by Alane Adams
“It’s all her fault,” she said to a fat spider tucked away in the corner eave. It lazily spun its web, moving its hairy legs nimbly. “If she hadn’t run away with me, none of this would have happened.”
The spider kept spinning, its eyes glittering in a sliver of light. Abigail found herself staring, growing more and more detached from her limbs as they grew heavy with a strange sort of tiredness.
“Yes, you’re very tired,” the spider rasped, only its voice sounded like Queen Octonia, a ravenous spider Abigail had encountered in the netherworld.
“You’re not real,” Abigail mumbled, but her lips were thick, and she could barely speak.
“No, but it’s more fun this way.” The voice changed, taking on an oily tinge Abigail recognized. She tried to claw back from sleep, but it was like a heavy blanket pressing on her. “Now, now, just close your eyes, and I will do the rest.”
“No, I don’t want to … I’m not … sleepy …”
Abigail’s eyes clanged shut like metal doors in a dungeon, but strangely, she didn’t fall asleep. Rather she seemed to be present but not present. Awake but not awake. In her body but not exactly, as if there were two of her. One of her slept on in the bed, and the other hovered next to it.
“What’s happening?”
There was no answer. The form on the bed kept on sleeping. Behind her the door blew open, banging against the wall. Something snarled, sounding just like the viken that had attacked her.
She spun around, ready to defend herself, but nothing was there. No viken. No threat.
The door swung, creaking on its hinges. There was an eerie cast to the light, as if she were in the shadows, not the real world. She took a step, and her feet didn’t quite touch the ground. She tested it, bouncing lightly in the air, held up by some unseen force.
Then a faint cry trickled up the stairs.
“Help!”
It was Safina.
Abigail sprang into action. “Safina, I’m coming,” she called, but her voice sounded reedy, like gasps of dry air.
She flung herself down the stairs, her feet flitting over the floorboards, until she reached the firstlings floor. Which room was Safina’s?
A sliver of light shone under a door. She tried to hurry toward it, but her feet moved sluggishly, and it took her ages to cross the short distance.
She pushed against the door, but her hands disappeared into the wood as if she had no substance. Something hard pushed against her back, and she flew forward through the solid door and popped out the other side. A candle burned low in its trough, illuminating two figures sleeping in their twin beds.
This wasn’t Safina’s room.
Endera slept in the first bed. On the other, Glorian snored away.
On the nightstand next to Endera lay the cursed spell-book.
Abigail tried to step back, but that invisible force carried her forward, and before she knew it, her hands were on the leather-bound book. She lifted it, and the book sighed with pleasure.
There you are, dark one.
She wanted to drop it, fling it against the wall, but it stuck to her hands like glue. She tried to shake it loose, but all that happened was a rustle of air. Endera sighed and rolled over, one hand dropping to the floor at her feet. Abigail stepped back, and Endera continued sleeping.
“Let go of me,” she whispered as softly as she could, but the spellbook just chuckled.
How can I when I belong to you as you belong to me?
“I don’t belong to you,” Abigail hissed. This time Endera roused enough to lift her head, and Abigail froze, holding her breath.
“Knock off the snoring, Glorian,” the girl mumbled, then buried her head under her pillow.
Abigail stepped away, retreating until the door was at her back. Surely the spellbook will be stuck on the other side, she thought. She pushed back against the wood, drifting through as if it weren’t there, and stood in the hallway.
The hateful spellbook was still in her hands.
“I don’t want you,” she said. “I’m going to burn you.”
Like you burned the glitch-witch, it purred.
“That was your fault. I hate you.” A wave of dark emotion rolled over her, making her head spin.
No, dark witch, you hate that you like the feeling of power I give you. Come, we have work to do.
“No, we don’t, and stop calling me that.”
But you are that, dark witch. I can only call you by your name. Endera doesn’t deserve me. She has half your potential. Together we can rule this coven, you and I. You have only to turn a page or two and see for yourself.
The book plopped open in her hands, and the pages fluttered, stopping on a picture of a clock. Its numbers ran backward, and strange slithering creatures crawled over its face.
Dread splintered down her spine. She tried to avoid seeing the words beneath it, but they lit up in her brain as though they had been burned there.
The spell is yours to command when you wish, and when you do, it will be one more thing you can thank me for.
Abigail raised the book and threw it out the window. It flew through the air in an arc, and a part of her panicked, wanting it back. She ran after it, diving for it, and then everything went black.
“There’s the little thief,” a voice accused, rousing Abigail from a deep sleep.
She was buried in her blankets up in her attic room, dead to the world. She flung back the covers and opened her eyes to find Endera glaring down at her. Behind her, Madame Vex hovered, her brows gathered in a frown. Glorian and Nelly pressed in on either side.
“She’s a thief,” Glorian said.
“Saw her myself,” Nelly added.
“Saw me do what?” Abigail asked with a wide yawn.
Endera crossed her arms. “You stole my spellbook.”
“Stole it? No, I didn’t.” But as she spoke, Abigail frowned, remembering the strange dream where she’d ended up in Endera’s room.
“My spellbook is gone, and you’re the only one jealous enough to take it,” Endera said.
“I didn’t do anything of the sort. Look around. Is the spellbook here?”
Madame Vex scanned the room. Glorian rummaged in Abigail’s book bag, while Endera poked around her desk. Nelly had the nerve to lift up her pillow.
“It’s not here,” Madame Vex pronounced.
“But I’m telling you, she took it,” Endera said.
“When you find proof, I will do something. Until then, it’s time to get ready for classes.” Madame Vex clapped her hands sharply and shooed the girls out.
Endera hovered, pointing her finger at Abigail. “You think you’re so smart because you know how to use that spellbook, but it’s mine. Mine. Do you hear me? Wait until my mother hears about this. You will fail History of Witchery before lunchtime.”
Abigail’s temper got the best of her. “Tell your mother you lost your spellbook again, and I think you’ll be the one flunking out.”
Endera paled, and then twin spots of color splotched her cheeks. “Just wait, Abigail. Your time is coming.” She flounced out of the room.
Abigail flopped back on the pillow, trying to make sense of her dream. She stared up at the ceiling, remembering the strange spider.
And that’s when she saw it.
The spellbook.
Somehow it had become wrapped in webbing in the corner of the rafters. Abigail stood on the footboard and stretched out her hand until her fingers brushed it. The webbing tore loose, and it dropped onto the bed with a plop.
She sat down cross-legged, chin on her hands, and stared at it, refusing to touch it. It was quiet for once, as if it knew if it said one word, she would fling it out the window again.
Something clattered against her window panes. Climbing off her bed, she flung them open. A mechanical bird made of battered tin fluttered its wings, creaking slightly. In its beak it held a piece of paper.
“What in Odin’s name?” She took the paper from its beak.
; Abigail—Meet me under the jookberry tree. Urgent! Hugo
Dressing in her uniform, Abigail quickly braided her hair and then opened her drawer to put on her sea emerald, the one Jasper had given her to hide her blue magic. She gasped.
It was gone.
She shoved aside the few trinkets and the hair brush she kept in there, but there was no doubting her eyes. The sea emerald had disappeared.
And then she groaned.
Endera had been rummaging around in there. The girl must have taken it.
This was a disaster.
Chapter 8
Hugo hopped from foot to foot as he waited for Abigail. It had been days since he’d been able to meet her. She was probably mad at him—and he couldn’t blame her—but as she made her way along the path, she didn’t look mad. She looked worried.
Before he could tell her his news, she blurted out, “Where have you been? I’ve got big problems. Endera’s taken my sea emerald, and I have to get it back before I’m asked to use witchfire. And there’s a giant red sunflower in the courtyard that’s a sign from Rubicus, but I’m worried it may be linked to me. Oh, and Melistra is teaching History of Witchery and is probably going to have me expelled.” She took a deep breath as she finished.
Hugo blinked twice. “Oh. None of that sounds good. I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Professor Oakes has me working as his proctor. I have to grade papers after school. Did you like my bird?” He nodded at the object in her hands.
“Yes.” She handed it back to him. “Quite clever. How did you make it fly?”
“With this”—he waved his medallion at her—“along with a spell I learned in my Master Spells class. I want to hear about the sunflower, but first there’s something you need to see.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her through the gate onto the path that led to town.
“Hugo, no. I have class, and I need to find Endera and make her give me back my necklace.”
“Trust me,” he said, tugging harder. “You’re going to want to see this. A boat’s arrived in the harbor.”
“A boat?” Abigail dug her feet in, prying his hand off. “What’s so important about a boat?”
“It’s an Orkadian warship. I’ve never seen anything like it. It must be important, and I thought … you know … we should investigate it together. I’ve missed you. I want to have an adventure with you. Is that so wrong?”
She sighed and shook her head. “Not wrong at all. I’ve missed you, too.”
“Great, then we better hurry. They were readying a boat to come to shore.” He took off at a sprint and was relieved when she followed.
They skirted the edge of town and headed for the sea-front. Balfin warships bobbed alongside fishing boats. The two of them stepped onto the boardwalk where the fishmongers sold their daily catch. Barrels of pickled herring were stacked up next to the open stalls.
Hugo pulled Abigail behind a stack of barrels and pointed. “Look, there it is.”
Abigail peered over the top of the barrels. “All I see is Jasper’s boat. I can hardly believe that thing stays afloat.”
It listed to one side, and its ragged brown sails hung limply, looking as though a stiff wind would tear them to pieces.
“Behind Jasper’s boat.”
Abigail craned her neck and then gasped.
Another ship nestled at anchor, bearing a red flag with a white heron on it. A group of men and women wearing red cloaks over shiny armor were rowing their way toward the dock. As they tied off their small rowboat, a loud pop made them both start.
A flock of witches dressed in long black gowns appeared in a cloud of purple smoke. Hestera was flanked by Melistra, Madame Vex, and three other High Witches. They waited in the center of the boardwalk not ten feet from where Hugo and Abigail hid.
A tall broad-shouldered man stepped onto the pier. Six brawny soldiers and a young boy dressed in a formal coat with brass buttons followed him. The man strode toward the witches and stopped, then bowed low.
“Greetings from the capital city of Skara Brae. I am Lord Jonathan Barconian, and this is my son, Robert.” He nodded at the slender youth next to him. The boy looked about ten, with a sheaf of brown hair that fell into his eyes.
“To what do we owe the displeasure of a visit from the Orkadian Guard?” Hestera asked.
“As if you don’t know.” Lord Barconian’s voice grew angry. “You attacked a village, causing untold damage and scaring the life out of dozens of people.”
Hestera squared her shoulders. “We did no such thing.”
“And if we did,” Melistra cut in, “it was harmless. No one died.”
Hestera looked sharply at the other High Witch. “Melistra, what did you do?”
Melistra shrugged. “I was training my acolytes on spell casting, and some of the spells might have gone … awry.”
“Gone awry? You turned a herd of pigs into sneevils!” Lord Barconian shouted. “Sneevils that attacked an innocent farmer and severely injured him. My own son was nearly gored to death.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “If he hadn’t bravely fought those sneevils off, that farmer would have died along with him.”
The boy shifted, looking uncomfortable at the praise.
But Melistra snapped back, “These things happen. Be happy we didn’t do worse. Next time—”
“There will be no next time.” Lord Barconian unrolled a parchment and read from it. “Nine wars have been fought and lost by your kind since the day we put your ancestors in stone. We swore the last would be the end of it. You, Hestera, agreed and signed the Solstice Treaty, which states that in exchange for continued free reign of these islands, you must refrain from using magic against the citizens of Orkney. You have violated the terms of the treaty.”
“So what?” Melistra scoffed. “It’s nothing but a piece of paper.”
“Signed in blood and bound by magic by all sides,” Lord Barconian said. “The other people of magic—the Eifalians, the Falcory, and the rest—agreed not to provoke you or limit your travels, which all have abided by. It is you who have broken the agreement.”
“What if I … apologized?” Melistra asked with a snigger and an exaggerated bow.
But Hestera didn’t laugh, and neither did the other High Witches.
Lord Barconian shook his head. “Not good enough for the farmer still unable to work because the sneevils put a hole in his leg and tore up his farm. No, I’m afraid the consequences are clear. Henceforth, witches are forbidden from leaving Balfour Island. No longer will your kind be welcome on Garamond or any other island in this realm.”
Hestera hissed between her teeth. The other witches gasped.
Melistra’s lips drew tight. “No, you cannot—”
“He can,” Hestera said, knuckles white on her cane. “I signed the treaty myself. I know its terms well enough. Lord Barconian, surely we can discuss this further. I was unaware of this breach. Perhaps we can make amends.”
Lord Barconian tilted his head an inch. “I welcome any discussion. I would not wish for war to break out among us. If it did, I am afraid we would have to finish what should have been finished years ago.”
“Be mindful, Lord Barconian, we are open to discussion, but we will not be provoked,” Hestera said, her voice growing raspy.
“It is your kind who have done the provoking,” the boy shouted from his father’s side. “The witches should have never been allowed to come to Orkney. They should have been stripped of their magic and left to rot back in Midgard.”
“Hush, Robert.” Lord Barconian put his hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder, but the other Orkadian soldiers mumbled agreement.
Melistra cocked her finger, and Robert’s hands flew to his throat as he struggled to breathe. The Orkadian soldiers all drew their weapons, but Hestera cast her hand down, breaking the spell, and the boy gasped air.
Melistra laughed. “I would keep a careful eye on your son if I were you, Lord Barconian. You Orkadians don’t have the power you once had.”
�
��We have Odin’s Stone. That is all we need to protect us,” Lord Barconian said.
Hugo couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the boy paled at his father’s words.
“Dine with us this evening,” Hestera said. “We will find a way forward.”
Lord Barconian dipped his head and spun around on his heel, marching back to his boat. The witches magicked themselves away but the boy lingered, fists clenched at his sides as if he wanted to punch something.
“That boy is awful,” Abigail whispered.
“I don’t know, I almost feel sorry for him,” Hugo said. “He looked scared. I remember what it felt like to come face to face with a sneevil.”
“Right, but I still don’t like him. Come on, we better go.”
They slunk back along the market stalls and ducked into the woods.
“What do you think that was about?” Hugo asked, scribbling notes in his journal.
“It sounds like Melistra made things impossible for us. We can’t be stuck here on Balfour Island. Traveling is how we replenish our magic supplies and see new things.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, and then Hugo asked, “You said something about a sunflower earlier?”
“It’s horrible—a sickly red.” She shuddered. “Hestera says it’s a sign from Rubicus that his prophecy has begun, that the Curse Breaker is among us … and we’ll know her because he predicted her magic would be different,” she added meaningfully.
He slid her a glance. “Is that why you think it’s connected to you?”
She shrugged. “That and it’s growing in the exact place the viken attacked me. I’d convinced myself it couldn’t possibly be me, but what if it is? What if I’m this Curse Breaker?”
He silently ticked over the facts. One coincidence could be explained away, but two? That was a bit harder. Abigail looked scared, and Hugo gave her a swift hug. “Look, I’m going to talk to my professor about this. See what he knows about this treaty and anything else on Rubicus and his prophecy.”
“All right.” A frown squiggled her forehead. “What about my sea emerald?”
“We’ll think of something, I promise. Until then, you’ll just have to find a way not to use witchfire in front of anyone.”
