The Ever Breath by Julianna Baggott Page A

Camille and wished she were with him. She’d know what to do. She’d read enough books about disasters to know something about how to survive.
    Praddle hopped on a log, pointed downhill, and mewled in that partly human way she had back in Swelda’s yard.
    Truman shook his head. “I’m not falling for that again!”
    Praddle hopped down and tugged at the leg of his pajamas, then pointed and mewled louder.
    “This better be good.”
    Praddle pointed again, and Truman could see that there was a break in the trees. They were on a mountain. He walked to the log, climbed on top of it, and peered down into a valley. There he saw lights, lots of them, all clumped together. “A city!” he exclaimed. “Maybe I could get help there. Maybesomeone knows how to help me back.” But then he noticed how very far away the city was—through trees and across meadows, along a river. “It’s too far,” he said tiredly. “I’ll never make it tonight. I’ll freeze to death.”
    Praddle hopped up and down on the log, mewling, and then climbed off the log and slipped into its rotted-out center.
    Truman knelt down at the mouth of the log and stared inside.
    “Warmmm, warmmm,” Praddle purred.
    “Are you saying we could sleep in there?” Truman asked. “I’d get claustrophobic. Plus, we couldn’t both be in there at the same time. I’m allergic to pet dander, and—”
    “Shhh!” Praddle whispered, her finger held to her lips.
    Truman heard a ruffle of feathers overhead.
Grossbeak?
he thought for a second. But then he looked up and saw a flock of strange birds soaring through the sky. The flock passed in and out of the fog, through the snow. The birds had bloodred hoods, long gawky necks, and hooked ivory beaks. Large talons hung under their meaty feathered ribs, and in their talons they carried round metal cages. The cages had creatures in them—Truman couldn’t make out what they were. He saw hands gripping the bars, but also snouts and muzzles wedged between the bars, glimpses of fur and feathers and scales.
    “What are those birds?” Truman whispered.
    “Vulturesss,” Praddle hissed.
    One vulture, which had a tufted white back, didn’t have a cage in its grip. It was skirting the edges of the flock. Suddenly it dipped closer to the ground, and Truman could see that what he’d thought was a tuft on its back wasn’t one at all. It was a small person wearing a long iridescent robe, and he—or she—was riding the bird like a horse, butwithout a saddle or reins, handfuls of feathers in each fist. As the bird passed, Truman saw a long curved sword.
    “Who is that?” Truman asked.
    Praddle stared and shook her head. She didn’t know.
    As if the rider had heard Truman, the bird reared and turned back, circling toward the valley and the fallen tree where Truman stood, his breath caught in his throat.
    Praddle mewled, and then darted into the hollow log.
    Truman quickly dropped to the ground, grabbed his snow globe, and shimmied into the log where Praddle was now curled up in a tight, shivering ball. The vulture dipped so low that Truman could hear the ruffling of its wings. It landed right in front of the log.
    Truman saw the bird’s scaly talons and then the small leather boots of its rider and the hem of the rider’s robe, which twitched and wriggled. The robe was alive, made of shimmering white bugs with delicate wings. They looked like pale, glistening locusts. Each summer, Truman saw locusts on the ground in his neighborhood, tapping at the dirt and cement. They were loud at night, trilling in the trees. But it was winter now. And why would anyone want a robe made out of bugs?
    Did the rider know that Truman was there? Truman and Praddle were silent, barely breathing. The rider pulled out a sword, paced in one direction and then the other, and then the pair of boots—very small black boots—stopped right at the mouth of the log. Truman was afraid that the rider would be able to hear his heart, which sounded to