The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3 (23 page)

Horatio still did not answer.

“In fact, you are worse than a housecat. You don’t even catch mice.” The painting moved closer, his chilly face stopping just half an inch from Horatio’s. “So tell me:
What is the point of you?
”

Silence fell over the room, as sudden and total as a blackout. No one moved. The high, dark walls seemed to lean in around them, as though the entire
house
was waiting for Horatio’s answer.

“The point is, we love him,” said Olive, so abruptly that she startled herself. She blinked around for a moment, wondering if the words had actually come out of her mouth or someone else’s.

Both Horatios turned to stare at her. The real Horatio looked stunned. The painted Horatio looked disgusted, as though Olive had said that the point was that they used him as a toilet brush.

“They
love
you?” the painting repeated. He turned to the real Horatio, a sarcastic smirk unrolling across his face. “Awww. They
love
you. Doesn’t that make eternal non-life worth living? They
love
you. They—”

Horatio lunged forward, knocking his doppelganger backward onto the rug. A split second later, the two cats had become a snarling mass of fur and claws, rolling through the patches of moonlight and disappearing into the shadows.

Harvey made as if to leap into the fray, but Leopold stopped him with a heavy black paw. “No,” Leopold warned. “This is his battle.”

Olive’s eyes moved from the two cats to the black gap between the library doors. If Morton was still in the house, he would certainly have heard their voices by now—and yet, he hadn’t appeared. He had either been waylaid by something (or
someone,
Olive thought, her mind flashing to the image of Annabelle looming in her bedroom doorway), or he was running off into the night right now, small and out of place and alone. Dragging her attention back to the brawling cats, Olive dug her fingernails into her palms until her eyes watered, as though her own pain could somehow bring the fight to an end.

Of course, it couldn’t.

The battle raged on. One pounced and the other dodged, one swiped and the other rolled, their moves synchronized like an eerie dance. The only thing that separated them was that the painted Horatio remained as sleek and calm as ever, while the true Horatio’s fur was beginning to look rumpled, and his sides heaved with his breath.

“Shouldn’t we shoot the imposter?” asked Harvey, looking lovingly at his little holster, then glancing up at Rutherford.

“I think Leopold’s right,” Rutherford whispered back. “This is Horatio’s duel. And although the word
duel
itself comes from an old Latin word for
war,
it has also come to imply a fight between only two combatants.”

Harvey’s eyes had glazed. “So no shooting, then?” he asked.

“Remember who you are,” Olive could hear the painted Horatio growl as he pinned the real Horatio to the sofa cushions. “You are not here to be loved.”

“I know what I am.” Horatio kicked, and the painting flew backward. “I know, because I’ve
chosen
it.” He bounded across the cushions, knocking his enemy to the floor and leaping onto the rug after him.

For the space of three of Olive’s pounding heartbeats, the cats simply glared at each other, their backs arched, their tails stiff. The painted cat’s eyes gleamed dully. Horatio’s glittered like candles behind green glass. Then, in the same fraction of an instant, both cats slashed out with their claws. Hooked nails glinted in the moonlight, streaking across two identical faces. There were two matching hisses as both Horatios jerked backward.

On the real Horatio’s face, a deep slash ran from above his eye to the bridge of his nose, releasing a flow of blood that was oily and black in the moonlight. The painted Horatio wore the very same wound, in the very same spot…but no blood trickled from the gash. And, as Olive, Rutherford, and the three cats stared, the cut sealed itself, leaving no trace.

The false Horatio smiled.

“Didn’t you think of that?” he asked, gazing into his opponent’s bloody face. “You are never going to win this fight, you poor, pathetic pet. You can’t hurt me, Horatio.”

The true Horatio smiled back. “I believe I’ll keep trying,” he said. With a sudden jump, he knocked his opponent off of his feet, and they rolled once more into the shadows.

Olive clenched her fists even harder as the cats skidded out of sight. So much time had already slipped past. Morton wasn’t coming…and she might already be too late. But how could she leave when Horatio was locked in battle with an enemy
she
had unloosed in the first place?

“Where could Morton be?” she whispered to Rutherford. And then, below the hissing and yowling of the two Horatios, Olive caught another sound. It was a low, throaty rumble…and it seemed to be coming from above.

Olive’s mind stopped wavering. She wheeled toward the hallway.

“What are you doing?” whispered Rutherford, grabbing her by the sleeve.

“Finding Morton!” Olive shot back over her shoulder. “Don’t let the painted Horatio get away!” Dodging Rutherford’s grasp, she slipped between the
library doors into the thicker darkness of the hall.

The rumbling went on as Olive slipped across the foyer. She followed it through the blackness, to the foot of the stairs, where the rumbling seeming to grow louder still. Soon it seemed to be coming not just from above, but from everywhere at once, roaring straight through the ancient stone walls, echoing in the bones of the house itself. Feeling like a tiny animal in the mouth of something huge and hungry, Olive scurried up the staircase.

The upstairs hallway was deserted, and still the rushing, rumbling sound continued, overlapped once or twice by the sound of hurried footsteps. Olive edged past the dark doorway of her own bedroom, halting when she spotted a streak of white flickering on the carpet several steps ahead.

Olive inched closer. The sound rumbled on, growing even deeper and louder, until Olive stepped into the pool of light that slipped through the crack beneath the bathroom door. She yanked the door open.

Morton stood at the far end of the room, leaning over the giant claw-footed bathtub.

“Morton!” Olive gasped.

Morton gave a little jump, glancing over his shoulder. Then he turned around, twisting the taps, and the roaring sound of water rushing through ancient pipes died away.

“You
didn’t
try to escape!” said Olive, sprinting across the room and grabbing Morton in a tight bear hug.

Morton made a strange face, which Olive realized was a smile half smothered by a frown, and wriggled awkwardly out of her arms. “We made a deal,” he said. “And I was doing
this.
” He stepped aside, gesturing to the tub.

Following Morton’s arm, Olive took her first thorough look around.

The gigantic bathtub had been filled to the lip with water—and, apparently, with bubble soap. And bath salts. And nail polish remover. And tile cleaner. And everything and anything else that Morton could find in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. The cabinet doors hung open, the floor was littered with empty bottles and jars, and mountains of greenish foam dripped softly over the tub’s edges. Keeping a cautious distance from the foam, Morton glanced back and forth from the bathtub to Olive.

In the dark, worried jumble of Olive’s mind, somebody flicked a light switch.

She darted through the bathroom doorway, craning over the banister toward the hallway below. “Rutherford! Horatio! In here!” she whispered. A moment later, the sound of hissing and hurried footfalls traveled through the library doors and out into the foyer.
Olive leaned over the banister, beckoning wildly, as the two brawling cats and their three referees came bumping up the stairs.

“This way!” Leopold commanded. “Gentlemen, circle to the left!”

With the moving barricade of Rutherford, Harvey, and Leopold forcing them forward, the pair of Horatios tumbled through the open bathroom door, sliding across the slippery tiles. Harvey, Leopold, and Rutherford hurried after. Olive closed the door.

Surrounded, the painted Horatio backed slowly toward the center of the room.

His not-quite-bright-enough green eyes glittered. But instead of looking indignant, or angry, or even annoyed, his face looked strangely
pleased.
“It doesn’t matter what you do to me, you realize,” he said softly. “You’re too late. She’s already been here.”

“What do you mean?” growled Leopold from the corner.

A smile began to form on the painting’s wide orange face. “By now, she’s found the master’s portrait—his
finished
portrait—and taken it safely away.”

For a moment, no one moved.

“It’s true,” Olive whispered. “I saw her. And the picture is gone.”

Rutherford spoke up. “But my grandmother placed a protective charm on the house—”

The painted cat gave a sharp, dry laugh. “Who do you think invited her in?”

“It was you,” Olive breathed. “Of course,”

“I was able to distract the rest of you as she made her exit, and now both she and the painting are safely hidden once again.” The cat glanced proudly around at all of them. “I’ve done just what I was meant to do. I’ve served my purpose far better than the three of you have served yours. I didn’t expect much of
you,
Leopold,” the painting continued. “You stuffy old fool, always happy to follow orders—
anyone’s
orders, apparently.” Leopold inflated like a balloon about to pop, but the painting went on. “And as for you, Harvey…” Harvey’s eyes widened. “…You delusional little nit, you’re about as useful as a crack in a china cup.”

Harvey’s eyes looked as though they might fall out of their sockets. “How dare you?!” he snarled. “You traitor, you—you—double-crossing, triple-hypocrite, quadruple-traducing—”

“But
you,
Horatio,” said the painted cat, ignoring Harvey’s splutterings, “you and I…we’ve always prided ourselves on our intelligence. You’re letting sentiment cloud your mind.” He tilted his head, squinting hard into Horatio’s eyes. “I hardly recognize you anymore.”

Horatio squinted back at his portrait. “I only wish I
didn’t
recognize you,” he said softly. And then, before anyone saw it coming—least of all his painted
nemesis—Horatio sprang forward, knocking the other cat off of his feet. As the two orange cats skidded across the tiles toward the bathtub, Leopold and Harvey leaped into action. They grasped the ball of writhing cats in their teeth and claws, and tossed both Horatios into the waiting water.

A massive, bubbly tidal wave swept out over the bathroom floor. Morton jumped back with a squeak, yanking the edge of his nightshirt out of the way. Leopold and Harvey darted out of the splash zone, shaking foamy water from their coats. Olive and Rutherford watched in stunned silence as the tub became a roiling, hissing, yowling fountain. Orange-tinted bathwater, confettied with flakes of orange paint, spewed out of the tub. Every now and then, a head or a paw or the tip of a dripping wet tail would appear above the bathtub’s edge before disappearing into the waves once again.

After a long expanse of splashy seconds, the water in the bathtub stilled. A few final wavelets slopped over the tub’s curved sides. A trail of bubbles popped, one by one, as they struck the floor. Everyone waited. And then, at last, Horatio’s scarred face—looking drenched and dark and
extremely
irritated—appeared above the lip of the tub.

“Horatio!” Olive exclaimed. But before anyone else could move or speak, there was a loud slam from somewhere downstairs, followed by the sound of quick, heavy steps running up the staircase.

Olive’s heart hit the roof of her mouth. Rutherford turned to her, a horrified expression spreading across his face. The cats froze. Morton dove behind the tub, hiding in the shadows.

The bathroom door flew open.

Mrs. Dewey stood in the doorway, panting and clutching the lapels of the flowery robe that covered her equally flowery nightgown. She glanced quickly around the flooded scene.

“She was here!” Mrs. Dewey gasped. “Annabelle! Someone must have let her in, because she didn’t break the charm, which means—” Mrs. Dewey broke off as her eyes landed on her grandson. “Rutherford Dewey!” she hooted. “What on earth have you done to your pajamas?”

27

R
UTHERFORD DIDN’T EVEN get to begin his explanation—and knowing Rutherford, it would have been long and logical and highly detailed—before there was the sound of yet another door creaking open.

Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody, looking squinty and rumpled, ventured out of their bedroom at the far end of the hall. Mrs. Dunwoody flicked on a hallway light, which made both of them squint even more. Side by side in their matching robes, they shuffled along the hall, their heads craning toward the source of the noise. At the bathroom door, they came to an abrupt stop. Their squinting eyes widened. Their stares traveled over the two damp cats standing sheepishly in one corner, the tub full of bubbles topped by Horatio’s annoyed face, the sopping wet floor, the neighbor boy
armed with a pair of water pistols, his panting grandmother in her flowery nightclothes, and Olive, wavering nervously at the edge of the scene while clutching at her pajama pants.