“So what’s the code?” Mal turned back to the gargoyles, her eyes blazing. “Tell me, you idiots!”
She drew herself up to her full height and spoke in a voice that Carlos knew well. It was how Cruella spoke to him, and how Maleficent spoke to her minions from the balcony. He was impressed. He’d never seen Mal so like her mother as now.
Mal did not ask the gargoyles, she commanded them.
“This is my mother’s castle, and you are her servants. You will do as I bid. ASK YOUR RIDDLE AND LET US PASS!” she ordered, looking as if she were home—truly home—for the first time.
Because, as they could all now see, she was.
A moment went by.
The mists swirled, in the background, ravens cawed, and green light pulsed in the distant windows of the castle.
“Carlosssssssss,” hissed the gargoyles, in disturbingly creepy unison. “Approaaaach ussssssss.”
Hearing his name, Carlos took a step forward with an awestruck look on his face. “Why me?”
“Maybe because you touched the step first? So the alarm is set on Carlos mode?” Jay scratched his head. “Better you than me, man.”
“Time for the pass code.” Mal nodded. “You got this, Carlos.”
Then the gargoyles began to hiss again. “Carlosssssss. First quesssssstion…”
Carlos took a breath. It was just like school, he thought. He liked school. He liked answering questions that had answers, right? So wasn’t this just another question? That needed just another answer?
“Ink spot in the snow
Or red, rough, and soft
Black and wet, warm and fast
Loved and lost—What am I?”
No sooner had the gargoyles stopped speaking than rumbling began beneath their feet. “Carlos!” Evie cried, stumbling as she tried to stand in place.
“What?” Carlos ran his hand through his hair anxiously. His mind was reeling.
Ink is black. Snow is white. What’s red and rough? A steak? Who loves a steak? We haven’t had those in a while, anyway. And what does any of this have to do with me?
“Answer the question!” Mal said. The light was once more fading from the gargoyles’ eyes.
“It’s—” said Carlos, stalling. He was stuck.
Black. White. Spots. Red. Loved. Lost.
“The puppies. My mother’s puppies, the Dalmatians. All one hundred and one of them. All loved and all lost, by her.” He looked up at the stone faces. “Though I think the love part is debatable.”
Silence.
“Do I need to say the names? Because I swear I can tell them to you, every last one of them.” He took a breath. “Pongo. Perdita. Patch. Lucky. Roly Poly. Freckles. Pepper…” When he had finished speaking, the mist once more congealed around the bridge. Carlos let out a sigh.
It hadn’t worked.
“Wait!” Mal said, pointing to the spot where the mists had congealed. “It’s doing something.” The gray mist parted, revealing a new section of the bridge, a piece that had not existed a moment ago.
The gargoyles cleared a path, and the four of them ran out onto it, hurrying to the newly formed edge, waiting for the next question.
“NEXT RIDDLE!” Mal demanded, just as a ferocious wind blew at them. Carlos was beginning to get the feeling the bridge had more than a few ways of getting rid of unwanted visitors. He swallowed.
They needed to hurry.
Or rather, he did.
“Carlossssssss. Next quessssssstion.”
He nodded.
“Like a rose in a blizzard
It blooms like a cut
A red smear
Her kiss is death,”
the gargoyles hissed in their eerie unison, turning to face them, claws raised. Their muscles flexed and their tails whipped, their forked tongues raking their fangs. It looked as if they might pounce at any moment.
Once again, the bridge began to shift beneath their feet.
“‘Her kiss is death,’” echoed Carlos. “It has to be about my mother. Is that the answer? Cruella De Vil?”
The bridge began to shake even harder.
Wrong answer.
“But it is about your mother!” said Evie, suddenly. “A rose in a blizzard, it blooms like a cut…her kiss…it’s about what color lipstick she wears! Cruella’s signature red!”
Carlos was dumbfounded. “It is?”
“A red smear—see? It means it’s something she puts on. Oh, I know what it is!” Evie said. “The answer is Cherries in the Snow! That has to be it; it’s been everywhere this season. I mean—judging from what’s been thrown away on the Dumpster barges.”
Mal rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you know that.”
The wind whipped up again, and the four of them locked hands, holding on to one another for support. They pressed their shoulders together, bracing themselves against the gale.
Evie cursed. “It’s not Cherries in the Snow? I could swear that was it. Red with a pinkish undertone. No, wait—wait—it didn’t have a pink undertone, it was darker. Redder. A ‘true red’—what did the magazines call it? Frost and Flame? No—Fire and Ice! That’s it! Cruella’s pout is made of Fire and Ice!”