21 The Murderous Mortimer

The Murderous Mortimer You smell… wonderful," said Bethany. She knew she was talking like Eduardo Barnacle, but she couldn't help it—the scent filling her nostrils was delightful. "I've been flying for hours. I smell sweaty," said Mortimer. His odor was fresh and earthy, like the playful smell of gardenias in the night

air, because Wintlorians had kindly evolved the ability to secrete less odious odors from their sweat glands. "You smell… well, you just smell. Maybe you should think of changing your sweater sometime, Bethany." "How the flip do you know my name?" asked Bethany. "Nah, actually, scratch that—who the flip are you?" "My name is Mortimer. And unlike the rest of my species, I'm not much one for small talk. Take me to the beast—now." "You look younger than the other parrots I've met," said Bethany. "How old are you?" "Old enough," said Mortimer defensively. Bethany and Mortimer exchanged a look. They recognized an anger in each other that they could understand.

"Why exactly are you here?" asked Bethany. Mortimer clicked his tongue in his beak. "I'm going to kill the beast," he said, watching Bethany's face for a reaction. "I'm going to pluck out its eyes and tear apart its flesh with my talons. I plan on taking my time with it—and I promise I'll make sure that it receives three dollops of pain for every ounce of suffering it has caused Claudette." Bethany didn't like to think of herself as weak or squeamish, but Mortimer's talk of eye-plucking and flesh-tearing had made her feel nauseous. It took a few moments to steel herself. She wanted to defeat the beast, and now a solution had literally just flown into her lap. "Does Claudette know?" asked Bethany.

"Of course not," said Mortimer. "Maybe we should call her," said Bethany. "I doubt she'd be strong enough to answer," said Mortimer. Purple tears formed in his eyes, but he quickly blinked them away. "Stop stalling. Either help me, or step aside." Bethany's conscience wondered what all her friends would think—Claudette, Muddle, Geoffrey, even stupid Ebenezer. She couldn't imagine that any of them would approve of the thoughts inside her head. Her brain started rattling out reasons why she should let Mortimer do his worst. If she hadn't met him, he might have tried to kill the beast anyway. By stepping aside and clearing the way, she wasn't actually doing anything bad herself. In some ways, she was actually doing good. Because the world

would certainly be a better place without the beast. "I'm not a parrot who likes to wait," said Mortimer. Bethany's mind was made up. She owed it to herself to do everything she could to get rid of the beast. "There's a man named Ebenezer in the house who might try to stop you," she said. "But we're going to a party this morning, so the beast will be by itself. That will help you." "I don't need any help," snapped Mortimer. "Why does everyone think I need help?" "Don't be an idiot," said Bethany. "You need all the help you can get. The beast is pretending it's lost its mind, but don't be fooled—it could reveal its true self at any moment."

"I hope it does," said Mortimer. "That way I can see the evil in its eyes before I pluck them out." "If it decides to make its move, we're all doomed," said Bethany. "If you wanna kill the beast, you'll have to do it fast—and you have to do it with this." Bethany lifted the trumpet to Mortimer's face. She was reluctant to hand it over, because it was the only thing that made her feel protected, now that the button was gone. "You've got to be kidding me," said Mortimer. "My talons are sharper than any trumpet." "Yeah, and the beast's teeth are sharper than anything in the world," said Bethany. "Go with the trumpet—trust me."