Archibald Finch and the Curse of the Phoenix

By Michel Guyon

The Archibald Finch saga continues with another thrilling adventure! It’s been months since our hero returned from Lemurea, but nothing is back to normal. When Archibald realizes he isn’t the only thing that crash-landed at the manor that night, he knows he’ll need to return to the dark world he only just left.

Archibald is a changed boy. He stands up to bullies and hangs out with the gargoyles that used to scare him. But for all his new toughness, he's also a lost boy who misses his friends in Lemurea. When strange footprints are discovered on the manor grounds, he realizes a piece of that world has followed him home...

Without golems, witches or magic, Archibald knows there's little to stop what's prowling the London suburbs, which means he'll have to return to Lemurea to seek Faerydae's help.

In a new adventure for Archibald, Hailee, Oliver, and Faerydae, two worlds collide—two worlds with more in common than any of the kids could’ve imagined. A hunt for clues, golems, and Marodors unearths some shocking answers and hard truths as Archibald and his companions embark on yet another daring journey that tests each of them in different ways. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781524883201

Book preview

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Also by Michel Guyon

Archibald Finch and the Lost Witches

Once again,

much about this story is truer than you may think.

As a matter of fact,

any resemblance to persons, living or dead—

but especially dead—

is definitely NOT coincidental.

CONTENTS

ONE

Into the Half Woods

TWO

Gone Fishing

THREE

A World Away

FOUR

The Riddle of the Pig’s Coat

FIVE

To Pawn Circle

SIX

The Ghosts of Epping

SEVEN

The Wall-Wader

EIGHT

Of Wolves and Falcons

NINE

Seek and Hide

TEN

Margot

ELEVEN

The Grimoire of Secrets

TWELVE

A Glimmer in the Night

THIRTEEN

Prince Leonis

FOURTEEN

The Girl Who Died

FIFTEEN

Escape from Belifendor

SIXTEEN

The Offspring

PROLOGUE

Two green eyes flicker open, trading one darkness for another, nearly as deep. They stand out spookily, flecks of emerald against smears of brown mud. From beneath that mask of filth emerges the figure of a young girl, her long hair caked in sludge. . . .

Her awakening is as sudden as it is painful. Gasping for air, she encounters a smell so foul it chokes her. Beads of cold sweat pearl along her brow, then trickle into her eyes, further blurring her vision.

A grimace of pain spreads across her face. Her hand fumbles to her shoulder, where she finds that blood and mud have mixed and hardened into a crust. Her body stiffens as though petrified. Exhaustion and pain seem to be pinning her down, each attempt at moving the source of an excruciating cringe.

The abyss surrounding her slowly comes into focus. Lying flat against a damp surface, she cranes her neck and peers around, looking up and to each side. Above her rises a vaulted ceiling with uneven curves—The ribs of a whale, perhaps? she wonders.

A faint glow helps her gauge her surroundings—a red glow, emanating from deeper within the entrails of this cavernous interior. She hears nothing but a gnawing sound, coming from the same area, it seems, where she has just caught sight of a hulking form.

There is someone else in this belly.

The gnawing stops suddenly.

Shadow among shadows, a ghostly limb lunges forth from the darkness—a tentacle. Unfolding in a hiss of oozing saliva, it brushes against the girl’s leg and pauses over her stomach before creeping up her chest, as though probing for life.

The viscous arm finally settles near her face. Bent like a cobra, it seems about to strike. The girl braces in terror—but the blow never comes.

Sprouting from within the slime, three large human eyes meet the girl’s blank gaze. Not unafraid but too weak to react, she doesn’t panic. Besides, the eyes seem more intrigued than threatening.

In a blink, the tentacle is on the move again. Snaking down the girl’s neck, slithering alongside her right arm, it burrows into a pouch tied to her belt, then resurfaces with chunks of something enfolded in its sticky grasp. Just as quickly, it retreats into the clammy blackness from which it sprang.

Almost instantly, the chewing and grunting resume.

The girl turns her head the other way, toward an opening showing the barest of light, through which the wind has begun to howl.

She rolls to one side and, with great effort, begins a slow crawl in that direction, clawing at the ground with all her might, breathing in moans. Inch by inch, she slides along the soiled floor, getting nearer that sliver of freedom.

Soon, she emerges from the mouth of the whale—a cave, as it turns out, carved into a rocky hillside. Finally free of that horrid place, she sputters for breath.

Arching her back in pain, she hauls herself up and limps toward a nearby forest. As her legs regain their feeling, she breaks into a crooked run. Fragments of dried mud start peeling off her clothes and detaching from her skin. Piece by piece, layer after layer, her face is revealed.

This is the girl who died.

AT CHAPTER ONE, IT’S HARD TO MOVE ON

INTO THE HALF WOODS

It is the dead of night, when nature has gone mute and a new dawn seems furthest from springing. A bluish light flickers in and out of sleep, revealing a small window on the top floor of a lonely house—a large but invisible house that blends into the surrounding nothingness. Perched on one of two stone pillars marking the entrance to 8 Culpeper Lane, a long-eared brown owl blinks its huge yellow eyes in sync with the beacon flaring and receding in the distance. The bird takes wing, soars across the lawn, homes in silently on an unheeding mouse, but zooms past unexpectedly, continues its course alongside the endless driveway, glides up three stories, and lands stealthily on the edge of the roof. From there, it hops its way to the ledge of that one glowing window, and peeks in.

The face revealed to the intruder is that of a young boy, with a nose still no bigger than a grape and long, choppy bangs covering half his cheeks, but with little trace of innocence left in his tired, somber eyes—not much trace of a boy, in fact. Hard to believe his twelfth birthday was just a couple months ago.

His life as he knew it, Archibald Finch had been forced to reassess entirely. On the desk in front of him rests the culprit that started it all—the Orbatrum, aka the terrestrial globe that whisked him away to the darkest of worlds and brought him back in the same earth-shattering, blinding, howling storm of light. The glow now radiating on and off from the strange device offers only a glimpse of its power. Archibald revives it every ten seconds or so, repeating the same motion with his left hand, spinning the globe just enough to make it shine but not enough for the top crank to unwind—and the storm to be unleashed. Each time, he gives a slightly more forceful push. Each time, the Orbatrum beams a bit brighter. Each time, the crank groans a little louder, swiveling an inch farther, on the brink of unraveling fully. Each time, his blond hair rises higher in the air, undulating toward the globe, some thin strands getting seared off.

Archibald is playing with fire, the intensity in his glare leaving no doubt regarding his awareness of the danger. Should he get sucked in, it won’t be an accident. The risk he is taking he is taking knowingly this time. It is as though he is tempted to repeat that great dive. It is as though he wants to go back to the harrowing forests of Lemurea, back to Faerydae and all his friends down there—or up there. Who knows, exactly? Of course, such a leap comes with great perils. Pinned to the walls, his own drawings of Marodors are there to remind him. A quick glance at those mysterious creatures—part beast, part human—should be enough to discourage him. But Archibald does not look deterred one bit.

His next shove is so hard that the crank finally gives way, rotating out of control while the sphere beneath blazes like the sun. The very contours of the globe begin to vanish, along with its odd country names and the weird hand-drawn monsters roaming its lands and seas.

With a gasp, Archibald lunges at the crank with one hand while trying to stop the spinning sphere with the other. Gradually losing their texture and melting away, his fingers are just about to be absorbed entirely when the globe suddenly slows down and whooshes to a halt.

Archibald sits back into his chair with a loud sigh and turns on his desk lamp.

That was close, he blurts, breathing heavily, brushing the smoldering sleeves of his sweatshirt, his hands pomegranate red.

Holding the globe by its meridian, he tilts the relic on its lion-paw-shaped base, pulls a key out from the bottom lock, and watches the curious contraption morph from a claw to a wide-open hand.

You’ll have to stay put for a while, he tells the key as it turns still and solid, dropping it into a recycled jelly jar along with pens and crayons—and several other oddly shaped keys.

Archibald sighs once more, staring longingly at the Orbatrum.

I miss you, Fae, he whispers. You, too, Paws, he adds, turning to a shelf on which sits a hodgepodge Play-Doh sculpture topped with crayon shavings, paper clips, and two M&Ms that look vaguely like eyes.

Setting the globe aside, Archibald opens the window right above it, startled when the spying owl takes off and flies away.

In one swift move, he leaps onto his desk and steps onto the outside ledge, twisting and flipping his body around the window frame as he slowly hoists himself up. Heading to the rooftop like a rock climber, he flattens his body as much as he can, hugging the moss-coated tiles that gradually smear his light-colored sweatpants and sweatshirt. Based on the ease with which he finds small cracks to grab onto, his bare feet curling into obscure crevices, one can assume this is not the first time Archibald has ventured out through the window like this.

Less than a minute later, he vaults onto the roof ridge and takes a deep breath of the freezing air slapping his face. But he doesn’t stop there. Quickly finding his footing on the narrow curved apex, he walks all the way to the east side of the house. From that point he crouches and slides down the full pitch of the roofline, his right arm all the while hugging a low wall that serves no function other than to make the manor more impressive (as though that were needed).

When his feet reach the bottom, sort of securely hooked onto the gutters, Archibald settles next to a stone mass covered with ivy. Little by little, he brushes aside the bushy stems and densely woven leaves. Slipping out from under the cover of gray clouds, a nearly full moon casts its milky light on the house, helping reveal the features of a stone creature: the nose of a pig, the open mouth of a dog, and the ears of a bat.

This is the gargoyle that gave him nightmares when he and his family moved into this house, right after his grandmother died—or so they all thought.

Archibald is finished uncovering most of the statue, but he keeps brushing its back, as if petting the dog his parents always refused to get him.

Look at that—they did it again, he says, scratching off some bird droppings that run from the gargoyle’s forehead to its snout.

Archibald seems at peace now. His head tilted up to the stars, he cracks a smile and starts humming what sounds like a lullaby—a rather dark lullaby:

Don’t live in fright . . .

They’ll come at night . . .

And then maybe . . .

Are you crazy? whisper-shouts a voice from above.

Archibald nearly plummets thirty feet when his left foot slips on the metal gutter, his whole leg hanging perilously over the edge. To one of the large gargoyle’s cupped ears he owes his salvation. He clings to it tightly, managing to stabilize himself. Only then can he turn around to discover the murderous fool who almost scared him to death—a crackbrained tykisher, as Faerydae would call such an ill-mannered individual. But of course Archibald already recognized his sister’s voice.

"Are you crazy? You freaked me out!" he shouts back at her in the same hushed way.

Craning her head out of her bedroom window, Hailee looks more shocked than mad. She pushes her long hair out of her face and pins it back with a clip, just to make sure she’s actually seeing what she’s seeing.

What are you doing on the roof? At three in the morning! Do you know how dangerous this is?

It’s nothing—trust me.

You want to fall and kill yourself?

I won’t fall if you don’t bother me!

"You woke me up! With that . . . song you were humming!

It was fine when you were five—I guess—but now it’s really creepy, Arch!"

Just close your window!

I need fresh air! And speaking of creepy, were you petting that thing? she asks, gesturing toward the gargoyle.

Maybe, he answers, on the defensive but not showing any shame.

Mum and Dad really need to get you a pet.

I don’t want a pet. I want a dragon.

Well, ask for that, then. Dad put up the Christmas tree last week. The Archibald I used to know would be excited about that.

It’s not even December yet!

The Archibald I used to know wouldn’t care about that.

That Archibald’s gone.

Okay, you need to get out! And I don’t mean out on the roof! You don’t go anywhere besides school. You’re so weird. Don’t get me wrong; you were already weird before. But since you came back, wow, what a weirdo you’ve become! It’s been a year almost. Time to move on, Arch.

"Good idea! You move on—go away," he says, lying on his back, nibbling on a candy bar he’s just fished out of his pocket.

Go away? That’s what I get? she seethes. Need I remind you I’m the one who brought you back from wherever it was you were.

Yes, you can remind me, like you do pretty much every day.

You know, I never told Mum and Dad about the globe and all that. But maybe I will, if you don’t tell me where you were. Don’t you think I deserve answers?

"You deserve answers? Here we go again. Not everything is about you, Hailee!"

You’re so unfair. Can you at least tell me what caused this? she asks, pointing at a long streak of broken roof tiles. Was it lightning or not?

No idea.

Fine, don’t tell me anything. I don’t care, she says, slamming the window shut.

You wouldn’t believe me anyway, Archibald says under his breath.

One more sigh and he climbs back up to the roof ridge, where he crouches down frog-like, taking in the vast grounds of the property, his gaze lingering over a patch of woods at the back of the house.

Description: Fire

The next morning, Hailee is sitting at the kitchen table, apparently unfazed by what she witnessed in the middle of the night.

Have you seen Archie? No school doesn’t mean no breakfast, says her mom, Kate, as she flips eggs in a pan.

Nope, says Hailee, more interested in the video playing on her phone. She leans it against a cereal box while she pours some maple syrup on a blueberry scone. Eventually, the amber-colored nectar not only covers the whole biscuit but begins to overflow onto the table.

Hailee, pay attention! yells Kate. No phone at the table. How many times do I have to tell you? But Hailee’s attention is elsewhere. From the corner of her eye, through one of the fogged-up windows, she’s just seen her brother vanish into the woods on the south side of the property. And not just any woods—the half woods, which no one in the family has ever dared enter before.

He’s lost his mind, murmurs Hailee, thinking this time she will never see him again.

Two minutes later, she is outside, bundled up in a down jacket over her pajamas, rain boots up to her knees, standing at the edge of the lawn—the boundary separating civilization from wilderness and sure death, as she used to say to frighten Archibald. Now she’s the one quivering in fear.

Why the half woods? she whispers. Why did he have to go in here? Why not the cute little grove with the doves in the front?

Before her rises the most uneven line of trees, some small, some tall, but all twisted in similar painful contortions, looking diseased or sickened. Hard to tell what kind they are. None of them bears any leaves, not because they were stripped bare by winter, just because they never grow any, even though their branches continue to expand—proof, if need be, that the trees are somehow alive. And, indeed, proof is needed!

Arch! Hailee shouts, getting no answer. I hate him, she mutters, calling his name three more times, until a cry echoes from deep within the half woods.

Come on! shouts Archibald.

I hate him so much, she repeats, drawing a deep breath and mustering all the strength she possibly can.

Hailee finally abandons the safety of the lawn for the unknown, cringing and with one eye closed, perhaps to suffer only half the horrible death surely awaiting her.

What is he playing at? she fumes as she advances through the mangled limbs, guided by her brother’s voice. Over here! he repeats every ten seconds, each time from a different direction, it seems.

Crawling through waves of tortured branches protruding from all sides and out to strangle her, at last Hailee glimpses the end of this ordeal, seeing the circular glade ahead as a lifesaving island.

Archibald is waiting for her at the center of that well of light, standing next to a small wooden shed capped with a tin roof. Spread all around on the bare ground lay dozens of broken clay pots, which Hailee tries to avoid by walking like a crane, with abnormally high, long strides.

You know, I get that you’re mad, frustrated, or whatever your problem is, but can’t you just go on a rant online like everyone else?

I don’t go online, he says.

At least you have some shoes on; that’s progress, she jokes nervously.

Though still dressed in the same soiled outfit as last night, Archibald is indeed wearing his sneakers.

How did you know this was here? she asks.

I didn’t. I just saw Bartholomeo enter the half woods several times. That’s when I followed him everywhere to get the globe key. Everywhere, except in here. I was too afraid back then, he says.

Was he running on his way here?

Why?

I don’t know; this thing kind of looks like an outhouse, she says, motioning toward the shed.

It’s not, he chuckles.

What is this place? she wonders, inspecting the inside of the shack, full of gardening tools.

Not sure. It’s like he was trying to grow stuff, answers Archibald, examining some dead-looking branches sticking out of the rare unbroken pots.

I guess he didn’t have a green thumb, sneers Hailee.

Maybe this is just where he came to chop up little kids! jokes Archibald, causing his sister’s stomach to turn as she eyes a hanging shovel, saw, and ax in a whole different light.

Please don’t make this creepier than it is. I don’t think that was part of his job as a butler.

Just kidding. I miss that gangly creep, he admits. I still can’t believe he died.

The night you left! Weird coincidence.

Probably not a coincidence, says Archibald, looking up at the sky.

What’s going on with you? asks Hailee.

Nothing.

Nothing? Arch, you used to be the biggest wimp. Now look at you, going through these haunted woods like it’s a ride at the fair. Wait, no—what am I saying? You were afraid of most rides at the fair!

It’s really no big deal.

My point exactly! You talk back to that bully Tanner at school, you climb the roof at night, you pet that gorgolio thing like it’s your best friend, when before just a look at it would have you hiding under your bed!

It’s a gargoyle, corrects Archibald.

Whatever, I don’t need to know! I just want to understand what happened and help you, maybe.

People change—that’s all, he mumbles.

Arch, you were gone for two weeks! I went to Paris for two weeks a few years ago, and I didn’t change this much. I just came back with a few funny words and a broken heart.

Depends on where you go, I guess, he says in a cryptic tone.

Okay, so tell me, then: where did you go? You refused to tell Mum and Dad. You refused to talk to the police. Please, tell me.

I tried telling you, remember? You didn’t believe me.

I mean, seriously. Another . . . dimension? A world where the night never ends? With monsters everywhere? If you’d said a different planet, I’d have believed you, maybe, but all that nonsense? Please.

That’s what I mean. It’s pointless, he says, heading back toward the house.

Hey, you can’t leave me here by myself! yells Hailee, tagging along.

Description: R

As they exit the half woods, Hailee and Archibald can hear a pair of voices coming from the driveway, with a strong accent they can’t place. Soon, another voice gets mixed in—more familiar, that one. It’s their father, Stuart, going about the grounds with two stocky men in gray overalls, with identical eggheads and very similar chinless (neckless, in fact), potbellied profiles. No doubt, these two are the Popescu Brothers: Master Builders, as trumpets the sign on the side of their truck parked by the fountain.

As I explained on the phone, the first thing I’d like you to look at is the roof. We already have a couple leaks, and with the big rains coming up, I’m a bit worried, Stuart tells them, giving a quick wave to his kids. We also have some floors that need fixing and walls that need painting. But that up there, that’s the priority.

One of the Popescu brothers gazes up at the roofline while the other kicks pieces of broken tile on the ground, each scratching the barren oval of his head.

What happened—tornado? asks the one looking up.

Maybe! We’re not too sure, really. It’s been almost a year now.

Strigoï! yells the other Popescu suddenly.

I’m sorry, what? asks Stuart.

About twenty feet away from the house, the worker has kneeled on the grass, right by Bartholomeo’s rhododendron hedges. Stuart approaches, discovering a small crater gouged in the ground. Together with the tile debris, a trail of deep prints leading away from that hole tells a rather disturbing story.

Something crashed down here—something that was on the roof and still managed to get away, whispers Stuart. And whatever it was, it was enormous.

Holy bejabbles! mutters Archibald, who comes closer with Hailee in tow.

Kate arrives as well, wondering what has everyone so captivated.

Come on! Let’s go in, please; you don’t want to catch a cold, she says.

Stuart squats to examine the prints partially covered with grass. The overgrowth has made them a bit less visible but no less mystifying.

Wait! These are human hands! Horribly deformed and exceptionally huge, but still human, he says, placing his own hand inside one of the imprints in the dirt, at least twice as large.

That’s impossible! Only a giant could have hands that big, says Kate, borrowing from one of her son’s fantasies.

Massive handprints, but no footprints. It makes no sense, says Stuart. But look at these, he adds, following

even larger tracks. "These belong to an animal,

something at least as massive."

Strigoï, repeats one of the Popescus.

Stuart’s face strains to understand.

A spirit rising from grave and turn into animal, Strigoï we call that in Romania, explains the other Popescu brother.

No, I don’t think we have those around here, says Stuart. They don’t like our climate much, he adds, trying to make light of the comment while struggling not to look worried.

I know it sounds like rubbing a wooden leg, but I’m not trying to sell you doughnuts, I swear, says Popescu brother number one.

Huh? Again, Stuart is at a loss.

Brother number two translates: He says he knows it doesn’t make sense, but he’s not lying to you. He’s seen this before.

Kate prefers not to think about that Strigoï creature.

Okay, now let’s go inside. There’re quite a few other things I’d like to show you, she says, pushing her husband and the Popescus toward the house. Archibald’s eyes blink in bewilderment. Though he is speechless, his head is swirling with theories—among them, the same hunch he had the night of his return.

Hailee comes close.

Now you’ve got to tell me, she says.

Description: Witch

The Popescu brothers might be master builders, but right now they are master inspectors too. It seems that no broken tile, no chipped enamel, no cracked floorboard shall be spared their thorough sweep of the house, making it impossible for Hailee and Archibald to find a quiet place to talk. With options dwindling, especially since it’s begun to pour outside, Hailee drags her brother to the kitchen pantry—the only room in the manor that still gives Archibald the heebie-jeebies.

With no window, floor-to-ceiling walls of stinking vegetables on three sides, and two of those walls only ten inches away from his shoulders, this, to Archibald, may as well be the bottom of a well—especially since Hailee is blocking the exit. That tingling he thought was gone forever returns to his legs and slowly rises up his spine.

So, begins his captor, the broken tiles on the roof . . . it wasn’t lightning, was it?

Archibald shakes his head nervously, grimacing at the crate of leeks and cabbage on his left.

What was it, then?

Remember those monsters I told you about? he says, now blinking anxiously at a basket of carrots and squash he’s just spotted to his right.

Hailee blows out an exasperated sigh.

Arch, I think the sugar from all those candy bars got to your brain. Please, I’m serious. Not monsters, not again! Don’t you think you’re a little old for that kind of—

Listen! he snaps, forgetting all about his tormenting surroundings. "You saw the footprints in the mud. That noise on the roof the night I came back, it was a monster. The world I was thrown into through that globe, it is full of them—Marodors, they’re called. The weirdest creatures, Hailee, and I mean weird."

Like Grandpa weird? she jokes, still not taking him seriously.

Weirder—dragons, for the most part.

Hailee stops chuckling.

Yes, as in spitfire dragons, he continues. But not your usual dragons. These ones are made of all sorts of animals, insects, plants, and . . . human parts.

Hailee’s eyes and mouth round into O’s—capital O’s.

Beasts like you’ve never seen before, Hailee, not in your scariest nightmares, not even in movies. And now we’ve got one right here, in London!

You’re not kidding, she stammers.

He shakes his head again.

How’s that possible?

It was right behind me when I got swept back up here. It must’ve gotten caught in the light field—the beam from the globe—it’ll take anything within a ten-foot radius. Instead of landing in the bedroom with me, the Marodor landed here on the roof. I’m sure of it now.

The police will catch it.

No, they won’t, smiles Archibald. No one can catch it. No one from here, at least.

What do you mean ‘no one from here’?

I’ve got to go back to Lemurea.

Where?

That’s where I was. That’s the world I was in.

Are you crazy? If what you told me is true, you can’t go back there!

We need help. And the people who can help us are in Lemurea. But right now, I need to get out of here or I’m going to throw up!

Before Hailee can speak another word, Archibald pushes past her, enjoying a deep breath of onion-and-garlic-free air once out of that cramped and ghastly closet. She follows him all the way to his bedroom, still not convinced by his grand plan.

You can’t go; it’s too risky, she says, her voice low.

You don’t understand—we don’t have a choice, he replies, rummaging through his dresser.

What if something goes wrong? What if you don’t land where you’re supposed to?

The dents in the globe, they help you pick your destination . . . roughly.

That’s what those are for!

Yes, and I know exactly where I need to go—Belifendor.

What’s that?

No time to explain, he says, pulling out his Lemurean outfit and tossing the linen tunic and pants onto his bed.

What are you doing?

I can’t just show up in jeans and T-shirt. I’ve got to blend in. I’m not really . . . welcome there.

This is crazy!

I need to be discreet, adds Archibald, grabbing his wooden helmet from a shelf near his desk.

"That is not discreet, blurts Hailee. And what’s that fish?" she asks, nodding at the symbol on his helmet.

That’s no fish; it’s a rune. It’s called Hesperialis, very meaningful stuff, he says, running his finger across the curious symbol.

What do you think Mum and Dad will think when they see you dressed like this, like a . . . Viking from the Renaissance?

"There were no Vikings during the Renaissance, Hailee.

We’re talking Middle Ages, here. Darker stuff!"

You know what I mean!

Anyway, no need to worry about Mum and Dad, ’cause I’m leaving right now.

What?! she shrieks.

Be quiet! Yes, I’m going—today.

You can’t. I won’t let you.

Really? And how will you stop me?

You’re right: maybe I don’t know much about Vikings. But I know one thing: you need me, to bring you back. And what if I won’t? What if I leave you there? It’s not like you’ve been very nice to me lately, says Hailee, heading to the door.

All right, all right, you win—I need you, admits Archibald.

So we do this my way, she says, wheeling around.

Which is?

Not today. We’ve got to wait until Mum and Dad are away—tomorrow, after school. They’re supposed to visit Grandpa for some kind of surprise. We do it then.

Fine, I’ll wait until tomorrow, grumbles Archibald.

And I’ll tell Oliver. I want him here with me, for moral support.

I’m not sure about that; we don’t even know the guy.

I know him.

Whatever that means, he sneers.

If I can remind you, he helped me get you back here, and—

Yeah, yeah, go ahead, remind me, again, he says, annoyed.

One last thing. We can’t do it in here, says Hailee.

Why not? That’s where I was the first time!

Exactly. This room’s been fried more times than Mum’s fish and chips, she says, gesturing toward the black branch-like scars on the floor and the walls. "The Popescu brothers have enough work as it is, and I can’t wait for those guys to be done. Besides, Mum and Dad would really want answers this time. They’d ground you for weeks again. And more importantly, they’d probably ground me too."

Where, then?

I have an idea, says Hailee with a smirk.

Description: B

Who would have thought that the half woods would become such a hip hangout? Not that Hailee isn’t scared of this lifeless place any longer, but now she’s leading the way, followed by her friend Oliver, as well as Archibald, who is dressed in his medieval outfit and carrying the magic globe.

So, Oliver, you’ve got an antique shop? Hailee told me.

My dad does, yeah.

Must be fun!

Depends on the clients, smiles Oliver. Hailee turns around to smile back.

By the way, says Archibald, I never got to thank you for helping my sister. And bringing me back.

Yeah, it’s not like we had much time to talk that night, with your parents showing up and all. I figured it was best for me to bounce.

Still, thank you.

Yeah, of course. Hey, this place is pretty creepy, huh? says Oliver, looking up at the unusually twisted trunks and branches.

Welcome to the half woods! Wait until you see the shed, says Hailee.

Half-star resort right ahead, jokes Archibald.

Oliver doesn’t really look that spooked when they reach the clearing.

Perfect spot to go up in flames and die, he jokes.

Well . . . I hope we don’t set the whole woods on fire, says Archibald.

You’re kidding, right? says Hailee, all shaky.

Yeah, this thing’s reliable, all right, he says, patting the Orbatrum. A five-hundred-year-old relic with a storm inside, coughing up smoke once in a while and shooting lightning—what’s there to fear?

"At least it was made in