House of Secrets (43 page)

And then Slayne slipped to the side.

Cordelia had grabbed his foot from behind.

“That’s for
Will
!” she yelled as she yanked him over—and he fell toward the center of the spiral stairs.

He hit the steps below.
Clang!
Brendan looked to Cordelia. She had that same glimmer in her eyes: the death glint. Slayne screamed as he hit more steps.
Clang!
The sound echoed as he ricocheted down the tower.
Clang!
Scream.
Clang!
Scream. Until there were no more screams.

“Bren! Are you hurt?” Eleanor rushed to her brother. Brendan held his side, where blood was sticking to his oversize top.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Cordelia, how do you feel?”

“Like I avenged Will.” Cordelia wiped her forehead. Far below, Slayne’s body hit the bottom of the tower.
Clang!

“Let’s go,” Brendan said.

The Walkers continued up—but at the next window, when they looked for Fat Jagger, his giant terrified eye filled their view.

“Rrrrr!”

“What’s wrong? Did the Wind Witch hurt you?” Eleanor asked.

“Rrrrr!
Walk-er!
Rrrrrrrrr!”

“Where is she, Jagger? Where—”

A howl silenced Eleanor. A wind-tunnel blast was coming up the tower. Cordelia’s hair was blown up from her face, standing vertical. The Walkers backed against the wall as Slayne’s body—eyes open, trailing blood—whirled past them and shot toward the top. Below him, flying up the steps like a banshee, flapping her wings and screaming like one too, was a very angry Dahlia Kristoff.

“She’s coming!” Eleanor shouted. “What do we d—”

And then things happened fast enough to be slow motion.

T
he tower cracked and crumbled as Fat Jagger’s giant hand wrapped around it. Blocks of stone rained down on the Walkers, who hugged the wall to avoid them; below, the Wind Witch blew the stones away with a cackle. A brittle snap of cracked mortar shook the tower—

And the top of it was
gone
. The Walkers were staring at Fat Jagger’s face, backlit by sky.

“Rrrrr!”
Jagger ordered, holding out his palm. The top of the tower hit the courtyard with a
ksssshoom
.

“C’mon!” said Eleanor, jumping on the colossus’s hand. Her siblings followed; in seconds, Jagger was whisking them all away from the topless tower.

They clung to his skin and looked down at the ruined courtyard and the gorge next to the castle. Far down there, floating in blue-green water, was the
Moray
, attached by ropes to a tiny sliver of roof and chimney. The pirates were ant-like specks running away from it.

“Look! Kristoff House!” Brendan said. “Part of it still hasn’t sunk!”

The Walkers didn’t have much time to appreciate the view. The Wind Witch flew out of the broken tower in a rage, screaming,
“That giant cretin won’t help you now!”

“That’s bullying!” Eleanor yelled from Jagger’s palm, not sure what a cretin was but certain the comment was mean-spirited.

Suddenly, the Wind Witch flew directly in front of them, beating her wings to maintain her position, and pointed her diamond fake hands at the river below. The river came to life, bubbling and thrashing, and a curling spout of water began to move upward, snaking toward the Witch’s arms. Jagger, distracted, watched as the water met her hands . . . and shot back down, instantly transformed into blasts of ice!

The ice jets hit Jagger’s feet like comets, wrapping around his ankles, hardening and clinking as they connected. Within seconds, Jagger was handcuffed—or footcuffed—by frozen manacles, which left him dangerously off balance.

“
No! Jagger! Don’t fall!
” Eleanor pleaded, but it was too late. The colossus’s center of gravity was somewhere outside the castle. He resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. He was going down.

Jagger closed his fingers around the Walkers, trying to protect them. The world went dark in his palm. As Jagger fell, the Walkers were thrown against the inside of his knuckles, feeling the earth-shaking crash of his body hitting the Castle Corroway wall—

And then they kept going. Down, down, down. Until something splashed around them.

Jagger opened his hand. The Walkers tumbled out in a daze. They were surrounded by the gorge,
under
Castle Corroway, with Jagger lying next to them in the river, moaning and sputtering.

“We’re on the
Moray
!” Cordelia said, stamping her foot on the deck.

“Jeez,” said Brendan, “I didn’t think I’d
ever
be happy to be on this boat again—”

“Look!” Eleanor pointed up. The stone casket that had held
The Book of Doom and Desire
was descending from the sky. And above it . . .

“Walkers!”
the Wind Witch screeched.

She was coming down on a column of self-generated air, her rotten wings stinking up the ship. Against the gorge’s sheer cliffs, she looked like an ancient god.

The stone casket reached the deck and stood there upright. Eleanor turned to Fat Jagger, who was lying half submerged in the river. “Jagger! Save yourself! Hide!”

Jagger nodded, took a deep breath—so deep that the Walkers felt it tugging at their hair—and slipped underwater. The ship rose as the river did. His giant body became a shimmering black shape that extended far in front of the
Moray
and behind it.

“Fools,” said the Wind Witch, landing on the ship a safe distance from the casket. “You don’t think I can kill your fat friend any time I like?” She used a gust of wind to open the casket and expose
The Book of Doom and Desire
. Then she turned to the Walkers and folded up her wings.

It was just her and them.

“I have something here,” Dahlia Kristoff said, blowing a piece of paper across the ship into Brendan’s hand, “and I want one of you to open that book and put it inside. It’s not complicated. I’ve made my wishes very simple.”

Brendan read the paper:
Dahlia Kristoff shall rule the world forever.

“Simple?” laughed Brendan. “You sound like one of those psycho villains in an Avengers movie.”

“Yeah,” said Eleanor, who had read over her brother’s shoulder—pretty well! “Taking over the world is too much work! Who’d want the responsibility?”

“Somebody like her,” said Cordelia. “A megalomaniac.”

“What’s a manga-lowly-maniac?” asked Eleanor.

“Megalomaniac. They have a delusional fantasy of great power,” said Cordelia. “People like Alexander the Great, Adolf Hitler—”

“Silence!” barked the Witch. “Which of you will use the book?”

Cordelia looked at Brendan. Brendan looked at Eleanor. Eleanor shook her head. Her siblings followed suit.

“If you won’t open the book, I’ll
make
you open it!”

The Wind Witch pointed her arms at the Walkers. Suddenly Cordelia was lifted up as if she were in a harness—but the only things pulling on her were tendrils of air. The witch raised an arm above her head and waved it . . . and Cordelia was blasted by a murderous wind into the ship’s mainmast!

“Open it!” The Wind Witch darted her arm and slammed Cordelia against the wood.

“Open it!”
The witch slammed Cordelia again
—
she shook her head, or maybe her head was just lolling back and forth—

“Stop!”
Eleanor pleaded.

The Wind Witch dropped her arms. Cordelia slid to the deck, limp, with the mast scraping her face.

“You—!” Brendan ran toward the Wind Witch. He didn’t care what magic she possessed; he was going to take her out.

The Wind Witch smiled and twirled her hands. A barrel on the deck split open, becoming a spinning pinwheel of curved wooden beams and two ribbons of metal. The beams cracked diagonally and shot toward Brendan like spears. Brendan dove, but one of them pierced his side, in the exact same spot Slayne had slashed earlier.

“Aaaaagh!”
Brendan grabbed the hunk of wood. Blood welled up around it. He tried to pull it out, but the Wind Witch kept it in place with a jet-engine gust of air. The blood was spreading now, creeping along the deck like it was being blown by one of those Xlerator hand dryers.

“Now, littlest Walker,” said the Wind Witch, turning to Eleanor, “are
you
ready to do the right thing?”

“Don’t do it, Nell!
” screamed Brendan.

Eleanor stood her ground, shook her head.

“Very well,” the Wind Witch said, “then you owe me a finger.”

Eleanor bit her lip, trying to be brave—

And suddenly the sky grew dark.

A thundercloud appeared above the
Moray
: a thundercloud that took Dahlia Kristoff by surprise. It was silver and blue and black, almost like a floating lump of coal, and as Dahlia watched it, the cloud stretched to cover not just the ship but the trees, the river, the sky. It felt like night invading day.

And then . . .

A voice came out of the cloud.

Deep. Wet. And powerful.

“Dah-
lia
! What. Have. You.
Done?
”

The center of the cloud coalesced into a black figure with orange eyes.

“Father?” Dahlia asked.

“You will never call me that again!” said the figure. “I am the
Storm King
!”

C
onfronted by the fearsome sight in front of her, Eleanor couldn’t do much. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t blink. If this man had ever been Denver Kristoff, he wasn’t anymore.

The Storm King had a twisted, purple face the texture of hardened candle wax. It came into view as he floated down with the swirling black cloud shrouding his body. Spidery blue lightning crackled around him. His long mouth extended past where a normal human mouth stopped, curling up on one side and down on the other, as if he were smiling and frowning at once. Eleanor remembered what Penelope had said about Kristoff looking the same way, but it seemed that this Storm King was a much more advanced version of what she had described, like the difference between a suntan and skin cancer. Kristoff’s nose was nothing but a collection of fleshy flaps hung over his lips. One of his orange, catlike eyes was higher than the other, perched near his forehead. . . .

But within those eyes was a spark of understanding. As if Denver Kristoff were trapped inside the Storm King, under the transfigured flesh, and knew how hideous he was.

“What happened to you?” Brendan yelled, refusing to keep quiet even in his near-death state. “You were a pretty good-looking guy in those pictures. . . . I bet the ladies were all over you back in the day! But now you are one ugly—
aaagh
!”

A burst of blue lightning leaped from the Storm King’s hand and surrounded Brendan’s face. The lightning danced and circled Brendan’s head as he screamed in pain. When the lightning dissolved, there was a horrific result. . . .

Brendan’s face was an identical match to the Storm King’s.

“
Oh, no . . . no
. . . ,” gasped Brendan, catching a reflection of his new face in a twisted barrel hoop on deck. “
What did you do to me? I want my old face back!
”

“My features were brought on by my extreme use of the book,” said the Storm King, “but I can give them to you free of charge. You appear to be at death’s door . . . why not abide by the old cliché
‘Die young and leave a bad-looking corpse
’?”

“
Noooo!
” Brendan cried, hiding his face with his hands—then moving them away because the texture of his new face felt too creepy.

The Storm King turned his attention to the Wind Witch. She was whirling her hands in the air, trying to whip up a gust to blow him off the
Moray
—

“Fool!”
the Storm King roared.

Two blue bolts rocketed out of his hands and knocked her onto the deck. Eleanor watched from behind a barrel, terrified.

“Why do you continue to search for the book?” the Storm King howled. “Look at me! My face is only a reflection of what the book has done to my soul! Is this what you want to become?”