A sequel to critically acclaimed THE NEDDIAD told from the point of view of Ned's friend, Iggy La Brea Woman is missing. Valentino, too. The ghosts of Los Angeles are disappearing right and left! Iggy Birnbaum is determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, no matter what Neddie Wentworthstein and Seamus Finn say. There’s just the little matter of traveling to another plane of existence, first…and then, of course, not pissing off a witch once she gets there. From L.A. to Old New Hackensack, fans of The Neddiad will be delighted to join up with Iggy, Neddie, Seamus, and the usual apparitional entourage for another weird and wonderful adventure by Daniel Pinkwater. As Neil Gaiman said about the first book: "it's funny and tender and strange and impossible to describe. What Pinkwater does is magic and I'm grateful for it." THE YGGYSSEY is vintage Pinkwater: laugh out loud funny, incredible characters, dialogue, humor. And like THE NEDDIAD, this book will be similarly illustrated throughout by Calef Brown. "Once again, Pinkwater combines a goofy plot, myth and fairy tale references, and an obvious affection for yesteryear Los Angeles in a supernaturally funny read."-- Booklist "In this amiably goofy sequel to The Neddiad (2007), sharp-tongued Yggdrasil (Iggy) Birnbaum takes center stage . . . Iggy breaks her narrative off abruptly in the midst of the happy ending, promising a further sequel to readers who find trips into Pinkwater’s odd noggin diverting."-- Kirkus Reviews "Nobody does this kind of witty confection better than Pinkwater, the original point-and-click mind."-- Horn Book "Like The Neddiad , this sequel packs wacky characters, absurd plot twists and improbable outcomes—and every page offers goofy, offbeat fun . . . With his trio once again victorious, Pinkwater serves up another dose of lighthearted entertainment."-- Publishers Weekly "The latest Pinkwater is nothing special, only the usual wonderful . . . There is fun all along the way . . . in short, another Pinkwater, and that is enough."-- New York Times Book Review Daniel Pinkwater lives with his wife, the illustrator and novelist Jill Pinkwater, and several dogs and cats in a very old farmhouse in New York’s Hudson River Valley. CHAPTER ONE Room Full of Spooks When I got home from school, my room was full of ghosts...again! They were being invisible, but I could feel the cold spots in the air. “Did I speak to you ectoplasms about this, or did I not?” I asked the empty room. Silence. The ghosts were dummying up. “Rudolph Valentino! I can smell your lousy cigar!” There was a faint smell of cigar smoke, the trademark of the ghostly Valentino, so I knew he was among them. And my bedspread was rumpled. Probably they were sitting on my bed, playing cards. “Look, you spectres—this is a young girl’s bedroom, not a club! Why do you have to hang out here all the time? You have an eight-story hotel to haunt. There’s a complete apartment reserved for your personal use. Why don’t you stay there? It’s the nicest one in the whole building.” The management had sealed off a large apartment because it was way too haunted for living guests to put up with. The hope was that if they gave the ghosts their own space they wouldn’t haunt the rest of the hotel so much. Some hope. “We get bored,” Rudolph Valentino said. “It’s nothing but ghosts there.” “So you crowd in here so you can bore me, and stink up my room,” I said. I was mad. I really liked most of the ghosts, but a woman is entitled to some privacy. Grumbling and mumbling, the ghosts climbed out my bedroom window, made their way along the ledge, and climbed into the window of the apartment that had belonged to Valentino in 1927. I had been in the apartment lots of times. Like the ghosts, I had to climb out my window and go along the narrow ledge to get in, which was a little scary to do if you weren’t already dead. The Hermione is not a regular hotel in the sense that people check in for a couple of nights or a week. It’s all apartments, some tiny and some quite large. People live in it for months at a stretch, or all the time. It was quite the fancy address when my father first came to Hollywood in the days of the silent movies. You can see what a deluxe sort of place it was. It has architecture all over it. There are rough plaster walls, old-fashioned light fixtures made of hammered iron, fancy tile floors, and dark, heavy woodwork with carvings and decorations on it. There are tapestries that hang from iron things that look like spears, and a couple of suits of armor standing around. It looks like a movie set. It’s a combination of old Spanish California and the Middle Ages, with some Arabian Nights thrown in. I have lived in the Hermione all my life. I know the old hotel from top to bottom. I have been in all of the apartments, the basement, the laundry, and the restaurant that’s been closed for years, and I know about the deserted tennis courts and the second, unused, and hidden swimming pool w