Chapter 8

Chapter Eight Evie Snark lives across town, in Wakefield's historic district—near the shore and the old port. And we're stuck hoofing it. The combination of Rover's sensitive footsies and out-of-commission Big Mama means we're getting some serious cardio... "Look," June says. Ahead of us is a steep, winding brick road lined with ancient-looking houses. Quint consults his map. "We're close." It's only another ten minutes of hiking before we've found the Villainess's home...

So this house looks normal, right? Definitely doesn't belong to some sort of super-bad dude. Totally Not creepy. In the least. The numbers on Evie Snark's mailbox hang crooked from rusty screws. The house is gray and the paint is chipped. The curtains have turned yellow. Bits of tall, never-mowed grass poke through the high snow. I don't recognize this house —but I recognize the general idea.... See, every town I've ever lived in has one house like this; a house that looks like it's celebrating Halloween year-round. Maybe every town everywhere has this house. That house that when

you're walking the dog, you cross the street so you don't get infected by the heebie-jeebies. I know it's just a trick in my brain—but I can almost smell the Louisville Slicer inside the house. The mix of baseball diamond wood and splattered monster guts and palm sweat. It's here, in Evie Snark's house. Evie Snark: the Villainess who speaks the language of .e...c.. Dirk finds a weak spot in the fence. He grabs it, gloves wrapping tight around the metal, and bends one bar. We squeeze through, then carefully creep up the hill. We are basically masters of stealth. Until— KRAK! The ice at my feet is splitting. My snow sneaker plunges through, and an instant later, we're all up to our waists in absolute freezing-ness.

Oh, dear. The villains who speaks the language of rezac has a private pond. I'm tough, but not tougher than frostbite. I can't take these cruddy clothes anymore cold? Too cold? "What do you want to do? Go back?!" I exclaim, as I pull myself out of the cold water, then point to the house. "We're close!" "Close to freezing!" June says. Quint quickly replies, "June, you might be cold, but your body temperature is far from the ninety

five degrees that indicates freezing and hypothermia." June's lip curls. "Quint. We're friends. But I will bury you in a pile of snow." "We'll get dry inside," I say. I spot a window that is a few inches open. The dingy yellow curtains flap in the arctic breeze. I listen carefully. I'm hoping my Spidey-sense will kick in and tell me whether anyone's home. It does not. Sadly, loving Spider-Man does not actually give you Spidey-sense. I must breach this creepy fortress... The window's small—but I've fit through tighter spots while playing flashlight tag. I know I should be cautious, but now that we're close—I WANT MY BLADE.

She could be in there. Whatever whatever. Whatever. THE LOUISVILLE SLICER. "Dirk, boost me!" I whisper. In a flash, my sneaker is in his hand, and I'm up into the window. I get halfway through—then I'm totally jam-stuck. "I've been waiting so long to kick your rear end," June says. I can almost hear her grinning. WOMP! June's boot meets my butt and I'm propelled through the window. Loud enough to alert anyone who's home. Slowly, I stand.