the house. Leading the procession was the man in tights, and right next to him, apparently leading the way, was Peter Bell.
“They’re here,” said Lucien, and he didn’t look happy.
“Let them come,” he said with the philosophical placidity acquired over almost a century of being alive on this planet. “They won’t hurt an old man like me, I’m sure.”
“And what about me?” Lucien cried. “Pete hates my guts.”
He chuckled. “So what else is new?”
“Hey there, Severin!” he called out when the group was within earshot. “Looking good. You haven’t aged a bit since I saw you last.”
“You have, Marcel,” called back Severin. “Quite a bit, in fact!”
“Yes, well, unfortunately becoming immortal wasn’t part of the deal.”
The group now drew up to the porch, with Severin and Pete joining the old man and his grandson. Greetings were exchanged, and he smiled at Severin, but the man in gold wasn’t smiling back.
“You stole the Ring of Hodd,” he now said without preamble.
“Of course I did,” he said with a chuckle. “What did you expect? Pete Bell wouldn’t give me the time of day, so I had to do something.”
Severin seemed taken aback, as did Pete. “So you admit it?”
“Sure. I wanted to start my own bakery, and Pete wasn’t having it, so…” He lifted his shoulders. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“You were never meant to be a baker, Marcel,” said Severin. “I told you this back then and I’m telling you now.”
“What was I supposed to do, huh?” he asked, with one eye on the sky, which was now roiling and churning dangerously. “I didn’t want to be Pete’s little helper all my life.”
“There is no shame in being an assistant. You would have prospered.”
“By being a servant? I don’t think so.”
“There is honor in being the second-in-command to a great baker.”
“I wanted to be my own man,” he growled. “And Mortdecai gave me that chance.”
“It wasn’t Mortdecai’s chance to give,” boomed Severin.
Marcel grinned, for suddenly behind Severin the air started whirling and shimmering, and then, as if out of thin air, a figure appeared, and Marcel called out, “Welcome, Mortdecai! Glad you could join us!”
And as Severin whirled around, a tall, thin, black-clad man now manifested fully, long black hair and beard flapping in the wind that he’d churned up, his black eyes gleeful as they regarded his old nemesis.
“Severin Lobb,” he said in a voice as if from the tomb. “We meet again.”
“Mortdecai,” said the guardian cautiously. “What brings you here?”
“I was summoned to deal with a little trouble that has arisen.”
And suddenly, before Marcel’s old eyes, the man who’d established him in business eighty years ago, and had made Marcel Le Corbusier a household name in Happy Bays and outskirts, raised his hand and a flash of lightning seemed to strike from it, aimed straight at Severin.
Just in time, the gold-clad guardian jumped back, and then the fight was on, just like forty years ago, when Mortdecai had visited this realm last. Only Marcel had never thought that this time it would be fought out right in front of his house. Last time Severin had won, but he had the impression the golden man had weakened, which only stood to reason, as the source of his power had been removed for just as long as Marcel’s and Bell’s had been in existence.
And as lightning slashed the air, and the thunderous sounds of the storm roared and raged, he yelled at his grandson, “Better get out of here, Lucien!”
“What? And miss all the fun? No way!”
He shook his head at so much foolishness. Even after all these years his grandson was still the same hothead he himself had been back in the day when he made his deal with Mortdecai. He just hoped that this time, finally, the Bells would suffer too, as he had suffered. And that once and for all the protection the Allardians had still managed to put in place would be lifted so he could rule this realm as its final ruler, and crush the Bells under his heel.
Chapter 21
“Help! Help me! Anyone!”
Virgil stood motionless for a moment as the cries reached his big ears. They seemed to come from somewhere behind him. He was reluctant to turn back now, as he had the feeling he was on the verge of finding a way out of this dreadful dungeon. But then again, his noble policeman’s soul, steeped in altruism and aiding all of mankind, made him halt his progress, and, reluctantly at first, then, when the voice rose both in volume and urgency, he retraced his steps to the cell where the heart’s cry seemed to originate.
“Yes?” he asked in his polished policeman’s voice, once he’d reached the cell and peered in through the small grate. “How can I be of assistance?”
There was a momentary break in the cries emanating from the cell, and then an incredulous voice asked, “Virgil? Virgil Scattering? Is that you?”
Only now did he recognize the voice as belonging to his superior officer. “Chief Whitehouse? What are you doing in there, sir?”
“What are you doing out there?” the chief answered a question with a question, and Virgil had to admit it was as reasonable as his own inquiry. “Well, I just escaped from my cell and now I’m trying to find the way out.”
“Where are we?” the chief asked, and Virgil could see his boss’s jowly features appearing through the grate. The sight of the familiar face was like balm to his wounded and hunted soul.
Much like an American tourist overly relieved to meet a fellow American when vacationing in some distant and strange land, he was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of joy and relief, and not for the first time he felt that Chief Whitehouse was the father he’d never had. The man he’d always looked up to for guidance and support. The guiding light in his life.
“I’m so glad to see you, Chief,” he said, his voice betraying his extreme emotion. If not for the sturdy door keeping him at bay, he would have hugged his superior officer and smothered him with kisses, thus violating at least ten rules regulating the conduct between a police officer and his direct superior.
The chief, never a man who appreciated the finer feelings , and definitely not now that he was locked up in a dingy dungeon, merely glared at Virgil, clearly not feeling the same inclination to engage in an impromptu hugfest.
The man’s silent glare hit Virgil amidships and he staggered back a few feet, his exuberance quickly waning under the other man’s silent rage. “Um, frankly I have no idea where we are, Chief,” he now admitted. “I met some weird guy in a golden spacesuit and he muttered something about a ring and about me being Fee Bell’s lover and even as I was vehemently denying the foul charge, the ground suddenly opened up beneath my feet and I dropped down into what seems to me to be the set of Game of Thrones.”
“Game of Thrones, huh?” the chief growled thoughtfully as he rubbed one of his chins. “I never saw that show.”
“Me neither. Mother says it contains too much sex and violence. We always watch the H
allmark Channel together instead. Good, clean family fun.” If he sounded a little wistful it was because he was, for he would love to watch something other than the Hallmark Channel for once but Marjorie simply wouldn’t allow it. Then he noticed the chief had that odd look in his eye again, the one that said he wasn’t entirely happy with his underling’s babblings, so he quickly added, “The spaceman also mentioned I was to stay here for all eternity, but it seems to me an overly harsh punishment for being Fee Bell’s lover, something which I vehemently denied, of course.”
“Of course,” said the chief. “You know, the same thing happened to me. Some clown in a gold catsuit made the ground open up and swallow me whole and the next thing I know I’m down here while he’s up there. Some friend of Reece Hudson’s apparently,” he added darkly. “Hollywood fellow.”
“Oh, right. Hollywood,” said Virgil meaningfully, knowing exactly where the chief was coming from. His mother had often told him Hollywood was the source of all things foul and unwholesome, not unlike evil clowns.
“Though I honestly don’t think Reece Hudson has anything to do with this,” the chief added now. “He would never play this fool trick on me.”
No, Virgil doubted whether anyone would ever play a fool trick on the chief. And especially not the man who hoped one day to add him to the family roster as his father-in-law. Besides, no Hollywood actor, no matter how high up in the chain of command of that lascivious town, would ever be able to make the ground open up and send a police chief plummeting into a medieval dungeon located several feet underground. Which reminded him…
“Have you noticed how we can see the sky from here?” he now asked the chief. “Almost as if we’re not beneath Happy Bays but in a different realm?”
The chief glanced over his shoulder to take in this curious phenomenon and had to admit Virgil had a point. “You’re right,” he said. “That is strange.”
“I think we’re experiencing a supernatural phenomenon, Chief.”
“You mean like the ghosts that keep popping up all over the place?”