 
# **Contents**

Credits

Chapter 1 - A Latte Work

Chapter 2 - Toadstradamus

Chapter 3 - Noodles & Nostalgia

Chapter 4 - Coldstone Manor

Chapter 5 - Spies in the Java Hut

Chapter 6 - Complimentary Pretzels

Chapter 7 - Limo Ride

Chapter 8 - Cafe Exit

Chapter 9 - A Booked Hotel

Chapter 10 - Cathedral Gargoyles

Chapter 11 - Taking Flight

Chapter 12 - The Lunar Fountain

Chapter 13 - Hidden Secrets

Chapter 14 - Trapped

Chapter 15 - The Dirty-Fingernailed Man

Chapter 16 - Rusty Skills

Chapter 17 - The Chocolate Bar

Chapter 18 - Disappearance & Disbelief

Chapter 19 - Night Flight

Chapter 20 - London Lodgings

Chapter 21 - Chesterfield Calligraphy

Chapter 22 - Mom

Chapter 23 - An Unpleasant Encounter

Chapter 24 - A Lively Cemetery

Chapter 25 - Wasabi on the Roof

Chapter 26 - The British Museum

Chapter 27 - Monster in the Dark

Chapter 28 - On the Right Track

Chapter 29 - Aunt Lizzie

Chapter 30 - The Growling

Chapter 31 - The Bridge

Chapter 32 - Meadow's End

Chapter 33 - Mom's Letter

Chapter 34 - The Grotto Archives

To be Continued...

Acknowledgements

The Family Secret

A Sara & the Sarcastic Creatures Novel

Written by Tucker Bowen

Illustrated by Billy Penn

Sarcastic Creatures Press

2nd Edition

2016

Chapter One

\- A Latte Work -

You know the sensation of your feet pressing against your sneakers? No? Well, that's 'cause you wear shoes so much, you're used to the feeling. Your brain ignores the sensation. Over the years, it's become such a normal part of your everyday experience, that you just accept the canvas enveloping your toes. This pretty much sums up my feelings on the sarcastic creatures. I've seen them for so long now, I really don't give 'em much thought anymore.

It's no longer weird for me to glimpse...say...a puffy, little creature riding the ceiling fan, a fish-like weirdo swimming my washer / dryer combo, or even a giant salamander waiting in line for the bus. It's all normal, completely, utterly, 'oh-there's-a-creature-dancing-in-my-oatmeal' normal. Which is to say, not normal at all.

So why doesn't anymore else see these creatures?

I know what you're thinking; 'cause I'm crazy, right? At one point I thought so too, but logic has come to my rescue. It's really quite simple; these creatures know things I don't. They've seen things I've never seen. Heard things I've never heard. If they were figments of my imagination, that'd be impossible. They'd be limited to what I know, see, or hear, and only that. But there's no limit to these little weirdos. They're everywhere. And the stuff they've told me, I could never make up.

Right now, I'm halfway through my shift at the Java Hut Coffee Shop, inhaling the freshly brewed coffee and watching a creature named Ollie stack sugar cubes. A little under five inches tall, Ollie could easily be mistaken for an onion if it weren't for his eyes, mouth, and stubby little arms and legs. He compensates for this diminutive size with a big personality. 'Ollie, the Opinionated Onion' is what I call him. He always has something to say.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Practicing," he answers without breaking rhythm.

"Looks like you're building a sugar castle."

"No, I'm practicing...for the tournament."

"There's a sugar stacking tournament?"

"There are lots of stacking competitions. Cups, cards, cockroaches. I'm entering the sugar division."

"Oh, I see. And where is this competition held?"

"Last year it was held on a boat. But that was a bad idea."

"Cause of the rocking back and forth?" I ask, humoring him.

"No, the splashing. All the sugar dissolved."

"I see. Well, don't use the cubes meant for the customers. That's not sanitary."

"I washed my hands," he says, licking one of the cubes before placing it into position.

"Ugh. You're really gross sometimes."

"Stack, stack, stack..." Ollie repeats to himself. A few other creatures pick up the chant and, gathering around him, begin to bob up and down to the rhythm. He stacks faster and faster.

Stack. Stack. Stack. The wall of cubes grows higher and higher.

Stack. Stack. Stack.

Achooo! One of the creatures sneezes.

The whole structure collapses. Ollie throws up his hands in frustration.

"Why don't you take a break?" I suggest, patting his flaky little back. The little guy gets so wound up.

"I can't," he says. "I need to practice."

"Worried how the competition stacks up, huh?" I pause to see if he gets the joke. Nothing. He stares at me blankly for a few seconds, blinks, and then returns to his stacking mantra. Stack. Stack. Stack. What a little weirdo. Oh, well. I've got customers anyway.

. . .

"How would you like your coffee, sir?" I ask the businessman. He's so engrossed with his smart phone, that he doesn't hear me.

"Yeah. She's one sweet piece of meat," he laughs into the phone. "That's why I hired her. OK, talk to you later." He hangs up and then rudely asks, "What?"

"Your coffee. How would you like it?"

"Ice cold with juicy raisins," says the green, translucent creature perched on his lapel. I roll my eyes. I'm familiar with this type of weirdo, tiny creatures I've nicknamed Beverage Bathers. They enjoy swimming in people's coffee cups.

"Cream and sugar," orders the businessman, oblivious to his tiny hitchhiker.

"And raisins," adds the creature. "Lots of raisins."

"I'm not putting raisins in there," I blurt out. The businessman looks up from his phone.

"Just cream and sugar."

"Sorry, I..."

"And speed it up, hon. I'm in a rush." He taps his watch.

"You can't rush art," I joke. He shakes his head and mutters a nasty comment. I catch enough of it to know it's not very complimentary.

"One moment, sir." I turn my back to him. Then I proceed to fill half his cup with raisins. That'll show him, and it'll make that beverage bather's day. "Enjoy," I say, turning with a grin.

The businessman snatches his drink without saying thanks. The expression on the green creature's face makes up for it, however. He jumps headfirst into the cup and begins using the raisins as bath sponges, vigorously scrubbing his armpits and feet. I smile again. Sometimes it's the little things that get me through the day...literally, the little things. Most of these creatures I see aren't big in stature. But their loud mouths make up for their size. And although I'll never admit it to them, a few can be pretty funny, even if it's unintentional.

The cat clock above the counter chimes the hour. It's almost time to make another roast, so I head back to the pantry to pick up fresh beans.

The Java Hut's pantry is home to a dense concentration of creatures. You'd never know it at first glance, however. They've divided up the cupboards like an apartment building and act as if they own the place. I've learned the hard way to knock before opening any doors. Once I surprised an imp bathing in a bowl of whipped cream. He was beyond embarrassed, and even though I promised not to tell anyone, he still blushes every time we cross paths.

The burlap bean sacks are housed behind a door in the center of the pantry - a kind of closet within a closet. This is also the home of the most annoying creature ever, a frog-like charlatan who calls himself, "The Great Toadstradamus". He's mounted a sign on the door that reads, "All-knowing Frognosticator. Enquire within." Toadstradamus, or Toadie, as I call him, considers himself a wise, clairvoyant fortuneteller. But his services don't come cheap. And today is no exception.

"Welcome, wisdom seeker," he croaks from high atop the decaf blend.

"Relax, Toadie. I'm just here for the beans."

"But surely, you must have a question in need of answering?"

"No, just the...well..." I stop in my tracks. "Actually, I do have a question. How come I see creatures no one else does?" I never thought to ask him before, but if he truly is "all knowing" as his sign advertises, surely he'll have an answer.

Toadie falls uncharacteristically silent.

"Stumped, huh?"

"No," he raises a webbed hard. "I know why. But this is expensive knowledge."

"Uh huh. Thought so. How much?"

"100 dollars."

"What? I don't have that kind of money!" I barely earn minimum wage, and besides, all my savings are going towards a college fund anyway. "Can't you cut me a break?"

"This is a luxury answer. Very expensive."

"What does that even mean? You probably got that off a car commercial."

"A platinum level, high-caliber, exclusive answer. They're hard to come by."

"I'll bet." I shoulder a burlap sack and head to the door. "Let me know when there's a sale."

Emerging from the pantry, I'm sad to see the businessman waiting for me behind the counter. Uh oh. He does not look pleased. Apparently, he's no fan of raisins...at least not in his coffee.

"You miserable little hack," he yells, slamming his drink down. "Is this your idea of a joke?" He's so mad he's frothing at the mouth, or maybe it's just latte foam on his lips. Either way, his veins are pulsing with anger. "Where's your manager?"

"He's not in right now. But I'd be happy to make you another coffee if that one isn't to your liking."

"Not to my liking? Why the hell would I want raisins in my coffee?"

"I don't know? Fiber?"

The businessman is too angry to response. Instead, he clamps a hand onto my shoulder.

"Let go of that child!" cries an elderly voice. The businessman withdraws and, turning around, is surprised to find a tiny old woman behind him. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Mind your business, grandma."

"Young man. My son's a police offer. And if you don't leave right this instant, I'll call him up and let him know how abusive you've been. Then we'll see just how tough you are."

By now, everyone in the coffee house is staring our way. The businessman's all too aware of this extra scrutiny. He realizes he's lost the battle, and with a parting curse, storms out the door.

"Thanks, Mrs. Coldstone," I say.

"Wretched man. For your sake, I hope he's not a regular."

"No, not like you." I smile. "How's my favorite customer?"

This is no exaggeration. Mrs. Coldstone stops by the Java Hut several times a week and tips generously. She always orders a Jasmine Tea and asks how my day's going, which is more than most people ask. We've been on good terms ever since I helped her locate a missing lottery ticket and become a millionaire.

"I'm fine, dear," she says. "Other than that brute, how's your day going?"

"To tell you the truth, it's not my best of days," I answer truthfully. "That guy was just the icing on the cake." I actually like cake, so I'm not sure why I used that analogy - unless it's one of those dry grocery cakes with the blue icing. Yuck. Those are crummy in every sense of the word. "Kind of a crummy day," I explain.

Mrs. Coldstone offers a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry to hear that. Why don't you stop by the Manor after dinner? I baked a couple pies this morning. You can have one."

Pie therapy sounds like just the thing to lift my spirits. "Sure. I'll be there."

"Wonderful. Around eight?" Mrs. Coldstone pays for her drink and then drops a large bill into the tip jar.

I shake my head in disbelief. She's tipped $100!

"Mrs. Coldstone, this is too much."

"You deserve it. Spend it on something you really want." She pats my hand, gathers her purse, and heads for the door.

I remove the bill from the jar and examine it. The paper's clean and crisp, as if it came right from the bank. It even smells nice, hints of pressed linen and lilacs. _What do I want, anyway?_

Right now, I can only think of one thing.

Chapter Two

\- Toadstradamus -

Here's your money," I slam the bill in front of Toadie. "Now, some answers, please."

He's surprised by the confident tone in my voice and doesn't speak right away, a rarity for him. I guess he never expected me to take him up on his deal. After the shock wears off, he grabs the bill and sniffs it. "This real?"

"Yes, it's genuine. 100%. Now tell me why I see creatures no one else can."

Toadie closes his eyes and says,"Hmmmm," too loudly, as if searching his memory. He repeats this several times, his voice rising in volume. "HmmmMMMMM!" Finally, he opens his eyes and stares at me with those big, glassy pupils. "You see us because...of the fountain." He gestures dramatically in the air with his webbed fingers.

"The fountain? What fountain?"

"The one you swam in on your eighth birthday. The one in Paris."

"I've never been to Paris."

"Oh, you must've. And you swam in a special fountain on your eighth birthday. Or maybe it's your seventh."

"I want my money back."

"No refunds." He clutches the bill tightly to his chest.

"What's this magic fountain called?"

"Beats me."

"Then how do you know about it?"

"A friend of a friend told me."

I roll my eyes. "You made that up."

"No, it's the truth! Only those who bathe in the fountain on their sixth birthday can see us."

"Oh, it's my sixth birthday now? Earlier you said it was my eighth."

"I may have the age wrong."

"Ugh. Why do I keep falling for your schemes?" I ball my hands into fists and storm out of the pantry, a hundred dollars poorer.

Chapter Three

\- Noodles & Nostalgia -

Dad and I live in a small two-bedroom apartment in the city. It's not much, but its cozy, quiet, and more than enough space for the two of us.

Dinner's ready by the time I arrive. Chinese takeout cartons fill the table. My dad's not much of a chef, and he's too busy most days to cook. He waves at me from behind the glowing screen of his laptop.

"How was work?"

"Long. Tiring. Lots of coffee." I pull a chair up to the table that's squeezed into the bay alcove. This is my favorite place in the apartment. Its windows provide an aerial view of the Magnolia-lined street two floors below us.

"Comes with the job, I imagine," dad says distractedly. It's clear his laptop has precedence over me for the evening.

"Yes, all you can drink." I snap open a pair of chopsticks and rub them together. "Drank like twelve espressos today and two dozen cappuccinos."

"Uh huh. Sound's great," he mumbles. That much coffee would probably kill me. But my fictional caffeine consumption doesn't alarm him in the least. It's clear he's not in a chatty mood, so I grab an old family album to peruse while I eat.

The photos are ordered chronologically, and I start with the most current ones, flipping back through time with each page. Five turns and I arrive at the first picture of mom.

She ran out on us when I was little. Because of that, I've only got a vague impression of her personality and a couple snapshots to remind me of her appearance. Dad doesn't like talking about her for obvious reasons. But I enjoy looking at the photos and trying to imagine what she was like - her dark hair, olive complexion, and brown eyes forming a grown up version of me. Only much prettier. Mom was a stunner. I hope I look that good when I'm older.

The pictures belay a false sense of happiness: birthday parties, family trips, afternoon picnics. There's no sign of discontent. Dad told me that mom left a note explaining why she had to leave, but he's never let me see it. I'm not sure I want to, anyway. I've made up stories about how she went away to photograph snow leopards in Nepal or something. That sounds better than the fact she didn't want a family, didn't want the responsibility of raising me.

I'm nearing the bottom of my chow mein carton and the end of the family album, when I almost choke on my noodles. The chopsticks drop from my fingers.

I'm looking at a picture of me, as a toddler... playing in a fountain. But that's not what's shocked me; it's the inscription. Scribbled on the bottom of the photo are the words...

_'My hearts leaps for you. Sara's third Birthday. _

_Paris, France.'_

Chapter Four

\- Coldstone Manor -

"When was I in Paris?" I ask Dad.

He looks over the rim of his computer screen. "Huh?"

"There's a picture of me in here, as a baby. It says Paris on it."

"Oh," he thinks for a second. "That might've been with your crazy Aunt Lizzie."

"Aunt Lizzie?"

"Your mother's sister. She babysat you one summer while we toured Europe."

"I don't remember any of that."

"Well, that's not surprising. You were only three."

"Does Aunt Lizzie live in Paris?"

"She did, years ago. I've lost touch with her." Dad returns to the email he's composing. This topic is clearly painful for him, so I drop it. Maybe I'll bring it up when he's in a more talkative mood. Right now, I've got a date with an apple pie.

. . .

Coldstone Manor is a beautiful Victorian mansion perched high atop a sunny hill. Its gingerbread style, full of candy pastels and ornate woodwork, decorates countless windows, towers, and various cozy nooks. Mrs. Coldstone bought the place after she won the lottery and probably spent half her fortune on it. 'I don't have many years left,' she once told me. 'Might as well live them out in style.'

The brass knocker reverberates throughout the house. Minutes later, the wrinkled face of Mrs. Coldstone appears, beckoning me off the stoop. The manor smells wonderful; an aroma of fresh baked pies still lingers in the corridors, causing my mouth to drool. It grows stronger as we approach the solarium, my favorite room in the house.

This chamber's main feature is its windows, tall panes rise floor to ceiling with expansive views of the city. Several overstuffed couches take advantage of the vista, all clustered round a tiny coffee table.

"Tea, sweetie?"

"Sure. Earl Grey, if you have it."

Mrs. Coldstone clucks her tongue disapprovingly. That's a boring tea."

"Well, today I'm feeling grey. So, it fits."

"Nothing a little pie can't fix." She lifts a ceramic cover, revealing the steaming cross-lattice dessert underneath. "Help yourself." Then she shuffles off to the kitchen to get my tea.

I slice off a generous portion and have already taken a bite, when it dawns on me I should probably wait for her. The pie is so delicious, however, that I sneak another mouthful. It melts on my tongue and tastes like heaven. Immediately, I feel a little better. A pleasant warmth spreads out from my belly to my arms and legs.

No, wait, that's not just the pie. Something's actually brushing against my leg. I glance down.

A three-eyed furry creature I initially mistook for an ottoman looks up at me expectantly, and I feed it a bit of crust. The creature begins purring like a cat, and then rolls off into a corner to sit in the sun.

"Here you go, Sara." Mrs. Coldstone hands me a cup and saucer.

"Thanks," I take a sip and burn my lips on the hot liquid. Got to let it seep for a while.

"Now, what's bothering you? Work?"

"Nah. Work's fine," I say. "Tiring, that's all."

"Are you taking any time off this summer?"

"You mean vacation? Nah. I can't afford to. Got to save up before school begins."

Mrs. Coldstone frowns. "You're too young to be working so much. You should be enjoying yourself."

"It's not that bad. Most of my customers are nice." I'm about to take another sip of tea when I notice a beverage bather has taken up residence in my cup. I poke at him with my spoon until he departs.

"Then why do you look so glum?"

I sigh. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." She sets down her tea and rests a hand on mine.

I've never told anyone about the creatures. Well, when I was little, I told my dad, but he figured they were imaginary, and took me to a psychiatrist. I'm not sure I should tell Mrs. Coldstone now, but I'm so tired of lying. Reluctantly, I admit that, "I see things I shouldn't."

"What kind of things?"

"Creatures," I blurt out. "Creatures no one else can see."

I expect her to laugh or at least give me a strange look, but she does neither. Instead, she asks, "What do they look like?"

_Is she humoring me?_ I can't detect anything but genuine concern in her eyes. There's no hint of sarcasm or disbelief. So, despite my reservations, I continue.

"Oh, they're harmless. More annoying than anything."

"Have you seen a doctor about it?"

"When I was little. But they're not imaginary. I know that."

"How can you be sure?"

"Watch, I'll prove it." I turn to the beverage bather who's using a couch doily to dry off his bum. "What did Mrs. Coldstone have for breakfast this morning?"

The little creature crosses his arms. He's still annoyed at me for shoeing him out of my teacup. I'll have to sweeten the deal to get any information.

"If you tell me, I'll let you back into my tea cup."

The beverage bather claps his hands with excitement and jumps onto my shoulder. Then he whispers into my ear.

"Who are you talking to?" Mrs. Coldstone asks, raising one eyebrow.

"You had a bowl of fruit this morning. Blueberries, bananas, and peaches with yogurt and walnuts. You used a silver spoon given to you as an anniversary present by your late husband, Herbert. It's inscribed with the words, "To my love, Yvette." Although most of that sentence has been worn away."

Mrs. Coldstone's face has frozen in shock. For a moment, I'm afraid she might cry. "How do you know all that?" she stammers.

"I don't. But a creature in your house does. Beverage bathers are incredibly observant, especially when it comes to meals."

"Young lady, is this some kind of joke?"

"If so, the joke's on me." I pause, embarrassed. "I should've never told you."

What Mrs. Coldstone says next, however, surprises me, "How long have you seen these creatures?" she asks with no trace of irony in her voice.

"Me? Oh, my whole life. Well, apparently it all started when I was three." I quickly tell her about Toadie, the fountain, and the picture of me in Paris. Mrs. Coldstone absorbs it all silently. When I finish, she takes a long draw of tea.

"I think he's pulling my leg. Toadie's not the most trustworthy of creatures."

"But you think this time, he might be telling the truth."

"I don't know what to believe."

Mrs. Coldstone sets down her cup on the saucer. "Then there's only one thing for it. You need to go to Paris."

"What? I can't go to France?"

"Why not?"

"Well, it's not cheap for starters. I can't take the time off work, and..."

Mrs. Coldstone interrupts me with a raised hand. "If it's just money holding you back, let me help."

"No, I can't ask you to do that --"

"You're not. I'm asking _you_." She lays a heavy stare on me. "Sara, you assisted me, even when I treated you shabbily."

"That's not --"

"Let me finish. I wouldn't have any of this if you hadn't found my lottery ticket. Not this house, my fortune, none of it. Now, let me pay you back. Allow me to bankroll this trip. Please. It won't make us even, but it'll go a long way to soothing this old lady's guilt."

I don't know what to say. But I'm not too shocked to realize this might be my only chance of getting some answers. So, in the end, I just smile and nod. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. Now, I'll want regular reports. If I'm to finance this trip, I'll want know how it's going."

"Of course."

"Good, it's settled then. Now, eat the rest of your pie before it gets cold."

Before I can take another bite, a loud knock interrupts us. Mrs. Coldstone arches an eyebrow. "Funny. I'm not expecting anyone else." She shuffles off to answer it, returning with a skinny, frowning man, who's mostly bald except for a pathetic comb-over. "Sara, this is my son, Alabaster."

I didn't know Mrs. Coldstone had two sons. I've only met the one who's a police officer, and under less than ideal conditions. This time, I hope to make a better impression and extend a hand in greeting. The skinny man doesn't take it.

"Are you a solicitor?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

"Um, no. I'm a friend."

"Alabaster, don't be rude," scolds Mrs. Coldstone. "This is the young woman I told you about. The one who helped me at the grocery store."

"Ah. So, you're expecting some kind of reward, I assume?"

"This pie is all the reward I need," I say, trying to diffuse the tension.

"You'll have to excuse my son. He's overly protective of my finances," Mrs. Coldstone explains.

"Which I could better protect if you only moved them to my bank, like I --"

"Nonsense. I've used the same bank for fifty years, Alabaster, and I see no reason to change now. Just because you got a job at, what's it called...Worthless Bank?"

"Worthington Bank," her corrects her.

"Right. Doesn't mean, I need to put my money there. Herb at the Corner Union's always treated me right."

An awkward silence follows. I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the next, wishing I didn't have to witness this argument. And here I thought I had weird family dynamics. No wonder she's never mentioned this other son. "So, what does this girl want then?" Alabaster enquires.

"If you must know, Sara and I were discussing a business proposition."

"Oh? What kind of proposition?"

Mrs. Coldstone gestures to an easel in the corner of the room. "I'm doing a new series of paintings on Parisian landmarks and need someone to fly over there and take a few reference photos. I'd do it myself, but I'm too old to make the trip anymore."

"That seems extravagant," Alabaster says. "Why don't you just look at some photos online?"

"No. No, that won't do. Sara shares my artistic eye. It has to be her."

Alabaster crosses his arms and stares at me with a look of utter disdain. "I love taking photos," I explain, shrugging. This is actually true. I was planning on taking my camera anyway, and now it'll provide the perfect cover story. Judging by the look of Alabaster's face, however, he's not buying it.

"This is a waste of resources," he says.

"Duly noted...and ignored." Mrs. Coldstone boxes me up another a slice of pie. "Will you excuse us, Sara? I have to speak with my son regarding his manners."

"Nice to meet you," I lie, heading to the door.

"I'm sure our paths will cross again." Alabaster smiles, but his words sound like a threat. I quickly exit the manor, more than glad to be out of there. That guy gives me the creeps.

Chapter Five

\- Spies in the Java Hut -

The chat I gotta have with my boss has been hanging over my head all day like a storm cloud. I hate asking for time off, so I decide to wait until the end of my shift. It's not been terribly busy, just the usual mix of tourists, regulars, and the odd creature. There's even been time for me to speak with Toadie again. He was pleased when I told him about my Paris trip. But he couldn't offer up any more information, besides what he already told me.

"You going to France?" Ollie asks. I turn around. He's standing in the pantry doorway, carrying an armful of carrots. He must've overheard me.

"Yes. Just for a week or two."

"Why?"

"To get some answers."

"Answers?"

"Why I see creatures like you."

Ollie looks heartbroken. He drops his pile of carrots. "You don't want to see us?"

"No. No, it's not that. I just that want to know why I do."

"She seeks the fountain," Toadie croaks.

"Yeah. Well, I seek the truth." I leave the pantry and return to the counter. Ollie follows me, abandoning his carrots.

"But you're coming back, right?" There's a nervous edge to his voice, and I'm touched that he cares. I've never known a creature to take much interest in me.

"Of course. Like I said, it's only for a couple weeks."

"Good," he says. "Without your coffee brewing skills, this place might grow popular. And I don't like crowds."

"Hey!" I put my hands on my hips. "Lots of people like my coffee."

"Do they have tongues?"

"YES, they have tongues. Geesh. And here I thought you'd miss me."

"So, when do we leave?" asks Ollie.

"We? You want to tag along now?"

"Yes, but not because of you." He crosses his arms. "I've got important things to do in France."

"Right. Sure you do."

"Very important things." Ollie puffs out his chest.

"Suit yourself. Flight leaves Monday."

"Monday! That's not much time to pack."

I shudder to think what strange things Ollie plans on packing. Loads of sugar cubes probably. My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of my manager. I take a deep breath. Better to get this over with fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I hurriedly explain that I need to take a few weeks off for personal reasons.

"Fine," he says. "My niece is in town for the month. She can cover your shifts."

Wow. That was easy. Sometimes I think I build up things too much in my mind. I need to learn how to chill out and relax.

But that's easier said than done. There's a man staring at me from a corner table. When our eyes meet, he quickly opens his briefcase and hides behind the lid.

I notice two things right away. One, he has disgustingly dirty fingernails, and two, there's a plaque adhered to the briefcase. It says, "Worthington Bank."

I know why that name sounds familiar. That's the bank where Mrs. Coldstone's son works! Did Alabaster send this creep to spy on me? Could be a coincidence. But a feeling in my gut tells me it's more than that.

It's not a good feeling.

Chapter Six

\- Complimentary Pretzels -

I love flying. Well, let me rephrase that. I love the actual flying part. I hate the lines, security pat downs, crowds, waiting, and food that makes cardboard look appetizing. But I've never left the country before, so even those things can't put me in a bad mood. I'm too excited.

Ollie has been riding on my shoulder, yelling wrong directions about our gate.

"I know where it is, Ollie."

"You have the wrong number," he worries.

"It's printed on my ticket. See?" I hold up the paper for him to inspect.

"That's wrong. Gates are always flight numbers divided by 3."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Everyone knows that."

"Then why does it say Paris, France over there?" I point at the digital sign beneath our gate, number eleven.

Ollie falls silent. Finally, he says, "This airport is strange."

"No, you're strange. This airport's normal."

Once they call our boarding group, I stretch my legs, and queue up. Soon we're entering the plane, a large double-decker jumbo jet that seems to big too fly. First class looks especially roomy. I wonder what coach is like. Before I get the chance to find out, my heart leaps into my throat. There's a man sitting nearby, fully engrossed in his newspaper. It completely covers his face, but his hands are still visible. And it's his hands that worry me.

The fingernails are dirty.

Is this the same man who was spying on me at Java Hut? What are the chances of two men having the same disgusting nails? Alabaster wouldn't send someone all the way to Paris, would he? My good mood completely vanishes. I don't feel safe anymore. I feel scared. Ollie must've realized something's wrong; I can feel his tiny hand tighten on my shoulder blade.

We leave first class and soon arrive at our seat in coach. Fortunately for us, the seat next to mine remains free, allowing Ollie space to lounge. He settles in and listens to the flight attendants begin their safety spiel.

_"Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Please heed the following safety announcements..."_

"Did you see that man in first class?" I ask him. "The one reading a newspaper."

"Yes, I saw him."

"Does he look familiar?"

"Shhh." Ollie puts a finger to his lips. He's entranced by the safety spiel and doesn't want to chat. "He was in the Java Hut," he whispers.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, yes, same man. I recognized his manicure."

"Well, I think that's dirt, not a manicure. But good to know I'm not going crazy. I think we're being followed."

"Shhh. I can't hear the safety talk." Ollie's getting annoyed, so I pause our conversation. It can wait for the safety demonstration to end. As soon as the flight attendant gets off the PA, however, Ollie pushes the armrest call button.

"What are you doing?"

"We need pretzels," he says.

"They'll serve them later."

He doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now stop causing trouble."

"Can I help you, Madame?" asks a flight attendant, a cute young man with a neatly shaved beard.

"Sorry, I accidentally pushed the button," I tell him sheepishly.

"Ask for pretzels!" Ollie urges me, shaking my arm. "We didn't bring any."

The flight attendant smiles. "Don't worry about it. The seats are cramped. It's easy to bump against the armrests." He winks and strolls away down the aisle. Immediately, Ollie pushes the call button again.

"Stop doing that!"

"You forgot to ask for pretzels."

"Will you shut up about the freaking pretzels!"

The flight attendant returns. He's not smiling this time. "Yes?"

"Can we get some pretzels, please," I ask, and then realize I said 'we'. My face turns beet red.

"We'll serve snacks once we're at altitude."

"OK, that's fine." I shrug and watch him march away again.

"It's NOT fine!" Ollie exclaims. "Does he realize we don't have any pretzels? Does he? DOES HE? He probably thinks we brought some from home."

"Who cares?" I shout, louder than I should.

Ollie shakes his head. "You didn't listen to the safety talk, did you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"They said...enjoy the complimentary pretzels."

I groan. "Ollie, that's optional. It's not part of the safety procedure."

"It sounded important."

"It's not. It's optional. It's got nothing to do with safety. They're just pretzels. Now, RELAX!" I grab my eyeshades and yank them over my face. In the darkness, I hear the call button ding. "Ollie!"

"I'd still like some pretzels."

Argh. This is going to be the longest flight ever.

Chapter Seven

\- Limo Ride -

I wish I spoke French. Not that it's needed to get around Paris. Many people speak English here. I just hate feeling like such a tourist. Luckily for me, I don't have to worry about much of the logistics. Mrs. Coldstone's travel agent has set up everything - and I mean everything. There's even a young chauffeur waiting for me outside Customs. My first name's printed on a sign he cradles in his strong arms. We lock eyes, and I blush.

"Are you Sara?" he asks in a light French accent.

"Sara Nade?"

"Oui, Madame. You may call me, Pierre. I'll be your driver. Do you have any baggage?"

Just a talking onion, I think to myself. Does that count as baggage? "No, only this carry-on," I answer. Then I glance around nervously to make sure the dirty finger-nailed man isn't nearby. "Can you take me to Hotel de Triomph?"

"Of course. I can take you anywhere you want to go."

As much as I'd love to see the sights, I'm exhausted thanks to Ollie's pretzel quest. Right now, I'd just like to sleep. "The hotel first, please."

"As you wish."

I spot a tiny cab waiting at the curb and hustle towards it. But this is not our ride. The chauffeur gestures instead to a nearby limousine. Oh my gosh, it's enormous. Beads of rain sparkle across its hood like diamonds, its windows are all tinted black, and a large decal of the French flag gleams proudly from the roof.

"That's for me?"

Pierre smiles. "You must be important."

"Trust me, I'm not. At least not _that_ important."

He opens the door for me. "Well, someone thinks you are."

"I'm important," Ollie tells him. "You may have heard of my fungus gardens."

"No one's heard of your fungus gardens," I whisper, easing into the soft leather. The limo is huge, and I feel a bit silly with all this elbowroom, like a movie star.

"First time here," Pierre asks, taking the wheel. I nod. "Then we should take the scenic route. So, you can see for yourself why Paris is called...la ville de lumière." He cranks the ignition and pulls the limo away from the airport.

"I want to visit the large bathroom," Ollie says.

"Just hold it," I whisper. "The hotel will have bathrooms."

"Small ones. I want to visit the great one. I heard Paris has the greatest bathroom in the world." Ollie smooshes his face against the glass.

"Who told you that? Toadie?"

"Yes. He said it's the most amazing loo I'll ever see."

I smack my head. "Louvre. Not Loo. It's a museum, Ollie."

"They don't have bathrooms?"

"Well yes, I imagine they do. But people don't go there for the bathrooms. They go for the art and history."

"They don't go, because they have to _go_?"

"No, that's weird."

Ollie looks disappointed. What did he expect? A giant toilet? Actually, yes, that's probably exactly what he expected. I join him in looking out the window.

The rain has made every road a mirror, reflecting the twinkling lights of the city. We pass the glowing pyramid of the Louvre, catch a sparkling glimpse of the Eiffel Tower in the distance, and cross a bridge near the hulking towers of Notre Dame.

I've always wondered if I'd still see weird creatures outside of the United States. Now I have my answer - an unequivocal yes. Paris is chock full of them: purple giraffe-like creatures with necks that resemble barber poles; neon bats that fly low over the Seine and narrowly miss the river boats; and cloaked creatures with glowing red eyes that bump into each other a lot.

A ringing phone grabs my attention. It's coming from inside the limo, my purse to be exact. Then I remember the cell phone that Mrs. Coldstone gave me before I left.

"Hello?"

Mrs. Coldstone's voice answers. "Good evening, Sara. How was your flight?"

"Fine. No turbulence or anything."

"I just discovered my agent booked you in coach. I'm terribly sorry. I told her first class."

"No, no. You've already spent so much money on me. I feel guilty enough."

"Peanuts, dear. Peanuts. Please enjoy yourself while you're there and don't feel guilty. No skimping."

"OK, but the limo was too much."

There's a pause at the end of the line. "Limo?"

"Yes, the car you sent to pick me up? It's a limo! I feel like a movie star."

An even longer pause follows. When Mrs. Coldstone speaks again, her voice is tense. "Sara, I didn't order you a car."

Chapter Eight

\- Cafe Exit -

"What?" My blood runs cold. "Maybe your travel agent booked it?"

"No, she told me there was a hotel shuttle bus."

"But he had my name on a sign," I whisper, glancing up at Pierre. Fortunately for me, there's a bit of traffic ahead, and his attention's drawn to the road for the time being.

"Well, he didn't get it from us. Sara, I don't like this. Are you in trouble?"

"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "But if you don't hear from me in a the next twenty minutes, call the authorities."

"Be careful."

"I will," I say and hang up the phone. Perhaps I should jump out at the next red light? No, the doors are locked. That won't work. I'll need an excuse.

Ollie locks eyes with me. "Bathroom," he says in a serious tone. And this time, I agree with him. I lean forward and try to speak in a normal voice. "Hey, Pierre? I'm sorry, but I've got to use the restroom. Can we stop at a cafe?"

"We're almost to your hotel," he replies.

"I know. But I can't hold it much longer. It's an emergency."

He glances at me in the rear view mirror. "You are getting many calls this evening, no? First on your phone. Now, a call of nature?"

"Yes," I manage a fake laugh. "And I don't want to call collect." This makes no sense whatsoever, but I don't care. I'm not thinking clearly. All I want to do is get away from this limo and its driver. Pierre pulls over at a tiny curb-side restaurant. Then he braves the storm to open the door for me. I grab my luggage from the seat.

"It has a few girly things that I need," I explain. "I'll only be a minute."

"Say no more, mademoiselle." He smiles and, slamming the door, scurries back out of the rain.

"Escusez moi, les toilettes?" I ask a waiter in butchered French.

"Oui, c'est à l'arriere," he answers. Glancing over my shoulder, I head deep inside the restaurant, lugging my carry-on behind me. The interior of the cafe isn't crowded; I have no trouble navigating to the rear. Instead of entering the bathroom, I push through a pair of double doors into the stainless steel kitchen. The scent of roasted garlic threatens to overwhelm me.

"Escusez moi," I tell the surprised chefs. There's no time for chitchat, and I don't know enough French to chitchat anyway, so I depart immediately out the back door.

It leads into a narrow alley, void of people. I can see a busier street down the rain-slicked cobblestone. I just need to head there, hail another taxi, and --

A hand clamps onto my arm.

I spin around. It's Pierre. A nasty expression has taken hold of his face.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Um. I was just looking for the bathroom. Let go," I say, pulling away.

But he only tightens his grip. "You weren't planning on running out on me, were you?"

"No, I wasn't..."

"Cause that's not a very nice thing to do...tu devrais être plus poli." He draws me so close, that I can smell garlic on his breath. I turn away.

"Hands off, loser," Ollie cries from my purse. He lobs something at Pierre's face. Whatever it was, it must've been toxic. The chauffeur screams and covers his eyes, momentarily blinded.

I sprint away from his grasp, out of the alley and into heavy traffic.

"Taxi!" I wave at a black sedan. A mustached driver lowers his window.

"Où voulez-vous aller?" he asks.

"Hotel de Triomph," I say, jumping inside before he can respond.

No sooner do I slam the door, than Pierre emerges from the shadows. He's squinting up and down the street with bloodshot eyes. Maybe I over-reacted. He's probably just frustrated I didn't tip him. Then he turns his wrist to check his watch, and the lamplight catches a gleam of something metallic clutched in his hand. He's holding a knife!

"Let's go," I tell the driver. "Hurry."

The taxi pulls into traffic, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Phew! That was close. I'm shaking all over and have to remind myself that I'm safe now amidst the shifting automotive herd.

"Mr. Pee Air was bad news," Ollie says, stating the obvious.

"Yes, he was. Thanks for saving me." I shiver involuntarily. "What did you throw at him?"

Ollie grins. "Something salty..."

"Let me guess --"

"Complimentary pretzels," he replies. "Spicy jalapeno."

"Of course."

"Good thing someone paid attention to the safety--."

"Yes. Well, I better call Mrs. Coldstone now," I interrupt before he can begin lecturing me about pretzels again.

She picks up on the first ring. "Sara, are you all right?"

"Yes, I changed taxis. I'm fine." I briefly summarize everything that's happened to me, leaving out no detail. Finally, I say, "I still don't know how he knew my name. That's the creepy part."

"Was your full name written on the card?" Mrs. Coldstone asks.

I think back for a second. "No, only my first name. I guess I told him my last name."

"Sara's a common name, dear. That's probably why he chose it. Sounds like a professional criminal."

"I should report him to the police."

"I'll have an officer meet you at your hotel."

"He knows where I'm going. I'd feel safer if we chose another hotel. Something low key."

"I understand, " says Mrs. Coldstone. "And I know the perfect place."

"Great. Would you mind if we book it under an alias?"

"Good thinking." Mrs. Coldstone pauses for a second as if thinking how to phrase the next sentence. "And Sara, I'm so sorry this happened to you. I feel responsible."

"Don't be. There are criminals everywhere. It was simply bad timing."

Part of me wants to believe this. But I can't help thinking this was more than bad luck. Pierre might've been working for the dirty finger-nailed man, who I know - from his briefcase logo - works at the same bank as Alabaster. My gut tells me it all leads back to Mrs. Coldstone's son. I don't want to implicate him without proof, however, so I don't mention my conspiracy theories. I'm probably just being paranoid anyway.

Chapter Nine

\- A Booked Hotel -

The taxi pulls up to a narrow building squeezed between a Moroccan restaurant and fancy delicatessen. Beneath a red awning hangs a golden sign with the hotel's name ornately pressed into the grain.

_The Library. A Literary Dwelling _

I generously tip the driver and hurry to escape the rain, which has since turned into a downpour. Ollie surveys the inside of the hotel and whistles dramatically. I agree. This place is undeniably cozy.

The lobby is decorated in plush Victorian furniture with art nouveau touches; every wall's covered in bookshelves, and the ceiling displays an exquisite molding. A roaring fireplace illuminates the sitting area, where an oversized salamander rests upon an ottoman, reading an antique book through his monocle. The front desk is close at hand, staffed by a bell clerk sporting a tiny mustache and fez hat. He turns down a gramophone crackling old tunes behind the desk and bows in greeting.

"Madame, comment puis-je vous aider?"

"Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Of course. Are you here to check in?"

"Yes. It should be under Maria K Rosalina." That's my mom's name, the first one that popped into my head when Mrs. Coldstone asked for an alias.

"Ah. Your travel agent called. You'll be in the Conan Doyle Suite." He lifts a golden key from the pegboard behind him and then moves to the staircase. "Please follow me, M'lle Rosalina."

As we ascend to my room, I realize why this hotel is called, 'The Library'. Bookshelves line the interior like wallpaper. They cover every nook and cranny, so much so that I begin to wonder where they fit all the rooms; there doesn't appear to be any space left. We pass several floors consisting solely of bookshelves, no doors or windows that I can see. After a few minutes, we arrive at the top floor and venture down another corridor, past still more bookshelves, until we reach a dead end - also covered in books.

"Um. Where are the rooms?" I ask.

"All around you," the bellman answers. "Your key?"

I hand it to him. He smiles, then tugs on a book entitled "The Hound of the Baskervilles". The spine flips back to reveal a hidden panel and keyhole. He inserts my key, turns swiftly, and pulls. Instantly, a door made out of books swings out from the shelf. It's a secret room! I clap my hands like a little kid.

"This is an excellent hotel," Ollie exclaims. I whole-heartedly agree.

Is there anything I can get you?" the bellman asks.

"I was involved in a crime," I say.

The bell clerk arches an eyebrow.

"Um, I mean...as a victim," I hurriedly explain how I was almost kidnapped. "Anyway, the police should stop by in a little while."

"What a terrible introduction to Paris. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Do you know where this might've been taken?" I ask, pulling the fountain photo from my purse. He studies it for a moment, then hands it back.

"I am sorry. I don't know this particular fountain. Paris is full of aquatic sculptures. But I believe we do have a book on the subject. I'll bring it by shortly."

"Thanks."

The room is larger than I expected, and better furnished. It consists of a tiny office with a roll-top desk, a fireplace, sitting area, and four-poster bed. A wrought iron balcony looks out across the Parisian skyline, glimmering with an evening light show from the Eiffel Tower. Several blimp-like jellyfish are floating near the structure, mimicking its flashes with their bioluminescent glow. My gut tells me these creatures aren't in the official guidebook.

"Wow," I say. "I could totally live here."

Ollie yawns in reply, so I make him a bed out of my scarf and place it by the fire. Soon he's fast asleep. I start to unpack the rest of my things, but don't get far before a knock at the door interrupts me. The bellman has returned carrying a worn, leather-bound book, which he hands to me with dramatic flourish.

"Here you are. Goodnight, Mademoiselle Rosalina."

"Goodnight. Thanks for everything."

I lock the door, stretch out on the plush sofa in front of the hearth, and turn on a Tiffany lamp so that I can read the book he's given me - _Fountains of Paris_. Fortunately for me, it has more pictures than text, with each page illustrated by an ink drawing. I flip through the entire volume, but none of the sketches match my photograph. Well, that would have been too easy, wouldn't it?

It's then that I notice the words "volume 1" on the cover. There are multiple volumes! How many fountains does Paris have? Ugh. Maybe tomorrow I'll visit a tourist information center. Right now, all I want is to explore that dreamy looking feather bed.

A ringing phone beats me to slumber land. It's the front desk. A police officer has arrived to take my statement. I'd completely forgotten about that.

. . .

I hurry down to the lobby with Ollie in tow. A handsome policeman stands at the front desk, patiently waiting for me.

"Êtes-vous Madame Nade?"

"Sorry, I don't speak French."

"No problem. You are Ms. Nade, yes?"

"Uh-huh, that's me." I glance at the bellhop, to whom I'd given a false name. He's probably wondering about me, but is too polite to stare.

"Please, have a seat." The policeman gestures to the overstuffed chair that's currently occupied by a bookworm. Instead of disturbing this creature, I pick a wooden chair nearby. The cop settles into a built-in couch the fills the bay window opposite me. He removes a small notebook from his pocket, and clicks open his pen.

"We received a call about an attempted kidnapping?"

I quickly explain the situation, describing Pierre as best as I can. Ollie pipes up now and then to fill in the details that I've forgotten.

"Do you remember the license plate?"

"No, I should've tried. But I didn't catch it." I'm momentarily distracted by music outside. It sounds like a marching band.

Ollie's eyes widen. "A melon parade," he says, leaping onto the couch next to the policeman and smooshing his face against the window.

"Have you received any previous threats on your person?" the policeman asks.

"What?" I'm distracted by Ollie, who has run outside.

"Other threats? Have you any reason to believe you were singled out as a target?"

I'm not sure I should tell him about the dirty finger-nailed man on the plane, or Alabaster Coldstone for that matter. I have no proof they're involved, just a hunch. "No. No threats," I say. "I think it was...maybe a crime of opportunity? Isn't that what they call it?"

"What else did this man say to you?"

My attention's drawn over the policeman's shoulder, to a crowd of weird creatures marching down the street. They're made up of various shapes and sizes, with a few playing brass instruments. The rest are holding up various melons, which they lift into the air, chanting "melon, melon, melon." I notice Ollie among them. He's hoisting a cantaloupe about twice his size and shaking his bum to the music.

"Madame?" the policeman asks, a quizzical look on his face.

"I'm sorry. Jetlag," I explain, trying to shake the weird image. "Pierre, or whoever he was, pretended to give me a tour. Then he said he'd take me to my hotel. But we were heading in the wrong direction."

The policeman questions me for another twenty minutes, writing down various points in his notebook. By the time he finishes, Ollie has returned, sweaty and out of breath with a huge grin on his little face.

"Thank you for this information," the policeman says. "Keep your phone handy. We'll be in touch if anything comes up."

"Great," I say, yawning, and glad this interview is finally over. I need to catch up on sleep. The feather bed upstairs is calling my name. No, it's screaming my name, very, very loudly. But before I turn in, I gotta know one thing.

"What's a melon parade?" I ask Ollie as we make our way upstairs.

"A parade with melons," he answers.

"I know, but what's it for?"

"Melons, of course."

"Right. That makes perfect sense." I'm sorry I asked.

Chapter Ten

\- Cathedral Gargoyles -

It's a good thing I slept so well last night, because my morning's been incredibly frustrating. The tourist kiosk was awful. Instead of helping me, they tried to sell me on a half dozen tours, despite my repeated assertions that I was only interested in fountains. Now I'm annoyed and hungry, but mostly hungry. Well, maybe a combination of the two - annungry. Is that a word? What the heck am I talking about?

"I've been hanging around you too long," I tell Ollie, "I'm starting to think like you."

"You're welcome," he replies.

"That's not a compliment." I spot a riverside cafe and, due to the morning sunshine, decide on an outside seat. Soon I have a croissant and cup of hot chocolate to cure my annunger. "Now what are we going to do? Go fountain by fountain? That'll take forever."

The waiter strolls by to ask if I need anything else. I show him the photo of the fountain, but he doesn't recognize it either.

"Let me see that," Ollie says. I prop the 5x7 against a saltshaker for him.

"Hmmm." He puts his hands together and links his fingers. "That doesn't look like you."

"Well, I was only three when it was taken."

"That explains your size. So, how come you don't remember this?"

"I was _three_. A toddler. Do you remember anything from that age?"

"Yes. Excellent year for my fungus garden. Good vintage."

I roll my eyes. "Of course it was." I stare at the newspaper and trinket vendors hawking their wares along the Seine River. Sunlight filters down through the Linden trees, imparting a golden glow over everyone.

Ollie absently taps the photo. "Loads of carvings in this fountain."

"Yeah. So?"

"So, we should speak with an expert, someone who knows about water and carved stone. They might identify it."

"A mason," I say at the same time that he says "a gargoyle".

"A gargoyle?"

He nods and points at a picture of Notre Dame in my guidebook. "They know everything about carvings."

"How do you know that?"

"Trust me."

"Seriously, how?"

"I spoke with one," he admits.

"When?"

"This morning. At that tourist place. While you were in line. He asked me if I wanted a tour of the cathedral."

"Well, I think we should take him up on his offer." I take a last bite of croissant and motion to the waiter. This is the most promising lead we've had all day, and I don't intend to waste it.

"Oui, Madame?" the waiter asks.

"Can I walk to Notre Dame from here?"

He nods and draws me a little map on my napkin.

. . .

The gargoyle tours are hard to find, and we spend half an hour wandering the echoing floors of the cathedral. The structure is massive beyond belief. Incense wafts through the cavernous nave. Stained glass projects dizzying rainbows across the columns. A hundred tea candles glimmer mysteriously from dark alcoves. It's all quite beautiful, but I'm not here to sightsee. In fact, I'm about ready to give up the search when I hear a grate rattle beneath my feet. Ollie tugs at my sleeve.

"This is it," he declares.

"What? Down there?" The grate is circular, three feet in diameter, and covering a dark, cylindrical hole.

"Yes. That's what the gargoyle said. Look." He points at the carving of a dragon interwoven into the center of the grate.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, he mentioned this grate."

"OK. Here goes." I thread my fingers through the iron and pull, surprised to find it give way without much resistance. It's actually not that heavy. Setting the cover aside, I switch on my phone's flashlight and peer into the darkness. The hole is deep, with metal rungs descending away into shadow.

"I don't know about this. How friendly was this gargoyle?"

"Very friendly. I told him he had a nice cape, and he complimented me on my taste."

"He did?"

Ollie scratched his head. "Or...maybe he thought I'd taste good."

"That's a big difference!"

"I can't remember exactly what he said."

"Wait a minute." I put a hand on Ollie's arm. "I don't want you eaten. You do resemble an onion, you know?"

"Don't worry, they wouldn't eat tourists. It'd be bad for business," Ollie assures me and leads the way underground.

The hole doesn't do much to allay my fears. It seems to plunge on forever, and soon we're climbing in total blackness. Even worse, the deeper we descend, the colder it gets, the metal rungs now icy to my touch. That's why I'm so relieved when, after at least fifteen minutes, I begin to notice a glow beneath me. Then, quite suddenly, the hole opens up into a tiny chamber lit by string lights.

Red velvet curtains hang against the walls like an old-fashioned movie theatre. They're adorned with posters depicting various perspectives of the cathedral. A golden set of doors, engraved in swirling designs, lies at the far end. Standing to one side of these, in front of a tiny podium, is a gargoyle, and an elderly one at that.

He looks like a giant bat, but with longer legs, a smart looking vest, and a neat bow tie. I'm not sure he noticed our arrival, or maybe he's just sleeping, so I cough.

His eyes flitter open. "Bienvenue. Êtes-vous ici pour un circuit?"

"Yes, if you're talking about a tour," I say, hesitantly. He looks too old to be dangerous, but I don't want to take any chances.

"Five Euros then...each."

"Do you know a lot about stone carving?" I ask, digging through my purse.

"Your tour guide can answer any questions you might have," the gargoyle croaks.

Once I've paid him the fee, he offers us two tickets, then sticks out his claw again. Unsure of what to do, I hesitantly hand them back. He rips the tickets in half and then pulls aside a curtain, gesturing for us to enter the darkness.

"We're not going through those gold doors?" Ollie asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"First, a short introductory film," the gargoyle explains. He clicks on a flashlight and leads us into a musty theatre terraced by a dozen plush seats. Moments later, we can hear our host up in the projection booth starting the machine. It whirls to life with a staccato hum.

A scratched image of the number "10" flickers onto the screen and begins counting down to zero. This is followed by a black and white title card that reads, "Gargoyles - a history".

"Can we get popcorn?" Ollie asks.

"I doubt it."

Accordion music fills the theatre. Then images of stone gargoyles flash across the screen. A deep-voiced narrator speaks over them. "Mysterious. Enigmatic. Debonair. This is the world of the gargoyle." The sequence abruptly stops with another title card that reads, "the end."

Overhead lights snap on, blinding us.

"That's it?" I ask.

Ollie applauds. "Excellent movie."

"Little short, don't you think?"

"I learned a lot."

The gargoyle returns from the booth and waves for us to follow him. "Please, this way."

Back in the lobby, he goes directly for a lever next to the golden doors, which crank open reluctantly. The inside appears to be an ancient, cage elevator.

"We have to go back up?" I ask. "Why don't you collect tickets on the ground floor?"

"Sometimes you have to go backwards to go forward. Or down to go up." The gargoyle slides the cage door open and motions for us to enter. "Have a nice tour."

The doors slam shut behind us, and we begin to rise. "See, I told you they were friendly," Ollie says, "and debonair." He elbows me and winks. "I learned that from the movie."

"Yeah, well for ten euros, let's hope we learn more than that."

The elevator rises for several, long minutes - so I imagine we're pretty high up by now. This theory is confirmed when the doors chime open, and we step out onto a rain gutter. Well, it's much bigger than most gutters, but as its located right beneath the cathedral's slanted roof, I'm not sure what else to call it.

"Bienvenue, amis," says a smoky voice.

We look around for its owner, but the gutter is deserted.

"Do you see anyone?" I whisper. Ollie shakes his head.

"Look up," says the voice.

I'm embarrassed to say that I screamed. But the gargoyle was hanging onto the stonework directly above our heads, so you can't really blame me. And he is pretty scary at first glance. The best way to describe him would be to say that he resembles a dragon. Sunken eyes and a toothy grin comprise his face, with the rest of him containing all the requisite dragon parts: wings, horns, tail, etc. The gargoyle releases his talons and drops to the floor with a mighty swoosh.

"My apologies if I startled you."

"That wasn't very debonair," Ollie complains.

"I'm sorry. It's my flare for the dramatic, a terrible weakness. Gets the better of me now and then." The dragon bows low and bends his tail in a salute. "Please, call me Gargle."

"Gargle the gargoyle?" I ask.

He shrugs. "My parents weren't terribly creative."

"Are you our guide?"

"Yes," Gargle answers dramatically. "I'm here to show you the wondrous world of the gargoyle. This way, if you please."

We trudge down the gutter, following Gargle by a few paces to avoid stepping on his tail. Meanwhile, he rattles on about gargoyles and how they've protected the cathedral for centuries. "Sanctuary, that's what we provide. Chimieres have long defended this place from evil. We carved these rainspouts as a warning to those who might do harm. Frightening, are they not?"

"Very debonair," Ollie says, admiring the stonework.

I'm beginning to think Ollie doesn't know what debonair means. Instead of correcting him, however, I turn to Gargle. "So, you must know a lot about stone carving?"

"Yes. That is our area of expertise." Gargle stops at a corner near the South Tower and points out a few grotesque carvings. I use the opportunity to show him the photograph of the fountain.

"Do you know where in Paris we might find this?" I ask.

Gargle studies the print for several moments, and then scratches his chin with a talon. "Hmm. In a park?"

"Yes, but which park?"

"I'm not sure. Let's check the attic library." He opens a side door in the roof and ushers us through the frame.

I was expecting a large empty space, but the cathedral's attic is anything but vacant. It's stuffed to the gills with boxes, old paintings, tapestries, sculptures, and medieval weaving machines. Filament bulbs hang strategically from the ceiling, illuminating pockets of light here and there. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I make out a clearing amongst the trinkets, a space filled with stone blocks in various stages of carving. A dozen gargoyles are hard at work on the marble, chiseling at the stone or measuring clay reference models.

"Welcome to the attic. This is our home," says Gargle.

"Nice digs," Ollie remarks. He finds a collection of marble scraps and immediately begins stacking them.

"Thank you. Consider yourselves lucky. This is not on the usual tour." Gargle waves hello to his fellow gargoyles, and then moves to a bookshelf and runs his claws against the spines. Eventually, he selects a thick tome and sets it on the wooden table with a thud. I recognize the title immediately.

"Fountains of Paris? I'm afraid we already checked that book. It didn't show the fountain."

"Which volume?" Gargle asks.

"Um. Volume 1"

"No wonder. This is volume 2. It shows the more obscure fountains." He flips through the pages for a while. Suddenly, his eyes light up. "Aha. Here we go."

I lean in closer as Ollie jumps onto the table next to me. The page contains a sketch that's eerily familiar. In fact, there can be no doubt about it. This is the fountain depicted in my photograph. The only real difference is that I'm not in the sketch.

"La Fontaine de la Lune," I read. "Jardin du Luxembourg. Where's that?"

"Not far," Gargle says. "In fact, we can probably see it from atop the north tower."

Excitement courses through my veins. This is our first real lead. "Can you please show us?"

Gargle nods, then weaves through the clutter until he arrives at the far end of the attic. A tiny door leads into the interior of the tower, where a metal staircase corkscrews to the ceiling. "You're not afraid of heights, are you?" he asks.

I shake my head, although the butterflies in my stomach might argue otherwise.

"I'm afraid of kittens," Ollie admits.

"Me too," Gargle says. "Don't be ashamed. It's a common phobia."

"Kittens?" I ask. "Seriously?"

"Especially the venomous ones," Gargle says. He and Ollie shudder involuntarily, so I drop the subject, and start up the stairs. Round and round we go, my fingers gripping the handrail tighter as we ascend. Eventually, we pop out onto the roof.

Whoosh! A blast of wind catches my hair. I tuck the strands behind my ears and realize we're not yet at the top.

A wooden platform rises from the tower's roof with a brass telescope mounted atop it. A few steps later, we're standing by its side. Even without using the scope, we can already see for miles. The whole of Paris stretches out before us like a giant map, and I fight a rush of vertigo.

Gargle spins the telescope into position and adjusts the focus. "There we are. The Luxembourg Gardens. That green patch, directly over those buildings." He moves aside to let me see. All I can make out are a bunch of trees, but at least I know the location now. I lift up Ollie to provide him a turn at the scope.

While he's checking out the Park, I take in the wider view. From up here, people resemble ants scurrying about on the concrete. Cars are reduced to the size of toys, and...I gasp.

I recognize a vehicle parked near the front gates.

It's a limo. A limo with a French flag on the roof.

Chapter Eleven

\- Taking Flight -

"Oh no. They've found us."

"What's the matter?" asks Ollie.

"The limo down there. It's Pierre!" I grab the scope. "How did he find us?" With a turn of the focus, I train my sights on the automobile.

There can be no doubt about it; this is the same one that drove us. My theory is confirmed a few moments later when Pierre exits the vehicle. He opens the passenger side door for a bald man in sunglasses who carries a familiar leather briefcase. Even from this distance, I recognize the new figure.

It's the dirty finger-nailed man. And he's not alone. Three more suited men in top hats get out after him.

"How'd they find us?" I ask. "No one knew we were heading for the cathedral."

"Except that waiter at the cafe," Ollie reminds me. "The one who gave us directions."

He's right. Pierre and his gang must have canvassed the cafes, asking about me. Now, they're closing in, heading right for the main entrance. We're trapped. A knot of panic twists my stomach. "So much for the sanctuary of a cathedral," I say.

Gargle narrows his eyes. This has struck a nerve with him. "Those men intend you harm?" he asks.

"Yes."

Gargle bares his teeth. "Not on my watch, they won't. Follow me."

We hurry to keep up with Gargle as he winds his way down the tower staircase. He dashes into a narrow corridor, emerging onto a balcony that overlooks the Nave. Far below us, the menacing gang enters like gunslingers in a western saloon. They scan the crowds, obviously searching for us, their shadows stretching out across the marble.

"Wait here," Gargle says. "We'll take care of them."

I rest a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be gentle," I tell him.

Gargle grins a toothy smile. "Don't worry. We won't." And with that, he scurries off, leaving us alone on the balcony. We don't have long to wait.

Minutes later, we hear the echoing swoosh of wings. Gargoyles spill out from every nook and cranny. They soar through the cavernous interior, and then dive one by one onto their unsuspecting victims. The men shout in surprise. They swat wildly at the air, desperate to fend off the invisible attackers. But the gargoyles don't relent. They knock the hats off the men and smack them along side their heads.

Ollie claps his hands with glee. I too, can't help but smile.

The men's shouts have attracted Cathedral docents, who arrive with security guards in tow. With no other choice, the men give up their search all together, and flee the cathedral.

We are safe....for now.

Gargle swoops up from below and lands on our balcony. In his talons, he clutches a top hat.

"A little souvenir for you," he says.

"Thank you so much....for everything." I dawn the top hat and strike a pose. It's too big for me, however, and slips over my eyes. "Can we make sure they're completely gone?"

Gargle nods sympathetically and leads us back to the tower roof. We arrive in time to see the last of the men enter the limo. But to our horror, it doesn't depart. It just sits there.

"Why aren't they leaving?" Ollie asks.

"They're waiting for us to leave the cathedral," I explain. "So they can follow us."

A low growl escapes Gargle's throat. He looks at me with an intense stare. "What if you don't leave on foot?" he asks and unfurls his wings.

"Um, I don't know..."

Ollie doesn't share my reservations. "Good idea," he says and jumps into my purse. "You can fly us directly to the Park!"

"Don't worry. I won't drop you," Gargle promises.

I take a deep breath. "OK, fine. Let's do it." Before climbing onto the gargoyle, I grab a brick lying on the ground and place it into the top hat. "Since we're going that direction anyway, I think we should return their property, don't you?"

Gargle smiles. He knows exactly what I mean. As soon as I'm secure on his back, he flaps his wings and takes to the sky. My heart leaps to my throat. Wahoo!

I can't believe I'm actually flying!

Gargle dives and skims directly over the limo.

At this point I planned to yell something witty like "You forgot your hat!", but the vertigo gets to me and instead I scream, "Time for hats!", which makes no sense at all. Doesn't matter. They can't hear me inside the limo anyway. And it's probably better that they don't.

Weighed heavily from the brick inside, the hat plunges towards the windshield. It smashes down with great force. The glass buckles, shatters, and spiderwebs into a million pieces. Every door swings ajar. But by the time the men get out, we're already gone, swooping and sailing over the next building and out of sight. I can hear Ollie laughing manically inside my purse.

Chapter Twelve

\- The Lunar Fountain -

We dive low, weaving in and out of elm trees, until Gargle spies a gravel boulevard on which to land. This section of the Park is deserted, so no one notices our abrupt arrival.

"Thank you!" I praise Gargle, giving him an affectionate squeeze. He bows low.

"I hope you enjoyed your tour."

"Oh, yes. It was very informative."

"Where's the gift shop?" Ollie asks, climbing out of my purse.

"We don't have one," Gargle explains. "Don't want to cheapen our tours with trinkets."

Ollie nods, understanding. "Very debonair," he says.

With a toothy smile, Gargle sweeps up his wings and departs into the afternoon sky. Soon we loose track of him through the treetops.

I pause to take in my surroundings. The Park is beautiful: leafy trees dapple the light, hedges cloister off hidden nooks, paths meander this way and that. There are lots of places to hide a fountain, so I figure we'd better get started. The search takes us from one side of the Park to another. After twenty minutes, we decide to venture beyond the manicured areas and into the shrubbery.

This proves to be a wise decision. We immediately stumble onto a hidden path, bordered on each side by high shrubs. It weaves around the corner and into, what we quickly realize, is a hedge maze. Green, leafy corridors branch off in every direction. After a number of dead ends and backtracking, I feel like we're going in circles. We desperately need some sort of trail marker. So, I break off a stick and place an "X" on the ground.

"What's that for?" Ollie asks.

"To mark where we've been."

"What does the 'X' stand for?"

"Nothing. It's just a symbol."

"Then why not make an 'S'? For Sara," he explains.

"Fine." I rearrange the sticks.

"That looks more like a backwards 'Z'."

"That's cause I'm using sticks, Ollie."

He scratches his head. "Maybe there's a bendable vine around somewhere."

"Shhh." I put my hand over his mouth. "Do you hear that?"

Ollie's eyes widen. He hears it too: the unmistakable gurgle of water. We exchange a significant look, and then head off in the direction of the sound. After a couple of turns, the water splashing grows louder. Then we turn a sharp corner and arrive at a tranquil clearing in the heart of the labyrinth.

I gasp. Before us lies a fountain.

It's exactly like my photograph, only a bit more overgrown. However, its carved moon leaves me with no doubt; this is the lunar fountain. We've found it!

Ollie immediately dives into water and begins doing backstrokes. He jumps out a few seconds later. "Brrr. That's brisk. They should install heating."

"I don't think many people swim in it," I say, circling the perimeter. The fountain consists of a stone wall, adorned in carvings of cherubs, flowers, and myriad strange creatures. A long pool stretches out from this headboard, like the mattress of an aquatic bed. A couple jets disturb the water and give it life.

"Now what?" Ollie asks.

"I don't know," I suddenly realize. I was so focused on locating this fountain, I never stopped to consider what I might do if I actually found it. For some reason, I feel the answers are hidden in the carvings. I'll need to get a closer look. Nothing to do, but kick off my shoes and hike up my skirt.

"Yikes!" I cry. Ollie wasn't kidding; the water is freezing. But it only comes up to my kneecaps, and I soon get used to the temperature. Careful not to slip on the Moroccan tile coating the bottom, I wade over to the back of the pool.

The fountain's headwall is a masterpiece. Stone hibiscus and jasmine weave together a complex swirling motif. Carvings of little creatures peak through this tangled foliage, and floating above them all is the cratered form of a waxing moon, or maybe it's waning. Hard to tell. My eyes are drawn below this celestial carving to a sunflower near the waterline. In the middle of its petals sits a stone heart. Why does that look so familiar?

A gut instinct compels me to reach out and grasp the heart. It's smooth to my touch, as if many people have worn it down over time. Slowly, I turn my wrist, surprised to find the heart rotating with it. There's an audible click, followed by a deep rumble of cogs and wheels stirring to life behind the stone. Cracks appear among the vines and flowers.

Then a distinct shape takes form and swings open - a hidden door. Oh, my gosh.

A hidden door!

Chapter Thirteen

\- Hidden Secrets -

I gaze through the frame, awestruck, and a little creeped out to be perfectly honest. Steps curve away into the darkness. Water has already begun cascading down them, fed by the shallow pool. Ollie swims to the edge.

"This is no ordinary fountain," he says.

"You can say that again."

"This is no ordinary fountain," he repeats.

I switch on my phone's flashlight app, but it's not strong enough to peer very far. The stairs descend a good distance and curve out of sight. Only one way to find out what's down there; we gotta investigate.

The water makes the steps slippery, but the stairwell's cramped enough that I can brace myself against the sides. "Want me to carry you?" I ask Ollie. He nods, so I lift him onto my shoulder.

Down and down we go, until the sunlight dims to nothing and my phone provides the only light. Moss coats the wall here, and occasionally I cross paths with a spiderweb, which causes me to freak out a bit.

The stairwell eventually passes under a faded curtain, and spills out into a tiny room directly beneath the pool. It's not completely dark here. Shafts of sunlight descend from holes in the ceiling, illuminating the space, and reflecting off the clay floor. There must be hidden ventilation chimneys leading to the surface. Amazing! I wonder who built this place and for what purpose.

Slowly, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I realize the room is not empty.

_It's full of monks!_

I scream. But the monks don't react. They don't move at all. Then it dawns on me; they're only statues.

A dozen hooded figures line the walls, staring inwardly at a raised stone pedestal. The podium rises to my stomach, ending in a slab of flat marble. Well, it's not completely flat. A small indention has been carved into the marble. A black, cylindrical object rests in this dent.

"What's that?" Ollie asks.

I reach for the object and lift it into the light. "A pen?"

"Ohhh. A fountain pen."

I groan at the pun. But he appears to be right. It is a fountain pen. Then my heart drops. Scattered beneath it are the shredded remains of a letter.

"Oh no. Looks like rats have gotten to it. Maybe we can piece it together?" Before I can even start, I hear voices echoing down the stairwell.

One of the voices is familiar. It's Pierre.

Chapter Fourteen

\- Trapped -

"Oh, no. They tracked us down," I whisper. "See if you can find another way out."

Unfortunately, a quick search reveals only one exit - the stairs we came down. It won't take Pierre and the others long to reach us. I should've closed that hidden door. Now, we're trapped. So stupid!

_"What do you make of it?"_ asks a thin, nasal voice.

_"Not sure,"_ answers Pierre. _"We should wait for the boss. I just phoned him, so sit tight."_

Great. More of them are on their way. Maybe I can hide behind one of the statues? I inspect the hooded figures, but they're all my size, too small to provide much cover.

"I've got an idea," Ollie says.

"A good idea?" I ask.

"Yes. An excellent idea."

"OK, what is it?" Pierre and the others will be here soon. I'm desperate enough to try anything, even one of Ollie's crazy schemes.

"First grab that curtain," Ollie points to the cloth hanging over the doorway. I pull it loose of its support hooks. "Now, roll it in the mud."

"Seriously?"

"Yes, cover it completely."

The water flowing down the stairs has turned the clay floor into a sticky grey sludge. At least it only comes up to my ankles. Before the level rises too high, the excess runs down a drain at the far end of the room. I roll the curtain across the floor, until it's completely soaked. It's much heavier waterlogged, and I struggle to lift it.

"Now what?"

"Cover your face in mud."

"What's that gonna do? Scare them away?"

"Trust me." Ollie says, offering up a handful of muck. I hear more voices coming from the stairs, then the echo of footsteps. There's no time to argue. I apply a mask of the grey muck to my face like I'm at some fancy spa. "Now wrap yourself in the curtain, and keep completely still."

I see what he's getting at now; he wants me to blend in with the statues, as if I'm one of them. That's completely bonkers.

"This plan's not going to work," I tell him, taking a position next to the other hooded figures. Soaked in mud, the curtain smells of rotten fish and mildew. Still, I wrap it around my head like a monk.

Then I remember the shredded letter. There's no way I'll let them get that.

I hurry over to the pedestal and stuff the shreds into my pocket. No sooner had I done so, then flashlight beams crisscross the stairs. I rush back to my space among the statues and just in time.

A group of men slowly descend into the chamber, led by Pierre. They glance around nervously, and I notice a few bruises and black eyes. They're probably afraid they'll encounter more invisible attackers like they did at Notre Dame.

Once all five of them are inside, they make way for their boss, the dirty-fingernailed man. By the way he carries himself, it's clear he's in charge. I shudder involuntarily. He's definitely the same man who was spying on me back in the Java Hut. Light from the ventilation shafts reflects creepily off his bald head and circular glasses.

"What is this place?" Pierre asks.

"I'm not certain," the dirty-fingernailed man answers. "But I imagine it's what the girl was seeking."

Pierre nods. "Then we're too late. She's already left with the treasure."

"No," the dirty-fingernailed man sneers, "She's right over there...wrapped in a dirty cloth, pretending to be a statue." Multiple flashlights blind me.

I glare at Ollie. "I told you this wasn't gonna work."

Chapter Fifteen

\- The Dirty-Fingernailed Man -

Well, at least I don't have to wear this stinking cloth anymore. I throw it the ground and stare defiantly at my captors. "Who are you?" I ask. "What do you want?"

The dirty-fingernailed man steps forward with a look of malice plastered on his scrunchy face. "I'm an attorney."

"For the Worthington Bank?"

"Oh, you've put that together, have you? Clever girl." He shakes his head. "But not _that_ clever. Or you would've have told everyone you met about this fountain. You're out of your league, sweetie," he hangs maliciously on the last word. "In a round about way, I do work for the Worthington Bank, off the books and unofficially."

"What did you do with the treasure?" Pierre interrupts.

"Don't be foolish," the dirty-fingernailed man snaps at his accomplice. "There's nothing here but trinkets and mud. Even this little girl knows the only treasure lies a thousand kilometers away...in Mrs. Coldstone's bank account." He wags a finger at me. "Tsk. Tsk. The lies you told to finance this little archaeology trip."

"They're not lies. I told Mrs. Coldstone the truth."

"Don't insult me. I know a con artist when I see one."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Ollie says, "You can't even draw a circle."

"Not that kind of artist," I explain. Then I turn back to the lawyer, "I'm not stealing Mrs. Coldstone's fortune. She wanted to help me."

"Ah, yes. Help you come to grips with the imaginary creatures you see."

I gasp. How could he know that?

The dirty-fingernailed man picks up the fountain pen and inspects it. "Feeble as your lies were, they will prove useful. You see, we bugged Coldstone Manor. Recorded everything. All this talk of creatures gives us more than enough legal sway."

"What are you talking about?" I'm still in shock he knows so much about me.

"Conservatorship. Control over Mrs. Coldstone's finances." He writes his signature in the air with the fountain pen and then tosses it into the mud.

"You can't do that."

"We can if we prove she's mentally incapacitated."

Oh no. I suddenly feel guilty for confiding in Mrs. Coldstone about the sarcastic creatures. I never meant for that to happen. Now everyone will think she's crazy for believing me. Then who gets her money? It suddenly dawns on me. "So Alabaster gets her fortune?" I ask. "He's behind all this, isn't he?"

The dirty-fingernailed man grins creepily. "You should've picked a smaller target, girl. Don't underestimate the world of high finance. This level of money brings out the professionals."

"Professional jerks," I ball my fists in anger, annoyed I can't think of a better insult than jerks. "Mrs. Coldstone never said she saw any creatures. I said that. If anyone's crazy, it's me."

"True. Too bad you won't be around to clear things up."

A shiver runs down my spine. Not only are they going to paint Mrs. Coldstone as crazy, they're going to pretend I'm this big threat to her money. Then they'll have an excuse to let her son take control of her account. Their plan becomes clear now. This is all about moving Mrs. Coldstone's fortune to Worthington Bank.

The fact they're admitting this, doesn't bode well for me. It means they don't think I'll live long enough to tell anyone their plans. I'm not the only one who realizes this.

"What should we do with her?" Pierre asks, his hand clasped around a pocketknife.

"She's going to become our little ghost, the unseen threat to Mrs. Coldstone's estate. It'll help justify our actions and expedite the court order."

Pierre grins and spins the knife in his hand. "One ghost, coming up..."

Ollie launches himself at Pierre's shin. But the poor little guy is knocked aside as Pierre strides towards me. I back up against the wall.

Before Pierre can get to me, the dirty-fingernailed man rests a hand on his shoulder. "No need for a mess. As-tu quelque chose pour securiser ce portail?" He pulls at an iron gate that I hadn't seen against the wall. It swings into place over the doorway.

"J'ai eu un cadenas de vélo," one of the men says.

"Excellent. Vas le chercher et fouilles son sac à main pour un téléphone."

It dawns on me what they intend to do - lock me up down here. My heart leaps to my throat. "You don't have to trap me. I'm not going to tell anyone."

But the dirty-fingernailed man ignores my pleas. He's done speaking with me and exits the chamber without another glance. One of his henchmen immediately grabs my purse and roots through it until he finds both my smartphone and the cell that Mrs. Coldstone gave me. He smirks, pockets the phones, and tosses my purse into the mud.

I ignore them and go to care for Ollie. He's still dazed from getting kicked and shakes his head to clear the grogginess.

"Never thought this fountain would be your grave, did you?" Pierre asks, stepping into the stairwell and swinging the gate closed. The other men have already departed, although one of them soon returns with a bike lock and hands it to Pierre.

"You should've given a better description of him to the police," Ollie says, brushing himself off. "He's way uglier than I remember."

"Yes, he looks like he's taken a few gargoyle punches," I remark, retrieving my purse from the ground. "Made his nose all crooked."

I know I've struck a nerve with Pierre. From his immaculate beard, I can tell vanity is one of his weak points. Somewhat confused as to whom I'm speaking with, he snaps the lock into place. It fits securely though the gate's wrought iron bars.

"Well, it's the last face you'll ever see, Mademoiselle. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll come back in a month to check on your skeleton. Give you a proper burial." He sneers at me with a nasty expression.

"Awe!" I clap my hands in mock appreciation. "You're awfully sweet."

"He's lucky I ran out of pretzels," Ollie says.

This makes me snort.

Pierre's unhappy that I'm not acting more terrified and turns to leave. I wave goodbye as he trudges up the stairs, not wanting to give him the added satisfaction of panicking. But now that we're alone down here, the reality of our situation hits me, and it hits me hard. The clang of the hidden door above highlights the unavoidable fact - we're trapped. And no one even knows we're here, no one that will help us anyway.

Chapter Sixteen

\- Rusty Skills -

"How are we going to get out of this one, Ollie?"

The little guy doesn't respond right away. He's busy wiping mud off the discarded pen. Once it's clean, he hands it to me to put in my purse. Then he tries to fit through gaps in the bars, but they're too narrow a squeeze. "Can you pick locks?" he asks.

"No. Unfortunately, not."

He frowns. "Hmmm. I thought you'd be able to."

"Why?" I'm a little bit insulted by the presumption. "I'm not a criminal."

"Well, you're good at picking your nose," he retorts.

I roll my eyes. "Sadly, those skills aren't transferable."

"Too bad."

"Yes, real shame." I turn to inspect the lock more closely. It's one of those U-shaped models made of titanium, kryptonite, or some other indestructible material. I doubt we can break it. That means the only way out is completely blocked.

There has to be another exit, perhaps a secret passage behind one of the statues? But after knocking on every stone, nothing appears hollow; everything's solid rock. Despair begins to creep into the pit of my stomach. We really are trapped. I feel like the walls are closing in, the air's thickening, and it's become difficult to breathe.

Gotta stay positive. At least it's not completely dark, and there's ventilation down here. I peer up one of the ceiling holes and spot a pinprick of sky far away. The chimneys are narrow, and I'd never fit inside them. Each one is barely the size of an onion. "Can you rock climb?" I ask Ollie.

He stares dubiously at the hole. "Those are pretty high."

"I'll be here to catch you."

"You promise?"

"Cross my heart."

He nods reluctantly, so I lift him up to the ceiling. "Hand me the pen," he says. I offer it up to him and he jams it lengthwise into the hole like a pull up bar. Then he hoists himself into the opening, wedges his feet against the sides, and yanks the pen free. He repeats this technique several times. Soon, he's more than halfway up the chimney.

"Keep going. You're doing great."

"I'm stuck," he calls down.

I groan. "Is the pen stuck, or are you stuck?"

"I'm stuck. It gets narrow here."

Shoot. He should've rolled in the mud first to make himself more slippery. "Can you wiggle free?"

"Hold on." Several white flakes descend from the hole.

"Are you all right?" I ask, worried.

"Yes," Ollie answers. "Just had to shed a couple layers."

"Did you make it all the way?"

"Of course I did! Hold tight. I'll be right back."

Minutes later, I hear the welcoming sound of the fountain door opening, followed by the pitter-patter of feet. Ollie leads a tiny alligator down the stairs. "We're in luck," he says, "I bumped into this gnawgator swimming in the pool."

"Hi. I'm Rusty," says the toothy reptile. "You have some metal that needs gnawing?"

"Yes, this bike lock," I explain.

The gnawgator inspects it with a look of uncertainty on his face. "Hmmm," he says.

"Can you do it?" I wonder what kind of teeth that creature must have to be able to chew through titanium.

"Metal's a bit bland. Let me get my spices." Rusty retreats back up the stairs.

"Spices?" I ask Ollie.

"Gnawgators have discerning palates."

"Discerning? They chew metal!"

"Yes, and boy do they love it. Gold, silver, aluminum - a very specialized diet. Me, I'm metal-intolerant."

Rusty, the gnawgator, returns with a shaker of what appears to be either chili or rust flakes and sprinkles the contents over the lock. Then he ties a bib around his neck and clamps his jaws around the metal. It only takes a few bites for the lock to snap in half.

"Thank you!" I gush, pulling open the gate. "And nice work, Ollie."

The little guy beams happily and hands me back the pen. He's a good deal shinier, having shed a layer of skin to squeeze up the chimney. "No prison can hold me," he declares triumphantly.

"Yes, you're an amazing escape artist."

"True, my paintings are excellent."

I sigh. "Not that kind of artist. An escape...never mind. Let's get out of here." We hurry up the stairs, leaving Rusty to finish the rest of his metallic appetizer. We can still hear him chewing as we round the last flight of stairs and emerge back into the sunlight.

Nom. Nom. Nom.

Chapter Seventeen

\- The Chocolate Bar -

The climb has exhausted Ollie. He curls into my purse and soon falls asleep. I'm tired too, but have to warn Ms. Coldstone as soon as possible. Since that creep took my phones, we need to find a landline. I navigate back through the hedge maze and make my way to the outskirts of the park. There's a cafe across the street called 'Cafe au Chocolat' with a cute red awning and bright, welcoming windows.

The inside is even better - rich leather booths, black and white tiled floors, and a chalkboard menu that lists nothing but chocolate menu items. I think I'm in heaven.

"Que veuxtu, mon ange?" asks a large woman, dressed like a diner waitress from the 1950's.

"Do you speak English?" I ask, my voice quaking.

"Oui, I do. Are you all right?"

I must still be rattled from our near escape. I notice my hands are shaking. "Having a rough day. Can I use your phone? I was just robbed."

"You poor dear. Of course. It's right behind the counter."

She guides me to rotary next to the antique cash register. It takes me a while to connect, as I have to navigate the French menus and figure out how to place a collect call. After what seems an eternity, I hear Mrs. Coldstone's voice on the other end of the line.

"Sara. I'm glad you called. How's the investigation going?"

"I've had more trouble. Is there another number I can reach you at? I believe someone hid microphones in your home." I remember what the dirty-fingernailed man told me about bugging Coldstone Manor.

"My goodness. Are you safe?"

"Yes, yes. I'm fine. Is there somewhere else you can call from?"

"Let me think. My neighbor's home. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we explain the situation." She tells me the number, which I jot down on a napkin using my new fountain pen. We agree to try again in twenty minutes.

As I hang up the phone, I catch a view of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. Good grief. I'm still covered in mud! The waitress sets a chocolate milkshake down in front of me along with a moist towel.

"On the house," she says, smiling.

"Thanks," I say gratefully. "Would you mind if I make a few more calls? I should probably notify the police."

"Yes, of course. Don't worry, you're safe here." She gives me a motherly smile and pats me on the back.

It doesn't take long to reach the police and give them the cafe's address. They tell me they'll arrive shortly. I then enter the number of Mrs. Coldstone's neighbor.

She picks up right away. "Sara?"

"Yes, thanks for humoring me. Someone told me they bugged your house." In a torrent of words, I explain everything that's happened to me, describing the dirty-fingernailed man and his goons. I don't mention Ollie, the gnawgator, or any other creatures because the waitress can overhear our conversation.

"My word. I'm so sorry I put you in so much danger," Mrs. Coldstone replies, once I've finished.

"It's not your fault. Money attracts evil jerks. And that bank is full of them."

"I can't believe Alabaster would associate with people like that," Mrs. Coldstone says. "Are you certain they said his name?"

"Well, no. I guess they never confirmed his involvement. I just assumed, since it's the bank where he works..."

"He may have his faults, but he'd never harm anyone. I can assure you of that. He probably told the wrong people about me."

"OK. But this dirty-fingernailed man is definitely tied to his bank. He admitted that much. And he told me his plan to take over your account. You need to hire a good lawyer."

"Don't you worry about me, Sara. I'm a fighter. Right now, I'm more worried about you. I think you should come home straight away."

I realize this is the smart thing to do. With the fountain proving less than helpful, there's nothing left for me to investigate here. She tells me she'll contact her travel agent and call me back in a few minutes with the updated flight information.

I hang up the phone, and in doing so, feel a weight lift from my shoulders. Now that Mrs. Coldstone knows about the plan to take her fortune, she can at least fight it. I just hope they leave me out of the legal mess. I dread the thought of being dragged into a courtroom and questioned about the sarcastic creatures.

"Thanks for letting me use your phone," I tell the waitress when she returns to ring up a purchase. "Do you mind if I wait here for the police?"

"Corner booth has the best view," she says. "You can watch jugglers in the park."

I settle into the booth and empty the paper scraps from my pocket. There's not much, and what's there is stained badly from my muddy hands. Still, I try to piece it together like a puzzle. Whoever wrote this letter, probably knew about the creatures and why I see them.

After fifteen minutes, however, I give up. All I've got are a handful of words - ferocious, you, waters, Growling, and danger. What the heck could that mean? My one chance for answers, and some stupid rats ate most of it. Tears moisten my eyes.

The waitress comes by with a handkerchief. She notices the fountain pen resting on the table. "Good thing the thieves missed that," she says.

"Yes, they were more interested in my phones."

"That's worth more than any phone. May I?" She takes the pen and puts on her reading glasses to inspect it more closely. "Yes. See the inscription? It's made by Chesterfield Calligraphy, a family-owned British company. Been around for centuries. They only make a few pens every year. This one's their 2012 model." She hands it back to me. "I collect pens, you see. Would love to add that one. Would you consider selling it?"

"Sorry, I need it to solve a mystery. Maybe when I'm done." I inspect the pen again. "Where did you say these pens are made?"

"In London. Chesterfield Calligraphy. They have a tiny shop you can visit."

"Thanks." When Mrs. Coldstone calls back, I'll inform her of my change of plans. I've got a new destination now - England.

Chapter Eighteen

\- Disappearance & Disbelief -

As I nurse my chocolate shake, doubts begin to pester me. I wonder if I should've found another way to contact Mrs. Coldstone. Since the creeps at Worthington Bank bugged her home, they'll know that I've escaped now. I'm a witness after all, and can identify the dirty-fingernailed man - at least by his face - so I'm still in danger. Fortunately, Mrs. Coldstone's travel agent is adept at her job and quickly books me on an evening flight to London. I'm both relieved and disappointed that this'll be my last day in Paris.

A loud snore from my purse interrupts these thoughts. I'm glad Ollie's getting some rest. That climb out of the fountain chamber must have taken a toll on him. Poor little guy.

Soon two intimidating police officers arrive and take down my account of what happened. It's hard to focus on their questions due to the weird creature in one officer's breast pocket, who's mimicking their expressions.

"And you're sure you saw the same person who tried to kidnap you yesterday?" asks one of the officers.

"Yes. His name's Pierre, or at least that's what he calls himself." I slurp at my chocolate shake, which doesn't do much to bolster the seriousness of my claims.

"And they work for a bank, these men?"

"Yes, Worthington Bank." I know how crazy this sounds, but they need to hear the truth. "These men are after an elderly lady's money. To get it, they need me out of the way."

The officer arches an eyebrow, as does the creature in his breast pocket. "Excuse me?"

"Her son needs to prove there's a threat to the money and that his mom's crazy and..." I sigh, "it's complicated. But I'm not lying. They really did trap me underground. I can show you."

"I think that would be a good idea." From their tone, I get the impression the officers don't quite believe me. Well, we're right across the street from the Park; it shouldn't take long to confirm my story.

I find the hedge-maze and lead the police back to the scene of the crime. They don't want to get their feet wet, so it's up to me to open the door. As I remove my shoes, I notice the gnawgator lounging against the pool's edge. He's cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.

"Hi Rusty," I say, and then remember that the officers can't see him. Great. Now they'll think I'm crazy. I better hurry up and show them the hidden room. This is easier said than done, however.

I stand confused in the water for a few seconds. Something's wrong. The carvings look different. There's no longer any heart, nothing to press.

"Where's this door, miss?" asks one of the officers.

"It was right here. I don't understand."

"Uh huh," he crosses his arms. "You realize it's a crime to file a false police report."

"I'm not lying. There's a secret room under here. It's just..."

"Gone?" he asks.

"Well, yes. No, I mean. It was right _here_."

I have to endure a lecture about wasting police resources before they let me go. Great. How was I to know the fountain's secret chamber would magically disappear? Had I imagined the whole thing?

"That fountain is strange," Ollie says. "It changed."

"Yeah. Great timing too. Made me look like an idiot. Why'd it have to change now?"

"Maybe it served its purpose?" Ollie suggests.

I consider that for a moment. Perhaps he's right. But what purpose could that be? All I got out of it was a stupid pen.

Chapter Nineteen

\- Night Flight -

Ominous storm clouds have gathered over Charles de Gaulle Airport. I hope the storm blows over by the time we're airborne. Turns out I'm not the only one worried. We almost miss the flight entirely due to Ollie's insistence on stopping by an airport shop for pretzels.

"For _safety_ ," he says, munching the open bag.

"Right, safety." I don't try to argue with him this time. Everyone needs a security blanket. In fact, once we take flight, I wish I had one too.

Turbulence shakes the plane like a dog with a chew toy. Everything rattles and creaks, swaying this way and that. I know we're safe, but I've still got an iron grip on the armrest. It's so bad, the flight attendants get on the PA and announce that they're suspending the beverage and snack service.

"Good thing we stocked up," Ollie says, clutching his pretzel bag like a stuffed bear.

We gaze out the rain-streaked window into the blackness. Lightning occasionally lights up the sky, and I quickly become lost in my own thoughts.

The weather perfectly mirrors my mood. I'm still feeling disappointed that Paris didn't provide more answers. All I've got to show for my efforts is an expensive fountain pen. I remove it from my purse for a closer inspection.

The pen is heavy, with silver joints, smooth black enamel, and the words 'Chesterfield Calligraphy' engraved in fancy golden script. On the other side are the model number and a logo of what looks like a lion fighting a dog.

"Who do you think left this?" I ask Ollie. He's gotten over his fear of the storm and is now calmly stacking pretzels. A round of turbulence erases his efforts.

"Dunno. Your mum?" he says.

"Hah hah. Seriously?" Then I cast him a strange look. "Why would you say that?" I'm a little hurt he'd make a joke about her.

"The writing on that old photo," Ollie says. "It matches the scraps from the fountain letter."

I pull out them out for comparison. He's right! The swirl of the "s" is identical. I'm too shocked to realize what this means. "So?" I ask.

"So, your mom wrote a clue on that photo to show you how to get into the fountain." He points to the 5x7. "My heart leaps for you," he reads.

Oh. My. Gosh. The stone heart, the one I turned to open the secret door! I'd forgotten all about that. I reread the sentence scrawled across the back of the photograph. _My heart leaps for you_. He's right. "These are directions."

"Uh huh. Your mum wanted you to find that room. So you'd get her letter."

"No, no, no. That's impossible. My mom left when I was little. She doesn't want anything to do with me."

Ollie shrugs. "Probably coincidence then. My handwriting looks like Abraham Lincoln's."

"Yeah. Coincidence. That's all it is." I shake my head. But for once, he's actually making sense. What if this is a trail left by my mom? If so, why's she being so mysterious? Why all the clues and secrecy? It doesn't make sense.

A strong bout of turbulence literally shakes me from my thoughts. Ugh. I feel sick to my stomach. But it's not the motion sickness that's bothering me; it's something deeper.

Chapter Twenty

\- London Lodgings -

Fog has enveloped London like a blanket. I was hoping to get a glimpse of Big Ben from the air, but even from the ground, visibility is severely limited. Though I choose the taxi myself, Ollie still insists on riding shotgun to make sure the driver 'doesn't try anything funny'. It's a long ride though the fog, and I shiver despite the warmth of the heater. All we see from the windows are ghostly streetlamps, the reflection of taillights speckled with rain, and roundabouts, so many roundabouts it almost makes me dizzy. This feeling is compounded by the creatures at the center of each traffic circle: spinning cephalopods with dozens of tentacles and long mustaches. Looks like they're having fun, though, spinning in time to the traffic flow.

Luck is on my side. Mrs. Coldstone has a friend in London with a vacant loft I can stay at for a few nights. The taxi parks under an awning at its front entrance - and what an entrance it is! The building looks regal, with a granite facade, high gothic windows, and a doorman who helps me out of the taxi as if I'm Hollywood royalty.

"Welcome to London," he says, once he learns I'm American. "I 'ope you enjoy your stay 'ere."

Ollie gives the doorman a suspicious glare. "Tell him not to try anything 'cause I know karate."

"Thanks," I say, ignoring Ollie. He's become overly protective of me ever since we escaped the fountain, and it's kind of endearing.

We make our way across the marble lobby and into a polished mahogany elevator. "I didn't know you knew karate."

"Yup," Ollie chops the air. "I'm a fungus belt."

"That's not a real belt."

"It is. Third degree fungus belt." He jumps up and, in one fell swoop, punches the button to every floor.

"Ollie, now we're going to have to stop a dozen times!"

The lift doors chime open on the second floor and a well-dressed couple enters. Oh no, they're probably going to the lobby! It doesn't take them long to notice all the glowing floor buttons. The man gives me a stern look, which I pass onto Ollie, who in turn squints suspiciously back at the couple.

"Sorry," I whisper. "First time in London."

"You don't have lifts in America?" the woman asks, clearly annoyed.

"No, no, we do. But they're not on the metric system."

No one laughs.

We endure an uncomfortable ten minutes rising to the top. Ding! The doors open at every floor. Ding! I hear the man whisper to his wife to hold onto her purse, as 'I might be a thieving gypsy.' What a racist!

It feels like an eternity, but eventually we arrive at the loft floor. Before stepping out, I turn to the nasty couple. "Lobby?"

"Yes," the woman says, her purse tightly clutched to her chest.

"Here, let me get that for you." I press every button on the panel, smile, and then step out of the lift. They couple is too shocked to respond.

We locate the key under the welcome mat - exactly where Mrs. Coldstone said it would be - and eagerly unlock the door to the loft.

Wow! This apartment is without a doubt, the coziest place I've ever seen. Cottage furniture, sunflower wallpaper, and a rooftop garden make the space much homier than any hotel room. I head outside to get a breath of fresh air and check out the view.

The rooftop terrace is unexpectedly spacious with several rows of vegetable boxes, one of which contains a gathering of slugs playing dominos. They bow in greeting and invite me to join them.

"Fancy a game, my good lady?" says the slimiest.

"No thanks. Maybe later." Instead, I gaze out across the sea of rooftops. The glowing dome of St. Paul's cathedral shines through the fog like a moon on the horizon. I also see Big Ben in the distance. Even though it's all new and exciting, I still manage to yawn.

"You tired?" Ollie asks.

"Yes, I didn't take a three hour nap like you did."

"You should rest," he says. "I'm going exploring."

"Suit yourself."

"Why?" His brow furrows. "Is there some kind of London dress code?"

"No, it's just an expression. It means...do as you please."

"Am I going to be the only one out there without a suit?" Ollie looks worried. He hurries over to his luggage and rummages through it. After trying out a few options, he settles a tiny jacket and tie. "How do I look?"

I sigh. "Very debonair."

"Good. See you later, then. I'll meet you for breakfast." He trudges out the door. Seconds later, I hear him karate chopping buttons in the elevator. What a little, weirdo. I sink into the queen bed and soon, am fast asleep, dreaming of calligraphy and a mom I never knew.

Chapter Twenty One

\- Chesterfield Calligraphy -

After a proper English breakfast of tea and scones, we head off in search of Chesterfield Calligraphy. Ollie won't tell me what he did last night, although I can't help but notice he's drawn a monocle and mustache on his face with sharpie. "Good thing I wore a tie," is all he'll say about it.

"Right. Well, this should be the spot," I consult my map. "So, where's the shop?"

We're on a shady avenue lined with English row houses, their pointed gates guarding what look like private residences. No sign of a storefront. This Chesterfield Calligraphy is definitely off the regular tourist circuit. I can barely hear the bustle of London traffic, and the sidewalks are all deserted...well, almost deserted. A dapper young couple strolls past walking their English bulldog. I'm about to ask them for directions when Ollie approaches a furry creature wearing a propeller beanie, sitting on a stoop, and mumbling to himself for some reason.

"Have you heard of Chesterfield Calligraphy?" he asks.

The furry creature parts the hair from his eyes to stares at us. "The places that makes pens?"

I nod. "Yes, that's probably it."

"Sure, it's write over there." He pauses for laughter. "WRITE over there."

"Haha," I muster a fake laugh to break the awkward silence. We hurry away from the weirdo who has begun grumbling again. The row house he's pointed us towards is built of faded brick, its door painted green with a tiny brass plaque above the knocker. Engraved into the metal is the image of a lion.

It's close to the logo on my pen, but missing the addition of the dog. Perhaps they've rebranded? I stride confidently up the steps and rap three times on the wood.

No answer.

"Maybe they're closed," Ollie says.

Suddenly, the door swings open. An elderly man who resembles a thin Santa Clause stands in the doorway. His eyes crinkle as he smiles. "Yes? How may I help you?" he asks in a light Scottish brogue.

"Um. Is this Chesterfield Calligraphy?"

"Indeed it 'tis. Would you care for a tour?"

"Please. If you have time."

"For a fellow scribbler, I make time." He opens the door wider. "Please come in."

We shuffle down a corridor decorated with framed pens in various shapes and styles. This hall opens into a sunny workshop, a sort of half-greenhouse attached to the back of the house. A dozen tables fill the space, supporting an array of tiny gears and tools. Ollie jumps onto the nearest one and begins stacking pens. The elderly man turns around to shake my hand.

"Welcome to the heart of Chesterfield Calligraphy. My name's Horatio Chesterfield, owner and chief engineer." He takes a deep bow.

"Nice to meet you. Did you start the company?"

"Heavens no. How old do I look?" He smiles mischievously. "That honor belongs to my great grandfather, Sebastian Chesterfield. I have worked here since I was young lad, however."

I immediately launch into my questions. "How many employees do you have?" I know it's a long shot, but perhaps my mom works here.

Horatio's face turns sad. "That varies year to year. Currently, it's only my wife and myself."

"So, you only deliver small batches?" I ask hopefully. Perhaps they have a customer list I can see.

"Yes. And demand has dropped; we don't make more than a dozen annually. But we still have a loyal following, tiny as it is. How did you hear about us, Ms..."

I realize that I haven't introduced myself yet. That was terribly rude of me. "I'm sorry. It's Sara. Hi." I smile. "Someone left a pen for me. I was hoping you could tell me about it."

He raises a pair of reading glasses and extends a hand. "I'd be happy to take a look."

I take the pen from my purse and offer it to him. Once he sees it, his eyes go wide.

"Where did you get this?"

I'm not sure how much to tell him, so I just say, "My mom gave it to me."

"Hmmm. This pen is one of a kind. I made it for an employee of mine." The old man squints at me and leans closer. "You bear a striking resemblance to her."

"Maria Rosalina?"

He gasps. "You're..."

"Her daughter. Do you know her?" My heart rate quickens.

Horatio shakes his head in disbelief. "She worked here for many years. Never told me she had a daughter."

"I'm not surprised. She left when I was little. Do you know how I might get in touch with her?"

A shadow crosses the old man's face. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"I'm sorry. Your mom passed away two years ago."

Chapter Twenty Two

\- Mom -

The news hits me hard. Even though I hardly knew her, now I'll never get the chance. I feel Ollie's hand grab my ankle in a show of support.

"I'm so sorry," Horatio says.

"How did she..."

"An automobile accident. Horribly tragic." He opens a drawer nearby and pulls out an album. Flipping through its pages, he finds a faded black & white photograph, which he hands to me. The image shows my mom in this very room, a magnifying loop over one eye. She's hard at work constructing a pen. "She was a sweet lady, a skilled engineer, and like a daughter to my wife and I. We miss her terribly." He pauses, unsure of how to phrase the next question. "Would you like me to show you...where she's laid to rest?"

"Yes. Please."

Horatio nods. "Let me cancel my lunch plans and --"

"Please don't do that. There's no hurry. We can go later this afternoon."

"As you wish. Why don't you meet my wife and I back here around three?"

"Great. Thank you very much."

He smiles and then turns to inspect the pen one last time. "Strange. She's added something to our logo."

"A dog?"

"Hmmm. It'd have to be a large dog to take on a lion. A hound of the Baskervilles! That wasn't there when I gave her this pen." He shrugs. "She was a creative one, your mother."

"I wish I'd known her better." I sigh. "See you at three."

I leave the shop with a heavy heart and a million thoughts screaming through my head. The pain is so fresh, I don't want to process the implications now, but my mind won't let me ignore them. I can't face the fact I'll never reunite with my mother, never learn why she left us, never get the chance to hear her voice again. I mean, I don't even remember what she sounds like! I mean, SOUNDED like. I can't use the present tense anymore. _It's like she never existed._

What a horrible thought. I choke back the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. Perhaps food will help.

We have a few hours until three, so we might as well grab lunch, not that I'm hungry at all. While Ollie and I debate what to get, I notice a man walking down the street towards us. It's a man I recognize, someone I really don't want to see.

It's Alabaster Coldstone.

Chapter Twenty Three

\- An Unpleasant Encounter -

I glance around, half expecting to see Pierre or the dirty-fingernailed man coming up behind me. But Alabaster is alone, dressed in a neatly fitted business suit, complete with top hat and pocket watch. If he didn't comb his hair over a bald spot, he might look quite dapper. His expression doesn't show any surprise at seeing me.

"Hello Sara. Mother told me I'd find you here."

"Stay away from me." I instinctively take a step back.

"There's no need for alarm." He raises his hands. "I'm just here to clear the air. I happened to be in town on business and thought I'd track you down. Mother told me about your ordeal in Paris, and I want to make sure you're all right."

Great. Mrs. Coldstone still thinks her son is innocent. And now she's led him straight to me. I'm obviously wary of him, but at the same time, I'm still not 100% sure he's allied with the men who attacked me. So, I just say, "I'm fine."

"Good to hear," he says in a voice that conveys the opposite. "I want to assure you, I had nothing to do with those men you encountered, despite anything they might've told you."

"Good to hear," I repeat, using the same tone he did.

"I'm impressed you managed to escape them," he continues.

"I'm not the only one with resourceful friends," I say and then wink at Ollie.

"Indeed. And how is the photography going?"

"The photography?" Then I remember my cover story. I'm supposed to be taking photos for Mrs. Coldstone to paint. "Oh, yes. The photography. We thought it'd be safer to switch to London landmarks."

"That's the story you're sticking with, eh? Well, this city can also be a perilous place," he says, barely disguising the threat. Then he raises his cane and points it in my direction. "I'd watch my step, if I were you."

"If he were you, he'd be way more attractive," Ollie says. "That comb-over is fooling no one."

"Thank you," I tell Ollie, but Alabaster nods as if it were meant for him. Then he drops all pretense of kindness.

"I warned you quite explicitly not to con my mother."

"Me? I'm the only one NOT conning her," I say angrily.

"Then I suppose you actually do see creatures?" His voice shows he doesn't believe a word of this.

"That's between me and Mrs. Coldstone. She's a smart lady, you know. She's not going to be tricked out of her money."

"Our money," Alabaster corrects me.

"She won the millions. She can spend it any way she chooses. It belongs to her."

Alabaster stamps his foot. "It belongs to the Coldstone family. And we protect our interests...aggressively." With a sneer, he turns heel and marches away.

"Whatever," I say, realizing this is the lamest comeback ever.

"Loser," Ollie says. "Forget him and his awesome haircut. Let's get that lunch."

. . .

We head to Regents Park, a green manicured expanse of willow trees, meadows, and meandering lakes. I spot a vendor selling disposable phones and decide it's time I updated Mrs. Coldstone on her son's threats. It's not a call I'm eager to make, so I might as well get it over with now. I ring up her neighbor's phone and, after a five-minute wait, soon connect with my wealthy benefactor.

"Hello, Sara. I'm glad you called. How's London?"

In a rush of words, I update her on my encounter with Alabaster. She absorbs it all silently. Then she pauses for a moment and says, "He never claimed to be working with those men who attacked you, did he?"

"Well, no. But just like those men, he knew about our private conversations. He knows that I can see creatures."

"That's because I told him."

"You did?" I can't help but feel betrayed.

"We had a long chat. He assured me he has no connection with the men who attacked you. He's launching an inquiry at the bank to investigate the matter."

I sigh. Mrs. Coldstone's love for her son is clearly blinding her judgment. I'll have to be careful talking with her from now on, as she may pass everything along to Alabaster.

"Did you find that pen making shop?" she asks.

"Yes." I pause, then tell her about my mom.

"I'm so sorry."

"I didn't know her that well," I say, not that it makes things any better. In fact, it's worse somehow. "Anyway, I'll come home after I visit the cemetery."

"Take all the time you need, dear."

"OK, thanks for everything. At least I have some closure now," I lie. Finding out the truth has opened up more questions than anything.

I briefly consider calling dad, but that conversation is going to be rough, and I chicken out midway through dialing. It's probably better that I break the news in person anyway. Right now, I just need to purchase a bag of fish 'n chips and drown my sorrow in grease.

Chapter Twenty Four

\- A Lively Cemetery -

I return to Chesterfield Calligraphy to find an old-fashioned jalopy idling by the curb. Horatio opens the passenger's door for me. "How was lunch?" he asks.

"Very tasty," I reply, mustering up a smile. I sink into the worn leather of the immaculately clean vehicle. Ollie plops himself down in a cup holder beside me.

"That's my wife, Yvette, in the back," Horatio explains, settling behind the wheel.

A grey-haired lady with a sweet smile waves at me from the rear. "You've got your mother's eyes," she tells me.

"Thanks," I reply, for lack of anything better to say.

"The cemetery is beyond the city limits," Horatio says, "So, we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted."

He shifts into gear and pulls expertly into London's traffic. En route we discuss what brought me to London - or my cover story at least. I keep the details vague, including how I got the pen, and the Chesterfields are too polite to push the matter.

They explain how my mother came to them ten years ago looking for a job. She picked things up quickly, and soon became a valuable apprentice. During this time, she'd not spoken much of her past, except to mention a sister. They met her briefly after the accident.

"Why didn't my aunt contact us after my mom passed away," I ask.

Horatio frowns, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "I'm not sure. Lizzie didn't mention any other family."

"Do you have her address?"

"Afraid not. Your aunt contacted us after she stopped hearing from her sister. We've since lost touch with her."

This is all very strange. My Aunt Lizzie knew about us; she even babysat me when I was little. Why wouldn't she reach out after the accident? Was this my mother's wish, perhaps something in her will? I can't believe that.

Gradually, the London cityscape gives way to rural pastures. Storm clouds blanket this countryside, plunging the occasional forest into shadow - and in between these groves, a low fog hugs the fields and valleys. It's all pretty gloomy, not the type of weather in which you'd want to visit a graveyard. But there's no getting around it; I have to see my mom's grave for myself. Perhaps I truly will get some kind of closure, although I doubt it. It'll probably just bum me out.

"Here we are," Horatio says at last, pulling off the main road and onto a dirt one. The old car registers every bump and pothole, setting my teeth on edge. Soon I can see the fog glowing over the next hill. That's odd. Why would anyone light up a cemetery?

The graveyard extends over several hills and dells, all of which is boxed in by a narrow stone wall. An ancient chapel stands guard near the entrance, and we park beneath its steeple. In the dwindling light, all of this would've normally been quite spooky, but the entire lot is strung up with Japanese lanterns.

They stretch in lines across the graves, tied to angel statues and crosses, swaying gently in the breeze, and illuminating tiny pockets of the foggy graveyard.

"I like the lanterns," I tell the Chesterfields.

"What lanterns?" asks Yvette.

And then I realize that they don't see them. They probably don't hear the music either, a faint jazz tempo rising over the tombstones. It sounds like someone's throwing a party. Ollie smiles and claps his hands.

"Um, I mean...the lights are on in the chapel," I say.

"I've already rung up the vicar and told him we'd be coming," Horatio explains. "He said he'd prep a kettle of tea in the chapel. We should visit the grave first, though, before the light fades."

They guide me down a cobblestone path that winds through the tombs. It climbs over a short rise and then down into a wide hollow. "There's the site," Horatio says, gesturing ahead. My jaw drops.

He's pointing into a throng of creatures, a huge outdoor party.

"Wahooo!" Ollie says, and dances into the mix.

"Are you all right?" asks Yvette, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Yes," I stammer. "It's just...not what I expected."

"Bit gloomy, I know. We bring flowers on her birthday," Horatio says. "Brightens up the place."

I don't think the place needs brightening up. In fact, it could probably do with a little less brightening. The creatures are all laughing, drinking, and eating sweets. A band is playing upbeat jazz numbers to a boisterous crowd of dancers. What a strange place for a party.

"Take all the time you want, dear," Yvette says.

Horatio nods. "We'll be chatting with the vicar in the chapel."

The elderly couple departs, leaving me alone. Well, certainly not alone. I'm surrounded by partying weirdos. I push my way into the crowd until I find Ollie dancing with a tall skinny creature with blue hair.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"A party," Ollie says, without missing a step.

"I can see that. But in a graveyard? Isn't that a tad...disrespectful?"

"We're not disrespecting anyone!" exclaims a fat, buffalo like-thing.

"Well, you are dancing on someone's grave," I point out.

"Not someone. This was Matilda Rigby," says the buffalo, tapping the gravestone with his hoof. "Originally from Scotland, she liked coconut cream puffs, archery, and music played on a fiddle. We're dancing for her."

"Celebrating her life," explains the blue haired thing, spinning Ollie around by his arms. "We do this every month."

"Still a bit strange."

"Look down," says the buffalo. "You're standing on the grave of Mr. Ebenezer Fosstale. He loved Bavarian pretzels, Groucho Marx, and dancing: swing dancing, line dancing, square dancing. You're disrespecting him by NOT dancing."

"Fine." I swing my hips in a half-hearted attempt, grateful the Chesterfields aren't here to see this. "Do you know where Maria Rosalina's buried?"

The creatures point me towards a grave lit by a cluster of lanterns. I take a deep breath and approach the headstone.

There, carved into the marble, is my mother's name. Nothing fancy, just her name and some dates.

I look closer and see the words, ' _my heart leaps for you_ ' carved around the edges - another message, probably meant to lead me to the fountain, to the letter that's been destroyed. Tears moisten my eyes. Why didn't I make this trip two years ago? I came so close, so very close. I wish I had the chance to know her better.

"Maria Rosalina," says a tiny mouse-like creature at my side. "Loved to laugh, bake chocolate chip cookies, travel, and drink coffee."

A pudgy creature with horns chimes in, "She knew how to dance flamenco, build clocks, play the harmonica, and speak three languages fluently."

"French, Spanish, and English," said a tall weirdo dressed in a raincoat. "And a little Klingon."

The voices come faster now, as creature after creature adds their remembrances.

"She was smart, kind, and funny - had a knack with anything mechanical and loved to tinker."

"She was allergic to pollen, but adored sunflowers."

"She read detective stories, and listened to Edith Piaf."

"She ran three miles every day."

"She hated the sound of teeth chewing on tin foil."

"She traveled the globe and made friends everywhere she went."

"She loved her daughter, and missed her terribly."

This last thought is too much for me to handle. Tears stream down my cheeks, but I don't care. For the first time, I've actually got a clear picture of my mom, who she was, what she was like. The creatures continue to describe her in amazing detail. She must've been friends with all of them. She must've seen them like I do.

"How long did you know her?" I ask no one in particular.

"Many years," squeaks the little mouse.

"It's nice of you to celebrate her life like this."

"That was her wish," says a big, hairy yeti creature. "She told us if anything happened to her, she didn't want a sad funeral. She wanted us to visit her grave once a month and throw a big party."

"Well then," I say, my eyes still glassy, "Let's keep that music going."

Throwing out any inhibitions, I join the creatures in a raucous dance party. Everyone and everything moves to the beat, especially Ollie, who's surprisingly agile on his tiny legs. He doesn't think much of my moves, however. During a break in the songs he asks if I'm having a seizure.

. . .

When the moon crests the hillside, I realize I shouldn't keep the Chesterfields waiting much longer. They're probably wondering if I'm all right. So, I head back to the chapel, finding them sipping their third cup of tea with the vicar. They politely refrain from asking me any questions and offer up a cup of Chamomile before we depart. As we drive away, I hear the distant thump of the brass instruments and cheering. I smile to myself and then quickly mask it. The Chesterfields might think it weird for me to be grinning after visiting my mother's grave. Actually, most people would think that's weird.

They drop me off right outside my flat.

"Let us know if we can do anything for you," Horatio says.

"Thank you. You've already done so much." I give them my email and phone number and promise to keep in touch. Then Ollie and I return to the flat, exhausted but happy.

The apartment is stuffy, so I open the patio door to get some air. The slugs outside are arguing about their domino game. Apparently, one of them has been cheating. I ask them to please keep it down, as I'm tired and need my sleep.

"You can't sleep here tonight," says a deep voice.

"Who said that?" I glance around the garden patio, but don't see anyone.

"It's not safe."

"Show yourself." I grab a rake and brandish it like a sword. Ollie hurries to my side and takes a defensive position, hands ready for karate.

The tomato plants rustle. Then a small grey cat emerges from their leaves. "I'm a friend," he says in a deep voice, very much at odds with his scrawny frame.

"You can talk?" I don't know why I'm surprised, considering all the weird things I've seen.

"No, those slugs are ventriloquists," the cat says, his voice laced with sarcasm. 'Of course I can talk."

"How dare you, sir!" cries one of the slugs. I don't think the little guy knows what a ventriloquist is, and has taken great umbrage at being called one. He puffs out his slimy chest indignantly. The cat pays him no attention.

"Hey, I remember you," says Ollie, snapping his fingers. "You were at the graveyard this evening."

"Yes. I hitched a ride atop that awful car. There's no time to explain. A group of men are on their way up here."

"Does one have dirty fingernails?" I ask.

"Yes, and carries a knife. I overheard them talk. They mean you harm."

Crap. They've found me. Alabaster must've learned where I'm staying from his mother. A knock sounds at the door. "Special delivery. Anyone home?"

The cat scurries across the patio and jumps onto the roof. "We need to leave...right now."

"On the roof?"

"Only way. Follow me."

The banging on the door grows louder. It soon changes from knocks to kicks, and violent ones at that. They mean to break their way inside the flat.

Chapter Twenty Five

\- Wasabi on the Roof -

With no other choice, I step onto the slanted roof. The adjoining building is close, and I easily bridge the gap. We crouch low and make our way across the roof's apex. The next building has a flat top with boxy air conditioning units that provide decent cover.

We pause here to catch our breath.

I hear shouts coming from my apartment and sneak a look back. A group of men have gathered on the garden patio. Even silhouetted, I recognize the dirty finger-nailed man. He's scanning the rooftops, searching for me. Crap. I duck out of sight.

"We can't stay here," the cat warns. "There's a fire escape on the northwest corner of this building. On my count, you must run to it. Then leave the alley and enter the main street. Ready, one, two, three!"

I sprint with all my might.

Shouts ring out across the rooftops; the men have spotted me! I don't look behind me, however, focused too much on getting away. Exactly as the cat described, a rusted fire escape descends from one side of the building. I race down the metal rungs to the final platform, still a terrifying distance from the cobblestone. A lever here drops a ladder to the ground. But it's stuck. The gears are completely rusted. I can't get it to budge an inch. _Oh no. We're trapped._

"We need to jump," the cat says.

Ollie looks over the railing. "I don't feel like being squished today."

"Not down. Across." The cat waves his paw at another fire escape on the opposite side of the alley. It's much closer than the ground, but still a healthy leap.

"Are you kidding me?" I shake my head. "That's too far."

"You can do it," the cat says. "I saw you jumping around last night."

"You mean dancing?"

"If that's what you want to call it."

Ollie snorts a laugh. Suddenly, the railing begins shaking from our pursuers descending the roof. Fine. Looks like we don't have a choice now. I toss Ollie across the gap. He rolls safely onto the other platform. Next, the cat leaps across with ease. Doesn't look too hard. I step onto the railing and take a deep breath.

From up here, the cobblestones seem dangerously small. Don't look down. Don't even think about it. Just jump.

OK, 1, 2, 3....

I push off the railing, but my foot slips on the damp metal. Adrenaline surges through my veins. The second railing looms. I flail, reach for it, and barely grab hold with one hand. Ugh.

That was close. Too close.

I pull myself onto the second platform and kick the nearby lever with my foot. This ladder isn't nearly as rusted and drops to the ground with a rattling clang.

"Go," the cat says, leaping back across the gap. "I'll hold them off for a bit."

There's no time to argue. I hug the ladder with both feet and slide down like a firefighter, landing with a splash in a shallow puddle. A feline hiss echoes across the alley. Then a knife blade clatters at my feet. I look up to see a man fending off a shrieking blur of hair.

"Ouch. Damn cat scratched me," he cries.

Looks like the cat can handle himself. I better take advantage of it. Scooping up Ollie, I make a break for the street. Soon the pitter-patter of tiny paws signals the return of my feline protector. "Hurry," he says, catching up. "They're right behind us!"

I scan the street for help. It's eerily deserted except for a double-decker bus idling at the curb. Thank goodness! We pile inside moments before the doors hiss to a close.

A half dozen men pile out of the alley and run after us. But they're too late. The bus has already merged into traffic. We're safe...at least for now.

. . .

The lower section of the bus has a few passengers, so we ascend to the exposed upper deck. It's deserted, despite the night air being warm and comfortable. I slump into a bench. The cat takes a seat across the aisle from me.

"Thanks for saving us." I'm tempted to scratch him behind the ear, but am not sure it's appropriate.

"It's my job," the cat replies.

"Your job?"

"Yes, your aunt Lizzie asked me to watch out for you."

"Wait. You know my aunt Lizzie?"

The cat nods. "Madame Lizzie's a good friend. She guessed that one day, her niece might visit the cemetery. Since I live there, I've been keeping watch these past few years. Please, call me Wasabi." He extends a paw, which Ollie and I shake.

"Can you take us to her?"

"Yes, that's the reason I'm here." Wasabi motions to the street. "We'll disembark at the British Museum. Now, who were those men chasing --?"

"Not so fast." Ollie narrows his eyes suspiciously. "How did you find our apartment? Explain that."

"You were blabbing about it at the graveyard party."

"Oh, yeah." Ollie blushes. "I forgot."

"You're lucky I tracked you down before those men did." Wasabi scolds us with his eyes. "Who were they?"

"Those guys work for a greedy man who's trying to cheat his mother out of her fortune," I explain in a rush of words. "His bank's pretending she's crazy and I'm a con artist, so they'll have a better case to take over her account. But I'm not conning her. She's helping me finance this trip 'cause I once helped her find a lottery ticket. And um...I think they're lawyers. At least they said they were. Like, really evil lawyers." Wow! I've got to get better at explaining that. No wonder the police don't believe me.

Wasabi arches an eyebrow.

"It's complicated. Anyway, we can't let our guard down." I privately chastise myself for being so stupid. After meeting Alabaster, we should've immediately checked into a hotel under a false name. "Those men are dangerous," I add.

Wasabi lowers his voice. "They're the least of your worries."

"What?" I put my hands on my hips. "I think someone trying to kill me rates pretty high up the worry-scale."

"They're not the _only_ ones to watch out for," Wasabi says, completely serious. "You have another enemy."

"This is not what I expected him to say. I hold up my hands. "Wait. Wait. Wait. Back up. Someone _else_ is trying to kill me?"

"No. Not someone. Some-thing."

"Thing?" The blare of a horn drowns out Wasabi's reply, so I ask him to repeat it.

The cat sighs and locks on me with a penetrating stare. "The same thing that killed your mother," he says. "The Growling."

Chapter Twenty Six

\- The British Museum -

We sit there in stunned silence; the only sound the whoosh of traffic.

"My mom died in a car accident," I say quietly. "Didn't she?"

"No. A creature killed her. This is our stop. Let's go." Wasabi leaps off the seat and hurries down the stairs.

"Hold up. You have to tell me more." I follow him out to the curb. The wrought iron fence of the museum stands before us, its gate ajar. But this isn't our destination. The cat turns in the opposite direction and scampers across the street, towards a grey brick townhouse.

"Her apartment's up there on the top floor," Wasabi tells me, "but the light's out."

I try the buzzer next to her name and get no response. "You're telling me my mom was murdered?"

Wasabi ignores my question. "She must be at her office."

"Where does she work?"

Wasabi doesn't answer me, or maybe he didn't hear. Instead, he trots back across the street and through the museum's gate. Next thing I know he's dashed up the building's steps and between the marble columns of the entrance. I guess my aunt works at the British Museum.

"You here for the sleepover?" a guard at the front asks.

"Um. I'm here to see my Aunt Lizzie, uh....Elizabeth Rosalina. She works here, I think."

"Do you have a ticket?"

"Um. No, I don't think I do."

The guard crosses his arms. "Can't get in without a ticket."

"OK. Just a sec."

Great. How am I supposed to follow the cat now? I pretend to look through my purse, stalling for time until I feel a tug at my pant leg. Wasabi drops a ticket at my feet and then vanishes again through the legs of the guard. That is one clever cat. "Oh. There it is," I say, bending to scoop it up. "I must have dropped it."

I present it to the guard's outstretched hand.

"This one's already stamped," he says suspiciously.

"Yes, I had to run home for something. I live nearby."

He squints at me, unsure of my story, but still waves me through the door. I feel like a spy, all stealthy and covert, at least until I run into a rope divider. Ouch. That hurt my shin. The view of the lobby distracts me from my pain, however.

The main atrium is enormous, roofed with glass tile, floored in polished marble, and filled with dozens of screaming kids. It appears the museum is hosting an elementary school sleepover. Wasabi stares at me from the entrance to the Egyptian wing, and I hurry over to him.

"Your Aunt's an exhibit curator," he tells me. "She's most likely in her office."

"Working late," Ollie remarks.

Wasabi nods and skirts around a sarcophagus. "Only during sleepovers. She lectures the kids. This way."

"Hey!" Ollie points to a statue of a cat. "There's one of your ancient relatives." Wasabi rolls his eyes.

"What did you mean when you said my mom was killed by something that growls?" I ask.

"The Growling," he corrects me. "A nasty creature. Your aunt can tell you more about it."

We past a towering granite sphinx and round a wall of hieroglyphics. In the dim track lighting these artifacts take on a sinister tone, and I shiver, despite the comfortable temperature. The revelation about my mother's death has shaken me. I've never known a bad creature, let alone one that could murder someone. I have so many questions.

We turn right down a hall and enter the administrative wing. Soon we arrive at a wooden door, the nametag of which reads, ' _Professor Rosalina - Latin American Collection_ '.

I knock twice. No answer.

"Do you have her phone numb --" before I can finish, Wasabi has jumped onto the latch, and pushed open the door.

The office is gorgeous. Mahogany shelves overflowing with leather volumes surround the room. Amongst these books have been wedged strange artifacts: Amazonian masks, Peruvian pan flutes, and a great number of stuffed parrots.

But there's no sign of my aunt.

Wasabi jumps onto the desk and pulls the cord on a tiffany lamp. Then he sniffs at an empty teacup that's acting as a paperweight. "Tea's still warm. She was here recently."

"Maybe she's elsewhere in the museum?" I suggest.

"Possibly," Wasabi begins purring loudly.

"Why are you making that sound?" Ollie asks.

"I'm thinking." The cat's hunched over, deep in thought, eyes glued on the papers sprawled across the inkblot. He paws at them, but is having trouble flipping them over, so I offer a hand. A tiny scrap catches his attention, and he purrs louder.

"What's that?" Ollie asks.

"Train reservation to Scotland," Wasabi says. "For tonight... 10pm. She must have just left for it."

"Well, aren't you a little purr-lock holmes!" I check the time. "Departs 2 hours from now. Plenty of time to catch up."

Ollie claps his hands excitedly. "I love trains. That's my second favorite method of travel. No wait, third. I like pogo sticks."

"Well then, tonight's your lucky night," Wasabi says. "Let's go."

We leave the office, glad to finally have a lead on my aunt's whereabouts. But we don't make it far. Halfway through the Egyptian exhibit, Wasabi stops me with an outstretched paw. His back is arched in fright.

"What is it?"

"Don't move," he says.

"Is it the guard?" By now, I imagine he's figured out my ticket was bogus.

Wasabi shakes his head. "Worse. Much worse."

"Hey, that statue wasn't there when we arrived, was it?" Ollie remarks. I squint into the darkness to see what he's talking about. Near the front of the exhibit, silhouetted against a doorway crouches a large, Anubis-like statue. A canine head rises from its muscular body, but it's too dark to make out any other features.

"That's not a statue," Wasabi warns. "That....is the Growling."

Chapter Twenty Seven

\- Monster in the Dark -

My heart rate begins to race. Adrenaline floods through my veins. So, this is the creature that killed my mother. Part of me wants to the confront the beast, despite the obvious risk. But the little I can make out in the dim light convinces me otherwise. Its outline is huge, with taut muscles and a menacing posture. Does it see us? Just to be safe, we duck behind a hieroglyphic wall.

"Should we run?" Ollie asks.

"No," Wasabi answers. "You need to walk right by it."

I stare down at him in disbelief. "What? Are you crazy?"

"The Growling only attacks people who notice him. Right now, he's here for your aunt. He doesn't know that you share her ability to see us. So, all you have to do...is walk right past him as if he's not even there."

I swallow hard. "I don't know if I can do that."

"You have to."

"That thing killed my mother."

"I know. But you mustn't think of that. Just ignore him."

"I'll be right beside you," Ollie says.

Wasabi shakes his head. "If the Growling sees us with you, he'll know you can see creatures, including him, and he'll attack. You must go alone." Sensing the hesitation on my face, he adds, "Don't worry about us; he only attacks humans."

Ollie crosses his arms, clearly unhappy with the situation. "Why don't we find another exit?"

"There isn't any. The Growling is clever. He'll remain near the front atrium to block any escape. I'm afraid the only way out of this museum is right past him."

I tighten my jaw. "All right. I'll meet you two outside. Wish me luck."

"You can do this," Wasabi tells me.

Ollie hugs my ankle and reluctantly follows the grey tabby out of sight. I take a deep breath and step out from behind the wall.

The Growling is no longer in the doorway. He's either inside the exhibit with me or returned to the atrium. I can't decide which is worse. At least in here, I've got some cover. I duck from statue to statue, keeping my eyes alert for signs of movement. Then I realize how suspicious this must look. I need to act more casual, as if my life's not in danger. Feeling horribly exposed, I make my way to the center of the exhibit, and then stride calmly towards the exit.

I feel breath over my right shoulder.

It takes great restraint not to look. But something is definitely there.

A rotting smell stings my nostrils. A low rumble fills my ears. Out of my periphery, I see a form, indistinct and blurry, rising to its feet.

_Don't look at it,_ I tell myself. _Don't even glance. Keep walking. Keep moving. Don't stop. And whatever you do, don't react._

My heart's beating so loudly, I think for sure the Growling must hear it. I take a deep breath and hum a melody to myself. Soon I've made it out of the exhibit.

The atrium is empty. The kids must be taking a tour of another exhibit. But I still don't look back. Not until I'm out of the building, I tell myself. I head for the door, and am halfway there when a sound turns my blood cold.

It's the click clack of nails on marble.

The creature is still behind me. Every muscle in my body wants to sprint for the exit, but I ignore the impulse. Instead, I swing my arms in what I hope is a carefree fashion. However, I do pick up the pace a bit.

The click clack grows louder.

Hot breath warms the back of my neck.

_Don't react. Don't react. Don't react. Keep moving!_

I move steadily through the columns, wave at the guard, and descend the museum's steps. The moon behind me bathes the courtyard in blue light. It also reveals shadows. And there's a big one behind me, keeping pace.

Oh, no. No. No. No! The Growling's following me.

The massive shadow stretches out across the flagstone, swallowing everything in its way. I make out the shape of massive legs, a bulbous head, and thick jaw. Then, abruptly, it stops moving. Now, the farther I walk, the shorter the shadow becomes; the creature must've stopped trailing me. I don't celebrate yet, however, not until I'm through those gates. It's not much farther; just a few more steps.

A deep bark startles me. I flinch.

_Oh, no. I flinched!_

Wasabi leaps out from behind the gate. "Run, Sara! He knows!"

A deep howl rattles my ears. Heavy footsteps ring out across the courtyard. Something big is sprinting after me, gaining fast. I dash into the street and plow into a skinny, polka-dotted creature that's appeared out of nowhere. He's not alone. The road is filled with hundreds of strange creatures: a parade. And every single one of them is holding up a melon.

"Quick! Put this on!" Ollie draws my attention from the sidewalk. He tosses up a strange hat, which I quickly realize is a carved out cantaloupe. This is a worse disguise than that statue idea he had at the fountain. But there's no time to argue. I wedge the rind onto my head. Cantaloupe juices drip down my neck. Ugh.

The crowd presses against me, and soon I'm swept along with them, chanting "Can-ta-loupe. Can-ta-loupe. Can-ta-loupe." After a few steps, I chance a look behind me.

No monster with sharp teeth. No demon dog. No Growling. Nothing but creatures holding melons. I breathe a sigh of relief. To be on the safe side, however, I march another block with this group of weirdos. Ollie and Wasabi catch up with me at an intersection. Soon the whole parade dissipates to make room for oncoming traffic.

"That was a close shave," Wasabi says.

"Thank goodness for melon parades," I exclaim, which is a sentence I never thought I'd say.

"Yes, they're great fun," Ollie gushes.

Wasabi doesn't share his enthusiasm. "We're far from safe," he reminds us. "Sara flinched when the Growling barked. He knows she can see him now. And he won't stop until he's hunted her down."

I pull off the cantaloupe helmet and toss it into a rubbish bin. My hair still smells like melon, and I suspect it will for some time. "What's his problem anyway?" I ask. "Why does the Growling hate when people see him?"

"No one's asked," Wasabi explains. "He's not a great conversationalist."

"Clearly."

Ollie points to a subway entrance. "We better get going to catch that train." He and I head for the stairs. Wasabi doesn't join us, however. The little cat stays rooted to the sidewalk.

"I'm not so sure we should take that train," he says.

I spin around. "What?

"After he lost you in the parade, the Growling returned to the museum. It wasn't difficult for us to find those train reservations. He might too. It was foolish of us to leave them."

I understand his concern, but it'll take more than that to scare me off. "It was a one way ticket," I protest. "We don't know how long my aunt will be gone for. This might be my last chance to meet her."

"That's true, but it's not worth the risk. We're better off going into hiding."

I put my hands astride my hips. "Well, that's my decision, isn't it? I'm the one in danger."

Wasabi furrows his cute little brow. "It's your decision," he admits. "But I advise great caution. You got lucky back there. Next time, you may not be so fortunate."

"You're a cynical kitty," Ollie says.

"I'm being realistic."

"You're a crabby tabby is what you are."

"And you're --"

"Gentlemen, please." I raise my voice. "We're going after my aunt. End of discussion."

Wasabi protests. "But the Growl -- " I hold up my hand. "Discussion ended."

I turn my attention to a sad little hedgehog creature sitting on the curb. She's spinning a honeydew melon in her hands, looking all the while, terribly depressed. "Excuse me," I say.

"Yes?" she looks up with sad eyes.

"What's your name?"

"Hannah."

"Bummed the parade's over?"

"Yes, arrived too late." The poor little thing is on the verge of tears.

"There, there," Ollie says. "No need to feel so...melon-coly." He gazes up at me with an expectant grin, but I shake my head disapprovingly. He then frowns and tries to comfort the hedgehog by patting her spiky back. This proves equally disastrous for obvious reasons. Serves him right, the little smart alec.

I smile at the little hedgehog. "Well, Hannah. I've got a job for you. Interested?"

Her eyes brighten instantly. "What kinda job?"

"Can you use a payphone?"

She nods.

"Good. Would you mind standing guard outside the British Museum?"

"Guarding what?"

"I want you to look for a certain creature: a big wolf-like brute with spider eyes."

As I describe the creature out loud, I realize why it sounds so familiar. It wasn't a dog that my mom added to the pen she left in the fountain room; it was the Growling! I take out the pen and show it to the hedgehog. "Like this," I say, pointing to the tiny drawing.

"What do I do if I see it?"

"Nothing. But if you can't find him, or if he leaves the building, you must call me immediately." I write my number on a scrap of paper and pull a few coins from my change purse. The tiny hedgehog stows them in her pocket, salutes, and rolls off down the sidewalk.

"Good thinking," Wasabi says.

I grin. "Sometimes I'm not a _total_ idiot."

"Unless you're around attractive boys," Ollie reminds me.

"Thank you."

"Then you say stupid things."

"OK, Mr. Melon-coly. That's enough. Let's get moving."

"And you snort when you laugh."

"Ollie, please shut up."

Chapter Twenty Eight

\- On the Right Track -

We take the underground from Holborn, riding the Piccadilly Line all the way. I breathe a sigh of relief when we reach our final station. The vaulted concourse of King's Cross feels cavernous after the claustrophobia of the subway, and it's good to stretch my legs. We still have a few minutes until we can board our train so we take the time to scan the crowds for my aunt.

"What does she look like?" I ask.

"She's partial to big hats with lots of feathers," Wasabi says.

"That should be easy to spot."

"Unless she's disguised, a distinct possibility."

For such a late hour, I'm surprised how packed the station is, the platforms teeming with people of all shapes and sizes. Equally varied are the creatures milling about the crowds, and I'm surprised they don't run into each other. Many of the creatures are wearing tuxedos and Ollie starts complaining about being underdressed.

"Trains are classy," he says. "We should've made an effort."

"You look fine," I assure him. "Very debonair."

Wasabi presses against my legs, and I almost trip over him a couple of times. He's on edge, vigilantly scanning for signs of danger. "I don't think we should be out in the open like this," he says.

"Don't be such a worry wort," I tell him. But even as I say this, my eyes lock with a man seated at a nearby bench. His brow furrows when he sees me. _Was he one of the men who trapped me underground in the fountain?_

No, I'm just being paranoid. Wasabi's got me seeing things now. The man puts away his book and strolls over to a snack kiosk. See, he's just getting a pretzel or something. I shake my head and continue the search for my aunt.

"I think we'll have better luck on the train," Ollie says. "Too many people here."

I agree, and so we duck into a tiny cafe to wait. A few sips later, a cappuccino and cheese sandwich has perked me back to full alertness. I ordered a glass of water for Wasabi and a piece of toast for Ollie. This actually took a while to get since I had to keep sending the toast back for 'not being burnt enough.'

"I like it crispy," Ollie explains.

"Well, it looks like charcoal," I say.

"It's delicious." He takes a loud chomp, spilling crumbs everywhere.

"Eat it quickly," Wasabi says. "I believe they're boarding our train." He's right; conductors are now ushering folks aboard.

I stare down each passenger queuing up. "Should we wait out here for my aunt to come by?"

"We don't know which car she's in," Wasabi reminds me. "Better to take our seat and find her once we're underway."

"Not sure they'll allow cats."

"Probably not. But this wouldn't be the first train on which I've stowed away." Wasabi grins and trots over to the conductor. He slips right past the man while he's distracted reading a passenger's ticket. I marvel at this skill. Wish I were that stealthy.

The conductor smiles at me. "Seat number?"

"21B"

"On your right. Hang onto that ticket. We'll punch it during the trip. Welcome aboard."

"Yay!" Ollie squeals with delight. He wasn't kidding about loving trains.

. . .

"Last call!" cries the station's PA system. Then my seat lurches backward as the train kicks up to speed. We're off!

"Ready for a little reconnaissance?" Wasabi asks.

"Always," Ollie says, although I doubt he knows the word's meaning. He's so excited about being onboard, he'd probably agree to anything at this point.

I nod. "I'll take the front cars. You take the rear." Our seat's about halfway through the train, so it makes sense to divide and conquer.

"Agreed," Wasabi says. "Meet back here in ten minutes."

We split up - Wasabi heading back to the caboose; Ollie and I making for the engines. It's slow going. The train sways rhythmically, and I touch the seat tops to maintain balance. Since coach is fairly crowded, we're forced to take our time, carefully scanning each seat for anyone with crazy hats. Wasabi mentioned that my aunt usually wears her hair in a bun and likes Victorian dresses. That should be enough to identify her, but if she's in disguise, she might be dressed in modern clothes, too. The best way to spot her, Wasabi said, was to look for someone remarkably similar to my mom.

I glance at the photo the Chesterfields gave me. A pretty woman smiles back as if to reassure me everything's going to be all right.

So far no one here looks remotely like her. Most of the passengers we encounter are men, or young couples.

"Can I help you?" asks a woman I've been staring at for a good ten seconds.

"Your name isn't Elizabeth Rosalina, is it?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I think you've got the wrong person."

"Sorry. You look like someone I know." I raise my hands in apology and continue on down the aisle.

Ollie, who's perched on my shoulder, leans into my ear. "Maybe she's wearing a false nose. On the way back, see if you can pinch it."

"I'm not going to pinch a stranger's nose."

"Make an excuse."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You were flicking away a spider."

"That's a terrible idea."

Ollie crosses his arms. "I think it's a solid excuse. If there were a spider on my nose, I'd want you to flick it."

"It wasn't her. She was too old."

We cross the rumbling thresh-hold between cars and enter first class. These tickets must be pretty expensive, because the car is practically empty - just a couple of women in business suits and a man in a kilt. Next we enter the sleeper cars. The doors to the cabins are closed, so I've no idea if my aunt is here or not. Before I know it, we've arrived at the engine. No sign of my aunt. Not even a fancy hat. Nothing.

"Let's hope Wasabi had better luck," I say, retracing my steps. Ollie reminds me on the way back to pinch that poor woman's nose, but I ignore him. The grey tabby is already waiting for us by the time we return. "Any luck?" I ask.

"I didn't see your aunt? You?"

"No," I answer. "But she may be in one of the sleeper cars."

Wasabi frowns. "You didn't check each one?"

"I don't want to get kicked off the train."

"That's a risk we have to take," Wasabi says. "We're not safe out here in the open."

Ollie's happiness suddenly vanishes. "What do you mean? Did you see the Growling?"

Wasabi shakes his head. "I found a pile of discarded tickets someone threw on the ground."

"So?" I must be tired, because I don't get what he's hinting at.

"So, they were for trains departing within minutes of each other."

"Oh no."

"What?" Ollie asks. "Why would someone do that?"

"We were spotted at the train station," Wasabi explains. "But they didn't know which train we'd board, so they bought tickets to all of them."

"One of Alabaster's men," I say. "That guy at the snack bar probably."

"He's likely trailing you...won't attack on a crowded train," Wasabi says, "But we shouldn't take any chances. Be extra careful when you pass between cars."

"OK. Should we go knock on a few doors now?"

Wasabi scratches his chin. "No, let's go to the dining car. Your aunt is a night owl and likes midnight snacks. We might catch her there."

"An owl?" Ollie asks. "Why didn't you mention that earlier?"

"Not a literal owl," I say.

Ollie still looks confused. "She doesn't like books?"

I roll my eyes. "Come on. I'm hungry too."

Since it's not mealtime, the dining car is practically deserted. They're still serving coffee and biscuits, however, so I order a healthy serving of both. Our table is tiny, a linen-covered slab with a vase bolted to its center and a single rose that spins with each curve of the tracks. Large windows to my right provide views of the countryside whipping by at high speed, and I press my face against the glass. There's not much beyond a patchwork of fields, tiny villages, and a full moon that appears to keep pace with the train.

The coffee tastes burnt, but it's the warmth that I'm after, so I clutch the cup tightly with both hands. Ollie is stacking sugar cubes, but having great difficulty due to the movement of the train. I peer over my cup at the other diners.

There's an old man with a beard near the back, a young couple holding hands across the table, and a fat hippo creature daintily sipping a cup of Earl Grey. Nothing unusual.

"How did you meet my aunt?" I ask Wasabi.

"At the cemetery. She often visits her sister's grave."

"You guys must've hung out a lot. You sure know a lot about her."

Wasabi nods. "I stay at her apartment when I'm in the city on a case."

"A case?"

"Yes, I'm a private detective."

"Oh, that explains a lot." I realize now why my aunt trusts him so much. He's probably used to dangerous situations.

"What mysteries are you working on?" Ollie asks, giving up his attempts at stacking sugar cubes.

"Right now, just the mystery of where you're aunt went. But that one's been solved."

"Solved?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Yes," Wasabi answers. "She's right behind you."

I spin around. A tall, elegant woman in a Victorian dress in standing directly behind me, one hand resting on the back of my seat. She has a kind smile and an enormous feathered hat.

"Hello Sara," she says. "It's great to see you again."

Chapter Twenty Nine

\- Aunt Lizzie -

Lizzie scoots into the seat across from me and smiles again. She has beautiful green eyes, which catch the light and hold your attention. "My, you've certainly grown. You're looking more and more like your mother."

"It's very nice to meet you." This is the understatement of the year, but it's still the polite thing to say.

"I like your hat," Ollie says.

"Thank you. Hat-making's a hobby of mine."

I stare at her in amazement. She responded to Ollie! She can see him! This is the first person I've ever met who shares my ability, who can see creatures like I do. It means I'm not crazy after all. Tears of happiness wet my eyes.

"What's your name?" Lizzie asks, shaking Ollie's tiny hand.

"Ollie. I'm Sara's bodyguard."

"Glad she's being looked after." Lizzie takes off her hat, and scratches Wasabi under his chin. "Thanks for bringing her, both of you. How did you find me?"

"You left train reservations on your desk," Wasabi says.

Lizzie smacks her head. "Sloppy. I really should be more careful." She lowers her voice. "Had to leave in a hurry. The Growling was on my trail."

"We know," I say. "We ran into him at the museum."

The smile leaves my aunt's face. Her jaw drops in horror. "Does he know you can see him?"

"I'm afraid he does," Wasabi says.

Aunt Lizzie's whole demeanor changes. Her shoulders slump. Her eyes widen. A look of terror seizes her face. "How did you escape?"

With a little help from my friends," I say, quoting the Beatles. I wink at Ollie.

"I'm sorry. I should've written you ages ago, warned you about the danger." Lizzie sighs. "But I promised your mother I wouldn't. I gave my word."

"What? Why?"

"She was worried any contact might provide a clue for the Growling to track you down." She pauses, as if hesitant to explain the rest. "And she was afraid if you knew the truth, you'd ignore the danger, and try to visit us anyway."

"She's right. I'm not afraid."

The smile returns to Lizzie's face. "You're your mother's daughter all right. Beautifully stubborn."

"Thank you."

"But the Growling is dangerous. It's a miracle I've evaded him this long. You must return to the States as soon as possible."

"I will. But I have a few questions first..."

"I imagine you would." A waiter stops by and Lizzie orders a cup of Moroccan mint tea.

"Who built that fountain in Paris? The one that gives us the ability to see creatures?"

Lizzie shrugs. "I'm not sure. Our family's known about it for generations. We always considered the sight a gift, a special window into an invisible world. That's why we let you swim in the fountain on your third birthday...so you'd see the creatures, too. However, we never would've done it had we known about the Growling. We found out about him too late."

"Is it really a gift, though? Having everyone think you're crazy?"

Lizzie grabs my hand. "There's a way to make them see, you know. But you must only show those who can handle it. All you have to do is grab their wrist, like this, and take their pulse." She demonstrates with my arm. "Your heart rates will align. And while you maintain that connection, they'll see everything you see."

"Wish my mom had taught me that."

Lizzie's face lights up as she remembers something. "Did you find the hidden room under the fountain?"

"Yes, that's where we found the pen that led us to London."

"You read her note then? The one your mother left for you."

I bow my head. "No, rats got to it first. There was nothing but shreds left. Can you tell me what it said?"

"I can do one better. After all, she made a copy."

"A copy?"

"Yes, I've got it squirreled away at my house in Scotland. That's where I'm headed now. I'll give it to you when we arrive." Lizzie squeezes my hand. "Your mother figured you might come looking for her, once you were old enough. She wrote that letter to warn you away and keep you safe."

"Can't we stop this Growling? Kill him?"

We've tried, without success. The best we've been able to do is set up a warning network of creatures. Stay one step ahead of him."

I smile and pull out my cell phone. "I did that too. I asked a creature to call me if the Growling leaves the British Museum."

My pride suddenly vanishes, replaced by fear. The phone's screen registers a missed call and voice message. That hedgehog must've tried to warn me while I was out of reception. Oh, no. That was three hours ago.

"The Growling is a tough beast to contain, clever and cunning," Aunt Lizzie continues.

"He's also right outside this train," Ollie says. "Look!"

What!!! We turn to the window. A low cloud compounds the darkness, limiting visibility. But the fog's punctuated by streetlights. A row of them dots a road parallel to the tracks. They illuminate a shadow sprinting down the lanes, keeping pace with the train. There can be no mistaking the outline.

It's the Growling. He's found us.

Chapter Thirty

\- The Growling -

"Don't worry," Lizzie tries to reassure us. "The train's going too fast for him to board."

"What happens when we pull into a stop?" Wasabi asks.

Lizzie's brow furrows. "Then...we worry."

Wasabi begins purring nervously. "We'll be easy prey inside this train."

I press my face against the window to block out any reflections. The beast is in a dead sprint, its muscles rippling with effort. Surely, it can't sustain that speed forever. "Maybe we can convince the conductor to miss his stop," I say.

"How are you going to do that?"

"Financial motivation. I've got a wealthy sponsor."

Lizzie shrugs. "It's worth a shot. A few thousand might do it. If we can tire the Growling out, we might loose him."

I toss a few bucks down on the table to pay for our drinks. Then we all push away from the table and race for the engine.

We don't make it that far.

In between cars, a figure steps out of the shadows. I don't see his face right away, because my eyes are drawn to the knife in his hand.

"Stop right there," says Alabaster Coldstone. Wasabi arches his back and hisses.

Lizzie takes a step to shield us. "We don't have any money," she says bravely.

"At long last, we meet the mastermind behind the curtain," Alabaster sneers. He takes a step closer. "I knew Sara wasn't bright enough to run this little con. Someone else had to be pulling the strings."

"You know this man?" Lizzie asks.

"Yes," I say defiantly. "He sent men to hurt me."

Alabaster twists the knife in his hand. "You started this when you took my family's money."

This makes me furious. I ball my fists in rage. "Mrs. Coldstone financed my trip of her own free will. You're the one trying to steal from her."

Lizzie turns back to Alabaster. "Look. Whatever your disagreement with my niece is, we can talk about it like adults. There's no need for violence."

"Your niece? So it's a family affair, is it?"

Before Lizzie can respond, the door behind us cranks open and a conductor enters. Alabaster quickly pockets his weapon.

"You folks can't linger between cars," says the train official. "Move along, please."

"Of course," says Alabaster. He ducks around Lizzie and presses the blade of his knife against my back. "Let's go for a little stroll, shall we?"

Lizzie is about to say something, but the look on Alabaster's face convinces her otherwise. She follows his outstretched hand back into the dining car. I follow with Alabaster close behind, his weapon still aimed at my spine. "Keep going," he hisses. "All the way to the end."

"Or what? You're gonna stab me in a train full of witnesses?" I ask.

"I might." His voice is calm and creepy, and I believe him. This man has lost his mind. We have no choice but to do what he says.

We pass through several cars dotted with sleeping passengers. Every instinct inside me wants to cry out for help, but the knife pressed between my shoulder blades keeps me silent. Eventually we arrive at the caboose, a tight compartment lined with luggage. There's no one here and nothing beyond but an enclosed balcony overlooking the receding tracks. The doors seal us in with a mechanical hiss.

"That's better," Alabaster says. "Now, we can chat without being interrupted."

"How much money do you need," Lizzie asks, "to leave my niece alone?"

"Oh, don't try to reverse this," Alabaster waves the knife threateningly. "All I've ever wanted is to protect my family's money. No third party's going to siphon it off!"

I stamp my foot in anger. "For the last time, I'm not cheating your mother!"

"Oh, so you really see invisible creatures?"

Lizzie arches an eyebrow. "You told him?"

"I told his mother. She told him."

An unearthly howl interrupts our conversation. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. I've heard the sound before, back at the British Museum. Lizzie shoves open the back door. Then she steps out onto the open-air balcony that clings to the rear of the caboose. I join her, followed by Ollie, Wasabi, and finally, Alabaster.

A cold wind hits my face. The grinding of metal fills my ears. And I grip the railing as tightly as I can.

"I don't think you'd survive the jump," Alabaster says. "If that's what you're thinking."

"If you must know," snaps my aunt, "I'm thinking you should either buy a toupee or shave your head bald." She turns and squints into the darkness.

The train's rear lights illuminate the tracks, each bar receding like a filmstrip into the darkness. On the edge of this glow, I glimpse movement. Something large is running after the train. There's no doubt in my mind what it is.

"He's catching up," Lizzie says.

I shake my head. "I think we're slowing down."

"There's no escape," Alabaster sneers.

That's it. I've had just about enough of this guy. "You think you're so scary, huh?" I tell him. "Well, I'll show you scary."

Alabaster smirks. "What are you -- "?

Before he can finish, I reach out and grab his free hand like my aunt taught me. He tries to rip free, but my grip's too strong. I hold on tight, finding his pulse. "Look back there. You see it now?"

He glances in the direction I'm pointing. His eyes go wide. At that moment, the snarling form of the Growling charges into the light.

Its six eyes glow red. Veins bulge in its neck. Saliva flows from its jaws.

Alabaster lets out a high-pitched scream.

He drops his knife in fright. The Growling snarls, and snaps at the air.

"What is it?" Alabaster's face has drained of color. He looks like he might faint at any moment. "What is that THING?"

"Your worst nightmare. That's what it is," I say. "And now that you've seen him, you're not safe either."

Alabaster is frozen in shock, his whole body shaking. Honestly, I feel a little sorry for him. But there's no time for pity.

Lizzie opens the caboose door. "We've got to prevent this train from slowing further. Come on!"

We dash through the cars at high speed. Ollie rides on Wasabi's back in order to keep up with Lizzie and myself. Alabaster, meanwhile, runs into a bathroom to hide, so we leave him behind. I can feel the train slowing. There's no time to lose.

At last we make it to the small compartment outside the engine room. A conductor bars the door. "Is something wrong?" he asks, noticing the sweat on our brows.

"We mustn't stop at the next station," Lizzie pants between breaths.

"Pardon me?"

"This train...it must go faster."

"What's the emergency?" The conductor gives us a stern look.

I cast Aunt Lizzie a glance. There's no way he'll believe us. "It's my dad," I lie.

Lizzie nods. "Ex husband. Terribly violent man. He just texted me that he's waiting at the next station."

"Please don't stop," I beg.

"Ladies, ladies. Please calm down. We can offer you protection."

I shake my head. "Not against him you can't. He...um --"

"Escaped an asylum," Ollie suggests.

"...escaped an asylum," I blurt out. "A few days ago."

"Is that a fact?" The conductor narrows his eyes skeptically.

That was a stupid thing to say. I went too far. And now I have to commit. "Yes, he's certifiably insane and dangerous. If we stop at the next station, he'll get us. He's very possessive."

"And a heavyweight boxing champion who knows kung-fu," Ollie adds, but I ignore his suggestions - like I should've done initially.

The conductor checks his pocket-watch. "Let me have a word with my colleagues. Wait right here." With a final suspicious glance backwards, he vanishes into the next car.

"Think he bought it?" I ask.

"Yes, you're an excellent liar," Wasabi says. "Very convincing."

"Really?"

"No," Wasabi rolls his eyes. "That's just me showing you what proper lying sounds like."

Aunt Lizzie bites her lower lip. "We're still slowing down. They didn't buy our excuse."

"What are we going to do?" Panic causes my hands to shake.

"Jump," says Ollie.

"What?" We all turn and stare at him.

"You have to get off this train. Quickly," he explains. "The only way is by jumping."

"Um. I'd like to get off this train AND live."

"Is there any water nearby?" he asks.

Aunt Lizzie raises her phone and pulls up a map. "Before we get to the station, we cross a river..." She looks up at us. There's no need to say more.

"Are you serious?" I ask.

Ollie shrugs. "We've slowed down. Won't hit the water that hard."

"If we manage to hit it. No offense, Ollie. But your plans don't have the best track record. Why don't we just hide in Lizzie's cabin?"

"Wouldn't work," Lizzie answers. "The Grrowling has a keen sense of smell. He knows our scent. She sighs and gestures to the emergency exit. "I'm afraid Ollie's right, there's only one way off this train."

I turn to the side door and stare through its window. Oak trees whip by at high velocities. A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. "I don't think I can do this."

Aunt Lizzie places a hand on my shoulder. "Sara, I've had several close scrapes with the Growling. And each time, I felt the presence of your mother. She's here, watching out for us, protecting us. So don't be afraid. You can do this. I know you can."

"OK." I take a deep breath and smile at my onion friend. "Let's go with Ollie's plan. Time for a swim."

An ear-piercing howl shatters my confidence. The Growling has boarded the train.

Chapter Thirty One

\- The Bridge -

"How much longer to the river?" I ask.

Lizzie checks her phone. "A couple minutes."

"That may not be enough time," Wasabi warns. He's purring up a storm, which means he's nervous.

I glance back into the train, but don't see movement in any of the cars...yet.

"Open the door," Ollie says. "I'm going to distract him. Buy you some time."

"What? No way. He'll tear you to shreds."

Ollie shakes his head. "He's not after me. He only hates _people_ who see him, not creatures."

I'm not convinced. "Are you sure?"

"Don't worry. I've thought this through."

"Now I'm really worried." Despite my better instincts, I press the release button and open the door for him. He dashes through without another word.

I press my face against the door's circular window. Ollie has climbed into the luggage racks and is busy tossing down as many duffel bags and suitcases as he can lift.

"What's he doing?" Lizzie asks.

"He's making a mess. No, wait. Now he's playing tug-of-war with a businessman over his briefcase. OK, he's given that up. Now, he's stacking luggage in the aisle. He's making a wall."

"That won't hold the Growling long," Wasabi says.

"We don't need that long," Lizzie says. "Here comes the river. Get ready."

A knock sounds on the door and Ollie returns with a look of satisfaction on his face. "Did you see what I did?"

"Yes, it's quite impressive. Your wall -- " I turn my head to admire his handiwork. But an enormous head blocks my view. I stare into the Growling's spider eyes. He's right outside the window.

I scream.

Lizzie throws herself against the door to prevent it from opening. The hydraulics release, but it doesn't budge. "Outside door," she yells. "Open it!"

I run to the emergency release and lift the cover. Then I jam down the lever. A whoosh of air fills the car.

The outside door slides open.

Oh my gosh! Although the train has slowed considerably, we're still going at a fast clip. All I see are trees whizzing by one after another. Jumping into them would be fatal. I turn back to my aunt.

"How much farther?"

Before she can respond, the Growling throws its full strength against the door. It buckles under the pressure and twists apart. Lizzie stumbles backwards. She rolls sideways, narrowly avoiding a claw. Then she lunges in my direction.

Oof! The breath is knocked from my lungs.

I realize my aunt's tackled me. We're falling backwards. The train towers above us, then a trestle, then wooden pilings, and then...

SPLASH!

Freezing water envelopes me. Seaweed, bubbles, and mud.

I thrash about until I come to the surface, gasping for air. Lizzie grabs my hand. Together we swim to the river's edge and collapse onto the grassy bank. Wasabi and Ollie flop down next to us.

We made it! We're alive. I hug my aunt gratefully.

"Told you it'd work," Ollie says.

"I knew you could do it," she says, rubbing my arms to warm them.

"You didn't give me much choice."

"No, we didn't." Lizzie offers an apologetic smile. "We chose for you when we brought you to that fountain...Your mom and I will always feel bad about that. But you have a choice now."

"I do?"

"Yes. You can escape back to America and hope the Growling doesn't follow you."

"Or?"

Aunt Lizzie brushes a strand of hair from her face. "Or...you can help me defeat him."

I grin, despite the cold. "I think you know my answer."

"Good. Come on. We're not safe yet. We need to get off this river."

Chapter Thirty Two

\- Meadow's End -

Luckily for us, there's a farmhouse not far away, just across a lettuce field bordering the river. We must look highly suspicious, two soaking wet ladies knocking on the door in the middle of the night. But the landowners, an elderly couple in their pajamas, takes pity on us and invite us in to warm by the fire. Lizzie spins an elaborate story about a nocturnal fishing trip gone awry.

"That's how you tell a lie," Wasabi informs me.

"Should I take notes?" I whisper back.

We huddle close to the hearth until our clothes dry or at least, become only slightly damp. The couple invites us to spend the night, but we politely decline, and instead walk the short distance into town. There's a fish n' chips place here with several big rigs parked in its lot. Thirty minutes and a plate of french fries later, we've arranged for a ride with a large woman named Sally who drives a produce truck.

Her main cabin is spacious and more than enough room for the five of us. Sally explains that she likes to chat and would enjoy the company. She's not kidding. The lady talks and talks, barely allowing us to get a word in edgewise. It's just as well; I'd much rather sleep than carry on conversation. My eyelids grow heavy watching the air freshener swing from the rearview mirror. Highway signs fade away into slumber. A sense of peace and calm washes over me.

And before I know it, Aunt Lizzie is gently shaking me awake. "We're here, Sara. Time to rise and shine."

I pry my eyelids open. Where are we?

"Welcome to Meadow's End," Aunt Lizzie says.

Sally's truck has deposited us deep in the Scottish highlands. She must've taken a special detour for us, because we're parked at the end of a tiny, one lane road. Grey billowing clouds fill the sky, but the sun manages to peek through cracks here and there, bathing the countryside in swathes of emerald hues. I take a deep breath of the crisp highland air.

"Wow. Beautiful."

"Wait until you see the castle," Wasabi says.

"Castle?"

"Bit drafty, but it's home," Lizzie says.

She gestures up a serpentine driveway that winds its way through a few valleys and up a tall hill. At its crest stands a structure of granite and moss, silhouetted dramatically against the clouds. It's cracked towers and ramparts have fallen into disrepair, but it's still beautiful, starkly beautiful.

"Want to come in for tea?" she asks Sally.

The truck driver politely declines, explaining that she has a shipment of frozen broccoli to deliver. We thank her for the ride and watch as the truck performs a brilliant 3-point turn, then rumbles off down the road.

A short walk later, we're at the steps of the castle. Aunt Lizzie produces a thick metal key and pries open the gigantic doors. They creak apart ominously.

Lights flicker across the walls, illuminating the foyer. I'm glad the interior is more welcoming than the outside. Oak bookshelves line the walls; Persian carpets coat the stone; elaborate chandeliers sparkle in the darkness. The combined effect gives the space a cozy, welcoming air.

Lizzie guides me to a stuffed armchair and flicks a switch on the wall, igniting the gas fireplace. I notice an old fashioned phone resting on the end table and ask if I can use it.

"Sure, she says and nods to the kitchen, "I'll go make us that tea."

Now familiar with the routine, it doesn't take Mrs. Coldstone's neighbor long to get her on the line.

"Hello, Sara?" she says. "Have you seen Alabaster recently?

"Yes -- actually..."

"I got a call from his bank," she interrupts. "They said he caused a scene aboard a train. He's been taken to a mental hospital for observation."

"A mental hospital?"

"Yes, in Carlisle. I think the stress of work has gotten to him. My other son, Nathan, is flying over to check on him. Oh, Sara. I'm so sorry I didn't believe you when you told me my son was acting strange. Poor Alabaster's had a nervous breakdown."

I was about to tell her that her son pulled a knife on me, but couldn't bear to say it. Mrs. Coldstone sounds worried enough as is. I do tell her I've met up with my aunt, keeping our location vague. Near the end of our call, I offer best wishes for Alabaster's recovery, and sincerely mean it. I'm the one who caused him to see the Growling, after all. Though, to be fair, he didn't give me much choice, what with threatening my life and all.

I hang up the phone, still feeling a tad guilty. At least Alabaster's mental breakdown has derailed his plans. They can't very well make the case that he's saner than his mother now. Her fortune's safe from any takeover. And since there's no scheme for me to ruin anymore, his men should leave me alone once and for all. I'll explain everything to Mrs. Coldstone at some point, but it's best to let her calm down for the time being.

While I was on the phone, Aunt Lizzie had unlatched a chest that served as the coffee table and begun rooting through its contents. She finally locates what she's been searching for: a thin white envelope. Using an ornate knife, she carefully opens the seam and hands its contents to me.

"That's the copy I told you about. Your mother always planned ahead, that's for sure."

Chapter Thirty Three

\- Mom's Letter -

Dearest Sara,

I gather one of the creatures told you why you see them, and that's what brought you here, to this fountain. Or maybe you saw that photo of you as a baby.

Well, it's all true. This is where my sister and I took you to bathe on your third birthday, granting you the power of sight. Please understand that our intentions were good. I wanted you to experience the world the way I do, the way my sister does, the way your late grandmother did.

I had no idea the danger it would put you in...or I would've never let you loose in those magical waters.

You see, there's a creature that hunts those who can see him. Not a warm, friendly, weirdo like the many creatures you've undoubtedly encountered, but a terrible, ferocious beast. He goes by many names, the most common being, "The Growling". And he knows about your Aunt Lizzie and me.

That's why I had to break off all contact with you. And it's the reason you must now abandon your quest to find me. I repeat, don't seek me out. Return at once to the States where it's safer. I wish it didn't have to be this way, but it's the reality of our situation. Even leaving you this letter was a risk - the Growling is fiendishly clever, after all, and skilled at tracking its victims - but I had to leave a warning in case you made it this far.

One day I hope it'll be safe to reunite. Your aunt and I are working hard to make that happen. We've canvassed hundreds of libraries and archives, researching the beast, trying to find a weakness. Reasoning with him is useless, and conventional weapons have no effect. However, it is possible to defeat him.

I don't want to get your hopes up too high, but after many years of searching we may have finally found the answer. Wish us luck!

Remember, I love you. I've always loved you.

_And I always will love you._ No matter what.

Abrazos y besos,

Mom

Chapter Thirty Four

\- The Grotto Archives -

I put down the letter and wipe the tears from my eyes. Aunt Lizzie sets a cup and saucer in front of me and shoos away a beverage bather.

"I always loved reading your mother's letters. She was quite the wordsmith."

"What's this about finding a way to destroy the Growling?" I ask, gently sipping the tea. It's labeled honey pear, but smells like a thousand exotic spices.

Aunt Lizzie smiles. "That's the reason we came to Scotland, and bought this castle actually. Want to know what we've discovered here?"

"I'm all ears."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Ollie remarks, squinting at my earlobes. "They're not _that_ big. Not like your eyebrows."

"Quiet, you," I scold him and then turn eagerly back to Aunt Lizzie. "What've you found?"

She stands and offers me her hand. "Come along. I'll show you."

Lizzie helps me to my feet, then retrieves an oil lantern from a shelf and lights the wick. She tucks its handle under one arm and motions for me to follow her down a hallway. Tapestries drape the corridor in medieval imagery, depictions of knights battling dragons and other beasts. Lizzie pauses in front of an especially old cloth. It's so faded that I can barely make out the pattern, but it appears to be a weaving of the castle and its surrounding countryside.

"Why're you stopping?" Ollie asks.

"We're about to enter a place far older than this castle. It can be...a bit unnerving."

"I'm not afraid," I lie.

"Good. 'Cause this is the birthplace of the Growling." She slides the tapestry to one side.

I gasp. There's a doorway hidden behind the cloth! It resembles a natural cave opening, jagged and irregular, with stairs hewn into the rock. They descend away into the murky blackness.

"How do you know where he was born?" I ask.

"Research. We deciphered clues inscribed on a scroll in an Egyptian museum. Your mom was quite the archaeologist. She's the one who actually found this site."

Now I understand why she brought the lantern; there's no electricity in the stairwell. We follow her flickering silhouette down several flights of stairs. Stalagmites and calcite draperies add credence to my theory we're deep inside a natural cave. Lizzie continues to speak as we descend.

"When we arrived at this location, we found the castle up for sale. So, we bought it."

"That couldn't have been cheap."

"The property's fairly remote, so it wasn't expensive. But truthfully, we would've paid any price. This land, Meadow's End, is quite special."

"Good fungus gardens?" Ollie asks. "That always drives up the price."

"No." Lizzie smiles. "Good curses."

"Curses are good?" I ask.

"As long as they're against your enemies, they are. You see, any creature who kills a human is cursed. It can never return to its homeland, to the place of its birth. For that reason, as long as we're within the confines of Meadow's End, the Growling can't reach us. We're protected. That's how your mother and I remained safe for so long." Lizzie sighs. "I wish she was here to see this. I only recently discovered the cave."

"How did you find it anyway?"

"I tripped," Lizzie admits. "Reached out to steady myself and discovered there was empty space behind this tapestry." She rolls her eyes. "You can imagine my surprise. But it was nothing compared to my reaction when I saw..."

"Saw what?" I ask impatiently.

"The Grotto Archives." Lizzie steps aside so that I can look past her.

"Hmmm. I just see darkness."

"Hold on while I turn on the lights." She connects one end of a car battery to a cable dangling from the ceiling. Instantly, a network of bare bulbs spring to life though out the space, and I realize the true enormity of the cavern.

My jaw almost hits the floor. Ollie lets out a long whistle.

"That was my reaction, too," Lizzie says.

The stairwell spills out into a chamber honeycombed with glowing pools of light. Amongst these natural waterways, someone has done a lot of work: the floor has been smoothed and tiled, lattice platforms bridge several of the gaps, and a perimeter of vaulted archways rise to the ceiling. But the most prominent feature of the grotto - and the likely reason for its name - lies in the myriad card catalogs resting everywhere. Rows upon rows of tiny drawers are tucked throughout the room, as if thieves robbed the New York Public Library. Beyond them, bookshelves recede into the darkness. And as if that's not enough, the room is also filled with artifacts: suits of armor, model ships, diving helmets, and other strange and exotic paraphernalia.

"This is incredible," I whisper, slightly intimidated by the surroundings.

"You could spend days in here," Wasabi marvels.

"Months," Lizzie says. "And I have. All to find this..." she holds up a thick leather book.

"What's this?" I ask.

"This is the reason the archives were built. It's the culmination of decades of research by countless people."

"Just to write a book?" Ollie arches an eyebrow.

"Not just any book, little one. This..." Lizzie says, grinning "...is the way to defeat the Growling."

I stare at the book in her hands, expecting to see a collection of spells or ancient wisdom. It's neither. Large bold letters engraved into the cover read, 'The Growling Cookbook'.

"A cookbook?" I scrunch up my face.

"Uh. Oh. You're doomed," Ollie says.

"Yeah," I admit. "I'm not the best cook. How will this help us?"

Lizzie flips open the cover. "It's the recipe for a dessert - the irrational pie." She reads from the page, "Anyone who eats a slice of this aromatic treat instantly becomes invisible to the Growling. He can no longer see you. At least, that's the theory. It's never been tested."

"Sounds simple enough."

"It's not the cooking that's difficult." Lizzie hands the book to me and frowns. "It's finding the ingredients."

Meadow's End is Only the Beginning.

****

**THE STORY CONTINUES IN BOOK 2 **

_A Slice of Irrational Pie_

__

_For more information, please visit:_

_www.sarcasticcreatures.com_

Acknowledgements

Thanks to all the advance readers,

friends, family,

fans of the sarcastic creatures,

and everyone else who made this book possible.

You are awesome.
