The smell of scorched paper filled the air.
They’d landed—after such a bumpy ride!—in a place that Addy recognized, not only from Vim’s drawings for the comic book but also from real life. It was Old City Hall on Queen Street in Toronto.
Except its bricks were charred, smoke hung in the air and the steps were full of people who clasped each other as if they might not meet again.
Addy’s hair, her skin, the limp fabric of her clothing—all were gritty with smoke. Wylder’s face, Uncle Vim’s and probably her own were smeared with soot. As was Wylder’s backpack, which she found herself clutching. Every person in sight had a smudged face and singed hair. And they all appeared to be as dazed and slightly nauseous as Addy felt. Wylder and poor Catnip both lay panting on the cobblestones.
A storm raged around them. Wind stirred ladies’ dresses and tossed men’s hats to the gutter. Lightning flashed, momentarily brightening the sky, followed at once by a growl of thunder.
Addy put Catnip on her shoulder. “Please be okay,” she whispered. “You’re a hero.” Her hair whipped her face like a hundred rats’ tails.
The mayhem on the street grew ominous as the approaching storm darkened day into night.
Uncle Vim looked up at the sky, turning in a slow, horrified circle.
Addy knelt beside the boy on the ground. “Wylder?”
He twitched, so he wasn’t dead.
“MY TORONTO!” boomed Uncle Vim. “HOW DID THINGS GO SO WRONG?”
“Hey!” Addy gave Wylder a shake. “Hello? Wake up!”
A woman screamed. Addy realized it was Miss Prism. She sure had volume!
The crowd gasped in unison. Addy followed the pointing fingers.
Her breath stopped.
Above their heads, a little higher than the clock tower of the city hall, was a hot-air balloon in distress. Isadora Fortuna—of course it was hers—yanked on ropes as flames licked at the basket.
What thread of the story had put her in this peril?
Isadora clambered onto the rim of the basket and leapt without hesitation into midair. She seemed almost to fly, reaching for one of the gargoyles that perched on the city hall turrets. She swung herself to safety on the statue’s back, just as a lammergeyer dive-bombed the balloon, its sharp beak shredding the gold and scarlet stripes.
“WHY IS THAT BIRD EVEN HERE?” hollered Uncle Vim. He looked around frantically, as if someone could actually give him the answer. “WE NEED A NET!” he cried. A team of horses hauled a fire wagon down the street, bells jangling. “OR A LADDER!” Uncle Vim stepped to the curb, waving his arms at the firefighters.
Wylder began to cough. Addy wished she had some water to throw in his face, but she shook him again instead. He blinked and tried to sit up.
“Wha …?” He licked his lips. “Wherezzz … hmmm?” He licked his lips and tried again. “Why aren’t we home?” He had to yell to be heard over bells and sirens and a horde of shouting people. “Are we still in the comic?”
“Yes!” Addy pointed at the threatening sky, dark with clouds. “Near the end, but it’s a messed-up end.” She tugged the comic, still warm and slightly crisp, from under his elbow. “See?”
“This is horrible,” said Wylder.
“Where’s the portal?” shouted Addy.
“At the end.”
“This is the end! How much worse can it get?”
He took the comic back from her. “This isn’t what happened with me and Nelly. Let me look …”
“Hang on!” Addy dashed away. “Uncle Vim!”
He was in the middle of the street, pointing up at Isadora who clung to the gargoyle for dear life. Carriages and tricycles swerved past him on the road, bells blasting. Addy guided her staggering uncle back to Wylder, who understood what to do.
“The pages are stuck together. The ad for ComicFest is on the back page.”
“Then turn!” she yelled. “Turn to the end.”
He peeled the page carefully away.
THHHHHHHHHHWWWWIIPP.
Wylder didn’t tumble around or lose his breath or fall to the ground.
“Go on!” shouted Addy. “Turn the page! We’re still here!”
He stared down. This was the last page all right. There they were in front of City Hall. And there was the inside back cover. But …
