The Grimm Legacy (22 page)

I was so relieved to see him that if I had been my normal size, I would have hugged him.

Chapter 22:

Betrayed

We rode the sandals down the hall to the Wells Bequest. Aaron wanted to carry us in his pocket in case someone saw us, but Marc refused. “Your walking makes me seasick,” he said. “It’s not that far, and there’s nobody else down here.”

Aaron didn’t argue. Maybe he was being diplomatic, I thought, or maybe he didn’t want Marc throwing up in his pocket. In any case, Marc and I followed him at shoulder height. We landed on a shelf.

“Can I have the Golden Key now?” said Aaron.

“Why?” said Marc.

“Well, obviously, we don’t want it going through the shrink ray. If it’s the wrong size, it won’t fit in its keyhole.”

“That makes sense,” I said.

“No!” said Marc. “I don’t trust him. He can unshrink me first, and I’ll hold the key while he unshrinks you.”

“Come on, don’t be ridiculous,” said Aaron, holding out his hand. It reminded me of an inflatable raft. “Give me the key.”

“I don’t know, Aaron. Why not do it Marc’s way?”

Aaron gave an exasperated sigh. “Come on, Elizabeth, we don’t have time for this,” he said. “Give it to me or I’ll take it.” He reached for my sandal.

“What are you doing, Aaron?” I fluttered away.

“Oh, you think you’re a big man, don’t you, now that we’re small!” said Marc. “Let’s go, Elizabeth. We don’t need him. We can rescue Anjali by ourselves.” He kicked his sandal into the air. We flew for all we were worth, with Aaron underneath, jumping at us and yelling, “Wait, Elizabeth! Stop!”

But I didn’t count on my sense of direction. “Left, Elizabeth! Go left! No, the
other
way—LEFT!” shouted Marc. I tried to obey, turning and turning—and found myself flying right into Aaron’s arms.

Marc’s sandal whirled around. Marc had a powerful grip on the straps, but the pull of its mate was stronger. He crashed beside me into Aaron’s sweater-covered chest, a mass of coarse fibers. Aaron grabbed the ends of our straps and held on tight as our sandals bucked and fought, beating the air with their wings.

“Aaron! Let go! What are you doing?” I shouted.

“Quit kicking already! I’m not going to hurt you,” Aaron said. He gripped our sandals from beneath by the straps so we couldn’t reach his hands. My sandal flapped and I thrashed, but we couldn’t get away or even touch Aaron. Is this how lobsters feel when you hold them behind the shoulders so they can’t reach you with their claws?

Aaron lifted us to eye level. Such long lashes! “Okay, let’s try this,” he said. “Step out of these sandals and hand over the key. I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

“What is
wrong
with you?” said Marc. “You get a little power and you go crazy with it?”

“Aaron! What are you trying to do?” I said.

“You heard how Marc doesn’t trust me? Well,
I
don’t trust
him,
and I have much better reasons. I’m going to take the Golden Key and rescue Anjali. Then once I know which of the librarians I can trust, I’m going to hand Marc over to them. I’m sorry to do this, but believe me, it’s for the best.”

“You idiot! Can’t you see we’re all on the same side? Mr. Stone’s the bad guy, not us!”

“I know you mean well, Elizabeth. But you’re not seeing things straight. Marc has you enchanted.”

“Don’t do this, Aaron!”

“Just step away from the sandal.”

Marc gave Aaron the look a king might give a swineherd whose smelly animals were blocking his path. “Don’t bother fighting, Elizabeth,” he said, unbuckling himself from his sandal and swinging the stick over his shoulder like a spear. “He’s not worth it. I’ll give him the key.”

“You? But you don’t—”

Marc glared at me. “I said,
I’ll
give him
the key.
Get out of your shoe before he breaks your bones. He’s enough of a jerk to do it.”

Marc unzipped his backpack and took out a key the size of his calf. It was brassy yellow. He held it out to Aaron.

“Thank you, Marc. I’m glad you decided to be reasonable,” Aaron said. “The address too, please.”

“What address?”

“You know what address. The person who’s holding Anjali.”

“I’ll give it to you after you unshrink me.”

“Nope. You’ll give it to me now, or I’ll never unshrink you.”

I saw the muscle jumping in Marc’s tense jaw. He got a notebook and a pen out of his backpack, wrote something, and tore out the page. He handed it to Aaron, who held it by the corner like a postage stamp and squinted at it.

“Jeez, can’t you write a little bigger?”

“Use a magnifying glass.”

Aaron shrugged and put the paper carefully in his jeans pocket. He picked up a large archival fiber bag—the strong-but-breathable kind they use for storing flower bulbs on Stack 8—and lifted Marc around the waist.

“Aaron, what are you doing? He did what you asked! He gave you the key and the address!” I shouted.

Aaron dropped Marc into the paper bag. “Ow!” said Marc.

Aaron ignored him. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s just until I rescue Anjali. It might be dangerous—you’ll be much safer here, and I can’t risk the chance that Marc is helping Stone. I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise.” He picked me up too and slid me into the bag after Marc.

The bag opened again and something big, white, and wet fell in. An enormous slice of apple. We scrambled out of the way.

Aaron’s face loomed over us, blocking the light. “That’s in case you get hungry,” he said. The top of the bag folded down and the light disappeared. After a moment the bag shook and I heard the
clunk-CLUNK
of a stapler. Evidently Aaron wasn’t taking any chances.

A lurch, and the bag was rocking and swaying with Aaron’s footsteps, swinging Marc and me back and forth against each other. Marc grabbed me tight to steady me and keep me from bashing into him.

Two months ago, if you’d told me I would be lying in the arms of Marc Merritt, I would have thought you were describing heaven. But this? Of course, being six inches tall and stapled into a paper bag rarely features in visions of heaven.

Marc moaned. “I feel sick.”

“Please, please, please,” I told him. “Please don’t vomit.”

He just moaned some more.

“Marc,” I whispered, “what was that key?”

“Uh?”

“The key you gave Aaron. I have the real one. What was that one?”

“Oh . . .” He swallowed hard and took a gulp of air. “Something called the Key to . . .” Another lurch. “The Key to All Mythologies. It was in the cabinet with the other keys. I thought we could use it . . .” Another lurch. “. . . to figure stuff out.”

“Marc! You agreed not to take anything else!” I hissed. Not that I was such a big Aaron Rosendorn fan at the moment, but I was getting his point about Marc.

Marc moaned again.

At last we came to a standstill. Footsteps receded.

Marc sat up. “Unh,” he groaned, but he sounded better.

“You okay?”

“Almost.”

“Can you tear the bag open?”

We both tried. The paper was too tough for our shrunken fingers to tear it.

“Do you still have that magic stick?” I asked. “See if you can get us out of here.”

Rustling sounds as he hit the bag with the stick. “I think it only works on doors,” he said. “Maybe the opening at the top counts as an entrance. Can you help me rock the bag over so we can reach it?”

“Okay,” I said. “On the count of three. One, two, three!” We flung ourselves against the side of the bag, which toppled over. I sat up and rubbed my elbow. Marc crawled up to the top, where Aaron had stapled it shut, and hit it with his stick.

The bag burst open with a bang.

Stepping out, we found ourselves on the bottom shelf of a returns cart. It was standing in a vast, empty corridor lit by fluorescent tubes far, far above.

“Let’s get out of here before that jerk comes back,” said Marc, swinging himself down from the cart and striding ahead of me down the hall.

With our short legs, it took us forever to reach the lobby. We crept along the edge of the room toward the heavy front doors, freezing whenever anyone moved and hoping the page at the desk—Josh—wouldn’t notice two soda-can-size colleagues. We had almost made it to the doors when Marc grabbed my arm and put his finger to his lips.

Bad luck. There was Aaron in his coat, presumably heading out to rescue Anjali. He hadn’t seen us yet, but when he got closer, he could hardly miss us. The door opened from the outside and cold gusted in. Marc and I looked at each other and frowned, calculating whether it would be safer to run for it or stay still and hope Aaron didn’t see us. Marc raised his eyebrows. I nodded. We ran.

It was the wrong choice. “Hey!” Aaron came clomping up behind us. We heard a scuffle as he tangled with whoever was coming in, but that didn’t hold him up for long. “Sorry, sorry,” he told them, pushing through.

We had forgotten the stairs! How would we get down? Marc let himself down the first step, leaning on his magic door stick, and beckoned me urgently with his arm. I threw myself over the edge, twisting my ankle as I landed. Marc caught me. We flattened ourselves against the step, barely breathing, and hoped Aaron would step over and past us.

No such luck. The familiar hand, with the familiar hangnail, swooped down and snatched me up.

Anger flooded over me. I grabbed the hangnail with both hands and pulled. It ripped back. Aaron’s finger started bleeding.

“Ow!” he yelled, letting go. I plunged through thin, cold air. “Oh no! Elizabeth! Are you okay?” He sounded genuinely freaked.

Was I? I’d landed in a patch of not-yet-melted snow beside the stairs, crashing through the grimy crust to the wet coldness beneath. After a moment of shock, I scrambled out of the snow and ducked through a gap behind the stairs. It was dark and dripping back there. Shapes gathered in the corners.

“Elizabeth! Where are you? At least tell me you’re okay!” called Aaron.

I felt something touch my shoulder. I jumped, choking back a scream. “It’s all right. It’s only me.” Marc.

“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”

“Don’t answer him,” whispered Marc. Aaron’s eye blocked the gap between the building and the steps, the pupil hugely dilated. “Are you in there? Please come out! Please, I promise—I’ll take you both straight to the shrink ray and make you big again.”

“Don’t believe him,” whispered Marc. I stayed as still as I could.

“Don’t do this, Elizabeth! Marc! Come out of there!” His voice got louder and softer and louder again. I imagined him hunting for us, checking behind the trash cans, peering down the gutter drain.

“Are you okay?” Marc asked me.

“Not really.” My teeth were chattering.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.” He looked over his shoulder. There was something in his voice beyond the usual arrogant impatience.

I looked to see what he was looking at. A pair of eyes shone. Something twitched.

“A rat!” I forgot about my ankle and scrambled through the gap as fast as I could. Marc followed fast.

Something else followed faster.

“Get out into the middle of the sidewalk,” said Marc, pulling my arm. “They stay in the shadows.”

Maybe small rats do, but this one was huge, even by normal-size-person standards. It ran parallel to us along the side of the building with a sickening, bobbing gait, its snaky tail whipping behind it, while we ran for the middle of the sidewalk. It reached the point opposite us, against the wall. Then it glanced around, put its head down, and bobbed tentatively toward us.

“Aaron!” I screamed. “Aaron! Help!”

Something whizzed past my shoulder. Marc was throwing stuff at the rat: a shrunken pen, a full-size paper clip. He hit it squarely on the nose. It snarled and compressed its body, but it didn’t run away.

I threw my shrunken iPod, no bigger than a grain of rice; it bounced harmlessly off the rat’s shoulder. What a waste of an iPod. The rat took three hunched, jumping steps toward us. Marc raised the door stick. I stood rooted to the sidewalk, too scared to run, too scared to scream.

A deeper shadow fell over us. The rat froze. Then it spun in its tracks and ran like an express train, vanishing into the crack behind the steps.