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

would have shocked John Gregory.
    He had always kept his distance from the creature.
    But I acted from pure instinct.
    I knelt down beside that cat-boggart and gently placed my hand upon its head. I could feel its fur, but the body was not warm like that of an animal. It was ice cold.
    Then, very slowly, I stroked it from its head to the tip of its long tail.
    In response, the boggart stopped purring and became very still.
    Unable to help myself, one part of me watching in astonishment at what I was risking, I repeated the action. Once more I stroked it from head to tail.
    This time the boggart gave a hiss; as I stroked it for the third time, I realized that its fur was standing up on end, its back arched.
    What a fool I’d been. What had come over me? What madness had driven me to do such a thing? I remembered how irascible the boggart could be. On my first morning in the Spook’s house, I’d come down to breakfast too early and had soon received a blow to the back of the head. My master had warned me that it could have been worse.
    What would happen now? I needed the creature on my side.
    Gradually the boggart began to glow in the darkness until I could see it clearly. A livid scar ran across its left eye: It had been blinded defending us against a demonic entity called the Bane. Its remaining eye was a vortex of orange fire.
    Now it seemed to be growing larger. My sense of danger grew too. Salt and iron could be effective against such entities, but I had none in my pockets. I had left everything in my bag back in Chipenden. I had been pursuing witches, and my chosen weapons had been staff, sword, and dagger.
    Suddenly the boggart struck me a terrible blow, and I fell backward. I was stunned, barely conscious, in pain. It was as if a shock wave had passed straight through me.
    I was lying on my right side, my left hand stretched out in front of me. I sensed the boggart looming over me. Now it seemed much larger than I was.
    Then it struck my left hand. I felt its claws rake my skin. Pain seared into the flesh, running up my arm and into my chest; I feared my heart would stop.
    I was rigid with agony. My hand had surely been mangled, the flesh torn, the bones crushed. But I saw in the light of the moon that it was intact, but for a single scratch running across from my little finger to the base of my thumb. As I watched, dark blood welled up from the wound and began to trickle down toward my wrist.
    Why had the boggart turned on me? How could I ever hope to understand the motives of such an alien entity? It seemed likely that this was a reaction to my audacity in stroking it—though its response could have been much worse. My hand was still connected to my arm. Perhaps our pact had survived my recklessness?
    Suddenly I felt the boggart’s huge, rough tongue begin to lick the blood from my hand. As it lapped, the pain receded from my body; I closed my eyes and fell into darkness.
    I was dragged back to consciousness by a deep rumbling vibration that seemed to shake the ground beneath me. I was lying on my back, and there was a cold, heavy weight across my lower legs.
    I sat up very slowly and saw in the bright moonlight that the boggart had laid its huge head and paws across my body. The rumbling was its purr—a sound that in a normal cat indicated contentment. For a long time I didn’t dare move my legs, even though I was cramped; any movement that disturbed the boggart’s comfort might result in another violent reaction.
    At last I could stand it no longer. I moved my legs very slightly. Immediately the weight vanished and the boggart disappeared. I came to my feet and took a deep breath. Had it returned to Chipenden? I wondered. Had it abandoned me?
    But then I heard a voice, harsh and sibilant, right inside my head.
    I thirst! it hissed insistently. The rabbits welcomed me, thank you, but were just morsels. Now I need to quench my thirst with human blood. I kept my promise and answered your