Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 18

Ever since Carmiabell first spoke to Phoebi, she had been doing nothing but making decisions Carmiabell was utterly against and in this case everyone else was on her side.

The idea of taking the diary with them was not the best. We are talking about a vampire who sucks human blood to make it over two hundred years without a wrinkle. One who literally knows witchcraft. But unfortunately, Phoebi was the one giving advice.

Damon offered to keep it safe though they all knew that there was no way he could outwit a vampire three times more powerful plus one with potential nightmarish abilities, but since there was no one better let's call it a draw. Simon had to disagree with that last part, but his stick was nowhere to speak for him.

The plan was to find an unavailing green witch from the North. Then more than ever did they need a private commute, Damon's wargon, to make it and back faster. But what? Damon had issues he wasn't ready to commune with them about.

Some part of Carmiabell sympathized and wanted to know more. Damon was a tough nut, he insisted that her problem was major than his.

It was true but an issue that could compel a vampire not to sleep at night, or a billionaire's son to board a public train for transport, sounded like a big time problem she had to get the gist of as a 'good friend.'

Ditching detention had serious penalties like: A two week suspension, or being grounded for those two weeks and doing all the cooking—did I mention how bad Carmiabell cooked—and cabbages to four times a week. Despite that, time was as essential nature was deprived them.

The black-veins-effect was stretching. It had invested up to a pint slightly below her elbow joint. Her body was still functioning properly, but somewhere inside her she could feel a gust of iciness flowing with black blood. Her skin, miraculously, was left untouched. Or as far as she was concerned, it had maintained its level of normality.

Long before the detention teacher could notice that a quarter of his class was missing, they crossed the gate and made a beeline to the closest levitating train station.

"Are you sure he won't make jelly out of us?" Phoebi confirmed from Simon for like the hundredth time. 

"I told you, he is my distant cousin, and witches don't make jelly, trolls do," Simon was gentle enough to reply with a calm voice. "And after that I'm not helping you fight a losing battle anymore. I need my stick back," he uttered, facing Damon and making it as audible as possible.

Boys.

Phoebi swallowed a lump of saliva downing what had just been said.

The North was popular for its creative art of jelly where most of it came from the North Eastern. The troll city some people called it. Ellialand had to admit, trolls were exemplars in the art.

Tittle-tattle had it that Northern Ellialand had a curfew for some reasons that were not disclosed to the public, so the wargon idea would have been the best. No levitating train was in their view, making it worse.

It felt like a depressing millennia, Phoebi chit chatting all about where and how she got the dress she had worn, when the levitating train came to be seen.

Carmiabell had never been more delighted. One, because she could finally get on the train and sit as far as she could from Phoebi. And two because there was a modicum of hope of getting something from the diary.

Simon himself had managed to convince them that almost no witch could perform an unveiling spell, corny how he had a distant cousin that could do it. Either way, they did not have a better idea.

Secretly, each one of them carried a weapon in case Simon was up to taking them for a fairly ritual, if they had any. Carmiabell had a sharp pencil, Zuina had a razor blade, and Damon, well he had his abilities.  Phoebi's was hidden.