Witchlings: Chapters 11–17

The Gran pulled a vial of something green and murky-looking from her cape.

“By chance, have you been using any magic above your proficiency level?” asked the Town Uncle.

Her coughing fit had stopped abruptly, although the Uncle was still fussing over her and oblivious to her suspicious recovery.

If anyone else tried to wield it, the sword would slowly burn them from the inside out.

“You should see it when there is a waning moon,” the Uncle said almost wistfully. “That is when you can truly appreciate its magic.”

The glass itself had a beautiful iridescent sheen, as if it had been washed in the finish of mermaid pearls.

The glass itself had a beautiful iridescent sheen, as if it had been washed in the finish of mermaid pearls.

This is the last time I can intercede on your behalf in such a direct way. My emotions got the better of me this time, seeing you Witchlings hurt.

Their tracking magic is incredibly potent. All they need to do is be near an item touched by a mark to sense it.

Either way, you were incredibly lucky, and we will have to be vigilant so that you are safe.

That time was very tumultuous. There were fires spreading across the towns, and I had a lot on my plate. Between the Spares, the fires...and Rulean getting sick.

“You see, when the Spares of ’65 were toadified, Rulean was inconsolable. He was sick for a very long time, because he had tried so hard to help those Spares. Within the boundaries of the impossible task, of course. It took many months before he was himself again.”

Thorn gasped, Seven stared at Valley with her mouth agape, and then they both looked at the Gran, waiting for her to respond.

“This is an ave. A very special item that should only be used in the direst of circumstances. If you hold it up to your mouth and blow, it will take a message to anyone of your choosing. It will only work once, and you must be incredibly careful about when you use it.”

The impossible task is not for the faint of heart, and it was invoked because of your bravery. I have a strong inkling you can handle this.

The phone in their kitchen rang its loud trill, and Seven’s heart dropped.

“There is no other path to the Bayahíbe roses. There’ll be brambles anywhere between this side of the Cursed Forest and the fields,” said Seven confidently.

“Are you bonkers, Salazar?” Valley seethed. “You almost got us all killed, and you probably alerted every monstruo in Ravenskill.”

The flowers looked like a sea of pink, undulating in the wind.

“Can Nightbeasts cast spells?” Thorn asked.
Valley solemnly shook her head no.

She swung the sleeping tonic into the mouth of the cave and waited. One, two, three seconds. It should take about ten to permeate any space and knock out anything within.

“Believe it or not, she hasn’t been the worst part of this whole thing. But I don’t want to talk about Valley right now,” Seven said, remembering with a painful pang the fight they’d just gotten into.

Seven’s face was hot, her whole body was hot. With anger and sadness and indignation.

Thorn was like a magical buffer. It was hard not to be friendly when Thorn was around, if only because it made Seven feel like a crummy witch to be mean or have not-nice thoughts.

Spares usually came to games with their employers because they couldn’t function without their assistants, but were relegated to the farthest, most uncomfortable seats.

Seven looked over, and Thorn was mesmerized. Tia was clearly her idol.

All toads might not be as mean as Edgar Allan Toad, but they were all just as finicky. Toads only raced to music, specifically classical music, and winning depended not just on speed but on how much they could keep pace with the rhythm of a song.

It was no wonder Seven’s toad was the worst; he hated music and croaked loudly whenever she tried to train him using any of the approved classical music for training. Much of it was from the humdrum (what witches called non-magical humans) world, and today’s race would be no different.

The announcer said Overture (Suite) No. 2 in B Minor by Johann Sebastian Bach would be the racing song of choice.

The witch team members ran alongside the toads on the inside of the track, yelling dance moves and encouragement to their toads, sometimes splashing them with small amounts of water to keep them moisturized and limber.

“What a rousing race!” the announcer declared.

“Congratulations to the Boggs Ferry Raccoons on this amazing win. An exciting start to the gaming season! Normally our Town Gran or Uncle would present the prize for first place but”—the announcer shifted uncomfortably, and conspiratorial murmurs spread throughout the stadium—“they cannot be with us at present, so I’m afraid I will have to do!”

They all stopped and turned around, Thorn lifting her chin up like Valley had taught her to. She looked defiant, not quite tough, but getting there.

The Gran had been called away to another town, the Uncle indisposed, just like they had been during the impossible task in 1965.

“The window seats are free,” Seven said, running inside before someone else took the coveted location.

She diligently read the Twelve Towns’ paper every week and followed everything their star journalist, Tiordan Whisperbrew, wrote.

Shush orders were an arcane type of magic, something their ancestors had used to keep dissenters quiet back when only the wealthiest had any rights.

Shush orders were an arcane type of magic, something their ancestors had used to keep dissenters quiet back when only the wealthiest had any rights.

Nightbeasts were rare and didn’t hunt in close proximity to one another.

So, their Town Gran had drafted this bill originally.