Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) by Joseph Delaney

could not have gone ahead until a certain time of year; the witches too would have to wait to perform their own ceremony.
    Mab was right, after all.
    They would have to wait for Halloween!
    Circling the tower, I returned to my original position. Now I was free to choose the moment when I would attack.
    I was hungry and went to check my snares. I had set four, and all of them held rabbits. I retreated to my previous spot, out of sight of the tower, and lit a fire. I abandoned my resolve to follow my master’s advice and just eat cheese before facing the dark. My plans would require energy and physical strength. So I cooked and ate one of the rabbits.
    The moon was rising in the east, sending shafts of silver light down through the trees. The moment was right. I summoned the boggart.
    First I just whispered his name: “ Kratch!”
    The air had been very still, but as I spoke, I heard a faint rustle. A breeze was stirring the fallen leaves. I called the name again—but this time much louder.
    â€œ Kratch! ”
    Now the wind was whipping the branches, gaining in power. The last of the crisp autumn leaves fell to join the soggy brown mounds beneath the trees.
    The third time, I shouted the name of the boggart at the top of my voice like a priest calling out to the faithful. I cared nothing for the fact that it might be heard in the tower. Now it was my enemies who would be afraid. My voice resonated through the air so that it seemed to ring like a great bell.
    â€œ KRATCH! ”
    In response, the wind surged in from the west, howling like a banshee and almost throwing me off my feet. I staggered back and covered my eyes with my arm to protect my face from the fragments of wood, mud, and stones that hurtled between the trees.
    And then the gale dropped to nothing. There was silence, the air absolutely still.
    Had the boggart responded? I wondered. Was it here?
    The silence continued. I held my breath, listening hard.
    Still there was nothing.
    My heart began to sink into my boots. Had my summons failed?
    But then I heard it: the very lightest of treads. Something was approaching from the west, moving very stealthily toward me.
    I picked up one of the rabbits and cast it high in the air in the direction the sound was coming from.
    I heard the low thud of the carcass hitting the ground. Then came a wet rending noise, as if flesh were being torn apart, followed by the crunch of bones being crushed by powerful jaws.
    I heard footsteps approaching me again, louder now.
    Pad! Pad! Pad!
    Then I heard the swish of a big tail.
    I tossed over the second dead rabbit. It was devoured even more quickly.
    Again those heavy padding feet, coming toward where I waited—the approach of a confident and deadly creature that didn’t need to tread softly. Now only one rabbit remained, and that too I threw.
    Why had I given the rabbits to the boggart?
    Its reward for answering my summons would be the blood of my enemies, but the rabbits were a first offering to mark our first meeting under the new pact. I had also acted out of fear. I was afraid that the boggart might turn on me. This could well be the final approach of a predator stalking its prey, the moment before it sprang. Perhaps I was the next thing on the menu.
    I was scared, and my knees shook violently because we were no longer in the Spook’s house or garden. The old pact had endured for many years, made safe by custom and repetition. Now we were out in the open; this was a new and dangerous beginning.
    I was truly afraid.
    All at once I heard a deep purring and felt a furry animal rubbing against my legs. At this moment, the boggart felt no bigger than a normal cat. This was the shape it assumed when carrying out its agreed domestic duties. Perhaps this was what suddenly made me feel brave. . . .
    I should probably have just spoken to the boggart, telling it what I intended. Instead, without thinking, I did something very dangerous—something that