The Fuzzles were afraid.

Not of everything, like Regent Maximus was, but rather, they were afraid of being eaten. I was sure they had fled to Cloverton … from a predator. Trouble was, I didn’t have the tiniest clue what ate Fuzzles.

Still, it was a start. I decided the next step was to talk it out with Aunt Emma, and I got my opportunity that evening.

After the clinic was closed, Aunt Emma took me and Callie out to Two Duck Lake. She needed to check on the Fuzzles, so we decided to have a picnic dinner on the island too. She wasn’t the best at cooking though, so dinner was foil-wrapped baked potatoes with everything from the refrigerator drawers chopped up and put on them.

As we landed on the shore—thankfully, the Emerald Dunking Ducks seemed to have bedded down elsewhere, taking their judge-y comments with them—the Fuzzles crowded close, just out of reach. It was hard to tell what they were thinking, but they seemed curious. Aunt Emma lifted a few up, holding her stethoscope to each one, then shining a mini-flashlight in their eyes.

“They’re doing so well here!” she said. “It’s too bad we’ll run out of room soon.”

She didn’t say Too bad they’ll be exterminated soon. But I could tell she was thinking it.

Callie flopped down on the shore and opened her potato, then sighed. “Great. This thing’s cold as a dead polar bear.” Annoyed, she wrapped her potato back up and tossed it onto a pile of nearby Fuzzles, who lit up instantly.

“Callie!” admonished Aunt Emma.

Callie blinked. “What? If they can roast marshmallows, they can heat potatoes.”

There seemed to be an important difference between roasting a marshmallow over a Fuzzle and chucking a potato on its head, but the Fuzzles didn’t seem to mind. Still, Aunt Emma and I placed our foil packages more carefully among the Fuzzles instead of tossing them like Callie. When the potatoes had warmed and we were tucking into our food, I asked, “Aunt Emma, do Fuzzles have any natural predators?”

She picked a piece of apple off her potato and chewed it thoughtfully. “Well, lots of creatures find them delicious, actually. That’s why Fuzzles catch fire. They need some dramatic defense mechanisms to protect them since they aren’t very fast and don’t have teeth or claws to fend off large predators.”

“What sort of large predators?”

She thought about it. “Wild Morks, I suppose. They have special lining in their mouths to allow them to eat animals with spines, and it works to keep the flames from burning them so badly. And plain old crocodiles will eat them if they can get ahold of them, because they pull them underwater. Grims, if Fuzzles are in the path of the pack’s migration. Sometimes Wild Hobs …”

As Aunt Emma went on musing about Wild Hobs for a moment (and Callie went on sighing heavily about all the magical-creatures talk happening), I heard what sounded like a splash close by.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Aunt Emma and Callie didn’t bother saying “What?” They both shut up in a hurry and listened. Sure enough, another splash sounded above the hushed buzzing of dusk insects.

“Glassfish?” Aunt Emma suggested. “There aren’t many mosquitoes out, but maybe they’re catching dragonflies.”

There was another splash.

Aunt Emma whipped out two flashlights. I took one; Callie reached for the other, but Aunt Emma grabbed her hand instead. Together, the three of us forged to the shore, sweeping the flashlights back and forth. My heart was galloping too loudly to hear if there were any more splashes. I could think of all kinds of things that might be hanging out around a lake at night. What if Tomas was right? What if there really were Georgia Swamp Cretins around here? Sure, they weren’t really deadly, but the bite of one could leave you limping for weeks!

(That wasn’t in the Guide. Tomas had told me. Three times.)

Aunt Emma cast her flashlight to and fro on the sand. The beam illuminated the flock of Emerald Dunking Ducks. They bobbed in the shallows, eyes shut, fast asleep, looking like a fleet of ships at harbor. One of them was muttering in his sleep: “… so much better … than those smaller ducks … practically chickens … barely even poultry …”

“I don’t see anything,” Aunt Emma whispered to me.

But I did. And I didn’t need a flashlight to see it.

“There!” I hissed. Halfway between the shore of the island and the shore of the mainland, a tiny, impossible fire burned on top of the water.

It was a Fuzzle, of course. I pointed my flashlight at it. It swayed gently in the water, wiggling and twitching and scooting its butt (maybe … it was hard to tell which end of a Fuzzle was which) to force itself closer to shore.

“How is it doing that?” Aunt Emma asked. “Fuzzles don’t swim!”

Callie’s voice came from behind us, quite sour. “You’d better find out, because there go the rest of them.”

We jerked to follow her gaze. Sure enough, a small fleet of Fuzzles sailed into the middle of the lake, half of them on fire.

My normally practical and unshakable aunt said, “Oh, no. How?”

I squinted at them and shined my flashlight at the closest one. It seemed even more magical than Fuzzles were supposed to be. Like they were hovering on top of the water.

But then, as another batch of Fuzzles floated by, my flashlight caught a glint of light. It didn’t seem to be coming from the Fuzzle. It seemed to be coming from under the Fuzzle.

“It’s the Glassfish!” I gasped. “They’re riding on the Glassfish!”

Sure enough, when we trotted farther around the island, we saw that when the Glassfish came to the surface for insects, the Fuzzles leaped onto them. The Glassfish didn’t seem to mind. Instead, they bobbed along like fireproof little boats.

All of the Fuzzles seemed to know instinctively how to wiggle and shimmy and vibrate in just the right way to keep their Glassfish headed toward shore. As they grew closer to freedom, they began to hum, and as they began to hum, more and more of them caught fire.

“This is a disaster,” Aunt Emma said. “If they get loose on shore, they could set the vacation cabins on fire. And we can’t bring them back here, because obviously they can escape!”

Callie said, “This is just great. Nature! I love it! Just wait until Mrs. Dreadbatch hears about this.”

Just the sound of her name made my blood run cold.

I asked, “Can you call Mr. Randall? Maybe he can bring down some fire extinguishers before anyone sees.”

“Yes, yes,” Aunt Emma said, sounding relieved. “That’s a start. Can you try to scare away the rest of the Glassfish to keep any more from escaping while I try to get ahold of him?”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Callie demanded.

I pulled off my shoes and grimly began to roll up my pant legs.

“Oh, no way!” Callie said. “These are character shoes! For the stage! I was just breaking them in!”

Another batch of Fuzzles launched themselves onto more Glassfish swimming in the shallows. Without another word of protest, both Callie and I hurled ourselves after them, scattering the school just beneath the surface.

“Hello?” Aunt Emma said anxiously into the phone. “Joseph? We need your help! They’re escaping—I know, I didn’t think they were clever enough either—”

On the shore of the mainland, it seemed like help had already arrived. A pair of headlights suddenly blinded us. They were pointed right at the island. A silhouette climbed out. It was wearing heels. It was a bit melty looking.

Aunt Emma swung her flashlight up to illuminate the distant newcomer on the other shore.

Mrs. Dreadbatch.

“Ah ha!” Mrs. Dreadbatch cried, pointing furiously. “I knew it!”

And then the ground right in front of her caught fire.

It really was a small fire, all things considered—the first group of Fuzzles had finally rolled ashore. But that didn’t stop Mrs. Dreadbatch from leaping back with a shriek-yell-curse. Whipping off her bright red blazer, she began beating the flames with it. All the noise and the waving shocked the other Fuzzles, causing them to light up, one after another, until they were like little campfires across the water.

“Come on!” Aunt Emma shouted, and Callie and I hurried into the canoe. Aunt Emma shoved us off before clambering in and paddling furiously. We’d barely struck the other shore when she jumped out, tripping a bit in the water as she rushed to help Mrs. Dreadbatch.

“They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere!” Mrs. Dreadbatch howled. Lights in the vacation cabins were flicking on and people were staring. And Mrs. Dreadbatch was right: The Fuzzles really were everywhere. Bushes rustled with them. The dirt paths seethed with them. They rolled around Mrs. Dreadbatch’s feet; little flames licked at her ankles. Her panty hose had scorch marks on them, and there were big burned holes in her blazer.

“Mrs. Dreadbatch, you have to stop yelling! You’re scaring them! You’re making it worse!” Aunt Emma urged. Grabbing Mrs. Dreadbatch’s arm, she tried to pull her away from the Fuzzle-filled shore. But Mrs. Dreadbatch’s pointy high heels didn’t work very well in the sand.

First her ankle twisted around. Then her leg. Then she whirled in a circle, overbalanced, and with a great flailing of arms tumbled to the ground. Her butt landed squarely on a flaming Fuzzle. Her pointy shoes flew off—I heard one splash into the lake—and she began to roll down the shore, backside lit with Fuzzle fire. With a yelp, Aunt Emma ran for her, but it was too late.

Mrs. Dreadbatch rolled straight into the lake.

Personally, I thought this was a good thing—the lake water, after all, put out the fire on her butt.

Mrs. Dreadbatch didn’t see it that way.

She reared up from the water, grabbing the side of our canoe to hoist herself to a standing position. Gasping for air, she went all wide-eyed. Her mascara was running and there were pond weeds stuck to her head.

Aunt Emma stood on the shore, still dripping, watching in shock. She wasn’t the only one—all the vacationers had come out of their cabins and were staring.

Finally, Mrs. Dreadbatch said, “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” in a way that made me think she was going to charge Aunt Emma like an angry rhinoceros. Aunt Emma seemed to think so too, because she took a step back.

“That’s it!” Mrs. Dreadbatch finally managed to form words. She slogged her way out of the lake, looking a bit like a Scottish Bog Wallow. I suspected she didn’t eat slugs though, like the Wallows did. Well, she probably didn’t, anyhow.

Callie and I kicked our legs over the side of the canoe and followed her onto the shore.

“You’re not hurt, Mrs. Dreadbatch. It’s all right!” Aunt Emma said hopefully. Mr. Randall wheeled up with a truck full of fire extinguishers, but there was no point—now that Mrs. Dreadbatch wasn’t beating them with a red blazer, the Fuzzles were happily rolling along the shore, fire-free.

“Not hurt? Not hurt? What, exactly, do you call this?” Mrs. Dreadbatch snapped, pointing to the scorch mark on her butt. It’d burned straight through to her flowery underwear. “Tomorrow. The exterminators are coming tomorrow. S.M.A.C.K.E.D. will pay them whatever they want. These Fuzzles are dangerous, and they clearly can’t be contained. What if they’d burned down one of the cabins? Or my house? Or your precious clinic? Then what?”

I thought Aunt Emma would have some sort of quick response, so I was confused when Mrs. Dreadbatch made it all the way to her Cadillac and I still hadn’t heard my aunt say anything.

I turned to her.

Aunt Emma looked defeated and soggy. She tucked her hair behind her ear and nodded quietly. Mr. Randall patted her shoulder comfortingly. Then they both started toward the car.

“Wait!” I called after them. “Aunt Emma! You can’t just give up!”

Aunt Emma sighed. “Pip, as much as I hate to agree with Mrs. Dreadbatch—and I really hate to agree with her—she’s right. It isn’t safe. Someone could get seriously hurt. It isn’t fair to the Fuzzles, I know, but it has to be this way.”

I didn’t know what to say. Callie, Mr. Randall, and Aunt Emma began gathering up armfuls of Fuzzles and putting them in the back of Mr. Randall’s truck. It would take far more than one truckload to hold them now.

“Where are we headed with them?” Mr. Randall asked.

Aunt Emma still sounded depressed. “Back to the clinic, for now. We can watch them there. And we can keep them comfortable until the exterminators arrive to …”

She didn’t say the rest. She didn’t have to.

I refused to help put the Fuzzles in the truck. I wouldn’t be any more a part of this than I already was. Stomping back down to the lake, I sat on the shore with my chin on my knees. The lake water lapped at my toes, and my throat felt all lumpy from trying to hold back tears. Then, to make things worse, the newly woken flock of Emerald Dunking Ducks floated nearby, muttering to one another.

“Did you see that lady fall into the water? I wonder if I can find her shoe. Those were nice shoes.”

“Oh, yes, very nice. I liked her necklace too. Looked like emerald.”

“Indeed!”

“Maybe with those Fuzzles gone, we’ll get back to some peace and quiet around here.”

“Well, if we can get the loud kids to leave too. They splash too much. Upsets the silt.”

“No one shows any regard for the silt. Remember that black dog? He tromped right into it! Who does he expect to clean all that up?”

“You know what I bet he has?”

“Lake fleas,” both Ducks said at once.

I glowered at them. I must have looked pretty serious, because they gave me a pointed look, then floated away, snickering to each other about my hair.

“Don’t you dare say I have lake fleas!” I yelled after them. Lake fleas. I wasn’t even sure they existed. Those Ducks just wanted something to complain about. I bet that dog didn’t even bother the silt—

My head snapped up.

Dog. A black dog.

I looked down at the nearest Fuzzle—it was right next to my leg. “Hey, Fuzzle? Can you tell me why you are all in Cloverton suddenly?”

Of course, I had tried to talk to them before, back at the clinic, and they’d only hummed at me. I figured they just couldn’t talk or wouldn’t talk. I guess I figured that something so small just didn’t understand things.

The same way lots of people figure someone so small, like me, just doesn’t understand things.

“I know you probably tried to tell me before,” I said. “Or, er, one of you. But I’m listening now, I promise. Why are you here?”

The Fuzzle rolled closer to me. Another joined it, and another, and another. And they hummed together, but this time I knew it wasn’t really humming. They were speaking.

“Grrrrrrrr-immmmmmmmmm,” they harmonized.

And now I knew exactly what they’d been trying to tell me, because I knew exactly what a Grim was, thanks to Jeffrey Higgleston’s Guide to Magical Creatures.

It was, as I thought all along, a predator. A predator that looked an awful lot like a big black dog.

A very frightening, very enormous, very toothy, big, black, magical dog.