Hero

And then the shrieking began.

Saturday sat up and put her hand on the hilt of her sword. The very warm lump on the pallet beside her cursed, and from the blankets jumped either a very handsome girl or a very pretty boy in a skirt. Not a nightgown, a skirt. What sort of person wore a skirt to bed? And what was he . . . she doing in Saturday’s room?

But she wasn’t supposed to be in her room either. She should have been with Mama on Thursday’s ship. Room . . . sea . . . ship . . . Saturday blinked as memories swam before her.

“She’s awake early.”

“She” seemed to designate someone other than Saturday. The strange boy cursed again. He . . . she . . . took Saturday by the shoulders and shook her, forcing her to concentrate on . . . his, definitely his . . . maybe . . . face. Either his skin was slightly green or Saturday was sicker than she felt. “Doesn’t matter. It’s my fault. Look, I’m sorry I don’t have time to explain. Just don’t say anything. If you don’t say anything, you will stay safe. Can you promise me that?”

Saturday was too confused to do anything but nod. She’d promised Peter that she’d find Trix and come home. She had promised to protect Mama and then vanished without a word to her. She didn’t seem to be very good at promises lately.

“Good girl.” The strange boy kissed her forehead. “Welcome to the madness.” He leapt from her bedside to the far side of the circle of stones in the middle of the room.

Circle of stones. White, glittering rocks. Definitely not her room.

The strange boy dumped half a bin of coal into the stone circle—only the very rich could afford to waste coal like that—and haphazardly stirred it with a poker. The room warmed and brightened bit by bit, though there was no smoke from the fire. The pit smelled of brimstone. Perhaps she’d gone to Hell and the raven who’d captured her was an angel delivering her to Lord Death.

The boy straightened his shirt and skirt. He wound his long black hair back into a knot and fixed it at the base of his skull. Friday had that same talent; Saturday had watched her sister do it enough times before starting the mending at the kitchen table. Her hand drifted to her own hair, grasping at nothing but air until it came to her chin. A vision flashed in her mind of Erik . . . the slice of a sword . . . a battle cry. At the same time, the light from the fresh coals began to fully illuminate the space around them.

Above her, undulating, milky-white stone spilled down from the heavens. The ceiling lifted like a wild cathedral over archways and crevasses and up again into empty shadows. Giant protrusions stretched down from above or up from below, reaching in to fill the space with curious waxen fingers. This was no palace but a cave, one as old as the gods, or older.

“Where are we?”

The strange boy shushed her. She remembered his advice about staying safe and closed her mouth.

Before the vapor of her breath could dissipate, an enormous, long-tusked crimson beetle-thing came scuttling around the corner on . . . chicken legs? Right on his wickedly pointed tail flew a large bird with deeply violet wings. Behind the bird stalked a small, wraithlike woman with giant empty holes where her eyes should be. Her skin was slightly blue, though she didn’t appear cold.

Madness, the boy had said. Oh, how right he had been.

Saturday was instantly on her feet with her sword in both hands.

“Forgive me, Mother, I did not expect you up and around for some time. That spell took a lot out of you.” The boy gave the crimson insect a look that Saturday might have given Peter, if he hadn’t woken her in time for breakfast.

Wait . . . had he called her Mother? But the boy wasn’t blue. And spells? She was no fairy, so that meant this wraith was a sorceress or a witch. Judging by her hue and the small horns on her forehead, Saturday guessed the latter. What had become of her eyes?

The witch ignored the boy and pointed a bony finger at Saturday. “How dare you mess with my familiar! Who ever heard of a purple raven?” Those terribly empty eye sockets gaped accusingly in Saturday’s direction, but slightly to the left, as if there were someone standing behind her. The effect was u

Over my dead body. Saturday stretched the fingers of both hands, wrapped them tightly around the hilt again, and settled into a defensive position on the pallet. She sized the witch up. The insane old woman was no physical match for her. If she attacked before the witch could loose a spell, the fight would be over and done with quickly. Then Saturday could give her full attention to getting out of this bizarre cavern and back to the swordfight from which she’d been so rudely kidnapped.

“There’s no escape from here this time, my terrible troublemaker. Hand it over.”

This time? Saturday had never been to this place before. She definitely would have remembered.

“Just take it, Mother. Use your magic,” said the boy.

Saturday scowled. So much for thinking the boy was on her side. Saturday calculated the distances in the room, deciding how close the witch would need to come to her before she could spring her attack.

“Snip-snap-snurre-basselure—I can’t grab hold of it! There’s something protecting her.”

There was?

“You take the sword,” the witch told the boy. “You’re about his size.”

His? Saturday did turn then to see if someone really was standing behind her, but there was no one else in the room. She turned back to the witch . . . and was treated to a face full of violet feathers. Saturday spat and swung but the bird was too close; the weight of the sword shifted her off balance. She kicked the furs aside and the raven-that-should-not-have-been-purple came at her again. Saturday gritted her teeth and growled, as a battle cry would have left her with another mouthful of feathers.

Stop fighting. Give her the sword.

Saturday stopped fighting, but only because THERE WAS A VOICE IN HER HEAD. A voice coming from inside one’s own skull was not something a fighter trained for. Then again, it was exactly the sort of stunt she would have expected Velius to pull.

You’re going to think yourself into an early grave, girl.

“Who—?” The boy moved closer and she remembered to keep her mouth shut.

He stretched out a hand. “Woodcutter, please.”

He knew her name? Her suspicions grew. This was no random abduction. Did they plan to ransom her back to Sunday and Rumbold? Not without shedding a few drops of blood first. Saturday wouldn’t make this kidnapping easy on anyone.

NOW, CHILD.

The words echoed so loudly between her ears that she winced and loosened her grip on the sword.

GET OUT OF MY HEAD, Saturday thought back, but it was too late. The boy plucked the sword from her grasp and the air began to sing. As if burned, he quickly dropped the weapon onto the pallet.

“It’s hot!” he cried.

Saturday cocked her head at the bold-faced lie. She recognized that strange singing—it was the same sound her nameday gift had made in her hands the night it had changed from an ax to a sword. The boy knew her sword was enchanted and, for whatever reason, he did not want the empty-eyed wraith touching it.

“Charmed,” said the witch. “Ooh, how wonderful! Back up, sweetling, and let Mummy take care of it.” She crossed the room as efficiently as anyone with sight, then knelt and gingerly swaddled the sword inside the fur blankets without touching any part of the hilt or blade.

Saturday lunged for the witch with her dagger. The witch held up a blue-palmed hand and Saturday froze in mid-strike. She strained with all her might, but not so much as a finger moved. She tried to cry out, but the sound died in her throat.