Free House of Secrets by Ned Vizzini, Chris Columbus

get off your land.”
    “Do you know the penalty for trespassing?”
    “No . . . ”
    “For a warlock: death.” Slayne squeezed Brendan’s throat playfully. “For a witch . . . ” His eyes narrowed. “We have our own ways of killing them.”
    The warriors, on horseback and foot, had a good laugh at that. Krom knelt to grab Cordelia.
    “Get your hands off her!” Brendan yelled, kicking. Slayne dropped him—and punched him in the gut on his way down.
    Brendan wheezed on the ground, writhing like a fish out of water. Slayne strode to where Eleanor lay trapped.
    “As for you ,” he said, kneeling over her, “take a look at your handiwork.” He showed her the left side of his face.
    “I’m sorry,” Eleanor said, seeing the two holes in his cheek, “but you shouldn’t talk about eating horses.” Cordelia and Brendan looked at each other. Even though Brendan was just getting his breath back, they managed to share a smile at their sister’s bravery.
    “For marring me,” Slayne said, “there’s a special punishment for you. You’ll be coming along to deal with someone much less forgiving, much less understanding, than me and my men.”
    “Who?” Eleanor asked.
    “Queen Daphne.” Slayne grinned. “She loves little children, even witchy ones. Loves to eat them while they’re still alive. And awake. She usually starts with the fingers.”
    “I’ve seen her start with the ears. Rips ’em right off their head,” added Krom with a thoughtful nod.
    Eleanor shuddered on the ground, scared speechless for the first time in her life.
    “Wait!” called Cordelia. “Queen Daphne of where ? Where are we?”
    “Silence!” Slayne ordered. Krom kicked Cordelia in the stomach. “Don’t you dare open your mouth to me.”
    Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the pain to figure out what she was hearing. These warriors were familiar in some way she couldn’t put her finger on. It buzzed in her brain, but there was too much fear and pain in there to let it surface.
    Slayne drew his sword and returned to Brendan, who was trying to sit up. Slayne pointed the blade at his throat.
    “I—”
    “Shh,” Slayne cooed, pressing the tip against Brendan’s skin. It didn’t break, but Brendan knew it would; he could see it happening—the thin membrane that separated him from the world would split, and he would die in a place where no one even knew he was. He was surprised to find his thoughts very simple. He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes, or start thinking about all the things he wouldn’t get to do because he died at twelve; he just thought, No, no, make it stop, please, God, something!! And then—
    ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!
    Brendan thought it sounded like a machine gun. Slayne looked up. Krom looked up. Everybody looked up.
    “A Sopwith Camel!” Brendan yelled.
    Brendan had seen the Sopwith in history books about World War I. It was the iconic early British fighter plane—single propeller, two sets of wings. And this one was coming right toward them.
    It had torn through the tree canopy, raining down branches and leaves that were only now hitting the ground. It looked like it was held together with spit and glue. Black smoke streamed from its cockpit. Behind it, through the new hole in the foliage, came bursts of gunfire.
    “German triplane!” Brendan called. He’d seen this plane too; it was what the Red Baron flew in old movies, with three sets of vertically stacked vermilion wings and black crosses. The triplane was in hot pursuit. When it became obvious that the Sopwith Camel was going down, the German triplane veered up, made a sharp right, and disappeared into the clouds.
    The Sopwith Camel arced lower. Its engine whined in the dense air. The warriors stared, dumbstruck; they could smell the smoke now. Slayne pulled his sword away from Brendan’s neck and demanded, “What creature of darkness is that ?”

T he Walkers weren’t inclined to respond. Slayne’s