Caley Cross and the Hadeon Drop Read online

  “She claims she’s being kept in a dungeon. I thought it would be good if I spoke to her …” he regarded the Gunch skeptically, “grandmother?”

  The Gunch made a face like she was being accused of murder. “She’s an orphan,” she said, glaring at Caley like it was her fault.

  “And you are …?”

  “Edwina Gunch.”

  By now, the orphans were peering out their doors to see what all the commotion was about.

  “I don’t ask for extra jam,” one called in a quavering voice.

  The officer regarded the children, who were all holding clothing they were mending, then looked at the sewing machines and ironing boards in their rooms.

  “The little darlings love to sew,” the Gunch said innocently. “Keeps their minds off them being orphans. Bless their sorry souls.”

  You could see the officer slowly piecing things together in his head; then he turned his full attention to the Gunch.

  “Ma’am, are these children working for you?”

  The Gunch was frothing herself into one of her classic frenzies. She couldn’t help it.

  “Not hard enough, Your Lordship! Do you know what it costs to keep children? They … eat! This isn’t Versailles! I don’t have a hundred chefs waiting around to whip up suckling pigs! I’m on disability owing to the rheumatoids. And they … grow,” she raved on, “so they need clothes. So they have to sew old clothes together. And me with the rheumatoids!”

  “Yes, you mentioned that.”

  Caley could see the officer had written, “Disability … Mental?” in his notepad. He told the Gunch to expect a visit from Child Services.

  “We’ll discuss the frogs another time,” he added to Caley.

  As the officer left, the Gunch stood in the hallway until her vein stopped throbbing. Her face was as mean and nasty as Caley could ever remember (and that was really saying something). Then she began hitting her with a snakeskin stiletto.

  “LAZY … ! LYING … ! LITTLE … ! WITCH!”

  Each word brought another stiletto swat. The Gunch bent over the umbrella stand to catch her breath, then spoke in a quiet, reasonable tone that made her seem even more demented.

  “I warned you, girl. It’s too bad because I was thinking it was time to tell you about your mother. But I can’t see her—or anyone—wanting you. No, Caley Cross, you’re my cross to bear. Forever!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Follow the Mole

  Caley lay in bed that night listening to the Gunch’s TV blaring upstairs. The Gunch was addicted to medical dramas. Caley always paid special attention to the various ailments she heard, sifting for clues to her condition (other than “witch”). Following the latest zombie attack, her body felt as if it had exploded from the inside out, which could mean appendicitis. Or gastroenteritis. Thrombosis? It was definitely something bad, and she jotted down a few possibilities in her notebook.

  Caley put down her pen. Edwina! Who knew the Gunch had a first name? It made her seem almost human (which, for some reason, was even more disturbing). Then she remembered the crow with the metal wing. She was sure it had said something to her …

  “Found you.”

  The walls creaked. The old house often made sounds. Another loud creak from the wall right behind her made Caley jump to her feet. A pair of beady little eyes were peering at her from under the bed. She grabbed a pillow to throw at whatever was in there.

  “Please don’t scream,” came a squeaky voice.

  A pair of whiskers poked out from the bed, and a little pink nose sniffed the air testingly.

  Caley lowered the pillow, and a rat crawled cautiously out. It looked like the same one from that morning, though rats often look the same. (Then again, how many talk?) And since she wasn’t screaming at it, she noticed that instead of ratty claws, this rat seemed to have tiny humanlike hands and was wearing a little plaid vest.

  “I have a message from Master Pim,” announced the rat.

  “Who?”

  The rat wasn’t listening. He stared around at the room and gave a low, unimpressed whistle.

  “I must say, this is a fine place for a princess to live.”

  “I’m not a princess, but the Gunch did mention she was getting me a throne.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” said the rat. “The human who runs this dump is too cheap to even put cheese in the traps.”

  The rat dragged a trap out from under the bed. It was baited with an old cricket-bitten sock.

  “So that’s where my other good sock went,” said Caley. “Anyway, you were saying. A message?”

  The rat removed a small scroll from his vest pocket and cleared his throat in an official-sounding manner.

  “‘Follow the mole.’”

  “That’s a weird message. Even from a rat.”

  The rat moved his finger along the scroll, reading to himself. “That’s … all it says.” He put the scroll back in his pocket and glanced around nervously. “If I may offer a word of advice, Your Highness, be warned. Foul things are afoot.” He lowered his voice. “It’s rumored Olpheist—”

  Caley heard a distant sound. It wasn’t the sort of dead-animal scream she usually heard—this was deeper and deadlier—like some prehistoric beast. She looked out the window. Nothing.

  “Did you hear—?” She turned back to the rat, but he was gone.

  Caley crossed out “thrombosis” in her notebook and entered a new diagnosis: “brain tumor.”

  AFTER that, things got worse in Caley’s life (if it was even possible). Child Services shut down the Gunch Home for Wayward Waifs and took away the waifs. They could not find anyone to adopt Caley because of the file on her (*see witch), so they reluctantly allowed the Gunch to become her legal guardian.

  Having lost her orphan sweatshop (not to mention her marbles), the Gunch decided to repurpose her collection of furs, purses, and shoes into “high-fashion contemporary accessories.” These included assorted atrocities such as snakeskin sundresses, fox-fur flip-flops, and ostrich onesies. She was convinced she could unload the grotesque things over the “interknit,” as she called it. On top of her usual endless chores, Caley had to sew them together. She sometimes heard the animals shriek as she stitched.

  Back at school, Daphne Doyle and her sideswept-bangs gang were too nervous to be nasty right to Caley’s face (*see zombie frogs), but they did post a photo of her with the dead frogs and with devil horns photoshopped on Caley’s head; the post went viral.

  When she got home one afternoon, the mahjong game was in full tilt. The players (a bunch of killer clowns like the Gunch) were drinking champagne, gorging on chocolate truffles and French cheese, and complaining about their families. Caley noticed they were wearing the fur and lizard mash-ups she had been sewing, and they seemed pleased to be on the cutting edge of “contemporary fashion.” It was like a zoo had exploded over a senior citizen’s home.

  Caley got into the server’s uniform the Gunch had designed for her. It was meant to “class things up” at mahjong, where the Gunch was now charging for everything from seat-cushion rentals to snacks. The costume was sewn together from scrap ends of fur and lizard skin. She looked like road-kill.

  The killer clowns were now complaining about the heat, but the Gunch wasn’t about to turn on a fan. She ordered Caley to haul the tables and chairs to the front lawn: “Plenty of free air out there!”

  The sun slammed down, and Caley’s roadkill costume was soon soaked in sweat and weighed a ton. She almost passed out from the heat and hunger but somehow managed to get everything set up. She organized the chocolate truffles into a pyramid, the way the Gunch liked, then glanced around. Everyone was still inside. She grabbed a truffle.

  “Caley Cross! Caley Cross!”

  Albert the parrot was jabbing his beak warningly against the window. Caley saw the Gunch heading out of the house and shoved the truffle into her mouth before she saw her, but she made the fatal error of biting down on it and then beginning to chew. She couldn’t sto
p herself. It was soooo good. The Gunch saw a truffle missing from the pyramid and wheeled around to Caley like a hawk spotting a rabbit.

  “I didn’t mean to take it!” Caley swallowed and swerved from the lunging Gunch, who yanked off one of her rattlesnake sneakers. “I may have spasmodic dysphonia: involuntary muscle spasms.”

  The Gunch began smacking her with her sneaker.

  “WORTHLESS … ! EVIL … ! THIEF … !”

  “Or juvenile diabetes! Jaundice! Jet lag! Jock itch!” Caley howled as she was hit.

  Her amulet began vibrating so powerfully her whole body was practically buzzing and her hands were on fire. The rattlesnake sneaker in the Gunch’s hand began wriggling, came to life, and bit the Gunch on her face.

  Then Caley died. (Again)

  When she came back to life, her body felt hornet-stung and bone-boiled, as usual. She sat up unsteadily and saw the killer clowns running around the yard, howling. Their high-fashion contemporary accessories had also come to life, and various cobra capris, polar bear pedal pushers, and wolverine windbreakers were attacking them. The Gunch was collapsed in a chair. Her face had swollen to the size of a basketball, and a beaver beret was making a lodge in her beehive hairdo. She turned to Caley with a deranged look on her face, halfway between a smile and a scream.

  “You did this, didn’t you?”

  A killer clown ran past, screeching, with a chinchilla ball cap clamped on her neck.

  “I did my best, Caley Cross, but there’s no hope.” The Gunch shook her head. “Time for you to go.”

  “Please, tell me how to find my mother,” pleaded Caley. “I promise you’ll never see me again.”

  The Gunch let loose a hysterical cackle. “Your mother? Don’t bother looking for her! She never left you here in the first place. You want to know who dropped you on my doorstep? A demon. Saw it with my own eyes. A winged demon. And you know what that makes you, don’t you?”

  Albert flew out the open doorway and left a sizeable deposit on the Gunch’s head as he made his break for freedom.

  “Go!” repeated the Gunch.

  Which seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. What is there to stay for now? Caley wondered. The real question was, go where? As usual, she didn’t exactly have a choice because at that moment there was a howl, like the one she heard in her room, but closer, followed by more howls. In the distance, Caley made out what looked like a pack of huge silvery wolves bearing down on her. Which made zero sense because there were no wolves in that part of the world. She tried to sort out her thoughts. She had probably died after the zombie attack, as usual, and was still passed out on the lawn.

  Or … she really was dead this time.

  “Princess Caley, I presume?”

  A mole popped out of a hole in the lawn, whisked some dirt off himself, and snapped a smart salute to a fire hydrant. He wore a crisp khaki military jumpsuit and a beret and carried a backpack.

  “Are you talking to me?” called Caley.

  The mole blinked blindly at the hydrant, then spun around to her.

  “Ah, there you are. Splendid. Major Fogg, at your service.”

  “A lot of people have been calling me ‘princess’ lately,” said Caley. “Well, a lot of rodents. No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m a marsupial, technically, but why split hairs?”

  The mole had a curiously humanlike face: squinty eyes, jowly jaws, and a pug nose. He reminded Caley of Winston Churchill.

  The sound of snarls made Caley turn back to the wolves. They were charging across the neighbor’s lawn, their glowing yellow eyes riveted on her. Instead of fur they had needle-like spikes as well as steel jaws and claws.

  “Right-e-o. Remain calm. I have the situation under control.” The major rummaged in his backpack and pulled out an odd-looking camera with a big fish eyeball–like lens. “Everyone say cheese!” he called to the killer clowns trying to flee from the zombie accessories. “You all look very chic, by the way. Is that the look for fall? Afraid I don’t follow fashion.”

  The eyeball-lens made an enormously bright flash that momentarily blinded everyone. The wolves stared around vacantly, stunned. The zombie accessories all went back to their normal (hideous) appearance without the additional (hideous+) zombie effect. The killer clowns sat back down and began playing mahjong again as if nothing unbelievable had just happened.

  The major removed what looked like a spindly, sticky bug from his camera and waved it cheerily at Caley.

  “Little invention of mine. Memory stick–insect. They won’t be needing these memories.”

  “You erased their minds?”

  “Only holds the last ten minutes.” The major shoved the insect and camera back in his backpack. “Can’t have civilians seeing that sort of thing,” he added, pointing at the still-stunned wolves. “Bad for morale. Now, if you wouldn’t mind terribly, could I ask you to follow me? I’m afraid the effects will wear off shortly.”

  The major scurried behind the house and hopped into a black open-topped horse carriage waiting in the woods that bordered the backyard. Caley noticed the horse had a woebegone humanlike face. She had seen horse-faced people but never a person-faced horse.

  “Do come along, Your Highness,” called the major. “I’m afraid we’re in a bit of bother. Or a bit bigger than a bit …”

  The wolves started to stir as if coming out of a deep freeze. Caley somehow managed to move her body into the carriage, the major gave a smart flick of the reins, and they were off at a brisk pace through the woods.

  “Teatime! Mind steering for a spell?”

  The major handed Caley the reins and pulled out a steaming tea service and scones from the trunk. The carriage hit a root and tilted crazily, nearly throwing them over the side.

  “Watch where you’re steering,” groaned the horse-human. “I have bursitis.”

  “Inflammation of the synovial fluid?” Caley nodded knowledgeably. “Painful. Sorry, I’ve never steered a … whatever you are …”

  “That’s Cecil.” The major nodded toward the horse-human. “Splendid of him to volunteer for this mission. Been out to pasture. But we’ve all got to do our part. Just head toward the end of that …” He pointed at a rainbow appearing through the trees.

  “Seriously?” said Caley. “You want me to follow a rainbow?”

  The metal wolves shook off the last of their deep freeze and continued tearing toward them.

  “Maybe we should take a car or something!” suggested Caley, eyeing the rapidly closing wolves.

  “Cars are not practical where we’re going.” The major shook his head. “And they offer little protection against …” he looked back at the wolves, “those. Fortunately, we’re well equipped.” He pushed a button, and a panel popped open with an assortment of knobs and levers. “This carriage has a variety of built-in defenses.” The major squinted at a yellow knob. “This should do the trick …”

  He yanked the knob and a bunch of piñatas shot from the carriage.

  “No, that’s for a bazkûl. Terrified of piñatas for some reason. One of my cleverer inventions. But perhaps not what we need here …”

  He yanked another knob and a cannon appeared from the side of the carriage and fired bubbles everywhere.

  “No real use for that. I just love bubbles.”

  “Who doesn’t?” shouted Caley, surprised to find her voice was several octaves higher than normal.

  At least all the bubbles seemed to confuse the wolves because they began running around in circles, trying to spot the carriage again. The major grabbed a manual and started to frantically leaf through it.

  “Mechanical wolves … Mechanical wolves … This is written in some foreign language!”

  “You’re holding it upside down!”

  “Sorry! Blind as a bat. Or a marsupial, technically. Pull up here.”

  The rainbow seemed to stop at an enormous old tree. Caley yanked the reins, and the major hopped out and knocked on the trunk. A tiny man with a large woodpec
ker beak and plume-like hair poked his head out of a knothole and stared down at them suspiciously.

  “State your business,” said the woodpecker-man.

  “Major Gilly G. Fogg, escorting Princess Caley on orders of Master Pim.”

  He held out a scroll with a gold wax seal and showed it to the woodpecker-man with obvious pride that he was on such an important mission. The woodpecker-man began to peck furiously at the tree.

  The major turned to Caley with a slight shrug. “Must have heard a grub or something.”

  The woodpecker-man turned back to the major, swallowing a large ant.

  “Ah … ant,” corrected the major.

  The woodpecker-man, cross-eyed from the pecking, regarded the major as if he’d never seen him before.

  “State your business.”

  “Major Gilly G. Fogg, escorting Princess Caley, etc.,” the major repeated patiently. “Look, the thing is, old chap … uh … bird, it would be awfully decent if you opened the gate at this particular point. We have a bit of a wolf-type situation.”

  The bubbles were popping and the wolves had spotted them again. They instantly changed direction and began to charge, their steel claws grinding up the ground. The woodpecker-man pecked at the tree some more, then turned back to the major. This time a caterpillar dangled from his beak.

  “State your business.”

  Major Fogg sighed at Caley. “Woodpeckers have a difficult time staying focused. No doubt due to all the pecking. Still, marvelous birds. Love the plumage.” He turned back to the woodpecker-man. “Sorry to be repetitive, but now would be an exceptionally good time for you to open the gate.”

  The wolves were so close Caley could hear their steel teeth snapping.

  “OPEN THE GATE OR WE’RE GONNA DIE!” she shouted.

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” huffed the woodpecker-man, and he disappeared into the knothole.

  The major hopped back into the carriage and grabbed the reins.

  “Giddyap, Cecil!”

  The carriage went hurtling toward the tree. They were going to crash right into it. The wolves sprang at Caley on their pistonlike legs. Just as they were about to collide into the tree, the knothole shot out a blinding burst of rainbow light and the carriage disappeared into it.