Villain's Lair (8 page)

But then something unexpected happened. Dave suddenly turned and faced the slick, curved wall of the dragon pit and scurried up it with ease.

Dave was too scared and shocked and flabbergasted to say “Huh?” but he was most certainly thinking “Huh?”

As were the Bandito Brothers below.

And also the dragon, who clawed at the wall, furious over losing his dinner.

But Damien Black knew exactly what had
happened—that blasted boy had snagged the Walh-Walker ingot! “Stop him!” Damien cried at the Bandito Brothers. “A lifetime of gold if you stop him!” (Which really meant that he would kill them shortly after they caught Dave so that he would, in fact, be keeping his word, yet not have to pay a thing.)

“Asombroso!”
Sticky cried as they escaped the pit.

Dave did not stop, did not pause, did not mull over facing off with Damien Black to retrieve the other ingots.
No, he ran for his life, lickety-split, up the steep and spiraling stairs.

Past the oozy, slimy walls and scurrying rats and fluttering bats and dreadful, dangling spiders.

Through the trapdoor and into the map room.

Out of the map room and down the dingy, dusty, cobwebby maze of creepy corridors.

Past Rosie and the heap of thistly, thorny weeds.

Into the room with floured floors.

Through the door and into the painted elevator (which Dave was now able to just walk down the sides of).

That brought them to the room with nine doors.

Oh yeah, Dave thought, panting. Nine doors and no way out.

“Whatever!” he cried, and bashed the main door with his foot.

It flew open, the shrunken heads clonking and
bonking as Dave and Sticky ran past the cavern of stalagmites and -actites.

Through the crunchy, sloooopy, gross, and goopy waterfall of snails.

Into the foul and fiendish cave (which, at that point, seemed neither particularly foul nor fiendish).

Through the fluttery, stinky bats.

And out into the forest.

And what a relief the forest was!

The fresh air! The towering trees! The hooting owls!

“Quick,
señorl”
Sticky whispered. “Escape while you can! That madman is not far behind, I guarantee!”

So Dave started up again. He ran through the forest, squeezed past the gate, hopped on his bike, and raced down the mountain.

As he rode, he watched his back. He watched the skies. He watched for anything and
everything that might be Damien Black following him.

He saw nothing, and at last he was into the heart of the city, dodging traffic. Through the city he zoomed, into his neighborhood, onto his street, and, finally, he was home.

He hopped the curb, yanked open the door to his building, rolled his bike inside, then stood against the row of apartment mailboxes, panting.

“Hopping
habañeros!”
Sticky gasped. “You're a demon on that bike!”

Dave's eye caught on the dusty wall clock ticking lazily above them. “Midnight? How can it be midnight?”

“Well,
señor
, let's see,” Sticky said, tapping his chin with his finger. “First we went—”

“Never mind!” Dave snapped, hefting his bike onto one shoulder and charging for the stairwell. “The point is, I'm in trouble! I'm baked! Man, am I dead!”

“Not dead,
señor.
Dead is what you would have been if you hadn't gotten away from that nasty dragon!”

Much the way Dave had had no experience with Komodo dragons, Sticky had no experience with worried mothers. Over the few weeks he'd stayed with Dave's family, he'd seen Dave's mother annoyed (when Dave had neglected to take out the trash) and upset (when Dave had been rude to his sister), but he'd never seen her mad with worry. (And, as you most certainly know from your own experience, there is nothing more frightening than a mother who is mad with worry.)

The attack began when they sneaky-toed through the door.

“Where have you
been?”
his mother cried. “I've been worried sick!” (Which is a mother's way of saying that she's gone mad with worry.)

Dave put down his bike. “I'm
really
sorry, Mom. I got lost.”

“Lost?
Lost?
How could you be lost? Where did you go? Why didn't you call?”

Dave was suddenly exhausted. He peeled off his backpack and dumped it on the floor. “I'm sorry,” he said feebly.

“Look at your backpack! It's covered in … ooooh … what
is
that?”

“Da-vy's in trou-ble,” a young girl's voice sing-songed from the darkness of a bedroom.

“Hush, Evie!” Dave's mother said. Then she saw Dave's back and shoulders. “Are these
cobwebs!”
Her face pinched. “And why do you smell so bad?”

Poor Dave. In his hurry to escape Damien Black and get home safely, he'd forgotten to come up with an explanation. Some believable excuse for being away so long.

In short, he hadn't prepared a lie.

“You've been acting strange for weeks, Dave. You talk to yourself and you've become so secretive.
And now you're out until midnight? What is going on with you? I demand to know!”

Dave weighed the options.

The truth (he'd followed a kleptomaniacal talking gecko lizard into a madman's mansion, where he'd almost been killed by a Komodo dragon) or a lie (like, say, he'd fallen into a gully of slippery, slimy goo, with, oh, cobwebs and…uh…a scary snake that had wrapped him by the ankle and held him captive for hours).

The lie, it was clear to Dave, was much more believable.

“I fell into a gully of slippery, slimy goo with cobwebs and a snake. A big anaconda kind of snake that wrapped me by the ankle and held me down for hours! I almost died!”

“An anaconda? Where?” Dave's mother asked, concern suddenly filling her eyes.

“Da-vy is lying,” his sister singsonged.

“Just ground him,” his father growled from
across the tiny apartment. Then he snorted, “An anaconda.”

“It might have been a boa constrictor! I don't know! All I know is it tried to kill me!”

“Da-vy is lying.”

“Shut up, Evie!”

“You shut up, Dave!”

“Both of you, be quiet!” Dave's father shouted. “I've got to go to work in a few hours!” Then he called, “You're grounded, Dave. All weekend. Now go to bed.”

Dave was suddenly greatly relieved.

He was grounded!

Damien Black would never find him in this little apartment, in this part of town.

He felt really, truly, amazingly safe!

Ah, how naive all-knowing thirteen-year-old boys can be.

There is no greater punishment than being trapped in a tiny apartment with a hugely annoying sister. Evie was like a pesky fly, buzzing around Dave, singsonging her comments in a way that only annoying little sisters can.

Come to think of it, she was more like a buzzing mosquito.

Her attacks were sharp, sneaky, and persistent.

And she was definitely after blood.

Dave's parents didn't seem to see her attacks. All they saw was Dave swatting her away.

“Just leave her alone, Dave!” his mother said. “Don't go anywhere near her!”

Poor Dave. This was not the sort of strategy
that worked with mosquitoes. Try as he might to avoid her, she found him, attacked, and flew off.

So it didn't take long for Dave to get over his elation at being grounded. It took even less time for him to get over his elation at having survived his encounter with Damien Black. All he could think about was how he'd risked life and limb for the absurd ability to walk on walls.

It was lame.

Stupid.

A joke, not a power.

And it wasn't even enough of a joke to play on his pesky little sister. She wouldn't be scared or wowed or even stunned. She'd just call, “Mo-om, Dave's putting his hands and feet all over the wa-alls! Mo-om!”

Ah, such punishment indeed.

And so it was that Dave brooded the weekend away. He brooded about not being able to fly. About not being able to disappear. About his
pesky sister and his disbelieving parents. After all, if they didn't believe him about Evie, how would they ever believe him about Sticky? (For, if you recall, Sticky had made it very clear that if Dave ever told anyone about his ability to talk, Sticky would simply stop talking.)

But as the weekend dragged on, he found himself brooding more and more about Sticky. That lousy lizard wasn't stuck in a tiny apartment with an annoying sister, he was outside sunning himself in the flower box that hung from the kitchen window. He was enjoying himself! Relaxing!

And yes, filling up on bugs.

At last Dave became so annoyed by the kleptogecko's carefree behavior that he leaned out the window and whispered, “What are you
doing!”

Sticky eyed him. “What am I doing?” He stretched. “Having a sizzly siesta,
señorl”
He snuggled into the warm dirt and said, “Come on out. Hang on the wall awhile. The sun is
morrocotudol”

Dave didn't care how fabulous Sticky thought the sun was. The lizard's whole attitude was burning him up!

“Hang on the wall awhile? I can't hang on the wall awhile! Someone'll see me! Now, maybe if I could fly or go invisible,
that
would be useful. But no, all I can do is walk up a stupid wall!”

Sticky shrugged. “It was your choice,
señor
, not mine.”

“It wasn't my choice! It's all I could grab!”

“Still,” Sticky said in a nonchalant manner, “you were the one doing the grabbing.”

This, of course, was true. But when you're a grounded thirteen-year-old boy trapped in a tiny apartment with disbelieving parents and a mosquito-like sister, you're not what one might call rational.

Truth be told, you're quite irrational.

Unreasonable.

Bad-tempered.

In short, impossible to deal with.

And this irrational, unreasonable, bad-tempered, impossible-to-deal-with thirteen-year-old boy came right out and said what he was thinking: “You know what? I've had nothing but
bad
luck since I saved you from that cat.”

Sticky said, “Ah, you cut me to the quick,
señor”
but he said it in a sunny, funny way. Like nothing was going to ruin his sizzly siesta. Not even insults.

Now, the cat to which Dave referred happened to live right next door. She was fluffy and white, with the eyes of a tiger and a temper to match. Her name was Topaz, and she would have been a pretty cat, except for one thing.

She had a squooshed-in face.

You've seen this sort of face. Some dogs have it, some cats have it, and yes, some people have it. It's the sort of face that looks like it has suffered repeated collisions with windows or doors or,
more likely, solid brick walls. It's not the sort of face you would want for yourself, as it's even hard to tolerate on someone else.

But Topaz had such a face, which perhaps explains why she was such an ill-tempered cat. A bad mood would seem to go hand in hand with a squooshed-in face.

It would also seem to go hand in hand with being an outdoor cat trapped indoors.

Topaz, you see, was permanently grounded. The only outside she got near was the breeze through the opening in her owners' kitchen window. A kitchen window that was located (due to kitchen plumbing conveniences) alongside Dave's family's kitchen window.

And it just so happens that while the grounded Dave was whispering to Sticky, the grounded Topaz was sunning herself on the sill of her owners' kitchen window, listening.

Now, don't worry. I am not going to tell you
that the cat could hear and understand and speak. This is, after all, a true story, and everyone knows that cats don't speak.

They can, however, hear sounds, and they do recognize familiar sounds. Sounds such as the neighbor boy talking to the flower box.