“Sabrina, your arm!” Daphne said, staring at the bleeding line.
“Forget it. We’ve got to find Mom and Dad,” Sabrina said. “Uncle Jake! Mom! Dad!” No one answered. Where was her family? Were they wounded? She started to panic. “Puck!” There was an odd tightening in her chest, and her skin broke out in a sweat. She used to get the same out-of-control feeling when she was around magic, but she forced herself to concentrate. Her army needed her.
She and Daphne ran through the camp, which was deserted and on fire. Footprints led them up a hill and down a steep embankment, but still they found no signs of life. In the distance she could hear more screaming, and when she looked to the ground—blood! They followed its trail through a patch of trees until they were face-to-face with Atticus. Next to him were two enormous trolls, standing nearly eight feet tall and packed tight with muscles. They were terrifying creatures, but not nearly as fearsome as Atticus’s smile.
“So you are the little ones causing all the trouble,” Atticus said. He raised his sword and slashed at them. They managed to leap out of the way just in time, but Sabrina stumbled on a stone and fell. While she scampered to her feet, Atticus stalked her. “You know, whatever that is in your grandmother isn’t happy. You should hear it screaming and shouting. It even rambles on when the body is asleep.”
“Sorry for the inconvenience, but it wasn’t my idea for Mirror to steal my grandmother’s body.”
Atticus laughed, then turned to the trolls. “Get to work, boys. We don’t have all day.”
The trolls grunted and lumbered into the woods, sending a flock of frightened crows flying into the sky.
Facing Atticus without his monsters didn’t make Sabrina feel any less confident. She found a long branch and scooped it up, remembering what Snow had taught her about the bo-staff. This one was similar in weight and length. She spun it around with all her strength, then hit Atticus in the side of the head.
He fell over cursing and shouting threats, then staggered onto his knees, and Sabrina hit him over the back of the neck.
“I thought this suit of armor made him indefensible,” Sabrina said.
“Maybe that only counts for parts that the suit covers,” Daphne said.
Sabrina brought the branch high over her head and aimed it at the villain’s skull for a second blow, but as it came down he caught it in his hand. Wrenching it from her grasp, he leaped to his feet and with a ferocity and anger she did not expect, he kicked her hard in the belly. She slammed back against a tree, and was pinned there by the heel of his boot.
“Let her go,” Daphne said. Sabrina turned her head to see the little girl standing next to the tree. Elvis stood by her side, growling.
Atticus laughed. “Shoo, fly.”
Daphne reached into her pocket and took out the fairy godmother wand. She shook it in her hand and with a flick, sent a blast of magic at the man. Both she and Atticus were enveloped in purple smoke.
“What are you doing?” Sabrina shouted to her sister.
“Changing his outfit. If we get him out of that armor, we can beat him,” Daphne cried through the fog, but when it drifted away, Atticus was still wearing his magical armor. He looked down and laughed.
“Child, you amuse me. After I gut your sister, you will be next and for a laugh I will make it quick,” he said.
“Hmmm, I suppose I need to go with plan B,” Daphne said.
Elvis leaped forward and chomped down on Atticus’s groin, where he had no armor to protect him. He fell over into the leaves, moaning. While he lay there, Daphne snatched Sabrina’s hand and they, along with Elvis, ran.
Once beyond the clearing, they darted into the woods shouting for their mother and father, but they heard nothing in response. Eventually, they stumbled upon Puck, who looked as panicked as they had ever seen him.
Puck raced into the clearing. “Come quick! It’s Gepetto.”
The girls followed him into the woods. They found Pinocchio leaning over his father. The old man wasn’t breathing. He had a ragged wound on his chest, probably created by Atticus’s sword. His face was calm and his eyes closed. Pinocchio held his hand and wept.
“Papa?” he cried, as if the old man were merely sleeping. “Papa, please be OK.”
But he wasn’t.
ctober 23
It seems as if every time I open this journal I have to write down another death. I hate these pages. I hate this pen. This is not supposed to be a record of the people who have died because of me. I want to throw this book into the woods, maybe bury it deep in the ground where no one will ever find it, but I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I have to help dig graves.