Behind the Canvas (25 page)

Claudia didn't know what walnut wood looked like, but she didn't think it was yellow.

The staff in Nee Gezicht's hand had been yellow.

And longer than a meter and a half.

This was it. This was what they had come for!

No, this is what
she
had come for. Pim had come to help
her
.

Hadn't he? He had made a bargain. He could have traded her for his freedom. But he hadn't. Her friend had come to help her.

And he knew she could do it.

I
know I can do it
.

She tore her gaze away from the staff on the wall. She strained at her feet, trying to force them to move, commanding her legs to take a step forward. She reached down and pulled at her knee, but the muscles in her leg kept the foot pressed tightly against the floor.

I am in control,
she told herself.

She turned her attention to the icy hand holding on to something inside her—holding on to her will.

I am in control
.

One at a time, she visualized prying back the fingers from the glowing blue orb inside her own chest. Her legs tingled.

I am in control
.

She strained to peel back the last icy finger from the will inside of her, and she stumbled forward onto all fours. She scrambled to her feet, breathing hard with relief.

The cat stopped its pacing in front of the fireplace and hissed at her.

She grabbed the mustard pillow from the hot dog couch. “Back off.”

The cat hissed again and charged, leaping through the air, claws extended. Claudia swung the pillow like a baseball bat and sent the cat flying into the couch.

She shot a glance at the fireplace mantel. The painting was high out of reach, but there had to be some way to scale up and grab the staff.

Twisting off its back, the cat jumped from the couch and scampered to position itself between Claudia and the fireplace. It bared its teeth and grinned. And then the grin became wider.

And wider. The cat's entire head stretched lengthwise until it was twice the width. Wicked teeth filled its mouth like the smile of a demented Cheshire cat.

And it wasn't just the cat's head. Its legs grew longer until they looked gangly on the cat's body. The rear haunches thickened with muscular power. The claws extended into razor knives and its tail whipped in warning. Bones pushed against its skin as though now too long for its body. It looked like a baby tiger that had been twisted and pulled into a grotesque beast the size of a large dog.

Claudia couldn't believe it. This was the real world. Strange creatures existed behind the canvas, not here. What kind of bizarre magic was Nee Gezicht capable of?

She would have to fight it if she was going to escape. And if she was going to escape, the staff was coming with her.

She cast around for a weapon—something harder than the mustard pillow. Knickknacks and sculptures lined the room, but her backpack was the only item within reach. And it held nothing but nail polish and a book and—

The cat stepped toward her with a snarl.

She snatched up her backpack and retreated behind the couch.

Her small painting. The one Pim had appeared in. If only she could escape through it. But Granny Custos said it was too small. Her head would get stuck.

The beast crept toward her, keeping low as if stalking its prey.

Where were the three Dutchmen when you needed them?

She frantically shifted to keep the hot dog couch between her and the cat. She was close to the wall now and she grabbed the spiked iron off a shelf, hefting it toward the beast. It was heavier than it looked and it fell short, smashing into the coffee table.

The cat bared its vicious teeth in a grin.

Then a crazy idea struck. What if it wasn't she who went through the small painting? What if it was something else?

She opened her backpack.

The monster leaped. Claudia yelped and scrambled to the side. It cleared the couch and closed the distance between them in a single movement. She ran, throwing down obstacles behind her. A chair, a sculpture, the stool with the bicycle wheel sticking out of the top.

There was the sound of clanging metal behind her followed by a snarl. The cat must have snagged the wheel. Claudia slid to the ground behind the lips couch and tore into her backpack.

The painting. The mustard bottle. She twisted open the bottle and squeezed a thin layer of paste quickly onto the painting, desperately hoping she didn't get sucked in by mistake. She dropped the bottle and held the picture frame with both hands.

The room was silent except for the metallic scrape of a slowly spinning bicycle wheel.

She waited, heart thumping. Still nothing. The silence was terrifying. Had it disappeared? Shrunk back down to normal size?

And then it was there, rounding the corner of the couch, jaws gaping, teeth bared, claws springing toward her.

She shrieked and held up the painting in front of her like a shield. The cat's deadly claw slammed against the canvas. Faint rays of light emanated from the painting as the cat crashed into her.

Claudia pushed the painting away and scrambled back. The cat twisted, writhing on the floor. One foreleg had disappeared completely into the painting. Its face pressed up against the frame as though something was yanking on its leg—only a head away from entering the canvas completely.

No time to waste. She snatched up the mustard bottle and backpack and tore off toward the fireplace.

She shoved the armchair closer to the fireplace and climbed up the back as the cat yowled. She teetered on top of the chair, fighting for balance, but gravity won and the chair tipped backward. She launched herself for the mantel. Her chest slammed into the edge of it, stealing her breath. She grasped the mantel with her arms, wheeling her legs to find purchase until her foot connected with the molding along the fireplace. Knickknacks scattered as she pushed herself up onto the mantel.

Her fingers pressed against the wall as she scooted along the narrow ledge. Then the shredded painting was in front of her. Up close it was easier to see that the askew part of the frame was a different color than the rest of the wood. She grasped it with both hands and pulled.

With a
crack
, the staff came away more easily than expected. The force of her pull and the weight of the staff carried her backward and she tumbled through the air, landing with a
thud
on the hardwood floor.

She groaned and forced herself to her feet. She wouldn't be sitting anytime soon, but nothing seemed broken.

Beside her lay Nee Gezicht's staff.

She bent down to pick it up. Pim was right—it was remarkably heavy, as though it was made from steel instead of wood. She lifted one end and held it tight.

She dragged the staff toward the hallway. Nee Gezicht's canvas on the other side of the room was dark and empty. The cat lay on the floor, its leg still in the painting but not as deep as before. Its other forepaw pressed against the frame and—bit by bit—it was pulling itself free.

Time to go.

She plunged into the long tattooed hallway. The heavy staff left a scraping trail on the blue footprints behind her. She ran through the foyer and started up the uneven stairs, straining to pull the staff up each stair.

Claws scrabbled across the floor in the distance. She looked back as she reached the top of the stairs. The cat tore into the stairwell—all four clawed feet free and threatening.

The cat hissed and leaped upward.

She tried to pull the attic door closed, but wooden crates blocked its path and the cat was moving quickly. She left the door and dived into the maze of attic clutter. The windows were dark now. The only light came from the doorway, and she squinted to make out the painting on the far side.

A violent growl. The cat was in the attic. She ducked low. She could try hiding, waiting it out. But cats could see in the dark, couldn't they? And Nee Gezicht would be back any minute. She had to keep moving, which meant climbing over things and dragging the staff behind her.

She jumped up and scrambled forward.

Another growl and the movement of claws. It had seen her.

Over couches and trunks, tables and crates. The sound of claws was closing in behind her. The staff slowed her down. She had to drop it to run. But she couldn't—this is what she had come for.

The painting drew closer. She fumbled with the zipper on her backpack as she ran, clamping the staff awkwardly under one arm, and grabbed the mustard bottle.

She risked a glance backward. The grotesque cat perched a few feet away, balancing on several stacks of books. It hissed and leaped, but the stacks fell with the motion, sending the cat tumbling to the floor.

She hurriedly squeezed an outline of paste onto her hand.

The cat regained its feet, claws scrabbling, closing the distance. She climbed, hands full and useless, over another bookcase and half lunged, half stumbled toward the painting. The single eye of the young Nee Gezicht watched her as she threw out her goopy hand and crashed into the canvas.

A maniacal yowl went up behind her and she braced herself for the claws that would tear at her neck and her arms and her backpack. But her hand was already as warm as a heating vent on a winter morning, and in an instant she fell, tumbling and turning, back into the world behind the canvas.

 

C
HAPTER
22

T
HE WINDOW-PAINTING
spit Claudia into the stairway like a watermelon seed. She slammed against the stone floor, rolling until the far wall stopped her. An echoing pounded her ears. She spun to face the window-painting, head reeling. The cat tore at the painting in the attic with furious claws, just as it had the one above the fireplace. Ragged shreds flapped on the other side of the window with each terrible stroke. Then the window darkened and, with a sound like breaking ice, split into a web of hairline cracks.

Footsteps came from the stairs above and Pim rushed around the corner.

“Claudia!” It was easy to read the look of relief and concern on his face.

That expression was all she needed. Pim was her friend. He had the chance to sell her to the witch for his freedom, and instead he helped to save her. She would not doubt him again.

He ran and pulled her to her feet. The strain from the fear and dismay and anguish that had squeezed her heart over the last hour became acute now, and her tears started to flow. She pressed her face into Pim's shoulder, sobbing quietly.

It was embarrassing to cry like that in front of someone else. At home, all good cry sessions happened strictly in the privacy of her bedroom. But Pim's arms came up around her, and somehow that made it okay.

“Pim, she's awful,” she whispered once she could breathe again.

Pim patted her backpack. “I'm afraid you don't even know the half of it.”

“And then when you appeared and I thought you were … you had…” She choked on her words.

“I know. I'm sorry I had to do it that way. But it worked.” He pushed her gently back so he could look into her face. “It
worked
, Claudia.”

She quickly wiped her tears on her shirtsleeve.

“It's a shame we couldn't find the staff,” he continued, “but it could have been a lot worse. To have Nee Gezicht appear—”

The staff
.

Her heart leaped into her throat and she whirled around, eyes scanning the ground. Nothing. She stepped over to the broken window-canvas and put her hand up to the cracked surface. It must have fallen during her exit through the painting. She slammed her fist against the window. It had all been for nothing.

“Claudia, what is it?”

“I had it, Pim. I had the staff.”

His face widened in surprise. “You did? Where is it?”

She played back in her mind the terrifying moments in the attic. “I had the mustard bottle in this hand. This other hand was goopy. I had the staff under this arm. It was so heavy. That cat was right behind me. I slammed into the painting.… It had to have come with me. Right?”

It was all a blur, that moment she came through the canvas. She couldn't see it clearly in her memory. But the staff obviously hadn't made it.

Unless …

She glanced up at Pim for a moment and then turned and rushed down the stairs.

Window-paintings flew by, the hum of the world rich in her ears. Her feet pounded down the spiral staircase. Before long the stairs spilled out into the foyer—

Cash sat on the stone floor, one paw on the fallen staff.

“'Bout time,” he said. “Did you guys drop something?”

There it was. One and a half meters long. Black walnut. She stepped over and placed her foot on it next to Cash, hands triumphantly on her hips. She had done it.

Pim shot through the entrance and pulled up short, taking in the scene. His eyes grew wide. A grin spread slowly across his face. He threw back his head and laughed.

He rushed forward and lifted her off her feet, his arms around her waist. “Well done, Claudia. Well done indeed.”

He set her on her feet and knelt down next to the staff. He ran his hands along the smooth wood. “This is it. This is really it.” A voracious look sprang to his eyes. “Now we finish it.”

Claudia nodded, her head still buzzing with triumph. “Together.”

“Together.” He stood, hefting the staff. “We need to hurry. She has other ways to enter this world, and other spies here besides. Let's do this quickly. Outside.”

The thought of Nee Gezicht pursuing them with the Fireside Angel in tow sent goose bumps along Claudia's arms, dousing the excitement of her victory. And it brought to mind something that concerned her even more.

“Pim,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “That thing with the tea and my feet. She said she had already started reaping my will. What does that mean?”

“She gave you witch hazel tea,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “If prepared correctly, it can temporarily make a person susceptible to suggestion. The closer the person's tie to magic, the more susceptible she is. Since you're an
Artisti
, one sip was enough to give her that control over you—to loosely bind your will to hers. She was trying to figure out on her own if you were an
Artisti
or not.”