ends meet between books.”
At least a dozen questions raced through my mind. I wanted to ask Mr. Goodwin about the ghostly dog, about the Bleeding Rock, and about Maddie Someday. But I didn’t want to seem like a gushing fanboy, so I kept the questions to myself... for now.
“Well,” Mr. Goodwin said, “I’ll let you peruse the book. I’ve got work of my own to continue. Working on a new masterpiece myself. If you need anything else, just give a yell.”
With that, the librarian turned and weaved through the canyon of books, returning to the privacy of his desk.
I didn’t see any tables or chairs nearby, so I plopped down on top of a short stack of books and started to read. Mr. Goodwin may not have been much of a librarian, but he could certainly tell a good story. The book drew me in, and I spent the next hour or so reading about spook lights and mysterious screams in the dead of night and undead things haunting deserted barns like mausoleums. I didn’t find anything about ghostly dogs, although I found an entry on “fetches and familiars” which froze my heart as solid as an ice cube in the middle of winter.
According to the book, witches summoned spirits in the form of animals—usually cats, bats, or rats, but sometimes birds or goats or even dogs—to do their bidding. Much smarter than the average beast, fetches performed all sorts of tasks—guarding lairs, searching for potion ingredients, even murder.
What if the dog isn’t a ghost at all? I thought. What if it’s a fetch working for a witch?
Maybe even Maddie Someday.
You could recognize a fetch by the brand on its body, a mark burned into its fur and skin branding it as the property of a witch. Once marked, a fetch served the witch until one—or both—died.
I closed the book. I needed to know a little more about fetches, and I figured Mr. Goodwin was the perfect person to ask. Tucking the book under my arm, I went to find the author.
Before I could find Mr. Goodwin, though, Marty jumped out from around a corner. He startled me so badly, I almost dropped the book. His face was flushed, his hair matted to his forehead.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said. “Come on.”
I put the book down and followed him.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s the idea?”
He shushed me. Standing at a window in the front room, he pointed across the street.
“Take a look.”
A black Firebird was parked next to the sidewalk, just in front of an ice cream and soda shop. Two guys sat on the hood of the car. One was Greg Crewes, his arms crossed menacingly, a smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. The other looked to be a couple of years younger, but also a little bigger and meaner. I guessed he was Greg’s brother, Hatch. He drummed his fingers on the hood in time with unheard music. Light glinted on the intersecting jigsaw pattern of the cracked rear windshield and smashed mirror.
“You think they know we’re here?” I asked.
“They look like they’re waiting for someone, don’t they?” Marty looked around. “Think there’s a back door to this place?”
Not a bad idea—
A customer stepped out of the ice cream parlor, and the Crewes boys jumped to their feet.
Of course, I recognized their prey.
Alex.
“Oh, brother,” I muttered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALEX WAS TOO BUSY CONCENTRATING on a double-scoop ice cream cone to notice the Crewes brothers closing in on him.
Greg Crewes stepped toward my little brother and barked something at him. Although I couldn’t hear him, I easily imagined what he was saying.
“Hey, kid! Come here!”
Alex snapped his head up and froze like a deer mesmerized by oncoming headlights. I’m surprised he didn’t drop his ice cream. He tilted his head back to look up at Greg and Hatch towering over him.
“We’ve got to get him out of there,” I said.
I hated the idea of facing the Crewes brothers—especially without Lisa’s trusty slingshot as backup. But I couldn’t just let my brother get pounded. If I
At least a dozen questions raced through my mind. I wanted to ask Mr. Goodwin about the ghostly dog, about the Bleeding Rock, and about Maddie Someday. But I didn’t want to seem like a gushing fanboy, so I kept the questions to myself... for now.
“Well,” Mr. Goodwin said, “I’ll let you peruse the book. I’ve got work of my own to continue. Working on a new masterpiece myself. If you need anything else, just give a yell.”
With that, the librarian turned and weaved through the canyon of books, returning to the privacy of his desk.
I didn’t see any tables or chairs nearby, so I plopped down on top of a short stack of books and started to read. Mr. Goodwin may not have been much of a librarian, but he could certainly tell a good story. The book drew me in, and I spent the next hour or so reading about spook lights and mysterious screams in the dead of night and undead things haunting deserted barns like mausoleums. I didn’t find anything about ghostly dogs, although I found an entry on “fetches and familiars” which froze my heart as solid as an ice cube in the middle of winter.
According to the book, witches summoned spirits in the form of animals—usually cats, bats, or rats, but sometimes birds or goats or even dogs—to do their bidding. Much smarter than the average beast, fetches performed all sorts of tasks—guarding lairs, searching for potion ingredients, even murder.
What if the dog isn’t a ghost at all? I thought. What if it’s a fetch working for a witch?
Maybe even Maddie Someday.
You could recognize a fetch by the brand on its body, a mark burned into its fur and skin branding it as the property of a witch. Once marked, a fetch served the witch until one—or both—died.
I closed the book. I needed to know a little more about fetches, and I figured Mr. Goodwin was the perfect person to ask. Tucking the book under my arm, I went to find the author.
Before I could find Mr. Goodwin, though, Marty jumped out from around a corner. He startled me so badly, I almost dropped the book. His face was flushed, his hair matted to his forehead.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said. “Come on.”
I put the book down and followed him.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s the idea?”
He shushed me. Standing at a window in the front room, he pointed across the street.
“Take a look.”
A black Firebird was parked next to the sidewalk, just in front of an ice cream and soda shop. Two guys sat on the hood of the car. One was Greg Crewes, his arms crossed menacingly, a smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. The other looked to be a couple of years younger, but also a little bigger and meaner. I guessed he was Greg’s brother, Hatch. He drummed his fingers on the hood in time with unheard music. Light glinted on the intersecting jigsaw pattern of the cracked rear windshield and smashed mirror.
“You think they know we’re here?” I asked.
“They look like they’re waiting for someone, don’t they?” Marty looked around. “Think there’s a back door to this place?”
Not a bad idea—
A customer stepped out of the ice cream parlor, and the Crewes boys jumped to their feet.
Of course, I recognized their prey.
Alex.
“Oh, brother,” I muttered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALEX WAS TOO BUSY CONCENTRATING on a double-scoop ice cream cone to notice the Crewes brothers closing in on him.
Greg Crewes stepped toward my little brother and barked something at him. Although I couldn’t hear him, I easily imagined what he was saying.
“Hey, kid! Come here!”
Alex snapped his head up and froze like a deer mesmerized by oncoming headlights. I’m surprised he didn’t drop his ice cream. He tilted his head back to look up at Greg and Hatch towering over him.
“We’ve got to get him out of there,” I said.
I hated the idea of facing the Crewes brothers—especially without Lisa’s trusty slingshot as backup. But I couldn’t just let my brother get pounded. If I
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