The Key. Michael Grant

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СКАЧАТЬ he was following Dietmar’s lead. But there was no way around it: if a vanload of fairies wants to talk to you, you can’t exactly blow them off.

      So the Magnifica plus Stefan went in and bought the Magnum bars. Except for the Mayan Mystica because the store was out of that flavor. Stefan had to be sent back to the van to learn whether a dark chocolate would do. (Yes.)

      Stefan delivered the ice cream to the fairies.

      Spent at Shell station: 11.15 GBP.4

      They waited for several minutes while, Mack assumed, the fairies ate. Then the van pulled out smoothly, and with a lurching of grinding gears, a crushed trash can, and a scream of terror from a mother pushing a stroller, Mack and his crew followed.

      They drove for about a mile before pulling up in sight of Urquhart Castle, an ancient ruin that perched picturesquely beside Loch Ness. The van slowed to a stop in a place where there quite clearly were no woods.

      The van waited and Mack and the Magnifica waited until several cars passed by. Then, when the coast was clear, the van drove straight into a stand of trees that had absolutely not been there ten seconds earlier.

      Mack didn’t know much about trees. Unfortunately, Dietmar did.

      “These are holly and rowan. Superstitious folk believe they have magical properties.”

      “Well, since this forest wasn’t here until, like, just now, I guess maybe they’re right,” Mack said.

      Even though the day was weakly sunny, it was dark in the woods. The van rolled to a smooth stop on a bed of fallen leaves. The car rolled into a bush, sending birds squawking away in terror. The car jerked hard a few times. Then it emitted a disgruntled farting sound and finally stopped.

      The window of the van rolled down again, and out flew things sparkly and golden: the ice-cream bar wrappers.

      The door opened. The fairies did not step out; they flew, six of them in all.

      Having by this time been in close contact with insectoid Skirrit, treasonous Tong Elves, and disgusting Lepercons, not to mention several horrifying monsters that Risky had morphed into, Mack was ready for just about anything. So it surprised him that the fairies looked almost exactly the way he expected fairies to look.

      Three were male, three were female, and all had toned little bodies clad in earthy colors. They had double wings, like dragonflies, that made a buzzing sound (again, like dragonflies) as they flew. They were all roughly the same size, each maybe half a kid in height. Or at least half a Mack. Maybe a third of a Stefan.

      The surprise was not in their look: these were definitely garden-variety, standard-issue fairies. The surprise came when they opened their mouths.

      “I’m Frank. This is my crew: Joey, Connie, Pete, Ellen, and Julia.”

      “These are not proper fairy names,” Dietmar observed.

      Frank squinted. “What are you, the fairy police? Our names are whatever we say they are.”

      But Dietmar wasn’t having it. “A fairy should be named after a flower or a tree, or something in the natural world.”

      “And a kid should learn to keep his mouth shut,” Frank snapped. And with that, he drew what had at first looked like a small sword hanging at his side. It turned out to be a droopy sort of wand.

      “You like flowers? Be one,” Frank said. He waved his wand and said, “E-ma exel strel (click)haka!”

      “That’s Vargran!” Jarrah said.

      And Dietmar probably would have agreed except for the fact that his body had turned green and very thin. Tubular, one might even say. His arms flattened into graceful leaves. And his head formed first a tight, green bulb and then exploded outward as the petals of a magnificent-looking sunflower.

      From the seedpod at the center, Dietmar’s two eyes stared in shock. Frank did not seem to have bothered to give him a mouth.

      Mack was torn between terror—understandable—and a feeling of glee—also understandable but not really admirable.

      Xiao’s eyes narrowed, and already blue scales were covering her body as she—

      “Uh-uh-uh!” Frank warned, shaking his finger. “That would be a bad move, dragon girl. Your kind signed a treaty a long time ago. This is western dragon territory.”

      Reluctantly Xiao melted back to purely human form.

      “Now, can we talk business?” Frank asked.

      “You have to change Dietmar back to normal,” Mack demanded, somewhat forcefully, almost as though he meant it.

      “When we’re done talking business.”

      “Okay, what business?”

      Frank shot a coy look at his crew, who fluttered slightly, then settled toward the ground. The instant their bare toes touched the lush grass, their wings rolled up. Like rolling up a window shade. Just rolled up. Whap.

      “We hear you’re looking for someone,” Frank said.

      They were, in fact, looking for the Key. The Key to Vargran spells and curses. So far they’d found bits and pieces of Vargran, but now, as they neared the fateful confrontation to save the world from the Pale Queen, they needed more. A lot more. And the Key was . . . um . . . the key.

      That’s right: the Key was the key.

      The Key had two parts. The first had been given to them by Nott, Norse goddess of night. And if you believed Nott (and seriously, how could you not believe a mythical Norse goddess?), the second and final part of the Key had been buried with one William Blisterthöng MacGuffin.

      “Maybe,” Mack said cautiously.

      “No maybe about it, kid. You’ve been asking around about someone no one has seen in a long time. We have good sources.”

      Mack glanced at his companions. Jarrah shrugged.

      And Mack’s iPhone chimed with the tone it used to signal a message.

      Mack ignored it, but it was an edgy sort of ignoring, like he was forcing himself to ignore it, which just made everyone uncomfortable, and finally Frank said, “Oh, just go ahead and get it.”

      With an abashed smile, Mack pulled out his phone.

      “Well? What is it?” Xiao asked impatiently.

      Mack sighed. “It’s my golem. He’s refusing to shower in the boys’ locker room.”

      “Lotta dudes are bashful about that,” Stefan said, and no one thought he was talking about himself because Stefan was incapable of bashfulness.

      “It’s not about being shy,” Mack СКАЧАТЬ