“Here you go!” Chef Bunion handed Petula two plates piled with steaming pancakes and bacon, each topped with a pat of melted butter and a vanilla bean. “Let me know how Sketchy is holding up. I miss having help around the kitchen.”
“Will do,” Petula said as she loaded the plates onto a cart. She rolled it out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the utility closet.
As she walked, Worrin emerged from the control room and hurried to her side. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m bringing breakfast to Sketchy and Mr. Friggs.”
He blocked the cart with his body. “Sketchy has already eaten.”
“Well, I’d still like to visit,” Petula said, attempting to push the cart forward.
Worrin pushed back harder. “The beast is highly contagious.”
A BREAKFAST BATTLE
Was Petula imagining things, or had she noticed a strange flicker in his eyes?
“It’s safer if you stay up here,” Worrin continued.
“Thanks for your concern,” Petula said firmly, “but I’m willing to take my chances.”
And she shoved the cart forward, edging Worrin aside.
Worrin placed a hand on her arm. “It’s best if we let the creature rest.”
Petula hesitated. She knew how important rest was when fighting illness. And Worrin cared about Sketchy very much—maybe he was just trying to do what was best.
“Besides,” Worrin added, pointing to the trays, “you should probably bring Mr. Friggs his breakfast before it gets cold.”
Petula thought it was odd that Warren didn’t offer to bring the food himself. He always took pride in delivering his mentor’s meals, but at dinner the evening before he had completely forgotten. Perhaps he just had a lot on his mind. After all, they were deep in one of the most treacherous forests on earth, and Warren was spending most of his time in the control room, watching the road for threats and sneak attacks.
“Very well,” Petula said, “I’ll visit Sketchy later.”
With a wave of her arm, she drew a portal to the fourth floor and pushed the cart through. On the other side of the vortex, she wheeled it down the hall to the library and rapped on the thick wooden door.
“Come in,” said Mr. Friggs.
The room smelled familiar and comfortable, a scent of ink and aged paper that made Petula want to curl up with a book and lose herself in a story. Dripping candles flickered from nearly every shelf, casting a cozy warmth across the room’s cluttered contents: dusty tomes, rolls of paper, and an interesting assortment of items that Mr. Friggs had collected in his younger days as an adventurer: carved stone statues, decorative pots, chests of rusted weapons, and old coins.
On one wall hung a large map of Fauntleroy, with pins marking every location the hotel had visited. The navigator’s desk was as disorderly as the rest of the room. A sextant, a cartography compass, and an assortment of rulers and pens littered the surface, lying atop sheets of papers scribbled with equations and coordinates.
CHECKING IN WITH MR. FRIGGS
Petula nudged aside some of the mess to set down the tray.
“Mr. Friggs?” she said.
The old man’s voice echoed from across the room. “Yes, dear?”
Petula navigated her way around tottering stacks of hand-bound books, following the sound of his voice. She found him brooding in a leather armchair in the darkest corner of the room. His face was obscured by shadows.
“There you are!” she said. “I brought you breakfast.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite, I’m afraid,” Mr. Friggs said morosely. “I’m feeling quite uneasy.”
“The Malwoods have that effect on people,” Petula said.
“It’s more than that,” Mr. Friggs said. “To be candid, I’m a little concerned about our friend Warren. He skipped his tutoring session this morning. For the second day in a row.”
“Really?” Petula said. “Well, I suppose we all have a lot on our minds right now. I’m sure things will return to normal once my mom is home safe and sound.”
“I want to believe that’s true,” Mr. Friggs said, “but I have the nagging sense that Warren is different. Not himself, if you know what I mean. It’s possible that he’s distracted by all of this danger, but I feel as if it’s something greater.”
Petula knew exactly what he meant. “Something is definitely fishy,” she admitted. “Ever since he went to that dentist, he hasn’t been acting like himself.”
“Dentist?” Mr. Friggs asked.
“At the Sundry Shoppe,” Petula explained. “After we bought the De-Stickifier, Warren stayed behind to have his teeth cleaned.”
“At a general store?” Mr. Friggs looked uneasy. “But why would a general store offer dentistry services? In the middle of nowhere?”
“I’m not really sure,” Petula said. Now that she thought about it, the business did seem rather strange.
“Teeth are often used as tools for evil magic,” Mr. Friggs said. “Remember the manticore tooth used by Warren’s aunt Annaconda?”
Dread crept down Petula’s spine. “Do you think there’s evil magic at work here?”
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Friggs said. “I need to do more research. Until I learn more, do not speak a word of this to Warren. If evil is present, we need to be prepared…and we need to be discreet.”
“My lips are sealed,” Petula promised.
Mr. Friggs pushed out of his armchair, hobbled over to a shelf, and began pulling down tattered volumes about dark magic. “For now, our best course is to act as normal and pleasant as possible.”
Petula nodded.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Friggs asked. “You look rather pale. Well, paler than usual. I hope you haven’t caught whatever Sketchy has.”
“I’m starting to wonder if Sketchy is even sick at all,” Petula muttered.
Mr. Friggs licked his lips and flipped through the pages of one of his tomes. “I can’t say for sure. Warren refuses to let me see Sketchy, so a proper diagnosis is impossible.”
“He won’t let me see Sketchy, either!” Petula exclaimed. With each passing moment, she became more convinced that something very bad was brewing. “Maybe Sketchy knows something we don’t.”
Mr. Friggs looked up, concerned. “You should attempt to find out. In the meantime, I’ll review my books and see if I can learn something useful.”
“Good plan,” Petula said, waving her finger to draw a portal. “And if Warren comes to see you, cover for me!”
As she slipped through the portal, the world tilted and blurred until she arrived in the darkness of the utility closet. Sketchy whistled in alarm until Petula called, “It’s just me!” Then she felt the creature’s tentacles as it pulled her into a grateful hug. “Let’s get some light in here.”
Petula held up a finger and a warm glow appeared at the tip, illuminating the room. That’s when she saw the drawings. They covered every surface: the walls, floors, even the ceiling. Crude drawings of Warren with glowing eyes and jagged teeth, all drawn with colored pencil.
SKETCHY’S SKETCHES
Petula said as she turned around to inspect the artwork. “Why in the world would you draw these things?”
Sketchy let out a tirade of whistles. Clearly the creature was trying to say something, but Petula couldn’t understand. And there wasn’t much time. Warren could be making his way to the utility room any minute, and if he saw the drawings, what then?
“Listen, Sketchy, I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to tap your head for yes and wiggle your tentacles for no. Got it?”
Sketchy tapped its head: Yes.
“Great. Are you really sick?”
Sketchy wiggled its tentacles: No.
“I knew it!” Petula exclaimed. “Warren locked you away so you wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what you know, didn’t he?”
Sketchy tapped its head.
“So what do you know?” Petula said.
Sketchy froze, unsure
how to answer.
“Sorry, I got excited,” Petula said. “I’ll stick to yes-or-no questions.”
Her heart was pounding. What question could she ask that Sketchy would be able to answer? It was clear that Warren was up to something, but what?
“Is there evil magic at work?”
Sketchy tapped its head.
“Mr. Friggs was right!” Petula exclaimed. “Is Warren possessed by an evil spirit?”
Sketchy looked thoughtful, then wiggled its tentacles.
“No? But I’m close?” Petula asked.
Sketchy tapped its head again, then gestured to one of the illustrations. It depicted a friendly Warren standing side-by-side with a sinister evil twin.
Petula asked. “Warren’s been replaced by a mimic?”
Sketchy whistled shrilly.
“Oh my goodness!” Petula cried. “You knew this whole time that Warren wasn’t Warren at all, he’s an impostor!”
Sketchy spun her around, tapping her head as well as its own: YES, YES, YES!
“That means the real Warren is missing!” Petula cried in horror. “We need to tell Mr. Friggs right away!”
She turned to the door and tried to open it before remembering that it was locked. With concentration, she commanded the light at the end of her finger to grow into a sizzling flame. With a sudden spark, it leapt to the doorknob, which turned red hot and melted off.
“It worked!” she said with a mixture of pride and surprise. “I just learned that spell last week!”
Sketchy whistled in appreciation.
“Come on, Sketchy!” Petula said. “Let’s sneak up to Mr. Friggs’s library and tell him what’s going on. Surely one of his books will be able to teach us how to defeat a mimic!”
arren was in good spirits as he and Sly packed up their campsite after a breakfast of boiled peas. They loaded up the jalopy and Sly turned on the engine. “Let’s catch ourselves a hotel!” he announced. “Strap in!”
Warren buckled his seatbelt as the car trundled over the terrain. When it reached the road, the ride smoothed out considerably. Sly stepped on the gas and cranked the car into high gear. They drove for several hours, bouncing along as they passed an endless groves of pine trees. Everything looked the same no matter which way you turned, so Warren was grateful for both the road and his map. There was no sun in the sky to help with navigation.
“WE’RE GETTING CLOSE!”
“You seem to know your way around the Malwoods,” Warren said.
“I spend a lot of time here, that’s for sure,” Sly said. “There’s a lot of opportunities for a man such as myself. The witches can’t get enough of my oils. They like adding them to their brews.”
“Do you ever get scared?” Warren asked.
“Oh, sure,” Sly said. “I’ve ended up in a pickle or two, as you’ve seen for yourself. One time, this whole coven tried to boil me alive in a cauldron. Another time, I crossed paths with an angry sap-squatch, and I had to hide in a smelly bog to avoid it.”
“I saw a sap-squatch yesterday!” Warren said.
“Is that right?” Sly asked. “I haven’t seen one in a long time. Not that I’m complainin’.”
Suddenly, Warren recognized a familiar sound in the distance—it was the
“We’re getting close!” he exclaimed. “I can hear it!”
“About time,” Sly said. “I’m ready to sleep in a proper bed and eat a proper meal. Say, what other amenities does your hotel have? Is there a swimming pool?”
“Well, no,” Warren admitted. “But we have the most comfortable rooms you’ll ever stay in, and the finest meals provided by the best chef in all of Fauntleroy! We have an expansive library and a game room and a brand-new observation deck and…”
Warren continued regaling Sly with details about his beloved hotel while they jostled along. Warren bounced in his seat—partially from all the bumps in the road, but mostly from excitement. They were so close!
As they drove, the forest seemed to come to life. The temperature rose, and a foul-smelling fog seeped out of the ground. Strange-looking reptiles with brightly colored scales hissed and slinked through the trees, and plum-colored birds with red eyes and razor-sharp beaks shrieked from the canopy above. Everything around them seemed to crackle with a sort of dark energy that gave Warren goose bumps. It felt like the air before a thunderstorm—tingly and electric—and the faint scent of sulfur reminded him that witches were about, casting evil magic.
“Sure is something, being this deep in the forest,” Sly said, looking rather pale. He stroked his long mustache nervously.
“Are you okay?” Warren asked, swatting at a fist-sized insect that whirred past his ear. He was plenty scared himself, but he didn’t want to add to his companion’s unease.
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll all be worth it,” Sly said distractedly. He seemed to be talking more to himself than to Warren.
The road got even narrower, and muddier, and Sly slowed down to avoid hitting the pine trees—trees, Warren couldn’t help but notice, that were gouged with claw marks.
Warren thought uneasily.
The jalopy lurched. A wet squelch sounded from under the tires.
“Oh no,” Warren said in dismay. “A mud puddle!”
“It’s no problem,” Sly said reassuringly. “This old jalopy has been through much worse. These tires are built for all kinds of tricky terrain.”
But the tires didn’t seem to agree. No matter how hard Sly pumped the gas pedal, they stayed stuck in place, spinning and whirring and spraying mud in all directions. Bubbles began to pop on top of the ooze.
Warren peered over the car door’s edge. “Are we…sinking?”
Sly’s eyes widened. “Dagnabbit! This ain’t no mud puddle! It’s…it’s…”
“Quicksand!” Warren cried. He knew all about quicksand from his favorite Jacques Rustyboots books. “The more you move, the faster you sink!”
The car gave another lurch. With a thick, slick pop! the front tires sank another inch, then two, then three. Sly and Warren didn’t have long—the quicksand was living up to its name.
“Come on, old buddy,” Sly hissed at the car, pumping the pedals. “You can do it!”
A loud vroom from the engine and they sank even farther. The mud had reached the headlights and was rising fast. “You’re making it worse!” Warren cried. But Sly kept pumping the pedal so hard that smoke curled from under the hood.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on!”
“It won’t work,” Warren said. “We have to abandon ship!” He looked around but didn’t see a way out. They were too far from dry ground to jump to safety, and no tree branches were within reach.
“My poor jalopy!” Sly wailed. “What rotten luck!” He pounded the dashboard in desperation. Sand and mud lapped at the windshield.
“We don’t have much time,” Warren said. “We have to move!” The car would be filled with quicksand within a minute, maybe less.
“But what about my babies?” Sly cried. “I can’t just leave them!”
Warren cringed, but he knew Sly was right. They couldn’t leave the snakes to perish in the trunk. “Follow me,” Warren said. “But be careful.”
Delicately, Warren shimmied through the window, braced his feet on the door, and climbed onto the roof. On the other side, Sly did the same, but his weight was too much—the car started to tip toward the side.
“Help!” Sly yelled. “I’m falling!”
Warren reached over and, using all of his might, pulled Sly back onto the roof. The quicksand had swallowed almost the entire windshield and was starting to cover the side windows as well. Sly hopped to the back of the car, balancing on the bumper and throwing open the trunk.
“I need you guys to listen to me,” he said, lifting the snakes one at a time. “Everything will be okay. I’m gonna toss you to shore, and I want you to slither until you’ve found higher ground. Save yourselves!”
And so with tears in his eyes, Sly flung the first snak
e across the quicksand pit and, miraculously, it landed on dry land; it seemed dazed but unharmed and slithered off. Warren picked his way to the bumper just as Sly reached in for another crate.
“Help me out, boy! There’s too many, and we don’t have much time!”
SAVING SNAKES
As if in response, the car again heaved forward. The back was sticking up in the air like the stern of a sinking ship. Peeking into the trunk, Warren gritted his teeth. He’d hoped he’d never have to touch a snake, but he couldn’t be skittish now. With eyes closed, he thrust his arms into a crate, expecting to grab something cold and slimy. But what his fingers felt was warm and dry, like pebbles in the sun. It wasn’t so bad after all. With both hands full, Warren cocked back his arms and tossed the snakes as far as he could. They arced through the air and slapped against dry land: one, two, three—but the fourth one came up short and hit the quicksand with a wet slap.
“Shirley!” Sly cried in horror.
But Shirley didn’t sink. She didn’t even slide. Instead, she slithered right across and wriggled onto safe ground.
“Shirley’s fine!” Warren said.
Sly gasped. “Snakes can’t sink!”
“But we can!” Warren said. “Hurry!” He rushed through the last of the crates, releasing the snakes to fend for themselves. Dark sand was sucking at the car doors, pulling them down faster and faster. Think, Warren commanded himself, how can we escape? He dug into his backpack, searching for anything that might help, but the only things left were candy bars and canned food. Too much weight—he had to abandon the bag.
“Throw heavy items overboard!” Warren said, tossing his pack into the bubbling ooze. “We need to lighten our load!”
Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods Page 7