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60 pages

English

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A visually stunning, middle-grade classic in the making about Wicked Nix, the foulest of the fairies Mischievous woodland fairy Nix is up to no good. His beloved fairy queen has gone away, leaving him with a very important job: He must protect the forest from a most dangerous enemy-humans. When a determined invader trespasses on his territory, Nix's skills are put to the test as he invents several wicked tricks to chase the sorry fellow away. But when his efforts don't go quite according to plan, it becomes clear that this intruder-and this sprite-may not be at all what they seem. This gorgeous new fairytale by acclaimed author Lena Coakley, with illustrations by rising illustration star Jaime Zollars, explores the timeless bonds of family and the joy of finding home in unexpected places. "Wicked Nix is like any other fairy food-it is delightful; it will cut you to the core. With humor and heartbreak, devastating loss and the hope of connection, Wicked Nix is a meditation on the lies we tell ourselves to protect ourselves, and the unexpected ways we might build a family. A sharp, startling, wondrous story." -Kelly Barnhill, Newbery medalist for The Girl Who Drank the Moon "Sheer delight." -Kathy Stinson, author of Red Is Best and The Man with the Violin "Wicked Nix is a rare and enchanting book. Equal parts mischievous and poignant-this story is destined to linger in the hearts of all readers lucky enough to discover its magic. Easily the best fairy story I've read in years."-Jonathan Auxier, NYT bestselling author of The Night Gardener

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Children's

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Publié par	ABRAMS BOOKS
Date de parution	09 octobre 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781683352464
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	4 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0420€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LCCN 2017023678 ISBN 978-1-4197-2869-3 eISBN 978-1-68335-246-4
Text copyright 2018 Lena Coakley Illustrations copyright 2018 Jaime Zollars Book design by Alyssa Nassner
Published in 2018 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
Amulet Books is a registered trademark of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
ABRAMS The Art of Books 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007 abramsbooks.com
For Jasmine
1
There is someone in the forest.
Knock .
Knock. Knock .
It isn t the sound of one branch hitting another in the wind. It isn t the sound of a tree-pecker. It is the sound of someone who doesn t belong.
I climb higher in the old oak until I can see over the tops of the trees. I look in one direction all the way to Grandfather Mountain. I look in the other direction all the way to the village where the peoples live. Nothing seems wrong. Below me, the green forest sways in the wind. The crooked road winds through it like a scar.
I scan the road, up and down. I hate the idea of a people on it, but that is allowed as long as they keep moving. No. There is no one.
Knock .
Knock. Knock .
There! Over by the abandoned cottage. I see him! A little people the size of an ant. He s not on the road where he is allowed. He is in the forest.
There is a people in our forest.

I don t take the road. That s for them, and besides, my way is faster. I run along the deer path, leaping barefoot over roots and rocks. The screaming-blues dive at me, protecting their nest, but I am past their tree in a moment.
I stop short, almost falling. A spider-web stretches across the path, sparkling with dew. I go around, careful not to break the spider s pretty work, and I start to run again.
When I get near the cottage, I slow down. The knocking has stopped. I don t see anyone, but I know he s there. I can smell him, or at least I think I can. Like all peoples, he smells like soap and taking baths and eating with a fork. Horrible.
The door is wide open, and an old white cow stands in the garden patch, chewing weeds.
In front of the cottage is the kind of tree whose leaves look shivery when the wind blows. It is called a shivery tree. I climb it and hide in the branches. Even with my bent arm, no one in the forest climbs as well as I do.
A people comes out. A man-people. He is tallish and oldish and baldish.
I see that he has some big nails in one hand and a hammer in the other. I shrink back, afraid. A nail would burn me. Anything made of iron would burn me.
The man-people climbs a ladder and bangs the nails into the roof: knock, knock, knock . He s fixing the house. He thinks he can live here. In our forest.

Badness! I cry. This forest belongs to the fairies. You cannot stay.
The man-people is so surprised he nearly falls off the ladder.
Who s there? he says, scanning the trees. Let me see you.
I laugh my wickedest laugh. You don t want that. A people like you would scream and run away if you saw my face, and your hair would turn white as bone forever, for I am Wicked Nix, the foulest of the fairies.
Oh, he says.
Leave at once!
But . . . The man-people climbs down the ladder and squints up into the shivery tree. But it s my home, you know.
This makes me angry. I make my voice low, like the growl of a bear. I warn you. If you don t leave, I will put a curse upon your garden so that nothing grows but thorns. I will put a spell upon your hearth so that your fire always smokes. I will turn your well water into skunk spit and . . . and frog pee. I will give your cow wings, and she will fly to the moon!
I can see he is afraid now. I am sure he is about to beg my fairy pardon. I am sure he is about to leave and never come back. I am very surprised when he says:
Do your worst, Wicked Nix, foulest of the fairies! This cottage is mine, and I will never leave!
2
I spend the night throwing rocks and sticks and pinecones at the man-people s roof, but he just stays inside.
The truth is, I don t know how to put a curse on his garden so that nothing grows but thorns. I don t know how to put a spell on his hearth or his well water. And I certainly don t know how to give a cow wings.
Why did the Good Queen have to leave and put me in charge of the forest? I wonder. So many of her other fairies have more magic than me.
I go back to my nest in the old oak tree, feeling grouchy as a badger. Usually my nest is very comfortable-it s made from blankets and ropes and other things I took from the village when no one was looking-but today I toss and turn in my hammock among the branches.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream of the Summer Country. That s where all the fairies are now-all the fairies but me. Time passes slow and sweet as honey there, and no one is ever cold or hungry. In my dream, I can see the Summer Country just ahead. All my fairy friends are waving at me-Fleet and Flit and Wing and Dart. I run and run, but I can t seem to get there.
The sun is high when I wake up. I have slept the morning away. Above me, in the pattern of green leaves, there is a face. It shifts and swishes in the breeze.
Oh, Mr. Green, I say. I m in trouble.
I don t know who Mr. Green is, exactly, but whenever I need him, he is there-sometimes in the ripples on the river, sometimes in the sunlight on the forest floor. He gives me good advice.
What is it? His voice is whispery, like leaves rustling.
My stomach. It feels like the time I ate rocks.
Hmm. Hungry then.
No!
I sit up. Now I see Mr. Green s face in the wrinkly bark of my oak tree. His eyes are knots, and his nose is a little branch.
It s that man-people! He s in the abandoned cottage where he s not allowed. What if the Good Queen of the Fairies comes back and finds him living here?
Peoples live in cottages. It s what they do.
That s no help. How can I get rid of him?
Hmmm. Let me think. Let me think.
I try to be patient, but Mr. Green thinks for a long time. A fuzzy caterpillar inches along one of the ropes of my nest. I pick it up carefully and put it on a leaf, which it starts to chew. My stomach gives a gigantic rumble.
I knew it, says Mr. Green. Breakfast is what you need. Breakfast solves most of your problems, Nix.
A fairy only needs an acorn for breakfast. My stomach rumbles again. Or maybe two.
I stand up on a branch, holding the trunk of the old oak tree, and look down over the forest. I see no sign of the people, but I know he s there.
Please help me, I say. How can I make him leave when I have no magic?
Now Mr. Green s face is huge. His eyebrows are shaggy pine trees. His smile is the curve of the river, far away, but I still hear his voice at my ear.
Village, he says. Food and drink.
A fairy only needs a dewdrop to drink, I say, and a flower petal for a cup.
A dewdrop, he says, chuckling. A flower.
The whole forest shakes, and suddenly I am inside Mr. Green s laughter. It sounds like branches creaking.
Fine! I shout. Don t help. I ll do it myself.

I do not take Mr. Green s advice and go to the village. Instead, I go to the cottage again.
A fairy doesn t need magic to make mischief , I tell myself. I will steal things. I will break things. I will cause ruin and disaster! And if none of that works, I will show that man-people my foul face, and he will run away in terror.
The cottage has changed since yesterday. The vines that covered it have all been pulled away. Foxes and squirrels and other forest animals are carved around the door.
Who used to live here? I wonder. Who made this pretty place? Surely not the horrible man-people with the nails .
The garden patch is a square of dirt now, ready for planting. All the weeds are piled high by the side of the cottage. I remember what I told him: I will curse your garden so that nothing grows but thorns . That man-people will not see one green shoot in this new garden, I promise myself.
I want to get closer to see what else he s done, but just as I am about to take a step, I see it: a line of salt! Someone has made a big, white circle all around the cottage, the garden, and the little barn. This is powerful magic, meant to keep a fairy out. If I set one foot over that line, I will shrivel like a garden slug, down and down, until I am only the size of a bug.
I run back behind the shivery tree, my heart bumping in my chest.
Oh , I think. That man-people. He is rotten. He is mean. But he knows things about fairies .
My stomach rumbles and groans. I remember Mr. Green s advice.
Of course! He didn t want me to go to the village just for breakfast. He must want me to talk to Rose the Wise. She ll know what to do about my people problem.
Why didn t you just say that in the first place, Mr. Green? I say.
3
I take the deer path to the forest s edge, where the village begins. The peoples here are afraid of fairies, as they should be. They know that if we are angry, we will make their chickens lay black eggs or their cows give sour milk, and so they leave gifts to make us happy.
On a big stone in someone s yard I see a lump of something tied in a handkerchief. Quick as an owl, I swoop in and take it away, back to the woods. It s a piece of cheese. I gobble half of it and save the rest for later.
At the back