Warren the 13th and the Whispering Woods

by Tania del Rio

  He heard the stomp of angry footsteps fast approaching and took a deep, steadying breath. This is my turf, he reminded himself.

  “Petula!” Worrin shouted as he clambered up the ladder. “You have some nerve coming back to the hotel! I’m going to—” Worrin poked his head through the trap door, saw Warren standing in the room, and froze. “You!” he gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my hotel,” Warren said. “And you’ve stolen my identity!”

  “I think not,” the mimic said. “I’m minutes away from delivering this hotel to the queen and claiming my reward. I’m not letting anything stand in my way!”

  With a flicker of dark magic, Worrin doubled and redoubled himself two, four, eight, sixteen times, until Warren found himself completely encircled by duplicates. Don’t be afraid, he told himself. They’re just illusions.

  But then the ring of Worrins stepped forward, seizing Warren with their cold hands. Illusion or not, they certainly felt real!

  “It is time for you to vacate the premises,” they said in unison, carrying him up the ladder to the roof. Warren struggled but couldn’t free himself from their grasp. Once on the rooftop, the Worrins stomped to the edge, preparing to toss Warren over the side.

  “Wait!” Warren cried. “Let’s make a deal!”

  “What could you possibly offer us?” the Worrins said with a sneer.

  The mimic is greedy, Warren realized. I just have to figure out what it wants.

  “I’ll double whatever reward the queen has promised you!”

  The Worrins laughed, producing a rather unsettling effect. “Impossible!” they said. “Unless you can give us twice our heart’s desire! Only the queen has the power to make us a somebody!”

  A notion tickled the back of Warren’s brain, but he pushed it aside and said, “But you already are a somebody! From what I’ve seen, you’re quite a good hotel manager. All of the staff seems to like and respect you. That’s your proof right there.”

  The mimics paused; their magic seemed to falter. “Do you really think that’s true?” they asked.

  “I’m sure it’s true!” Warren exclaimed.

  They set Warren down gently and then merged once again. “I suppose you’re right,” the single Worrin said. “I’ve never had friends until now, nor an uncle of my own. But now that I’m managing the hotel, I really am somebody.”

  “But if you hand the hotel over to the queen,” Warren said, “she’ll take that away from you. She wants the Warren Hotel for herself. Do you think she’d really let you stay and run things? No way!”

  The mimic frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So let’s make a deal,” Warren said. “If you give me my tooth, I’ll sign over the deed to the hotel.”

  The mimic looked puzzled. “The deed?”

  “Yes, having the deed makes you the rightful owner. If you want to be a somebody, you’ll need that deed, for sure.”

  A DEED IS DRAWN

  “All right, it’s a deal,” the mimic said.

  Warren reached for his sketchbook. “I’ll draw up a contract right now.”

  On a fresh page, he wrote out the terms of their agreement.

  “Now the tooth, if you please.”

  The mimic looked at him suspiciously. “This better not be a trap.”

  Warren snapped the sketchbook shut. “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No, no! A deal’s a deal,” Worrin said quickly. It reached into its mouth and yanked out the tooth. In a swirl of darkness, the mimic’s appearance washed away like smoke over glass. In Worrin’s place stood a squat, shadowy creature that held Warren’s tooth between vaporous fingers.

  Warren found it difficult to look directly at the creature; its form flickered and shifted, like a trick of the eyes. Warren held out his palm and the mimic dropped the tooth into his grasp. Warren quickly put it in his pocket. Step one complete!

  “Now, give me the deed!” the mimic said.

  “Of course,” Warren said. “Now I just need you to sign the contract and make it all official.”

  The mimic took the pencil and placed the tip on the page where “X” marked the spot. Warren held his breath. But rather than writing a name, the mimic growled low. A loud SNAP! sounded as the pencil broke in half.

  “You’re trying to figure out my name,” it hissed. “You tricked me!”

  “You’re the one who stole my tooth!” Warren countered.

  The mimic snarled in fury and seemed to grow larger in rage. Within seconds its shadowy figure loomed over Warren, blocking out the light. Warren gasped as the blackness expanded; soon he couldn’t see anything, not even his own hands in front of his face. A chilling cold filled his bones and spread outward, inching across his skin. He shivered and whirled around, but no matter which way he turned, all he saw was black.

  “You dare trick me? I will haunt you forever!” the mimic cried. “I will make your life a daily misery! Now you will see how it feels to be a mimic!”

  Warren still couldn’t see anything, but suddenly he could feel the mimic’s pain, its loneliness and desperation. Tears stung his eyes as he recalled his own loneliness, his sorrow at being orphaned, his fear of being rejected by everyone he cared about.

  Then he was struck by a memory.

  I wasn’t always a tree, you know.

  The memory of the talking oak.

  But I grew tired of being a nobody, always imitating, always pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

  The tree used to be a mimic, too, Warren realized. All at once, he knew how to defeat Worrin.

  “I know your true name!” he yelled.

  “Impossible!” the mimic cried back.

  “The reason you mimic others is because you don’t have an identity or a body of your own,” Warren said. “That means you’re—”

  “STOP! SAY NO MORE!” the mimic screamed.

  In its fear and anger, the mimic’s darkness pressed around Warren, filling him with a soulless dread. A cold wind swirled around him, stinging his face and throwing daggers of chill across his body. But Warren gritted his teeth and pushed through the fear.

  The mimic howled in agony. Warren was struck by one final blast of icy wind, which caused him to huddle against its sheer force. Just as it grew unbearably cold, the wind died down and the darkness dissipated. Warren could see the mimic crouching in the middle of the roof, dissolving into smoke.

  And then it faded away forever.

  ollow me,” Sir Sap said to Petula and Sketchy.

  On either side, the earth sloped into tall cliffs and the road was steep and choked with stones and thorns. At the very end, the tall walls of the Black Caldera loomed; just seeing them made Petula pick up her pace.

  “Wait!” Sir Sap cried. “Look!”

  He pointed to the witches standing guard near the entrance—at least ten of them, all with beetle-black eyes and sharp-looking fingernails. “We’re never going to get past them,” Petula said with a groan. “Didn’t you say there was a hidden entrance?”

  “Yes,” Sir Sap said. “It’s right next to the main door. See that boulder there? It’s blocking a tunnel that leads through underground passages.”

  “How do we get inside without them seeing us?”

  “We just have to wait for a distraction,” Sir Sap said. “And I believe there’s one coming along right now. Listen!”

  Petula tilted her head, and there it was: the distant CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! of the Warren Hotel’s approaching footsteps. The guards cheered its arrival.

  “The hotel is coming!” they screeched. “Alert the queen!”

  I sure hope Warren has everything under control, Petula thought.

  “Now’s our chance,” Sir Sap whispered.

  On the count of three, Petula, Sketchy, and Sir Sap dashed toward the giant rock. It looked even bigger up close. Sir Sap pushed on it with his furry shoulder but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s heavier than I thought,” he said. “Maybe I just need t
o take a running start—”

  “No!” Petula cried, but she was too late. Sir Sap took two giant steps backward, his big fuzzy form directly in view of the witches.

  “Hey!” A shrill voice rang out over the path. “What’s going on over there?”

  A blast of purple lighting exploded. The guard witch was coming after them, tearing up the path with another spell swirling around her.

  Petula’s heart leapt into her throat. “Sir Sap, do something!”

  The sap-squatch threw his body against the boulder, but it simply wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m trying!” he said.

  Something jabbed urgently at Petula’s back. It was Sketchy—or rather a tentacle, which it used to nudge her and Sir Sap aside. Then the beast wrapped its tentacle around the boulder and, with a mighty whistle, heaved it out of the way.

  “I’M SCARED OF THE DARK!”

  The three of them ducked into the passage and Sketchy yanked the boulder back just in time, sealing them in darkness as another lightning blast hit. The witch’s cries were silenced behind the thick barrier.

  “Great work, Sketchy!” Petula said.

  The creature whistled happily: No problem!

  “Oh dear,” Sir Sap said shakily.

  “What’s wrong?” Petula whispered.

  Sir Sap wrung his hands. “It’s quite silly, really, but…I’m afraid I’m scared of the dark!”

  Petula smiled. Now that was something her magic could handle. With a wave of a hand, she created a soft glow that filled the tunnel with light. “Is that better?”

  “Much,” Sir Sap said gratefully. “Onward!”

  The corridor ahead of them was deep, dark, and dank. Petula did her best to lead the way, but there were so many twists and turns, she couldn’t be sure they were going in the right direction. Besides, she realized that the farther underground they ventured, the farther they’d have to come up to reach the caldera and find Beatrice.

  “This is awfully convoluted,” Petula said. “Are you sure it’s the right way?”

  They had passed smaller corridors, but Sir Sap ignored them as he led them on.

  “It’s probably confusing on purpose,” Sir Sap said. “Though I admit it’s possible we took a wrong turn.”

  “Possible?” Petula said with growing dread. “Or positive?”

  Sir Sap stopped. “We may be lost.”

  Sketchy let out a shrill whistle that echoed off the tunnel walls, again and again and again, as if to show just how far they’d gone.

  “Stay calm,” Sir Sap said. “There’s no use panicking.”

  And so they carried on, the ground getting steeper and the walls getting closer. They wouldn’t be lost forever, Petula knew—she could always portal herself out of the tunnel—but Sketchy was too big to fit through, and Sir Sap would probably struggle, too. Regardless, Petula refused to even think of leaving until she’d found her mother.

  Sketchy stopped abruptly, licked the tip of a tentacle, and raised it in the air with a curious chirp.

  “A draft!” Sir Sap exclaimed. “I feel it, too. And look, my fur is ruffling!”

  Petula understood. “We must be near an exit!”

  They nearly ran through the labyrinthine corridor until it dead-ended at a solid stone wall.

  “Oh, what a cruel trick,” Sir Sap cried in dismay.

  “No, look!” Petula said, pointing up to a round metal grate. “It’s some kind of trap- door.”

  Once again Sketchy saved the day, using its tentacles to reach up and pop open the grate. Cautiously, Petula crept onto Sketchy’s back, then stood and peeped through the opening; she found herself looking into a prison cell. A trickle of sunlight filtered in through a barred window, casting striped shadows across the floor.

  Petula heard a chain scrape and turned around.

  Beatrice was shackled against the wall.

  “Mom!” Petula screamed, forgetting herself. She scrambled into the cell and rushed over, throwing her arms around her mother. “You’re okay!”

  Sir Sap and Sketchy squeezed through the opening and entered the cell as Petula used her fire-zapping spell to melt her mother’s shackles. Beatrice flexed her fingers and arms, shaking the feeling back into them, then reached into her pocket and pulled out her deck of picture cards. She shuffled through, showing Petula a series of images in rapid succession: fwip, fwip, fwip, fwip…

  “What is she saying?” Sir Sap asked.

  “She’s saying we should hurry back to the hotel. The witches will be trying to break inside and steal her perfumier bottles.”

  Beatrice tugged on her daughter’s arm, but Petula resisted. “I’m sorry, Mom, but we can’t leave yet. I promised Sir Sap I would help him. His people are starving and the forest sap is the only thing that can help them. We think we know where the queen is hiding it.”

  Looking troubled, Beatrice pulled out more image cards: fwip, fwip, fwip…

  “No, I’m not crazy,” Petula said, “and it’s not a bad idea. You go to the hotel and help Warren. I’ll keep searching with Sketchy and Sir Sap.”

  Beatrice nodded but seemed uncertain.

  “I’ll be okay, Mom. You taught me well. Look!” Petula held out her hand, showing her mother the new rose tattoo. “I caught my first witch—all on my own!”

  Beatrice hugged her tightly, with pride shining in her eyes.

  Sir Sap looked around in confusion. “Has anyone noticed that we’re standing in a prison cell? How in the world are we supposed to get to the caldera?”

  Beatrice smiled her mysterious smile and waved her hands in front of the bars. The bone twisted and bent away as though made of taffy.

  “Wow,” Sir Sap said.

  “Cool, right?” Petula grinned. “My mom is pretty great.”

  Beatrice kissed Petula on the top of her head and then drew a portal that was larger and more powerful than her daughter’s.

  “Be careful!” Petula called as she stepped through it and disappeared.

  Sir Sap crept out of the cell and peered around the corner. “The coast is clear!”

  Petula and Sketchy tiptoed after him, past several other cells that sat empty, save for a family of rats sniffing around for food. They followed the long hallway to a flight of stairs, then found themselves approaching the center of the palace. It was a wide chamber, lined with windows and delicate archways knit from bone. Dozens of witches crowded by the windows, peering out at the hotel and cackling with glee.

  THE WITCHES ADVANCE

  “There it is!”

  “Beatrice’s bottles are hidden somewhere within!”

  “Our sisters will be freed!”

  “Let’s be the first to greet them!”

  The witches began clambering out of windows and pushing through doors. Outside, dozens of sap-squatches had also paused in their labor—pulling logs, digging pits, building stone huts—to stare at the spectacle. Compared to Sir Sap, they looked dirty and thin, with matted fur and hollow eyes.

  Petula saw the concern in Sir Sap’s eyes.

  “We’ll save them,” she assured him.

  “At the moment, I’m more concerned about Warren,” he said. “He’ll have a lot of witches to fend off.”

  Petula nodded, feeling more anxious than she was willing to admit. “Warren’s buying us time,” she said.

  arren gripped the controls of the hotel, easing it through the giant pillars that marked the entrance to the Black Caldera. There was nothing but foul black smoke as far as he could see. Still, he pressed on, and as the hotel took another clambering step into the crater, the smoke began to clear. But what it revealed was no better.

  All around, witches were swarming like fire ants. Beyond them, Warren could see herds of sap-squatches, who had stopped in the middle of work to gaze in awe at the hotel. They looked miserable, and he hoped Petula and Sir Sap would be able to find their food quickly.

  “Everyone ready?” Warren cried. “Because we’re going in!”

  “Ready!” ex
claimed Chef Bunion and Mr. Friggs. Warren had summoned his friends to the control room, along with Uncle Rupert and Mr. Vanderbelly, so that he could make sure everyone was safe. The last thing he needed was someone falling overboard during battle.

  “Oh! What thrilling danger we find ourselves in!” cried Mr. Vanderbelly. He had his notebook ready, of course, and seemed delirious with excitement. “Will we succeed in securing the hotel? Or will we be overrun by bloodthirsty witches of a most evil nature? Will I live to tell the tale?”

  “Can you please stop asking questions?” Warren implored. “I need to prepare.”

  “Me, too!” Rupert called from his hammock.

  “What are we doing again?” asked Mr. Vanderbelly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Warren said.

  Thud. A witch hit the cockpit window, smashing into it like a bug on a windshield. She thwacked her broom and pounded her fists against the glass, trying to break through.

  A BUG ON A WINDSHIELD

  “Oh, my!” Mr. Friggs cried, his dentures nearly spilling from his mouth.

  “Everything’s fine,” Warren assured them. “Beatrice cast a spell on the glass that makes it unbreakable.”

  He nodded at Beatrice, who had arrived via a portal just a few moments earlier. After a quick explanation using picture cards depicting a lock, a magic wand, and a house, she was now dashing about the hotel, reinforcing all entry points with spells and rendering them witch-proof.

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t miss a spot,” Mr. Vanderbelly said.

  Warren’s attention returned to the window. More witches were slamming into the hotel, beating their broomsticks against the cockpit. Snarling faces pressed against the glass, distorting their already frightening features and blocking Warren’s view. He flipped a switch on the control panel and soon a giant windshield wiper scraped across, flinging the witches aside.