Pure Dead Wicked Read Online Free PDF Page A

but to her disappointment, the Magical Vanishing Thing (better known as the downstairs toilet) failed to make her teddies dematerialize. Instead, back they came, soggy of fur and plush, bringing with them an assortment of drenched envelopes and a mushy wodge of old toilet paper. Puzzled, Damp staggered off in search of a Grownup.
    â€œThere you are, pet.” Mrs. McLachlan looked up from packing nursery essentials into a large wooden crate. She took in Damp’s wet and disheveled appearance and gave a deep groan. Plucking the baby off the floor, she bore her off to the bathroom. “How many times do I have to tell you? Toilets are dirty. DIRTY. DIRRRTY.”
    Damp gazed at her wet hands. They looked clean enough to her. She hesitated, then popped a comforting thumb back in her mouth.
    â€œNO! DON’T DO THAT!” Mrs. McLachlan shrieked. “TAKE THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH
NOW
!”
    In the kitchen, Titus choked on a mouthful of last night’s meringue. Such was his ingrained obedience to the nanny that he spat the contents of his mouth back onto his plate.
    â€œPuh-leeaze,” groaned Pandora. “Spare me. I
know
you’re gross—you don’t have to keep on proving it to me.”
    In the great hall, boxes and trunks lay in stacks, some with their contents spilling across the flagstones, others tightly bound and chained with huge padlocks. Signora Strega-Borgia muttered to herself as she added rusty keys to a hoop hanging from her waist. Her husband was deep in conversation on the telephone, one hand cupped over his ear in an attempt to hear the voice at the other end.
    â€œNow, let me see . . . ,” mumbled Signora Strega-Borgia. “All the grimoires are packed in the old sea trunk. The flasks of hen bane are in cotton wadding in the lead-lined casket—the isinglass decanted into those thermoses. . . .”
    â€œShall we begin again?” Signor Strega-Borgia rolled his eyes in impatience. “I’d like to book
four
rooms and your stables,
not
four tables, and for the rest of the month, through to the new year.”
    â€œ. . . my wands and cauldron are in the pink hatbox, ceremonial pointy hat in the black hatbox, candles, incense, and ectoplasm in that string bag over there—blast, the ectoplasm’s escaped. . . .”
    â€œNot four
kennels
, no. All your stables. . . . Yes. . . . Ah—I thought you might ask me that. . . . Not
dogs,
no. . . . Nope, not horses, either. . . . Um, well, I suppose you have to know sometime. . . . Actually, what we’re talking about is a crocodile, a griffin, a yeti, and a very small and terribly well-behaved dragon. . . .”
    â€œKNOT!” bawled the dragon, crashing through the front door. “YOU HORRIBLE, FOUL, DISGUSTING, SNOT-ENCRUSTED HEATHEN!”
    â€œWhere
has
that ectoplasm slithered off to?” Signora Strega-Borgia muttered in the background.
    â€œCould you keep it
down,
for Pete’s sake,” hissed Signor Strega-Borgia, returning to his phone call. “Sorry about all the racket. . . . No, no, it was the roofing contractor, not one of our
pets
—heavens, no.”
    â€œWHAT D’YOU CALL
THIS
?” The enraged dragon extended a claw from which dangled a vast amorphous blob of dirty green jelly.
    â€œâ€™S NOT MY FAULT,” called Knot from the doorway of the dining room. He shuffled downstairs to examine the fascinating substance adhering to Ffup’s claw. “Never seen it before,” the yeti decided, patting it with a matted, hairy paw. “Looks pretty tasty, though,” he added, beginning to drool.
    The dragon shuddered. “WOULD SOMEONE GET THIS GIANT BOGEY OFF ME?” he bawled.
    â€œMy pleasure,” said Knot, stepping forward.
    â€œNo . . . no, STOP!” shrieked Signora Strega-Borgia. “My
ectoplasm
!”
    Knot licked around the gap in his clotted fur that functioned as a mouth. “Mmm
hmm
. Oh. Sorry. . . . D’you