Could he be transforming into more a part of the forest? One with roots? Not a pleasant thought. Kerrick sighed. Not much he could do about it. Instead, he focused on the task at hand.

From their vantage point in the woods to the east, Mengels appeared to be a ghost town.

“It’s almost winter. Maybe they’re all inside,” Flea said in a hopeful tone.

Kerrick just looked at Flea.

“Yeah, well. It’s better than them all being captured or killed by the Skeleton King.”

Pointing to the buildings, Kerrick said, “There are no signs of a fight. The windows are intact. No burned buildings. No scuffs in the dirt. No bloodstains. There’s another explanation.”

“And that is?”

“You tell me.”

Flea huffed, but gazed at the town. One of the larger towns in Sectven, it had survived the brutal plague years almost intact, a rarity in the Fifteen Realms. Kerrick believed it was the cool heads of Mom and other town officials who had kept the population calm, plus the dedication of the surviving town watch who’d stayed at their posts even when friends and family died around them.

“There’s no smoke coming out of the chimneys,” Flea said. “And there are no wheel tracks in the mud from yesterday’s rain. No sign of wagons or horses, either. They’ve left town.”

“Very good. How long ago?”

Flea drew in a deep breath. “There’s a slight odor from the chamber-pot dumps and no fresh horse droppings—just a few dusty-looking piles. A week, maybe two?”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about the past few days, Flea.”

He dipped his head, letting the bangs cover his eyes. “If they’d left within a week, we’d have seen them because the only safe place is east to Tobory Realm or northeast to Pomyt Realm. So two weeks.”

“I concur. You’d make a good scout.”

Flea stood a little straighter. His swiped the hair from his face, exposing a glimmer of humor in his eyes. “And trade in the luxurious life of a death magician? No, thank you.”

“You’ve been hanging out with the monkeys too long.”

“I consider them my mentors.”

“No, no, no. I can think of a better mentor for you.”

Suddenly wary, Flea crossed his arms over his chest. “Who? Avry?”

“Oh, no. She’d smother you. I had someone else in mind.” Kerrick waited to see if Flea’d take the bait.

“Who?”

“My Great-Aunt Yasmin. She’d set you straight in no time.”

Flea gaped at him. “Isn’t she, like, a hundred years old?”

“She’s ninety, no, ninety-one by now. But don’t let her age fool you. Grown men are terrified of her.”

“Uh-huh,” Flea said, catching on to the joke. “Nice one, Kerry.”

Surprised and impressed that Flea knew Great-Aunt Yasmin’s nickname for him, he said, “Touché. Who told you?”