The Crims #3 Page 12

But before she could say any more, Imogen heard an incredibly loud sucking noise, followed by a cackle—the sort of sound a vacuum cleaner would make if it were huge, and could fly, and was able to laugh. And then, from somewhere above them, they heard a voice shouting, “COMING IN HOT!”

  14

  THE MUSSEL WAS back.

  Imogen headed for the front room of the mansion, which was decorated with photographs of Don Vadrolga’s eyes, so it felt as though he were staring at them from the walls— It was quite disconcerting. Delia and Big Nana ran in after her, and they all crowded around the window, to see what the Mussel was doing.

  He was outside in the front garden, hovering above the hedge shaped like the talking baby, spraying the flower beds with his squirt guns. “Where are you?” he shouted. “Are you tired of fighting me? Have you got . . . Mussel fatigue? Ha! Ha!”

  “His puns have improved,” said Delia, “but a superhero should never laugh at his own jokes.”

  “That’s right, my jammy dodger,” said Big Nana. “Where are the others? They’re not outside, are they?”

  “I think they’re hiding out in the bedrooms,” said Delia. “They were trying on all of Don Vadrolga’s suits before you got here.”

  Imogen watched the Mussel, who was still spraying water all over the garden. He was pretty much just watering Don Vadrolga’s plants for him. “It really is insulting that the Gull keeps sending this guy to fight us instead of attacking us himself,” she said.

  “Maybe the Gull will come and fight us, if we defeat the Mussel,” said Big Nana. “So how are we going to do that?”

  “I have an idea,” said Delia. She ran out of the front room and reappeared a few minutes later holding three Super Soakers.

  “Where did you get those from?” Imogen asked.

  “Don Vadrolga’s game room!” she said. “It’s mostly just Don Vadrolga–themed stuff in there—Don Vadrolga Monopoly; a Scrabble set where only Don Vadrolga catchphrases win points . . .”

  “But he doesn’t have any catchphrases,” said Imogen.

  “That’s probably why there weren’t any letters in the box, then,” said Delia. “But it looks like Don is a big fan of water fights! There are loads of water pistols in there. And a water cannon, and a bow and arrow, for some reason.”

  Big Nana called the rest of the family downstairs. They weren’t pleased to see Imogen, but they were more concerned with defeating the Mussel than fighting among themselves. There would be plenty of time to hate Imogen when they got back to Blandington.

  Delia handed out the water weapons. Nick and Nate each grabbed a water pistol. Imogen went for the cannon. Big Nana decided to wield the bow and arrow. And everyone else grabbed Super Soakers.

  “Right,” said Imogen, loading a water balloon into the cannon. “Everyone ready?”

  “Crims assemble!” shouted Henry.

  “That isn’t our motto,” said Imogen.

  “May the odds be ever in the Crims’ favor!” said Nick.

  “Nor’s that,” said Imogen.

  “Nothing is more important than family! Except dinosaurs!” said Big Nana.

  “That’s the one,” said Imogen. “Unfortunately. Everyone ready? Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  “ATTACK!” shouted Uncle Knuckles, and he led the Crims outside. They ran into the garden, shooting water in all directions—but the Mussel was nowhere to be seen.

  “Quiet, everybody,” Imogen said. “I think I can hear his jet pack engines. . . .”

  The sound seemed to be coming from somewhere above the mansion. She looked up at the roof—and that’s when the Mussel sprayed a great waterfall of water at her. Imogen fell to the ground, trying to scramble to her feet, but the water kept on coming.

  “You can’t treat my granddaughter like that,” said Big Nana, loading her bow. “Even if she is a traitor who wanted to leave us all for dead.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Imogen.

  “Apology accepted,” said Big Nana. And she fired an arrow straight at the Mussel.

  But the Mussel dodged out of the way. And the arrow fell back down to Earth and ripped through Josephine’s fur coat.

  “Gravity defeats us once again,” murmured Uncle Clyde.

  “My coat is ruined!” wailed Josephine.

  “Serves you right for wearing fur on a tropical island,” said Delia.

  “Back inside the house for a huddle!” cried Big Nana.

  The Crims gathered around Big Nana in the living room.

  “I think it’s time for an inspirational speech,” said Big Nana.

  Everybody groaned. They hated being inspired.

  “Who are we?” asked Big Nana, pacing up and down in front of her family.

  “The Crims,” said Uncle Clyde, looking very pleased with himself for getting the answer right.

  “And what do we do?” asked Big Nana.

  “We try to commit crimes, but mostly, we just sit around and argue and burn crumpets,” said Henry.

  “Not the answer I was looking for,” said Big Nana.

  “We stick together,” said Delia.

  “Exactly,” agreed Big Nana, pointing at Delia. “And when we stick together, what can we achieve?”

  “Anything!” said Al.

  “Well, maybe not anything. Let’s be real. But we can achieve some things,” said Big Nana. “And we certainly aren’t going to let a superhero dressed as a giant booger defeat us. Are we?”

  “No!” shouted the Crims.

  “So, let’s go out there. And let’s show the Mussel who’s boss.”

  “Who’s the boss?” asked Henry. “Ava?”

  “NO!” shouted Big Nana. “We, collectively, are the boss! And we’re going to take the Mussel down!” She hoisted the bow and arrow onto her shoulders. “Ready?” she shouted.

  “Yeah!” the Crims shouted back. And they ran out of the mansion, in slow motion. And then they sped up, because the Mussel was already firing his water pistol at them.

  The Mussel was hovering above the roof of the mansion now. Imogen aimed the pistol between his eyes, the way Big Nana had always taught her. She got a direct hit.

  “Nooooo!” shouted the Mussel. “My eyes!”

  “Well, mussels have about thirty-six eyes,” said Delia. “So just try looking out of some of your spare ones.”

  “Someone’s been reading the ‘mussel’ Wikipedia page!” said Big Nana.

  “What’s so impressive about that?” said the Mussel. “Wikipedia pages are notoriously unreliable. I should know—I edited that one myself!”

  “I knew baby mussels didn’t really attach themselves to fish, like parasites, until they’re big enough to survive on their own. . . .”

  “No, that bit’s true,” said the Mussel.

  “Gross,” said Delia.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Big Nana, “but we have a water fight to be getting on with.” And she fired another arrow at the Mussel—and managed to hit his jet pack.

  “Good shot,” said Imogen.

  The Mussel started flying around and around in great looping circles.

  “This is our chance,” whispered Imogen. “He’s weak now. Uncle Knuckles, climb up onto the roof and attack the Mussel from behind, while we keep shooting at him from below to distract him.”

  “OKAY!” shrieked Uncle Knuckles.

  “Quietly,” said Big Nana.

  “NOT A PROBLEM!” screamed Uncle Knuckles. He ran around to the back of the house, the ground shaking every time one of his massive feet hit the grass, and started climbing up the rear of the mansion.

  The Mussel stopped flying around in circles for a moment. “What are you lot planning?” he asked. “Your funerals, I hope!” And luckily, he laughed so hard at his terrible joke that he didn’t notice Uncle Knuckles clambering up the side of the mansion with all the subtlety of a major earthquake.

  “Come down here and fight us, if you think you’re hard enough!” said Uncle Clyde.

  “Nice try, weird
human!” said the Mussel, flying higher, toward the chimney.

  Behind him, Uncle Knuckles was clinging to the chimney like a bad remake of King Kong. He gave the other Crims a thumbs-up and did that bunny ears thing behind the Mussel’s head, just for fun.

  “How dare you call me a human!” shouted Uncle Clyde.

  “Nice,” Big Nana whispered to Uncle Clyde. “Taking offense at everything—great distraction technique.”

  The Mussel was clearly trying and failing to come up with a great comeback—Imogen recognized his facial expression, because it was the one she pulled when she was trying to work out the vocative of a tricky Latin verb—and while the Mussel was thinking, Uncle Knuckles let go of the chimney and leaped onto him.

  Imogen stared, openmouthed, as the two men fell through the sky and landed on the grass with a sickening crack.

  “UH-OH,” said Uncle Knuckles, standing up. “WAS THAT MY NECK?”

  “No!” wailed the Mussel, writhing around on his back. “It was my shell! My beautiful shell!”

  “Get over it,” said Delia, standing over him. “It’s not that beautiful. What’s it made of? Papier-mâché?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” said the Mussel. “And now I’m all squishy and vulnerable!”

  “That’s right,” said Big Nana. “And now it’s time for us to have a lovely French meal.”

  “Ooh,” said Uncle Clyde. “What are we having? Beef Bourguignon?”

  “No, you idiot. Mussels marinière.”

  “Please don’t eat me!” said the Mussel. And then he stopped speaking, because a shower of roof tiles crashed down on top of him like very heavy raindrops.

  Imogen checked that the Mussel was still alive—he was—and then she stood back and looked down at him, feeling the lovely sense of accomplishment that she always felt when someone she didn’t like was weeping and calling out for their mother.

  Nick and Nate hauled the Mussel to his feet and dragged him across the garden to Don Vadrolga’s hot tub. They handcuffed him, turned the Jacuzzi to “Dangerously Hot,” and added some white wine and garlic for good measure.

  “The bubbles! I can’t take the bubbles!” cried the Mussel, who looked quite old up close—about seventy, maybe, with a peace sign tattooed on his wrist and too many earrings for someone over retirement age.

  “Nice ink,” said Henry. “Where did you get it done?”

  “I’ll tell you, if you turn the heat down,” the Mussel said desperately.

  “Okay,” said Henry reaching for the controls. But Big Nana slapped his hand away.

  “Nice try, Mr. Mussel.”

  “It’s not Mr. Mussel. Just the Mussel. Otherwise, I sound like a household cleaner, and that’s not really what I was going for—”

  “Whatever,” said Big Nana. “We’ll only turn the Jacuzzi bubbles down once you’ve told us where the Gull’s island is.”

  “Never!” wailed the Mussel.

  “Okay,” said Big Nana, turning the bubbles up to “Lethally Frothy.”

  “Yeah!” said Sam. “Let’s crack the Mussel!”

  “I’m melting!” cried the Mussel.

  “Actually, you’re just cooking,” said Big Nana.

  “But I’m not ready to die! I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon!” he wailed. “I’ve never ridden a camel! I’ve never been on a yoga retreat!”

  “I HAVE!” said Uncle Knuckles. “IT WAS WONDERFUL. THE VEGAN FOOD WAS DELICIOUS.”

  The Mussel started to cry.

  “Great,” said Sam. “His tears will add salt to the water. The perfect seasoning.”

  “Okay, okay!” said the Mussel. “I’ll tell you where the Gull’s island is.”

  Big Nana’s hand hovered over the Jacuzzi controls. “We’re listening,” she said.

  “It’s not far from here,” said the Mussel. “Just take a left at the shipwreck, sail north for an hour, and you’ll see it.”

  “How are we going to sail there, though?” asked Freddie. “We don’t have a boat.”

  “Don Vadrolga has, like, three Jet Skis and a speedboat in his private harbor,” said the Mussel.

  “Okay,” said Imogen, handing him Ava’s phone. “Program the directions into the GPS, and we’ll let you go.”

  Hands shaking, the Mussel entered the coordinates into the phone.

  Imogen nodded to Big Nana, who turned off the Jacuzzi, and the twins dragged the Mussel out onto the grass.

  “I’m so ashamed,” said the Mussel, weeping. “I’m a terrible sidekick. I’m not cut out for this! I have the soul of an artist!” He pulled off his Mussel costume. Underneath, he was wearing tie-dyed swimming trunks. He ran through the garden—hotly pursued by the Crims, because they didn’t know where Don Vadrolga’s private harbor was, and they were hoping he was heading there—and jumped into one of the Jet Skis.

  “Where are you headed?” jeered Sam. “Going to retire to Barbados and sell your paintings on the beach?”

  “How did you know?!” said the Mussel.

  He started up the Jet Ski and disappeared into the distance.

  The Crims cheered and high-fived one another. But Imogen caught Big Nana’s eye, feeling worried. How was she going to convince them to save Ava from the Gull?

  “I’m so glad he’s gone!” said Josephine, flopping down onto the grass. “Now that that idiot’s out of the way, I say we take over the house and stay here for the rest of the summer. I’m longing to try out his spray tan booth. You can never be too spray tanned, you know.”

  “Actually,” said Imogen, “There’s just one little thing we need to do first. . . .”

  “Yes! Find something to eat!” said Uncle Clyde.

  “No, actually,” said Big Nana, putting her arm around Imogen’s shoulders. “We need to save Ava from the Gull.”

  It’s fair to say that the Crims didn’t take the news well. There was some weeping. A fair amount of shouting. A couple of attempted murders.

  “There is NO WAY we are putting our lives on the line to save that SELFISH BRAT,” said Delia. “Ava deserves everything she gets. Except that Best Supervillain Under 30 Award she got from the International Association of Supercriminals last year.”

  “Look,” said Imogen. “I know she’s selfish. And stuck up. And irritating. And sadistic. And weirdly fond of Justin Bieber. But she’s a criminal. And we have to side with criminals over heroes. Otherwise, what does that make us?”

  “Law-abiding citizens,” Uncle Clyde said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly,” said Imogen.

  The Crims all grunted. Which she took to mean “You’re right, Imogen. You can count on us.”

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go back up to the house and make a plan.”

  “As long as we can eat something before we go,” said Uncle Clyde. “Don Vadrolga has pepperoni pizzas in his freezer.”

  “Sure,” said Imogen. “There’s probably even time for a quick spray tan.”

  The Crims all crowded into Don Vadrolga’s kitchen and feasted on frozen pizzas and microwave macaroni and cheese. Everyone was in a much better mood once they’d eaten. As Isabella was gnawing on everyone’s leftover crusts, and also their ankles, Imogen told them her plan. It didn’t take long, because she didn’t have a clue how they were going to rescue Ava.

  “First we need to find out more about the Gull’s lair.”

  Delia laughed. “What, are you planning to call up the Gull and ask him to send you the blueprints?”

  “Close,” said Imogen.

  She pulled out Ava’s phone and logged into Don Vadrolga’s Wi-Fi (the password was pretty easy to guess: Don-Vadrolga-is-a-very-underrated-actor). And then she loaded Skype and dialed the International Association of Supercriminals. Before too long, a balaclava-clad head appeared on the screen.

  “Yes?” said the head.

  “Hello!” said Imogen, in her head-girl voice, which probably wasn’t the most appropriate voice to use when calling a criminal organization, but she was a little flustered.
“It’s Imogen Crim here, and I was wondering what information you can give me about the Gull’s lair. My family is about to rescue Ava Kruk—”

  “What’s your membership number?”

  “I don’t actually have a membership number—but I come from a very old crime family. The Crims. Our membership pack probably got lost in the post. The postman doesn’t really like coming to our house, because of the snakes.”

  “Sorry,” said the head, “but if we let you into the International Association of Supercriminals, we’d have to let every single twelve-year-old pickpocket in. We have to have some standards.” And the connection went dead.

  Imogen fumed. “How dare they dismiss us like that?” she said.

  Delia held out her hand. “Let me have a go,” she said. Imogen handed the phone to Delia.

  “What are you doing?” asked Imogen.

  But Delia held up a hand to silence her. “Making a voice call,” she mouthed. “Hello?” she said out loud, in her whining Ava Kruk voice. “Is that the IAS? Yeah—Ava Kruk here. That total amateur Imogen Crim just grabbed my phone off me, so I drowned her in a puddle.”

  Imogen gave Delia a thumbs-up. I really should give Delia more credit, she thought. She’s devious, reckless, and brilliant at lying—all the qualities you could ask for in a cousin.

  “Yeah, great,” Delia was saying in her whiny voice. “Could you send across the blueprints to the Gull’s lair? Great. And any other useful information you have on him—his favorite color, what he eats for breakfast, how he kills his enemies, that sort of thing. You’ve sent it across already? Thanks! You’re so efficient!”

  Imogen gave Delia a very quiet high five.

  “One more question,” said Delia. “Imagine if the Crims did manage to destroy the Gull—I know, ridiculous idea, right? But go with me for a second. Imagine, somehow, that they pulled it off. What kind of reward would they get for that?”

  Imogen heard a hanging-up noise on the other end of the phone. Typical Delia, she thought.

  “They hung up on me!” said Delia, pouting.

  “But you’ve got the blueprints, right?” asked Imogen.

  Delia checked Ava’s email. “Yes!” she said. “But I should warn you—this lair looks pretty well-defended.”