Abarat: Days of Magic, Nights of War
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All things in their time . . .
Candy Quackenbush's adventures in the Abarat are getting stranger by the hour. Why has the Lord of Midnight sent his henchman after her? Why can she suddenly speak words of magic? Why is this world familiar?
Candy and her companions must solve the mystery of her past before the forces of Night and Day clash and Absolute Midnight descends upon the islands.
A final war is about to begin. . . .
zetheks. Unleashed Totemix. Killed the Criss-Cross Man. You’re not an ordinary girl. Not remotely. In a way, I feel very honored to have some minor part in your undoing. You were the last hope of goodness in a darkening world. And when you’re gone, there will be such a wonderful Night. Such a terrible, wonderful Night.” The speech seemed to drain him, spilling out—as it did—so much that was poisonous and hateful. “You pathetic little man,” Candy said. “Very possibly,” he said. “But I am also
say. “Where’re Tom and Mischief and Geneva and Finnegan?” Malingo looked grim. “Bringing our dead,” he said. Candy sighed, nodded and glanced up at the Wormwood. In fact, she could see Geneva and Tom now, with a sad bundle in their arms, preparing to lower it over onto the deck of the Lud Limbo. She looked away, turning her gaze toward the roof of 34 Followell Street. Her father, she saw, was among the little cluster of people perched on the roof. They were safe for now, but their safety was
even, on occasion, the ceiling. The weapon gave off a smell of burning sugar mingled with something fouler. The waves of golden power flowing from the Totemix recoiled from the weapon, as though in disgust at its essential nature. To judge by the expression on Otto Houlihan’s face, he was pleasurably surprised at the weapon’s efficiency. He wielded it with two hands, cutting a dark swathe through the golden veils of life, hacking his way in Candy’s direction. “It’s over, girl,” he said. “This
mirror’s gaze, Which counts us out our numbered days. —Righteous Bandy, the nomad Poet of Abarat OTTO HOULIHAN SAT IN the dark room and listened to the two creatures who had brought him here—a three-eyed thing by the name of Lazaru and its sidekick, Baby Pink-Eye—playing Knock the Devil Down in the corner. After their twenty-second game his nervousness and irritation began to get the better of him. “How much longer am I going to have to wait?” he asked them. Baby Pink-Eye, who had
reached around behind his back and snatched hold of the tail of the fish, as if he intended to hit her with it. She didn’t give him the opportunity. She snatched the fish out of his hand and aimed a strike at the dream things he had perched on his head. They were fragile. The pieces flew in all directions. The man unleashed a howl of horror. “My dreams!” he yelled. “Look what you’ve done to my precious dreams!” The cry was instantly taken up all along Marapozsa Street, as those who’d witnessed