The Golden Frog Games (Witchlings 2), page 1
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Secrets, Secrets
Spin, Stitch, Sew
The Twelve Towns Train
Meeting Miss Dewey’s Boyfriend (Possibly. Ew)
Unveiling of the Champions
A Peculiar Hex
A Visit to Moth House
The Library of Hexes
Creeping Phlox Hill
The First Costura Trial
Uncle Lessons
Alone
Powerful in All Things
A Grave Situation
The Rule of Mirrors
A Beast in Ravenskill
Rotten Rumors
The Cursed Needles
Undercover Moths
Walter and Georgie
The Midnight Maze
The Green-Cloaked Witch
Cotton Swab the Rat
Truthful to the Last
Illusions
Questions and Cafecitos
The Flickering Pendant
Balance
To Summon a Nightbeast
Enchanted Glade
The Frog Ball
The Ledger of Champions
Archaic Magic
River Moonfall
Monstruo Uncle
The Final Costura Trial
Visions
Down with Spares
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Ghost Squad Preview
Copyright
15th December 1789
It has been three months since the monstruos began speaking to me and there is nothing I can do to stop them.
—From the diary of Delphinium Larkspur, the Monstruo Uncle
DEEP IN THE SHADOWS of the Cursed Forest stood Seven Salazar and her secret.
It was a terrible secret and a dangerous one, but right now Seven had other things to worry about. Namely, the flock of skeleton birds with razor-sharp beaks and glowing red eyes that kept diving at her from the tippy tops of the Strangling Figs.
Cymric Rune, the Hastings-on-Pumpkins Uncle, cleared his throat. “Hmmm. This should not be that complicated.”
“It should be easy to summon birds,” Sybell the Oracle said, from where they were draped on a mossy log like some sort of model.
“Why don’t you try again?” Cymric said softly, before shooting the Oracle a weary glance.
Seven nodded once, then raised her hands toward the trees, which were bathed in the eerie purple light of the early morning, and spoke.
“Aves!”
A few seconds passed in tense silence, but then like every time before, instead of summoning normal birds, her magic brought the flock of skeleton creatures toward her. They pecked at her scalp and any exposed skin before spewing disgusting goo all over her. It burned like hex.
“Rats!” yelled Seven, waving her arms wildly to get the green slime off and stop the sting.
“The healing mushrooms, Seven, quickly!” cried Cymric.
“Surely she can pull off this simple spell,” muttered the Oracle.
“Hongos!” said Seven, throwing her hands up and out. The earth rumbled slightly, and for a moment, Seven thought she might’ve gotten it right. Instead, a sound like a balloon deflating fizzled in the distance and her magic failed. Again.
“Hongos.” The Oracle waved their hand lazily in Seven’s direction as they flipped through an issue of Teen Witch! magazine. From a distance, the whispering of leaves approached. The whispers turned into violent rustles that shook the forest around them. A batch of multicolored cura-shrooms emerged from between the twisted trees and zoomed right at Seven. They hung suspended in the air around her, then each cura-shroom exploded like a firework, a chalky poof filling the air with rainbow smoke. Purple, green, and pink dust settled on Seven, and instantly her blistering skin was healed.
“See?” The Oracle licked their finger and turned another glossy page. “Easy.”
Sometimes Seven Salazar wished the Nightbeast had never spoken to her. Right now, covered in dust and goo, in the middle of the Cursed Forest, her body weary with exhaustion, was one of those times.
“Is … something keeping you from focusing?” asked Cymric. His eyes, a vibrant green with slit pupils that were typical of a half fae, half witch, were kind, his demeanor patient, and yet Seven felt hot shame wash over her.
“She looks delicious,” hissed a flor culebra as it slithered past Seven. She tried not to look at the petals sprouting from its skin—a beautiful monstrosity.
Yes, she wanted to say, there are a million things keeping me from focusing.
Instead she shook her head no, and Cymric nodded.
“All right. Let’s try that one more time.”
It had been four months since Seven learned she was meant to be the next Town Uncle, the second-most-powerful witch in her town, with the gift to speak to animals. And apparently monstruos. At first, she’d been so froggin’ excited. It had been a welcome win after being declared a leftover witch, a Spare, and not having her coven circle close. She had been the first Witchling in many years to invoke the impossible task in order to make sure she and the rest of her coven didn’t lose their powers. And Seven, Valley, and Thorn had beaten the impossible task, not by killing the Nightbeast but by stopping it. And then the Nightbeast had spoken to Seven. She had been blessed with the powers of the Uncle, given to her by nature. It was something that didn’t happen to Spare witches. Not ever! And it had felt like a dream come true.
That was … until the voices of the monstruos didn’t stop like they were supposed to. For most Uncles, after the first appearance of their powers, they could only hear animals—not monstruos. But for Seven, the monstruos were growing louder and louder, and one terrible voice in particular was growing loudest of all. But Seven hadn’t told anyone that. Not even Valley and Thorn.
“Witchling, if nothing is keeping you from concentrating, then why is it you can’t summon birds, of all things?” the Oracle asked. “It is a low-level Uncle task. One of the most basic.”
“I have a name, you know,” Seven said. “And technically I’m not a Witchling anymore.”
Everyone kept calling Seven, Valley, and Thorn Witchlings. It was as if everything that had happened last year had left them marked for life. She had, in fact, grown half a toadstool since then.
“It’s a term of endearment,” said Sybell with a shrug.
Seven held in a laugh. Sybell liked to play at being tough on her in front of the Uncles and the Gran, but in reality, the two witches had something resembling a friendship.
“Nature has lost trust in our Uncle because of Barbatos and his coconspirators. The connection between animals and Uncles hinges on that trust. It will take time to build it up again,” said Cymric.
“Agreed. But it is still strange,” Sybell said.
They stretched and got up from their log, moss sticking to their holographic cape and metallic-dusted cheekbones like it was meant to be there. It was obvious Sybell came from House of Stars. If anyone lived up to their coven motto—beautiful, brilliant, generous to all—it was the Oracle. They were indeed gorgeous, and brilliant, an expert in their field. They were definitely generous with their time but also with their critiques. That was the thing about coven mottos, thought Seven—sometimes things that sounded positive could also be bad. She’d learned that much in the past few months.
“It is … a bit strange.” Cymric mussed his soft auburn curls. “You’re positively sure there’s no interference with the communication from animals? No monstruos speaking to you still?”
Seven began to sweat.
“Would it really be that bad to talk to monstruos? Aren’t some monstruos animals too?” Seven looked up into the trees, and ten pairs of beady black eyes blinked back at her. Raccoons. A few of them smiled, their pointy little teeth glowing in the near darkness.
The Oracle scoffed. “Yes, it’s bad. Remind me: What does section 17, paragraph 187 of your Uncle handbook say?”
Seven sighed and recited the section. “ ‘The first Uncle communication is often the most powerful and can therefore manifest in unusual ways, such as hearing deepwater creatures, bacteria, fungi, or, in the rarest of cases, monstruos.’ ”
“Correct,” said Cymric, holding Seven’s gaze. “And after that first communication, it should never, ever happen again.”
Except it is happening to me.
The Cursed Forest should have been the one place Seven could actually concentrate, because—with the exception of animals that were part monstruo, like raccoons for example— animals did not dwell here. They should’ve been far enough away that they wouldn’t interfere with Seven’s training, and indeed they were. But that did not stop her from hearing the Forest’s culebras, mega-ratas, skeleton birds, and all the other monstruos. Being here and trying to practice magic was torturous. Seven wrung her hands, her head just about ready to split.
“What if an Uncle were to keep hearing monstruo voices?” Seven asked slowly.
Cymric and Sybell exchanged looks.
“We don’t know. It has never, to our knowledge, happened before, but I imagine it would not be good,” Cymric said.
Disappointment pressed on Seven’s chest, making it hard for her to breathe.
They were lying.
There had been an Uncle who spoke to monstruos long, long ago. Her name was Delphinium Larkspur.
Seven’s Uncle training r
equired her to know about all the functions of Ravenskill, which meant lessons that had nothing to do with animals. This winter she had spent an entire month helping Alaric, the head archivist in the Hall of Elders (and a ghost), organize old, abandoned Uncle records. Deep in the Hall of Elders one snowy day, Seven had wiggled her way into a crawl space only big enough for a Witchling and found a dust- and cobweb-covered box, Delphinium’s diary forgotten within. Seven tried not to look at her rucksack, where the pilfered diary now sat, buried beneath her schoolbooks. She had been making her way through the entries slowly, but the truth within those pages frightened her.
Seven shook her head and pushed her sleeves up. “Shall we try again?”
“Yes. At the very least, you need to be ready for your Uncle exhibition at the Golden Frog Games,” Cymric said.
Seven raised her hands again, intoning the summoning spell and getting the same pitiful results. Again, the Oracle healed her and another layer of colorful dust settled onto her clothing, skin, and hair. This would be a nightmare to wash out.
“Somehow you are capable of spells high above your skill level, and you even helped defeat the Cursed Toads, but you cannot manage this level-one Uncle spell,” Cymric said, before running his hands over his face in frustration.
Seven cringed.
The Cursed Toads had been the Ravenskill, Stormville, and Boggs Ferry Uncles, or at least everyone had thought they were. In reality, they had been the Spare witches of 1965, who used powerful and forbidden archaic magic to take on the forms of three Town Uncles. They had relegated the real Town Uncles to a punishment—living out the rest of their days as toads—that was meant for the Spares for not completing their own impossible task. The Uncles had watched from their tanks as their lives, their loved ones, and their powers were snatched away. The Cursed Toads had also done the unthinkable—they had hexed the entire Twelve Towns into forgetting. It wasn’t until last year, thanks to Seven, Valley, and Thorn, that the truth had been uncovered.
“Could it have anything to do with the pace at which we’re training her? We’ve been at this all morning. The Witchling must be tired,” the Oracle said.
“No.” Seven furrowed her brow. “No. I have to keep going. There’s only a few months till the autumnal equinox.”
If she could only train herself hard enough, maybe it would fix her magic. Maybe she could learn enough to quiet the monstruo voices and be a normal Uncle.
Cymric smiled. “That’s not for six months! And if you don’t pass your Uncle trials this fall, you can try again.”
“You will be okay, Seven,” the Oracle said.
Although Seven nodded, she knew that wasn’t true.
The Town Grans and Uncles had been patient with Delphinium too. They had waited. Until one day when their patience ran dry and they decided she would have to die.
Because instead of getting her powers under control, Delphinium’s connection to monstruos had grown stronger every day.
Just like Seven’s was now.
They had grown afraid of what Delphinium might be capable of.
Just as they would with Seven.
And there was one voice, louder than all the rest, consuming her every thought, her every waking moment. Even now, it spoke to her. Crisp and clear as if it were whispering right in her ear. She could almost feel its hot breath on her skin, the brush of fur on her cheek.
“I’m ever so hungry,” said the Nightbeast.
A BITTER BATTLE between House of Stars and Goose House had been going on for months. The covens, which were usually allies, had both set their sights on hosting the Frog Ball— the party that commemorated the near-end of the Golden Frog Games and was the highlight of many a Twelve Townian’s tournament experience. Whichever house had the honor of hosting the ball also got something much more coveted than the party itself: bragging rights.
As the coven known for its parties, Goose House had hosted the Frog Ball for as far back as anyone in Ravenskill could remember. This year, however, House of Stars had begun campaigning early, citing highly suspicious and dangerous explosives magic that would make Goose House an unsafe fit for the festivities.
Goose House was incensed. There were a record number of essays sent in to the Squawking Crow, denouncing the House of Stars claims and assuring Ravenskillian residents that Goose House was not only safe but the most capable coven to host the party. They had gone so far as to accuse House of Stars of having bland food. An outrage.
House of Stars had simply taken out a full page in the newspaper with a list of every explosion, fire, and catastrophe that had occurred in Goose House in the past three years. The list was 212 items long.
In retaliation, a few Goose House witches had schemed to plant explosives magic in their rival’s basement and then alert the press that House of Stars was, in fact, the most unsafe option. However, their plan had backfired when two of the witches had gotten into an argument and accidentally set off an explosive spell right outside their own front door.
Caught red-handed, Goose House had no choice but to concede hosting the ball to House of Stars, with the caveat that the costura auditions would be held in Goose House.
“It was not our first choice, of course,” said Mayhem Lilitoad, the Goose House witch ushering Seven, Valley, and Thorn to the ballroom. “But we made the most of what we were given. Besides, costura is the most popular sport. After toad racing.” Mayhem was a tall, round witch with shining blond hair and a striking face. She walked briskly through the coven house.
“Graves said the explosions were so loud, she heard them all the way from her coven house,” Valley said.
“Is that so?” Seven quirked an eyebrow at Thorn, who held in a giggle.
For months, Valley had been talking nonstop about Graves Shadowmend, a Moth House witch she’d met at the Monstruo Care Club after school. And Seven would bet her entire plant collection that Valley had a crush on her.
The hallways of Goose House were a pearly white and boasted elaborate molding adorned with golden geese along their borders. Enormous portraits of Goose House members of years past decorated the walls, and crystal vases with colorful flower arrangements sat on glass-and-gold side tables carved to look like delicate trees. Mayhem adjusted her special-occasion Goose House cloaks, which trailed behind her for many toadstools, as they rounded another corner.
“Must take a lot of scrubbing magic to keep this place clean,” whispered Valley.
“You have no idea,” said Mayhem as she opened the enormous double doors to the ballroom.
All three Witchlings gasped. Hundreds of iridescent stalactites seemed to grow from the ceiling itself, washing the ballroom in glittery light. A banquet of famous Ravenskillian food—including creamy mashed plantains, butter faeapple tarts, and crispy summer sausage cut into perfect little circles and drizzled with honey—blanketed the long tables. Elaborate pastel flowers adorned every wall of the grand room, with vines snaking out to hug the corners and wrap around the closest stalactite-shaped lights, making it feel more like an enchanted cave than a room inside a coven house. The Witchlings stared in awe; every direction they looked, there was a new wonder to discover.
“Let’s see House of Stars top this.” Mayhem winked.
Onstage, a band played jaunty music while witches mingled on the ballroom floor. Some of them greeted Seven, Valley, and Thorn as they walked past, while just as many of them stared or whispered behind their hands and laughed. Valley shot them all annoyed looks and Seven rolled her eyes, but Thorn wrung her hands.
Thorn was doing something that had never been done before: attempting to enter the Golden Frog Games, the most important magical tournament of their world, as a Spare.
“You’ll show them.” Seven squeezed Thorn’s hand.
“And if you don’t, I will,” Valley said, giving a cruelly smirking Moth House witch a death stare.
“That boil cleared up yet, Lapis?” Mayhem shouted.
The witch’s face went bright red and he quickly turned away, but not before whispering nastily to a friend, “Thank goodness they’re finally doing something about this Spare problem.”
His friend nodded. “It’s gotten quite out of hand.”
What was that supposed to mean? thought Seven.
“Don’t pay them any mind,” Mayhem told Thorn as they walked farther into the glittering room.
They reached the backstage area where Thorn’s dressing room was. “This is where I leave you,” Mayhem said. “I’ve got to get ready to present my own creation.”
