Flora's Dare: How a Girl of Spirit Gambles All to Expand Her Vocabulary, Confront a Bouncing Boy Terror, and Try to Save Califa from a Shaky Doom (Despite Being Confined to Her Room) (36 page)

“You tease me. I am he, the Jack of Hearts, Jackhammer, the Jack Knife, Lumberjack, Steeplejack, Bootjack, Dancejack, and Jack Dandy! Jackaroo, Jack of All Trades—”

“And I’m Nini Mo’s favorite mule, Evil Murdoch,” I muttered. I found Udo’s coat at the bottom of the bed, now stiff with dried blood. And in its tail pocket, exactly what I wanted: the tin of Sonoran Zombie Powder. Now; what had I done with Udo’s lip rouge?

“Flora?” Valefor whispered in a voice so tiny I could barely hear him.

“What?” Ah, there was the lip rouge in my pocket.

“I think maybe really I should just go. I’m sure I’m no help here.”

“Valefor, I need your help,” I said, ominously. “Do you want Springheel Jack stealing your silver?”

Valefor whined, “I’m already down to only four salad forks. What on earth could you all have done with my salad forks? I used to have place settings for four hundred; I can’t afford to lose any—”

I grabbed him and wrenched his collar so our faces were only inches apart. Consuming the corpse of Springheel Jack had done him a lot of good; he still felt pretty solid and his eyes were bright. “Look,” I said. “I need your help, so suck it up. More than your silver is at stake here, and since you started this whole thing by eating Jack and getting Udo into an uproar, you owe it to him. You owe it to
me.”

“But, Flora Segunda, you were the
—oowfff
” Twisting someone’s collar until they choke really is an effective way of shutting them up.

“Got it, Valefor?” I let go.

His eyes glittered. “I got it.”

I told him the rest of the battle plan, and he vanished from the alcove to take up position. I applied the lip rouge, good and heavy. When I was done my mouth looked wet and red, as though I had been drinking blood. I hoped that Jack liked ladies in red. Then I flipped the lock and slid the door open.

Springheel Jack was sprawled on my settee, looking mighty comfy, my chocolate stash well-smeared about his face. He might have taken over Udo’s body but not his table manners, that was for sure. Jack was wearing all of my jewelry including my Sanguine Day tiara, and several of my scarves; this should have made him look silly Actually, he looked glamorously menacing. The giant red boots were planted firmly on my coffee table; they sparkled and gleamed, and the little snake heads on each toe snapped and hissed. Pigface, they were the ugliest shoes I had ever seen.

Now, face-to-face, I would have known that he was not Udo even if the boots had been hidden. He might
look
like Udo, but Udo never looked so hard and calculating and cold.

I wanted my Udo back. I
needed
Udo back.

As he slurped the chocolate, Jack was humming his little song about how fabulous he was, and all the fabulous (obscene, actually) things he was going to do to me. Well, we’d see about that.

“Hey, Jackanapes,” I said, loudly. “Get your feet off my table. You’ll leave a mark.”

“Well, here’s my dollymop!” Jack said, not moving his feet. Behind him, way up high on top of my closet, Valefor winked into existence and gave me a little encouraging wave.

I said, “And here’s Cheap Jack, Jack O’Light—”

Jack launched off the sofa, bounced off the coffee table—his head narrowly missing the ceiling—and landed almost on top of me. I refused to give way, and he loomed over me menacingly, tossing mussed hair out of his eyes: a familiar gesture in an unfamiliar context. Udo is tall, but add the extra five inches of boot heels and Jack was enormous; I barely came up to the middle of his chest. Well, it takes more than heels to give you height; the taller they are, the harder they fall. Still, my insides quivered a bit when Jack turned his ruthless gaze upon me, but I held on to the thought that Udo was in there
somewhere,
and relying on me to get him out. I refused to look away, but out of the corner of my eye I noticed that he held a knife in his hand.

“What did you say, sweetie?” Jack purred.

“More jakes than Jacks, I think. Jack Dangle, too, no doubt.”

He roared: “I am he, the Jack of Hearts, Jackhammer, the Jack Knife! Lumberjack, Steeplejack, Bootjack, Dancejack, and Jack Dandy! Jackaroo, Jack of All Trades!”

“And I am the Bungalow Baby Doll,” I answered. “I am the Fleet Footed Fancy Girl. I am the Red Haired Daughter of Midnight. And I’ve got a giftie for you.”

Jack struck like a snake. The striking I had anticipated, but not the speed. Before I could dance out of his way, I was caught, one arm twisted behind me, hands pinned, and the knife against my throat. In stories, the knife blade is always described as cold, but this one was strangely warm. The edge was so sharp that it didn’t hurt a bit, although the pressure was hard against my skin.

“You have brought me a giftie, little lolly,” Jack whispered in my ear. “A sweet and tender giftie, and I shall thank your bones for it when I am done with you.” His voice, low and scratchy, had nothing of Udo in it, and neither did the gleaming eyes looking hungrily down at me. A trickle of fear ran down my spine, turning my feet to ice. Perhaps I was too late, perhaps Udo was gone for good, and perhaps I was about to be gone for good, too.

For a moment I could not move my lips, and then I swallowed hard and whispered back, “Such a sweet giftie I bring to you willingly, Jack of Hearts.”

“And what is that, dollie?” he purred, licking my ear, and the disgusting slurping feeling hardened my resolve.

I purred back, “Why a kiss as sweet as summer, hot as heaven, red as love.”

“The kiss does look as red as love, and it hasn’t even left your mouth yet,” Jack said, and blessedly he took the knife away from my throat. I twisted around and snuggled my arms up over his neck, trying not to breathe through my nose, for he smelled very strongly of cheap rose water. Blah!

He leaned down eagerly, and I stretched up equally eagerly—although in my case it was to get the whole thing over with. The ground began to quiver beneath our feet, but we ignored the temblor. Our lips met, as light as snow, and with their touch, he was mine.

T
HE GREAT OUTLAW
was felled by the oldest trick in the book: poisoned lip rouge. Well, maybe not exactly poisoned, but some of Udo’s Sonoran Zombie Powder mashed into some of Udo’s lip rouge. Add a heavy layer of hair pomade to the lips as a buffer: One smackeroo and Jack is your obedient mindless drone.
My
obedient mindless drone.

As soon as I stepped back, Valefor swooped down from the closet, pillowcase in hand, and dropped it over the outlaw’s head. We tied the pillowcase off and bound Jack’s hands with my curtain tiebacks. I gave him a good shove in the middle of the chest; he tipped back on his heels, teetering precariously. Another good shove, and—
Timber
!—down he went. Jack hit the floor with a thunderous shake, and then lay still. Pigface, was
that
gonna hurt later. Oh, well.

Jack might now be vacant, prone, and drooling, but the snake heads on his boots were still spitty; they hissed and snapped each time I tried to get close to the boots.

“You could try mesmerizing them with flute music,” Valefor offered. “Can you play the flute, Flora Segunda? How about an ocarina?”

“I don’t need a flute or a blasted ocarina when I’ve got this.” I whacked each head with the fire-iron until they dangled limply I knelt at Jack’s feet. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck!” he said. “You deserve some after all this. You are the unluckiest person I’ve ever known, Flora Segunda.”

“Shut up!” I grabbed a stacked red heel with each hand and pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled.

The boots did not come off. In fact, all I succeeded in doing was to drag Udo along the floor, work myself up into a sweat, and almost pop a vein in my forehead. And still the boots did not come off.

I was not too late. I would not be too late.

I turned around and straddled Udo’s leg, facing his head, and grasped the left boot.

Pulled.

Tugged.

Yanked.

Pulled harder.

Tugged harder.

Yanked until I thought every muscle in my body would twang like a broken guitar string from the strain. The blood rushed to my head. My hands began to burn.

“I think it’s too late,” Valefor said.

“It’s not too late,” I puffed.

“You are gonna have to cut his feet off. It’s the only way to save him.”

“Shut up!” I let the boots drop and rubbed my burning hands on my kilt.

“He can get wooden ones. He’ll never notice the difference. I knew an admiral once who lost both his legs below the knee from a cannonball, and he had the most cunningly carved feet, shaped like boats, so he could walk across water—”

I turned my face to the ceiling and let out a horrible howl, a howl that came from the very bottom of my soul, tore my throat, and rattled my teeth. A howl that made me feel much, much better afterward.

“What in Califa’s name was that, Flora? They’ll hear you across the Abyss!”

“It was that or punch you in the nose, Valefor. Aren’t you glad I decided to scream instead? Now shut up and take his shoulders. I’m going to pull and you are going to hold him. Hold him hard, don’t let him go.”

“Maybe we should try squirting soap—that works with rings.”

For once Valefor had a decent idea; I ran and got the soap, mixed it with water from my washbasin, and we poured it into the boots as best we could. I wasn’t sure it would do anything but get them wet and us slippery, but anything was worth a try.

“You have to know when to fold your cards, Flora Segunda,” Valefor said. “Didn’t Nini Mo say that?”

“Shut up and take his shoulders. If you let go, Valefor, I will pop you. Let’s try one at a time.”

“Wrap the boot in a towel, it will help your grip,” Val advised, taking Udo’s shoulders. I did as he suggested, and then took a deep breath and pulled and pulled and pulled and puuuuuuuuuuuuuuulled. The boot moved slightly, and began to slide.

“I can ... barely ... hold ... him.”

“Don’t ... let go ... I ... feel ... it ... moving.”

A quarter inch. A half inch. Success gave me a second wind, and again I put my back into it, feeling every sinew in my body go as taut as violin strings. The boot slid another inch; now I could see the top of Udo’s sock. Almost there...

Behind me, through my grunting, I heard a door fling open. Valefor let go of Udo and I fell flat on my face, narrowly missing the edge of my desk.

“Valefor, you fiking snapperhead!” I rolled over. Poppy stood in my doorway, looking at me, looking at Valefor, looking at Springheel Jack. And looking not the least bit surprised at what he was seeing. A rifle was slung over Poppy’s shoulder—his bad shoulder—and a pistol was tucked into his belt. He wore an extremely battered buckskin jacket, obviously field gear, for it had Armyissue buttons and a major’s gilt boards on the shoulders. The Skinner scars on his cheeks had been touched with black war-paint, bringing them into high relief against his white face. He looked grim as death.

“Poppy, I ... uh...”

“You have to get out of here, Flora,” Poppy said calmly. “Axacaya’s Birdie friends just rammed through the main gate. They’ll be here any minute.”

Valefor blinked out and then back in again. “They’re trampling my rosebushes! What do they want, Flora Segunda?”

“I guess they want me.” I had never thought that Axacaya would dare try to steal me from Crackpot by force. I felt sick—I had never even thought that by coming home I might be putting my entire family in danger.

“Well, he may want you, but he’s not going to get you,” Poppy said. “Not if I have anything to say about it. But you’d better chop-chop, Flora. I set the dogs on the Birdies, and a few other little surprises, too, but I wager you should make your exit.”

“I can hide in the Bibliotheca. He’ll never find me there.”

Valefor howled, “I am violate. There is no part of me he cannot enter. I can’t hold him back. See what happens! If I were myself, he wouldn’t dare to enter—”

“Take it up with Buck another time, Valefor,” Poppy said. “I’ll hold him off, Flora, for as long as I can, but you need to get the hell out of here. Get to the Presidio; get to Buck. Even Axacaya won’t dare follow you onto the Post.” He leaned over, pulled me to my feet, and began to hustle me toward the fireplace. “You’ll have to use the bolt-hole, which, yes, I know about. Your horse is waiting at the bottom of the Straight-up Stairs. I think you should get going, honey.”

“They are in my kitchen,” Valefor wailed. He disappeared, the snapperhead, no doubt to hide somewhere until the fuss was over.

Poppy pressed on the rabbit-painted tile and the panel sprang open. “Flora, if I don’t see you again—”

“Don’t see me—” I clung to Poppy’s good arm. “What do you mean, not see you?”

“Remember always that I love you, even if sometimes that love seems pretty paltry. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.” Poppy clutched me; his pistol butt dug into my chest. I smelled his sandalwood soap and the mellow scent of tobacco and wood-fire. He kissed the top of my head and pressed something into my hand: a Madama Twanky’s Tooth Polish tin. Tiny Doom’s container for the key to Bilskinir. “Here—I think this is yours.”

“Poppy, who am I?”

“You are my daughter and a Fyrdraaca.” He pushed me back, so he could look me square in the face. “And you are, apparently, a Haðraaða—”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Poppy?!”

“You look so much like her—you
are
so much like her. I should have known all along; I would have, if I had been paying attention. But, well, I’ve been distracted these last few years. Listen to me. Your mother—”

The door, which Poppy had bolted behind him, crashed open in a hail of splinters. Axila Aguila stood in the doorway, saying, “My apologies, Colonel Fyrdraaca, but—”

Poppy turned around, pushing me away The rifle was now in his hands. He fired. Red feathers puffed into the air. He jacked the lever and fired again. Another puff of red feathers and the Quetzal crumpled to the ground.

“Go!
" Poppy hissed, jacking again, and not taking his eyes off the door.

I went.