shrank back, not wanting to upset him further. Somehow this old, demented madman had become their only hope.
The Storm King grabbed the lower jaw of one of the skeletons that made up the desk. He pulled it down and a small drawer made entirely of mandibles slid open near the base of the desk.
“Take this,” the Storm King said, spinning around.
He handed Cordelia a thin book. It was the size of a small novel, but was bound in some sort of strange light brown leather that felt rough and brittle. It had a surprisingly unsettling texture that she couldn’t quite identify – but strongly suspected might be dried human skin. The cover of the book had a few words etched on to it by hand in a dark brown ink that looked suspiciously like dried blood: Denver Kristoff’s Journal of Magic and Technology.
“It’s all explained inside,” the Storm King said. “Every bit of my magic, every invention I created is documented within these pages. This will help you find the three Worldkeepers and bring them through the Door of Ways. It won’t be easy. But if you are successful, it will undo all the damage that has been inflicted here, today. Do you understand?”
Cordelia nodded. She was scared, nervous, and full of questions. Eleanor looked at Brendan’s dying body and nodded as well. She hated the idea of trusting the Storm King, but they had little choice at this point.
“You mustn’t let Dahlia get her hands on the Journal or the Worldkeepers,” the Storm King continued. “She will be there, lurking somewhere, full of tricks. She may not even appear as herself, so be extremely careful whom you trust. She doesn’t know where the Worldkeepers are, but no doubt she can sense their power and could use them for great harm. If she gets her hands on any of the three Worldkeepers first, all will be lost. So guard them, and the Journal, with your lives. And stay away from Dahlia.”
“Trust me, we don’t wanna go anywhere near that horrible creature,” Eleanor said.
Cordelia nodded. Brendan offered a few grunts and snapped his teeth with a low groan.
“Watch your tongue,” the Storm King snapped defensively. “She’s done many dreadful things, but she’s still my daughter, my own flesh and blood.”
“The old Dahlia is gone,” Cordelia countered. “All that’s left is the Wind Witch, the twisted, soulless monster that killed you and then laughed about it! How can you forget that?”
“You’re not a parent,” the Storm King said, tears forming at the corners of his saggy and yellow eyelids. “You can’t understand. Dahlia wasn’t always like this. She once was a gentle soul, so kind, so full of life. She loved nature and wildlife. At least once a month, she would come home carrying a pigeon or a robin, with a broken wing or foot, in the pocket of her favourite yellow dress. And she would nurse the poor creatures back to health. No matter how many times her mother told Dahlia to stop bringing home the birds, she never listened. Dahlia always did have a mind of her own, but she was generous and thoughtful; she always found and admired the beauty of this world – and the beauty in other living creatures.”
“Big deal!” Cordelia shouted. “That’s nothing compared to the pain and grief she’s caused so many people.”
“I know she’s become a monster,” the Storm King said. “But I believe that what was initially in her heart, in her soul, is still there somewhere. I know that little girl isn’t completely dead. But enough of this. I’m starting to sound like a sentimental old fool. And it’s time the three of you got back into the book world one last time.”
Cordelia exchanged a glance with Eleanor. They never thought they would have to go back there. The other two times, they had all barely escaped with their lives. And even the seemingly good things that happened in the book world only brought them more misery in their real lives. Going back was actually the last thing in the world either of them wanted to do – aside from maybe planting a kiss on the Storm King’s withered old mug.
But they both knew they had no choice now. And so they slowly nodded, Eleanor fighting tears at the reality of having to go back. Cordelia clenched her jaw and told herself that she would do anything, anything to save Brendan and Fat Jagger and the rest of her family.
The Storm King grinned at them as he recited a spell.
Suddenly the chamber was spinning. It was spinning so fast that Cordelia could no longer make out the skull desk or bone bookshelves. She couldn’t make out the faces of the Storm King or Eleanor, or Brendan’s body crumpled on the desk. She couldn’t see anything but the blurred streaks of blue flames and concrete walls.
Then it all faded away into darkness, and there were books all around her, books spinning with her, closing around her like some sort of coffin. They collided with her body and then stuck, as if coated in superglue.
More books piled on, emerging from the blackness around her. The books seemed to morph themselves into her skin, becoming a part of her.
Cordelia screamed out in pain, but no sounds came out. Sound didn’t exist any more, there were only books and pain and spinning in the dark. It was far worse than her two previous trips into Denver’s book world. It was excruciating. But she could not even scream as she no longer had a mouth.
He had tricked them! Cordelia was sure of it. They had just willingly followed the Storm King to their own deaths.
Just as this horrible realisation hit her, she was swallowed up completely by the darkness.
The first thing Cordelia became aware of was light – light so bright that it seemed to pour right through her closed eyelids. She covered her face with her hands … and then grinned.
“Check it out, Eleanor!” Cordelia yelled excitedly, finally opening her eyes. “My hand’s healed!”
They were still in the Kristoff House attic. Except the gaping hole in the ceiling was no longer there. Sunlight streamed in through the attic windows. It was quiet except for the chirping songs of several birds outside.
“Deal, we made it,” Eleanor said, rushing over to hug her older sister. Then she stopped short. “Where’s Bren?”
They both spun around and looked across the attic. In the corner, Brendan was still tied up and rolling around trying to free himself.
“Why am I tied up with shoelaces?” he asked, spitting out a few pigeon feathers. “And how did we get back to Kristoff House?”
Cordelia marched up to Brendan and pointed an angry finger in his face.
“First of all, I want an apology,” Cordelia commanded.
“For what?”
“You bit me!”
“Why would I do that?” Brendan asked.
“You became a zombie! Don’t you remember?”
“Actually, no, I don’t,” Brendan said, suddenly fascinated. “But that is so cool! Did my
