Free Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Page A

Titus pried his eyes open. Christmas! he thought, and then, remembering that he was too cool for such things, thought, Oh, yeah, Christmas. There was a large red stocking at the foot of his bed! Oh, yeah, the stocking. Titus scratched an armpit in a thoughtful fashion and tried to yawn insouciantly. Two seconds later, unable to restrain himself any longer, he somersaulted to the end of the bed, grabbed his stocking, and tipped it upside down on the floor.
    Titus was simultaneously cramming chocolate reindeer down his throat and loading a brand-new copy of
Schlock-Horror IV
onto his laptop when Latch emerged sniffing from the bathroom, clutching a box of tissues since his seasonal cold was currently at its peak in terms of mucus production. Titus blinked. Latch was wearing a lounge suit that looked as if it had been salvaged from the wreck of the
Titanic
. Furthermore, he’d cut himself shaving, and a thin trail of blood was trickling down his chin. Briefly, the thought occurred to Titus that he could offer to dab Latch’s chin, thus gaining a drop of the butler’s blood for cloning purposes, but remembering his success of the night before, he decided that enough was enough. He wondered if Pandora had forgiven him yet. . . .
    He didn’t have to wonder for too long. Meeting his sibling on the way down to breakfast, he noticed that her left thumb was heavily bandaged.
    â€œAaargh! It’s Psycho-Titus! Keep him
away
from me,” Pandora said, clutching Mrs. McLachlan for protection.
    â€œWhat’s she on about?” Titus attempted injured innocence.
    â€œLast night, Titus. Remember? My poor thumb?” Pandora turned to explain to Mrs. McLachlan. “He appeared in my room, black cloak, fangs, full-on vampire, and sank his teeth into my hand. . . .”
    â€œPardon?” Titus looked blank. “I did
what
?”
    â€œYou bit me,” said Pandora. “Hard. You drew blood. So I had to hit you with the first thing that came to hand.”
    â€œWhich was?” Mrs. McLachlan frowned.
    â€œWhat are you on about?” Titus interrupted. “I was in bed. All night. Asleep, not prowling round the hotel. You’re blathering, Pan. Or dreaming. Either way, I think you need therapy.”
    â€œSo what’s this, then?” Pandora waved her thumb in Titus’s face. “Or that?” She grabbed her brother’s hair, pulling back his bangs to expose a lump the size of a small egg. “Here, look. I did that. With my shoe.”
    â€œI wondered where that lump came from. . . .” Titus absentmindedly rubbed his head, then looked up at his sister, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Oh, heck—d’you think I bit you when I was sleepwalking?”
    â€œThat’s quite
enough,
” interrupted Mrs. McLachlan in tones that brooked no dissent. “I’m ashamed of the pair of you. Biting and hitting. Any more of this nonsense and you can both go in the stable block with the beasts. Now. Not another word. Let us all go downstairs and have breakfast like civilized human beings, not little heathens.”
    Over the muted strains of Christmas carols, the Strega-Borgia clan assembled in the dining room could hear the unmistakable din of crashing cutlery and clattering saucepans. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell was not in a festive mood. The previous evening’s wine tasting had left a bitter taste in her mouth, coupled with a thumping headache and an overweening desire to have her revenge on Signora Strega-Borgia. To make matters worse, in her three a.m. search for her infallible headache remedy, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell had discovered that her crocodile-skin handbag had gone missing. Her temper, usually maintained at a temperature just below simmering point, boiled over.
    â€œYou must have seen it, you useless MORON!” she yelled at her husband. “I had it yesterday, in the kitchen. If you hadn’t pickled what few remaining brain cells