The Sisters Grimm (Book Eight: The Inside Story)
Michael Buckley & Peter Ferguson
For two very good editors,
Susan Van Metre and Maggie Lehrman
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was the most difficult of the series to write, even with the considerable help of the geniuses who came long before me. First, thanks to Carlo Collodi’s masterpiece The Adventures of Pinocchio, and also to Sir Richard F. Burton’s translation of The Arabian Nights, L. Frank Baum’s Wonderful Wizard of Oz, as well as Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle Book, Washington Irving’s “Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The Annotated Brothers Grimm, edited and translated by Maria Tatar, was also essential to this writing. Unfortunately, there are tales I used whose authors have faded from our collective knowledge, but their spirits visited me and I thank them for their timeless stories.
I want to thank my editors, Susan Van Metre and Maggie Lehrman, for their incredible patience. Without their many, many, many extensions (and efforts to prevent my nervous breakdown), I would not have been able to finish. I also want to thank everyone at Abrams for their incredible support, including Michael Jacobs and Howard Reeves, the marketing and sales departments, and my publicists, Jason Wells, Mary Ann Zissimos, and Laura Mihalick. Much thanks to Chad Beckerman for his amazing vision and talent.
There is also my agent and wife, the amazing, talented, and beautiful Alison Fargis of the Stonesong Press; my good friend Joe Deasy, who reads and rereads these books; my family; my good friend Josh Drisko, who keeps me laughing at myself; and Mary Brown, Jessie Harper, and Erica Alicea at Starbucks #11807 on Smith Street in Brooklyn.
But above all, thanks to my son, Finn, who inspires a million stories with every smile.
THE SISTERS GRIMM
BOOK EIGHT
THE INSIDE STORY
THE FIRST EXPLOSION sent Sabrina flailing backward to the floor of the ancient tomb. Her head slammed against the stone and her sneakers were blasted off her feet. Before she could stand up, there was a second explosion. The noise rattled her eardrums and a blast of wind scorched her face, neck, and hands. But the third explosion was the one that really frightened her. It split columns in two and churned the ground like a pot of boiling water. Fissures formed, allowing skin-searing steam to escape from deep below. Along with it came an unearthly concoction of lights and sounds and colors. It wasn’t a mist or a fog—it was alive, made from something old and angry. It spun into a whirlwind and surrounded Sabrina’s ragtag crowd of would-be heroes.
“This is not good!” Daphne shouted over the din. “We have to stop it.”
“Be my guest!”Sabrina cried. “If you haven’t noticed, I don’t have any magical powers. I’m not an Everafter. I’m just a girl from New York City.”
Sabrina searched her mind for an idea, a notion, a plan—but there was nothing. Why was she drawing a blank? This wasn’t her first end-of-the-world scenario. She had always managed to find a solution before. Where were all her brilliant ideas when she needed them?
There was a fourth and final explosion, and something inside the odd swirling gases began to pulsate. A loud, pounding rhythm, not unlike a heartbeat, filled Sabrina’s ears. The light and sound and color formed into a single being with eyes like a bottomless pit and a smile that chilled her bones.
It was too late. He had his freedom and Sabrina could feel the world trembling.
THREE DAYS EARLIER
(OR HALF AN HOUR . . . IT’S ALL IN HOW YOU LOOK AT IT)
aphne, I don’t think we’re in Ferryport Landing anymore,” Sabrina Grimm said. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed her sister’s hand and ran back to the wooden farmhouse. Once inside, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it. The farmhouse was small and rustic, with dirt floors and shabby furniture—three chairs, a rickety table, two tiny beds, an iron stove, and a frayed rug. What little light managed to slip through the windows was overwhelmed by shadows, and there was a thick cloud of poverty hanging over everything. To call it a house would have been generous. It was more like a shack.
“Daphne?”
“I’m OK,” her sister’s voice called back. “They’re singing for us.”
Sabrina clambered up atop one of the beds, where Daphne stood. Her little sister was wearing a yellow dress and pushing a pair of creaky shutters open in order to peer out into the sunshine. She smiled brightly, her eyes filled with curiosity. Sabrina envied Daphne’s attitude. Her sister was much better at adapting to the twists and turns to which the two sisters were often subjected. She seemed to lack suspicion or worry, but Sabrina had a never-ending supply. Unfortunately, Daphne also lacked the necessary wariness their lives often required.