“Now, now,” said a voice. A chubby man in a tiara and a wrestling costume was standing on the muddy grass in front of them. “At least you’ve got a working heart. Most people in these parts don’t.” He gestured over his shoulder.
Behind him was another huge cavern. Ivy scrambled to her feet, staring.
Seb was already up. “Er…,” he started.
Ivy couldn’t blame him for being unable to find the right words.
The Dead End looked just like the Great Cavern—if the Great Cavern had been through a war, or an apocalypse…or both.
Plaster crumbled from the scorched walls of cottage shops, their thatched roofs emitting sooty fumes. Frayed tents and dilapidated huts filled the brown fields between swamps and blazing tar pits, and the charred remains of trees stood like bare flagpoles on the distant hills. Ivy couldn’t see a single patch of green anywhere.
The main street was teeming with the dead. Some of them glided along like ghouls, while others slunk from shadow to shadow or appeared out of thin air and then disappeared again with little pfft noises. Ivy even noticed traders with scaly skin and webbed feet diving in and out of marshes.
The man in the tiara ushered them forward. “Off you go, then, you two. Good luck with your business—whatever that might be.”
Ivy covered her nose with her sweater sleeve; the air stank of sulfur and burning. Seb straightened his shoulders, trying to appear more confident. “So…,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Where is this black door, again?”
Ivy stepped cautiously onto what she presumed was the main road. “Johnny Hands said it was in a carousel.”
Unlike the straight Gauntlet, this path wound its way around shadowy corners and mysterious mounds. The gnarled branches of dead trees hung over the route like giant claws trying to pick up pedestrians.
Seb rubbed his arms. “Is it me or is it cold down here?”
The temperature had definitely dropped. Maybe it was something to do with the lack of body heat. “Let’s ask a bell,” Ivy suggested, veering off to the corner of a tent. “We don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.”
The bell in question was tarnished and hanging from an old piece of string. “We need to find a carousel,” Ivy said in a hushed voice. She could have spoken louder, only there was a pale wispy creature snoozing in a rocking chair outside the tent and she didn’t want to wake it.
The bell swung slowly. “Carou-sellll,” it slurred. “Third right off Undertaker’s Lane till you reach Hangman’s Square.”
Ivy shivered. Even the bells here gave her the creeps.
Sticking close together, they followed the bell’s directions. Despite the disaster-zone scenery, the dead traders seemed cheery—laughing and chatting to one another, bartering at stalls and haggling over prices. A woman with tentacles for legs slithered past.
“What makes them look different?” Seb asked, trying not to stare.
“According to Farrow’s Guide, it has to do with the way someone dies,” Ivy said, “but I’m not sure. After the Dirge started doing research on the subject, it was made illegal.” She frowned. “Did you hear Smokehart talking about the Departed earlier?”
Seb nodded. “Departed must be properly dead—you know, gone for good. But what makes someone become Departed rather than dead?”
Ivy considered the question carefully. With a sense of unease, she wondered whether the Dirge had found the answers.
A voice buzzed in her ear, making her twitch. It had an echo—like someone speaking in a cave. It was strange; there seemed to be more fragments of soul in the Dead End than in the Great Cavern. Perhaps, Ivy thought, her whispering also allowed her to sense the fragments of souls that had transformed into a race of the dead.
They arrived at Hangman’s Square within minutes. It was a large brown field flanked by derelict cottages with festering swamps for gardens.
“Well, spring in the Dead End is cheerful,” Seb muttered, staring at some kids who were playing catch with a skull.
In the center of the field stood a rusty silver carousel. The pewter-skinned figures mounted upon it moved up and down very slowly, dancing an old-fashioned waltz. Their outlandish dresses, jackets and hats made Ivy think they might be wearing Hobsmatch, but she wasn’t sure. As the carousel turned, tiny squares of light spread out across the grass, like the reflections of a mirrored ball.
“Seb, that’s got to be it.” Ivy tugged him across the field. The carousel was busy: traders with sad faces massed at the foot of the steps as they waited for their turn. She wondered why they looked so forlorn.
“I can’t see a black door,” Seb noted. “Can you?”
Ivy squinted. She could hear the structure creaking and moaning as it spun, but the flashing reflections of the pewter dancers made her eyes ache.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “On you get, then—no need to wait!” A dark-eyed man with a shepherd’s crook gave her a gentle push up the steps.
“Oh no, I—” Ivy’s legs started moving before she had finished her sentence. She tried to stop herself, but it was like she’d lost control of her body. As she climbed onto the carousel, she could see Seb having the same problem.
“Seb!” Ivy attempted to get his attention, but as she stepped onto the revolving platform she became so light-headed she couldn’t speak. The glare from the dancing figures flooded her vision. She grabbed on to the nearest pole to steady herself. “Seb?” she croaked. She couldn’t see him anymore; everything outside the carousel was spinning, and all she could make out were the blurred faces of the pewter-skinned dancers, smiling eerily as they twirled.
I’ve got to get off.
She zigzagged her way through the silvery figures, shouting Seb’s name. Just as she thought she’d finally discovered an exit, she found herself back at the same spot she’d started from.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to keep a grip on reality. She wasn’t trapped; the carousel didn’t have bars on it; there must be an exit.
Suddenly one of the dancers broke ranks and came lumbering toward her, swaying from side to side like a possessed statue. It stretched a metallic hand toward her throat, its eyes solid white like marble.
“Get off me!” Ivy screamed, stumbling backward. “Oomph!” Her body slammed into something hard…and her mind cleared.
She found herself on a fixed platform in the middle of the carousel. “Seb!” she shouted again. She could see traders stumbling helplessly among the dancers, their expressions dreamy.
Ivy knew she couldn’t risk going back to find her brother; she might never get off again. There must be a different way out. She did an about-face and came to a knocker with a tall black door. There were intricate designs carved into the ebony frame—ghoulish faces and swirly patterns—but no hourglass symbol painted anywhere. Smoke rolled from under the doorframe, making Ivy cough.
“Seb!” she cried one more time. “I’ve found the door Johnny Hands was talking about!”
As before, there was no reply. Ivy hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should wait there for Seb or go through the door without him. The only way to see if it was the door from Granma Sylvie’s memory was to learn what was behind it. Ivy put a gloved hand on the doorknob. She’d just take a peek….
The door opened easily, but all Ivy could see on the other side was thick, sooty smoke. Covering her mouth, she shuffled forward over the threshold, squinting through the fog.
Just one step farther…
The smoke started to thin, and gradually Ivy could see a small room beyond.
Maybe one more…
Emerging on the other side of the smoke, she found herself standing in a circular room. The wood-paneled walls were adorned with antlers, animal skins and mirrored cabinets gleaming with trophies and satin rosettes.
There was a white chalk circle drawn on the floor, and in
the middle stood a high square table with a chopping board on it. The smoke was coming from the base of a large crystal chandelier suspended from the middle of the ceiling. It spread out to the walls and over the door, forming a misty curtain.
Ivy ventured in slowly; she was still buzzing with adrenaline. There was no one else there; the room was empty. She stepped over the chalk line and approached the table, wondering if she might find anything important. She batted smoke out of her eyes as she inspected the chopping board. It had a black band painted around the outside, with a bright red square in the center. She pulled back her glove and touched it; it felt tingly and warm. Uncommon.
Just then, someone came stumbling into the room behind her. Her nerves jangled as she spun around.
“Ivy!” Seb cried, falling toward her.
Ivy was overcome with relief. “Seb?” He looked like he’d been in a fight. His lip was bleeding, his skin pale. “What happened? Are you OK?”
“It’s those silver figures on the carousel,” Seb explained hastily. “They’re alive! Well, I mean, they’re dead, but…” He flapped his hands. “You know what I mean. They are not friendly! One of them winded me when I tried to get through to the door.” He leaned against the table, panting. “Just let me get my breath back. Then we’ll go and tell that idiot who pushed us on here where he can shove his carousel.” He rested his hands on the chopping board.
“That’s uncommon,” she told him. “I don’t know why it’s here.”
Seb looked at all the trophy cabinets. “Is there anything else? Have you seen the smoking hourglass anywhere, or anything Dirge-related?”
Ivy was about to say that she hadn’t yet explored the place, when she heard voices outside. Seb shot a look over her shoulder. He scanned the room and then, without explanation, grabbed Ivy by the elbow and shoved her behind a white bearskin rug hanging on the wall. There was just enough room for her to fit without making a noticeable bulge, but Seb was left in plain view.
All at once Ivy heard footsteps in the room.
“Well, look at this: the grimp’s turned up early,” a sly voice announced.
“Must be keen to lose,” a second voice slurred.
The first speaker laughed menacingly. “He’s new. Perhaps he’s never heard of us.”
Ivy needed to see what was going on. She spotted a mirrored cabinet against the wall to her left. By tilting her head, in one surface she could see a reflection of the whole room. She saw two figures emerge through the smoke and knew that they were dead. One was the size and build of a grizzly bear—except that instead of fur it had slimy yellow skin and a drooling mouth, like one of those jelly aliens she’d played with when she was younger. It was wearing thick black rubber gloves with tight elasticized cuffs that dug into its gelatinous skin. The other looked more human, with raggedy orange hair on its head and chin, and freckles on its nose…and it also had three arms. Tucked under one was a metal box with a hinged lid.
Seb ran a hand through his hair while covertly wiping the sweat off his forehead, trying to appear relaxed. He glanced surreptitiously in Ivy’s direction, his eyes flashing with panic. Hurriedly he slid off his rucksack and lobbed it toward the rug. Ivy flinched as it landed with a thud on her feet. She looked down, not realizing they’d been sticking out.
“If I’ve said it once,” the sly voice continued, “I’ve said it a hundred times.” The three-armed man was speaking. “I’ll never be beaten at Grivens by a blasted grimp.”
Three Arms thinks Seb is a grimp…? Ivy had come up against grimps before—they were shape-shifters; they ate the body parts of living humans in order to resemble them. Three Arms and his slimy friend must think that Seb had assumed the appearance of a living boy.
“Er…hi,” Seb said in a deeper voice than normal.
The slimy guy lowered his head in greeting, goo dripping onto the floor.
Three Arms grinned. “I hope the silver security didn’t give you too hard a time on the way in—they might look like harmless dancers, but they can be fierce.” He rubbed his hands together as he stared at the chopping board. “You know what it’s like—can’t have any law-abiding folk getting in to see the game. They’d snitch.”
“Talking of which,” the slimy guy began with a snigger, “better take these off so the Ugs don’t know where we are.” He pulled off his rubber gloves and flexed his greasy fingers, sighing happily.
Three Arms removed his own bobbly black wool gloves before noticing Seb’s bare hands. “Where are yours, then?”
Seb rolled his eyes, searching for an explanation. “Took them off earlier,” he muttered. “Had some, er…business to take care of.”
The two dead creatures took up positions opposite each other, next to Seb. Ivy wished she was closer to her brother so that she could reassure him; instead she had to just watch him try to keep up the pretense.
“Jack’s bringing the snacks,” Three Arms said, opening his metal box. “You’ll probably just want toenails. That’s all right—eh, grimp?”
Seb nodded quickly as Three Arms offered the box to him. “Choose your pieces. No cheating, now,” Three Arms said. “Just pick one of each and put ’em on the board.”
Seb stared hard into the box and eventually drew out three carved wooden objects, each small enough to fit in his hand—a suitcase with catches, a ship’s bell and a single glove with a buttoned cuff.
Next Slimy Guy selected a different-looking bell, suitcase and glove from the box. “What’s your name?” He was addressing Seb.
Three Arms placed his bell, suitcase and glove on the board in front of him. Set out on three sides of the board, the models looked a bit like chess pieces.
Seb cleared his throat. “My name?” His voice wobbled. Ivy hoped the two dead guys couldn’t read his face as well as she could; to her it was obvious that he was about to lie.
“Aye,” Three Arms said. “Don’t much fancy calling you ‘grimp’ all evening. I’m Mick the Stretch, and this here is Squasher.”
Ivy had no idea what Seb was going to say. His legs were trembling.
“Ripz?” he answered, almost like it was a question.
Ivy’s heart sank. Ripz. Really? That was all he could come up with—the name of his favorite band?
The other two laughed. Squasher drooled. “Sounds bloodthirsty.”
“Indeed,” Mick the Stretch added. “I hope you’re as tough a Grivens opponent as your name suggests—then we might have some real fun.”
Ivy didn’t like the sound of this.
There was a creak and the sound of odd, scratchy footsteps outside. Then the black door swung inward.
No.
Emerging through the smoke came the tall thin shape of Selena’s henchman, Jack-in-the-Green. He was wearing the same emerald-green wool suit she had seen on the MV Outlander, this time teamed with a pale fedora that had holes cut out for his antennae to poke through. His mandibles clicked in greeting. “Gentlemen.”
Ivy pressed herself back against the wall, remembering Jack-in-the-Green’s WANTED poster: Assassin guilty of murder on six continents…Master of disguise. It couldn’t get much worse.
Or could it…?
With a cold trickle of horror, Ivy realized that Jack-in-the-Green might recognize Seb from the ship.
“There you are, Jack. Got the snacks?”
The assassin’s gaze moved slowly around the table, but he didn’t react. Instead he held up a gray drawstring gym bag, jabbed a claw into the opening and retrieved two crinkly transparent packets. Their contents shuffled noisily as he dumped them onto the table.
Ivy’s chest deflated with relief. She could only suppose that, in the darkness, Jack-in-the-Green hadn’t got a clear look at Seb’s face.
He also tugged a thick leather-covered notebook out of his bag and tapped it. “You were right about the formulas written in here,�
� he said in his strange, tuneful voice. “There was a tracing serum that was particularly useful. We should do business again.” He stuffed the notebook back into his bag and scanned the room with his headlight eyes.
Ivy held her breath as his gaze lingered on the bearskin rug. That WANTED poster hadn’t mentioned anything about X-ray vision….
He lowered his head toward Seb’s rucksack and chucked his drawstring bag in the same direction. Ivy flinched as it hit her feet, but her body flooded with relief.
Jack-in-the-Green scuttled into the only remaining position at the table—opposite Seb. Ivy could see the outline of the black door in the smoke behind him.
As far as she knew, it was the only way out.
“Here you go, Ripz,” said Mick the Stretch, proffering one of the plastic bags brought by Jack-in-the-Green. A handful of thin yellowish toenail curls shuffled out into a little mound beside Seb’s elbow.
Seb stared at them, straining for a smile. “Er, thanks. Every grimp loves toenails.” He sounded like he was going to vomit. Ivy began to feel sick herself.
“Well,” said Mick the Stretch, “give them a try. Folks don’t call me the best Grivens host in Lundinor for nothing, you know.” He waited, looking at Seb expectantly.
With a shaking hand, Seb picked up a toenail.
Oh no no. Ivy couldn’t watch.
Her brother opened his mouth and forced his fingers onto his tongue. His face went gray as he closed his lips. Ivy was certain he was going to be sick, but instead he chewed once and swallowed.
Ivy’s jaw dropped.
Jack-in-the-Green made a buzzing sound with his antennae. “Before we start the game, I need information.” He slid a square of paper onto the uncommon chopping board. Mick the Stretch grumbled as some of the pieces were knocked over, but one look at Jack-in-the-Green’s razor-edged pincer arms made him think twice about complaining. Seb and Squasher leaned closer to see.
“The tracing serum formula from the notebook isn’t working as well in Lundinor. I need you to tell me if you see the jar.” Jack-in-the-Green pointed at the paper. “These are the dimensions. It should have arrived here this morning.”
The Uncommoners #2 Page 6