Henry Rider: Clown Hunter

Chapter Twenty One

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Chapter Twenty One

I ducked my head as I climbed into the limo, but when I stood up I realized the ceiling was higher than it should have been. In fact, everything was bigger than it should have been. I found myself, not in the back of a cramped but fancy car, but in an office. It was nearly thirty feet long, with a polished stone floor and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Ichabod was settling down behind a large mahogany desk on the far side, the chair groaning under his weight.

"What the crap?" Ethan whispered as he stepped in behind me.

"Another pocket dimension," I said.

Ichabod knocked sharply on the wall behind him, and a wooden panel slid open. "Take the girl home, Garson."

"Certainly, sir," replied the most British voice I'd ever heard.

The door behind me slammed shut on its own, and all I could feel was a faint tremble beneath my feet as the limo pulled away from the curb. Ichabod pointed at two stuffed leather chairs in front of his desk, and I reluctantly sat down. Ethan did the same, eyeing us as if he were ready to run at the first hint of trouble.

"Okay," I forced myself to say, "now what do you want?"

He ignored me, turning to Ethan instead. "Hey, boy! Why did four murder five?"

Ethan didn't answer.

"BECAUSE I HATE MATH!" Ichabod roared with laughter, pounding his fist on his desk hard enough to shake the floor. When he noticed that Ethan wasn't laughing with him, though, his expression turned cold. "Still doing that, huh?"

Ethan shrugged.

He sneered. "You brats don't know how to respect your elders. If you were my kid, I'd take my belt off right now and whip you raw!"

I glared at him. "Don't even think—"

"You wanna see what respect looks like?" Turning his chair around, Ichabod leaned toward the window that led to the driver's seat. "Hey, Garson!"

"Yes, sir?"

"How many monkeys does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

"I eagerly await the answer, sir."

"Ask Henrietta! She's related to them!"

Ichabod guffawed again while my cheeks burned again, hands gripping my armrests to keep from drawing Splatsy and mashing his ugly face like a potato. Like I said before, nobody can butcher humor like Ichabod Hench. But he was a Red, and that meant it was no surprise when Garson began laughing anyway. It sounded as fake as Ichabod's dignity, all snooty and pompous, but it must have been real because a big cloud of rainbow mist wafted through the open window.

"Oh, ho!" the driver chuckled. "Most amusing, sir! You never fail to, as the children say, tickle my funny bone."

My mouth immediately began to water at the sight of the delicious laughter. Just as I was about to stand up to get some, though, Ichabod sucked in a huge breath through his nose, inhaling the entire cloud. I sat back down, stunned, as he gave me an infuriatingly smug look.

"Jealous, Henrietta?" he asked.

I clenched my teeth. "Oh, please. If you can make him laugh, anyone can!"

"Feel free to give it a try, then," he said with a grin.

He was setting me up to embarrass myself, that much was obvious. He knew about my...problem...just as much as I did. If I'd been smart, I would have stayed put and told him to stop wasting our time. But the arrogant look in his eye, that judgmental gleam that clearly said I'm better than you, was enough to get me on my feet and marching over to the window.