for a mouse.”
“You had better come with me,” Amber said. “If you don’t, I’ll . . . I’ll turn you into a . . . a—”
“What? A slug?” Ben asked, as if nothing that she did to him could hurt him any more than she already had.
“No, I’ll turn your whole family into mice.” Deep inside, she felt a dark power rising.
Ben backed away in terror.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “I’ll take you to the pet shop and help you free the mice. But afterward, I want something from you in return. I want you to free me. You have to turn me back into a human.”
Amber smiled. She was getting what she wanted—even if she did have to take it by force.
I really would make an excellent evil wizardess, she thought.
Chapter 6
NIGHTWING
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Nightwing dipped toward the source, circling.
His enormous ears picked up human voices in an upper chamber.
IN THE CHILL AIR, Nightwing scrabbled across the sky. The stars rode through the heavens above, while dark forests seethed below. He could still sense Amber’s spell. After-fires from it could be seen in the west, a glowing column of magical purple flame. As he flew, he sang:
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monopoly compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
“Quiet,” Darwin screamed. “Not that poem again!” He buried his head deep in the flesh of Nightwing’s armpit and tried to shut the sound out by wrapping all eight legs over his ears. “Do any poem but that one. My head is ringing. I can’t take it anymore.” He went from pleading to a more dangerous tone. “One more verse, and I swear by my mother’s proboscis, I’ll sever your jugular!”
“You palavering parasite,” Nightwing said. “You can no more appreciate the genius of poetry than a sow can appreciate a Van Gogh. Edgar Allen Poe was the greatest human poet of all time. Compared with him, Dante Alighieri spouted drivel, and Shakespeare’s verses are but the scribblings of a hack.”
Nightwing fluttered toward a house, squeaking in his loudest voice,
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
Darwin gouged his proboscis into Nightwing’s side and threatened, “I smell a gizzard!”
“Look,” Nightwing shouted. “The source of the spells, spells, spells! Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme!”
He wheeled gleefully above a house in a dark neighborhood at the edge of a town. The streetlight below glowed forlornly, and only a few cars crawled upon the road. But the light from magic spells sputtered below with an eerie purple gleam, pulsing on and off like a candle that gutters from lack of air as it suffocates.
Nightwing dropped low, searching for any animals that had a magical aura. A pair of cats hunted behind the house, but they were nothing special. In front of the house, a police car was parked, its lights flashing blue and white.
The residue of the magical spell was centered within the house.
Nightwing dipped toward the source, circling. His enormous ears picked up human voices in an upper chamber. “We came up here and found his clothes draped across the floor,” Ben’s dad said. “But Ben was just . . . gone.”
“It’s like he popped,” his mom added. “Like he was a big balloon, and he just popped, and all of his clothes dropped to the floor.”
The police officer said in a bored tone, “Well, if he’d popped, his skin would be here too. I think he just ran off.”
“But,” his mom asked, “where would he go without his clothes?”
“Skinny-dipping?” the cop suggested.
Nightwing dived toward the roof. He was an instant from death when he cast a tiny spell. As he hit the wooden shingles, the roof shattered.
He found himself in a room where bright lights blinded him. He dropped to the floor.
With a
“You had better come with me,” Amber said. “If you don’t, I’ll . . . I’ll turn you into a . . . a—”
“What? A slug?” Ben asked, as if nothing that she did to him could hurt him any more than she already had.
“No, I’ll turn your whole family into mice.” Deep inside, she felt a dark power rising.
Ben backed away in terror.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “I’ll take you to the pet shop and help you free the mice. But afterward, I want something from you in return. I want you to free me. You have to turn me back into a human.”
Amber smiled. She was getting what she wanted—even if she did have to take it by force.
I really would make an excellent evil wizardess, she thought.
Chapter 6
NIGHTWING
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Nightwing dipped toward the source, circling.
His enormous ears picked up human voices in an upper chamber.
IN THE CHILL AIR, Nightwing scrabbled across the sky. The stars rode through the heavens above, while dark forests seethed below. He could still sense Amber’s spell. After-fires from it could be seen in the west, a glowing column of magical purple flame. As he flew, he sang:
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monopoly compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
“Quiet,” Darwin screamed. “Not that poem again!” He buried his head deep in the flesh of Nightwing’s armpit and tried to shut the sound out by wrapping all eight legs over his ears. “Do any poem but that one. My head is ringing. I can’t take it anymore.” He went from pleading to a more dangerous tone. “One more verse, and I swear by my mother’s proboscis, I’ll sever your jugular!”
“You palavering parasite,” Nightwing said. “You can no more appreciate the genius of poetry than a sow can appreciate a Van Gogh. Edgar Allen Poe was the greatest human poet of all time. Compared with him, Dante Alighieri spouted drivel, and Shakespeare’s verses are but the scribblings of a hack.”
Nightwing fluttered toward a house, squeaking in his loudest voice,
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
Darwin gouged his proboscis into Nightwing’s side and threatened, “I smell a gizzard!”
“Look,” Nightwing shouted. “The source of the spells, spells, spells! Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of runic rhyme!”
He wheeled gleefully above a house in a dark neighborhood at the edge of a town. The streetlight below glowed forlornly, and only a few cars crawled upon the road. But the light from magic spells sputtered below with an eerie purple gleam, pulsing on and off like a candle that gutters from lack of air as it suffocates.
Nightwing dropped low, searching for any animals that had a magical aura. A pair of cats hunted behind the house, but they were nothing special. In front of the house, a police car was parked, its lights flashing blue and white.
The residue of the magical spell was centered within the house.
Nightwing dipped toward the source, circling. His enormous ears picked up human voices in an upper chamber. “We came up here and found his clothes draped across the floor,” Ben’s dad said. “But Ben was just . . . gone.”
“It’s like he popped,” his mom added. “Like he was a big balloon, and he just popped, and all of his clothes dropped to the floor.”
The police officer said in a bored tone, “Well, if he’d popped, his skin would be here too. I think he just ran off.”
“But,” his mom asked, “where would he go without his clothes?”
“Skinny-dipping?” the cop suggested.
Nightwing dived toward the roof. He was an instant from death when he cast a tiny spell. As he hit the wooden shingles, the roof shattered.
He found himself in a room where bright lights blinded him. He dropped to the floor.
With a
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