The Only Thing Worse Than Witches

The Potion! The Potion!

AS THE WITCHES INCHED CLOSER AND CLOSER, the taste in his mouth soured. He had dropped his backpack before running out of the classroom — the only weapon he had was himself. He lifted his hands in a boxing position, ready to sock the first witch that laid a hand on him.

The witches cackled.

“Vhat’s zat, boy?” one witch said. This witch was taller than all the others. She had short tangled black hair, a sharp pointy face, small lips, a tiny flat nose, and angry-looking eyes clouded by dark circles. “Vere you going to vhack me vith your fists?”

“If I have to,” Rupert said. “Stay away!”

The witches howled and snorted.

“I am ze Zunder Vitch,” she laughed. “I vill not be vorried by a little boy.”

“Zunder Vitch?” Rupert said. Oh! Thunder Witch! he realized.

“Let me at ’im!” shouted a hoarse voice. “I’ll smack ’em with a dead fish!”

The witches stepped even closer — so close that they were only a stride away. He had to think, and think fast. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to remember what Sandy had told him about the Witches Council. There was the head witch — the Fairfoul Witch. And then there was an underdog… no, an Undercat — the Midnight Witch. What had Sandy said about her? She was just as frightening as the Fairfoul Witch — and she was also dying to overthrow the head witch. This can help, Rupert thought.

“WAIT!” Rupert shouted. “W-which one of you is the Midnight Witch?”

The witches stopped in their tracks, but no one answered him. He scanned their faces for a moment, and his gaze finally rested on a plump woman with skin so white that she looked green. Her eyes were sunken, and she had warts all over.

“You dare speak my name?” she said, in a voice so quiet that it sent chills through Rupert.

“You’re the Undercat,” he said. “If you can help me overthrow the Fairfoul Witch—you could be the head witch!”

The Midnight Witch growled. “I do not team up with humanssssss,” she hissed. She ran her tongue across her front teeth and snarled:

Her long, fat fingers grabbed Rupert’s arm, and she dug her sharp nails into his flesh. Rupert tried to wriggle free, but other witches began to grab him, pinning him against the lockers. The Nebulous Witch stood in his line of sight, and he scowled at her — she ran a hand through his hair, holding his head back and tilted upward.

“The potion!” the witches said. “The potion!”

With one free hand, the Nebulous Witch reached into her cloak and pulled out a purple vial. She clicked open the top, and a bit of smoke clouded the air. It smelled like musty rain on a summer’s day. Rupert coughed.

The Nebulous Witch leaned close to Rupert.

“I thought I could trust you!” Rupert said.

“Your mistake,” the Nebulous Witch said. “Poor little Witchling Two — she’s all alone on Main Beach, so sad about your departure.”

“Are you going to tell her what really happened?” Rupert said. “How you betrayed me and fed me to the witches? How you poisoned me with your potion?”

“If that’s the story you want her to hear, I’ll tell her.” The Nebulous Witch smirked, and there was an evil gleam in her eyes. “Bottoms up, Rupert.”

She tipped the potion to his lips. Rupert tried to keep his mouth sealed tight. He closed his eyes and scrunched his face. The juice dripped down his cheeks, into his ears — until something sharp rapped him on the jaw, and he opened his mouth in pain.

The syrupy potion glopped into his mouth, and before he could stop himself, he swallowed.