“No Chernabog,” Philby whispered. “That’s interesting.”
“Only to you,” Finn said. “But now that you mention it…”
Maleficent raised both arms, lifting her robe. She looked like a giant purple-and-black raven, but with a green face, pointed chin, and a long nose.
“There comes a time in every rite of passage,” the evil fairy said in her clear but icy voice, “when one must confront one’s demons. This is the moment between youth and adulthood. The dark passage. But you will never reach that passage, Finn Whitman and Dell Philby. For your time has come.”
“Your magic is powerful,” said the Queen from below. “Children should not play with fire. Sadly, you are neither children nor of age. You live in the middle kingdom, where views are never clear and trust is never certain. I envy you, if truth be told. I pity you as well. For in the end, it comes down to the person. The soul of the matter. We have transitioned, have we not? From one side to the next. From there, to here. And now, dear ones, you too will be given this honor, so that we may understand your magic better.”
Finn and Philby were trapped. On any other section of stairway, they could have vaulted the banisters and escaped. But the final flight of stairs did not offer that choice.
“We need only a tiny favor,” Maleficent said. “So much easier if you cooperate.”
“So much easier,” the Queen echoed.
Philby spoke calmly, like a man twice his age. Finn marveled at his composure.
“Beauty such as yours, fair Queen, should not be hidden. This wretch behind us—hideously foul, don’t you think?—does not deserve to share the same air with loveliness such as yours. What does she want from you, do you think? Equality? Her? You may slay the two of us—helpless children—but beware the enemy within.”
Finn spotted the opening. Just for an instant, Philby’s appeal to the Queen’s vanity, his hints about competition from Maleficent, made the witch to take her eyes off the prize: she looked beyond the boys to the winged woman on the landing above. In that moment, Philby dove, a swan dive aimed at the witch below.
He heard the flutter of wings too late. Diablo—freed from his kitchen prison cell—struck Philby mid-flight. The smallish bird smashed Philby into the wall. He slid limply to the floor; the Evil Queen put her polished shoe on his neck and pressed down. Hard. Philby’s face went red. She eased up, but not much.
“Return of the journal,” Maleficent said. “Now!”
“I…ahh…”
“NOW!”
Finn looked between the two women. The Queen increased the pressure on Philby’s neck. He was shaking his head no.
One of you will die.
“Okay! Okay!” Finn said. He gently slipped his Wave Phone from his pocket and called Maybeck. But all the while he was thinking: If they need the journal, if they want to kill us, then they don’t have Chernabog yet.
“Listen up,” Finn said nervously. “The safe combination is four-two-one-two.” He gathered his courage. He would have to talk incredibly fast. He wondered if his newfound speed and abilities would translate to his voice. “Take the journal to the jogging track. Hold it over the rail. Wait for us. Drop it if we’re not—”
He had done it: spoken faster than those guys at the end of radio ads. But Maleficent had him off his feet, held by the throat, her hand as cold as liquid nitrogen.
“Fix it,” she whispered.
Finn could barely breathe—his throat was starting to freeze shut—but he managed to drop the phone. It bounced down the stairs.
“Curse you!” Maleficent cried, dropping him like a sack of sand. Finn collapsed to the stairs. “You obstinate, wretched little—” She raised her hands high, clearly preparing to end him.
Finn closed his eyes: One of you will die.
“Stop! You fool!” the Queen thundered. “We need him. We need that journal!”
Maleficent turned a darker, hideous green as she blushed, clearly not accustomed to being scolded.
“Up,” the Queen commanded. “Both of you.” She took her foot off Philby’s throat. He rubbed his neck and sucked for air.
She addressed Finn. “We will go along with your plan, young man, but if I sense the slightest deceit, believe me, you will wish you were dead and buried.”
“I believe you,” Finn muttered.
Diablo landed on Maleficent’s shoulder and stared cruelly at Philby.
Minutes later, they were on the jogging track, the evening wind driving warm sea air across the deck. A few stray passengers lined the rail looking out, some arm-in-arm.
One person was not studying the sea, but staring at the two women and two boys who came through the amidships doorway: Maybeck.