The World's Worst Fairy Godmother Read Free

window was an imp named Zitzel. He had been sent to spy on Maybelle, and as soon as he heard her assignment he gave a wicked little chuckle and scurried away.
    Zitzel was about two feet tall. He was a hundred and seventeen years old—very young for an imp. He had red skin, tiny nubs of horns growing out of his forehead, and a long tail. A stubby pair of bat-like wings sprouted from his shoulders.
    Zitzel loved mischief more than anything. On his way out of town he managed to startle three old ladies, frighten a cat, and make the glassblower sneeze at the worst possible moment. He was very pleased with himself.
    When Zitzel entered the forest, he began to travel with more caution. The forest was scary—even for an imp. The trees were gnarled and twisty, with branches like the fingers of witches, and trunks that were often as big around as a house. Sometimes, late at night, he thought they moved on their own—though he was never able to catch them at it.
    Zitzel had gone only a little way into the forest when he spotted a woodcutter coming toward him, carrying a bundle of sticks on his back. The little imp wasn’t sure what to do. His boss had told him not to let anyone see him. But it was already too late for that.
    Well, he decided. Since I’ve already been spotted, I might as well have some fun.
    Making a horrible face, Zitzel ran straight at the woodcutter, waving his arms, rolling his eyes, and shouting, “Ackety backety backety backety!” (He made up the words on the spot, in honor of the occasion.)
    The poor man dropped his load of wood and ran screaming in the other direction.
    Humming contentedly, Zitzel continued toward the cave that he shared with his boss. He couldn’t wait to tell Zozmagog what he had learned about Maybelle.
    Zitzel’s destination lay deep in the forest, in the side of a rocky hill. Though the opening was small, the cave itself was large and roomy. A clear stream ran through the cave’s back section. Near the center of the cave, on a large stone, sat a glass ball the size of a large pumpkin. The ball flickered with red light. The light was dim, barely enough to let someone with good eyes make their way across the cave. But it cast eerie shadows that pleased the cave’s occupants, who could see in the dark anyway.
    In the back of the cave sat Zozmagog. He was muttering to himself in a cranky fashion. He was cranky for many reasons, some of them well over a hundred years old, some of them things he hadn’t even thought of yet. Right now he was especially cranky for three reasons. First, he was having problems with his tail again, and it made his bottom hurt. Second, he had just decided that he didn’t like the fact that the sky was blue. Third, his assistant was taking too long to get back with the news he wanted.
    Zozmagog sighed, a hot, steamy sigh it had taken him nearly thirty years to learn to do properly. (That had been a hundred years ago, but the memory of it still made him cranky.) He was thinking about going outside to turn a bird into a stone, which always made him feel better, when he heard a shout from the front of the cave.
    â€œBoss! Boss! I got it!”
    â€œGot what, you twit?”
    â€œMaybelle’s next assignment!”
    Zozmagog’s face lit up as if he had just been told he could have a thousand pounds of itching powder at half price. Hurrying to the front of the cave (the back was his private area) he said, “Good work, Zitzel! Who is it?”
    The little imp who stood at the front of the cave was bouncing up and down with excitement. “It’s no one you’ve ever heard of.” He chuckled. “I guess after that frogifying stunt we pulled with the Prince of Burundia they’re not going to trust Maybelle with any more royalty.”
    Zozmagog smiled at the memory, then quickly became very businesslike. “All right, tell me about this peasant.”
    â€œHer name is Susan Pfenstermacher.