Page 7 of Monstrous Travels as Wicked as Sin

“Ignatius! This way!”

“Don’t call me that!” snapped Joe, running full pelt after Percy, back outside, around the corner of the building and into darkness.

They pulled up, backs against a cold wall, where Percy proposed, “If we skirt the dark side of the lesser buildings, we can find our way to the back bridge, and hide out in the copse until this dies down a little. Then we’ll cross together in the boat, scale the outer wall and break into the turret.”

“Or,” suggested Joe, “you could lose the rubies, teeth, cloak and corset, and no one will know who you are.”

“Never!” And he was off again.

Behind the stables, the pair traced the treacherous edge of the moat, not a millimetre wider than Joe’s tight, lace-to-the-top, brown knee-high boots, which were only marginally wider than Percy’s black shoes. Remarkably, they both made it, step by tentative step, to the far end of the stables.

“Shit!” said Percy.

“What?” panicked Joe.

“We need champagne,” said Percy.

“What?” panicked Joe.

“Champagne! If we have to wait that whole time in the copse, we’re going to need drinks.” Hiding himself in the shadows, Percy nodded for Joe to follow until they could see the courtyard again. “A waiter! Run.”

“I’m not breaking our cover over a drink!”

“What cover? They’re not looking for a sexy Van Helsing. You’re my natural enemy. They’ll never suspect we’re together.”

“But—then—what…” Joe floundered. “I didn’t need to do that circumventing the moat thing? I could have just walked to the copse?”

“I mean, if that works better for you, I guess…” Percy looked down at his shoes, kicking in the dust. “It might be considered somewhat antisocial?—”

“That works better for me.” Joe strode off handsomely to obtain alcohol for copse sitting.

Percy frowned hard at his back, then continued his excruciatingly slow procession around the edge of the property behind the garage, and on and on, slipping and saving himself five times before he found the bridge. He clambered along the exterior edge, locked out of it as he was by a seemingly endless series of tall, sharp iron railings, until finally he had crossed the moat and stepped down onto the spongy, damp, muddy ground of the private woods. Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he crouched low and ran stealthily to where he soon discovered the scent of cigarette smoke, and a very smug Joe lying back beside one empty wine glass, halfway through a second.

“You might have waited,” Percy muttered, dropping to the ground beside him and snatching his cigarette.

“Do you have any idea how long you took?” Joe protested. “But look. I got a whole bottle.”

Appreciative eyes ran over both the bottle and Joe’s reclining frame. “I forgive you.”

He lay down, and there they enjoyed a quiet smoke, another line of cocaine each, discussed the virtues of Manet versus Monet, and passed a pleasant fifteen minutes or so before deciding they should get a move on, what with the sun expected to rise at dawn and all.

The replacement painting, nailed gently into a pale pine box, had been lowered over the wall some twenty-four hours earlier into what they hoped was the thickest part of the woods. That delivery also included a tightly wrapped self-inflating raft and a bag of thieving supplies such as a crowbar, hammer, nails, and whatever else Percy had thought they might need. The lot was found exactly where they had left it, and the pair set off through the woods at some distance from the house. They made fast progress to the one side of the palace that sat in darkness, all moat right to the wall, nowhere to walk or slip except into the water.

With the wrench of a string, the raft inflated, accompanied by a hideously loud wheeze that kept both Percy and Joe frozen and appallingly anxious for a good twenty seconds after it was complete.

“I think we’re good.” Percy shoved it into the water, and jumped aboard, almost sinking the flimsy thing rather than get his shoes wet. With little more than a resigned scowl, Joe set his own steadying boot into the shallow water to pass the wooden crate across. The crate was only about forty inches either way, perhaps four inches thick, but it was unwieldy, with sharp, unworked corners, so Percy sank down low, holding it on his knees to keep it from ripping the raft. Joe piled in behind him, plunging the boat dangerously low in the water, and togetherthey made slow progress to the stone wall of the mansion, using the smallest, feeblest plastic paddles they were able to pack.

With an unsettling tearing sound, the raft eventually swept against the rough stone of the palace wall, but it held. All was going brilliantly, until Percy lifted his chin to Joe and said, “Pass me your whip.”

“What?” Joe glanced down at that whip, marvellously adorning his manly thigh. “It’s not a real whip, Percy.”

“Of course it’s a real whip,” said Percy, losing patience and wrenching the thing, which resulted in Joe and the painting very nearly being flung overboard, saved only by a hard thump against the wall.

“Percy!”

“Now hold this.”

Joe took the painting, begrudgingly, and settled down into the boat to let Percy do whatever ridiculous thing was about to land them first in the water, then in prison.

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