T*Witches: The Power of Two by Randi Reisfeld, H.B. Gilmour
Authors: Randi Reisfeld, H.B. Gilmour
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"Goodnight Moon"? Alex wondered. Could she hear the rusty creaking of the old bolt?
"Goodnight kittens, goodnight mittens..."
Afraid to turn away, as if her amazingly enhanced eyesight was all that held the wobbly bolt in place, Cam continued to gaze at it steadily. But she had a sense that someone had heard her unspoken plea. And, all at once, with a mingling of shock and gratitude, she knew that it was the gray-eyed girl from Crow Creek. Alex.
"Goodnight comb, goodnight brush..." That ride should have been condemned years ago, Alex heard her own desperate thoughts. Why wasn't it inspected? Why wasn't it fixed? Those people—
...won't survive, Cam thought. I've got to help, got to do something. I can't let them die—
"Why not?" asked a deep, disturbing voice, a man's voice.
Cam shuddered. Pure dread shot through her. Shivering, she turned toward the sound and saw, in the shadow of the wheelhouse, a powerful, bearded man with jet-black hair and eyes that pooled dark as oil spills. A twisted smile played across his lips as he saw her staring back at him.
She wanted to turn back to the cart, which was swaying dangerously above them, but the man's dark smile held her gaze, then weakened and numbed her.
He could have been anyone, anyone big. He was wearing a simple shirt, blue jeans, and, despite the heat of summer, a leather jacket and thick hobnailed work boots.
Cam stood frozen, mesmerized. Energy and urgency seemed to seep out of her. She was suddenly weary, emptied of hope, hollow with despair.
In a nanosecond, a hot-dog man, pushing his cart, seemed to pop up out of nowhere. He was old, frail, with wiry silver-white hair, wearing oddly out-of-place black velvet slippers. Cam gasped. It was the old skinny guy she'd seen back in the bleachers of her soccer game. He passed directly in front of the shadowy stranger, breaking the burly man's gaze.
Without warning, the sky darkened and a thunderous whirlwind swept through the theme park. Startled, visitors began to shout. Tickets, food wrappers, newspapers, trash barrels, anything that wasn't nailed down, seemed to go flying. Anxious parents gripped their children and ducked for cover.
And the cart at the top of the Ol' Wagon Wheel made a sickening sound as it swung violently.
Cam felt a tap on her shoulder. She shrieked and whirled around.
The girl with the random blue-streaked hair jumped back, yelling, "Get a grip!"
"What are you doing here?" Cam gasped.
"Same thing you are," Alex heard herself say. "And we'd better do it fast."
They knew what was about to happen. Cam could see it. Alex could hear the rusty bolt squeaking as the cart carrying the unaware family was lashed to and fro by the wind.
They watched in horror as the bolt worked its way out of the rod.
"We need help," Cam shouted over the howling storm.
"Ya' think?" Alex sneered.
"Can you see them? I mean, they look like such a nice family—"
"Grant them a long life." The words flew out of Alex's mouth. She had no idea how they'd even formed in her brain, let alone exited her lips.
"Free them," Cam suddenly recited, " of fear, pain, and strife." She was rhyming again—just as she had at the soccer match. Bewildered, alarmed, she turned to Alex.
"Um... they're young and happy, loving and good," Alex whispered. Her eyes were shut. Her hands balled into determined fists. "Help us to help them as we should."
"Tell us what to do to save... the mom and dad, and their young babe," Cam murmured excitedly, grasping Alex's hand.
A surge of energy tore through them.
"Babe does not rhyme with save," Alex grumbled.
"It was the best I could do," Cam argued. She panicked again, wondering what was wrong with her.
"It's… it's… working," Alex stuttered, astonished.
Cam looked up. She couldn't hear, as Alex had, through the wailing wind, the screech of the bolt turning. But she
"Goodnight kittens, goodnight mittens..."
Afraid to turn away, as if her amazingly enhanced eyesight was all that held the wobbly bolt in place, Cam continued to gaze at it steadily. But she had a sense that someone had heard her unspoken plea. And, all at once, with a mingling of shock and gratitude, she knew that it was the gray-eyed girl from Crow Creek. Alex.
"Goodnight comb, goodnight brush..." That ride should have been condemned years ago, Alex heard her own desperate thoughts. Why wasn't it inspected? Why wasn't it fixed? Those people—
...won't survive, Cam thought. I've got to help, got to do something. I can't let them die—
"Why not?" asked a deep, disturbing voice, a man's voice.
Cam shuddered. Pure dread shot through her. Shivering, she turned toward the sound and saw, in the shadow of the wheelhouse, a powerful, bearded man with jet-black hair and eyes that pooled dark as oil spills. A twisted smile played across his lips as he saw her staring back at him.
She wanted to turn back to the cart, which was swaying dangerously above them, but the man's dark smile held her gaze, then weakened and numbed her.
He could have been anyone, anyone big. He was wearing a simple shirt, blue jeans, and, despite the heat of summer, a leather jacket and thick hobnailed work boots.
Cam stood frozen, mesmerized. Energy and urgency seemed to seep out of her. She was suddenly weary, emptied of hope, hollow with despair.
In a nanosecond, a hot-dog man, pushing his cart, seemed to pop up out of nowhere. He was old, frail, with wiry silver-white hair, wearing oddly out-of-place black velvet slippers. Cam gasped. It was the old skinny guy she'd seen back in the bleachers of her soccer game. He passed directly in front of the shadowy stranger, breaking the burly man's gaze.
Without warning, the sky darkened and a thunderous whirlwind swept through the theme park. Startled, visitors began to shout. Tickets, food wrappers, newspapers, trash barrels, anything that wasn't nailed down, seemed to go flying. Anxious parents gripped their children and ducked for cover.
And the cart at the top of the Ol' Wagon Wheel made a sickening sound as it swung violently.
Cam felt a tap on her shoulder. She shrieked and whirled around.
The girl with the random blue-streaked hair jumped back, yelling, "Get a grip!"
"What are you doing here?" Cam gasped.
"Same thing you are," Alex heard herself say. "And we'd better do it fast."
They knew what was about to happen. Cam could see it. Alex could hear the rusty bolt squeaking as the cart carrying the unaware family was lashed to and fro by the wind.
They watched in horror as the bolt worked its way out of the rod.
"We need help," Cam shouted over the howling storm.
"Ya' think?" Alex sneered.
"Can you see them? I mean, they look like such a nice family—"
"Grant them a long life." The words flew out of Alex's mouth. She had no idea how they'd even formed in her brain, let alone exited her lips.
"Free them," Cam suddenly recited, " of fear, pain, and strife." She was rhyming again—just as she had at the soccer match. Bewildered, alarmed, she turned to Alex.
"Um... they're young and happy, loving and good," Alex whispered. Her eyes were shut. Her hands balled into determined fists. "Help us to help them as we should."
"Tell us what to do to save... the mom and dad, and their young babe," Cam murmured excitedly, grasping Alex's hand.
A surge of energy tore through them.
"Babe does not rhyme with save," Alex grumbled.
"It was the best I could do," Cam argued. She panicked again, wondering what was wrong with her.
"It's… it's… working," Alex stuttered, astonished.
Cam looked up. She couldn't hear, as Alex had, through the wailing wind, the screech of the bolt turning. But she
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