Pure Dead Magic by Debi Gliori

Author:Debi Gliori [Gliori, Debi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-375-89025-3
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2001-08-31T04:00:00+00:00

A Warm Welcome

An ornately carved metal gate barred the road to StregaSchloss. It bore a sign that read:

WARNING

Trespassers will be

a. served for breakfast

b. turned into frogs

c. forced to eat Brussels sprouts

Scowling, Pronto braked hard, threw the van into reverse, and backed down the road till he came to a patch of level ground shaded by some dusty chestnut trees. “From now on, we go on foot,” he said, climbing down from the driver’s seat and slouching to the rear of the van to unlock the back doors.

The three men in black unfolded their stiff legs and climbed out. Pronto retrieved his violin case from a rack inside the van and undid its clasps. Inside, nestled cozily on golden plush, lay a small machine gun. Pronto removed this, ripping away the plush to reveal several magazines of bullets. Threading these into the rapid-load cartridge, he made several clicks and snaps of a sort commonly associated with Being Up to No Good.

From the roof of the van, a muffled moan reminded him of his forgotten colleague. “Release the rabbit, would you?” he muttered to one of the men in black.

The man obeyed promptly, cutting the rabbit free with a wicked-looking knife. The rabbit slid off the roof and began to complain.

“You could have killed me with that stunt, you know,” he moaned. “What if I’d fallen off?”

“Listen, Bun,” hissed the knife-wielder, “one more peep out of you and you’ll find yourself in pieces, shrink-wrapped in little Styrofoam trays in the refrigerated section of your local supermarket. Do I make myself clear?” He thrust a well-used handgun into the rabbit’s paws and turned on his heel. Trailing a peach-scented cloud, Pronto and the posse tiptoed up the drive to StregaSchloss.

In the late afternoon sun, a great stillness hung over the house, as if the stone itself was basking in the warmth. Innocent of the impending threat, StregaSchloss, with its total absence of alarms and high-tech security systems, represented a burglar’s dream venue. Nobody appeared at windows or doors, no guard dogs lunged at the end of leashes, and the front door stood ajar. There was, however, a long streak of something green and gelatinous smeared across the low bridge over the moat.

The rabbit stroked the muzzle of his handgun and scowled into the sun.

“Not exactly security-conscious, are they?” whispered one of the men in black.

“Right,” said Pronto to the knife-wielder. “You, by the front door as lookout; you, round the back; and you and the rabbit, in with me through the front door.” Pronto’s black-shod foot made contact with the green glop decorating the moat. Immediately the smell of peach air freshener was overcome by something infinitely more unpleasant. The man posted to the back of the house sat down hurriedly on the edge of the moat.

“I feel sick,” he muttered. “What is that smell?”

“Oh here we go again,” moaned the rabbit. “Wait for it.…”

“Is that youse?” hissed the knife-wielder, swiveling round from his station by the front door. “If you’ve done something in your breeches again, I’m going to install ventilation in yon bunny costume.

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