Darkwing Read Free Page A

stopped since. She was always getting shushed by Mom and Dad, and she hated being shushed. Sometimes Dusk wanted to tell her to shush, too, but what he loved was her laughter.
    When Sylph laughed, she laughed with her whole body. It wasn’t enough for her just to laugh from her mouth; her entire body jerked and lurched and she’d often throw herself around a bit until she ended up splayed on the branch. It was quite something to watch.
    “I’m in,” said Jib. “Let’s go.”
    The four of them lined up along the edge of the Upper Spar. “You haven’t got a chance,” Sylph murmured to Dusk. “Against Jib?” he whispered back.
    “Against me,” she said. In her normal voice she shouted, “Everyone ready? Launch!”
    Dusk threw himself off the branch, unfurled, and within seconds was well ahead of the others. His hairless sails cut the air unhindered. It was this speed that had enabled him to catch a Sphinx moth, the fastest of bugs. But Sylph, overall, was a much better hunter. There hadn’t been many days when his tally of prey was greater than hers. Dusk knew he had little hope of beating her. He just didn’t want to disgrace himself completely.
    He caught sight of a snipe fly and unleashed a barrage of hunting clicks. The returning echoes told him everything he needed to know: the fly’s distance, its heading, its speed. Dusk tipped a sail, kicked out his left leg, and banked sharply to match his prey’s trajectory. Then he dumped some air, and plunged upon the fly’s tapered black and gold body, dragging it into his mouth, wings and all.
    He scarcely had time to savour the pleasantly sour tang before he had to wheel to avoid the trees at the clearing’s far side. The sun set alight drifting spores, dust motes, and the myriad insects flitting through the air.
    It was important to focus, to not get distracted by all the choices. A few times he was too ambitious and missed his prey because he overshot it.
Slow down,
he urged himself. He caught a few more insects. Below him, in the prime hunting ground, hundreds of darkly furred chiropters glided between the giant redwoods. He’d be in the thick of them soon.
    He sighted a blue dasher dragonfly, strafed it with clicks, and set his course of attack. A flick of a finger to angle his sail, and the spicy dragonfly was thrashing its translucent double wings against his teeth as he bit down and swallowed.
    “Watch where you’re going, newborn!” someone shouted after him.
    Dusk careened through the crowds, doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way.
    “Slow down!” one of his older brothers barked. It was either Diablo or Norther—Dusk always got them mixed up. “You’re going to kill someone!”
    “Sorry!” Dusk called back, and seconds later snagged a fairy moth in his jaws.
    “Hey, that was my food!”
    Dusk gulped down the cloying moth and glanced back sheepishly to see yet another chiropter glaring at him. “Are we related?” Dusk said. “Unfortunately,” said the chiropter.
    Dusk couldn’t tell which cousin it was—after all, he had something like three hundred.
    “Sorry,” he chirruped again, then looked higher to check on the others. There was Sylph! It looked like she’d just got herself a hover fly. He couldn’t see Aeolus or Jib.
    Below the crowds he got lucky, very lucky indeed. Hovering near a tree was a haze of newly hatched insects. He made a quick turn, took aim, and skimmed through, taking six small bugs into his mouth at once, and spitting out a seventh when he started to gag. Not even their stingy, bitter taste could temper his glee—this just might put him in the lead.
    He didn’t want to get lazy, though. He figured he had about twenty-five more seconds, and he planned to make each one count. His eyes and ears, brain and body worked together seamlessly. He caught a soldier fly, then a marsh moth.
    There was the Lower Reach looming below him—the great branch that marked the end of chiropter territory. They were