CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
To Heather
THE desert was empty, as though a great drain had sucked the world underground. Every color, every sound had vanished, leaving nothing but flat sand and silence.
Except for the ruby palace. If you were blasting down the highway in the middle of the night, somewhere near Dust Creek, you probably wouldn’t even see it. Or just blackness, a red flash in the distance, and then nothing. It was tucked away behind the mountains, alone and nearly forgotten, the old house of Lily Larouche.
From the highway the ruby palace sparkled silently. Come a couple of miles closer, though, and you could hear the buzz of voices—closer, and squeals of laughter, snatches of music, raucous shouts—Lily Larouche was throwing a party.
The last hundred yards and suddenly the ruby palace loomed all around, slumping and sprawling over acres of sand and weeds like a monstrous, glittering cake. Its garden swarmed with exotic flowers, vegetables of startling colors, and dark ponds with fat, ill-tempered toads; strings of lights were flung throughout the crooked trees, twinkling like fireflies, and torches flickered all along the stacked and twisting terraces.
Strange shapes moved in the shadows. A man dressed as an astronaut chatted with a devil. A gang of cavemen sipped fizzing cocktails. A Chinese emperor flirted with a robot, a pirate arm-wrestled a dinosaur, a giant worm danced with a refrigerator—it was Lily Larouche’s Christmas costume party, and all her old friends had come.
A blossoming bush grew on the garden patio. At first the bush seemed ordinary; but then two green eyes flashed inside it, and stared. It was a thirteen-year-old girl, small and thin, with brown skin and black bobbed hair. Her name was Jo Larouche. She was Lily Larouche’s niece. She also lived at the ruby palace, and she was spying.
“Where did he go?” Jo took a bite of her scrambled-egg sandwich and watched the party intensely. Jo never talked to Aunt Lily’s friends, but she loved spying on them. They usually ignored her—but tonight’s party was different.
Tonight someone was watching her.
A fat man was looking for her.
Jo’s eyes darted over the crowd. The fat man had been wearing what looked like a military uniform, staring at her across the patio, tugging his beard and pointing at his stomach, rumbling something in a Russian accent. Jo had no idea what. One thing was for sure: the fat Russian was nobody she or Aunt Lily knew.
She couldn’t see him anymore—maybe he had left. Good. She intended to enjoy tonight. Jo closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar smell of Aunt Lily’s parties: the lemony smoke of tiki torches; the clashing, flowery perfumes; the warm musk of cigarettes…
She heard Aunt Lily’s name.
Jo peered out of the bush. A couple of feet away, a woman disguised as an enormous eggplant was talking to a man dressed like a UFO.
“Did you see?” whispered the eggplant. “Lily’s gone nuts again.”
“Cracked as a crawdad, and worse every year,” said the UFO. “The woman’s going to hurt herself.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the poor girl. Do you know, I’ve never even seen her?”
“I heard she’s some kind of freak, actually,” said the UFO. “Remember what the newspapers said about her being ‘dangerous’?”
Jo crouched back and frowned. So Aunt Lily was causing trouble again. She wasn’t surprised. But there was a chance Aunt Lily might go too far, get herself hurt…. Jo rocked back and forth, hesitating. No, she had to see what Aunt Lily was up to. She picked up her cocktail tray and crept out from the bush.
At once Jo was swallowed up in the party’s shimmering confusion. Nobody noticed her in her plain black dress, but she preferred it that way. She hated attention.
Aunt Lily, on the other hand…
Jo scanned the crowd, biting her lip. It was true—Aunt Lily was getting worse. Jo remembered the party a couple of years ago, when Aunt Lily had dived, still in her cocktail dress, into the swimming pool; the year after that, when Aunt Lily had poured bleach into the champagne punch; last year, when Aunt Lily had kicked another old lady in the teeth….
Where is she? Jo’s head buzzed as the lights and noise of the party swirled around her. She turned back toward the palace; maybe she’d find her in—
Just then someone crashed into Jo, knocking her to the ground, spilling her tray and breaking the cocktail glasses on the bricks. It was a boy dressed as a hedgehog, a lanky seventeen-year-old with greasy hair. “Watch it!” he snarled.
Jo looked up, shaken. “Hey, you ran into me.”
“Tough. Who’re you, anyway?” The hedgehog looked closer. “Oh, wait. You’re that girl?”
Jo got to her feet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t look so dangerous to me,” said the hedgehog with a smirk, and then he walked away.
Jo didn’t have time for this; her heart was beating too hard, she had to find Aunt Lily—but she heard herself shout, “Hey! Get back here!”
“INDEED!” roared a voice behind her.
Jo turned, startled. It was the fat Russian again—where had he come from?—a lumbering, shaggy, harrumphing, absurdly dignified mastodon of a man, with twitching white whiskers and a gleaming uniform, swinging a great black cane.
“I will take it from here, Miss Larouche,” he rumbled. “You, sir! Hedgehog! Turn around and apologize!”
“Mind your own business,” said the hedgehog.
“APOLOGIZE!” said the Russian.
Jo looked from the Russian to the hedgehog with alarm. People were whispering and glancing over at them; the Russian was jabbing the hedgehog with his cane.
“You, sir, are disturbing my DIGESTION!” said the Russian.
“Hey! Stop that!” said the hedgehog.
“Do you understand what it means to disturb my digestion, sir?” said the Russian. “That even now, my stomach rumbles with contempt? That my kidneys flood with excruciating acids? That my entire gastrointestinal tract revolts at your ungentlemanly conduct?”
The hedgehog squinted. “Who cares about your stupid gastrointestinal—”
The Russian roared, swinging his cane—crack!—and the hedgehog howled, clutching his head, staggering backward.
“My digestion is not mocked!” boomed the Russian. “Nor will I stand idly by while Miss Larouche is insulted! You are banished, hedgehog! My digestion has spoken—BEGONE!”
The hedgehog wavered; the Russian advanced, waggling his cane; finally the hedgehog swore, and stumbled off into the darkness.
Jo glanced around, flustered. More and more guests were staring, and now the Russian was stooping down to her. “Miss Larouche! I hope—”
“Who are you?” said Jo.
“Who am…Oh! My apologies.” The Russia
n bowed. “I am Anatoly Korsakov, colonel. I have been trying to speak with you. Where were you?”
“Um…in that bush.”
“Brilliant. Excellent strategy. We have enemies everywhere.” Colonel Korsakov nodded. “But you need not hide anymore, for I shall protect you! And what is more, Jo Larouche, I have it on unimpeachable authority that tonight you shall receive a gift!”
“Wait, wait!” said Jo. “How do you know who I am?”
“My digestion,” said Colonel Korsakov. “It whispers secrets and instructions to me. And this very moment, Miss Larouche, my digestion advises us to be on guard. I have dispatched my partner, Sefino, to patrol the grounds for suspicious characters.”
“You’re the most suspicious character I’ve ever met.”
“Really? Am I really?” murmured Colonel Korsakov. He frowned at the sky and counted paces across the garden. Then he drew a big X in the sand with his cane and stood back.
“Is that your costume?” said Jo. “The uniform?”
“What?” Korsakov looked confused. “No, no. These are my usual clothes.”
“But this is a costume party.”
“A costume…Oh! Yes, of course. I had forgotten.” Korsakov fished out of his pocket some green cloth with a plastic flower sticking out of the top. He gravely placed it on his head.
“I am a daffodil,” he murmured uncomfortably.
Colonel Korsakov shifted his tremendous bulk from foot to foot, the tiny flower bobbing atop his head, his eyes roving around uneasily, as if at any moment the other guests might jeer at him; but they didn’t; but he and Jo were ignored.
“Do you want to come inside?” she said. “I have to find my aunt. I could make you a drink, if you want….”
Korsakov’s face brightened at this. He looked expectantly at the sky, then back at her. “For a little while, I suppose…Do you know how to mix a Flaming Khrushchev? No?”
The inside of Lily Larouche’s palace was all red and gold. Crimson velvet curtains with gold embroidery hung in the windows, ancient and frayed; far above, hundreds of scarlet candles burned in gold chandeliers, dripping wax onto the shaggy carpet.
The party had moved inside and the dancing had begun. A squid glided across the dance floor, its tentacles wrapped around a dainty geisha. A table of centipedes in tuxedos played whist as a pack of witches and monkeys argued politics. A cigar-chomping penguin worked his way around the room, shaking hands and slapping people on the back. A vampire giggled obscenely in the corner.
Jo left Korsakov at the bar and pushed through the party, searching on tiptoe for Aunt Lily. Then she heard a crash, a man yowling in pain, and—she winced—Aunt Lily’s cackle.
Jo wriggled through the crowd and found Aunt Lily dancing on a table near the Victrola, her dress nearly falling off her shoulders, flinging records at the guests. Everyone kept away from her, muttering and glaring.
“Jo! There you are!” said Aunt Lily, stumbling toward the edge of the table, waving a piece of broken record. “There has to be more dancing at this party!”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Jo, reaching up to help her down. “Really, Aunt Lily—easy! Don’t you think it’s time you got to bed?”
“Bed? Who’s the mother here?” slurred Aunt Lily, with the dazed-but-dangerous look Jo knew too well. “I want more dancing. Why don’t these people dance?”
“It’s a mystery. By the way—careful!” Jo grabbed Aunt Lily’s waist just in time to hold her up. “By the way, did you invite a big Russian guy to the party?”
“You say something, honey?” said Aunt Lily. “Now, if you played the organ, we might have a real hootenanny on our hands…. C’mon! What do you say?”
Jo opened her mouth to argue, then gave a tight little smile and nodded. Whenever Aunt Lily got like this, there was little she could do but go along for the ride. Aunt Lily leaned on Jo, giggling, as Jo led her away and sat her down on the sofa.
At least I’ve got Aunt Lily under control, Jo thought. For now, anyway.
Jo climbed up onto the organ, a baroque machine with five keyboards, fifty pedals, and hundreds of little dials and switches. As she started to play, she saw Colonel Korsakov shouldering his way through the crowd, the daffodil bouncing on his head, asking everyone for Worcestershire sauce. “You can’t mix a proper Flaming Khrushchev without Worcestershire sauce!” he insisted to a skeptical bear. Jo waved at Korsakov and pointed him toward Aunt Lily; maybe she knew where the Worcestershire sauce was.
The story of Lily Larouche was well known.
She had been a famous actress long ago, with a reputation for strange behavior. The tabloids knew she was good for at least one sensational rumor per week:
LILY LAROUCHE THROWS RODENT AT STARLET
LILY LAROUCHE ARRESTED AGAIN
FOR RECKLESS HOT-AIR BALLOONING
HEARTSICK PRESIDENT SHAVES OFF OWN EYEBROWS
IN DESPERATE BID TO WIN LILY LAROUCHE’S LOVE
The rumors usually proved true. Lily Larouche had hurled a live rat at another actress who had insulted her. For many years, her red hot-air balloon had been a nuisance over Los Angeles, regularly disrupting air traffic. And Lily Larouche still had on her desk, floating in a jar of formaldehyde, the lonely eyebrows of President Eisenhower.
Then came the most mysterious headline:
LILY LAROUCHE DISAPPEARS!
She had vanished. Her notorious ruby palace, which for years had hosted the wildest parties in Hollywood, was empty. Nobody knew where she had gone.
Then, forty years later, there was a new headline:
LILY LAROUCHE RETURNS!
(WITH A “DANGEROUS” COMPANION)
Lily Larouche had awakened in her dusty bed, in her ruby palace. But she had no idea how she had got there. And she had no idea what she had been doing for the past forty years.
Then she heard a distant crying. She followed the sound to her laundry room—and there, inside the washing machine, she found a baby.
She also found a note:
At this the tabloids swung into a twitter. Where was the baby from? How was she dangerous? What was she doing in Lily Larouche’s washing machine? But there were no answers. And the baby, disappointingly, turned out to be ordinary. The public’s interest eventually waned, and the incident was mostly forgotten.
It was now thirteen years later. Jo had grown up from the “dangerous” baby in the washing machine to the girl playing the organ. And she was still playing, watching the swinging crowd, when she saw something startling: Aunt Lily and Colonel Korsakov, dancing as though they’d known each other for years.
“But of course we’ve only met tonight,” laughed Aunt Lily. She wore long red velvet gloves and a red dress with a plunging neckline. A diamond choker dangled trails of glittering stones down her neck; her lips were painted deep red; her hair was a brilliant white; her skin was deeply tanned and as wrinkled as a raisin. She was eighty-two years old.
Jo, Aunt Lily, and Colonel Korsakov were outside, lounging near the heart-shaped pool. The party was winding down, and the last guests—a glittering silver dragon, a queasy-looking cowboy, an alligator in a bikini—milled about, reluctant to go home. An orange sunrise smoldered behind clouds, revealing a desert as empty and desolate as an alien planet.
Jo watched Aunt Lily flirt with Korsakov, her own eyes half closed. But I’ve got to stay awake, she yawned to herself. It was at this time of night that Aunt Lily was at her most reckless.
“So what brings you this far out in the desert?” asked Aunt Lily.
Korsakov looked around carefully. “A most secret and important business.” He sipped his Flaming Khrushchev and nodded crisply at Jo. “I have come to bring Jo a gift. And I have come to protect her.”
“Protect her?” snorted Aunt Lily.
“I didn’t know I needed protecting,” said Jo.
“What on earth from?” said Aunt Lily.
Korsakov gazed at Jo for a moment. “You are Jo Larouche, yes?” He rummaged in his pockets, extra
cted a sweaty wad of newspaper clippings, uncrumpled one, and looked at Jo again. “The…‘dangerous baby’?”
Jo opened her mouth, but Aunt Lily cut her off.
“Balderdash,” said Aunt Lily. “Whoever left that note was just having their little joke. The girl’s as dangerous as a glass of milk. Lived with her for thirteen years, so I should know. Not a peep, not a pop.”
Jo glared at Aunt Lily.
Colonel Korsakov looked disappointed—even the daffodil on his head seemed to droop a little—but then he rumbled, “Nonsense. I have it on excellent authority that Jo Larouche is dangerous—and that an extremely important item, an item that may even be unsafe in the wrong hands, will be delivered here tonight, to this very—”
But Korsakov never finished. A futuristic white sports car burst out of nowhere, skidded through the rosebushes, and spun to a stop in the sand. Its door flew open and the hedgehog leaped out, shouting, “All right, where is he? Let me at him!”
The boy, his hedgehog costume askew, spotted Korsakov and strode over to them.
Jo’s eyes went wide. The boy had something black, gleaming—a pistol.
“Get up!” shouted the hedgehog, waving his gun at the old Russian.
Colonel Korsakov slowly rose.
“I’m—I’m a violent guy!” stammered the hedgehog.
Korsakov said, “You are an ass.”
“What? Hey! What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?” said the hedgehog. “Listen—”
“If I were you, sir, I would move from that spot,” said Colonel Korsakov. And Jo saw that the hedgehog was standing exactly on the X Korsakov had drawn in the sand.
“Is that a challenge?” shouted the hedgehog.
Jo couldn’t move. She looked around—everyone else was frozen, too, even Aunt Lily. But Korsakov was silent, and seemingly calm.
This made the hedgehog even angrier. “You better apologize, old man, or I’ll shoot!”
Korsakov sighed. “Then shoot me, for God’s sake, or put your gun away. But please, move off that spot.”
The Order of Odd-Fish Page 1