The Trap Read Online Free PDF Page B

ended up just yelling, “He’s got a” followed by ellipses.
    But Stefan had seen the blade. With sheer, brute force he lifted the Skirrit and Mack together in one armload, spun around, and slammed the first Skirrit straight into the outthrust blade of the second.
    â€œAyahgaaah!” the stabbed Skirrit cried.
    His grip on Mack loosened. And loosened still more when Jarrah snatched up one of the confused octopi and hurled it into the Skirrit’s face.
    â€œThanks,” Mack gasped.
    But thanks were premature. There was still one Skirrit left.
    He advanced on Mack with his nameless blade out and ready. “You die,” the Skirrit said. With blinding speed he switched the blade from one hand to the other and lunged. The blade hit— shunk! —a plastic tray held up as a shield by Stefan.
    The blade went right through the plastic tray but stuck. Stefan twisted the tray, trying to yank the blade from the bug’s hand.
    And . . . yeah, that didn’t work.
    Instead the Skirrit pulled the blade free, took a step back to steady himself, stepped on the ice that had been spilled, did a comic little cartoon wobble, and landed on his face, hard.
    Stefan was on him fast. He stomped on the bug’s blade and with his other foot crushed the exoskeletal arm.
    â€œAyahgaaaaaahh!” the Skirrit cried.
    Apparently that is the Skirrit cry of pain.
    Stefan picked up the blade, smiled, and began to admire the weapon. Jarrah looked on, admiring both Stefan and the blade.
    There came the sound of sirens approaching. At least one of the food stands was burning. Its red-and-white-striped awning sent flames shooting high into the night sky.
    The crowd had backed away to a distance and were each and every one fumbling with cell phones to take pictures and video.
    â€œI don’t want to be a YouTube sensation twice in one day,” Mack said. “Let’s get out of here.”
    They turned their backs on the chaotic, burning, but still somehow cheerful market, and plunged through the crowds that were now rushing to see what all the yelling was about.
    They practically stumbled into a mass of people on bicycles.
    Short people on bicycles.
    So short, especially in their stumpy legs, that they’d each strapped wooden blocks to their feet so they could reach the pedals.
    Mack was just noticing this odd fact when he was smacked on the side of the head by a club shaped a bit like a bowling pin.
    Tong Elves, he thought dreamily as his legs turned to jelly and he circled the drain of consciousness.
    That’s right: circled the drain of consciousness. You have a problem with that?
    Mack barely avoided being completely flushed out of consciousness. He sank to his knees, and Jarrah hauled him back up.
    The mob of Tong Elves on bikes shot past, braked, turned clumsily back, and came in a rush for a second pass.
    â€œYou got a magic spell for this?” Stefan asked.
    â€œI miss Toaster Strudel,” Mack said.
    Stefan and Jarrah correctly interpreted this remark as evidence that the blow to Mack’s head might have scattered his wits a bit.
    â€œRun!” Stefan said to Jarrah.
    â€œGot that right!” Jarrah agreed.
    They each grabbed one of Mack’s arms and took off, half guiding, half dragging Mack, who was explaining why strawberry Toaster Strudel was the best, but sometimes he liked the apple.
    â€œI had a s’mores flavor Toaster Strudel once but . . . ,” Mack announced before losing his train of thought.
    The Tong Elves were just a few feet away. But they were awkward on their bikes. Stefan led Mack and Jarrah straight across their path, rushed into traffic, and dodged across the street through buses and taxis.
    The Tong Elves veered to follow.
    Wham! A bus reduced their number by two. The unlucky pair went flying through the air and landed in front of a taxi, which hit them again— wham! —and flipped them bike-over-heels into a light