The Emerald Atlas by John Stephens Page B

three Screechers lying on the ground. They seemed to be melting into the dirt with a horrible hissing sound. The man was breathing heavily. His head scarf had been ripped away. He had long dark hair and a scar down the side of his face.
    “He killed ’em!” Stephen McClattery gasped. “He killed those Screechers! No one’s ever done that!”
    Six more Screechers charged toward the man.
    Atop the dam, the Countess was holding up the flower she’d plucked, gazing over it like a girl watching her dance partner across the room. Kate saw that Cavendish, her driver with the football-shaped head, was trying his best to hide behind the motorbike.
    “He can’t fight six of them,” Michael said. “It’s too many.”
    Apparently, the large man had reached the same conclusion. As the creatures moved to attack, he turned toward the dam and reared back.
    “Die, witch!”
    But before he could throw his sword, the Countess blew on the flower. Kate saw a golden swirl sweep toward the man and envelop him. Reared back, muscles tense, he became absolutely still. A Screecher kicked him in the chest, and the man toppled over, landing in the dirt and sending up a cloud of dust, still without changing position. The Countess gave a small laugh and skipped in place.
    “Did you see that?” Michael said. “Did you see what she did?”
    “She’s a witch,” Emma said. “Someone should push her off that dam. Or burn her. That’s what you do with witches.”
    Kate knew they had to get away. It didn’t matter who saw them. And she was about to tell Michael to get out the book when the beautiful young woman turned and looked directly at them.
    Kate felt as if she’d been stabbed.
    The Countess extended her arm, her finger aimed at Kate’s heart. Her voice was a shriek. “Stop them!”
    “Michael,” Kate hissed, “the book! Now!”
    “Someone will see—”
    “It doesn’t matter!” And she reached into his bag and yanked the book out herself. The dark shapes were running toward them. One of them screamed. Then another. And another. Kate had the awful feeling of being held underwater, unable to get air. She couldn’t breathe.
    “Where’s—where’s the picture?”
    Michael didn’t move. Kate could see the creatures’ screams had frozen him in place. Then Emma slapped him.
    “What—what’d you do that for?”
    “The picture!”
    Michael glanced at the dark figures closing in, throwing children out of the way. The Countess screamed again, “Stop those children!” He fumbled in his pockets, pulled out the picture, and immediately dropped it.
    Kate fell to her knees, opening the book in her lap.
    “Emma—grab my arm!”
    Hands trembling, she reached for the picture, but Michael had put his foot on it.
    “Where is it?” he said. “I can’t see it!”
    “You’re standing on it! Move!”
    The Screechers were getting closer. Their cries stronger than ever. She had to focus, focus.…
    Then, for a moment, silence. It seemed the creatures had to breathe after all. Kate felt the air return to her lungs, her heart pump blood through her body. She pushed Michael out of the way and grabbed the picture. It was covered with dirt and creased from his shoe. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stephen McClattery tossed aside.
    “Hurry!” Emma yelled.
    “Hold on to me!” Kate said.
    As two dark shapes closed in, Kate placed the photo on the blank page. She felt a tug in her stomach, and the ground disappeared beneath them.
    Kate blinked. Everything was dark. The air felt cool. She blinked a few more times, and then, as her eyes adjusted, relief swept through her. They were in the underground room in the mansion. She was kneeling on the floor with the book in her lap. Across the room, she could see the three of them, Michael and Emma and herself, their bodies outlined by the flashlights.
    And then, suddenly, they were gone.
    Kate felt herself being released. As if some force had been holding her in place.
    “Kate.” Emma’s