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Preface Wings of a Faerie Nameless Monster Dragon in the Woods Night of the Centaur Bird-Girl and the Shaggy Beast Darcy the Dryad Riding the Serpent Author’s Note

Preface

I wrote the entire Island of Fog series from Hal Franklin’s perspective. This fixed-POV method worked well, especially in the first book where everything was a complete mystery. The reader was able to share Hal’s uncertainty about his friends as the story unfolded. In a mystery novel like this, it doesn’t work for the reader to know more than the main character!

Still, there were times when I wished I could jump into someone else’s head and tell their story in a more personal way. For instance, wouldn’t it have been nice to read about Abigail’s first transformation from her point of view instead of through conversation with Hal?

To scratch this itch, I wrote a series of short stories dealing with the initial transformations of Hal’s friends. I excluded Thomas because his complex tale can be found in the separate novella Eye of the Manticore. Hal’s story of discovery is of course fully told in the first Island of Fog novel, but I included his transformation scene here because it’s so integral to the chronology.

This compilation, then, is the tale of eight children—Abigail, Fenton, Hal, Dewey, Robbie, Lauren, Darcy, and Emily—chronicling their earliest shapeshifting moments. Put together in order like this, it’s Island of Fog told from multiple perspectives. While less that half the length of the original novel and best read as a companion piece, it’s also comprehensive enough to be enjoyed separately.

Enjoy!

Wings of a Faerie

It all started when Abigail Porter reached up to the top shelf of her closet to get a wooden box down. She jerked and winced as a sudden, infuriating itch attacked her directly between the shoulder blades. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

She forgot about the box and squirmed around, trying to get at the itch. It was in an awkward place, just out of reach no matter how much she twisted and stretched. In the end, she put her back to the closet’s door frame and wriggled from side to side, sighing with relief.

The itchy area felt quite large, perhaps even two separate places a few inches apart. She pulled up her sweater and turned to peer over her shoulder into the large mirror that hung on her bedroom wall, sidling closer as she inspected her bare skin high on her back. She half expected to see a red patch, but there was nothing obvious.

“Huh,” she said at last, straightening her sweater. Her reflection stared back at her, head tilted and long, dark-brown hair draped over one shoulder. “Maybe a tick?” Those bugs could bite pretty hard when they wanted to.

She shook her head and returned to the closet to fetch the wooden box from the top shelf. She sat on her bed with it, the lid open. Inside were photographs of her parents when they were younger. Her mom wore a white smock in one, a stethoscope dangling around her neck. In others, she stood alongside her husband, the father Abigail had never met. He’d died before she was born, a handsome man with the same dark hair as her, and the same bright, mischievous smile.

Some of these photos were decades old. In them, her young, just-married parents had tanned skin and were squinting in the sunlight at whoever was taking the pictures. A couple of shots had snow and white sky in the background, but most were in dazzling sunshine.

Abigail stared at the clear sky for a long time. The sea in one picture was deep blue, the beach smooth and yellow. A city gleamed in another. She’d circled a tiny white dot high in the sky and written “airplane” next to it. Apparently, those things had carried hundreds of people from one place to another, through the air.

She moved to the window, still carrying that photo. Outside, the fog drifted as it always did. She could just about see the road. Across the other side, another house loomed, barely visible. All her friends lived on this street. Everyone she knew, everyone she’d ever known, her friends and their parents, all clustered together within easy walking distance—Lauren, Emily, Dewey and Fenton in one direction, Darcy, Robbie and Hal in the other.

Hal.

She smiled, picturing his messy, sandy-colored hair and clear, alert eyes. He had a nice smile, though most of the time he looked a little bewildered. Or at least he did when she was around.

It was a shame he hung out with Robbie so much. The two couldn’t be more different. While Hal was fairly short, quiet, and serious, Robbie towered over him by about a foot, skinny and awkward, loud and immature. Hal was cute, Robbie was a dork.

Her back started itching again, and she scowled, trying to reach it by bending her arm up and under. Again she resorted to scraping herself across the door frame, rubbing vigorously until the feeling subsided.

That was how it started.

* * *

The mysterious itch returned again and again over the next few days. One morning, she stopped three times on the way to the small school building to rub her back against the roughest tree trunks she could find. Her thick, black coat got in the way, and by the time she arrived at school, she was ready to throw it off and tear into her skin with a stiff wire brush if she could find one.

Hal distracted her. He didn’t look at her, just spent his time leaning sideways to talk to Robbie. She happened to sit right behind the tall, tousle-haired geek, so she was able to watch Hal while pretending to look down at her desk or out the window.

Darcy twisted around to watch him sometimes, too. Abigail made a face at her, and the blonde smiled and shook her head. They were good friends despite the tiniest bit of rivalry between them. Actually, Darcy had had a crush on Hal from an early age, long before Abigail had even paid him much attention in that way.

She chewed on the end of her pencil as Lauren’s mom, Mrs. Hunter, called for quiet and started the morning class. Darcy, Emily, and Lauren sat at the three desks in front. Robbie, Hal, and Fenton formed the middle row. Abigail and little Dewey had two of the three desks at the back. The ninth desk was empty, though it had once belonged to Thomas, rest his soul.

The itching drove her crazy all morning. At some point, she noticed Lauren squirming in a similar way, reaching up to her back, stretching her thumb as far as she could but not quite able to get at whatever was bothering her. We should scratch each other’s backs, Abigail thought, laughing inwardly at the pun.

At midday, when school was out, Abigail followed Hal and Robbie for a while as they walked along the somewhat muddy lane toward home. The fog pressed in, even damper than usual thanks to a light drizzle of rain. Nobody rode bikes on days like this unless they wanted to have mud splashed all over their clothes. The wind had picked up, too.

She called out to the boys. “I think it’s foggier than normal today. Have you noticed?”

Hal looked back at her and opened his mouth to say something, but Robbie jumped in with a sneering tone. “It’s exactly as foggy as it always is, Abi.”

Shaking her head, she said, “Not true. I think the fog is thicker when it’s windy.”

“So?” Robbie demanded. He nudged Hal and, whispering loud enough for Abigail to hear, said, “Here she goes again. One of her scientific theories coming up.”

“It’s almost like the fog is worried about getting blown away, so it—”

“The fog is worried?” Robbie said. He rolled his eyes. “See what I mean, Hal? Totally nuts.”

Hal grinned, but Abigail was pretty sure he was just standing by his friend, humoring him while feeling awkward about making fun of her. She could only see the back of his head right now, but he glanced over his shoulder once or twice with a look that might almost be an apology, like he was saying, Sorry about my friend. We should talk. How about we ditch this geek and walk together, just you and me?

She almost blushed at the thought. Talk about wishful thinking!

* * *

That evening, her mom—known to all as Dr. Porter, the island’s resident practitioner—carefully studied Abigail’s back under the light of the brightest lamp. “I can’t see anything except red marks where you’ve been scratching at it,” she murmured.

“No bites?” Abigail said, almost disappointed. At least bites were treatable. “Can you try some of your purple gunk on it?”

Dr. Porter kept her ‘purple gunk’ in a jar in her office. It was one of many concoctions she claimed worked better than any of the ointments she used to buy in pharmacies over a decade ago. She stuck her fingers in and smeared a cold, wet glob on Abigail’s back, making her gasp.

The itching faded instantly. The purple gunk had a numbing agent in it among other ingredients, and Abigail enjoyed the rest of the evening with barely a thought to the itching that had plagued her at least a few times an hour for the past few days.

It returned with a vengeance in the morning, though. Her mom shook her awake and whispered, “I’m going to help Darcy’s mom knead dough this morning. Her wrist is hurting, but we can’t do without her delicious bread. See you later.”

Abigail stared at the ceiling, her thoughts muddled. It’s Saturday, right? Then she smiled. Yes, it is. I can lie right here and go back to sleep—

The itch on her back flared up again. She wriggled and twisted, annoyed that it was attacking her so badly this morning. She opened her mouth to call out to her mom, to ask for some more purple gunk, but the front door banged shut at that moment, and footsteps receded up the path toward the road. “Fine,” Abigail muttered. “I’ll get it myself.”

Dressed in pajamas, she hurried through the cold house to her mom’s office. The purple gunk was on the shelf as it always was. She grabbed the large jar and rushed back to her room as another crawling sensation prickled her skin. “Okay,” she said grimly, unscrewing the lid and dipping her hand in, “I’ve just about had it with you.”

She yanked the back of her pajama top up and twisted around in front of the mirror, trying to angle her gunk-covered fingers without spilling the purple stuff on the floor. But then she froze.

Ignoring the itching, she stared over her shoulder at her reflection, tossing her head to fling her long hair out of the way. “What the . . . ?”

After wiping the gunk off her fingers inside the rim of the jar, she gripped her pajama top and pulled it high at the back, bending forward a little so the feeble light from the window shone on her skin. There was definitely something wrong—two weird-looking sores an inch or so apart, side by side directly between her shoulder blades. When she stretched her arm over her shoulder, her fingertips brushed over two raised lumps.

“Okay, that’s not good,” she said aloud.

If they were bug bites, they were remarkably symmetrical in their positioning.

“Mom?” she called, then kicked herself. She was alone in the house.

Oddly, the itching subsided without the use of the purple gunk. It was almost like the sores had been trying to draw her attention to them. Now that she’d noticed, they were satisfied at last, no longer irritating her.

She didn’t bother getting dressed that morning. If she planned to keep twisting around and peering at the sores, it was easier to stay in her pj’s. She made herself a breakfast of scrambled eggs and heated some milk over the fire. Eating alone wasn’t unusual for her, because her mom often rose early and went out, but today she felt a little strange. One sore on her back might be attributed to a spider bite, like that of a brown recluse. They tended to be unnoticeable at first, flaring up the next day. But two sores next to each other, so neatly placed, and so big, at least two inches in diameter . . . ? It just struck her as odd.

Even stranger was the fact that Lauren had been itching in the same place. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe something else was going on.

* * *

Abigail often wondered about their life on the island. All her friends did. They talked about it once in a while, a regular conversation that was brought up and dismissed almost like an unspoken ritual: Why are we here? What’s Out There beyond the fog? Where’s everyone else? Is the world really dead as our parents say it is? What happened all those years ago before we were born?

Abigail always tried to take the discussions a little further. She believed the adults weren’t telling them everything. What was the point of living out their lives on a secluded island with nothing to look forward to? Why bother if the rest of the world was empty and devoid of life? Of course, Robbie always shot her down just as she got started on her latest ideas: What if this fog doesn’t cover the whole world as we think it does? What if it only covers the island? What if there are people across on the mainland, living normal lives and thinking what a horrible, dismal place that funny little island is out in the bay? What if the adults are lying to us and only pretending everyone Out There is dead?

These ideas plagued her often. And seeing two mysterious sores appear overnight on her back made her even more suspicious. Did Lauren have sores, too?

She tried not to fret too much over them. Instead, she pulled out her photo box again, studying the landscapes and wondering for the millionth time if she would ever get to see such places. “Not unless we leave this island,” she murmured, staring wistfully at a gleaming white sail boat in the blue sea.

Lying on her belly on the bed, she didn’t notice anything strange about her sores for a while. She began to feel a tightness around her shoulders and kept plucking at her pajama top as though it were slowly shrinking. After a while, she sat up with a frown. It was definitely tighter. She tugged on it, thinking it had gotten twisted somehow.

It snagged on something at the back.

Confused, she rolled off the bed and padded to the mirror. Turning sideways, she sucked in a breath. Her heart started thudding in her chest, and she let out a cry.

Something protruded from her back. Two things. She couldn’t make out their exact shape, but she knew they were bent up, trying to escape her pajamas between her shoulders.

She yanked the top up, and whatever they were sprang free and hung low on her back, greyish in color, wet-looking and translucent, starting to unfurl even as they oozed slime.

Abigail screamed.

* * *

She ran about the room in a panic as if moving fast enough might somehow leave the hideous things behind. They clung to her, a pair of giant flies that had somehow hatched out of her back and were allowing their newborn wings to dry.

After a minute, she paused and stood panting in front of the mirror, craning her neck to see what the insects were doing, squirming with revulsion but somehow knowing it wasn’t possible, that giant bugs couldn’t just erupt out of her skin like that. They had be something else.

She became aware of her own whimpering and harsh breathing, and she tried to calm herself. They were definitely insect wings, big ones, easily two feet long now, still growing and unfurling as they dried . . . and yet there were no insect bodies. No disgusting, black, hideous legs, no nasty-looking heads with mandibles. Nothing but the wings.

They were literally growing out of her back.

She stared and stared, trying to get a clear look at them. In the end, she yanked her pajama top off and threw it aside, then pulled her long hair out of the way. When she ignored the fact that these wings stuck out of her body, she appreciated how pretty they actually were. What had started off as gross, slimy, limp appendages had now dried and spread out. Each were three and a half feet long by this point, shaped rather like a butterfly’s wings only translucent with delicate veins and capillaries of blue and gold.

She must have stood there for half an hour, twisting and turning. Her neck got a severe ache, and she had to face front for a while. Still looking in the mirror, she could see the wings sticking up behind her shoulders. A thought occurred to her. I wonder if I can—

They fluttered. Startled, she watched as the wings moved in fits and starts. Was she doing this? She didn’t feel like she was doing anything, and yet it took no effort to walk either, or lift her arms, or tilt her head. If a person was born with wings, they should be easy to move, right? Otherwise, what was the point?

They flickered faster and faster, stuttering occasionally but growing more powerful with every passing second, causing a strong draft and a low, eerie buzzing sound that sounded just like a dragonfly only amplified a hundred times.

Entranced, no longer afraid, Abigail stared into the mirror at the blurred motion behind her shoulders. And as she watched, she lifted off the floor.

* * *

Desperate to go outside where there was more room, she forced herself to sit for a moment and figure out what kind of clothes she could wear that wouldn’t get in the way. She couldn’t go about with only pajama bottoms on!

She rummaged through her closet and picked out a dress she didn’t wear much. It was bright red, a little garish for her taste, one her mom liked. She took it off its hanger and held it up while peering sideways into the mirror, then found a pair of scissors and laid the dress front-side down on the bed. Carefully, she poked the scissors through the fabric and started snipping. Cutting horizontally might have made more sense since the wings protruded side by side, but the wings themselves were angled vertically, so she snip-snipped that way instead. She stopped when the gash was about eight inches long.

Putting the dress on was a challenge. She wriggled halfway into it and maneuvered her wings through the gap. The first was easy, the second much more difficult. This wasn’t going to work. It would be okay for now, but in future she’d need something a lot easier to slip on and off.

Because I have wings now, she thought, amazed at how well she was accepting this monumental transformation.

As she straightened the dress and rolled her shoulders to see how much room she had, it occurred to her that her mom was going to freak out when she came home and saw her daughter flying around the yard.

Abigail hurried outside. The fog was awful today, thick and clammy, but it would serve to hide her antics. Without hesitation, she set her wings in motion and lifted off the ground, picking up speed as she whipped across the back yard out of sight of neighboring houses.

“This is so cool!” she cried in delight, putting aside the enormity of the situation. It soon came crashing back on her, though. She had wings! How could she face her classmates like this? How could she face her mom? Would the adults try to cut the wings off? Would they pin her down, drug her, and perform surgery while she slept? What a horrible thought!

She buzzed easily across the yard, first dragging her feet in the grass then daring to rise higher and higher. Exactly how high could she go, anyway?

Her heart leapt. She could fly up above the fog! Climbing to an elevated position was something she and her friends had considered many times, but the only place that allowed such a height was the lighthouse at the southern tip of the island, and that place was chained and locked, strictly forbidden. She’d often wondered if it was forbidden because it would afford a view over the top of the fog. Imagine climbing those stairs and emerging into sunshine . . .

But now she could simply fly. She zipped upward, almost bursting with anticipation. She had no clue why wings had suddenly sprouted out of her back, and they might wilt and fade away overnight for all she knew, but right now she planned to take advantage of them.

The fog closed in below, and she lost sight of the ground. However, no matter how high she buzzed, the whiteness seemed to go on forever. Maybe the world really was utterly covered in the stuff. If so, then all her conspiracy theories went out of the window.

Fearful that she was already miles above the earth, she reluctantly decided it was hopeless and began descending again. To her surprise, the ground appeared immediately, much earlier than expected, almost as though she hadn’t climbed anywhere near as high as she’d thought. She dropped lightly onto the grass and stood there trying to figure it out.

“Let’s try that again,” she said, shooting upward, determined to burst out of the fog this time.

After several attempts, she gave up with the distinct feeling her wings lost power not far off the ground, perhaps no more than twice the height of the house. Either that was ‘normal’ for wings like hers, or the fog was somehow dampening the power of her flight.

“All right,” she said, annoyed. “If I can’t go up, I’ll go sideways. I can fly out over the sea toward the mainland.”

With a plan in mind, she flew over the fence at the back of the yard and set off across the open fields, buzzing along at a fair clip, the wind rushing through her hair.

* * *

Cold and drenched, shivering violently, Abigail rubbed her arms and ran on the spot for a minute, trying to warm up. The sea crashed against the rocks and up the sloping road. She’d been to the docks many times but had never been foolish enough to swim in the water. Not here, anyway. There were small coves dotted around the island where the waves were calmer. But the docks were closest.

Her experiment hadn’t worked. She’d buzzed straight out over the sea, lost power, and splashed down thirty yards out. Her sodden wings had been even more useless then, and she’d coughed and spluttered her way back to shore. Even now, standing on firm ground, her wings were in a sorry state, as limp and bedraggled as her thin, red dress.

Shuddering, she began the walk home, breaking into a trot in an effort to warm herself up. Why hadn’t it worked? Why didn’t her wings treat the sea like a solid surface? Of course it wasn’t solid, but why should that matter?

It had to be the fog. Something in the air was grounding her, keeping her trapped on the island. Her conspiracy theory returned with a vengeance.

“We’re experiments,” she concluded as she darted around the backs of the houses. “We’re freaks of nature, and that’s why we’re stuck here on this island—because we’re special.”

Did her mom know about this? She had to. All the parents did. They’d lied about everything, or at least a lot of it. The complete story was a mystery, but Abigail was certain of one thing—that she wasn’t quite human.

“They’ll experiments on us,” she mused as her house loomed ahead. “As soon as they see my wings, they’ll study me and poke at me, maybe take me off to some other place where there are others like me, freaks who can fly. Or maybe freaks who have three heads or ten legs. Who knows?”

By the time she hurried inside, she was convinced she needed to bring her friends in on the secret while keeping the adults in the dark. Maybe they knew what she was and maybe they didn’t, but there was no sense involving them until she’d found out what was going on.

She stared in shock at the mirror in her bedroom, turning sideways and twisting her head around to look. “No, no, no,” she moaned. “What’s happened?”

Part of her was relieved. Another part was desperately saddened and disappointed.

Her wings had vanished.

* * *

She hung the sodden red dress in her closet, giving it ample room to dry out, then pulled on some warm clothes and sat in front of the fire in the living room, brushing out her hair and thinking about her incredible morning.

Was that it? All that itching, those horrible sores, and then spectacular wings for just a few hours? Had she ruined them by dunking herself in the sea? Or perhaps her wings had known she’d tried to escape the island and somehow disapproved . . .

Abigail said nothing about her experience to her mom. If the adults really knew nothing about their children changing in extraordinary ways, then there was no reason they would believe a word she said about growing a pair of insectlike wings. And if they did know something and had been expecting such changes, then it proved that her conspiracy theory was correct, in which case the adults didn’t deserve the truth.

Not yet, anyway. Not until Abigail had discovered the truth herself.

As it turned out, her wings grew back later that night.

* * *

She was lying there on her back thinking about her pretty, translucent wings when, all of a sudden, she felt a pressure between her shoulder blades and bolted upright. With more room to push out of her flesh, they poked at the back of her pajama top and struggled to get free.

Jumping out of bed, she tore her top off and allowed the wings to spread. They were back! Delighted, she once more struggled into her red dress and slipped out of the house. It was way past midnight, and her mom was sound asleep.

Outside, she stopped and gasped. Her vision had improved. Everything glowed in the night—the path under her feet, the sprawling oak to her right, the gate leading to the road, even the fog itself to some extent. Wings and night vision!

She buzzed along the road in full view of anyone who happened to look out, not that they’d see much in the darkness. She stopped outside Hal’s house and considered tapping on his window. Imagine his expression when he finds out I’m some kind of winged freak.

She turned away. Better to warn him she was coming before waking him out of the blue. Maybe she’d talk to him tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week. First, she needed to figure out what caused her wings to grow and why they’d vanished on her way home after she’d crawled out of the sea. Would they retract again by morning? They’d better, otherwise her mom would see them!

She buzzed back along the road, not sure where she was headed but enjoying the freedom her flight provided. There was a lot of experimentation to do. If she was going to bring Hal into this, she had to be armed with information and in full control of her abilities. Maybe she could figure out how to grow them at will . . .

That was an interesting thought. If that were indeed possible, then she could keep her wings hidden except when she needed them, which meant she could go to school as normal, keep a closer eye on her friends, and carefully dig around for the truth.

At that moment, her long hair somehow got snagged on her wings. She winced and tugged it free. It was just a strand or two caught around the firm base of a wing where it protruded from her dress, but it still hurt. She flung her hair about and vowed to put it up in a ponytail next time. Even then it might be in the way. She’d always been proud to wear her hair long, but she might have to crop it shorter if sprouting wings were to become a regular occurrence.

* * *

She quickly learned how to retract her wings at will and grow them whenever she wanted. It was like riding a bike—hard to learn, but very easy thereafter. Armed with that power, she positively brimmed with excitement and joy.

School on Monday turned out to be fairly normal. In fact, the rest of the week was pretty much the same as always except that she stopped bringing her bike to school. Instead, she flew in across the fields, careful not to be seen. For this reason, she wore her red dress a few days too often, something Darcy remarked on with a raised eyebrow.

Abigail chose a few other dresses and cut similar slits in the backs, well aware as she snipped that her mom was soon going to discover the damage. And so it was that she started helping out with the laundry a bit more, careful to wash and dry her own clothes to keep the secret intact.

She always wore her thick, black coat, and while flying hugged it to her chest and slipped it on again after she’d retracted her wings. But she still had an eight-inch gash in her dress between her shoulders, easy for someone to spot without her coat on. Luckily she happened to sit at the back of the class, so nobody noticed. And if they did, maybe they just thought she’d torn it on something. Lots of them had favorite clothes that had become worn and shabby over the years.

Her hair became a serious problem. She teased everyone by saying something important was about to happen, then went to school the next morning with at least six inches cut off. Her mom knew better than to ask too many questions. Abigail was, after all, a growing young woman with every right to change her style once in a while. The shorter hair helped tremendously and never got snagged in her wings again.

Two weeks passed, and Abigail mastered control of her wings and flight. She delved into books, wondering if anybody had ever grown wings before. Most of the books she owned were nonfiction, and the most comprehensive book on wildlife never mentioned anything remotely similar to a winged human girl.

Then she remembered stories of the Tooth Fairy. Inspired, Abigail eventually found a book named Creatures of Fantasy, filled with mythical monsters. She flipped through the pages until one particular painting stopped her dead. Not the Tooth Fairy, but a faerie, one of the fae folk. She stared and stared at the large, translucent wings shaped like a butterfly’s. The resemblance to her own were striking. The girl—young and pretty—had pointed ears, golden hair, and a cute frock that sparkled.

“I’m a faerie,” she whispered in awe.

Actually, she was too big to be a faerie. The description in the book said they were tiny creatures about the size of a hand. Still, the book might be wrong. It claimed all these creatures were the stuff of myth and legend, after all. Abigail was not.

She closed the book, convinced she was right.

After that, she watched her classmates like a hawk. Lauren kept trying to get at the same itch on her back, and sometimes her thumb actually grew in length as she struggled to reach her prickly skin. Abigail watched in amazement. Lauren’s thumb not only stretched longer but sprouted greyish-white hair. Gross!

It was puzzling, too. Faeries had no such greyish-white hair on their knuckles. Did this mean Lauren wasn’t a faerie after all? Clearly she had wings about to sprout, but it was conceivable she was some other kind of creature. There were plenty in the Creatures of Fantasy book.

In an effort to be the first to answer when Mrs. Hunter asked a math question, Emily showed herself to be on the cusp of changing also. Her neck stretched slightly, her head lifting a few inches as she strained to be picked. Nobody else seemed to notice, but then again, only Abigail was actively looking for such oddities.

Fenton began rubbing at his face, clearly bothered by a toothache. It subsided a day later, and she dismissed it. Then it returned for another couple of days and faded again. Maybe something was going on with him. Or maybe it was just a toothache.

Her attention kept returning to Hal, who spent much of his time scratching at his left forearm, usually without even realizing he was doing it. Abigail studied his hand, half expecting hair to grow or fingers to stretch. But nothing happened. Still, the itch told her that he, too, was on the verge of a transformation.

It was time to bring him in on her conspiracy theory. She trembled with anticipation at the idea of not only sharing her secret, but sharing it with him. Nobody else interested her right now, not the girls and certainly not the other boys. It had to be him. There was something about him, something in him, a sense of leadership he probably didn’t know he possessed. So grounded and serious, easy to tease . . . yet smart and quick-witted, ready to join in with a joke.

He was the one.

During class one morning, she leaned forward and whispered, “Hey, Hal. Psst!”

While Mrs. Hunter shuffled test papers, getting ready to hand them out, Hal twisted around to look at her with raised eyebrows.

Abigail tugged on her ponytail, twirling her hair as she offered her sweetest smile. “Hey, got something to tell you later. Can we meet after school?”

The look of apprehension on his face tickled her. “Can’t,” he said cagily. “Busy.”

She laughed inwardly. He might resist for a while, especially with Robbie by his side all the time, but he would cave eventually. He was too nice and polite to shut her out for ever. She just had to be persistent.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

* * *

Actually, getting a slice of time alone with Hal proved difficult. She got wind of something he and Robbie were involved in and followed them as they stole equipment from the big storage barn. She finally figured out they were building a raft—something she herself had jokingly suggested in class! Amazed and more than a little envious, she spied on them as they hammered away on the docks.

They finished the raft the next day. Saturday was even chillier than the day before, but this time Abigail had brought a scarf, which she wrapped around her lower face.

She watched from afar as the boys tried to turn the contraption over. Hal and Robbie had built it upside down, and now it was extremely heavy, a door with long planks nailed to it and plastic tubs tied on. After a struggle, Robbie ended up throwing a hissy fit. To Abigail’s astonishment, he somehow manhandled the entire thing on his own, upending the raft and pushing it over so that it slammed down and shook the entire jetty.

“You’re a lot stronger than you look, skinny boy,” she mused.

As the boys pushed the raft into the water and climbed aboard with shovels for paddles, she suddenly wished she was going with them. She emerged from her hiding place and hurried down to the jetty, hoping Hal would see her and halt. He did spot her just before the raft bobbed away into the thick fog, and he whispered something to Robbie. They didn’t attempt to stop, though.

“Where are you going?” Abigail called to them.

The raft drifted farther as the boys stared at each other. Finally, Hal shouted, “We’re going Out There!” His voice sounded muffled.

Abigail pulled the scarf from her mouth. “What about the sea serpent?”

“There is no sea serpent,” Robbie retorted.

She’d thought the same thing for years. Now she wondered. And worried.

“We need you to keep this secret,” Hal called to her. “You know how much trouble we’ll be in if we’re found out. Can we trust you?”

She could barely see them now. “Obviously not,” she shouted back, “or you would have let me in on this earlier.” And with me along for the ride, you wouldn’t run the risk of losing your way in this awful fog, she thought. A simple ball of wool or something similar would have prevented that—one end tied to the jetty as a guide in case they got turned around and confused. “Don’t get lost out there,” she added. “You should have brought loads of string.”

The raft vanished then, swallowed up in the fog. A silence fell, broken only by the sea lapping against the jetty she stood on, and the waves buffeting the rocks farther along the coast. Though calm today, it was bitterly cold and impossible to see into the distance.

She waited, shivering.

The fog rolled silently.

Not long after, she heard Robbie yelling. Sucking in a breath, she listened intently as more yells and frantic splashing drifted through the whiteness. The sea serpent! Were the tales true? All the adults had warned of such a thing, but she and her friends had figured it was just a ploy to keep them from doing exactly what Hal and Robbie were doing right now—sailing away from the island.

Now they were in trouble.

She wished she could fly out over the sea to rescue them but knew she’d end up thrashing in the water like before. There was nothing to do but wait.

A disturbance in the water caught her eye. Out of the fog, something moved toward the dock—something large and rounded and scaly, milky-white and glistening, sticking out of the water like the underside of an upturned boat. She spotted huge, saucerlike eyes and gasped. The sea serpent.

Perched on the back of the monster’s head was the raft, and clinging to the tilted raft were Hal and Robbie, their faces white and eyes wide. Rather than swallow the boys and raft in one gulp, the serpent was bringing them back—returning them safely to the island!

The gigantic creature abruptly sank out of sight, and the raft bobbed the rest of the way to the jetty. Abigail stood frozen, watching her friends as they clambered up onto the deck. They were unaware for a moment that the monster was returning, but they shouted in terror as it rose up out of the water, its huge mouth yawning wide, fangs glistening, water streaming off its head . . .

And then it splashed into the sea and disappeared, leaving the boys cowering and trembling in fear.

Abigail started breathing again. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind now. The adults had warned them all of the sea serpent, which meant they knew such creatures existed—which in turn meant they probably knew what was happening to Abigail and her classmates.

They knew.

She’d grown wings. Lauren was about to grow wings. Emily’s neck kept stretching in class. Fenton had a severe toothache, which meant his jaws were likely undergoing some kind of alteration. Robbie had shown impressive, unlikely signs of strength lately. And Hal had been scratching at an itch on his left hand.

It was a matter of time. They were all changing.

Something gripped Abigail from within, and determination set in. It was time to get to the bottom of this. It was time to approach Hal and show him her secret.

She broke from her paralysis and pounded along the jetty toward the shaking boys. “The sea serpent!” she shouted. “That was the sea serpent!”

Robbie climbed to his feet. “No, really? What, that giant monster in the sea that nearly ate us alive just now? Never!”

Abigail ignored him. Hal was sitting on the jetty, looking green. “Are you okay, Hal? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

But she was glad he looked so shocked. The look on his face told her his entire belief system had been turned on its head. Now, more than ever, he was ready to listen to her wild conspiracy theories. After seeing a gigantic watery serpent, her simple faerie wings would pale in comparison.

Abigail felt a thrill of excitement. With Hal by her side, the real journey of discovery was about to begin.

Nameless Monster

Halfway through Friday morning, Fenton decided he’d had enough. His aching jaw was driving him nuts. Besides, he couldn’t think of a better reason to get out of school work.

“Pweathe, Mithith Hunter?” he said, his mouth feeling like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, “can I pweathe go home? I’ve got a toothache.”

Mrs. Hunter’s eyebrows shot up. “Goodness, Fenton,” she said, hurrying toward his desk. He was surprised at how concerned she appeared. Then again, she’d been glancing at him all morning, obviously aware something was off. “May I see?”

As the rest of the class stared at him, Fenton forced his mouth open and said “Ah” while Mrs. Hunter peered in. A silence had fallen in the room, and he could see Hal and Robbie gawking out of the corner of his eye.

Mrs. Hunter cleared her throat. “That’s, uh . . . that’s quite a toothache you have there, young Fenton Bridges. Yes, you may go home. Perhaps you should ask your mother to take you to Dr. Porter. She may have something to alleviate the pain.”

Fenton had expected this response. Abigail’s mother, Dr. Porter, was nice enough. Unfortunately, Abigail herself was an annoying brat. The last thing he wanted was her prying into his business and gloating over his pain.

Still, he nodded and got to his feet, glancing around as he did so. Only Darcy in the front row looked genuinely concerned for him. The other two girls in that row, Emily and Lauren, seemed more curious and nosy than anything. Robbie, wide-eyed and hopeful, had obviously realized he’d now be safe from Fenton’s fists after school. Hal just looked surprised, as did Dewey behind him. And of course Abigail, sitting at the back by the window, had a broad grin on her face. Freckled-faced idiot, Fenton thought.

Without a word, he shuffled from the room, playing up the toothache and placing a hand on his cheek.

Though foggy as always, the drizzle over the past few days had dried up, allowing him to bring his bicycle today. Once clear of the old school building, he grinned with satisfaction—then winced, almost wobbling off the dirt track into the rickety fence that ran alongside. Okay, so he was out of school, but how could he enjoy the rest of the morning while his jaw felt like it was broken in three places?

The toothache had started earlier in the week. Nothing out of the ordinary, just mildly irritating. He’d taken out his pain on Robbie, actually punching him on the chin yesterday and sending him flying into a muddy puddle. Fenton had felt a little better afterward, but not much.

The best part about skipping school was that he’d be home alone. His dad spent most days in the fields with the other dads, and his mom had mentioned something about foraging for crabapples this morning. He grinned—carefully—and pedaled harder.

The house was empty. He sauntered into the kitchen, grabbed a hunk of bread, tore a smaller piece off, and without thinking stuffed it into his mouth. Then he paused, remembering how difficult it had been to chew his toast that morning. As usual, he’d cut the bread into strips, browned them to a crisp over the fireplace, and dipped them in his boiled eggs—but it had hurt all down the left side of his face, and he’d taken way longer than normal to finish his breakfast.

It was the same with the hunk of bread. He chewed a piece slowly until he could swallow, then reluctantly put the rest back into the wooden bread box.

He had a couple of hours before his mom would be home. Plenty of time for a late-morning nap, something she usually frowned on. “Things don’t get done when you sleep away the daylight hours,” she often scolded when he lazed around.

Throwing himself on his bed, he gazed up at the ceiling and enjoyed the peace and quiet until his eyelids started feeling heavy . . .

* * *

The toothache kept him awake. Time after time, pain lanced through his jaw and caused him to wince and swear under his breath. Finally he sat up, angry and feeling put upon. It wasn’t often he had the house to himself and no chores to do. Why couldn’t he enjoy the moment?

He peered into the bathroom mirror, opening wide and trying to see what hurt so much. He probed the inside of his mouth with a finger. To his surprise, some of his molars felt like they were pointed. He grimaced, tried to ignore the pain in his jaw, and took a moment to study his slightly chubby cheeks, small green eyes, and short-cropped spiky hair. His mom frequently told him to quit eating so much, but Fenton didn’t think he was all that overweight. Big-boned, perhaps. A “normal growing lad,” as his dad argued.

At that moment, his mom came trudging up the front path and into the house. Fenton sighed and went to greet her. She jumped at the sight of him and nearly dropped her basket.

“Goodness, Fenton! What are you doing, sneaking out of the shadows like that? Why are you home so early?”

“Got toothache,” he mumbled. “Mithith Hunter thent me home.”

He frowned, annoyed that his words weren’t coming out properly. He had a ridiculous lisp! But at least it convinced his mom he was telling the truth.

She put her apple-filled basket on the floor, grasped his chin, and bent to look. “Open up.”

He obeyed and waited while she took a quick look inside his mouth. “I can’t see anything wrong.”

“Put your finger in,” Fenton suggested. “You can feel—”

“I’m not putting my finger in your mouth,” his mom said dismissively, bending to pick up the basket. “Since you’re here, come and help me clean these crabapples. I found some nice ones. I can make a pie tonight.”

“Aw, Mom, do I have to?” An idea struck him. “Mithith Hunter told me to go thee Mithith Porter and get thomthing for the pain. Can I?”

She turned to glare at him. “Why didn’t you do it before? Why didn’t you go straight there from school?” With a sudden knowing look, she nodded and turned away, heading for the kitchen. “Being lazy again, I’ll bet. Thought you’d come home and take a nap?”

“No way!”

She slammed the basket down on the kitchen counter and swung around. “Fenton, we’re on our own on this island. Just eight families on this one strip of road. We don’t have grocery stores or electricity or even running water. Everything we need we have to work for.”

He’d heard this speech a million times. “Mom—”

“I keep telling you this, Fenton. You and your dad are exactly the same, always ready to laze around the first chance you get. Do you know why he’s out in the fields right now?”

“Because he’th plowing the fieldth, getting ready for—”

“Because I told him to get off his backside and go to work!” she snapped. “If it weren’t for me, he’d probably still be in bed.”

“Mom, don’t get angry again.”

“Don’t tell me what not to do!” she shouted. Her face was darkening, always a bad sign. She shoved him in the chest, sending him reeling backward, then threw up her hands in disgust and turned away. “Go on then, go see Dr. Porter if you must—and hurry straight back! No dilly-dallying.”

* * *

Fenton cycled fast, simmering with frustration. He tore right past Abigail’s house and onward along the road. Why did his mom always have to blow her top? Why did she have to rag on his dad so much? They were always bickering, and it was mostly her fault.

Of course, his dad had a way of getting her fired up. When she started on him for one thing or another, he always retaliated in force instead of attempting to placate her. It was like he’d given up trying to be diplomatic. Fenton often wondered why they didn’t separate and live at opposite ends of the street—heck, opposite sides of the island! There were plenty of empty houses to choose from.

Actually, they had separated a few times when he was little. He barely remembered those confusing times. They’d always come back together again, and he wasn’t sure if it was to provide a stronger family unit or simply because it was flat-out humiliating being the only mom and dad who couldn’t get over their differences.

They kept their heated discussions private for the most part. Fenton figured they were experts at deception by now, putting on happy, smiling faces in the presence of others while secretly wanting to argue over every little thing.

Gritting his teeth, Fenton pumped his pedals harder and harder, the damp, foggy air chilling his face as he sailed along at breakneck speed. If only Robbie were here right now! A good punch in the face would release some of Fenton’s pent-up steam, at least for a moment. His parents’ bickering was like a nasty black cloud of resentment that filled the air and got into his lungs, and the only way to clear it out was to direct it at someone else. It worked to some degree.

Running out of steam, he did a U-turn and cycled back at a more moderate pace. He glimpsed Dr. Porter through the window of her house as he parked his bicycle and stomped up the path.

He raised his hand to knock, then froze. He could hear Abigail’s voice inside, sounding annoyingly cheerful as she went on about going to spy on Hal and Robbie for the afternoon. Dr. Porter said, “That’s nice, dear, but please help me in the yard first, would you?”

Fenton grunted and let his hand drop to his side. It sounded like Abigail would be here a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe thirty. But even sixty seconds was too long to hang around on the doorstep. And he refused to stand in Dr. Porter’s office and be poked and prodded while Abigail lurked in the background giggling at him.

He turned and headed home, planning to come back later.

* * *

He never got the chance that day. His mom made him peel apples, scrub the bathroom, pull some weeds out front, and a myriad of other tasks that he swore weren’t urgent. She was just annoyed at him for daring to take a short nap that morning—and he hadn’t even gotten to do that properly!

The pain in his mouth plagued him all afternoon. Luckily, the pain lessened toward the evening, and his lisp faded, but not until after he finished his chores. Typical. Now that he was free to go see Dr. Porter, he found he didn’t need to. Earlier would have been better, when it had really hurt. He’d had to wipe his eyes a couple of times while bending to rip out some weeds.

Crying was something he would never, ever let his classmates see, though he did it fairly often. He guessed most kids cried on occasion, especially when the sound of arguing parents echoed through the house; it was just a fact of life and something he’d learned to suck up and deal with. The others in his class never seemed angry about it, though, which made him think their parents didn’t bicker as much.

When his dad strolled in after dark and said, “Hello, wife of mine,” she grinned and kissed him on the cheek, and everything seemed normal, the way it should be. Fenton mentioned his toothache, and his dad frowned and said, “It’s been hurting all day? Why didn’t you go see Dr. Porter?”

“I did, but Abi was there.”

Both his parents stared at him, looking blank, and he hastened to explain what a pest she was. They both laughed.

“So why couldn’t you go back later?” his dad pressed.

Fenton opened his mouth to say he’d been too busy doing chores all afternoon, but then he glanced at his mom, at the argument waiting to happen, and he clammed up and shrugged. “It stopped hurting. It’s okay now.”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore?”

“Well, it’s . . . it’s not too bad.”

His dad reached out to ruffle his hair. “You’re a big, strong lad, but it’s okay to tell us when something hurts. You never get sick, but a toothache? That can be rough. If it’s hurting tomorrow, go see Dr. Porter—and actually go in and talk to her whether Abigail’s there or not. Okay?”

* * *

On Saturday, his toothache returned with a vengeance. He woke to find drool all over his chin, and he sat up gaping at the sheer amount of it. His pillow and the top part of his blanket were soaked. “Man alive,” he muttered, wiping his chin.

Once dressed, he stood in the bathroom and probed around inside his mouth. All of his molars were as pointed as his incisors. Shocked, he dug his finger around for several minutes before he had to quit because his jaw ached so much. He’d managed to drool again, and he stared at the fresh wet patch on his clean shirt. When he tried to dry it with a towel, he found the material was already growing stiff, almost crispy. “Great,” he said with disgust.

Though his jaw still hurt, at least his lisp had gone. He joined his parents for breakfast and struggled through it as they watched him with narrowed eyes. Finally, his dad said, “Go see Dr. Porter.”

“Then come right back,” his mom warned. “Your dad’s heading over to the fields again today, which means I’m left behind to fend for myself again. I need help with—”

“Oh, give it a rest, woman,” came the grumbled retort. “You complain when I’m here, you complain when I’m not . . . I can’t win whatever I do. Fenton, go see Dr. Porter and take it easy this afternoon.”

“I will,” Fenton said meekly, aware of his fuming mom. Would she allow him to take his dad’s orders to heart? Or would she override him and work up a list of more chores? “I guess I’ll head over there now.”

He did so, strolling down the foggy road and glancing from left to right at each house as he passed. There weren’t many between his and Abigail’s. He spotted Dewey on the tire swing in his back yard, seemingly lost in thought. He heard Darcy’s high-pitched giggles through the open window of her living room, which made him smile; Emily and Lauren were probably there, too.

He stopped at the gate leading to Dr. Porter’s. Was Abigail in? Probably still eating breakfast. But unlike yesterday, he was content to hang around in the fog for as long as necessary. It beat going back home and being roped into more chores.

A tree stood to the side of the path leading up to the front door. Fenton scurried across the long, damp grass toward it, keeping an eye open for movement in the windows. As he reached the white oak’s thick trunk, he realized the lowest branch was just out of reach. That was a shame. It would have been neat to straddle the branch and relax there, waiting for Abigail to go out.

He looked for footholds and tried a place or two. One might do, though it was shallow and slippery. He scrabbled a few times, trying to push himself up and grab the branch in one smooth motion. He managed it on the third attempt, and he hung there, knowing it would be supremely difficult to swing his legs up and over the branch. He was pretty strong but also heavy . . .

The front door of the house flew open and Abigail stepped out, calling back over her shoulder. “See you later!”

Fenton sucked in a breath, knowing he’d be plainly visibly any second now. From inside the hallway, Dr. Porter said something in a muffled voice. Abigail replied, “To the seaside. It’s a nice day for a swim!”

She banged the door shut and started down the path toward the road. Fenton, feeling like he was about to be caught red-handed but not quite sure why he even cared, pulled himself upward, suddenly finding it much easier than he’d expected, his hands easily gripping the bark without slipping. He flattened himself on the branch just as Abigail passed by no more than fifteen feet away.

Dressed in a black coat and a bright red scarf, she hurried off along the road toward the docks. A nice day for a swim? Fenton knew she was joking. The thought of swimming in the choppy green sea on a day like this—on any day for that matter—struck him as crazy.

But at least she was gone. His timing had been perfect. In fact, lying flat on the cold, hard branch made him realize he’d been foolish to think he could linger for more than five or ten minutes here. It was chilly today.

Trying to sit up, he realized his hands were stuck to the bark. He felt a moment of panic as he tugged in vain. What the—? Just as his heart began to pound, his right hand abruptly came free, then his left, and he sat up straight and stared at his palms as if expecting to find sticky tree sap or something.

There was nothing. He pressed his hands together and pulled them apart with no difficulty. He glared down at the branch and gently ran his hand over its surface. Still nothing. No sign of stickiness at all. And when he placed his hands firmly on the branch again, they came away just fine.

He shook his head and climbed down, aware that his jaw had started aching badly again. Drool ran out down his chin, and he gasped with surprise, reaching up to wipe it away. What had gotten into him?

* * *

Dr. Porter answered the door and smiled. “Young Fenton, what can I do for you today?”

She was a small woman, not unlike Abigail in looks, though she kept her dark-brown hair pulled back in a bun rather than a ponytail.

“Got a toothache,” Fenton muttered. “Need something for the pain.”

“Well, come on in. I have a numbing salve you can rub into your gums with your finger. Let me take a look.”

She led him into her office, which had a desk and chair on one side and a high, padded examination table on the other. The large, frosted window let in a lot of hazy light and caused it to glow in a surreal manner. Fenton sat and opened his mouth while Dr. Porter produced a small, circular mirror on the end of a stainless-steel rod.

“Now, let me see,” she murmured, sitting on a stool and leaning close.

Fenton sat still while she splayed her fingers across the side of his mouth and cheek and probed inside with a finger, much as he’d done himself. She pushed on one of his molars, and he winced. She ran her finger over all his lower back teeth. She withdrew her hand and stared closer with a puzzled frown as she twisted the cold mirror around.

“Ah?” Fenton managed to ask.

She blinked, her mouth open in obvious astonishment. “Well, that’s not—I mean, really, this is quite—quite unexpected! Pointed back teeth? I’ve never—” Releasing him, she sat back and locked her eyes on his. “When did this start?”

Fenton stretched and rubbed his jaw before answering. “Few days ago.”

“And is anything else going on with you? Is it just your teeth?”

She immediately glanced down at his shirt, and he knew she was looking at the wet patch from his drool. He wiped his chin again. “This, too,” he muttered.

“You’re salivating a lot?” Nodding, Dr. Porter’s gaze flicked across his face to his ears, his hair, his neck, his shoulders . . . “And what else?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing at all?”

She seemed a little too eager for his liking, as though relishing his misfortune. He guessed it gave her something interesting to use her doctoring skills on.

He shrugged and looked toward the window as though the soft glow might present him with answers. The thing that happened on the tree outside, when his hands had gotten stuck . . . Did that count?

“No,” he said at last. “Just pointy teeth and dribble.”

Dr. Porter got up and started pacing, clearly agitated and excited at the same time. “Is it finally happening? After all these years, just when we feared we were never getting away from this awful, foggy—” She broke off and spun to look at him. “Does anyone else know about this? Is anyone else experiencing changes? Oh, this is huge. I need to call—”

She paused, closed her eyes, and took a long breath.

When she looked at Fenton again, she seemed more composed. “I need to be absolutely sure. Excessive drooling isn’t proof of anything. The teeth, though . . .”

Again, Fenton couldn’t help thinking she was way too enthusiastic about the situation.

She advanced on him again, holding up the mirror. “Please open wide again. I need to double-check.”

“Aw, Dr. Porter, it hurts. You’ve already seen!”

She plonked herself down on the stool and leaned closer. “It’s important, Fenton. Open up, there’s a good boy.”

This time, when she stuck her finger in to feel the points at the back of his mouth, terrible pain lanced through his jaw, spreading all the way back to his ears. He jerked away with a cry, then clamped his eyes shut, which suddenly felt like they’d just been doused in saltwater.

“Now, don’t make a fuss,” Dr. Porter said in a stern voice. “Wait, let me get that numbing salve for you. Perhaps then I can—”

She gasped as Fenton snapped his eyes open. Judging by the look on her face and the way she recoiled, he knew something was wrong. He blinked rapidly. His vision had a red tinge to it. The brightly glowing window looked pink. “What’s—what’s happened to my eyes?” he moaned.

Dr. Porter abruptly jumped up, her stool falling backward with a crash. “Oh my!”

Fenton was about to demand a mirror when he became aware that his body felt very, very strange. He let out a yelp of terror as he looked down to see black, scaly skin beneath his clothing. His hand was no longer his own; now it had four long, clawed, reptilian digits and was covered with the same ugly black skin.

As he caught his breath, his focus shifted to a snakelike creature uncoiling all around him, long and thin. As his heart thudded in his chest, he realized the snake was actually a tail. His tail. The tail of the hideous serpentine monster he had become.

He hissed and thrashed wildly, toppling off the table as Dr. Porter leapt back with a scream. His clothes loosened, sliding down his smooth, oily-black body as he moved. Suddenly feeling ensnared, he clawed them off and darted this way and that, the room suddenly cold and tiny, a cell from which he couldn’t escape.

He leapt at the closed door, standing upright on his back legs and leaning on it as he fumbled to turn the knob with one clumsy paw. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw his long, thin tail thrashing from side to side as Dr. Porter hopped up and down to avoid it.

Everything still had that reddish tinge, yet he knew it wasn’t a burst blood vessel or anything like that. The crimson hue was part of his new eyesight, part of what he’d become. He found that everything was similar in shade, almost a two-tone color palette, a mixture of reds—except for where Dr. Porter was hyperventilating. He could actually see her breath as she stammered his name. The vapor had a blue tinge and vented from her mouth in short, healthy plumes. It also hissed from both nostrils when she finally stopped yelling and stood still.

“F-Fenton—” she gasped, both hands held high. “Fenton, this is—this is normal, do you hear me? I wasn’t expecting it to happen right here in my office, right at this very moment, but it’s all right, this is supposed to happen. Just calm yourself and I’ll—”

Barely listening, he leapt at the window behind her. She screamed again, flinching away as Fenton hit the glass hard. It cracked down the center. He hit it again, aware that he had a very long snout, easy to knock if he wasn’t careful. The third time he leapt, the glass broke and fell out of its frame.

“No, Fenton, don’t leave here!” Dr. Porter shouted.

But Fenton was already clambering over the windowsill. Landing on the soft grass of the lawn outside, he turned and scurried away, his belly skimming low to the ground.

* * *

As he ran—an awkward yet surprisingly fast gait that had him tearing across the field out back—the enormity of his predicament hit him like a sucker-punch to the gut. He halted and stood reeling in the fog while ancient oak trees and the smudged shapes of houses seemed to swim around him.

He’d wake up soon. He had to.

Dr. Porter was calling to him, and he glimpsed her in the fog as she darted out of her back gate and into the field he was already halfway across. He hurried onward, seeking the trees.

As he neared a thicket, he veered onto a familiar path instead. Mud splashed up around him as he stamped along the trail down a slope and around a bend. Soon he came across a turnstile and knew he was at the meadow that lay directly beyond his own back yard. Pausing again, he scoured the gloom and found it—the dark, looming shape of his house.

“I can’t go home like this,” he moaned. His voice came out as a sinister hissing.

What’s happened? Why am I like this? Why have I turned into some kind of giant lizard?

Questions rattled through his mind, and they seemed to amplify and duplicate to the point that his head was filled with a cacophony. He let out another hiss and shook himself vigorously, and the voices dissipated somewhat, leaving just one clear train of thought.

She said it was normal. Dr. Porter said this was supposed to happen.

However impossible he knew this sudden transformation to be, the doctor’s statement soothed him more than she could know. He clung to the words, because to dismiss them would begin a spiraling descent into terror.

This is normal. She wasn’t expecting it right now, especially right there in her office, but she was expecting it to happen eventually.

Easy to say. Much harder to accept.

He pushed through some brambles, grateful that his reptilian skin seemed impervious to the thorns, and shuffled across his back yard—mostly long grass but with a pavestone area nearer the house that felt cold and hard to the unprotected pads of his feet. As he approached the sliding glass doors, he saw himself in the reflection and paused.

The first thing he noticed was the eerie red glow coming from his eyes. No wonder his vision had that crimson hue! But his attention quickly wandered to his long, narrow snout, his slender neck and body, the four short, spindly legs, and the incredibly long, thin tail. He even had an impressive crest running down the length of his spine. The reflection showed him as a solid black shape, and he had to twist his head around for a firsthand study of his black, shiny, scaly skin.

“What am I?” he wondered aloud, fighting the urge to start hollering in terror. Hold it together, he thought grimly. I’m not in pain anymore. I feel fine. Just . . . different.

He realized with a jolt that his toothache had indeed gone away. He flexed his jaw, finding no pain whatsoever, not even the slightest discomfort.

Stepping closer to the glass doors, he half climbed to reach the handle, realizing that his forefeet were adhering easily to the glass while leaving no sticky residue. Instantly he thought of the tree, how he’d clambered up the trunk and onto the branch with ease. His hands had stuck then, too. That and the aching jaw had been part of the process, the eerie beginnings of this . . . this transformation.

What about his recent drooling problem? As if to confirm his notion, watery liquid oozed up his throat and flooded into his mouth. He shaped his mouth into a funnel and spat whatever it was out. His throat tickled as more of the stuff gushed up. But from where? His stomach? Was he vomiting this stuff? Startled, he kept at it, arcing a stream at the sliding doors and watching it dribble down the frame and glass.

Now that he thought about it, he’d been quite thirsty lately, drinking more than the usual amount of water. He’d felt quite bloated, too. The idea of storing all that water in his stomach over the past few days and then regurgitating it now—

He grimaced and, unable to stop himself, sniffed at the spreading pool on the paving slabs before him. It smelled a little funky and looked like it was thickening. Intrigued, he poked at it with one scaly digit and found the stuff had turned sticky, yielding under his touch but clinging to him as he withdrew.

What’s the point of that? he wondered.

Movement inside the house caught his eye. His mom was bustling into the living room, and she had only to peek out the glass doors to see him loitering there. What a shock she’d get then! But he needed her to see him. He waited, anxious to see what she would do.

She tidied a stack of magazines on the table by the sofa, then straightened a throw cushion. As she passed the armchair, she bent to brush it with her hand, probably a few crumbs from a sit-down lunch. She then dragged a finger across the mantelpiece, frowned, and hurried out of the room.

Fenton let out a sigh. While nervous about her reaction to his transformation, he was disappointed he’d have to wait a little longer. Maybe if he could get one of the sliding doors open and squeeze through the gap . . .

Nobody locked doors and windows on the island—why bother with only eight neighborly families?—but when he unlatched it, he found he couldn’t slide it open more than an inch. His sticky drool had gotten into the bottom track and seized it up.

Frustrated, he gave up and hurried around the side of the house to the front. Climbing the steps to the front door, he reached for the round doorknob and fumbled with it until it the door flew inward. He fell onto the doormat and slithered into the hallway, his claws clicking on the wood flooring.

He glimpsed his mom heading back into the living room with a dust rag in hand. He followed her in, wondering how best to get her attention. The living room was dark. Though he saw everything bright and clear with a reddish hue, his mom might not spot him so easily. He probably looked like a moving patch of darkness, some sort of shadow monster with glowing red eyes.

A piercing scream made him jump with fright. She’d spotted him after all.

She stood with her hands to her face, staring directly at him, her dust rag hanging limply where she clasped it. Her breath puffed out in short, ragged bursts of blue light.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he shouted, but his voice emerged as a sharp hissing sound.

That just made her scream louder, and she threw her cloth at him before turning to flee. Fenton hurried after her, wishing he could speak in his normal voice or perhaps grip a pencil and scribble a note. He should have thought about this a little more.

“Mom,” he said desperately, following her back into the hallway. She had already vanished into the kitchen. Good. There was no escape that way, not even an internal door to jam shut.

When he got there, she had pulled open a drawer and was rattling around for something. A second later, she swung around with a huge bread knife.

Fenton halted, blocking the doorway. If he could just make her stand still long enough for him to make her understand—

Almost on impulse, he spat a torrent of water across the floor. It pooled around her feet, and she sucked in a breath. He would have spat more, but he suddenly felt empty inside, his resources expended.

Still, it might be enough to do the trick. He waited in silence, hoping she wouldn’t move until the stuff had turned sticky. Of course, even if the liquid dried quickly, it might not be strong enough to hold her in place . . .

As if sensing something was wrong, his mom lifted a foot and stepped sideways. In the process, her shoe stuck for a split-second, then came off and plopped down on its side while her bare foot successfully reached just outside the pool. She lifted the other foot with more difficulty, because even that two-second delay made a difference to the liquid’s drying time. This time her shoe remained stuck, and she wiggled her foot until she was free of it—but she lost her balance and stumbled, stepping directly in the rapidly drying pool. Her foot stuck immediately, and she gasped in terror.

While she was twisting and jerking to get herself free, Fenton tried speaking again. “Mom, it’s me. Don’t be scared.”

She threw the knife at him, and he jerked sideways so that it clattered harmlessly onto the floor beside him. Quick as a flash, he snatched it up in his mouth and scuttled across the floor, veering around his mom while she struggled to free her foot. He reared up alongside her, and she threw up her arms and screamed, “Get away from me!”

Fenton dropped the knife into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then he backed up, returning to the doorway.

She peered through her crossed arms at him, then at the closed drawer. When she lowered her arms, she looked puzzled. He felt a moment of triumph. What kind of wild monster was smart enough to put a bread knife back in the drawer?

Fenton had an idea. Awkwardly, he turned his long body around and half slithered along the hallway to the living room. On the mantelpiece were framed pictures of the family including one of him when he was a baby. Robbie’s dad had taken pictures back in the old days and developed the films in his private dark room, but there weren’t any recent pictures. The baby picture would have to do.

He reached up and grasped it in his mouth, then returned to the kitchen. In his absence, his mom had rummaged around in the same drawer and found a metal spatula, and she was now bending low and using it to pry her foot loose. No! She’d be free any second now.

He didn’t want to scare her anymore. Reversing along the hallway, he waited there with the picture frame hanging from his mouth. If she wanted to make an escape through the front door, she’d have to leap over his head. Before that, perhaps she’d see his humble offering and realize he was no threat to her.

He watched her through the kitchen doorway as her foot came unglued. Showing amazing speed, she darted into the hallway and skidded to a halt, breathing hard as she spotted Fenton waiting there, blocking the way. She glanced over his head toward the front door, which stood open behind him.

Come on, Mom, look at what I have in my mouth. This is me.

She dashed sideways into the living room.

Fenton sighed. Still, at least the glass doors were glued shut. She wasn’t going anywhere.

With the picture frame in his mouth, he followed her in and watched as she moaned and struggled with the immoveable sliding door.

Moving quickly, he slid around the sofa and dropped the framed picture at her feet, then nudged it toward her with his long snout.

She spun and put her back to the glass, her eyes darting from side to side, obviously planning to make a dash for it. It took a moment for her to register Fenton’s offering. When she did, she glared down at the picture, frowned, and tilted her head. Her breathing slowed, and her panicky state eased.

Finally, she looked up at him. “What kind of . . . ?”

Then the expression on her face changed to one of absolute astonishment. All her remaining fear ebbed away, and her mouth hung open while her eyes almost bugged out.

“Are you—? I mean, is it possible—?” she started. Her next word came out as a hoarse cry. “Fenton?”

He nodded vigorously, an unmistakable way to show her that he understood and agreed.

Now ask me anything, he thought, excitement growing. The fact that he’d transformed into a monster was secondary to his primary mission right now: to establish communication with his mom without scaring her to death. I can do one nod for yes, two nods for no. Wait, that’s stupid, I could just shake my head for no. So go ahead and talk, Mom. Ask me whatever you—

She collapsed at that moment, her eyes rolling up in her head as she tilted sideways and slumped to the living room floor in a dead faint.

“Mom?” he said aloud.

* * *

Dr. Porter came hurrying into the house shortly after, just after Fenton’s mom had climbed to her feet and regained her composure.

“Your front door was open,” the doctor said breathlessly as she burst into the living room. “Have you seen Fenton? He rushed off before I had a chance to—Oh!” She broke off when she spotted Fenton, then whispered, “Is he all right? He changed right there in my office!”

“It’s happening. You should summon Miss Simone.”

Dr. Porter nodded. “I will this evening. I’m going to run around and speak to the other parents first, to see if anyone else is . . . well, you know.”

Fenton wondered who they were talking about. Someone called Miss Simone? He’d never heard of her. He knew everyone on the island, and it seemed unlikely that anyone could live Out There if the stories of the virus were true. How could there be somebody else other than his classmates and their parents?

Dr. Porter left soon after. Fenon spent the rest of Saturday morning and the entire afternoon curled up in the middle of the living room floor, watching his mom come and go as he rested. She seemed too excited to concentrate on housework and too restless to sit down. Sometimes she talked about things she’d vowed a long time ago not to talk about—a virus that had stricken the world, a few lucky families protected by the fog on the island, an experiment to breed very special children . . .

She skipped so much and glossed over so many details that not much of it made sense, and she kept clamping a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. But you’ll know everything very soon, I promise. It’s just that all of you need to hear this at the same time, when the time is right. Dr. Porter has a special tool to contact—um, well, contact somebody. It’s a horn of some kind. All she has to do is go to the cliff and—Oh, goodness, I’m telling you too much again!”

There she goes again, talking about that mysterious person.

But he was more interested in whether he could ever be human again. He wished he could ask his mom outright, but his long, clawed fingers seemed incapable of holding a pen to write a message. Not being able to speak was frustrating. Was he stuck in this form forever?

He fretted over that question for hours, but at some point in the late afternoon while waiting for his dad to arrive back from the fields, his mom let out an intriguing piece of information as she paced the room looking out of the jammed glass doors. “Come on, come on, get your lazy behind home,” she muttered. She raised her voice and turned to Fenton. “Don’t change back yet, okay? Let your dad see you first, otherwise he’ll never believe me.”

Don’t change back yet, Fenton thought with a thrill of excitement. This altered things. So not only was he supposed to be like this, but he should be able to revert to normal? Was it a one-off change? What would be the point of that? No, it had to be some kind of new and permanent talent he’d acquired, the ability to switch to an alternate form and back again.

Only he didn’t know how to change at will.

Not yet, anyway.

His mom came and sat with him again. “Your father is going to freak out when he gets home, but he’ll calm down when I explain who you are and what’s happened.” She smiled. “Fenton, you’re a very special boy. All of you children are. Us parents have been looking forward to this day for a long time. Everything is going to change now. This is the start of a new life away from this horrible island.”

He gave a gentle nod of understanding, though as usual her information was spotty and incomplete. A new life where? How could they leave the safety of the island if the stories about a virus were true?

“Of course,” his mom said, stroking his reptilian back, “as I understand it, you have to change back again before we can leave. You have to prove that you’re able to. We’ll work on that when your father is home.”

* * *

They did work on it.

All evening.

Fenton’s dad had come home and stood there dumbfounded for a long time before bursting into hysterical laughter—not at Fenton but in relief at the promise of a ‘new life’ someplace else.

“But we can only leave here if you can change back into your human form,” his dad said for the umpteenth time.

“Why?” Fenton grumbled. “Why can’t you just explain everything right now instead of waiting for the right moment, whenever that is?”

Of course they had no way to understand him, and he gave up trying.

His mom popped out to see Dr. Porter, and when she returned, Fenton was weary of trying to get his mind around how to reshape his entire body into another.

“Come on, Fenton,” his dad persisted. “Try. Just . . . just think it. We can’t go to this new world until you can show us you’re a true shapeshifter.”

Shapeshifter? Fenton shook his head in disgust. Easier said than done, Dad.

Annoyed, he deliberately turned away and closed his eyes. He was finished for the night. He’d try again in the morning. Right now he needed to sleep.

As he drifted off, he heard his mom whispering, “Dr. Porter summoned Miss Simone. She went out to the cliff and blew on that weird horn thing she has. Now we wait.”

After a pause, his dad muttered, “So it looks like we got the rare lizard.”

“So rare it has no name,” she agreed. “Only a few left in Miss Simone’s world . . .”

* * *

Fenton dreamed of waking in dazzling sunlight, looking around a rocky plain that stretched to the horizon ahead. Everything had an odd reddish hue. A few wispy clouds drifted in the otherwise clear red sky.

The place was utterly unfamiliar to him, and devoid of fog. He’d seen pictures of hot deserts in old magazines, so maybe he’d conjured up one of those scenes for his dream. He marveled at the creativity of his brain. The detail, the realism of it all, astonished him.

He sucked in a breath, spotting something as he swung his head to the right. A gigantic lizard monster lay there, so huge he knew this absolutely had to be a dream. The colossal beast stretched a hundred feet long, an older, bigger version of Fenton’s own lizard form, though its scaly hide was dull and weathered. It lay perfectly still with its eyes closed, basking in the sun. Gentle, rumbling snores sounded, and blue-colored steam puffed from its nostrils.

Somehow Fenton knew this was his brother. He accepted this without question; after all, he was merely dreaming. He also understood that the two of them were equally huge, a pair of enormous sibling bull lizards on a journey across the plains, currently giving their weary limbs a much-deserved rest.

Fenton wanted to stare at his brother a bit longer, but his gaze shifted away. It seemed he was only along for the ride, his dream body fully in control. He panned the horizon, taking in the distant mountains ahead and the forestland to his left. He had the feeling something had disturbed their resting place and woken him. What kind of creature would dare to intrude? Attackers risked being squashed flat with a flick of his tail, or glued to the ground with a casual spit.

Backstory leaked into Fenton’s imagination. At over thirty years old now, the two giant lizards had grown much bigger and stronger than their own mother, who had gone missing recently. They’d been stomping about the land looking for her, sure she was close, occasionally hearing her distant, mournful wails in the still of the night but unable to pinpoint from which direction they came. Every time they thought they were getting closer, they heard her cries even farther away, and so they turned about and stomped in the other direction. With every passing night, her cries grew more and more infrequent.

What could have happened to her? They’d always minded their own business, sliding in and out of their cool, comforting swamp in the depths of their forest. Then she’d vanished. It seemed impossible that anyone could have taken her; though small in stature, she still dwarfed most of the inhabitants of this land. Still, a determined army could kidnap her. Centaurs had been sneaking about near the swamp in the days before she’d disappeared. They had to be the culprits.

He sniffed the air. Something was here. Tensing, knowing that whatever it was had to be behind him, he lashed out with his tail and felt a slight, thudding resistance accompanied by a strangled cry. Shouts followed, and he knew without a doubt they’d come for him. The centaurs again! Not content with taking his mother, now they’d come for the two siblings as well.

The temptation to stand and turn, to splash them with his sticky stomach fluid and incapacitate them long enough for him to bite their heads off, was incredibly strong and hard to resist. Yet he paused, an idea striking him. If he killed these centaurs or chased them off, he and his brother would never find their mother.

No. Another idea formed. He’d allow them to take him, too. He knew his mother was alive, and he had to hope they planned to imprison him also. If so, he’d be reunited with her, and then they could escape together. He felt certain these centaurs would completely underestimate his strength. It would take an army of them to drag him into a cage, but it would take seconds for him to escape—once he’d located his mother.

And so he feigned sleep, flicking his tail as though it were an unconscious twitch.

While he lay there, peeking through eyelids at his blissfully unaware brother, he felt the strangest sensation in his underbelly, the softest of jabs as though the centaurs were trying to stick knives in him. Maybe they were just testing to see if he was awake. He remained still, thinking of his poor, abducted mother. Where was she? What had they done with her?

To his surprise, something washed over him, a heaviness that spread to his limbs and dulled the senses in his toes. Suddenly, he felt afraid. They’d used magic to paralyze him!

He told himself the centaurs were just being careful. If they planned to drag him across the land, they needed him restrained. It made sense. The magic would wear off eventually, and perhaps by then he’d be alongside his mother, and together they would escape from—

He blinked as one of his attackers wandered into view. Not a centaur at all, but a human. Were they working with the centaurs? As more humans crowded in front of his face, he grew more and more puzzled. Centaurs had surely taken his mother back in the forest, but now humans were here to paralyze him and his brother as they traveled across the rocky plains? Why?

As the magic took effect and his pinkish vision blurred, Fenton sensed the dream beginning to fade. So, too, did the memory of everything he’d just seen. Already he’d forgotten half of it. Why was he out here in the plains and not back at the swamp? The reason eluded him.

One of the last things he remembered was a blond woman wearing a green, silky dress, grasping a large cylindrical object made from glass and framed with metal, with a long needle at one end, clearly a precision instrument or perhaps a weapon.

The object was filled with a dark-red liquid.

Why had he allowed these humans to get close enough to work their magic on him? What had he been thinking? The remaining fragments of the dream slipped away, and nothing made sense anymore.

“Fenton,” one of the humans whispered. “Fenton . . .”

* * *

He became aware of his dad talking in a low voice, speaking directly to him. “Fenton, I’m so proud of you, son. You did it. You’re the first to make it through the program.”

I’m back home, Fenton thought, recognizing the living room as he blinked awake. He desperately snatched at the few remaining details of his bizarre dream: something about giant lizards and a giant syringe full of blood? The blood lingered in his mind, and he had the distinct feeling it meant something important.

He sat up. Realizing he had a blanket over him, he held up his ordinary, fleshy hands in amazement. He was human again.

“Dad?” he whispered.

His dad patted him on the shoulder. “Relax, Fenton. You’re okay. It worked. You’re a shapeshifter.”

“But . . . but what am I? What was that thing I turned into?”

“It doesn’t have a name. It’s very, very rare, just a few left in the world. It doesn’t matter, though. What’s important is that we can move on.”

Fenton looked at him blankly. “Move on?”

“Yes, son.” He leaned closer and grinned. “We’re getting off this island at last.”

Dragon in the Woods

They stopped at the fringes of Black Woods and peered in. The fog seemed thinner here, almost as if the trees filtered out the really thick stuff. However, in its place was an ominous dark stillness, as though the woods were listening for intruders. Somehow the open fields of thick cold fog didn’t seem quite so bad anymore.

“Where’s Robbie?” Abigail asked, as if Hal would know.

Hal shrugged. “Robbie?” he called loudly.

Silence.

He sighed. “I guess we could try and find our way. There’s a cliff path that we could follow, but it would be quicker to cut through the woods here. We should come to a stream, and the fog-hole is in a clearing nearby.”

Abigail shivered. “Let’s go the shortest route. We’ll probably come up on Robbie soon enough.”

Hal took a breath and plunged into the woods, with Abigail in tow. Nothing looked familiar to him, but he felt he couldn’t go far wrong as long as he stayed roughly straight. “Robbie!” he yelled. “Wait for us!”

Abigail said nothing as she trailed behind Hal through the dense vegetation. Twigs cracked and leaves crunched. Bushes rustled and shook. A wet patch of dirt squelched underfoot, and a rodent ran across Hal’s shoe and scurried away. It reminded him of the red-faced monster, and he wondered if they were making a mistake by wandering around in the woods with that thing roaming loose. Then again, it was just a guard, after all, and probably alerted to his presence now that he’d been yelling for Robbie. He mentally kicked himself. No wonder his friend hadn’t shouted back—he’d had more sense!

“I think our parents are scared of us,” Abigail whispered.

“Scared?” Hal whispered back. He pointed the way around a crop of prickly bushes. “What do you mean, scared?”

“Well, think about it. We’re stuck here on this island.” She waved her hands around expansively. “I always had a theory that the adults were making up stories about Out There being a dead place we wouldn’t ever want to visit. I think they just want to keep us here because of what we are. They want to keep us here to experiment on, but they know we could escape if we really wanted to, so they make up all these stories about diseases and things. They’re trying to make us believe they love us and are trying to protect us when all the time they’re lying and keeping us prisoners here.”

“But . . .” Hal struggled over a fallen tree and got his shirt snagged on it. His mind was racing. Surely his parents hadn’t lied to him all his life?

Abigail had found a better place to climb over the fallen tree, and she appeared beside Hal as he pulled at his snagged shirt. “See, if we knew the truth, we’d be angry and would try to escape, maybe even attack them. Imagine what you could do with your fire breath! So they’re keeping a lid on things, trying to find out if we’re changing without coming out and telling us the truth.”

The silence that followed was awkward. Hal set off again through the woods, thinking hard. “And what do you think will happen to us if our parents find out we are changing?” he asked.

“The same thing that happened to Thomas,” Abigail said solemnly. “His parents got rid of him.”

“Okay, that’s just stupid,” Hal said, getting annoyed. “Thomas fell off the cliff and that’s all there is to it. You’re so paranoid, Abi. Come on, let’s find that fog-hole—if the monster lets us. I bet it won’t though. I bet it’ll chase us away.” He marched off, stomping through the woods as if he knew exactly where he was going.

Just then came a scream.

They stopped dead, and Abigail gripped Hal’s arm. It was a long scream, filled with terror, coming from deep within the woods. Hal was certain it must be Robbie screaming, but had never heard him scream like that and couldn’t be absolutely sure. It started out high in pitch, then slowly changed, becoming low and mournful, then deep and booming. Another voice joined in the fray, savage and wild, and totally inhuman.

A flurry of other sounds followed: bushes rustling, branches snapping, heavy panting, throaty roars and growls. The noises increased, heading toward where Hal and Abigail stood frozen.

A shadowy shape came into view, darting around in the darkness of the woods. Bushes flew apart and the shadow disappeared for a moment, then reappeared much closer. It was big—bigger than Robbie. It stampeded through tangled clumps of vegetation straight toward Hal and Abigail. They instinctively dove for cover behind a tree and crouched there, trembling with fright.

The huge figure blundered past in a shower of leaves and twigs. Cringing, Hal caught sight of dark brown hair and enormous bulky arms and shoulders bearing down on him, a man-shape at least three times his own height. He cowered, ducked his head, and felt a rush of air as the monster stomped by a mere foot or two away. Then it disappeared from view, and the sounds of its huge stamping feet could be heard for another half-minute before fading into the distance.

After a long silence, Hal let out his breath. “It’s gone,” he said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Whatever it was, it’s gone.” He slowly disentangled himself from Abigail’s vice-like grip and found himself inches from her white face.

Her bottom lip wobbled as she tried to speak. “Th-th-that was too close.”

“Are you all right?” he asked. His arm had started itching.

Abigail pulled back and got to her feet, looking cross. “Of course I’m all right.”

“Well, good.” Hal glanced in the direction they had been heading—the direction from which the monster had blundered. “I’m confused. That wasn’t the red-faced monster . . . which means it must have been Robbie.”

“Robbie?” Abigail looked so startled that Hal would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious.

His heart thumped and a prickly sensation crept over his shoulders. “He has these moments of amazing strength,” Hal explained. “That’s his secret. Once, he burst right out of his shirt. I guess something must have frightened him and he changed into . . . into that thing that ran past us.”

“But what frightened him? The red-faced monster?”

Hal and Abigail stood in silence, listening. They heard a rustling sound in the bushes off to one side, the stealthy creeping of a prowler.

“Let’s go,” Hal whispered, planting his hands firmly on Abigail’s shoulders and turning her around. “Robbie’s three times bigger than us but he still ran like a girl. Come on.”

They started to retrace their steps, but their path was blocked.

A large cat-like creature sat there licking its paw. Hal had seen pictures of lions, and this thing was as big and powerful as one, only with red fur and a flowing crimson mane. Its broad face was a cross between a lion and a man, but its eyes were distinctly human, large and blue, filled with a stony malice.

The monster grinned, its black leathery lips stretching to reveal more teeth than Hal had ever seen in his life—razor sharp and needle thin, and arranged in three deadly rows.

But most frightening of all was its tail. When the monster yawned and climbed to its feet, a long scorpion-like appendage rose into view, arcing over the creature’s head and pointing down at them, shiny red and armor-plated. On the end was a quivering ball of long, thin needles, and from the center of these protruded a huge black stinger oozing yellow venom.

* * *

The red-furred monster stood before Hal and Abigail with its scorpion tail arced high over its head, pointing down at them and swaying from side to side like a cobra choosing its moment to strike.

The creature’s fur was clean and shiny, but the thing smelled of rotting meat. “Well, well,” it said in a high, fluty voice that contained a hint of scorn. “Look who it is.”

Despite his fear, Hal couldn’t help noticing how the creature’s distinctly inhuman black rubbery lips nevertheless shaped themselves deftly around each spoken word.

“Run,” Abigail was saying in his ear. She’d said it half a dozen times already, but he hadn’t been paying full attention. He took a step backward as she tugged at his shirt from behind.

“If you run,” the monster said, as if reading Hal’s mind, “you won’t get very far. So don’t even try.” It stretched and yawned, again revealing three rows of teeth, then shook its armor-plated tail. The needles on the end bristled and quivered alarmingly.

“It’s a manticore,” Abigail whispered, her fingernails digging into Hal’s arm. “Run before it—”

The creature took three rapid steps forward and stuck its face inches from Hal’s. Now it could easily snap its jaws and bite off his face. Or it could pounce on him, pin him down, and claw him to pieces. Meanwhile its hot, putrid breath made Hal feel sick. That was where the smell of rotting meat came from, as though it had been eating rodents and had bits of flesh stuck in its teeth.

The manticore glanced over Hal’s shoulder. “What’s your name, girl?”

Hal surprised himself by inching sideways and blocking the monster’s view of Abigail. He faced the monster square on, feeling dwarfed by the broad lion-like face and powerful muscular forelegs.

The creature scowled deeply. “Let me see you, girl.”

“Stay there,” Hal told her.

But Abigail tentatively stepped around into view, still clutching his arm. Hal felt a familiar prickly sensation beginning to crawl across his skin.

“That’s better,” the creature grumbled. It stared at her, eyes narrowed. “Abigail, isn’t it?”

It seemed as if time stopped for a second. The mention of Abigail’s name stunned Hal, and he turned to her feeling almost cheated. Did she know this thing? But Abigail’s expression indicated that she was as astounded as Hal.

The manticore nodded, looking thoughtful. Its tail slowly sank out of sight. “Yes, I remember you. Dr. Porter’s daughter.” It glanced at Hal. “I don’t remember your name, though. Barry? Harry? Howard?”

“Hal,” he croaked.

“Haaaal, yes. And who was your friend? The one who was here earlier?”

“You mean Robbie?”

The blue eyes widened. “Robbie, yes. I remember now.”

“Who are you?” Abigail demanded. “How do you know our names?”

The monster began pacing around them in a tight circle, so tight its muscular bulk nudged against them. Its nose followed close behind the tip of its long scorpion tail, like it was stalking itself. “I lived here once,” it said. “I fell over the cliff outside the woods.”

Hal caught his breath.

“Thomas?” Abigail gasped.

“I was Thomas, a long time ago,” the monster said, continuing its pacing. It left large footprints in the dirt, the same cat-like footprints Hal and Robbie had seen by the fog-hole.

The manticore—not an it but a he, their very own little red-headed Thomas Patten—studied them one at a time. Then Thomas sat and curled his tail around in front. The quills on the end had flattened, and the stinger had vanished from sight. “I don’t remember much. I was chasing a groundhog in the backyard . . . I felt strange, and then I changed, became some kind of animal . . . My mother yelled at me and I ran into the woods.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “She came after me, shouting. I kept running, got lost, eventually saw daylight ahead and ran toward it . . . straight out of the woods and off the cliff. I fell into the water.”

“You didn’t hit the rocks!” Hal exclaimed. “Everyone said you hit the rocks and died. But you missed.”

“Yes, but then something grabbed my feet and pulled me down,” Thomas said, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I kicked and swallowed water, but down I went, and everything got dark . . . Next thing I remember, I woke up in a forest, lying by the side of a lake. And the fog was all gone.”

A thousand questions were on the tip of Hal’s tongue, but before he could single one out, Thomas sniffed and looked around with a scowl. “And now I’m back here again. I went to sleep one night in my den, and woke up the next morning in these old woods. Took me a while to realize where I was.”

Hal felt a surge of hope. “Thomas Patten,” he said, still hardly able to believe it. “So you changed too! We’re all changing . . . but you changed years ago!”

“And you’re a manticore,” Abigail said, sounding breathless.

Thomas looked them both up and down. “Yes, I’m a manticore. And I haven’t eaten properly in a week.”

“A manticore,” Hal repeated, nodding. “Well, I’ve never heard of them. But it’s funny, you’ve got red hair, and you always had red hair, even when you were—”

“Human?” Thomas finished. He licked his lips. His tail began to unfold, and the quills puffed up so they were standing on end once more.

“Well, yeah,” Hal went on. “Not quite that red, obviously. More ginger-colored than anything . . .” He stopped, realizing he was babbling. He had the distinct, uncomfortable feeling that something in the air had changed. The prickly sensation crawled from his shoulders and down his back.

Abigail squeezed his arm and cleared her throat. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Thomas. We’d better get going now. We’ll bring you some food, lots of it. We’ll go home right now and see what we can find, then come back in an hour or two. Okay?”

Thomas turned his gaze on her and a slow grin spread across his face.

“And then we’ll figure out what to do next,” Hal said. He glanced over his shoulder. “Well, come on, Abi. Let’s—”

“You’re going nowhere,” the manticore said. His tail reared up over his head and the ball of needles quivered. The black, shiny stinger emerged once more. “Look, nothing personal, but I have to eat. I have to eat properly—understand? Rodents aren’t enough for me. I’m a manticore now, and have been since I was six. I’ve enjoyed this little trip down memory lane, but all I want right now is to eat a good meal and then get home to my den.” A blue eye winked. “But I promise you won’t feel a thing. I’ll go easy on you, paralyze you first, and then sting you—much less painful that way.”

The ball of quills swelled.

“Thomas, don’t mess around,” Hal said, pushing Abigail behind him and backing away. “I’m not sure if you’re just joking with us or not, but . . . I mean, you wouldn’t, would you?”

The manticore gave a sudden snarl—a deep, throaty snarl overlaid with a thin whining sound, like two separate voices sharing the same space, one angry and savage and the other desperate and helpless. Hal and Abigail stumbled backward in horror. Then the tail flicked and dozens of slender darts shot through the air toward them.

Abigail screamed.

Instinct took over and Hal threw up his arms. Poison-tipped quills thudded into his arms, chest, and legs. He felt a moment of searing pain and then his limbs went numb. He was aware of Abigail spinning and falling beside him.

Hal’s vision blurred and his knees buckled. He dropped onto cold damp soil, rolled onto his back, and watched the treetops spin far above. The bright white sky hurt his eyes.

Then the manticore bent over him with hot, putrid breath and three rows of teeth glistening with saliva. A long red tongue slopped out of the gaping maw and rolled from side to side.

Abigail’s screams had turned to whimpers. Hal tried to focus on her. She lay on her back, her head turned awkwardly toward his. Her eyelids drooped and spit dribbled down her cheek.

A huge foot clamped down on Hal’s shoulder, and claws dug in. He yelled.

Something hovered above the manticore’s head—the ball of quills, from which protruded the shiny black stinger. It stretched, extended, and a glob of thick yellow liquid formed on the end. Paralyzed, Hal watched as the glob hung there for a moment, then wobbled and dropped. He felt a sharp sting on his face.

“This won’t hurt,” Thomas said softly. For a moment, anguish flickered across his blue eyes, as if he were putting down a much-loved pig at a time of great need. Then his stare hardened.

The deadly stinger swooped down.

Hal gave a shout and lashed out with clubbed hands that felt heavy, somehow weighted. He struck something. The manticore yelped and leapt away. Suddenly Hal was free, but his vision blurred again. He rolled onto his stomach, planted his hands in the moist dirt, and tried to get up. His feet slipped out from under him and he collapsed.

He felt strange. His cheek stung, his vision swam in and out of focus, and his hands and arms felt heavy, big, powerful. He paused for half a second, shook his head, and stared.

His hands were enormous, with long clawed fingers. His forearms and biceps were bulging, swelling, and in that moment his shirtsleeves ripped open and hung in rags from his shoulders. Beneath the rags rippled muscles he never knew he had. Skin darkened to a now familiar cucumber green and formed into hard scales. A crested ridge popped out along the length of his forearms and spread up past his elbows toward his shoulders. He felt the strange pulsing, rippling, twitching sensation pour up over his back, heard a tearing sound and felt cool air on his skin as his tattered shirt dropped into the dirt. The rippling moved down his legs and his jeans split apart. His shoes popped open and massive clawed feet expanded outwards.

Panic-stricken and confused, Hal glanced up and found Thomas backing away with blood dripping from a gash across his face. He looked angry.

Then Hal was up and running at the monster with an uncontrollable urge to tear it apart with his bare hands. Thomas turned and fled with a howl. Hal stumbled after him on all fours, tearing through bushes as if they weren’t there, his breath steaming in the air before him.

It was a curious, dream-like moment. Hal felt as though his mind had been transplanted into the body of something else, some large, powerful creature with green scaly skin and enormous clawed feet. It didn’t seem to matter that he was plowing straight through prickly bushes; the manticore darted around them, trying to throw him off, but Hal plunged straight through, intent only on snapping his jaws around the red-furred hindquarters and biting the thing in half.

Hal stopped abruptly, panting. The manticore tore on, glancing back one more time before disappearing for good.

Alone and dazed, Hal twisted his neck, trying to get a look at himself. A twenty-foot-long dark green reptilian body stood there—the body of a dragon, just like those on the covers of countless books he’d read over the years, with tough, scaly, armor-plated skin, and bulky crested ridges protruding from his arms and shoulders. High up on his back, great pointed slabs of bone ran along his spine like a stone wall, all the way down his tail to the heavy club-like arrow tip.

What did his face look like? He squinted down his nose and saw a long, blunt green snout with flared nostrils on the end. Reaching up to touch, he lost his balance and toppled forward, falling flat on his face. Leaves flew up around him.

He lay there a moment, his heart pounding and hot steam puffing from his nostrils. Then he lifted a hand and looked closely. It wasn’t really a hand at all, more like a foot, though he still had a rudimentary thumb. He was a four-legged animal. Panic surged through him. He couldn’t stay like this! He couldn’t go home looking like this, a dragon! His parents would have a fit.

As he started to climb to his feet, he felt the weight of three or more people sitting on his back, and was certain his legs would never carry the combined weight. And yet they did, with ease; he felt he could launch six feet in the air if he wanted. He tried it—head high, neck stretched, powerful hind legs flexing—and for a second felt he was twenty or thirty feet in the air. Then he came down with such a thud that his feet sank into the soft soil up to his ankles.

Hal hunkered there, in the middle of the silent woods, and waited for his heart to stop pounding. He felt an itch on his hind leg and idly scratched at it with a foreleg, again losing his balance and almost falling over. Then he realized it wasn’t an itch but a thorn of some kind. He stared closer. It was one of the manticore’s quills, broken off but firmly wedged in his flesh. There were others, too; he could feel them. Had they penetrated his armor? No, the quills had been sticking in his soft, pink human flesh before he had changed, and his new skin had simply formed around them.

He tried to claw them out, but his new dragon toes were too big and clumsy. He tried to pluck at them with his teeth, but found that even harder. He growled, and his vocal chords emitted a deep rumbling sound unlike anything he had ever heard.

Despite the shock of his transformation, Hal felt fine. In fact, he felt great. The poison that had brought him down seemed to have lost its effect, and only the quills themselves were bothering him. They were like tiny, annoying splinters. They’d seemed a lot bigger when the manticore had been waving them around.

But then, Hal had been a small boy at the time. Now he was a twenty-foot dragon. In a comfortable standing position his head hung low, four or five feet off the ground—so not much change there, when compared with his old human body. His crested back stood a few feet higher, maybe seven or eight feet overall, taller than the tallest of men. That made him a pretty formidable size—not the gigantic monsters he’d seen in books, but still bigger than anything he’d ever come across before.

If he stretched out his wings, he could—

Wings!

He whipped his head back and looked again. As though controlled by a separate part of his brain, his wings unfolded from his back, opening and stretching with a curious creaking, leathery sound. Hal gaped. Funny how he hadn’t spotted them before, as if his mind had not been ready to comprehend them. Did they . . . did they work? He wondered how to make them move, and again, as if on cue, they flapped gently, catching the air and causing a strong enough draft to rustle nearby bushes.

Astounded, he extended his wings as high as they would go. They moved exactly as he intended, and yet he had no idea how he was controlling them. Same way you wiggle a toe, he thought. It just comes naturally.

With his wings spread high, they looked like triple-jointed skeletal arms with long thin fingers, between which stretched thin membranes of skin. Now he stood over twice the height of a man, nearly three times his normal short stature.

Panic surged through him again. Would he ever be human again? Was he stuck like this forever? He spun around in a circle, his breath coming in short, heavy pants. His tail thrashed, whipped around, and obliterated a few bushes.

But then he remembered Abigail’s wings. She could make them appear and disappear at will; they just folded up and merged with her flesh when she was done with them. Maybe Hal could change back any time he liked . . .

Abigail!

She had been stuck with quills, and was lying alone in the woods.

He launched himself into the bushes. Retracing his steps was easy; he had only to follow the flattened bushes and broken tree limbs. He had really left his mark! He tore back through the woods and came across something dark blue up ahead, hung on a bush.

His jeans were torn to shreds. So, too, were his underpants, socks and shirt. Even his running shoes were splayed open and squashed down into the dirt. This was where he’d changed. But where was Abigail?

As he moved on through the bushes, he began to tremble with anxiety. First Robbie had gone missing, and now Abigail. “Abi!” he yelled—but when a throaty roar erupted from his mouth he realized he was now incapable of human speech. That was going to complicate things further.

He slumped down and put his hands—his enormous clawed paws—over his face. What was he going to do? He couldn’t walk back home as a dragon, and if he tried to will himself back into human form, he’d be naked! He didn’t know which was worse, or which would draw the most startled exclamations from his parents.

He guessed being a dragon would be worse. But still . . .

What to do, what to do. Should he worry about Robbie and Abigail going missing, or that they had been eaten by the manticore, or that he himself was now a dragon, or that he might have to return home naked?

He groaned in despair.

A buzzing came to his ears, and he looked for the source. “Abi?” he called, rising to his feet. His voice came out as a sort of grumpy growl.

The buzzing increased, and Abigail appeared between the pines, hovering ten feet off the ground some distance away. She had removed her coat and was clasping it tight to her chest. Her wings appeared to be poking through the back of her shirt.

Hal rushed toward her. “You’re okay!”

Abigail squealed and buzzed away. Too late, Hal realized his mistake. He resolved to stand still and keep his big dragon trap shut, rather than rush toward the poor girl roaring like a monster.

After a few moments, Abigail reappeared, keeping a safe distance. She hovered and watched for a while, her head to one side. Hal kept still and tried to look as harmless as possible.

How does a dragon look harmless?

“Are you okay, Hal?”

Abigail’s words were quiet and trembling, but Hal understood them. Even though he was a dragon, and seemed able to speak only in rumbles and growls, he could hear and understand her as normal. He gave a nod.

Abigail seemed satisfied, and cautiously buzzed closer. She landed softly and her wings stilled. But Hal noted she kept them ready, just in case.

“Well,” she said, “you certainly showed your true colors. You scared me. And you scared the manticore too. Do you remember whacking it around the face? You sent it flying!”

Hal tried to chuckle, but his voice came out like a wheezing grumble.

Abigail came a little closer. “I got stuck by a couple of quills, but you got most of them. Even so I felt woozy and my vision was blurred. When you chased off after the manticore, I pulled the quills out and just lay there a while. The poison wore off. It was just meant to slow us down.”

“Yeah, while the manticore came at us with its stinger,” Hal said, remembering the nasty black point that oozed yellow venom.

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t understand a word you just said, but I think you can understand me. Right?”

Hal nodded.

“Prove it. If you can understand me, swing your tail around.”

Hal lifted his tail and swished it through the air. It occurred to him that he did so without even trying, as if he had had a tail all his life.

“Cool,” Abigail murmured. She sighed, looking relieved. “Now we need to go find Robbie. He’s probably running around in circles wondering why he’s turned into a huge hairy ogre. We need to go find him, and then get both of you back into human shape. You can’t go home like that; your mom and dad would die of fright. Okay?”

Hal nodded, suddenly feeling as though he was acting in a school play, playing the part of a huge obedient dog.

Abigail looked him over for a moment, her eyes wide. Then she smiled, looking nervous. “Remind me never to tease you again.”

Night of the Centaur

Dewey Morgan grew more and more anxious with every passing minute. It had started raining sometime late afternoon, and now the wind was picking up. The fog had thickened, too. It usually did at the onset of a storm.

Unlike most storms in the past, this one set Dewey on edge. He felt strange, like he’d developed a sudden phobia toward thunder and lightning. It would be here soon. He could feel it in the air. Heck, he could taste it. Goosebumps rose on his arms every time he heard a distant rumble. If he were Emily’s dog Wrangler, his tail would be between his legs as he whined and crawled under a table.

His dad hadn’t returned from the fields yet. Dewey imagined him and the other dads running around covering up their equipment before heading home. Meanwhile, his mom puttered in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

For some reason, Dewey had lost his appetite.

He paced his bedroom, wishing he could settle down and read a book. He felt a need to rush outside but at the same time suffered a jolt of fear at the very idea. What was it about this particular storm? He sensed that danger lurked around the corner, that staying in the house would be a bad idea even though the idea of running around in the rain and lightning filled him with terror.

His endless pacing decided it for him. At this rate, he’d wear even more holes in the already threadbare carpet.

“I’m going outside for a bit,” he said to his mom as he popped his head into the kitchen.

She spun around in surprise. “What? Dewey, it’s almost dinnertime! And it’s raining!”

“I know, but . . .” He racked his brain for an excuse and came up short.

“Your father will be home soon,” she said, turning back to the crude, brick-built grill. Four small birds were spread out on it, now a golden-brown color. Seagulls again. Not that Dewey minded. He usually loved the taste of them, and he saw boiled potatoes in the pot as well.

Except he couldn’t face eating right now. “I don’t feel well,” he said at last.

She paused and turned to look at him again. “You don’t feel well?” she said incredulously.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

She put down her tasting spoon and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, that’ll be a first,” she said softly. “You kids never get colds or anything.”

“What if Miss Simone brought something from Out There?”

This caused her to open and close her mouth like a stranded fish. The mysterious stranger had arrived out of nowhere that morning, taking over the class from Mrs. Hunter. “Honey, that’s not possible. She’s not from—she doesn’t have an illness—there’s no way—”

“Well, maybe it’s allergies, then.”

Now she snorted. “In October? With all this fog?”

He shrugged and screwed up his face. “Well, I just feel a bit weird, that’s all. I want to walk around a bit in the fresh air.”

“It’s raining, Dewey.”

“So?” he argued, feeling oddly bold. Normally he wouldn’t dream of back-talking his mother. “It’s just water. I’ll take a coat. I feel like I’m going to be sick otherwise.”

He held a hand to his mouth, and one of her eyebrows shot up. “Well, all right, if you think it’ll help. Don’t go far.”

“Just to the trees out back,” he said.

As he hurried to get his coat from the rack near the front door, he wondered why he’d mentioned the trees. He’d planned to walk around the yard, not venture into the trees at the far end.

Rather than go out the front to the street, he returned to the kitchen, swept past his mom, and threw open the back door. He gasped as a blast of wind brought in a fine mist of rainwater. Turning to his mom and determined to make light of it, he said, “Ah, feels good. Just what I need.”

Before she could protest further, he dashed outside and banged the door shut.

* * *

Fear coursed through him. He couldn’t explain it, but when he saw the trees in the gloom seventy feet away at the far end of the grassy yard, he sprinted for them with an urgency he’d never experienced before. They looked . . . safe.

Rain hammered him as he ran, and he was drenched in seconds. It was far wetter and windier out here than he’d realized.

He spotted the huge shape of the barn off to his right. Filled with supplies, it was off limits to all but the moms and dads. His friends had often talked about sneaking in for a look-see, and some of them probably had been inside. Hal and Robbie, for instance, had gone into great detail about the small door at the back that had a rusted window frame; they always popped the glass out of the frame and set it aside, then put it all back together when they were done to keep their breaking and entering a secret.

Dewey didn’t want to go to the barn, though. He wanted the safety of the trees.

As he stood under one of them, with fat droplets of rain smacking the ground and gusts of wind buffeting him, he thought how easy it would be to build a shelter right here in the woods. A few sturdy branches hoisted up and secured to form a framework for a roof, then smaller branches and straw to complete a rainproof canopy . . . Heck, the shelter could stretch a long way, and he could literally walk about undercover during the worst storms. True, a tree or two might fall in the wind, but he couldn’t remember the last time any of his clan had gotten hurt—

He blinked. Any of his clan?

Whatever train of thought had gripped him for the past minute slipped away like a dream. He wasn’t sure where he’d gotten the idea of building a shelter in the trees, or indeed why he’d want to do such a thing, but he guessed he’d dredged up some memory from school—one of Mrs. Hunter’s boring talks about the way people used to live in the Stone Age, or something like that.

Or was it a memory from his earlier childhood? Had he lived under a shelter in the trees at some point in his life? If so, it had been many years ago, and he’d forgotten until just now . . .

He heard a twig crack and spun around.

With the noise of the blustery wind, lashing rain, and rustling bushes, the relatively minor sound of a cracking twig shouldn’t have spooked him the way it did. But he instinctively knew someone or something was out here with him.

Probably a fox or groundhog, he told himself.

He started to turn away when another twig cracked, and this time he heard a stifled, deep-voiced grunt, the sound of an annoyed adult. His dad? It had to be, though why he’d wound up in the woods was a mystery. Then again, the trail he normally used was nearby. It had probably turned to slippery wet mud, and he’d decided it would be far less messy among the trees. He was simply cutting through.

Dewey opened his mouth to call to him, but a voice deep within his head hissed, “Intruders!”

He almost leapt out of his skin with fright. He shook his head and even banged the side of it with the flat of his hand. The voice had been unfamiliar, muffled and distant, though definitely inside his skull.

“I’m going crazy,” he moaned, wiggling a finger in his ear as if something had gotten lodged there.

Lightning flashed, and he jumped again. A second later, thunder rumbled. The rain was coming down harder now, and it seemed to drive the fog away, revealing more and more slick, black trees. He saw movement, and his heart rate quickened.

The strange voice spoke in his head again, only this time it was in a language he didn’t know. Or . . . perhaps he did know it. The words seemed unintelligible, but somehow he understood snatches—something about “informing the khan” and “the secret must be protected” and, more urgently, “run—run now!”

With a cry of terror, Dewey ran through the trees, heading alongside the neighboring back yards. All his friends lived on this road, and he considered running to them for help rather than rush home to his parents. With the arrival of a stranger on the island that morning, the whisper in school was that the adults were conspiring over some dark secret, and Abigail had suggested clamming up until the plot was uncovered. Dewey didn’t know what was going on or why he felt so strange and out of sorts, nor who prowled the woods; he just knew that someone or something was coming for him, to take him away and lock him up. The secret must be protected. What did that mean? What secret? The same one the adults were keeping close to their chests? Or a different one?

Lightning flashed again, this time with a tremendous crack as it hit somewhere nearby. He leapt sideways with terror and then ducked to cover his ears, and in that moment he almost lost his balance as the weirdest sense of vertigo swept over him. He staggered and reeled, feeling like he was on stilts.

In the darkness, he couldn’t quite see what had happened to his legs. He squinted down at them. They were longer for sure. And his rear end felt weird, like something had attached itself to his rump and was clinging on whichever way he turned. He spun in circles, terrified and confused.

“Filthy human clothes!” that sinister voice in his head snapped, and he found himself yanking off his coat and pulling his shirt over his head. He paused just as he was about to fling it away, staring at the sodden rag in astonishment. What was he doing?

As lightning flickered again, he spotted his pants and shoes lying in the mud nearby, firmly trodden into the ground. Hoofprints littered the area, and as he stepped this way and that, he realized with disbelief they were his own.

“No way,” he croaked.

Thunder once more rumbled. Breathing hard, he heard a guttural shout from the trees and fought to quell the rising horror. He had to put aside the hoofprints for now. His pursuers were catching up.

He hurried on, and now he became aware of his odd gait. His front legs moved in perfect coordination with his rear ones . . .

Grimacing, he let out a whimper and paused again. What had happened to him? His heart pounded as he tried to get to grips with an utterly unfamiliar body. This isn’t real, this isn’t real, he told himself over and over. I’ve fallen and banged my head. This is a dream. I’m lying by a tree, my head bleeding, and I’m hearing noises that my mind is trying to make sense of, something that sounds like a horse trotting through the woods. Or maybe I’m on my feet, staggering about, hallucinating. Either way, I’m imagining the whole thing!

It sure felt real, though.

Where exactly was he going in this dreamlike state? He couldn’t just dash through the woods all night. Glad he’d kept to the fringes, he spotted Robbie’s back yard as lightning lit up the place. In fact, was that Robbie on the porch with Hal? He waited for about two seconds, and as lightning flashed again—

Those odd, guttural voices floated out of the woods, followed by hurried footfalls, rustling leaves, and cracking twigs. He heard another voice, too. A woman’s?

He hurried on. Whoever they were, he didn’t want to stick around to find out. Behind him, the woman’s voice rang out: “This way! I can smell it!”

Smell it? Dewey thought indignantly. What do you mean, ‘it’? And I don’t smell!

Only he wasn’t exactly himself at the moment. His mind whirled so fast he felt like he might crash down in a dead faint. He had four legs! They were hoofed! He’d turned into a horse! The reality of this hadn’t sunk in yet. He was convinced a waking dream had taken hold of him, one of those that felt like real life but absolutely couldn’t be.

Horses don’t have hands.

He held them up as he trotted along, realizing the importance of that simple observation. It was true. He had hands as well as four legs and hoofs. It didn’t make any sense.

He craned his neck forward, looking down at his strangely muscular hairy chest and belly. At least part of him was still human, but he had no human legs. Instead, he seemed to be connected at the waist to a horse’s body. He flicked his tail to prove it.

When he reached up to touch his face, he noticed his chin was thick with hair. He had a beard! How—? And the hair on his head had thickened, too. And grown longer. This just wasn’t possible.

Gasping, he stopped dead and whispered, “No more! Wake up now!”

He shut his eyes tight and willed the dream to end. That eerie voice in his head said, “They must never learn the truth.”

“What truth?” he cried in a low voice. But the intruder in his mind slipped away, leaving a conspicuous hole that quickly filled in like footprints in wet sand on a beach. A second later, he barely remembered the voice at all. The things it had said, the strange language it had spoken . . . all gone. “What truth?” he repeated.

* * *

His icy cold feet caused him to look down. He was shocked to find he was his normal human self again, completely naked and standing in the driving rain among the trees. He no longer feared the lightning and thunder, and he wondered why on earth he’d wanted to be out here in the woods instead of the safety and warmth of his own home.

His pursuers sounded close now. He ducked behind a bush and waited, shivering hard, acutely aware of his nakedness and terrified of being found.

Someone came running out of the darkness, her blond hair streaked back over her shoulders, a silky green cloak billowing in the wind, rain sluicing across her face. Miss Simone! What was she doing here? The mysterious woman paused, looking at the hoofprints in the mud, now a sloppy mess as puddles leaked into them.

Dewey watched her from his hiding place, holding his breath. Her face was a mask of concentration and annoyance, and in the end she stood up straight with a click of her tongue.

And at that moment, figures stumbled out of the trees behind her—stocky and powerful, hunched over in the rain, their gnarly faces heavily shadowed. There had to be ten of them, wearing what looked like chainmail over their clothes.

“Ma’am?” one grunted.

She shook her head and sighed with obvious frustration, hands on her hips as she continued to stare ahead into the rain. “Gone. We should have come sooner. I knew this storm would draw him out.”

“Him?”

“It’s one of the boys,” the woman said. “All hair and muscle.”

A strange lull in the storm left a palpable still moment. The rain eased, the thunder quieted, and even the lightning seemed muted.

“Go home,” Miss Simone said, her shoulders slumped as she stood there bedraggled. “Take two of the boats home for now, but leave the third. We’ll need it to bring young Fenton across.”

The mention of Fenton’s name shocked Dewey for some reason. What did this woman want with him? And . . . a boat? To go where? Surely not Out There beyond the fog to the mainland!

“What about you, ma’am?” one of the stout, hunched figures said. Dewey caught a glimpse of a piglike face, and he sucked in a breath.

“I don’t need a boat,” she scoffed.

The creature nodded. “And the centaur?”

“I’ll talk to the children again tomorrow.” She turned and patted him on the shoulder. “We’re close, Gristletooth. So close.”

With that, she strode away, heading back the way she’d come. The group of ugly short people shuffled after her, sloshing through deepening puddles. Half a minute later they were gone.

Shuddering with cold and shock, Dewey waited as long as he could in the bushes before emerging. He followed the mess of footprints, keeping an eye open in case Miss Simone had plans to trap him. When he passed Robbie’s house, the two boys had disappeared back inside, and the smell of dinner wafted in the air. This reminded Dewey of his own mealtime. His mom was probably irritated with him by now.

How could he sneak back into the house without his clothes on? Certainly not through the back door into the kitchen!

He found his pants and underwear and fished them out of the mud. They were torn apart. His shoes were flattened, one of them split open. His shirt and coat were intact but soaked through. Rather than leave everything to be found, he bundled the ruined items together and stuffed them behind a tree, saving only the muddy shirt and coat to cover himself. Then, hunched over and shivering, he continued home.

* * *

Dewey kept his distance from the house and peered through the kitchen window at his dad, who was busy talking about something, his lips moving silently. Both parents were right there, which meant the front of the house should be clear.

Wearing his sodden, muddy shirt around his waist and carrying his surprisingly heavy coat, he dashed around the side of the house and tiptoed onto the front porch. Ever so gently, he snuck in through the door and eased it shut behind him. The voices of his parents came from the kitchen as he sidled along the hall to his bedroom.

Safe!

He put his back against the door and stood dripping. When a pool of mud formed at his feet, he hurried to the window and threw the shirt outside. Apart from muddy water on his legs, most of him was clean, just very wet.

He pulled on some fresh clothes, opting for roughly the same colors as he’d worn earlier. The salvaged coat was muddy but passable. Once he had his clean shoes on, he climbed out of the window and stood a moment in the drizzle to get himself realistically drenched again. A curious mixture of wet and dry clothes would be a dead giveaway!

When he sauntered in through the front door and slammed it shut, he headed to the kitchen and met his mom in the doorway.

“You’ve been ages, Dewey!” she scolded. “Look at you, soaking wet!”

“I feel better, though,” he said truthfully. “Is dinner ready?”

* * *

He ate in silence, his mind on the events of the evening.

He’d turned into a horse. No, a half-horse. Or—what was it the ugly pig-faced creature had called him? A centaur? But centaurs were purely mythical, surely!

His dad, a huge Welshman, scratched his bushy black beard and said, “You’re very quiet, lad. Quieter than usual.”

“He’s not well,” Dewey’s mom said with one raised eyebrow as if any kind of illness were somehow significant. “He thinks he’s coming down with something.”

“Ha!” came the booming reply. “That’ll be a first.”

This gave Dewey even more to think about as he eventually slipped away from the table and retired to his room. The storm had mostly abated by now, and he stared out the window into darkness, watching the fog roll back in. It was true he’d never been sick, at least not through a virus. His parents had suffered from coughs and colds on occasion, passing them from one to another, but Dewey and all his classmates had somehow escaped every little symptom. “Amazing immune systems,” Dr. Porter often said.

So why now? Did transforming into a mythical creature count as an illness?

And should he tell his parents about it? He thought not. Again, whispers in the classroom suggested something was going on, some kind of adult conspiracy involving the eight classmates. Abigail had advised keeping quiet about it.

Clearly Miss Simone was in on the conspiracy, probably at the heart of it. She’d even mentioned a boat near the lighthouse to take Fenton away in!

Struck by a sudden notion, he dug in his school bag and withdrew his binder. He turned to the latest entry, a single-sheet essay he was supposed to be writing for Miss Simone. He stared thoughtfully at the title:

If I were a magical creature with magical powers . . .

It couldn’t be a coincidence. She knew. She was testing them all, hoping they’d each give themselves away, write about their experience in the guise of an innocent fairy tale.

When Miss Simone had arrived at the school that morning—itself a monumental event since she was the first stranger they’d even seen—and started talking about a virus on the mainland, she’d explained that the fog filtered the air. She’d then started interviewing everyone in turn, asking if they were changing. Some of the others—Hal, Abigail, Robbie, perhaps even Lauren—had indicated they knew what she was talking about. Fenton had recently grown fangs, so he counted as one of those in the know. But Emily and Darcy had been mystified. So, too, had Dewey.

Now he understood. He and his classmates were supposed to be changing, and Miss Simone knew about it. Perhaps they were all centaurs. But no, Hal had belched up fire and burnt the back of Lauren’s chair. And Fenton’s fangs and constant drooling didn’t seem very centaurish. Could they each be something entirely different?

Dewey completed his essay and went to bed excited about school in the morning. Excited and nervous. His experience had been terrifying, especially with the odd voice in his head, but at the same time it had felt natural, a painless and fluid shift into a bizarre half-horse form. While the voice had scared him, the rest had seemed like a weird but exhilarating dream.

One that he wanted again.

* * *

He met Darcy as he approached the dilapidated school building. She was very pretty with blond hair and an ever-friendly smile. “Hi, Dewey,” she said cheerfully. “Finish your essay?”

Of course, he’d made a point to write something utterly unrelated to his actual powers. “I can punch holes in the fog and see blue sky through it,” he said in an overly mysterious voice.

“Cool,” Darcy replied. “And I’m a very special girl with magical hair that grows really long.”

“Like Rapunzel?” he asked as they shuffled into the building.

She held a finger to her lips and pushed the door to the classroom open. The rest of the class was already there, including Miss Simone.

He and Darcy took their seats, she at the front and he at the back.

“Good morning, class,” Miss Simone said. “I trust you finished your homework? I’ll collect your essays in a moment.”

The morning didn’t go quite the way Dewey had expected. The enchanting, blue-eyed, blond-haired stranger seemed annoyed by the essays and frustrated by the complete lack of trust from the students. Owning up to their secrets, she told them all, would be beneficial. She informed them that Fenton—and only Fenton right now—was leaving with his parents, moving to a better place. The rest of the class could, too, but only if they confided in her.

Dewey immediately thought of the boats Miss Simone and her strange companions had arrived in before last night’s storm, and the boat they’d left behind. Had she gone home at all? Or had she stayed the night on the island?

“Do you have a boat, Miss Simone?” Robbie asked at some point, and Dewey pricked up his ears. “To get from here to your land?”

“No, I don’t need one,” she said, and went on to explain she was a good swimmer and had arrived on the island through one of the “holes”—magical doorways to and from her world. Yet Dewey knew she’d brought boats anyway. Maybe she didn’t need one, but her short, ugly companions did. And Fenton would, too.

After school, Fenton got his bike wheels caught up in Dewey’s. Normally the big boy would have been infuriated by this. Instead, he seemed a little lost. He said to everyone, “Looks like that’s it, then,” his way of gruffly saying goodbye. The reality of his leaving really hit home then, and it was a strange, sad moment when he cycled off.

When he’d gone, everyone agreed to throw him a farewell picnic party. Not a real picnic, though, Dewey thought with a thrill of excitement. The picnic was just a cover story. No, in fact they were all due to meet at the lighthouse where the classmates would each come clean and show off their magical powers—their real magical powers, not those described in their essays.

Dewey decided he needed to figure out his talent before he got to the lighthouse. He left the others behind and cycled off alone, veering from the trail halfway home and parking under a tree in a field. The hedges shielded him from view of anyone who happened to be passing.

Tentatively, his hands shaking, he removed his clothes. All but his underpants. He stood there shivering and thinking he was crazy. Last night’s events now seemed like a distant dream. He was a centaur? Really? It was impossible for a human being to transform into something else. Even with all the clues—Miss Simone and her stout henchmen, Hal belching fire, Fenton’s fanglike teeth, the talk of physical changes—it just seemed ridiculous to think anyone could alter their appearance in the blink of an eye, to change their entire form and become a monster!

He waited there in silence, the fog drifting past, the sun a hazy yellow glow.

A centaur, he thought. I’m a centaur.

Except he wasn’t. He was an ordinary twelve-year-old human boy, small-framed and mild-mannered. The notion that he could be a shaggy-faced, muscular centaur was just too much to believe. There was no way he—

“All dead,” a sinister male voice echoed in his head. “They’re all dead.”

He jumped in surprise and listened carefully, but the voice was gone. Who was dead? A shiver ran through him. The words had been spoken with a macabre sense of glee. But at the same time, he detected pride.

Mystified, he rubbed his bare arms and peered around the fog-smothered field. He saw nobody. It was safe to transform—if he could.

But how?

It was the cold that did it. The chill in the air caused his teeth to chatter, and he grew so impatient standing there freezing to death that something within clicked into place and forced an almost instinctive reaction to deal with the problem. Or maybe the violent shivering distracted him enough that his subconscious took over. Either way, the change happened instantly.

He reared back in surprise as a pair of hoofed forelegs sprouted from just below his waist and thudded down onto the grass. At the same time, his rear end lengthened considerably into the torso of a horse. With four legs stamping impatiently almost of their own accord, Dewey turned in a circle, hot steam puffing from his nostrils. He balled his thick fingers into fists and studied his hairy human arms, noting how his new muscles bulged. Gasping with delight, he ran his fingers up to his face and tugged on his shaggy beard and thick head of hair. He’d not only changed form, it seemed he’d aged considerably. Or were all centaurs naturally hirsute and manly from an early age?

The chill in the air hardly bothered him now. This new form was made of sturdier stuff than his feeble twelve-year-old human frame. He felt full of energy, ready to bolt across the field and run halfway around the island. It was almost impossible to stand still and calm for even a moment. Too much nervous energy!

He took off at a gallop, finding the four-legged gait comfortable and natural. Clods of dirt kicked up behind as the wind streamed through his hair. He whooped and hollered, not caring if anyone saw or heard him.

After a while he slowed and came to a halt, thoroughly warmed up now, perspiring freely. Despite his earlier excitement, in fact he did care about being spotted. Abigail had urged all the classmates to keep quiet about their changes until they got to the lighthouse. There, they could show off their powers of transformation.

Dewey grinned and returned to fetch his clothes and school bag. It might take him a few minutes to figure out how to revert to his human form, but he knew he could do it. Once he was back to normal, he’d get dressed and hurry along to the lighthouse to meet the others for their group show-and-tell. He couldn’t wait.

He’d always been small and timid. Well, not any more.

Now he was Dewey the centaur!

Bird-Girl and the Shaggy Beast

Robbie Strickland accepted the blanket Hal handed him, knowing what it was for and feeling a flush of embarrassment in advance. “I guess you’re up,” Hal told him. “Get us through these gates.”

The gates he spoke of loomed nearby—at least ten feet tall, made of iron, with chain looped through the bars. But getting through the gates would be far easier than clambering over the razor-wire that topped the walls.

Except for Fenton, all of Robbie’s friends were present, waiting with an air of expectance. Emily looked the most confused as he turned and headed with the blanket toward a bush at the side of the road. He heard her exclaim, “Where’s he going with that? We have bolt-cutters right here.”

“Just watch,” Abigail told her. “This is going to be a shock for you, Emily, and you too, Darcy, but Robbie’s going to show us what we’re all here for.”

If anything else was said, Robbie couldn’t hear it as he crouched low out of sight. Taking a deep breath, he took off his shirt, then his shoes and socks, then started on his pants. The cold air bit into his skin, and he began shivering. He eyed the blanket, ready to dive under it if any of his friends headed his way. Especially Lauren.

He and his friends had brought their bikes straight from school to Lighthouse Point, where the road ended. Here at the southeastern tip of the island, the gleaming white lighthouse stood overlooking the sea, a single door at its base and a window at every level. It remained the single most unexplored building on the island, the one place none of the children had dared break into.

Until today.

“Hurry up!” Abigail yelled. “Have you got your clothes off yet?”

Robbie threw the blanket around his shoulders and stuck his head up over the bush. “Just hold on, will you? I don’t know how to do this at will. I normally only change when I get angry or frustrated.”

He ducked back down again. Change indeed! Such a casual reference for something so incredible as shapeshifting. I wish it were as easy as changing clothes, he thought. Just throw on my monster suit and away I go.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, willing himself to be strong like that day in the woods when he’d dragged heavy branches across the fog-hole . . . or when he’d lifted the raft up and over into the sea . . . or when he’d smacked Thomas the manticore in the face.

That last incident had been the defining moment, his first full transformation into a fifteen-foot-tall shaggy monster. He barely remembered the details, just a moment of confusion as he’d pummeled the manticore and blundered through the trees, easily bending the smaller trunks aside and trampling all manner of shrubs and brambles. By the time he’d reached the bikes outside the woods, he’d shrunk back down to his normal size, as cold and naked as he was right now. Panic had set in. What if Hal and Abigail came looking for him? He’d gotten on his bike in a hurry and cycled home, standing on the pedals the whole way to avoid sitting on a freezing seat, his feet numb and raw.

Now, growing frustrated, Robbie peered over the bush at his waiting friends. “It’s not working. I’m not changing.”

They all stared back at him in silence.

“How am I supposed to will myself to change?” he protested. “Maybe I’m not really—”

“Do you want me to come over there and explain it you?” Abigail asked calmly.

His heart leapt into his throat. “No! Stay away!”

Abigail took on her usual irritating tone. “Oh, Robbie, Robbie, I’m sure you have nothing to hide. Go and see if he needs help, Lauren.”

Lauren Hunter—easily the prettiest girl on the island—took a step toward the bush Robbie hid behind. He cried out and ducked down. She wouldn’t, would she?

“That’s right, Lauren,” Abigail said loudly. “Just peer round the bush and grab his blanket.”

He imagined her snatching the blanket away, then running off giggling with Darcy and Emily. He’d never be able to look her in the eye again. He moaned and wished he were someplace else. Or something else, anything but the thin, shivering, pale-skinned wreck that he was. A coat of coarse, shaggy hair would help. So would being wider in the shoulders and more muscular, not so thin and puny . . .

Something about his panicked state of mind helped kickstart his transformation. His bodyweight shifted slightly, and he lost his balance and toppled sideways into view of his friends, the bush he’d used for cover suddenly tiny, the blanket no bigger than a dish rag. He’d done it! He’d changed!

As the group of friends gasped, he climbed to his feet and shambled toward them, licking his suddenly dry lips. He felt very strange and impossibly tall, looking down on the others as they cowered together by the gates. But he felt good. No longer a beanpole, he fancied that every step he took shook the ground. He was a giant capable of ripping saplings from the ground and throwing boulders. He was an ogre.

Emily and Darcy promptly screamed and ran away.

“Idiots,” Abigail said. “Robbie, break the chain while I go after the girls.” With that, she took off her coat, sprouted insectlike faerie wings, and flew off.

He barely noticed. As miraculous as she might be, she would always be the same annoying, bratty Abigail Porter. What Hal saw in her was a mystery. Likewise, Robbie had no interest in black-haired Emily or blond-haired Darcy. The three girls were nothing compared to Lauren. It was true that only four girls his age existed on the island, but she was the one. And he was certain she liked him, too. As he faced the group, he felt her gaze the whole time, her eyes big and round, her cute snub nose twitching as she took in his powerful ogreish scent . . .

Hal said something to him, but he had no idea what. Robbie turned to look at him, suddenly confused. Why exactly was he here? He couldn’t remember.

“Robbie?” Lauren whispered.

His heart leapt, and he turned to face her again. “Huh?” he said in a low, booming voice that came out a little more slurred than he liked.

“Can you . . . can you understand us?” Lauren said.

Robbie nodded and said, “Sure. Can you understand me?”

Sadly, nobody responded. Maybe they couldn’t. He had to admit his question had come out sounding more like a grunt, a bit like when his mom woke him in the mornings and he muttered a response.

“Let’s get these gates open then,” Hal said.

Suddenly remembering why they were all there, Robbie grinned and rushed toward the gates, eager to show off his strength to Lauren. He smashed into them where they abutted, and they caved inward, causing the chains to snap and fly off. The gates rattled for a moment, then fell silent, a sizeable gap between them.

Robbie glanced toward Lauren. She still looked wide-eyed. Good. That meant she was impressed, perhaps awed.

“I meant open the gates carefully!” Hal yelled. “How are we supposed to close them afterwards and look like we’ve never been here?”

His words only half made sense. Why was it important to make it look like—? Never mind. His brain hurt trying to figure it out. He shrugged and let it go.

Abigail returned with Emily and Darcy and marched into the lighthouse grounds along with Hal and Dewey. Lauren followed, giving Robbie a sideways glance as she passed. His heart fluttered. Nothing else seemed to matter right now. Nothing but her. He followed her like Emily’s dog Wrangler, hoping for the chance to impress her again.

Hal glanced over his shoulder. “You all right, Lauren? You’re very quiet.”

She shrugged and spoke, her voice soft. “A little surprised that Robbie’s a huge monster and Abigail has wings, but yeah, otherwise fine.” She smiled. “I have a pretty cool secret of my own, you know.”

The group seemed to have forgotten Robbie was behind them, but that was okay. He didn’t mind. He was just an ogre, after all. Humans were far smarter and deserved to be in the lead. Funny how his friends seemed so distant now, like past acquaintances he’d grown apart from. No, more like they’d moved on without him. It wasn’t surprising. He could barely keep his thoughts straight, after all. The world felt like a dream now. The purpose of their visit to this place was lost, but it didn’t matter as long as pretty Lauren was here. He wanted to stay with her the whole time, ready to protect her from . . . from whatever.

Hal turned and spoke, and it was like a voice cutting sharply into his befuddled state. “Robbie. Chains. Go.”

The group parted, and Robbie halted before a stout oak door secured with chains. Hal’s simple words made sense. Break the chains and open the door, right?

He did so without pause, yanking the chains off and giving the door a hard shove so that it opened inward. There. Job done. Oh, but wait—the door was broken, splintered down the center. He soon figured out why. It was supposed to open outward. He should have pulled on the door, not pushed it. “Oops,” he said.

His human friends didn’t seem too bothered, though. Some of them laughed. As they filed in through the opening, Robbie felt his heart lurch as he realized Lauren was leaving him behind. There was no way he could fit through that tiny space!

To his joy, Lauren turned back and smiled up at him. She let out a soft titter and said, “Hey, Robbie, go and change, then catch up with us.”

He watched her join the others inside the darkened interior of the lighthouse. Backing away, he tried to contain his happiness. She’d spoken to him. A smart, beautiful human girl talking to him, a lowly ogre who couldn’t even open a door the right way.

Go change? What did she mean by that?

He puzzled over her words for a while. Change. Something stirred a notion in his head. Change.

Then he had it. Like a lost memory slotting into place, he sucked in a breath and grinned. Change! Yes, he could be human like the rest of them. Like Lauren.

If only he could remember how . . .

* * *

Lauren thought it funny that Robbie, the goofiest kid in class, could transform into possibly the goofiest monster imaginable. But whereas Robbie the human was brash and immature, his shaggy-giant persona seemed sweet and gentle despite his obvious strength.

“Last one up’s a fat old goblin!” a giggling Abigail called down from above.

Everyone headed up the circular metal steps. Lauren cast a final look toward the door and followed after them. Darcy and Emily stuck close behind her, one of them whispering, “See? Lauren’s worried about her boyfriend.”

She sighed and shook her head, used to the ribbing. Still, hopefully Robbie would catch up soon. Whereas normally she would have joined right in with the whispering and giggling, today was different. She was different, and Robbie’s transformation held a special fascination for her. So let them tease all they liked. She didn’t care.

He stuck in her mind as they all ascended the staircase with footsteps clanging. She already knew he liked her; Emily and Darcy had been saying for ages that he had a huge crush on her, and she’d scoffed at the idea until recently. Once she’d finally accepted the truth, she’d found herself conflicted. While it was nice to be appreciated in that way, the feeling wasn’t mutual. Well, maybe sometimes it was, but then he blurted something rude or insensitive or just plain childish and spoiled the moment. She wanted to like him, but he was a piece of work.

I’m awful, Lauren chided herself. Why can’t I just take him as he is, faults and all? It’s not like there are many boys on this island to choose from!

Her mom had told her that twelve was far too young to be worrying about boys, but it seemed a moot point considering they were alone on the island, the only known survivors on the planet. The situation had no chance of improving over time, and it occurred to her that being too picky now might leave her with nobody in the future.

So she had four boys in the world to choose from. Hal was taken. Fenton was just plain mean. Dewey was nice, but perhaps a bit too nice, like a mouse. Robbie . . . well, he had a fire in him that she liked. It was just a shame he acted like an idiot sometimes.

Everyone has faults, she told herself with a sigh. I do, too. Look at the way I hang out with Emily and Darcy, whispering and giggling about everyone else. Isn’t that just as childish? At least Robbie doesn’t hold back. When he wants to say something, he just comes right out and says it. If he can accept me with all my faults, why can’t I accept him?—especially with what we’re going through now.

She realized with a start they were already at the top of the staircase. She vaguely recalled seeing the fog pressed against the windows on the way up, ever-thickening, but now the gloom seemed to have lifted somewhat. She put thoughts of boys aside for the moment.

“A hundred and sixty-eight steps,” Abigail said breathlessly.

They all crowded together on a platform just below the lamp room. The tower’s walls had gradually closed in as they’d climbed, and this room had to be only half the diameter of the one they’d entered at the bottom.

Above their heads, a square opening led through a wooden ceiling. “Only a few more to go,” Abigail added, starting up a ladder. She disappeared through the opening. Seconds later, she let out a high-pitched squeal. “You’ve got to see this!”

Once upstairs, the lighthouse’s massive lamp, impressive though it was, barely warranted a glance compared to the three-sixty view out of the windows. The dazzling sunshine, the clear blue sky, the deserted beach and mainland just across the calm bay, the blanket of white fog that spread across the island . . . All of it stunned them into silence. They were above the fog.

A door led outside onto a narrow, metal-floored balcony, something Dewey called a gallery. Apart from puffs of fog seeping up through the flooring and curling around their toes, the top of the lighthouse stood proud of the gloom. They could see for miles in all directions! No wonder the place was off limits, the gates having been securely chained their entire lives. If Miss Simone was right and the fog filtered out the virus, then—

Robbie arrived, now in human form and fully dressed. Lauren felt happy for him. He’d quietly figured out his transformation abilities, and now he looked self-assured, somehow a little more grown up. Maybe his humble ogre personality would rub off on him. “I just thought,” he said, staring across the water, “that since we’re standing up here above the fog . . . does that mean we’re breathing contaminated air?”

Lauren held her breath for a moment as though that would make the slightest bit of difference.

Darcy spoke first. “If we are, it doesn’t seem to be affecting us.”

“Not yet anyway,” Emily said. “It might take a while.”

“Or maybe we won’t be affected at all,” Abigail suggested, passing a pair of binoculars down the line.

She went on to talk about their excellent immune systems, but Lauren’s attention drifted—until Hal said something that caused her to suck in a breath. “Hey, speaking of monsters . . . Lauren, when are you going to show us what you can turn into?”

Suddenly all eyes were on her, and she felt her face heat up. This was it. Time to show off her own secret. “Well, right now, if you like,” she said. “As long as you don’t look at me like I’m a . . . um . . .”

“Freak?” asked Abigail. “No, you’re not a freak. None of us are. We’re just special.” She gave a smirk and rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what we are, but I think we should all find out for ourselves before we let Miss Simone get her clammy hands on us. Maybe together we’ll be in control of the situation, rather than being scared witless by what’s happening to us.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Okay,” Lauren said. “Um. I need all of you to go away, though. Why don’t you all go downstairs and stand outside? I’ll be down in a minute. I need to, um, undress.”

Hal took charge and headed inside. “Come on, guys.”

In less than thirty seconds, the last of them disappeared from view. Lauren listened to the clanging footsteps on the stairs until the noise receded. Now she was alone.

Her first transformation had occurred last night. For days she’d suffered from persistent itches across her back, occasionally in the middle but most often high on her shoulder blades, always out of reach unless she stretched her fingers really far. She hadn’t thought much about it until Miss Simone’s first visit and her suspicious behavior. Lauren’s sleep had been fitful, partly because of the storm but mostly because of the questions rattling around in her mind.

And then it had happened . . .

She dreamed of waking in a sweat and throwing the sheets off, then rushing to the window and clambering out into the cool, blustery air. The dream felt very real as she ran across the grass toward the back end of the yard, but suddenly she was gripped by the urge to hurdle the fence instead of stopping to climb it. Her feet left the ground and didn’t come back down again. She found herself flying low instead, flapping great feathered wings and watching the grass rush by a few yards below. As dreams went, this one was spectacular!

She squealed with delight as she soared across the open fields, tilting left and right and turning in wide arcs. Emboldened, she beat her wings harder and climbed into the air . . . or tried to. For some reason, she couldn’t seem to gain much altitude, certainly no higher than the treetops. How disappointing. It had to be one of the silly and pointless limitations of a dream, like trying to run from something frightening and feeling like she were walking underwater, painfully slow.

Oh well. Zooming low across the grass was still fun.

Several hours later, she returned home to bed. When she next woke, daylight streamed in at the window. She lay there grinning at the ceiling, the dream still vivid. But as she sat up and pulled the sheets back, she froze in astonishment and fear.

Her feet and sheets were filthy as though she’d been traipsing around in the mud. Her nightgown hung off her shoulders, ripped apart at the back. White feathers lay about the room and in her bed. The window stood wide open . . .

That had been this morning. She’d cleaned up and gone to school in a daze, unable to comprehend what had happened. She could understand sleepwalking, but what about the feathers? It didn’t make sense. Then Miss Simone visited again, and things had become clearer in her mind. All the talk about changing, seeing Fenton’s new fangs, Hal belching a puff of flame, and now Robbie’s full-blown shift into a massive ogre . . .

“I’m ready,” she whispered to herself, staring out across the clear blue sky. “Whatever I am, I have wings and can fly.”

In last night’s dream—or rather her actual real-life experience—she’d been unable to fly very high. That was most likely because she’d been new to flying; her wings were weak. But gliding was a different story. If she dropped off the lighthouse’s gallery right now, she’d be able to glide around and around, flapping her wings as she descended gracefully to the ground. Easy!

Like Robbie, she dreaded taking her clothes off in a public place but knew it made sense. Maybe she could leave something on. She thought twice when she pictured herself as a striking winged creature covered in feathers and still wearing ridiculous underwear. She couldn’t even be sure what form she’d taken last night. Had she been a giant bird? Or some kind of bird-human hybrid?

After stripping down, she tentatively climbed over the railing and perched on the edge, suddenly terrified, her hands grasping the cold metal behind her. The blanket of fog just below helped enormously; it was hard to have a fear of heights when the ground was impossible to see. Still, in her head she knew she was about nine stories up.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her bravado fleeing. “Maybe I’ll start off on the ground.”

As she started to swing her legs back over the railing, something gave way—a rusted bolt somewhere—and her metal support jerked an inch or two. It held, but the shock of the movement alone nearly frightened her to death. She threw her arms around the horizontal bars and fumbled to get her feet back in place . . . and that was when she realized her forearms were smothered in short white hair, lengthening farther up her arms, turning into feathers around her shoulders.

With a gasp, she looked down and discovered elongated, birdlike feet. Talons. She glimpsed the tips of her wings out to the sides, and she gave them an experimental flap. They moved at will, though she had absolutely no idea how she had learned to control the extra muscles they used. They’re attached to my shoulder blades, she thought. Where I’ve been itching these past few days!

As she clung there, warmed by adrenaline as well as the generous coating of feathers across her body, her heart slowed to a more regular rhythm.

“I can do this,” she said firmly.

Staring down into the fog a moment longer, she tried to open her fingers and let go. That was all it would take. The moment she started falling, she could open up her wings and flap like crazy.

“I can do this,” she said again, gritting her teeth.

This time, before she could change her mind, she let go.

And plummeted.

* * *

“I really thought you were dead,” Robbie whispered to Lauren as they went about collecting their school backpacks. “When you fell through the fog like that, screaming your head off—”

He was still shaken from the experience, seeing her drop out of the fog with her wings flapping like crazy. But then something had changed, and she’d come out of the fall in a graceful swoop very close to the ground. Talk about a dramatic entrance!

“Sorry,” she murmured, her cheeks reddening. “There’s something about the fog. My wings just don’t seem to work very well until I get down near the ground. Abigail said just now that it’s the same for her—she can’t fly much higher than the rooftops. I can get a bit higher, as high as the trees, but . . .” She trailed off with a shrug.

Robbie kept tugging at his silky pants and especially the shirt, which was damp around the shoulders. They were similar in style to the ones Lauren and everyone else now wore. Emily had found the weird garments in some crates at the foot of the lighthouse, and they’d all quickly realized there was something magical about them. Lauren looked great wearing hers, a sort of patchwork of greens with leafy patterns and a smattering of glitter. In her bird-girl form, the dress had pinched in tight around the waist and widened at the shoulders as well as split open at the back to allow her wings to spread. Now, back in human form, it still managed to fit her well, just like a regular dress. It had subtly adapted to suit her altered body shape, and the tear in the back had magically repaired itself.

“Glad you managed to turn back okay,” she said in a quiet voice. “I, um . . . I was worried for you.”

Robbie felt his heart skip. “You were?”

She looked at him and tilted her head but said nothing more on the subject.

Abigail was still busy ordering everyone around. Garbed in magical clothes, the shapeshifters had decided to head out and block up the so-called fog-hole in Black Woods despite the threat of a dangerous manticore roaming the trees. Just moments ago, Dewey had transformed into a centaur, startling them all. And after that, Fenton had loomed from the fog over their heads, literally hanging from the lighthouse wall in the shape of a silent, mysterious black lizard. He’d opened his reptilian mouth and ejected a stream of stinky water over Robbie for no apparent reason, and he hated that Lauren could probably smell it.

Darcy and Emily still acted shocked at all the transformations. They showed no sign of similar shifting talents, but perhaps they would discover themselves soon. Still, with a dragon, ogre, bird-girl, centaur, and unnamed monster, the group was surely strong enough to take on Thomas the manticore if he leapt out of the bushes!

“What are you thinking?” Lauren asked Robbie as they waited for the others.

“Just wondering how you make transforming look so easy,” Robbie said. “You kept doing it over and over when you were holding that dress up in front of you. Twice now I’ve changed into an ogre kind of by accident, and both times it took me ages to change back again. Now I’m not sure I can be that monster again if we bump into Thomas.”

“It really is easy,” Lauren told him, lowering her voice and leaning close. “Okay, so I had a bit of trouble when I jumped off the lighthouse, but since then—well, I’ve figured it out. The trick is not to think too hard about turning into something else. Imagine you’re already something else, and act like you know it.” She pointed across the courtyard toward the lighthouse. “Like that door. It’s already broken, but pretend it isn’t. Pretend it’s something you want to knock down. So just go and punch it without thinking, and then . . . well, then you’ll see that you’re an ogre. It’ll happen naturally.”

He stared at her in amazement, and she smiled. At that moment, Abigail yelled, “Come on, gang. To Black Woods!”

As if to prove her point, Lauren bent her knees to launch into the sky—and suddenly she transformed, sprouting hair and feathers all over, her wings snapping open in an instant. Her eyes turned an eerie yellow, a little creepy, but otherwise she was a striking bird-girl figure with large talons instead of feet. She abruptly flew away, staying low to the ground as she headed off with Abigail buzzing alongside.

Emily, groaning about a headache, rode away on Dewey’s centaur back. Fenton, his eyes glowing red, stole away on his own. That left Hal and Darcy, neither of whom seemed able to change. Hal was even more stuck in human form than Robbie, and Darcy remained unconvinced she even had a shifting ability.

Robbie couldn’t help feeling a burst of pride. Of the three, he was the most likely to control his talent. It was up to him to educate them. Feeling emboldened by Lauren’s pep talk, he told the others what she’d said about not thinking too hard and just doing it.

“Sounds easy,” Hal said doubtfully. “Show me.”

Robbie went over to the gates to test the theory. “Just need to punch it,” he muttered to himself. “Hope this works.”

He punched the gate—and howled in pain.

As Darcy giggled at him, anger raced through his veins. He lashed out at the gates again, this time sending them flying as he rose up to his ogre height of fifteen feet. Triumphantly, he spun around. Now who was laughing?

“Hey,” Hal called to him when they finally left the lighthouse and set off to Black Woods. “Don’t forget your bag. And Lauren’s.”

Lauren’s bag, Robbie thought happily, bending to pick it up with his oversized fat fingers. He wished she were here instead of flying around between the trees. But she had wings, so he couldn’t blame her for using them. He just had to hope the airborne girls didn’t stray too far ahead and unwittingly land near Thomas.

He stomped into the thicket, already a little unclear about where he was headed. They had to walk for forty-five minutes or so, through patches of trees and across fields, and eventually to Black Woods where . . . He blinked. Something about a hole in the ground? His mind seemed as foggy as the island. Well, it didn’t really matter. He was just happy to tag along wherever it was these humans were going.

He walked and walked until the thicket ended and opened out onto grassy fields and a patch of sharp rocks. Black Woods sprawled ahead, just visible in the fog. He saw the others just before they entered—Dewey the centaur with Emily on his back, Abigail with her buzzing wings, and of course Lauren, the white-winged bird-girl swooping around everywhere. When she left the open ground and plunged into the darkness of the woods, she flew between the trunks, mostly well below the leafy canopy but occasionally rising above and dropping back down again.

Lauren.

He grinned and trampled some brambles. She was like . . . like a sparkly thing in the mud, a lost earring or something. Somehow that image appealed to him. He liked pretty things. But he also like mud. He stomped in a sloppy, sticky puddle and enjoyed how droplets flew up in all directions. The footprint he left behind was enormous, his fat toes spread wide. Bigfoot, he thought happily, remembering a story he’d once read about a mysterious and elusive shaggy-haired creature.

Thoughts of that book, and of his bedroom and all the things inside it, confused him somewhat. He’d spent much of his life in that room, though he had no idea why. Such a tiny, confined space! He understood his human side preferred it to the big outdoors, but it was hard to fathom its appeal. What could be better than this?—stomping around in the woods, pushing small trees aside, snapping off sprigs of berries and stuffing them in his mouth . . .

Nothing beat the ogre’s simple way of life.

* * *

“Nothing gets better than this,” Lauren said to herself as she soared above the trees, carried mostly by momentum. Again, something in the fog prevented her wings from working properly. Perhaps air pockets? Wings needed air under them to work, and all she felt sometimes was a vacuum. She could almost taste those airless voids; each one she flew through literally took her breath away.

Still, everything was great when she kept below the treetops. Everything was perfect. She could fly! She had no idea how she’d mastered the art, nor even how she made her wings flap, but it didn’t matter. Right now, nothing mattered.

She had to wonder, though. What exactly was she? Her knowledge of myth and legend extended as far as dragons, centaurs, and faeries, all of which were present. Well, Hal hadn’t managed to change yet, but hopefully he would soon. Maybe Darcy could help him. It would be interesting to see a fire-breathing dragon stomping about! Could he fly, too?

Robbie shuffled along below, now in the open rocky area. He seemed so happy, just looking around and grinning like a fool. She smiled. He’d called himself an ogre, a word she was familiar with even though she wouldn’t have recognized him as one. So that was four so-called fantastical creatures. As for Fenton, who was far behind: his black lizard form with glowing red eyes seemed a bit of a mystery to them all. Hal had called him a gargoyle because of the way he’d hung off the lighthouse wall and belched a stream of water, but the resemblance ended there.

Lauren vowed to research stories of myth and legend to find out what she was. Being called “some kind of bird-girl” just didn’t cut it. Maybe Miss Simone would know. In fact, she almost certainly did.

But first things first. Blocking the fog-hole had to be the top priority. If they could prevent the fog from coming out of the ground, then eventually it would dissipate . . . and then, when the air was clear, Lauren and Abigail would be able to really fly.

She couldn’t wait. The idea of rising to dizzying heights and looking down on the island, seeing it as a tiny green blip in the sea just off the mainland—well, she could hardly stand the anticipation. If only the others would hurry! Abigail, Dewey, and Emily were moving along well, but the rest . . .

“Come on, come on,” she quietly urged the slowpokes below. “Stop shuffling and pick up the pace, Robbie. Get with it, Hal; will yourself to transform and let Darcy ride on your back. And Fenton—oh, whatever.”

She couldn’t even see Fenton now. Wait, there he was, slithering along on short legs, his long tail moving from side to side. He was still behind, but he seemed to be moving pretty fast in his jerky, ungainly way. Lauren giggled.

For the umpteenth time, she put on a burst of speed and soared as high as she could go, using momentum to carry her to the upper reaches of the fog where the sunlight was brighter. She had yet to break out into the clear blue sky above, though it beckoned in the most infuriating way.

“So close,” she muttered as her wings failed yet again. She flapped ineffectually and allowed herself to drop to the treetops again. There the air felt reassuringly thick, and she caught a draft and came out of her fall. “Really gotta block that fog-hole.”

She thought about going on ahead. How hard could it be to drag some branches across a hole in the ground and—but no, she needed the blankets, and Emily had all four of them as she rode on Dewey’s back. Besides, it would be rude to complete such an exciting mission on her own like that.

That didn’t stop her scouting ahead, though. Black Woods grew more and more dense, and she found that flying between the trees was impossible. She could, however, skim the treetops and even hop from one to another whenever a suitable high-reaching bare branch presented itself. She perched for a moment at the top of one of the taller trees, resting her wings and looking carefully all around. Seeing the treetops like this was a bizarre, serene experience.

“Beautiful,” she whispered. “So this is how birds on a perch feel.”

Her sweeping gaze locked on a subtle thickening of the fog just above the trees, a dense column within the white haze. She narrowed her eyes. That had to be the location of the fog-hole. It was right there below, easy to find if the others got lost. Again, she had to fight the urge to rush ahead.

She waited. She’d give the others time to shamble and trot and slither and buzz, and then she’d sweep in through a gap in the trees and catch up. Until then, she planned to perch exactly where she was in her tree, swaying gently with her powerful talons gripping the branch, doing nothing but enjoying the peace and quiet.

It was late afternoon, and the sun had begun its descent. It would be completely dark in an hour or two. If they carried out their task successfully, perhaps the fog would have lifted before bedtime. If so, they’d all get to see a clear, bright moon and twinkling stars for the first time.

And maybe by then Darcy and Emily would have figured out how to transform. They had to be shapeshifters like the rest of them. It was just a matter of time before they discovered what they were.

Who would be next?

Darcy the Dryad

Darcy O’Tanner held on for dear life as Hal, in dragon form, leapt about trying to outmaneuver the manticore. The red-furred scorpion-tailed beast seemed to be enjoying the attack, especially now that Hal had begun swaying from side to side as though drugged. It was pretty clear the manticore had caught him with its poison quills or stinger.

Sitting astride Hal’s back, Darcy found it harder and harder to hang on to the knobby ridge that ran the length of his spine. As the dragon drunkenly staggered, she slipped sideways with a squeal and fell heavily into a patch of ferns. Then rolled to avoid being trampled.

It was pandemonium in the woods. Robbie the ogre stomped about, Dewey the centaur clip-clopped around, and two of the girls—Lauren and Emily—clung together, kneeling in the dirt and screaming as Hal’s blast of fire raged over their heads and chased the manticore away. Abigail buzzed about overhead, looking frantic but unable to do anything to help. There was no sign of Fenton, who had lagged far behind the group.

The manticore—their so-called friend Thomas—returned the moment Hal’s fiery breath cut off. Blue eyes blazed as the red-furred beast tore toward them, snarling angrily, his scorpion-tail held high. Darcy sucked in a terrified breath as he veered straight toward her.

As Hal staggered around in a circle and Robbie howled somewhere beyond, Thomas took a flying leap over the ferns and sent Darcy spinning with one of his paws. He landed, then swung around and peered at her over the fronds. He offered a maniacal, needle-toothed grin and stalked closer, his deadly tail arching over his head.

In that moment, Darcy wished she were someplace else: safely at home, standing at the top of the lighthouse, even cycling along the long island roads, anywhere but here in the woods being attacked by this vicious creature. She squirmed away, crawling on hands and knees through the undergrowth, uncaring that her new silky smart dress kept getting snagged. Hearing the manticore’s heavy breathing, feeling its breath on her back, she hunkered down low and cringed, wishing she were invisible.

The next few seconds stretched into eternity. Thomas had to be right there behind her. A few more steps and he’d be standing over her. The hideous scorpion stinger would strike, and she’d die a horrible, painful death.

But nothing happened. Confused, she risked a glance over her shoulder and saw him looking not at her but through her, a puzzled look on his red face, his blue eyes squinting.

Then the manticore leapt away to attack Hal again.

She rose up on her knees. The dragon lumbered about dangerously close, turning to breathe more fire at the attacking manticore. Hal’s tail whipped around inches above Darcy’s head. She ducked and started crawling, then risked jumping up to run to the safety of the trees.

She didn’t get far. Something hard and heavy glanced off the top of her head, sending her spinning into the dirt.

WIth her head ringing and the noise of the battle suddenly a dull roar, she blinked and tried to clear her head. Getting back up on hands and knees made it worse, and everything went grey. She toppled forward into the ferns.

* * *

All was calm when she woke. Birds chirped, and she heard the voices of her friends all around. They were right there with her, talking quietly, probably waiting for her to recover. They must have chased the manticore away. She was relieved but also sorry she’d been no help whatsoever.

“Oh, my head,” she said, sitting up. “I have a lump the size of a stone.” She parted her hair and fingered the bump on her head. It was then she realized everyone was staring at her, their eyes wide and mouths hanging open. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Nobody said a word. Did she look worse than she imagined? Had Hal’s tail broken her nose and blackened her eyes? Torn her face open? She didn’t feel all that badly injured. The only painful spot was on the top of her head. So what was with all the shocked stares?

Leaning back with her hands planted in the soil, she looked down at herself and gasped. Her arms and legs, her entire body, even her smart dress, were almost completely transparent. She could see right through herself! She could actually see the ground she sat on, every square inch of flattened grass and dirt that lay beneath her.

“Oh—!” she said, holding her hands in front of her face. “I—what—”

She felt fine other than her ghostly appearance and bump on her head. Her heart thumped in her chest, but she held still, trying to remain calm. This had to be some form of shapeshifting. Apart from Emily, all her friends had demonstrated transformations into some fantastic creature or other. Now it was her turn. But what was she?

Emily suddenly ran forward to hug her. “Oh, Darcy, we thought you were dead! We thought you’d been eaten by the manticore! We’ve been looking for you for absolutely ages!”

As the others gathered around her, Darcy climbed unsteadily to her feet and held on to Emily for support. “I remember the manticore coming out of the bushes,” she said as the events flooded back into her head. “I was sitting on Hal’s back, and he jumped and I lost my balance. I slipped off into the dirt. The next thing I knew—” She shuddered and closed her eyes. “The next thing I knew, the manticore was standing over me, and I saw his big nasty face swinging round to look at me.”

“And then?” Robbie asked.

“And then . . . and then I just wished I was invisible,” Darcy said, suddenly making a connection. “And it worked. The manticore stood there for a second or two, looking around, inches from my face, and it couldn’t see me. Then it leapt away.”

She stared at her hands once more and decided it wasn’t so much that she could see through her flesh, more that the background was painted onto her skin. Yet wherever she moved, whatever she held up her hands against, the realistic painting on her skin changed accordingly, always accurate, the perfect camouflage.

“Then,” she said, fingering the bump on her head again, “I went to sit up and got hit by something heavy. I think it was Hal’s tail, but I’m not sure. I went out like a light. That’s all I remember, until I woke up just now.”

“So you’ve been lying here all this time,” Abigail said, shaking her head. “What a defense mechanism!”

They all stood in a circle around her. All except Fenton, who was missing as always, probably lurking somewhere in his black lizard form.

“What does this mean?” Dewey asked in a small voice, back in human form like the rest of them. “What exactly is Darcy?”

Everyone stared at her. She stared down at herself.

“Well,” Abigail said slowly, “she might be some sort of wood nymph.”

“A wood nymph,” Hal repeated. “They’re shy creatures, aren’t they? They just sort of hang out in the woods and keep to themselves.”

“Very shy,” Abigail agreed, nodding vigorously. “Almost impossible to find, from what I read. They blend in so well with the woods that ordinary people can’t see them, even though they might be just a few feet away. I seem to remember reading that their smell is masked, too.”

“I don’t smell,” Darcy protested, immediately checking her armpits.

A distant crack in the woods sounded. Everyone glanced around nervously. It was then Darcy realized the manticore might not be utterly defeated. He might still be around, looking for another chance to attack.

“I vote we get out of these woods,” Hal said. “We’ve done what we came here to do. Now let’s go home and . . . and see what happens.”

It took Darcy a moment to recall exactly what they’d come to the woods to do. “Oh,” she said at last as she tried to stand. “You blocked the fog-hole already?”

“While you were sleeping,” Lauren told her. “Now we can go home and wait for the fog to clear. Whoa, do you need help?”

Lauren and Emily helped Darcy keep her balance as they walked out of the woods. Her head still hurt, and she felt a little woozy. She stared at the ground as they traipsed along, finding it disconcerting that the soil and grass was visibly pressing down underfoot. After a minute of this, and remembering the advice she’d given Hal about not thinking too hard about transforming, she shook herself and imagined she were already back to her normal, solid form.

The next time Darcy looked down, she saw her own two feet complete with smart shoes, her toes caked with dirt. Her dress swished around her legs, now back to its familiar green, silky material.

“Oh!” Emily said, jerking away. “You’re normal!”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Abigail said with a laugh. “Good to see you again, Darcy.”

Everyone paused to look at her, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. “My head’s not hurting as much now,” she said, reaching for the bump. It had flattened out and was no longer sensitive to touch. “And my toe doesn’t hurt, either.”

The bloody cut she’d suffered on the sharp rocks before entering Black Woods had completely healed. Now she felt much better.

Though the group talked quietly about their next move while listening for the manticore, Darcy paid very little attention to either. She was attuned to something else. All the tiny sounds of the woods seemed sharp and clear to her now. She heard something shuffling in the bushes and somehow knew it was a groundhog. The songs of birds overhead had purpose to them, a meaningful back-and-forth rather than just a senseless background din. But more than that, she fancied the rustle of gently swaying trees wasn’t just the wind blowing through. They were nudging each other, talking . . .

She shook her head. Trees talking to one another?

As they crossed a stream where the banks were a little marshy, Robbie thrashed carelessly at a clump of pickerelweed. The spiky plants broke in half, their violet-blue flowers dipping low, and Darcy winced. She wanted to grab Robbie by the shoulder, spin him around, and yell in his face for being so mean. She controlled herself, knowing she was just feeling unusually sensitive right now. If she were indeed a wood nymph as the others had suggested, it probably explained her heightened concern for nature.

It didn’t help that Lauren accidentally walked right through a patch of trout lilies. They were only eight inches tall and by rights shouldn’t be in bloom this time of year, but the fog seemed to have messed up the seasons across the island. Everyone knew that the vegetable gardens produced all through winter; now it seemed these spring flowers bloomed in the fall! The lilies, with their single nodding flowers, were both medicinal and edible, with a slight sweetness in their taste due to their nectar, perhaps a little acrid . . .

She stopped and frowned. Where was all this information coming from? She’d never known much about wildflowers, and now she felt she knew everything. She glanced around and instantly recognized sweet pepperbush to her left and bottlebrush buckeye to her right. Meanwhile, her friends waltzed past as if the plants were utterly insignificant, just part of the background scenery and unworthy of more than a quick glance.

“Darcy?” Emily said, pausing to look back at her.

The group had moved on without her. “I’m fine,” she said with a sheepish grin. “Just admiring the flowers.”

Emily shot a cursory glance at the yellow pepperbush blooms. “It’s all a bit too wild for me,” she said as she continued walking.

Darcy was sad to leave Black Woods ten minutes later. It had always been a forbidden place, easy to get lost in, dangerous cliffs at its edge . . . yet now she saw it as a place full of wonder and beauty. And all after one quick transformation into a wood nymph.

A dryad, she thought.

Puzzled by the word, she wondered why it had popped into her mind, where it had come from. A memory from something she might have read in a book?

“I’m a dryad,” she muttered.

“What?” Emily asked, turning to look at her again.

“Never mind.”

* * *

The cold, hard road no longer appealed to Darcy. She longed for the woods again. Still, she kept quiet and stuck with her friends as they approached Fenton’s house. This, apparently, was where all the parents were meeting, some kind of farewell get-together—because Fenton and his parents were leaving the island tonight.

Hal, Robbie, and Abigail went inside to talk to the adults, leaving the others outside. That suited Darcy just fine. She sat on a low wall between Emily and Lauren while Dewey perched on the end. Fenton, still in his lizard form, decided to climb a lamppost and hang upside down from it.

“So you’re a wood nymph,” Emily said. “What do you know about your . . . your kind?”

“Not a lot,” Darcy admitted. “I mean, nothing at all. But somehow I know more about the woods than I did before. It’s kind of difficult seeing everybody stamp on wildflowers and crash through ferns. I guess I’m more sensitive now.”

Lauren leaned forward to look at her. “Hey, I know what you mean. When I’m flying, I can detect the slightest change in the wind and feel every air current. I can smell the weather.”

“Smell it?” Emily repeated. She shook her head. “That’s just weird.”

“I think you’ll understand better when you get to transform,” Lauren told her.

Emily grimaced. “If it ever happens.”

“It will.”

A silence followed. Darcy couldn’t help noticing the overgrown front lawn that lurked in the darkness behind her. Fenton’s parents had never been interested in managing it. But in a funny way, Darcy liked it better unkempt like this. Ivy grew wild up the front of the house, and the sidewalk was almost buried under crabgrass.

Finally, Emily said, “So are wood nymphs just like people, only invisible?”

Darcy shrugged. “I didn’t feel any different when I changed, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Well, I got the impression I was only halfway done.”

Emily, Lauren, and Dewey craned their necks to look at her.

Again, Darcy shrugged. “I can’t explain it. I have no idea what wood nymphs look like, but I have a feeling they’re a little different to us. I think the invisibility is just part of it. They can blend in with the background, but that’s just a defense mechanism. Their real form is more solid.”

“And not human?” Lauren pressed.

“Not human,” Darcy agreed. “But I have no idea how I’m supposed to be something I know nothing about. I can’t visualize a wood nymph and become one if I’ve never seen one before.”

“I’ve never seen a bird-girl with white feathers and yellow eyes,” Lauren said, “but I ended up as one.”

“And look at Fenton,” Emily said. “He has no idea what he is.”

Darcy sighed. “Well, I never asked for this. I don’t really care if I’m a full wood nymph or not. Being invisible is pretty cool on its own. I’m happy with that even if I’m still human.”

After a while, the front door to Fenton’s house opened and their friends emerged along with a line of adults. Everyone seemed edgy and anxious—except perhaps Miss Simone, who positively bristled with excitement.

Emily’s dog, Wrangler, came bounding across the long grass and hurdled the low wall. He went straight to her and licked her face as she hugged him. Darcy and the others stood and waited nervously while the adults spread out in the street, forming a rough circle.

“Hi, Mom,” Emily said, getting up. “Dad.”

Miss Simone looked from face to face. “Fenton’s missing.”

“He’s around,” Abigail said.

Darcy shot a sideways glance toward their friend, who still hung from the lamppost in the darkness.

Whatever had been decided inside the house, apparently the discussion was intended to continue outside. Hal noisily cleared his throat. “Miss Simone, tell us why we’ve been stuck here on this island all our lives. We know about the fog. We know it’s supposed to keep the virus out, if the virus is still Out There. But why couldn’t we just go to your world from the beginning, instead of staying here?”

And so it began. With everyone listening with wide eyes, Miss Simone explained exactly what the children were and why they were all stuck on the foggy island. She said the virus still existed and that the fog filtered it out not to protect the children but the adults, who were not immune like the young shapeshifters were. Darcy felt cold inside, thinking of the fog-hole they’d blocked not so long ago. The moon was already brightening in the sky, the first signs that the fog was lifting.

When it was clear Miss Simone was in fact looking out for their best interests, most of Darcy’s friends went ahead and demonstrated their shapeshifting abilities right there in the street, much to the approval of the watchful parents. Darcy looked on with interest, feeling more and more confident that everything would turn out all right . . . as long as the virus no longer floated about in the air. It probably didn’t, she reasoned with herself. It had been over a decade since the virus had been unleashed on the world. It had to be gone by now despite what Miss Simone thought.

When Emily explained that she had not yet undergone any kind of transformation, not even a small one, Miss Simone told her not to worry, that her time would soon come. That left Hal and Darcy to demonstrate their abilities.

“Hal?” Miss Simone said as he stood there trying to shift.

“I’m trying,” Hal mumbled.

Darcy decided to rescue him. He’d never change while thinking so hard about it! She winked at him, then turned to the audience. “While he’s trying, I have a neat trick of my own. Ready?”

Everyone gazed at her.

“Now you see me,” Darcy said . . . and imagined herself invisible.

A collective gasp went up, and she giggled and darted away, leaving everyone staring in confusion at her vacated spot. She ran from person to person, touching them on their shoulders and dashing away as they turned to look. Nobody saw her, and she felt immensely powerful.

From what Miss Simone had said about being emissaries in a strange new world, their purpose was simply to act as go-betweens, like official diplomats. But that would be wasting her talents. She was invisible! She could infiltrate enemy castles and steal secret plans, or eavesdrop on important meetings between villains, or even release captured princes! There was so much more to do than simply mediate between humans and dryads.

Then a strange feeling came over her. She remembered the beauty of the woods and all it offered. So many of those plants and wildflowers could be used as ingredients in home-brewed medicines, and only the wood nymphs knew how to do it. She felt certain that was what they excelled in, and if so, she had a better purpose in life than spying on the enemy. She could learn the dryads’ secrets and share them with the humans. She could save lives!

Miss Simone was laughing. “How lovely! Darcy is a perfect example of how difficult it is to communicate with dryads. It’s even more difficult in the forests. Darcy is going to be such a help to us.”

With her purpose all but confirmed, Darcy grinned widely even though nobody could see her. Already she was looking forward to the day she went to work in the forests of Miss Simone’s world, the place she and her friends called Elsewhere. There she’d find real dryads, woodland creatures that probably didn’t even look remotely human. She’d get to learn more about the wonders of nature, find out how to concoct amazing medicines from all manner of plants, perhaps even manipulate the plants themselves so their yield was more plentiful or specialized . . . and she’d report her findings to those in need, the humans of the local villages and towns.

But first she needed to figure out how to do a full transformation. Simply being invisible was fine for messing around and having fun, and for escaping dangerous manticore attacks, but to interact with others of her kind? That would entail shifting into full dryad form.

At that moment, Hal said loudly, “Miss Simone, we blocked the fog-hole!”

Everyone froze the moment his words tumbled out. The clapping and laughing abruptly ceased, and Miss Simone’s smile faded. Almost all of Darcy’s friends turned their gazes to the ground and shuffled uncomfortably.

“You . . . did what?” Miss Simone said, her fists clenching and unclenching.

And suddenly the impromptu monster-unveiling ceremony ended. It was time to go, time to leave the island, and this meant no more chances to practice shapeshifting. Darcy had mastered the invisibility trick, but the rest was a mystery.

With Hal unable to fly and Abigail apparently too big to be a real faerie, Miss Simone probably thought this group of shapeshifters had quite a few failures in their midst, destined to eek out their lives like Orson, the flightless winged horse.

As children and adults tore along the moonlit road, heading for the lighthouse where their exit off the island awaited them, Darcy felt a great heaviness in her heart.

Would she ever truly be a dryad?

Or just an ordinary invisible girl?

Riding the Serpent

Anxiety gnawed at the pit of Emily Stanton’s stomach as she ferreted around in her dad’s shed for a set of bolt-cutters. They had to be somewhere.

The misplaced tool was the least of her concerns, though. She couldn’t decide what was worse—the idea of breaking into the lighthouse tomorrow or the fact that the rest of her friends seemed to be undergoing weird changes and transformations. It was hard to believe, but she couldn’t deny something was very wrong. After all, Fenton had grown fangs, and Hal had belched up a fireball in class. Still, the suggestion that each of them was turning into a fantastic creature of myth and legend . . . well, she found it hard to swallow.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, spotting the rusty handles of the bolt-cutters poking out from under an old bag of potting soil. She pulled the tool loose and dusted it off.

Bolt-cutters, she thought in amazement as she tucked them under her arm and headed out the door. We’re actually going to break into the lighthouse. We’re going to snip the chains on the gates and walk right in! Trespass in a place we’ve been forbidden to go near our entire lives!

But it was just a chain, right? One snip and they’d be in. No harm done. Their parents would probably never find out.

More alarming was what her friends would do once inside. Transform into monsters? That was the idea, at least. Those who had already mastered their ability would show off to the rest, and those who hadn’t would figure it out.

As Emily rode away from the house on her bicycle, a pile of blankets in a basket on the rear end and the bolt-cutters under one arm, she concluded that what troubled her the most was her own complete lack of ability. From what she understood, Hal, Robbie, Fenton, and Abigail were able to change into another form, and Lauren apparently was on the cusp. Emily had nothing remotely weird to report, and nor did Darcy and Dewey—at least not that she knew of.

Chewing her lip, Emily rode slowly. What if she were the only one without an amazing, super-human ability?

The lighthouse loomed ahead, white and gleaming in the haze, its topmost section fading into the gloom. They all knew the fog might not reach to the very top, that the lighthouse could very well poke out into clear sky. If so, it would be possible to see over the fog, to look across to the mainland in the distance.

She stopped outside the gates, threw her bicycle down in the long grass to one side of the road, and searched the bushes. It didn’t take long to find the other items on her list. Lauren had brought an axe to chop away at the lighthouse door, and Darcy had nabbed her dad’s binoculars.

Emily added her bolt-cutters to the stash and placed the blankets alongside. They were to help block the fog-hole, Abigail had explained—another thing on their agenda tomorrow.

She mentally crossed off each item on her list and headed home. After school tomorrow, she thought with a sigh. We’re going to get in so much trouble . . .

Something caused her to freeze and listen intently. The slightest of noises off to her right, a slithering sound accompanied by a gentle, reverberating hiss. She turned her head and squinted, and after a moment spotted a black snake moving toward her. Though fifteen or twenty feet away, somehow she’d picked up on its approach. Oddly, now that she could see the thing, she no longer heard it slithering through the grass.

Its tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air, exploring. She wasn’t sure if the snake was venomous or not, but it seemed relaxed and non-threatening. It must have seen her but continued approaching anyway, apparently unperturbed by her presence, perhaps even curious about her.

Emily climbed to her feet and edged backward, then turned and fled with a shudder of revulsion. She was not a fan of snakes.

* * *

“If you don’t change in the next fifteen minutes,” Miss Simone said sternly, “then I’m afraid you may have to stay here.”

Emily said nothing as she hurried along the darkened road with Miss Simone, her friends, and all their parents. The fog was lifting, and panic mode had set in. Footfalls pounded the paved surface, and the air was filled with huffing breaths.

Apparently, the fog-hole Emily and her friends had blocked that afternoon really was there for a reason. The fog filtered the virus out of the air, and without the fog, all the adults were in serious danger of succumbing to some nasty, life-threatening effects.

Today had been one of the most intense Emily had ever known, and it wasn’t over yet. They’d broken into the lighthouse and gone to the top to look out across the mainland, shielding their eyes against the glaring sun in the clear, blue sky. Yes, they’d actually seen it! They’d then headed to Black Woods to block the fog-hole. There they’d run into Thomas the manticore again. By that point, literally everyone had transformed except Emily. She alone remained utterly normal.

Yet Miss Simone had, a short while ago, told her they were all shapeshifters. All of them, including Emily. And if she didn’t change very soon, then she might never get the chance. That was why they were all here on the island, after all. Something about the atmosphere. Crossing into Miss Simone’s world, which they’d all dubbed Elsewhere, would freeze her transformation progress at whatever stage she’d reached.

Which in her case was nowhere.

“If we leave this island before you change,” Miss Simone told her for the third time, “then you probably never will.” She leaned closer and grasped Emily’s shoulder as they jogged along the road. “Look, your parents need to get off this island before the virus finds its way here, but you children don’t. You’re safe. You have great immune systems and can fight off the virus. The fog was here for your parents’ benefit, not for yours.”

“And what about you?” Emily asked, looking again at the gleaming moon in the black sky. And the stars! So bright. If only there was time to stand and enjoy it . . .

“I’m half immune,” Miss Simone said. “I’m the same as you only older. We shapeshifters are in a constant state of regeneration, but this cellular activity slows as we age. I may not be as immune as you. But you can stay here a day or two on your own, can’t you? Just until you manage to transform.”

“Into what, though?” Emily exclaimed, spinning to face her. “What am I?”

“I told you—a naga.”

“But what is that?”

Miss Simone gave an impatient gesture. “A snake person. Look, I need to speak with your parents before we arrive at the lighthouse. We’ll talk again soon.”

With that, she broke into a faster trot and hurried onward to catch up to the crowd of puffing adults ahead.

Emily slowed and patted Wrangler’s head. Her black-and-white border collie always knew when she was worried or upset, and he stuck close to her, trying to lean against her legs even as she jogged. “At least I’ll have you with me,” she murmured.

“Hey,” a voice said behind her. Hal came running up. “What did she say?”

“She said that if I don’t change in the next fifteen minutes, then I’ll need to stay behind.”

“Stay behind?” Hal repeated. “What—on your own? She said that?”

“On my own,” Emily said, nodding. “None of our parents can stay here. Nor can Miss Simone. So, unless some of my friends stay with me . . .”

Hal squeezed her arm. “We’re not leaving without you, Emily. We’re in this together.”

She felt better in an instant. “It’ll be fun, right? Being on the island a few days without our parents while I try to figure out how to transform?”

“It won’t even take that long.”

He sounded unsure, yet she appreciated his loyalty and positive attitude. No wonder Abigail liked him. He was like a rock.

“I need to figure out how to fly,” he said. “And Abigail needs to shrink down small. I guess we have a reason to stay behind with you. So we’ll stay. We won’t go to Elsewhere until we’re all completely ready.”

She grinned at him. “Okay. Sounds good.”

He veered off then, jogging over to where Abigail zigzagged across the road with the buzz of a giant dragonfly. Emily watched with envy, wishing she had wings.

Did the naga have them? She tried to remember what Miss Simone had said. She’d mentioned the naga folk when her friends had stood around in the street demonstrating their abilities. Snake folk. Half snake, half human.

She grimaced. Really? Why did she have to make me a naga? Who in their right mind likes snakes anyway? Perhaps this was exactly the reason she hadn’t transformed yet—because she had no desire to become even remotely snakelike. Even her subconscious was repulsed by the idea.

It was a long way to Lighthouse Point. A quick dash on a bicycle but a surprisingly laborious journey on foot. The fog had completely lifted, revealing an utterly black sky with bright stars and an almost-full moon. The lighthouse itself stood taller and whiter than Emily had ever seen, rising high into the sky, its top easily visible. Beyond, waves crashed idly against jagged rocks.

Everyone had stopped jogging by the time they reached the grounds. Completely out of breath and reduced to a fast, panting walk, the large group shuffled through the busted gates without comment. Robbie had done all that damage just four of five hours ago. His ogre form had been more than enough to break the chains and wrench the gates open. The bolt-cutters Emily had brought along the day before hadn’t been needed after all. Nor had Lauren’s axe; Robbie had simply smashed his way through the lighthouse’s stout oak door.

All the parents, with Miss Simone in the lead, rushed to the rocks where a short wooden jetty stuck out over the swirling water. A tethered boat bobbed up and down there.

Emily and her friends hung back while the adults squabbled over who should be the first to ride out in the small boat. It was going to take several trips; Miss Simone hadn’t planned on taking everyone to Elsewhere this evening, otherwise she would have brought several boats. She’d come for Fenton.

One of the moms cried out. Dr. Porter shouted, “Move aside. Get out of the way.” A silence followed, then some whispers as they all clustered around Robbie’s mom. “She has the virus. She needs to get to safety now.”

Pandemonium ensued after that. As the virus descended from the sky, an invisible and deadly menace, Emily held out her hands in a moment of curious wonder. She felt nothing but a cool breeze on her fingertips. She took a long, deep breath, half expecting her throat and lungs to burn as she sucked the virus in. Still nothing. Neither her nor her friends were affected, and yet . . .

As reality came crashing in again, she noticed Robbie rushing to help his mom. Trying to protect him from a horrifying sight, none of the dads let him through until he grew to nearly twice his height and roared at them in partial ogre form. Then they parted.

Meanwhile, Miss Simone was in the boat, untying it while yelling, “Get her in the boat! Get her in the boat!”

“Oh, no, no!” Darcy’s mom cried. “It’s happening to me too!”

After that, the frantic shouting drowned out anything else Miss Simone tried to tell them. As more and more parents clutched their faces and moaned, Abigail went to their aid, yelling over her shoulder as she went. “Come on—splash water in their faces or something. Maybe we can wash the virus off their skin.”

It seemed a ridiculous notion, but the cold water did at least sooth the burning if nothing else. Emily blinked tears from her eyes as she watched her mother’s face puff up, her skin bright red. Reaching down from the rocks and trying to grab a handful of water was futile, but even her wet hands on her mom’s face had to be better than nothing. An occasional spray of water from some of the bigger waves helped enormously, soaking them all.

Emily’s dad joined the infected next. He tried not to show it, scowling furiously as the left side of his face and neck swelled up, but then he started gasping for breath and went down in a heap. With all the moaning and gasping and frantic shouting, by now probably two thirds of the adults flopped around on the jetty and surrounding rocks. It felt like a nightmare. Emily squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it was all over. She opened them just in time to see Darcy’s dad crashing down with his eyes bulging.

Looking away, Emily spotted Miss Simone lying in the boat. Even she had been struck down. Hal stood over her, trying to hear what she was whispering. She grabbed his shirt and spoke frantically in his ear.

Emily returned her attention to her parents, rushing from one to the other and crying openly, her tears dripping onto their faces. Her dad was in worse shape than her mom, struggling to breathe and clawing at his throat. And all she could do was shout “Dad!” over and over.

“Emily!” Hal yelled. “Get over here!”

“My dad—” she cried, swinging around to find him rushing toward her.

“The only way we can save them,” he interrupted, grasping her by the shoulders, “is for you to change. You’re a serpent of some kind, Emily. You can talk to the sea serpent in the water. Call it here, and it will carry us all to the hole.”

All she could think about was her dad fighting for every breath. She glanced over her shoulder, looking through the huddled crowd to her mom, who lay unattended. There were more victims than helpers right now. Only a few adults remained on their feet, and there was nothing anyone could do anyway. She imagined that even the cold seawater did little more than disguise the burning sensation. It still burned no matter what.

Hal shook her hard. “You’ve got to do something. Emily, please.”

She tried to shake him off. Her parents needed her. Even if she couldn’t help them, she intended to be with them to the very end. If only she could drag her parents closer to one another, then she could be with both at the same time . . .

“Sorry about this, Emily,” Hal whispered directly in her ear, giving her a jolt of surprise. “Let’s find that serpent.”

With that, he dragged her onto her feet, gripped her around the waist, and toppled sideways. Before she had a chance to cry out, the two of them plunged into the cold water.

She almost swallowed half the ocean. Kicking and thrashing, she felt Hal let go and struggled for the surface, her eyes shut tight to avoid the stinging sea water. When her face found air, she sucked in a deep breath and opened her eyes, blinking furiously. Through a misty film, she spotted the jetty already ten feet away. The waves pulled at her as she began kicking her way back to the rocks.

Then something powerful gripped her ankle. She had time to suck in another lungful of air before whatever it was tugged her under. Unable to escape, she flailed with her free limbs and wondered how long her breath would last.

* * *

She started to drown.

Her chest heaved in and out in short bursts, unable to find air, and there was nothing she could do to prevent seawater getting sucked in. She bucked and screamed, her voice coming out as a gurgled roar. The water was cold as it filled her lungs. So, so cold.

But then she felt different. The drowning sensation ended, and a calm swept over her. Pausing, she listened to her body. Though water had filled her lungs, now it seemed she didn’t need to breathe. How was that possible? She remained still, trying to figure it out.

Her lungs contracted, forcing water out of her mouth. She still didn’t rush to the surface. She felt comfortable now. It wasn’t so much that she had no need to breathe, more that she had enough oxygen in her body for now.

Whatever had gripped her foot had let go. She opened her eyes and found to her surprise that the salt water didn’t sting them like it usually did. Instead her vision was perfect as though she wore tight-fitting goggles.

Something was happening. She hardly dared to look, so she stared ahead and fixed her gaze on some distant point, a murky smudge of darkness where the rocky grounds of the lighthouse protruded from the sea. Her body felt weird, gripped by a rippling sensation like twitching muscles. Her shoulders tightened, causing her to pull her arms in close. She couldn’t move them after that. They felt glued to her sides, but in an oddly comforting way as though she were being swaddled.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a monstrous shape floating nearby. She turned to find a dragon staring at her. Hal, she thought. He pulled me under and . . . made me change.

This realization caused her jaw to drop open. She was transforming! All her friends had talked about the changes being brought on by instinct, and here she was, altering her form to prevent herself from drowning. She was a naga.

She risked a glance down at herself, twisting around in the water to take in her shockingly different body. Her arms and legs were gone. Instead, she had the body of a huge snake. Her magical smart dress, found in the crates at the foot of the lighthouse, had turned almost transparent and now clung to her like a layer of skin, trailing off in places.

Hal said something. She heard him grumble, and a column of froth rose to the surface. She blinked at him and tried to reply, but all she could muster was a single bubble.

Still, his gesturing made it pretty clear what he wanted. His words from earlier came back to her: You can talk to the sea serpent in the water. Call it here, and it will carry us all to the hole.

The thought of her parents lying there on the rocks, dying, sent a chill down her spine. Scouring the murky depths, she set off past Hal to seek out the monster that supposedly lived in the sea around the island.

She’d never really believed the stories, but Hal and Robbie had told a wild tale about it recently. They’d tried to escape the island on a raft, and the serpent had brought them back. Abigail had seen the whole thing. So the serpent was real and apparently very, very big.

Nervous, Emily swam along at a dizzying speed, cutting easily through the water. She glanced back and saw her long snake tail moving from side to side. Was she doing that? She had to be, though she had no idea how. Her new body felt disconnected somehow.

“Sea serpent!” she called.

Her words didn’t exactly come out as planned. She heard a weird hissing, gurgling sound coming from her throat.

“Sea serpent, I need you!”

She paused and waited.

It will carry us all to the hole, Hal had said. She chewed that over as she swam about, calling out every few seconds. When she felt a familiar and terrifying restriction in her chest, she immediately shot to the surface, recognizing that even her naga form was about to run out of air. Transforming had lengthened her stint in the water, but she didn’t have gills like a fish; her snake form simply needed very little oxygen to survive. But it needed some. She stuck her head out and bobbed there, breathing deeply in the moonlight.

She was already half a mile from shore. The lighthouse stood out easily in the darkness, but the rocks below were shadowed. The panicked yells had trailed off. Now they were muted groans and cries, somehow far worse. She knew in her heart that it was too late. Her parents had to be dead by now, along with several others. And instead of being there by their sides, she was out here in the middle of the sea hunting a giant snake!

Just as anger welled up, she spotted the small boat not too far away. It looked empty at first glance, but that was because everyone aboard was laid out flat. She saw an arm or leg move and knew it was filled with virus victims. Nobody was rowing. Did that mean it had come loose and floated away? Or had the rower slumped over like the rest of them?

She stiffened. Hal was there, sticking his snout out of the water. He was towing the boat! Maybe he had found Elsewhere!

Fueled by a sudden urgency, she ducked below and spun about. “Sea serpent! Where are you? Come to me!”

Would the giant creature respond to such a name? Did it even know it was a sea serpent?

“Monster of the sea!” she yelled, her voice erupting as a garbled noise. “Miss Simone’s guardian! Giant snake creature! Come HERE!”

Still no sign of it. Shaking her head in disgust, she headed back to the rocks. A new resolve set in. She was Emily Stanton, the top student in their class of eight, and the best event organizer on the island. The least she could do was help Hal. If he found the way to Elsewhere and returned for more passengers, she would make sure they were all prepped and ready to go.

Heck, she could probably carry a couple on her back. Her body was long and powerful. Maybe her parents could cling to her while she swam . . .

At that moment, something emerged from the darkness below, a massive shadow rising from the depths to meet her, nearly ten feet thick and impossibly long. She made out scales and realized with a jolt of fear and excitement that it had to be the infamous sea serpent.

The creature matched her speed and direction, still rising so that its gigantic undulating body came into sharper focus. To her surprise, the serpent was a milky-white color.

“W-we need to transport people to safety,” she said. “To Elsewhere. Do you understand?”

The serpent gave no indication of hearing let alone understanding. It continued on its course toward the lighthouse, staying with Emily the whole way, now only ten feet below her.

When she arrived at the jetty, she burst from the water and shouted, “Everyone! I have the serpent here! We’re going to ride it to Elsewhere.”

Abigail and Dewey swung to face her, looking stunned. Robbie, Lauren, and Darcy remained kneeling among the moaning adults. Fenton had caught up at last, still in his black lizard form, his red eyes glowing. And Wrangler barked the whole time, clearly distressed.

The gleaming-white scaly body broke the surface nearby and began to turn, angling sharply toward the jetty and doubling back to form a U-shape, its head passing by the startled spectators as it went. It’s turning around, Emily thought in amazement. It’s so clever!

Its long, long body straightened and came alongside the rocky wall of the lighthouse grounds. As her friends and a few of the less-stricken adults climbed to their feet and stood there looking uncertain, the serpent eased sideways until it had pushed itself up against the rocks. The tiny jetty pressed into its side.

Emily didn’t know much about boats, but she felt certain this counted as the most bizarre ferrying system in history. “What are you waiting for?” she shouted to her friends in a perfectly normal, human voice. “Climb aboard!”

She feared the serpent would suddenly dive as her friends were dragging the hapless parents aboard. Robbie’s ogre form was a big help; he was able to lug adults about and get them situated on the slick, scaly platform while Abigail, Lauren, Darcy, and Dewey made sure the unconscious passengers didn’t slide off. Fenton slid onto the rear end where the milky-white serpentine body was thinner and sat lower in the water. He wrapped his tail around and hunkered down.

And Wrangler, who had given up barking for now, leapt aboard with his tail wagging. Emily grinned, momentarily forgetting the seriousness of the situation. Trust her dog to think this was a new game!

Her temporary glee soured when she saw the state of her parents’ faces. She looked away, appalled. Was it too late? For all she knew, half the adults could be dead already.

Once everyone was safely aboard, she ducked below the surface and headed along the serpent’s length until she found its head. Since it had already turned itself around, all it had to do now was glide forward and find Elsewhere.

“Go,” she instructed.

The serpent’s enormous eye winked. Or so it seemed to her. Perhaps both eyes had blinked, but from here on its right-hand side it just looked like a wink. As the monstrous creature set off, Emily remained still and watched in awe as its colossal length thundered past, bringing with it a cloud of sand and moss churned up from the seabed.

She caught up with it again, swimming alongside the giant’s head. “Thanks for helping,” she called out.

This time the monster ignored her. Perhaps it hadn’t winked at her earlier, either. It was obviously smart enough to understand instructions, and even seemed to anticipate her intentions; it had, after all, turned around back at the jetty before letting its passengers climb aboard! But it didn’t seem very talkative.

It’s just a big snake, she reminded herself. A smart one, but still just a snake.

Hope flared inside her. If it wasn’t too late already—if her parents and the others were still breathing—then maybe everything would turn out all right. She prayed Hal had found the way to Elsewhere, but if not, maybe this serpent knew where to look.

She surged ahead, flicking her tail from side to side. The water was too dark to see very far, so she rose to the surface and stuck her head out, still moving fast. The feeling of speeding along on the water was exhilarating. Maybe being half snake wasn’t so bad. It bothered her that she had no arms, though. She didn’t feel a need for them while in the water, and in fact they’d probably get in her way and slow her down, but it would be weird to not have arms while on solid ground. Could she even survive out of the water? Probably, because she was an air-breather. But how would she hold things? She wasn’t a real snake. She had no desire to slither through the grass like an animal. Even if she was destined to be a naga, she still wanted to mingle with humans while in this half-snake form, and the idea of having no hands struck her as . . . well, plain awkward.

Maybe she could retain her arms next time she changed. She’d practice switching from human to naga and back again.

Just then, Hal appeared ahead, his huge dragon head popping up above the surface next to what was clearly an empty boat that bounced vigorously on the waves. When he saw her, he let out a belch of fire that lit up the water all around. She veered toward him, and the serpent followed.

Ducking back underwater, Emily gasped when she spotted what Hal had found: a huge, pulsing cloud of black smoke. This was one of the “holes” Miss Simone had talked about? An entranceway to her world of Elsewhere?

Hal waved at her to go ahead, to plunge through the cloud, and Emily gritted her teeth and trusted him. Never mind that he’d pulled her into the water earlier and dragged her down, practically drowning her. Somehow, she’d already forgiven him. Thanks to him, she’d managed to shapeshift . . . and because of that, she’d found the sea serpent and was about to transport all the sick adults into a safer world with no virus.

Yes, she trusted him despite his stunt earlier.

She tore into the pulsing cloud at top speed. A moment of utter darkness shrouded her, and then light filtered through once more. The water seemed brighter now, and tasted different. She frowned and rose to the surface. No salt, she thought. It’s freshwater.

She surfaced and spun around in growing amazement, seeing grassy banks nearby, mountains in the distance, a forest not too far away. The night sky remained black and starry but seemed brighter than ever.

Elsewhere.

She gasped and took in the abrupt change of scenery. A lake! She’d left the ocean and popped up in a lake. How was that even possible? On its nearest grassy banks, she spotted several figures—Robbie’s and Darcy’s moms, Hal’s and Fenton’s dads, and Miss Simone—all sitting up and groaning. The first five patients! Hal had already been through the pulsing hole and dumped them, which explained his empty boat back on the other side.

At that moment, the serpent exploded from the lake and caused frothy, choppy waves to spread outward and lap up the banks. A cascade of water streamed from its chin as the rest of the parents and Emily’s friends slid off its back. Coughing and spluttering, they paddled and splashed toward the shore.

Some of the parents needed help. Abigail tried to drag her mom from the water by flying above the surface, but her sodden faerie wings failed to buzz properly, so Hal helped her out. Dewey clip-clopped onto the grass with his own mom slumped across his back. Robbie, in ogre form, casually picked up some of the dads and almost tossed them onto dry land. Wrangler doggy-paddled ashore and started barking again.

It was done, everybody safely through to the mysterious land of Elsewhere, lying on the grass under the glittering stars, breathing in clean, virus-free air. And judging by all the feeble movements and weak coughing, nobody had died. Whether the adults would be scarred for life was another matter. Perhaps they wouldn’t, though; their exposure had been relatively brief.

In any case, they had survived.

Emily turned away and sobbed with relief. She would have held her hands to her face only she didn’t have any in her current naga form. Suddenly frustrated, she dipped beneath the surface and let out a scream of annoyance that erupted as a stream of bubbles. Venting made her feel better, and she floated there awhile, enjoying the underwater calm.

Aware that the serpent was looking directly at her, she followed the length of its body to see if it had come all the way through the smoky hole. It had; the lake was plenty deep enough even this close to the shore. “Thank you,” she said, her voice again emerging as a gurgling whisper.

The serpent, with both its huge eyes fixed on her, tilted its head slightly to one side. Its tongue flicked out once as though tasting the water. Then it gave a stiff nod, or seemed to anyway. Emily wondered if she’d simply imagined it, made something out of nothing.

The moment ended, and the serpent sank to the depths of the lake, sniffing around with interest. Apparently it had no intention of returning to the salty ocean. Though the lake was limited in size, Emily guessed the serpent had come from here originally. A giant from a magical land. It made sense.

She swam to the grassy bank and slithered out of the water. By now, everyone was either asleep or resting, which suited her just fine because she felt a little self-conscious with her serpentine coils even in the subdued moonlight. To her surprise, she already felt a change taking place as though leaving the water had automatically flipped the switch that would return her to human form. She watched as her tail shortened rapidly. Her lower body then split in two, allowing her legs to form. Her shoulders bulged outward, and she felt a sudden desire to pull her arms free. She struggled for a second, feeling like they were strapped down, as though her clingy dress was too tight. The material was already turning opaque, and beneath it her arms peeled off from her scaly torso with sleeves neatly in place. The magic was mind-boggling.

With the change complete, she flexed her fingers and let out a long, shuddering breath before lying down on her back to stare up at the moon. Exhaustion set in. Her arms and legs felt heavy as though they were new limbs she’d never used before.

“We’re all alive,” Miss Simone whispered after a minute, breaking the silence. “And we’re home.”

“Emily found the sea serpent and asked it to help,” Darcy piped up.

“She did?” Miss Simone reached out and poked Emily. “Really? You transformed before we came through the hole? That’s wonderful!”

Emily sat up again. She stared again at her legs in the moonlight, amazed at how weak they felt. “But it was Hal who made me change. I could never have done it if he hadn’t pushed me into the water and then tried to drown me.”

“Hal tried to drown you?” her mom said feebly.

Emily shut out the rest of the conversation and dragged herself over to her mom and dad. They looked awful, puffy and red, but they were alive.

“Glad you’re okay,” Emily said, holding back her tears.

“I don’t remember much,” her mom muttered.

Her dad sat up, groaning. “Nor me. I remember riding something, though. Slippery and wet, a white-colored platform. Weird.”

Emily gestured out to the lake, which looked utterly black except for the moon’s extended reflection. The island’s monstrous guardian eased away through the water with barely a ripple. “Nothing weird about it. You were riding the serpent.”

His eyebrows shot up. Then a look of understanding crossed his face, and he nodded.

“You were right, Dad,” Emily whispered. “All those stories you told us about the virus and the sea serpent . . . We didn’t really believe you, but you were right.”

“Speaking of serpents,” her mom said, squinting through half-closed eyes and tentatively holding the side of her face, “is it true? Did you . . . change?”

Emily grinned. “I’ll show you in the morning when it’s light. Right now I just want to sleep.”

And sleep she did—but not before Miss Simone sat with her and explained about the two different types of naga. One, she explained, lived in the water. The other dwelled on land and was far more social, more humanlike than their aquatic cousins. Emily had been infused with both types of naga. “So yes,” the blond-haired woman finished, “you can keep your arms when you transform on land.”

Happy, Emily settled back and slept while Miss Simone’s friends, the ugly goblins, emerged from the nearby forest and tended to the virus victims, applying salves to ease the swelling.

She awoke the next morning with the sun on her face.

And the sky was blue.

Author’s Note

If you liked this novella, please consider posting a review. Thank you!

There are other Island of Fog Chronicles for you to dip into, and of course the main Island of Fog series is still growing! Check out my website for the full listing of everything.

And if that’s not enough, try the Island of Fog Legacies. This is a spin-off series set twenty years in the future and featuring a new generation of shapeshifters. You’ll bump into all the heroes from the original series (now grown up) as well as their children, who Miss Simone insists on sending on weird, wonderful, and often dangerous missions. Nothing ever changes, right? Except in this series, the new shapeshifters can choose what they transform into...

Thank you for joining me in these adventures!

 

Keith Robinson

Sci-Fi and Fantasy Author

https://www.unearthlytales.com

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