Against the facing wall, flanked on both sides by shadowed arches, a rough-hewn throne sat atop a platform. And on that throne sat a man. He was wearing a skirt. And every one of the Magnifica and Stefan had the identical thought: I hope that dude keeps his legs crossed.
The man was built as wide as he was tall, but he was still plenty tall. He had extravagant red hair pushing out from beneath a too-small cap. His massive hands gripped the arms of the throne as if he would—and could—rip them right off at any moment.
He stared with eyes that glittered from deep, torch-cast shadows.
“I am the MacGuffin,” he announced in a heavily accented speech. “Wha urr ye, ’n’ how have you come ’ere uninvited?”
The stones seemed to shake when he spoke. Or maybe it was just that Mack shook. Mack was not fond of beards. In fact, he suffered from pogonophobia—an irrational fear of beards, which only distance could keep under control.
“We’re, um …,” Mack began, before faltering. He glanced aside and happened to see Dietmar. Somehow now Dietmar wasn’t all that interested in taking the lead. “We’re, um, hikers. Is this Urquhart Castle? Because that’s … that’s where we … um …”
“Urquhart Castle, is it?” MacGuffin demanded, and gnashed his teeth. “Di ah keek lik’ a Durward?”
“A what?”
“A Durward!” MacGuffin shouted.
“What’s a Durward?”
“Th’ Durwards ur th’ family that runs Urquhart Castle, ye ninny.”
Dietmar got a crafty look on his face. “Shouldn’t Urquhart Castle be run by a family named Urquhart?”
“Na, you great eejit!”
Dietmar did not like being called a “great eejit” so soon after suffering the indignity of being transformed into a sunflower. And, as Mack noticed grudgingly, Dietmar had some spine. The German boy was not a wimp, and he was getting ready to say something forceful to MacGuffin.
But there was something crazy in MacGuffin’s eyes, which perfectly reflected the light of the torches from under bushy eyebrows, and Dietmar chose to do the wise thing and fall silent.
MacGuffin leaned forward and glared at Mack. “Ah ken how come yer ’ere. Ye huv come tae steal mah key.”
“Key?” Mack said disingenuously. “What key?”
“Dinnae tak’ me fur a gowk. Ye huv th’ enlightened puissance or ye wouldn’t be ’ere. Ah ken th’ Pale Queen rises, wee jimmy. Ah ken wha ’n’ whit yer.”
Or, in regular English, “Don’t take me for a fool. You have the enlightened puissance or you wouldn’t be here. I know the Pale Queen rises, boy. I know who and what you are.”
And it was at that heart-stopping moment that Mack’s phone made an eerie sound. The sound of an incoming text message.
Slowly … slooooowly … cautiously … Mack drew out his iPhone.
MacGuffin stared at the oblong object in Mack’s hand. Stared at it as if he was seeing a ghost.
“Whit’s that black magic?” MacGuffin demanded in cringing horror.
See, that’s the problem with being stuck in an invisible castle for a thousand years: you miss out on a lot of new technology.
Mack did the thing that really should have saved his life. “This!” he cried, holding up the phone and glancing at the message—which was from the golem, and which said, “Pocket lint is tasty”—“Is the mighty iMagic of … of Appletonia! If you harm me or my fri
ends, I will use it to destroy you!”
* * *
Five
* * *
MEANWHILE, AT RICHARD GERE MIDDLE SCHOOL10