Read Online Except the Queen by Jane Yolen, Midori Snyder - Free Book Online Page A

, but only after Baba Yaga snapped at me to remember to look both ways, or else “be splattered.” Although I was grateful for her help, I was still very afraid of her, and even more afraid of her house. It loomed dark and forbidding in the early twilight. Walking down the little stone path to the stairs, I tensed at the sight of a skull’s head embedded in the dirt near the steps.
A cannibal’s home
, I reminded myself. The bottom step rested on a pair of carved chicken feet and I could imagine that the back of the house had another door and steps resting on chicken feet just like it.
    At the top of the stairs I paused, surveying the huge porch that had been hidden by the pines. Light from a first-floor bay window illuminated a collection of lumpy, stained furniture along with a few spindled chairs. Empty bottles, cups, and soiled paper plates cluttered the porch wall. A small brazier held the remains of charred meat and burned corncobs. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent odor of stale beer and rotting food.
    Moving toward the main door, I was searching for the lock when the door was thrown open from inside, revealing a tall scantily clad girl, all arms and legs, standing in a dimly lit hallway. She was looking over her shoulder, shrieking at someone in the house. I stepped quickly out of her way and saw her tearstained face, red and white with rage. Music howled behind her in the hallway and I covered my ears at the sound.
    “Fuck you, I’m leaving. I’m tired of cleaning up your shit, you stupid prick!” She turned, and bolted from the door without a look in my direction.
    “Babe, wait, don’t be like that.” A young man followed, trying unsuccessfully to grab her by the arm.
    She twisted away and continued down the porch steps, her long white legs scissoring into the night.
    “Fuck,” the man said despondently, and I added a new shade of meaning to the word.
    “Aw, let her go, dude. She’s a bitch,” called another male voice from a doorway down the hall. “Fergit her. Come on, Nick, it’s party time, man.”
    Nick leaned hard against the doorway, seeing me now for the first time. His boyish features hardened as he frowned. Barefooted, wearing only short pants, his soft pudgy body was like a little child’s. His hair was clipped close to his head, and he ran his hand through the bristles until they stood up, slick and damp. He swayed unsteadily, his sweat reeking of hard spirits. He looked me up and down and sneered as the harsh music railed around us.
    “Suppose you gonna call the police,” he snapped at me.
    I took my hands from my ears. “Not if you remember your manners,” I said, wondering if I sounded anything like Baba Yaga, and then guessing I didn’t because he kept on sneering.
    “So—what are you doing here?” he challenged.
    “I live here.”
    “No you don’t. All the apartments in this house are rented already, so I know you don’t live here.”
    The other man had come out to join Nick, and I was well aware that both men towered over me. The friend was broad in the chest and broader still across his belly. He was wearing a torn black shirt with the words H OW A BOUT A N ICE C UP OF S HUT THE F UCK U P ? in white letters across the chest. Like Nick, he was drunk, and from the dull look in his eyes, stupid too.
    “Third floor,” I said, pointing a finger upward.
    They both stepped back, chastened and studied their feet.
    “Sorry, I thought you were, you know, gone for a year. That’s what the rental agent told us,” Nick mumbled.
    “I’m back,” I announced emboldened. If they didn’t know who Baba Yaga was, then I could play the role of the Mistress. “And furthermore, clean up your
shit
out here immediately or
you
will not live here anymore.” I stood as tall as I could manage and glared at them.
    Their response was immediate. Deflated, they lumbered across the porch, one holding open a bag while the other dumped in garbage, bottles, and the rotten remains of their