Witchlings: Chapters 6–10

Rat in backpack (particularly heinous since Seven has a phobia)

In her black rucksack were two books with high-level monstruo-focused protection spells (illegal) and one three-levels-above-her-magic-class (highly illegal) combat spells booklet tucked discreetly inside So, You Lost Your Best Pal, Huh?

“Just to hide the booklet. You can bring it back later,” Miss Dewey had said of the sappy friendship book.

All the foliage was neatly trimmed, in bright, beautiful colors, the roads devoid of even one small weed and paved in fancy yellow brick that began down by the waterfront.

Everything felt rigged and unfair, and Seven couldn’t help but feel powerless.

She felt even more pathetic reaching out after how Poppy had snubbed her, but Seven really needed a friend right now.

A plaque reading Blood Rose Manor in gold adorned the
 gate, and Seven scoffed.

Seven steeled herself and rang 
the doorbell, which played the Ravenskill funeral overture
 because of course it did.

Seven took a deep breath, trying to let the anger, embarrassment, the injustice of it all out when she exhaled, and
 crossed the threshold into Valley’s house.

They had black covers with gold writing on them and
 elaborate spines with flourishes and decorations.

“These are the most complete records of the most recent 
impossible task,” Valley said. “1965: the Cursed Toads. I think 
the best way to not repeat the mistakes of the past is to learn
 all about their history.”
Seven begrudgingly agreed.

Having 
these kinds of books without permission was a serious infraction.

There 
were light protests following the toadification, with some
 activists calling the punishment archaic and cruel.

“That does not sound like fun,” said Thorn.
“An understatement,” said Seven, thinking of an eternity
 spent trapped in a museum next to Valley.

They were boys about their age, and they looked sullen and scared.

Babies in Ravenskill were all in varying stages of magical
 manifestation and, therefore, chaos.

Whenever a new power
 appeared in them, it was erratic and unstable, as magic tends 
to be at the start.

The gnarled roots of the Strangling Figs
 made way for the two Witchlings to cross over into the pitch
 darkness.

They were going 
much too fast for Seven to see much of anything around them,
 but every few minutes, something slinked out from the dark to
 watch them, a figure shrouded in moving shadows, something 
that only appeared in the darkest part of the forest.

She gave a patron a thumbs-up, and a 
bright blue-and-pink bird emerged from somewhere behind 
her MAKL.

To one side, mugs and a glass carafe filled to 
the brim with steaming hot cocoa sat next to a bowl of fluffy
 homemade marshmallows and a giant bag of those long, crispy orange snacks that left your fingers dusty and your 
throat craving fizzy drinks.

Miss 
Dewey pantomimed hitting a ball out of the park, and the
 three Witchlings cheered.

“Let’s hope we don’t get toadified, then,” said Seven. The 
Witchlings sobered up at that. As cool as this room was, as
 delicious as the snacks looked, this might very well be one of 
their last meals not involving insects if they didn’t stop the 
Nightbeast.

“‘They have powerful tracking magic,
 which aids in their job as hunters. They hunt and gather for 
the Nightbeast until it gains enough strength to emerge 
from its cave and attack whatever unlucky town it’s descended upon.’ If one of the cucos took Beefy, underestimating
 your brother’s strength, he could’ve dispatched it,” Valley
 said.

“I really doubt my brother, a literal baby, could beat a 
Nightbeast minion.”

If it’s still in its feeding-and-hibernation state, it won’t fight, out of self-preservation. The closer it gets to full strength, the more it will venture out, but it won’t fully expose itself until it feels every weakness is leached from its system. That’s why it makes the cucos fight for it.

“We can use poison foxglove or sleeping tonics if I can manage to make it into an aerosol,” said Seven.

Outside the library, their respective parents waited to drive them home.

“Doesn’t anybody work here?” a witch asked in a haughty voice, and Mr. Laroux shook his head.

The woman looked shocked, as if she hadn’t been purposely trying to goad the Witchlings.

Mrs. Dimblewit, an apt name, nodded triumphantly, and Seven was about to tell her to eat rats when Thorn cleared her throat.

“Figures you would come here and sully our town. Your kind should be illegal. Maybe you already are by the looks of you. That out-of-season dress, ha! Who are you to tell me about fashion?” the woman scoffed.

Mrs. Dimblewit looked around as if the bookshop smelled but also like she was appraising it.

There were long, dark alleyways between the historical buildings, hidden paths, secret entrances, and a few unsavory occult shops where only the most mysterious villagers seemed to congregate.

“He’s not so bad. You’re just touchy,” said Valley.

A shriek tore through the night sky, loud and high and piercing.

It looked almost like an enormous, rabid hyena.

She had come flying from the top of a yellow train car, the waning sun lighting her up like a stained-glass window.

The spell slashed across their spindly bodies, and they bolted behind another train car.

She briefly contemplated jumping in the Boggy Crone River, before remembering it was frozen.