by Alane Adams
Her thoughts muddled, she left the classroom and ran smack into Calla in the hall.
“So, was I right?” The witchling’s voice was cool.
“About what?”
“Did your little Balfin friend ask you for some magic?”
Abigail fumed. “So what if he did?”
“Then I proved my point. He only likes you for your magic.” She turned and flounced off.
Chapter 17
The nineteen firstlings had assembled in the gardens where Abigail usually met Hugo. Madame Barbosa was giving some of the girls final instructions before sending them into the swamps to find their creatures. Abigail was working up the courage to tell Madame Barbosa about the viken when Endera stepped in front of her.
“I’m going to win you know.”
“Says who?” Abigail answered.
“Says me. You’re too busy hanging around with that Balfin boy to be a proper witch. It’s as if he’s your best friend. Of course, he is your only friend.”
The girls gathered around as they sensed a fight.
“He’s not my friend at all,” Abigail said hotly. “He’s just an annoying boy who has no magic of his own and wants to steal mine.”
“You’re still going to lose,” Endera said.
“Well, I intend to win,” Abigail announced.
She had it all planned out. There were shreeks every-where in the swamp. The winged rodents nested in every tree. She would find not one but two shreeks to bespell and train them to carry her bookbag for her.
Endera’s eyes shone with spite. “Then let’s place a wager on it.”
“Have her be your servant for a month,” Glorian suggested.
“Yeah, she can press your uniform and polish your boots,” Nelly agreed.
But Endera waved them away. “If I win, you have to hand over that emerald necklace you never take off.” She eyed the long silver chain around Abigail’s neck.
Abigail clutched the emerald, tucking it into her dress for safekeeping. “No.”
“No?” Endera arched one eyebrow. “Because you don’t believe you can win?”
“No. It’s just—”
“Face it, Abigail, you’re going to lose, and you know it. Loser, loser,” she taunted.
Abigail gave her a shove. “Am not.”
Endera’s face turned red, but she didn’t push Abigail back. “Then take the bet.”
“And what do I get if I win?” Abigail asked, all thoughts of warning Madame Barbosa having flown out of her head.
Endera gave a snarky little laugh. “You won’t win, but for betting’s sake, I’ll . . .” She put a finger on her chin as she thought about it. “I know. I’ll let you eat lunch with us for a month. Better than sitting by yourself every day.”
Abigail burned with embarrassment. She was about to tell Endera to shove it when Calla pushed her aside.
“If she wins, she gets your spellbook,” Calla said. “The one your mother gave you.”
Abigail gasped along with the other girls. The spell-book was priceless. Endera wouldn’t dare risk giving it up.
Endera looked pale, but she snapped back, “Mind your own business, glitch-witch. You shouldn’t even be here.”
Calla elbowed Abigail in the side, and something switched on in her.
“What’s the matter? Afraid you’re going to lose?” Abigail mocked. “Loser, loser.”
There was dead silence. The witchlings all waited for Endera to find a way to make her take it back, but for once, the girl was stuck.
Endera’s eyes narrowed into slivers of hate. “Fine. But you will never win, Abigail.”
Madame Barbosa swept into the group, clapping her hands.
“Come, my little witchlings, gather around.” Her cat eyes tilted upward, shimmering with excitement. “What a thrilling day to enter the swamps,” she purred. “I cannot wait to see what you bring back, though I would stay away from those nasty sneevils. They never listen.” She shook her head at some memory. “But, win or lose, you must present your creature here day after tomorrow or receive a failing grade in my class.”
She snapped her fingers and the gate sprung open.
“Remember, if you run into any trouble, send up a blast of witchfire, and one of your instructors will assist you. Good luck to you all.”
One by one they filed out and disappeared into the swamps. Abigail veered away from the other girls, determined to find her shreeks quickly so she could start training them. She was searching the branches for the tell-tale glowing eyes when a girl stepped out of the trees.
“Calla!” Abigail said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“You have to win, Abigail.” Calla gripped Abigail’s arm tight enough to hurt.
“I intend to. I’m searching for a pair of nice big shreeks.”
“A pair of shreeks won’t do. Endera’s been taming a Shun Kara wolf for weeks now.”
Disappointment flooded Abigail. No wonder the girl was so confident she was going to win.
“It’s my problem, not yours,” Abigail said, wrenching her arm free. “So just leave me to failing.”
She plunged deeper into the swamps until the treetops were a dark canopy overhead. Trails of steam rose up from the marshy ground and her boots squished in the mud. When she was sure she was alone, Abigail leaned against the trunk of a blackened tree. Her hand went to the sea emerald. She lifted it from around her neck to study it. She couldn’t bear to lose it. It would mean the end of her time at the Tarkana Academy.
The back of her neck prickled, as if there were eyes on her. Someone, or something, was watching her.
“Calla? Is that you?” she called, looking around.
The swamps had gone quiet. The shreeks that hung in the trees weren’t squealing. Even the noisy insects had stopped their buzzing. A deep chuffing sound reached her. As if something large was breathing in and out. Something very close.
Right behind her, in fact.
Abigail slowly turned. Her heart beat wildly as she made out the outline of a hulking shadow lurking in the bushes. She took a careful step backward. If she was quiet, she might be able to get away. She took another step and felt a stick bend under her boot. She tried to stop herself but couldn’t freeze in time. The stick cracked loudly as it snapped in half.
With a snarling roar, the viken pounced in front of her.
“Melly onus, stella kalira,” Abigail shouted, hoping to charm it into submission.
It just roared louder. Fetid breath washed over her as it stalked closer. A line of drool hung from its jaw.
She sent a blast of witchfire at the viken. The first one hit it square in the chest, and the beast yelped, jumping backward. She fired again and again as it circled her, trying to find a way in.
Her arm quickly grew tired. Magic like this was draining. The viken stayed just out of range, toying with her as her witchfire began to sputter.
A dark shadow blocked out the sun as a high-pitched screech filled the air. Abigail looked up in shock. Winging down on them was a frightening creature, its smooth scales black as pitch. The spike at the end of its long tail could impale her with a single strike. Gleaming teeth protruded from its beak. Her breath caught as she recognized it from Madame Barbosa’s picture.
An Omera.
How could things have gotten worse?
She closed her eyes as it opened its jaws, sure it was about to rip her head off.
Sharp talons bit into her shoulders and swept her into the air. It lifted her above the murky swamp and out of the reach of the viken’s snapping jaws.
Chapter 18
Hugo sat in the jookberry tree long after the witch-lings had stampeded into the swamps. Abigail’s words had cut deep.
He’s not my friend at all, just an annoying Balfin boy who wants to steal my magic.
Was that really what she thought of him?
She had to know he wasn’t her friend just to get magic. He rubbed the bruise on his arm, the one Emenor had left that morn
ing. His brother was getting impatient. Still, Hugo would take a beating rather than lose Abigail’s friendship.
He climbed down from the tree and followed the witch-lings, keeping a safe distance. He ducked behind a trunk as he came across the stout one, Glorian. She was trying to coax a fledgling shreek from its nest into a small cage. The shreek cried pitifully for its mother, then nipped Glorian’s finger, making her yelp. The witchling gave up, stomping off to find another creature.
But where was Abigail?
Pairs of tracks headed off in every direction. Knowing Abigail, she would stay as far away from the other witch-lings as possible. He spied a single pair of tracks that led deeper into the swamps.
He followed them, keeping close to the tree trunks to hide from the girls that trickled through. After several minutes of walking, the swamp grew eerily quiet, with only the occasional cries of shreeks.
Hugo had never been this deep in the swamp. It was nearly dark; the dead branches gnarled and twisted together so tightly overhead hardly any light was let in.
He cleared his throat, about to call for Abigail, when he heard her scream.
“Abigail! I’m coming,” he shouted, breaking into a run. But when he got to the spot, it was empty. “Abigail? Where are you?” he called. Clawed footprints marred the muddy ground. Something glinted. He knelt down and dug into the damp earth.
Jasper’s sea emerald. She must have dropped it when she was attacked.
“She’s not here,” a raspy voice called.
Hugo whirled around. “Jasper! You’re back!”
“Aye. We’ve been tracking that viken. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
Behind him, Fetch appeared, wringing his green paws.
“Come, no time for time to pass,” Fetch said, beckoning at them. “We must rescue the blue witch before it’s too late.”
The little creature turned and scampered into the woods.
“You coming, lad?” Jasper looked down at him with steely blue eyes.
“Where are we going?” Hugo asked. “I have to be home in time for supper.”
The sailor put a hand on Hugo’s shoulder.
“Where we’re going, there’s no supper waiting. There’s only treacherous swamps, quicksand bogs, and wild sneevils. I won’t blame you if you turn around and go home. You’re naught but a school boy.”
Hugo’s heart quaked in his chest. He wanted to go home. Have his mother’s fig pudding. Sleep in his own bed. Even have his brother Emenor pound on him for using his medallion.
But instead he nodded at Jasper.
“I’m in.”
Because Hugo wasn’t about to give up on Abigail, even if Abigail had given up on him.
Chapter 19
Abigail kept her eyes closed as the wind rushed past her face. The Omera’s claws dug into her shoulders but only tight enough to grip her.
“Put me down,” she shouted for the hundredth time, beating on its scaly legs. She’d escaped one monster only to be taken by another.
It kept flapping its wings, ignoring her pleas.
She looked around trying to see where they were headed, but a layer of fog covered the swamps. As they flew on, the fog turned to mist and Abigail could make out the rise of a distant peak. This was the eastern end of Balfour Island, a wild untamed place filled with roaming Shun Kara wolves, packs of sneevils, and other ghastly creatures.
The Omera flew steadily until it reached the peak, then flew straight up a sheer cliff until it reached a stone ledge. It released her, sending her tumbling, and landed next to her with a rasp of its claws.
Abigail scuffed her knees on the rough stone, but no bones were broken. Standing on shaky legs, she looked around, nearly fainting at how high up they were.
The Omera snorted at her, blowing steam from its nostrils.
“What do you want?” she said, stinging and aching. “Why did you bring me here?”
The Omera jerked its head toward a tall pile of sticks.
Not a pile. A nest.
“You want me to look inside?” Abigail asked and then drew back as a horrible thought occurred. “Or am I the next meal for your hatchlings?”
The creature snorted again and then whimpered softly.
Abigail sighed. “Fine. I suppose if you wanted to eat me, you would have already.” She stalked over to the nest. The tangle of sticks and moss was taller than she was. Taking a step up onto the twisted branches, she peered over the top.
Inside were two inky black hatchlings, fresh out of their shells, gaping at her with wide open maws. Their baby teeth were already sharp. But a third one hadn’t hatched yet.
She looked down at the Omera. “What is it you want me to do?”
The Omera leapt inside the nest, nudging the unhatched egg toward Abigail, then waited.
It was crazy, but the Omera seemed to want her to do something about her unhatched egg. Abigail warily climbed onto the lip of the nest, legs dangling. The two hatchlings tried to nip at her ankles, but the mama Omera growled at them, and they yelped, retreating behind her.
Abigail slowly lowered herself into the nest. Stretching her hand out, she touched the unhatched egg. The shell was surprisingly warm to the touch. She knelt closer and put her ear to the speckled surface, listening.
Whompa, whomp
Whompa, whomp
Startled, she looked up at the Omera. “Your baby is still alive.”
The Omera’s eyes looked watery, as if it was tearing up.
“You’re just a big softy, aren’t you,” Abigail said. “Why isn’t your baby hatching?”
The Omera settled down and put its scaly head on its claws, staring longingly at the egg.
“You don’t know,” Abigail guessed. “And you’re worried.” She paced around the egg, studying it from every angle. “But why drag me into it?”
One of the hatchlings decided Abigail was too tasty a treat to resist and darted out from behind its mother, trying to chomp down on her leg. Instinctively, Abigail zapped it with a dazzling blast of blue witchfire. It shocked the baby Omera but didn’t hurt it.
The mother Omera didn’t hesitate to swing her spiked tail, sending the hatchling spinning out of the nest to land with a wailing thud on the stone ledge.
The mama Omera jerked her head at the egg and then back at Abigail’s hands.
Abigail looked down at them. “You want me to use my witchfire on the egg? That’s why you took me? But what if I hurt it?”
The Omera moaned, a long deep sound.
Even Abigail understood that. “If I don’t do something, it will die anyway.”
The Omera chuffed. It waited, talons clenched around the sticks. Behind it, the other hatchling peered out with curious eyes.
Abigail went back to the egg, putting her hands on it again.
Whompa, whomp
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I can help. I’m sorry.”
The Omera growled low, and Abigail looked into its eyes, reading the message clearly.
It was up to her to get the hatchling out, or she wasn’t leaving this nest.
Chapter 20
Hugo’s boot sank deep into the oozing mud. He was so tired he could barely pull his foot loose. Insects bit at his neck, leaving stinging welts. Jasper and Fetch marched headlong into the swamps with-out missing a step.
“Keep up, lad,” Jasper tossed over his shoulder. “And watch out for quicksand bogs. You don’t want to get swallowed up.”
Hugo sighed, shoulders slumping, then yanked his boot free and tried to pick up his pace.
The previous night they had made camp on a grassy knoll surrounded by dark murky water. Slithering animals and shrieking night birds had made it nearly impossible for Hugo to fall asleep. He was sure a pack of sneevils was going to overrun their camp at any time. And then something had crawled under his shirt, making him scream in fear.
Jasper had pounced on him, clamping a hand over his mouth and warning him the next scream might be his last.
&n
bsp; After that, Hugo hadn’t slept a wink.
Which was why his eyes now felt like sandpaper, and he could barely take another step.
He wondered if his parents were worried about him or if they figured he was just off on his scientific adventures. He’d spent the night in the woods before, but he always told them where he was going.
He tried lifting his boot, only this time it wouldn’t budge. He tugged on the leather, trying to free it from the heavy mud.
“Hold up,” he called, pulling harder. His foot slipped out of the boot, and he fell backward on his bottom in the mud. Cold water seeped through his clothes, soaking him to the skin. Worse, when he looked up, the sailor and the green pest were nowhere in sight.
Great. They had left him. Frustrated tears burned his eyes.
Hugo used both hands to wrench his boot out of the muck. It released with a loud squelch, flinging mud in his face and spattering his glasses. He shoved his foot in the boot, ignoring the cold mud that squished between his toes, and took his glasses off, wiping them clean with his sleeve.
A blurry figure moved into sight. Jasper must have come back for him.
“Over here,” he called, putting his glasses on.
Then he wished he hadn’t. Because it wasn’t Jasper standing there.
The viken’s head hung down, one paw clawing at the thick mud.
“Easy,” Hugo said, taking a step back. “You don’t want to eat me. I’m skin and bones.”
The viken advanced, glowering. It snarled, snapping at the air.
“I probably taste terrible,” Hugo rambled on, “like the world’s worst mutton.”
At the mention of mutton, the viken’s pink tongue lolled out of its mouth, and a strand of drool dribbled out.
Hugo tried to think. He was a scientist, solving problems was his strength.
Problem: the viken was about to kill him.
Solution: stop the viken before it could get to him.
But how? He had no weapon. No way to fight this beast.