Pirates of Underwhere by Bruce Hale Page B

short. “H-e-e-e-re, Meathead,” he said. “N-i-i-i-i-ce kitty. Give us the brushy-wushy.”
    Meathead backed up a step.
    I elbowed Zeke aside. “Let me do it. He probably remembers the time you painted stripes on him.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Zeke. “Meathead liked playing skunk.”
    I sat on the steps and held out a friendly hand. “Here, kitty kitty.”
    Meathead blinked. But he didn’t drop the brush.
    Slowly and carefully, I got to my feet.
    â€œEasy now,” said Dr. Prufrock from behind us.
    We crept forward.
    The cat backed up another step.
    â€œGood thing ol’ Meatbrain doesn’t know how valuable that thing is,” Zeke said.
    Meathead’s ears pricked up. Brush in mouth, he turned and trotted for the side yard.
    â€œBrilliant move, basket case!” I cried, giving chase.
    â€œWhat’d I do?” said Zeke, joining me.
    I spared him a glance. “Fitz can understand English; why do you think Meathead can’t?”
    Meathead plunged into the overgrown bushes beside the house, the tip of his tail wriggling through the jungle—probably all poison ivy and prickly plants. (Dr. Prufrock’s gardening was about equal to his housekeeping.) We waded through the bushes anyway.
    â€œGive us the brush, fleaball!” cried Zeke.
    â€œThat’s it, genius,” I said. “Sweet-talk him.”
    Meathead reappeared on the far side of the thicket and bolted across the front lawn. Ten seconds later we followed, running full out.
    And we might have caught him too—if not for the two hairy, black-suited men blocking our path.
    â€œGreetings, children,” said the chubbier man.
    â€œCan’t talk now,” said Zeke, dodging past. The taller man snagged his arm.
    â€œHold on,” said the man. A monster-sized mole on his cheek made it hard to look him in the eyes. (Or into the sunglasses that covered his eyes.)
    It was our old friends, the nameless spies from H.U.S.H., an agency so secret, even they didn’t know what H.U.S.H. stood for. They had forced us to spy in Underwhere. We called them Agent Belly and Agent Mole.
    And they were anything but friends.
    â€œLet’s talk,” said Agent Belly.
    From the sidewalk just beyond them, Meathead turned to watch.
    â€œSorry, but we have to catch our cat,” I said.
    â€œNo,” growled Agent Mole, “you don’t.”
    Hector flinched. I glanced back at the house for help, only to see Dr. Prufrock duck behind a curtain. Where’s a grown-up when you need one?
    â€œUm, maybe we can spare a minute,” I said.
    Meathead ambled away with the brush, tail held jauntily, mocking us.
    â€œAww, sheesh ,” said Zeke.
    Agent Belly adjusted his fake black beard. Mole straightened a fake mustache. I suppose they thought their disguises were good. And maybe they were—for a kindergartner.
    â€œChildren,” said Belly, “we appreciated the, er, magic rock you brought back from your last trip below.”
    Magic rock. A nice description for the dhow-naught, an enchanted stone that would happily bite your hand off.
    â€œIt had our team quite fascinated,” he continued. “But now…”
    â€œNeed more,” grunted Agent Mole.
    Belly smiled. “Yes, the rock isn’t enough. We want something better.”
    â€œLike what?” asked Zeke. He looked where Meathead had gone. Mole tightened his grip.
    â€œAn object of power,” said Agent Belly. “You know, a wand, a crystal, a gizmo that people down there use for making magic?”
    Zeke, Hector, and I traded glances. We knew that Meathead was carrying a power object. But we didn’t want to just hand it over to the men from H.U.S.H. when our friends in Underwhere needed it so badly.
    I chewed my lip. Soon Meathead would be long gone.
    â€œThat brush,” I said.
    â€œNo!” said Zeke.
    â€œSpeak,” said Agent Mole.
    â€œThat brush