Paul Durham - The Luck Uglies

“Wait,” Rye said. “Where’s she going?”

Fitz and Flint stood to the side of the thick doors with both sets of arms crossed. Rye’s mother and her escort pulled their hoods over their heads and disappeared with the small crowd into the night. Rye noticed that the man with the monkey was part of the group. He had slipped in behind them unnoticed. Fitz and Flint used their shoulders to close the heavy doors behind them, and dropped a thick iron bar across to bolt them shut. The latch echoed just as the sand ran out of the hourglass. The crowd broke into louder cheers.

“Folly!” Rye cried. “I can’t get locked in.”

“Don’t worry,” Folly said. “You can sleep in my room.”

“No, Folly, listen.” Rye grabbed her by the shoulders. “My mother’s going home. I have to get out!”

RYE DROPPED DOWN from the rope ladder and landed hard in the alley. She had climbed out of Folly’s window so fast she’d forgotten her lantern. There was no time to go back for it now. She was careful not to step on Baron Nutfield, but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe they had let him inside.

Rye tried to ignore the protests of her stomach as she darted through the alley and on to Little Water Street, worried that she might run straight into her mother once again. But something was different. Terribly different. The street was dark and lifeless. Another solitary rook pecked at a string of festive beads now discarded on the docks. It regarded Rye with its dark coal of an eye before flying off, disappearing under the bridge. There were no lights on the River Drowning and no more boats offshore. The river was still, its water black. The shops were all shuttered. She looked up at the Dead Fish Inn. Even the candles in its windows had been darkened.

Rye breathed hard. It had grown colder. She could see her breath. From the corner of her eye, she thought she could see things moving in the shadows of the buildings. Then, when she would look, they’d be gone.

Rye began to run.

Rye wasn’t the fastest runner on Mud Puddle Lane, but she could run for the longest. Whenever she raced Quinn from her house to Miser’s End Cemetery, Quinn would always win. When they raced to the cemetery and back again, Quinn didn’t stand a chance. Rye’s big lungs and strong legs served her well on the night of the Black Moon. She tore through the streets, falling twice over loose stones. She picked herself up and kept going.

By the time she reached the broken wall, her chest pounded and her hood stuck to the sweat on her forehead. Her head was spinning worse than her stomach now, but she was greatly relieved to make it to Mud Puddle Lane without anyone seeing her, grabbing her, or otherwise scaring her out of her wits. She was even more relieved when she opened the door to the O’Chanters’ cottage and found it to be quiet. Rye had managed to make it home before her mother.

Then she realised the problem. Nobody else was there either.

“Quinn?” Rye called.

The door to her mother’s room was open. Rye poked her head inside, but found it empty.

“Quinn!” Rye called again. She opened the door to her own room. The covers were off and Lottie was nowhere to be seen.

Rye picked her fingers as panic set in. She ran to the main room and threw open the front door, about to run to Quinn’s house to see if he’d taken Lottie back with him. A thought made her pause. She quickly walked to the wall by the fireplace and pushed on a painting of Mona Monster’s belly button.

Quinn was in the secret workshop, pinned to a chair by Lottie. Her arms were round his neck, her mop of red hair buried on his shoulder. She snored like a hive of lazy bees. Poor Quinn looked frightful. His hair was as wild as Lottie’s and his face was covered with blue paint.

“You said you’d be right back,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Rye said.

“You said she never wakes up.”

“She doesn’t,” Rye said. “What happened?”

“She said she had to do a wee.”

“Did she?” Rye asked.

“Not a wee,” Quinn said.

“Oh,” Rye said. “Did she use her Pot?”

“No,” Quinn said glumly and pointed to his shoes in the corner.

“Ugh,” said Rye.

“It was awful, Rye. What do you feed this girl?”

“I’ll clean your shoe.”

“She was screeching about a lazy glue wagon,” Quinn said.

“A baby blue dragon,” Rye corrected.

“And magic narbles,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “She refused to sleep until I gave her a magic narble. Where on earth do I find one of them?”

“A magic marble ,” Rye said. “They’re just beach pebbles. Lottie gets one every time she uses her Pot. When she fills her goodie jar, my mother says she can have a baby blue dragon.”

Rye had no idea where they might acquire a baby dragon of any colour. But Lottie didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about potty training anyway. She was just as likely to go in her mother’s vegetable garden, or a saucepan, or poor Quinn’s shoe. She had only collected three marbles so far. They still had plenty of time to sort out the details.

“And that one,” Quinn said, pointing to the corner, “has been unbearable all night. I thought he was going to rip down the door.”

Shady paced the floor restlessly. He looked over his furry shoulder as they spoke about him.

“He scratched me,” Quinn said. “Twice.”

He held up his arm. There were four long red welts.

“Sorry, Quinn,” Rye said. “Where else did he get you?”

“I’m sitting on it.”

Shady blinked his yellow eyes and chattered, quite satisfied with himself.

“Quinn,” Rye said. “Why did you bring Lottie in here? She’s going to tell my mother.”

“I didn’t,” Quinn said. “I was chasing her. Trying to get my shoe. She knew where the door was – ran back here and hid. I was shocked myself.”

Just then the flame in the lantern flickered from a draught.

Shady noticed it too. His ears perked up and he darted from the workshop.

“Pigshanks,” Rye said. “The front door.”

The front door was open, but not because Abby was home. In her haste to find Quinn and Lottie, Rye had forgotten to close it. Rye ran back into the main room from the secret workshop just in time to see the fluff of Shady’s black tail disappear out of the door.

“Shady, no!” Rye yelled, with no effect.

Quinn followed her from the workshop, shoeless, with Lottie hanging upside down from his arms, still fast asleep.

“Quinn, stay here. I have to go after him,” Rye said.

“No way,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “You’re not going to leave me here alone with her again.”

“Please, Quinn,” Rye said and didn’t wait for an answer.

Rye ran back into the night. She stood in the middle of Mud Puddle Lane, calling for Shady in a whisper at first, then more loudly. With his black fur, he’d be invisible in the shadows. Rye thought about what she would do if she was a cat let outside for the first time. Cats were cautious, so she would probably take her time and look around. After that, well, she’d probably try to catch a bird. The hens?

Rye rushed round the side of the O’Chanters’ cottage towards the yard. She didn’t see anything at first, but she could hear the hens rustling in their coop. The goat was bleating in its pen. Everything seemed restless on the Black Moon. Then, low in the grass, by the side of her house, she saw a strange, pale-blue glow.