doing?” Dave cried.
“Well, run faster!” Sticky shouted, as there were now
eight
bwaa-ha-cawing birds swooping and swarming above them.
So Dave put the pedal to the metal (or, in this case, his sneakers to the dirt) and charged along the edge of the forest, keeping a shield of trees between him and the house in case Damien had installed surveillance cameras or motion-activated sleep darts or some other wicked doohickey to thwart people from approaching the mansion.
And so it was that Dave zigzagged through the outskirts of the forest, not really paying attention to where he was going as he attempted to escapethe unkindness of ravens. (Which is, quite appropriately, what it’s called when ravens decide to gang up and chase after you, whether they bwaa-ha-ha or simply caw.)
“Get away from the trees!” Sticky cried from inside the sweatshirt. “I think they want you out of the forest.”
And so Dave took the risk.
He stepped out of the forest.
Out of the shadows.
Into a bright, broad spotlight of sunshine.
He also, unfortunately, stepped smack-dab into a large, fresh pile of kneady-weedy donkey doo.
“Ewww!” Dave said, doing a little doo-doo dance away from the pile. “What’s
that
doing here?”
Sticky, however, didn’t give a sniff about a little donkey dung. The ravens were nolonger chasing them (or bwaa-ha-cawing), but ahead of them was something odd.
Completely unexpected.
In a word, bizarre.
“Holy guacamole,” Sticky gasped. “What is
that
?”
“It’s not guacamole, that’s for sure,” Dave grumbled, still looking at his shoe.
“No,” Sticky said, pointing straight ahead,
“that.”
Sticky was pointing to one of the mansion’s jutting walls.
It was expanding.
Pushing outward.
Growing, like a great black balloon.
And inside the balloon something was moving.
Something
alive
.
Chapter 13
ICKY-STICKY SYRUP
What came through the wall was not some agent of evil, or heat-seeking sleep darts, or boy-hunting hounds.
It was a burro.
A fuzzy-wuzzy bucktoothed burro.
One that immediately became preoccupied with the flittery-fluttering of a little yellow butterfly and did not notice Dave and Sticky standing a mere fifteen yards away.
“That’s Rosie,” Sticky whispered. “Which means those
bobos
banditos are still living here!”
“Wait,” Dave said. “He let them put in a
donkey
door?”
Sticky shook his little gecko head. “It’s
loco
-berry burritos, man.”
They stared at the donkey door a moment longer, then looked at each other.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dave asked.
“Sí, señor,”
Sticky said with a grin. “No alarm, no creaky hinges, no catapults or bloody fangs. …” He nodded. “Even if those beany-brained boys are in there, it should be easy-sneezy to sneak inside.”
Now, at this point, Tito was already on his way up to the prisoner tower. So when Dave and Sticky sneaky-toed up to the donkey door and peeked inside, the only Brothers left were Angelo and Pablo.
Dave and Sticky couldn’t see them (as the donkey door had been installed in an old servants’ entry off the side of the kitchen), but they could certainly hear them bickering. And after eavesdropping for a few minutes, Dave whispered, “They’re fighting about
weeds
?”
“You name it,
señor
, they will find some way to fight about it. Now
ándale!
That evil Mr. Black will be home soon!”
This was, in fact, an accurate (and appropriately ominous) statement, as at that very moment Damien Black was roaring up the winding road to Raven Ridge at hazardous speed, holding the wheel of his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado with one hand while ripping off the latex face of Ms. Dede Bartholomew with the other.
He was, to put it mildly, in a ferociously foul mood. He’d spent the day wearing a sweaty latex face, an itchy wig, a cheery pin, and nylons.
Nylons!
Itchy, pinchy, hair-pulling nylons!
And he’d gotten nowhere.
Nowhere!
Those sneaky-eyed, cagey kids were a
“Well, run faster!” Sticky shouted, as there were now
eight
bwaa-ha-cawing birds swooping and swarming above them.
So Dave put the pedal to the metal (or, in this case, his sneakers to the dirt) and charged along the edge of the forest, keeping a shield of trees between him and the house in case Damien had installed surveillance cameras or motion-activated sleep darts or some other wicked doohickey to thwart people from approaching the mansion.
And so it was that Dave zigzagged through the outskirts of the forest, not really paying attention to where he was going as he attempted to escapethe unkindness of ravens. (Which is, quite appropriately, what it’s called when ravens decide to gang up and chase after you, whether they bwaa-ha-ha or simply caw.)
“Get away from the trees!” Sticky cried from inside the sweatshirt. “I think they want you out of the forest.”
And so Dave took the risk.
He stepped out of the forest.
Out of the shadows.
Into a bright, broad spotlight of sunshine.
He also, unfortunately, stepped smack-dab into a large, fresh pile of kneady-weedy donkey doo.
“Ewww!” Dave said, doing a little doo-doo dance away from the pile. “What’s
that
doing here?”
Sticky, however, didn’t give a sniff about a little donkey dung. The ravens were nolonger chasing them (or bwaa-ha-cawing), but ahead of them was something odd.
Completely unexpected.
In a word, bizarre.
“Holy guacamole,” Sticky gasped. “What is
that
?”
“It’s not guacamole, that’s for sure,” Dave grumbled, still looking at his shoe.
“No,” Sticky said, pointing straight ahead,
“that.”
Sticky was pointing to one of the mansion’s jutting walls.
It was expanding.
Pushing outward.
Growing, like a great black balloon.
And inside the balloon something was moving.
Something
alive
.
Chapter 13
ICKY-STICKY SYRUP
What came through the wall was not some agent of evil, or heat-seeking sleep darts, or boy-hunting hounds.
It was a burro.
A fuzzy-wuzzy bucktoothed burro.
One that immediately became preoccupied with the flittery-fluttering of a little yellow butterfly and did not notice Dave and Sticky standing a mere fifteen yards away.
“That’s Rosie,” Sticky whispered. “Which means those
bobos
banditos are still living here!”
“Wait,” Dave said. “He let them put in a
donkey
door?”
Sticky shook his little gecko head. “It’s
loco
-berry burritos, man.”
They stared at the donkey door a moment longer, then looked at each other.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Dave asked.
“Sí, señor,”
Sticky said with a grin. “No alarm, no creaky hinges, no catapults or bloody fangs. …” He nodded. “Even if those beany-brained boys are in there, it should be easy-sneezy to sneak inside.”
Now, at this point, Tito was already on his way up to the prisoner tower. So when Dave and Sticky sneaky-toed up to the donkey door and peeked inside, the only Brothers left were Angelo and Pablo.
Dave and Sticky couldn’t see them (as the donkey door had been installed in an old servants’ entry off the side of the kitchen), but they could certainly hear them bickering. And after eavesdropping for a few minutes, Dave whispered, “They’re fighting about
weeds
?”
“You name it,
señor
, they will find some way to fight about it. Now
ándale!
That evil Mr. Black will be home soon!”
This was, in fact, an accurate (and appropriately ominous) statement, as at that very moment Damien Black was roaring up the winding road to Raven Ridge at hazardous speed, holding the wheel of his 1959 Cadillac Eldorado with one hand while ripping off the latex face of Ms. Dede Bartholomew with the other.
He was, to put it mildly, in a ferociously foul mood. He’d spent the day wearing a sweaty latex face, an itchy wig, a cheery pin, and nylons.
Nylons!
Itchy, pinchy, hair-pulling nylons!
And he’d gotten nowhere.
Nowhere!
Those sneaky-eyed, cagey kids were a
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