Nightbooks

by J. A. White

  “Even easier, then,” said the witch, not interested.

  She waved her wand. There was a flash of light, and the baker’s daughter found herself on the outskirts of the city. An old gelding was waiting for her, as promised. The girl rode the horse to the top of a large hill a few miles from the city. It was as good a spot as any from which to watch. She sat down in the grass. In the distance, the Great Monster slumbered. The baker’s daughter could see its claws from here, as big as trees but far sharper.

  She imagined what was happening right now.

  No doubt the witches had already made a batch of new potion with the liquid from the girl’s bottle. Someone would be pouring the potion into the fifth ear, thinking that she was saving everyone in the entire city . . .

  The baker’s daughter smiled.

  The eldest witch was right. Nightberry juice had no magical properties. But the bottle that the baker’s daughter brought to the witches had been filled with more than just nightberry juice. There was a pinch of neverworm in there as well, from the patch that the baker’s daughter had found while poisoning all the bindweed. Such a possibility had never occurred to the eldest witch, for who would be mad enough to do such a thing?

  Neverworm not only erased the smell of any potion it was added to. It erased its magic as well. In fact, just the tiniest touch of neverworm could undo the most powerful enchantment.

  The baker’s daughter only wished the rest of her family could be here to see her revenge. Her sweet brother, who had been thrown into the mouth of the Great Monster and never returned. Her poor father, dead of a broken heart, and her mother, who followed him soon afterward.

  She missed them with a love both fierce and terrible.

  The girl removed a frosted roll from her cloak. She had baked it earlier this morning, using her family’s recipe. As the monster awoke and the screams began, she took a tiny bite. It was delicious.

  The misting room had dissipated several minutes beforehand, giving Alex a clear view of Natacha’s face. She looked livid.

  “What. Was. That?” she asked.

  Alex tried to look as hurt as possible.

  “You didn’t like it?” he asked. “Really? I wrote it for you! I figured since the story was about magic you might—”

  “Why was the witch fooled so easily by a simple . . . girl?” she shrieked, leaping to her feet. She poked him in the chest with the long nail of her index finger. “Are you saying that I’m stupid? That I’m gullible? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Natacha was so self-centered that she assumed the story was about her. Alex had hoped this would be the case.

  If she’s upset, she’s more likely to slip up and tell us what we need to know.

  Still, he had to be careful. He couldn’t push her too far.

  “It’s just a story,” Alex said. “I needed a foolish witch in order to make the ending work. She’s just make-believe, a character. Obviously, a brilliant witch like you—a witch who knows more about magic than anyone else in the world, a witch so amazing that”—he saw Yasmin give a little shake of her head: Too much, too much!—“anyway, you never would have fallen for it.”

  Natacha nodded, drinking it up.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I would have seen right through her.”

  “You would have tested the potion first,” Alex said. “Made sure it actually worked before you sent someone to use it on the monster.”

  “Obviously,” Natacha said.

  “And you would have investigated why all the bindweed died to begin with,” Alex said. “I mean, the only herb that can erase the smell of a potion suddenly gets wiped out? That’s pretty suspicious.”

  Natacha laughed into the back of her hand.

  “What?” Alex asked.

  “Bindweed,” she said. “Yasmin tell you to use that? That part of your ‘research’?”

  Alex brightened.

  “You noticed!” he exclaimed. “I thought you’d like the story better if I used real magical ingredients instead of just making them up. Yasmin was a big help.”

  “Neverworm isn’t real, obviously,” Yasmin admitted. “And I had to guess at what ingredients might be used in a sleeping potion, but I’m pretty sure that recipe could work.” She ignored Natacha’s dismissive chortle. “And I know for a fact that bindweed conceals magical odors. It was Claire who told me that, and she was an expert.”

  Yasmin glared at Natacha in defiance, as though daring the witch to contradict her.

  The witch stopped laughing.

  “There’s only one expert, girl,” Natacha said. “Me. And I’m here to tell you that bindweed is good for exactly one thing: combining magical ingredients that would otherwise be incapable of working together. It’s magic glue, nothing more.”

  Yasmin shook her head in amusement, as though Natacha were a poor student who had just added when she should have subtracted.

  “No, no, no,” she said. “That’s totally wrong.”

  Flames erupted in Natacha’s eyes.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  Alex sent a warning glance in Yasmin’s direction. They had planned to get Natacha upset, but not that upset. One more word and she might find herself a porcelain figurine.

  Yasmin ignored him.

  “Bindweed makes the foulest magical odor vanish,” Yasmin said, stubbornly crossing her arms. “I’ve seen it work.”

  “Impossible,” Natacha said, but there was the slightest flicker of doubt in her tone.

  She’s not as sure of herself as she seems, Alex thought.

  “Remember that order of beauty oil you had me make a few weeks back?” Yasmin asked. “The shrew feet were past their prime, and the whole batch ended up stinking really bad. I added lavender, lemongrass, all the usual, hoping to cancel it out, but nothing worked. So I threw in a few sprigs of bindweed.” Yasmin snapped her fingers. “Ta-da! No more odor.”

  “You’re wrong!” Natacha exclaimed. Her uncertainty had passed; now there was only anger. “Bindweed doesn’t do that!”

  “Except it did,” Yasmin replied. “So I really don’t see what other explanation—”

  Alex clapped his hands together, as though he had just thought of a great idea.

  “Hey, I know!” he suggested. “Maybe you got your ingredients confused. You thought it was bindweed, but it was . . . I don’t know . . . what takes away smell?”

  He shrugged and turned to Natacha for assistance. The witch, clearly warming to the idea that Yasmin had made a mistake, was quick to respond.

  “Cinaroot,” she said. “It’s the only thing that would have actually worked.”

  Alex nodded, as though this was only of passing interest, but there were fireworks exploding in his head.

  Got it! Got it! Got it!

  “Oh!” Yasmin exclaimed, smacking herself in the forehead. “This is embarrassing. I had just used cinaroot in a different oil, and I guess . . . I might have gotten it confused with bindweed.”

  “They don’t even look anything alike,” Natacha said, her air of superiority returning in full force. “How stupid can you be?”

  “You’re right,” Yasmin said.

  “Of course I’m right,” Natacha replied, raising her chin high. “I’m the witch!” She snapped her fingers in Alex’s direction. “Well, what are you doing? Correct your story before you forget! And if you need to do any more research in the future, you come to me. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Alex said, removing a pencil from his pocket. He erased his first use of “bindweed” and then looked up with a shy smile. “Does cinaroot start with an s or a c? I just want to make sure I get it right.”

  16

  A Pair of Red Eyes

  After a quick breakfast, the two children donned their goggles and entered the nursery. It was the first time that Alex had been back since the incident with the danglers, and he was amazed at all the work Yasmin had done. Shattered black lights had been replaced, overturned plants restored to their r
ightful position. Luminous leaves and glowing stems created a brightly lit path through the darkness.

  Unlike the last time he had been here, the nursery was quiet and peaceful.

  Why does that night seem so long ago? Alex wondered.

  They moved quickly, Yasmin stopping every so often to gather an ingredient she needed. At one point she handed Alex a pair of scissors to hold. She didn’t ask him to hold them, nor did she need to.

  Inspired by this subtle gesture of friendship, Alex decided to risk a question that had been on his mind.

  “So where do you live?” Alex asked. “In the real world.”

  “Why do you want to know?” Yasmin asked. The old caution had crept into her voice.

  “Sorry,” Alex said, a little hurt. “I know you don’t like to talk about your old life. I just thought that maybe things had changed.”

  She touched his hand in the darkness.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, Alex,” Yasmin said. “It’s just . . . it hurts too much to talk about it. I miss my family. A lot. But they’re like a wound that hasn’t healed. If I don’t think about it, the pain is bearable, but the moment I talk about home, or say their names—I remember how bad it hurts. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “I get that,” Alex said, relieved. “I just wanted to see how close we lived to each other.” He paused, then added softly, “You know, in case we ever want to hang out or something. After.”

  “Oh,” Yasmin said. “You really think we’re going to get out of here?”

  “Unicorn Girl did it,” Alex said. “Why not us?”

  Yasmin considered this for a long time.

  “Thirty-Third Street,” she finally said, looking over her shoulder. Her face was tinted mauve from a nearby fern. “Just off Parsons.”

  Alex smiled. It was too far for him to walk, but there was a bus stop right on the corner.

  “That’ll work,” he said.

  They took a sharp left down a narrow hallway that he hadn’t noticed before. After a short walk, they came to a heavy curtain identical to the one near the entrance to the nursery. Yasmin held it open for him. As he entered the next room, Alex felt Lenore brush past his legs. Until that moment he’d had no idea that she had even followed them, but he was glad.

  She should be here for this, he thought. She’s one of us.

  “You can take your goggles off now,” Yasmin said, letting the curtain close behind them. She removed her own goggles and reached for something behind Alex.

  Click.

  Work lights buzzed to life. They were regular lights, not black lights, and Alex squinted against the unexpected brightness. After his eyes had a chance to readjust, he saw that he was in a simple room with a concrete floor and four identical silver machines.

  “Oil distillers,” Yasmin said. “You put the magic herbs inside, steam sucks out all the good stuff and turns it into a few drops of essential oil. Pretty cool, right?”

  Each distiller was split into two vats with dials and tubes between them. The bottom one was fat and wide and looked like it could hold a lot of liquid. Above it was a tall cylinder on a metal stand that reminded Alex of a pipe from an old church organ.

  Three of the distillers bubbled and chugged and occasionally released puffs of copper-hued smoke into the air. Alex stepped closer to one of them and held his hand a few inches shy of its surface. Waves of heat tingled his skin.

  “Don’t touch it!” Yasmin exclaimed. “You’ll get a nasty burn.”

  Alex pulled his hand back.

  “What’s this one making right now?” he asked.

  Yasmin consulted a notebook hanging off a small stepladder.

  “Popularity oil.” She pointed to the other two machines in turn. “Hair-growing oil. Acne oil.”

  “To give someone acne or take it away?”

  “Beats me,” Yasmin said. “I just follow the recipe.”

  She crossed the room to a wooden workbench. Long trays held beakers of all shapes and sizes. There were also several knives crusted with old plant matter.

  “How long will it take?” Alex asked, bending down to feed Lenore a handful of Froot Loops. She gobbled them up quickly and then nudged his pocket with her head, wanting more. Alex obliged.

  “We can’t do anything yet,” Yasmin said, hanging the herbs from hooks above the workbench. “We have to let these dry overnight.” She switched on a small heating unit beneath the herbs; warm air blew upward. “In the morning, I can set them up in the distiller. Figure six hours in the machine . . . we should be ready to go by tomorrow night.”

  “Assuming I can think of a story,” Alex said. “Only two left. After tonight I’m all out.”

  “Why bother writing anything new?” Yasmin asked, washing her hands in a slop sink. “Natacha is going to drink the sleeping oil during dinner. She’ll be asleep before you have to read anything.”

  “We don’t know if it’s going to work right away,” Alex said. “The original recipe was for a potion. We’re changing it to an oil. What if it takes a little while to kick in? We want everything to seem as normal as possible while we wait.”

  “A single drop of oil is super concentrated,” Yasmin said, bending down to check a temperature gauge outside one of the distillers. “My guess is it will work even faster than a potion.” She thought about this for a moment. “Huh,” she said. “I hope it’s not too strong. We don’t want to kill her.”

  “Yeah,” Alex said. “I want to get out of here, but I don’t want to murder anyone.”

  “Oh no,” Yasmin said, shaking her head. “I would feel bad, too—well, sort of—but that’s not the reason we don’t want to kill her. Think about it. What happens if you’re wrong about her bedroom door? What if it doesn’t lead outside?”

  “It does,” Alex said. “I’m positive.”

  “Then what if that particular bonekey has some sort of magical protection,” Yasmin said. “And Natacha is the only one who can use it.”

  “Oh,” Alex said. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. “I see what you mean now. If something happens to Natacha, we might be trapped in the apartment forever. Eventually we’d just starve to death.”

  He shuddered as his overactive imagination sent him horrifying images of starvation. Lenore, sensing a sudden need for comfort, brushed against his legs.

  “That was always my argument with Eli, whenever he said we should try to kill her,” Yasmin said. “Not that he listened in the end. I do have an idea, though. What if we put this off a few days and test the oil first, make sure we know what it does?”

  “Didn’t you just say it could kill Natacha?” Alex asked.

  “Not test it on us,” Yasmin said. She eyed Lenore. “But there might be another living creature that could help us out. I mean, the oil probably works fine, so it’ll just end up being a nice nap. . . .”

  Lenore looked from Yasmin to Alex with an expression of disbelief: Is she seriously suggesting this?

  Alex picked up the cat and held her close.

  “Not going to happen,” he said.

  “Fine,” said Yasmin. “Then we’ll just have to go into this blind. But yeah, you should probably have a story ready, just in case. We don’t really know what to expect. Weren’t you working on a ghost one? That sounded pretty good.”

  “Still stuck,” Alex said.

  “Want to kick some ideas around?”

  Alex hesitated, but only for a moment. Time was running out, and he needed all the help he could get.

  “That would be great,” he said.

  “Let’s see,” Yasmin said. “My Language Arts teacher said you’re supposed to write what you know. So . . . ever have any scary experiences?”

  “Well, this one time I was captured by a witch.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Okay,” Alex said, taking a deep breath. “There is one thing. I’ve never really told anyone about it, though.”

  Yasmin took a seat on the floor and motioned for Alex to d
o the same.

  “All we need is a campfire,” she said. “Come on. Tell me.”

  “So, I was waiting for the seven train with my parents—not on one of the outdoor platforms, but down in the Main Street station. There was a pretty bad snowstorm that day, so there weren’t a lot of people out and about. The platform was empty. My parents were having some kind of serious talk with John, so I wandered away, mostly out of boredom. I must have been, like, I don’t know, four or five at the time. I crept down to the end of the platform, just to see if the subway was coming, and deep in the tunnel I saw these two red lights in the distance. At first I figured it was just a pair of signals or something.” Alex swallowed slowly. “But then they blinked.”

  Yasmin’s eyes widened.

  “What happened next?” she asked, transfixed.

  “The eyes moved,” Alex said. “They got closer to the edge of the tunnel, to the border between the darkness and the light. I knew I should go back to my parents. But . . . those red eyes hypnotized me.” Alex rose to his feet, acting out his movements in the story. “I got closer to the darkness. Closer. It was like I wasn’t even controlling my own feet anymore.”

  He knelt down, his face close to Yasmin’s now.

  “And then . . . the thing with the red eyes . . . it whispered something,” he said.

  Yasmin leaned forward.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Yasmin!”

  She screamed, falling backward.

  “Got you,” Alex said, laughing hard. “I got you so good.”

  “You are the worst!” she exclaimed, smacking him hard on the arm. For a second Alex was afraid she was actually mad, but then he saw the huge smile on her face. “Seriously, we are no longer friends.”

  “You have no choice,” Alex said. “I’m the only one here.”

  “Lenore,” Yasmin said, turning toward the cat. “Would you like to be my friend? My only friend?”

  Lenore gave both of them a strange look, as though she would never understand humans, and disappeared.

  “You just got rejected by a cat,” Alex said.