Jinx's Magic by Sage Blackwood Page A

She was older now—almost grown up. And she looked completely there, although Jinx knew she was not. She reached toward a tree branch that hung over the path—and the branch bowed down and touched her outstretched hand.
    What the—?
    Listeners, said the trees. Listener .
    You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy, said Jinx shortly, and walked on.
    The trees murmured to themselves. The Listener isn’t listening .
    Â 
    It was the shortest day of the year—and Jinx’s thirteenth birthday. What a way to spend a birthday. He was cold, hungry, and practically a murderer. Things could hardly get worse.
    Of course they could.
    Jinx heard clawed feet scrabbling along the path behind him. He wheeled around to see a wolf charging him. Suddenly it reared up on its hind legs and grinned at him—a werewolf. Jinx could see handlike paws, surprisingly intelligent golden eyes, and . . . fangs. Jinx clutched his knife.
    â€œTruce of the Path,” said the werewolf.
    Jinx took his hand off his knife, reluctantly. Simon had told him never to trust to the Truce unless he had to. He wished he couldn’t see the werewolf’s hunger. It was only slightly reassuring that this werewolf was wearing spectacles.
    The werewolf held out a hand. “I’m Malthus.”
    Swallowing hard, Jinx took the werewolf’s hand and shook it. Almost-human fingers stuck out of matted fur and ended in broken yellow claws. Jinx managed to suppress a shudder as the talons slid over his skin.
    â€œJinx. Uh, nice to meet you,” Jinx lied.
    â€œI’ve been watching you for some time,” said Malthus.
    This is not exactly the most reassuring thing to hear when you’re many miles from home and alone on the Path.
    â€œWhy?” said Jinx.
    â€œReasons of my own,” said Malthus. “Shall we walk on?”
    They walked on.
    â€œDo you know you’re a Listener?” said the werewolf.
    â€œOf course,” said Jinx.
    Malthus tapped a claw against his lower lip, a thinking kind of gesture. “But you don’t know what it means.”
    Jinx started to say that he did, too, but decided arguing with a werewolf wasn’t a great idea. He shrugged.
    â€œIf you want to survive,” said Malthus, “you’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. The Urwald can’t wait much longer, you know.”
    â€œI have a pretty good idea what Listener means, thanks. What do you mean by the Urwald?” It was a question that had been troubling Jinx lately.
    â€œUs,” said the werewolf promptly.
    â€œUs—?”
    â€œWerewolves.”
    â€œI see,” said Jinx. The trees had told him that the Urwald meant the forest and all the Restless—but when it came down to it, they mostly seemed to think it meant the trees.
    â€œAnd the trees and various other creatures,” Malthus added.
    â€œI think I may be hallucinating you,” said Jinx. “I’m really hungry.”
    â€œDo not mention hunger, please,” said the werewolf. “I am expending considerable effort on not eating you. Do you ever wonder what we gain by keeping the Truce?”
    Jinx started to say that everybody gained the use of the Path, but Malthus probably meant what werewolves gained, and you hardly ever saw werewolves on paths. In fact, Jinx had never seen one on a path before. In fact—
    â€œI’ve seen you before,” said Jinx. “You had a notebook.”
    A blue blop of pleased surprise from Malthus. “You remember that.”
    â€œAnd there was someone else there.” The memory was like a dream trying to slip away as he woke. “Elves. Two elves.”
    â€œThey cast a spell to make you forget,” said the werewolf. “Do you remember anything else?”
    â€œNo.” It was frustrating, because the memory seemed impossibly distant, and yet he had a feeling it hadn’t happened all that long ago.
    â€œYou overcame an