High noon at Cato Pass, dust billowing from horse hooves and stalled stagecoach wheels. No wind to blow it down the valley, out of the lungs of the passengers or the outlaws.
Ty herded the travelers against the sheer red walls of the canyon. The driver, his guard, and an elderly woman and her
Good things come in threes, except for when they’re witches. In Miriel Takkenridge’s case, the three people who approached her booth were two witches and one warlock. They stepped across the plain of the pie-judging contest, not with wands ready for battle but with forks prepared for sampling.
Miriel swept back a white lock
A school is as good a place as any to hide from an interdimensional bounty hunter.
I sprinted down one side of a crumbling hallway while Zeke took the other, looking for somewhere secluded to try to fix the transporter.
Zeke’s dimension had been a lot like this one—similar to mine
Ethel Grieves did not do dresses, yet here she was, in a dress. A ballgown, no less. It was midnight blue which paired beautifully with her elbow-length black gloves. She refused to wear pointed high heels like the other ladies, instead sticking with her regular black boots. The left one, a special gift
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I was five the first time we went camping with the rest of my scout troop. I had lots of friends back then, the kind who didn’t really care about my past or how weird I was. Whenever we went on hikes, we would pretend to be trees together. I remember looking for frogs
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“It’s your move.” Ethel adjusted her marble seat closer to the oak table. This daily gameplay in King Horchester’s park kept his guards from being suspicious of her and me.
Ethel was a strange companion, a complete enigma. Under her cloak, she garbed herself in a tight blouse, vest, and black breeches that little
Of course, Ethel would have a lockpick in the heel of her shoe. And, of course, she would use it to pick the lock of the metallic box she had found under a panel in her parent’s closet. What would you expect from a Grieves?
People on the street only whispered “Grieves,” as if
“Middon, report,” Chief Commander Phezznibbet Maplebark ordered his second in command. He adjusted his bandolier of knives, the leather strap rubbing his fur the wrong way as the fellow Xintixa saluted him. “At ease. What’s the news?”
“The Xintixling and her mother are being surrounded by the Bittlian in the western quadrant of the
My heart pounds against my ribs. I am oddly aware of the blood laboring through my veins. My head feels like it’s floating, not actually attached to my body.
I’ve been poisoned. I can only seem to fill my lungs halfway. My limbs don’t respond when I try to move them. Voices slowly seep
The inn had the pulsing, frenetic ambience of an auction house. Wall clocks and mantel clocks began crying like babies as they one by one struck 11:24.
Phezz groaned. Another excruciating morning. “I can’t hear myself think!”
“You could always leave,” the late Lord Pompington said. “Leave my inn!” His wispy form didn’t match
“Mama?” a scared, little voice called.
Phezznibbet Maplebark’s ears twitched, his paw closing around the bottom knife in his bandolier. He poked his head around the slimy dumpster that hid him. At the front of the alleyway stood a figure not much smaller than himself. It didn’t appear threatening, so he took a few
“If Ashe wanted to convince him, she would have to face him alone.”
The Narrator in her head, her “magic,” spoke. The voice narrated events around her periodically, granting her insights she had no right to possess. She hesitated outside the entrance to Canopy’s sole tree-top lodge, The Maplebark Inn. Its owner would complete
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