The Order of Odd-Fish (33 page)

“I’m ready,” said Jo.

The Belgian Prankster started doing something unspeakable to his nose. Jo’s heart was beating like mad. She felt the knife in her pocket. She couldn’t lose her nerve. She tried to stop trembling as the Belgian Prankster furiously pulled and tore and ripped at his nose, chuckling.

“And then the Silent Sisters’ monster will eat you, and your soul will take it over! You will devour! You will devour and devour and devour. You will become more than human; you will be a force. You will be an unstoppable, annihilating wave. You won’t remember your life. A force does not remember. Energy cannot think. You will devour and devour and devour without even knowing it, forever, devour and devour and devour and devour…”

Jo stopped. She didn’t know what she was feeling. It wasn’t fear or hatred or even disgust.

It was a horrible tingle of joy.

Jo stared at the Belgian Prankster’s reflection and tried to stand.

“No,” she choked.

“You came for this,” said the Belgian Prankster, ripping at his nose.

“Don’t,” said Jo.

The Belgian Prankster tore his nose off his face. He tossed it onto the table. The nose twitched and quivered in front of her, running juices all over the glass.

“Please,” said Jo. But she didn’t move. She could just barely see behind her, in the reflection, something sticking out of the Belgian Prankster’s face—gray-yellow, bubbling with scabs and bristling with hairs, stabbing a yard out of his face like a hideous beak. Jo couldn’t move. No, that wasn’t true, the truth was worse—she
didn’t want to move.

The Belgian Prankster was behind her, leaning closer. Jo shut her eyes.

He whispered, “You are about to become a god.”

The thing pricked the back of her neck.

Jo yanked out the knife. The Belgian Prankster reared back, too late. She spun and slashed at his face—black blood spurted, sizzled—

The Belgian Prankster howled, staggering backward, clutching the stinger-like thing. Jo scrambled away as he careened toward her, shrieking, and crashed into the aluminum sculpture, smashing it into pieces. She’d only scratched the Belgian Prankster—and now he was charging after her in fury, roaring.

Jo had almost made it to the door when the Belgian Prankster tackled her. All at once she was crushed under his massive body, a hell of darkness, pressure, and stinking furs. Her scream strangled in her throat, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—and then it happened.

A twitching stinger sank into the back of her neck, and it was not pain but an icy blank feeling that shot through her. Jo felt the cold, oily blood pouring through her guts, staining her veins and dirtying her heart. She was sobbing and screaming, the world was darkening, she strained to get away but she couldn’t move, and then blackness fell like an avalanche.

J
O
didn’t remember how she got back to the lodge. She woke up crumpled in her bed. She had slept for sixteen hours. The Ichthala blood boiled furiously inside her, twisting up her guts, but Jo was too exhausted to fight it. She drifted in and out of nightmares.

Every couple of hours Jo woke up and felt a buzzing in the back of her neck, a cold prickling in her ears. Her brain itched with needles and worms and fizzing sparks, and then suddenly a shrieking noise blasted into her head all at once—she couldn’t control it, she couldn’t shut it out.

Jo staggered to the bathroom. The light filled the white tiled room with a harsh glow. She had a glass of water, and then another. She was suddenly short of breath. She grabbed the sink, breathing in as deeply as she could, but it wasn’t enough. Her heart beat faster. She looked in the mirror and her skin took on a yellow tinge in the light. Her eyes seemed as though they were far away, some other person’s eyes.

She stepped out of the bathroom. She lost her breath again, sank to the ground—she couldn’t stand up or she’d get dizzy and fall. She crawled the rest of the way to her bed.

She couldn’t understand herself. Why had she gone to the Belgian Prankster? She had felt emptiness chewing away inside her before—as if the Belgian Prankster had something that belonged to her. Now she had it back, but it was far worse than any emptiness. It was busily working inside her now, weaving her veins into different patterns, shuffling her organs, reshaping her into something new and strange.

Jo crawled up into her bed. Was the world really going to end? She was so delirious, she felt it already had. Everything in her was fighting the blood and losing. The duel was only a day away. Aunt Lily was nowhere to be found. Jo reached behind her neck and touched the wound, the raw hole where he had gouged her, the sticky Ichthala blood clotted around the rim. It was all the worse because she couldn’t see it. She was getting dizzy again. She couldn’t hold off the fog and confusion any longer. It rushed in with a vengeance of lights, sounds, colors, and chills.

The next day Jo had to fight Fiona Fuorlini.

Jo knew she was going to be killed. She hadn’t trained at all since the Belgian Prankster had arrived. At first Dame Delia had sternly ordered Jo to get back into training—then threatened her, then cajoled her, and finally even pleaded with her. It was no use. Her body felt locked up, paralyzed.

Jo, Ian, and Nora rode the subway down to Lower Brondo in anxious silence. Ian and Nora knew that Jo was in no condition to fight, but they had no idea how bad she really was. Jo felt the Ichthala blood slosh around inside her as the subway rattled and bounced. She didn’t feel in control of her own body—as if she were up to her lip in slime, and only by exhausting, continuous effort could she keep from being sucked under.

They arrived at the Dome of Doom early, before the crowds. It didn’t seem as exciting as last time. The glamour of night was gone in the afternoon gloom. All the floors were empty, all the lights on. The enticing darkness, the exuberant crowd, the wild fashions and violent scenes were gone. There was a stench of stale smoke and disinfectant. Janitors mopped the floors as bartenders restocked the bars.

Fiona and her seconds were already there. Jo, Ian, and Nora crossed the cavernous space, their footsteps clicking loudly, and settled in a booth in the opposite corner.

Oona Looch was right on time. She wasn’t carried in on a throne, and her tough-looking daughters stayed in the shadows. She ran over the rules of the duel.

“No guns,” she said. “No endangering the crowd. No leaving the arena until someone’s been knocked in the water. That’s all. If you die, too bad. I don’t care if you both get killed, as long as it’s got some razzle-dazzle!
Razzle-dazzle,
” she sang throatily. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s all show business. Give ’em some flash, give ’em some pizzazz! The crowd paid good money to see you fight. Give ’em something to remember.
Razzle-dazzle!
Surprise ’em! Got it?”

“Oh, there’ll be plenty of surprises tonight,” said Fiona.

“That’s the spirit,” said Oona Looch. “Let’s wrap this up. Which gods are you representing? Larouche?”

Jo had chosen her god carefully. “I’m Aznath, the Silver Kitten of Deceit.”

“A fine god. We’ve had plenty of good Aznaths. Fuorlini?”

Fiona said, “Ichthala, the All-Devouring Mother.”

There was a tense silence.

“An unconventional choice, Fuorlini,” said Oona Looch finally. “We haven’t had an Ichthala since, well, since thirteen years ago. Look, I don’t care which god you choose, but I can guarantee the crowd will
hate
you for choosing that one.”

Fiona bowed. “All due respect, but I think it’s very appropriate.”

Oona Looch shrugged. “Of course, you have a perfect right to make a damned fool of yourself. You’re dismissed to your ready rooms,” she said, and stuck out her left big toe.

Oona Looch’s toe was as thick as Jo’s thigh. In a traditional show of respect, everyone had to approach Oona Looch on their knees, kiss her gold toe ring, and retreat on their knees.

Ian went last. As he kissed her toe ring, she cooed, “You don’t have to stop there, loverboy.”

Ian reddened.

“I like this kid,” said Oona Looch fondling Ian’s chin with her toe. “Modest, almost a prude. Stout, pure-hearted lad. I’ll dirty you yet, son.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Looch,” mumbled Ian shakily. Oona Looch leered at him as he scooted backward on his knees.

Jo’s ready room was a moldy locker area that it seemed had never been cleaned. It stank of old sweat and urine, the tiles were dirty and chipped, and the rusty plumbing dripped with mysterious juices.

Ethelred was waiting for them when they entered, fresh from the duel officials’ inspection. The ostrich was overjoyed to be reunited with Jo, and nearly knocked her down with affectionate pecks.

After Ethelred calmed down, Nora said, “Oona won’t give up, will she, Ian?”

Ian winced. “Every time I see her, I swear she’s going to pick me up and eat me.”

“You took a suspiciously long time kissing her toe ring,” said Nora. “It was almost as if you…enjoyed it?”

“Ha,” said Ian.

Jo was feeling too ill to join in Nora’s teasing. It took everything in her just to keep standing up. She watched Ian and Nora with unexpected tenderness. These were the last hours she would ever have with them, even if she did survive.

But she didn’t have time for thoughts like this. There was much to do. Before the duel, Jo and Fiona were allowed time to practice flying their ostriches around the empty arena, in full armor, to get a feel for the space. But as Jo, Ian, and Nora were busying themselves in putting on Ethelred’s armor, Jo remembered something.

“I forgot to make costume armor for myself!” said Jo.

Ian and Nora smiled at each other, and Nora said, “Actually, that’s not a problem, Jo. Sefino gave us this before we left the lodge.” She gave Jo a box wrapped in lavender foil. A little card said,
To Jo. Good luck! From the butlers.

Jo opened it and gave a little gasp. The butlers had made her beautiful ceremonial armor, woven with swaths of silver fur, complete with claws and a tail. There was also a furry cat’s-head helmet with silver whiskers and pointed ears. Sefino also included suggested insults for Jo to use during the insult stage of the fight. Jo’s heart softened; she felt guilty about how severely she had judged him before.

Ian said, “Hey, what’s up with Fiona fighting as Ichthala? Tasteless.”

“Oh, I see through that,” said Nora. “Fiona’s just trying to prove how hard-core she is. But think about it—how tough
is
it, really? The Belgian Prankster came back, but the Ichthala didn’t appear. The city still stands. Either the prophecies were wrong or I’d say Ichthala is a pretty weak god. So the joke’s on Fiona, right, Jo?”

Jo felt the Ichthala blood rise in her, but she fought it down and said, “We’ll settle it at the Dome.”

“Atta girl,” said Nora.

There was one last ritual Jo and Fiona had to perform—to eat a final dinner together. Nobody but Jo and Fiona was allowed in the dining room, and neither was allowed to speak a word during the meal.

Jo had been underground for hours.
The sun must have gone down by now
, she realized.
I’m going to die without ever seeing it again
. Even if Fiona didn’t kill her, she would tell everyone who Jo really was. Every passing second rushed her closer to that moment.

She sipped her soup and glanced across the table at Fiona.

Fiona stared back at her with pure hatred.

At first Jo tried to return the stare, but soon she had to look away. Fiona’s righteous anger was too strong for her to endure—and Fiona
was
righteous. Jo was the liar. It was her birth that had destroyed half the city; it was she who had secretly met the Belgian Prankster; and now she was full of the Ichthala’s blood. It struck Jo that if this was a story, then Fiona was the hero. Jo was the dangerous dragon that had to be slain.

The black blood hissed and bubbled wildly through Jo’s body, tickling her veins.

It was now just a half hour to the duel. Jo heard the crowd roaring down the hall as Nora and Ian helped Jo strap on her armor. Everything inside her was writhing and twisting.

Suddenly Nora said, “Jo, what’s wrong with your neck?”

Jo saw her neck in the mirror. The wound had blackened and spread. She quickly jerked her armor over it. “Bruise I got training. It looks worse than it is. Help me with this, will you?”

A couple of minutes later Audrey dropped by, starry-eyed at all the backstage machinations of the duel. “I can’t believe I’m actually in a ready room at the Dome of Doom,” she said, and took a deep breath of the putrid air. “Heavenly. Better than I’d imagined! You’re
so lucky
to be dueling, Jo. You’re living my dream. Look at that armor! It’s fabulous. You’re gonna demolish her! Woo!”

After a few minutes of Audrey’s pep talk, Jo almost felt as if she had a fighting chance. Then, with a last kiss and a shout of “Good luck!” Audrey left for her seat.

With just five minutes to go, Oona Looch knocked on the door. “Almost time, kid,” she said to Jo. She turned to Ian. “And you and I have a
date
afterward, sweet stuff. Don’t speak! I won’t take no for an answer. After the festivities I’m gonna whisk you to my love hideaway and make a man out of you. Something to look forward to!”

Then, after slapping Ian’s butt (and nearly swatting him across the room), Oona Looch departed down the hall, whistling.

Jo and Ian traded glances. It was hard to say who looked more alarmed.

An usher came to the door. “Okay, Aznath. Let’s go.”

Jo mounted Ethelred, put her feet in the stirrups, and received her lance from Nora. Ian and Nora went out first, bearing banners emblazoned with the traditional symbol of Aznath, the Silver Kitten of Deceit. Jo followed, gently urging a nervous Ethelred on. They made their way down the dark hallway, and into the chaos of the main floor.

Jo rode Ethelred out into the tumultuous crowd, at once dazzled by popping flashbulbs and nearly deafened by the screaming fans and shouting reporters. She saw Chatterbox waving a pencil, yelling questions at her over the din, jostling with the other journalists. Ushers just barely held the mob back so Jo could approach the arena. The Ichthala blood quickened in her, stirring up and rising; she almost spit it up. She heard the announcer’s voice boom somewhere. Daphne and Maurice were sitting at a table together, cheering her on—she also spied Albert muddling through the crowd, and Phil chatting up some girl in the back. The Ichthala blood raced through her arteries, threading through the secret corners of her body and tying her up, tightening and squeezing. There was Dugan, taking last-minute bets at a corner booth, and Oona Looch lolled on her throne, roaring with laughter as her daughters looked on stonily. Drums rumbled faster and faster. The crash of cymbals and gongs made the air shake. Sefino and the rest of the butlers flung flowers at her. The Wormbeard squires were there, too, sitting all in a row, in identical purple cloaks, steel goggles, and long yellow scarves. Audrey was whooping it up with her show business friends in the premium seats. A convention of eelmen were right next to them, gurgling and spitting and wolfing down heaps of spicy jellyfish. Dame Delia, Sir Festus, and Sir Oort were there, too—the Odd-Fish knights couldn’t wish Jo luck personally before the fight, for that would imply they knew she was illegally dueling, but Dame Delia winked, and Sir Festus gave Jo a hearty thumbs-up. It was a sellout crowd.

In a storm of glitter, confetti, and streamers, Jo rode Ethelred into the Dome of Doom, Ian and Nora at her side. They walked out onto a little platform that poked out into the arena. Fiona was entering on a similar perch, far away on the other side.

Jo glanced at the lake of black water, far below. She looked up and swallowed. This was it.

Fiona had already dismounted and started the threats: “Aznath! Silver Kitten of Deceit!” she bellowed across the arena. “Gaze upon my dread mouth, and know the terror of your doom! For I am Ichthala, the All-Devouring Mother—and tonight your deceits shall be overthrown, your silver fur gnashed between my all-masticating jaws!”