Free Nine Lives Last Forever by Rebecca M. Hale Page A

amiss.
    I glanced around at the surrounding stone and then swept my eyes upward. A circular balcony, about ten feet or so in diameter, looked down from the third floor to the space where we were standing.
    A movement on the edge of the stone balcony caught my eye as a tiny green figure shuffled to the edge of the railing. The slight echo of a meager croak floated down into the cove, barely audible over the drone of Monty’s voice.
    I felt my mouth fall open as the frog leapt into the air, his strong back legs propelling him into the center airspace of the Ceremonial Rotunda.
    Monty noticed my gaping stare and turned his long, narrow face in the same upward direction I was looking—just in time to receive the splat of the frog’s slimy body across his forehead.

Chapter 8
    AFTER THE FROG ATTACK
    THE FROG DUCKED into the slick helmet of Monty’s hair, briefly dodging a flailing net of fingers as Monty’s arms swung instinctively up over his head. A muffled ribbit issued from somewhere within the heaving heap of fingers, frog, and overstyled hair.
    “Ah ha!” Monty exclaimed as he finally wrapped his hand around the frog’s spongy middle.
    But the extra lubrication of Monty’s hair gel made the already slippery frog impossible to hold. The struggling frog popped out of Monty’s grasp and shot up into the air, its hind legs stretching out behind it for full aerodynamic effect.
    I stepped sideways to avoid both the fleeing frog and Monty’s lunging effort to recapture it. The frog landed with a squishing plunk on the marble floor and quickly turned around to size up the oncoming pursuit of Monty’s skinny, scrambling figure.
    Monty stumbled forward, his long arms swooping down at the floor. The frog took off on a series of short, vigorous hops that took it straight between Monty’s pointed feet. Monty swiveled the toes of his dress shoes on the marble, trying to reverse direction to continue the chase.
    A small amount of hair gel had apparently transferred from the bottom of the frog’s webbed feet to the center of the Ceremonial Rotunda when it first landed. As the sole of Monty’s left shoe hit the slick spot on the marble, his legs flew out from under him, and he crashed painfully onto the floor. With a last triumphant ribbit , the frog disappeared around the corner leading to the second floor hallway.
    The wedding party reached the top of the stairs, murmuring with concern at the sight laid out in front of them. The fiddle player peeked over my shoulder as I bent down toward Monty’s lanky body, which was sprawled out in the middle of the Ceremonial Rotunda. His gel-coated hair had been hopelessly disarranged; it was now strangely spiked and ruffled as if he had just climbed out of bed after a restless night’s sleep.
    “Monty?” I asked tentatively as more members from the wedding party circled his prostrate body. “Are you okay?”
    He didn’t speak for a long moment. Slowly, he lifted his torso up into a seated position. His thin lips stretched out toward both corners of his narrow face as he turned his head to look at me. His expression was flat, unreadable.
    “Was that . . . a . . . frog?”
     
     
    A PAIR OF bright green go-go boots stood on the third floor balcony above the Ceremonial Rotunda, anchoring an elderly Asian woman who had leaned over the banister to watch the melee unfold below. Dilla giggled to herself, enjoying the scene. Then, she trotted off down the third floor hallway, heading toward the opposite end of the rotunda and the side stairs that would take her down to the Mayor’s office suite.
    Dilla was right on time for her afternoon appointment. She could hardly wait to see the Mayor’s response to her latest proposal—she just wasn’t quite sure what he would think about her outfit.
     
     
    IT WAS EARLY evening by the time I made it back to a now dark and chilly Jackson Square. Two hungry cats greeted me at the front door of the Green Vase, purring loudly as a reminder that it