The Witch's Apprentice

The dragons may be out of the bag, but Jaxon is ready to hatch some magic of his own in this third book in the critically acclaimed series now in paperback.

Ever since the baby dragons were returned to the magical realm, things have been off. The New York summer has been unusually cold. A strange sleeping sickness is spreading across the city. And Jaxon s friends Kenny and Kavita have begun to change, becoming more like the fairy and dragon they once cared for.

On top of all that, Jax is hiding a secret Vik entrusted him with a phoenix egg! Jax wants to help his friends and learn how to hatch the phoenix, but so far his lessons as a witch s apprentice haven t seemed very useful. Where can he find the strength and the magic he needs?

Leseprobe:

1
I keep having the same dream. Night after night I fall asleep knowing that I ll wake up sweating, with my heart racing and my hands curled into fists. Even after I m wide awake, I hear a man whispering in my ear: I ve been waiting for you, my son.
Nobody calls me son ­not anymore. Sometimes I wake up so upset that I can t tell what s sweat and what s tears. I wash my face in the bathroom and then try to fall back to sleep. Sometimes I can. Sometimes I can t.
I haven t told Mama. She s got enough to worry about, and talking about my father just makes her sad. Plus, she s a really sound sleeper, and I m too old to be waking my mom up just because I had a bad dream. It s not really a nightmare, but I told Ma because I don t keep secrets from her. She s a good listener, and, well, she s a witch! So there s always a chance she ll be able to share her special knowledge with me.
Ma isn t my mother or my grandmother, like I once thought. We re not related at all, but rig ht now Mama and I are living with Ma while our own apartment is being renovated. Now that school s out for the summer, I spend a lot more time with Ma. She has a thick Book of Dreams in her library, but Ma won t let me read it yet. Instead, she made me describe the dream over and over. Then she told me to write down all the details I could remember as soon as I woke up each night.
I don t see how that will help, but since I m Ma s apprentice, I do as I m told. Some nights the dream does change. Last week I felt the man s hand on my shoulder as he spoke ­like he was standing behind me. But last night the hand was in front of me, reaching out from a fun house mirror that turned the man s body into a rubbery smear. I couldn t see his face, and I hate to admit it, but I don t remember what my dad s hands looked like. I remember how safe and strong I felt whenever he wrapped his fingers around mine, but that s it.
I m busy writing all this in my Apprentice Journal when Ma knocks on the door with her cane.
Ready? she asks.
I nod and close my notebook, but Ma isn t there to see it. I hear her shuffling down the long hallway that leads to the front door. Today Ma is wearing a bright orange bubble coat that s so puffy, it rubs against the wallpapered walls as she walks. She s got her purse slung over one shoulder and her folding stool tucked under her other arm. When Ma s got a job to do, she s totally focused and ready to get started with or without me. That s Rule #1: Always be ready.
I shove my notebook inside my knapsack before hustling down the hall after Ma. She s already outside the apartment waiting for the elevator, so I grab my sweatshirt and holler, Bye, Mama! over my shoulder as I slip out the front door.
Got your gloves? Ma asks. Her eyes are watching the illuminated numbers that show the elevator s ascent, but I take my gardening gloves out of my bag and wave them at her anyway. I have just enough time to pull my warmest hoodie over my long-­sleeve T-­shirt before the elevator bell rings, the doors open, and Ma nudges me inside. She passes her stool to me, and I hold it close to my chest. It s a tight squeeze with Ma s puffy orange coat taking up most of the space in the elevator, but soon we reach the ground floor and head over to the park.
My recurring dream isn t the only strange thing that s happening around here. There s also something wrong with the weather. Summer in Brooklyn is usually sweltering, with lots of humidity and heat rising in waves off the concrete. But when Ma and I reach the park, nobody s wearing shorts or tank tops. It s too cold! Ev