Free Alistair Grim's Odditorium by Gregory Funaro Page A

been scraping for some time now, and there’s not a speck of soot on me anywhere.”
    Indeed, as I shined Mack’s light on the chimney wall, I discovered the soot there to be red and glistening. “That’s odd. I’ve never seen soot like this before.”
    “Neither have I,” said Mack. “Then again, I’ve never seen soot at all before, so I suppose I’ll have to take yer word on that one, Grubb.”
    Suddenly a voice called out from below. “Hallo, hallo?”
    “Ach!” Mack whispered, trembling. “It’s Nigel. If he finds out I’ve left the shop he’ll tell Mr. Grim, and then it’s the scrap heap for sure!”
    “Stop your jabbering then,” I whispered back.
    “Hallo?” Nigel called again. “You up there, lad?”
    “Yes, sir,” I shouted. “Not quite finished yet, sir.”
    “Change of plans,” Nigel said. “You need to come down at once. Master’s orders.”
    From my position in the narrow flue, I couldn’t see below me, but I knew from the sound of Nigel’s voice that he’d stuck his head into the hearth.
    “Quick, Grubb!” Mack whispered. “Help me climb up the chimney!”
    “Nonsense,” I said. “Just close yourself and get inside my pocket.”
    “Ya don’t understand, laddie! Nigel is Odditoria too!”
    “What’s all the row, lad?” Nigel called.
    “Coming, sir,” I said, shifting my weight. This caused some soot to fall, and I heard Nigel grumble below me in the hearth. Then I whispered to Mack, “Did you say Nigel is
Odditoria too?”
    “Odditoria what’s got animus like me! He knows I’ve left the shop—I’ve got to make a break for it!”
    Mack squirmed in my hand and I almost dropped him, when without thinking I tapped him on his XII. He crackled and sputtered, and then his eyes went black.
    That’s good to know,
I said to myself, and slipped him back into my pocket.
    I quickly shimmied down the flue and landed in the pile of strange red soot that had accumulated in the hearth. The soot didn’t burst into a dust cloud like normal soot; it had the feel of
river sand. However, when I looked up and saw Nigel, all thoughts of soot and sand disappeared from my head at once.
    “Well, well,” he said. “You’re the Grubb from the trunk, eh?”
    The man staring down at me was even taller than Mr. Smears and twice as wide. His bald, elongated head jutted forward from a pair of massive shoulders, and his arms hung limply at his sides as
if they were too long for his body. He was dressed entirely in black, with a pair of dark goggles wedged between his heavy brow and cheek. They covered his eyes and the top of his nose completely
and were fastened snug around his head by a thick leather strap.
    An odd-looking bloke, I thought. But he doesn’t appear to be Odditoria, let alone powered by the animus like Mack.
    “I asked you a question, lad,” Nigel said. “Something wrong with your hearing? Or is the sight of me a bit too much for your tongue?”
    “Yes, sir,” I stammered. “I mean, no—I mean—yes, sir, I’m the Grubb from the trunk, and no, sir, my hearing is just fine, thank you very much.”
    “Right-o, then,” Nigel said, extending his hand. “Nigel’s the name, no need to call me sir. Gentlemen’s shake if we’re going to be working
together.”
    “Working together?”
    “That’s right. Mr. Grim’s orders.”
    Nigel’s big beefy hand swallowed mine past my wrist. He shook it twice, his grip gentle but firm, then he picked up a stack of papers from one of the covered tables.
    “You see these handbills here?” he asked, sliding one off the top for me. “We’re to pass these out to people in the street. Public relations, Mr. Grim calls
it.”
    I was able to recognize most of the words as Nigel read aloud:

    “Right-o, then,” Nigel said, heading toward the lift. “Let’s be on our way—”
    Presently a loud clanking noise rang out from the library—“Blast it!” cried Mr. Grim within—and Nigel and I rushed inside to find a pair of