Free The Key by Michael Grant Page A

field.
    A girl with black lipstick dressed in black, white, and a few strategic accents of red, looked up at him and said, “Say, ‘ Halk-ma simu (ch)ias! ’”
    So because she seemed to know what was going on, Mack said, “ Halk-ma simu (ch)ias! ”
    And with that his wings folded in on themselves. And the feathered tail split again into legs.
    Unfortunately he was still about twenty feet in the air, so he dropped like a stone.
    Stefan leaped and caught him before he hit the ground.
    â€œDude,” Stefan said, and set Mack on his feet.
    Mack’s legs felt like they might buckle. He had had a pretty bad twenty-four hours, really, and shakiness was natural.
    â€œThanks,” Mack said to Stefan.
    â€œYou’re alive,” Jarrah said with a satisfied grin. “Was it kind of cool?”
    His friends rushed to embrace him. Even Dietmar. And after some backslapping and whatnot, Mack disengaged and went to the goth girl.
    â€œYou saved my life,” he said.
    â€œ Oui ,” she said. Which is French for “yeah.”
    â€œYou’re one of us,” he said.
    â€œYes, I am.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œSylvie Zola de Rochefort,” she said. It was a lot of name for a girl who wasn’t very big. She was definitely smaller than Jarrah and even smaller than Xiao.
    Her black hair was cut to chin length. Her eyes were dark and somewhat sad-looking. Her lashes were absurdly long and curved up to add a quizzical air to the sadness. Her skin was naturally pale—she didn’t seem to be wearing goth or emo white makeup. But her lipstick was black and her fingernails were bloodred.
    â€œMy name is Mack. This is Jarrah, Xiao, Dietmar, and my friend and bodyguard, Stefan.”
    â€œGood catch, friend and bodyguard,” Sylvie said to Stefan.
    â€œHuh,” Stefan replied.
    â€œWhere are you from, Sylvie?” Mack asked.
    â€œA tiny little town in France, called Fouras. It is nowhere special.”
    She pronounced special as spess-ee-al . Mack liked that. He liked it a lot.
    â€œOkay, life stories later. Right now we need to go get that Key from MacGuffin,” Mack said. (Give the boy credit: he recovered quickly.) “Who are all these people?”
    â€œTourists,” Xiao said.
    â€œThey can see the castle?”
    â€œMost of them appear to be aware of the castle,” Dietmar said.
    â€œOkay, then,” Mack said. Then he raised his voice to be heard by all. You might wonder why a bunch of tourists would listen to Mack. After all, he was just a kid. But it’s a fact: if you want to get people’s attention, being catapulted through the air and then turning into a sort of goofy bird is a pretty good way to do it.
    â€œListen to me,” Mack said. “No one has seen that castle in a thousand years. A thousand years! Plus there are walking skeletons in there. Can you imagine the YouTube possibilities? The person who gets the best video online will get millions of hits. Millions!”
    â€œAnd don’t forget Facebook, Google Plus, and Twitter,” Jarrah pointed out.
    â€œYou’ll be more important in the Twitterverse than Ashton Kutcher,” Mack said.
    After that, nothing was going to stop the horde. Roughly sixty-five people and approximately a hundred cameras began to march to the castle.
    The rough climb over the rocks thinned the herd a bit, but in the end the Magnificent Five were accompanied to MacGuffin’s gate by about forty hardy men and women.
    â€œWilliam Blisterthöng MacGuffin!” Mack yelled at the closed door. “You have visitors!”
    There was a long silence. Then, “Go away!”
    â€œNo,” Mack said.
    Another long silence. Then, “Gang awa’, ye interlopers. Ah demand mah privacy. Ah huv rights!”
    â€œYou lost your rights when you tried to kill me!” Mack shouted back.
    Stefan used a big rock to bang on the door. BANG BANG BANG