"Wow!" Gobbins cheered as Jazmine performed an impressive dropping barrel roll through a group of clockwork Bullies, complete with mechanical Cudgels. "Way to thread the needle, Jaz!"
"I gotta admit, James," Norrick said, shaking his head, "I wasn't buying into this whole Artis Decerto thing at first. But between the new magic we've been practicing and these crazy new moves, I think we might just have a chance to get into the tournament."
"Get into it nothing," Wentworth exclaimed, his eyes boggling behind his huge glasses. "We've got a chance to win that baby! Especially now that the Pixies and Igors have been knocked out of the playoffs! It's down to the Werewolves, Vampires, Zombies and us! And we haven't even started using any of these new moves yet!"
"Let's not get too confident," James warned despite his own cautious confidence. "It's one thing to do these maneuvers in the Gauntlet. It's another thing entirely to pull them off on the course. Besides, our next match is sudden death against the Zombies and they've been practicing in the Gauntlet same as we have, thanks to the fact that we needed Zane and Professor Cloverhoof 's help to build it."
"I watched them practice on it yesterday," Jazmine gasped, jumping off her skrim as Ralph halted the Gauntlet around her, "from the window on the upstairs landing. They aren't taking it all that seriously. They didn't use the flight pad at all."
"Graarph," Mukthatch agreed, hopping onto his skrim and piloting it into position for his own turn on the pad. "Wurgh raffwabffle."
"What'd he say?" James asked Norrick behind his hand.
"He says the Zombies' weakness is the fact that they don't take anything seriously. They prefer tricks and surprise to discipline and practice."
"Wow," Ralph said, blinking. "He said all that?"
"Sasquatchian is a very economical language," Norrick replied, nodding wisely. "I've been taking it since grade school. They have a hundred words for dirt, but no word for quit. Kind of tells you everything you need to know about 'em, doesn't it?"
James nodded.
Later, on the night before the Bigfoots' last match against Team Zombie, James met Zane on the porch of Hermes Mansion.
"Did you try to talk to them about it?" he asked the blonde boy, who shook his head grimly.
"It's a pride thing," Zane explained in a low voice, glancing back at the house behind him. "Team Zombie hasn't been beat by the Foots since, like, forever. That tie game you handed them last match was bad enough. And this is a playoff death match! The winner goes on, the loser goes home! I can't just tell them, 'Hey fellas, why don't you throw this thing to the Bigfoots, eh? I can't tell you why, but it'll keep some girl you don't know from being sent to Fort Bedlam and who knows, maybe even save the universe from collapsing in on itself because of some missing thread! Whaddaya say?' Sorry James, you know I'm on board with you, but there's no way that Bludger will fly."
James shook his head in exasperation. "Can you, like, slip a dose of Weasley's Silly Serum into their morning coffees or something? Or hex some invisible weights onto their skrims?"
Zane looked aghast. "Sabotage the Zombies?" he hissed, mortified. "Look, mate, I'm on your side and all, but rule number one of Zombie House is that you never ever prank your own house." Zane stopped and glanced aside thoughtfully. "Well, actually, rule number one is to always keep the cellar door locked from the outside so the ghoul doesn't sneak upstairs at night and have parties with all the other house ghouls. Boy, do they make a terrible mess. And do they eat? Sheesh. Last time there wasn't anything left but a box of dried leech chews and half a jar of El Salsa Grenado. But not pranking your own house is definitely rule number two. Without a doubt."
"But…!" James began, but Zane cut him off with a raised hand.
"Sorry, James. I just can't do it. We Zombies may not have much of a code of ethics, but the few ethics we do have, we stick to like glue. Capiche? You guys'll just have to win it fair and square."
James sighed deeply and nodded. As he turned to leave, however, Zane tapped him on the shoulder.
"But I'll be rooting for you guys," he whispered with a crooked smile. "You can do it. Keep between Warrington and Hurst, eh? I can't tell you why, but if you do that—stick between those two like beetle butter between two slices of white bread—then you'll do just fine." He winked conspiratorially and then turned back to his house, whistling an innocent tune.
The afternoon of the match turned out to be bright and warm, resulting in a very exuberant turnout of spectators. The grandstands were packed to overflowing, crowded with waving banners and handmade signs. To James' surprise, there seemed to be nearly as many Bigfoot colours and banners as there were Zombie supporters. The two factions jostled amiably on the high rampart bleachers, competing against each other with small displays of firework spells in team colours.
"This is it, team!" Wood hollered as the players huddled around him atop the platform. His voice was nearly lost in the roar of the excited crowd. "I know this is a sudden death match, but don't let that spook you! We've played an amazing season and I am proud of each and every one of you! Do your best, keep it clean, and try to have fun! If we lose, we may be out of the playoffs, but we'll still have a better record than Team Bigfoot has racked up in over ten years! You're all winners in my book, eh? So let's keep our chins up! Ready?"
The team joined in, piling their hands atop Wood's outstretched fist. "GooOO FEET!"
As the team assembled along the platform edge, Wentworth moved alongside James, his skrim at his side.
"If I didn't know any better," he muttered under his breath, "I'd almost think Wood expected us to lose."
James glanced at the boy next to him. Wentworth looked up. "I'm just sayin'," he shrugged.
"Well, I expect us to win," James replied. "Remember, just keep an eye on Warrington and Hurst. If they line up…"
"Yeah, yeah," Gobbins agreed grimly from James' other side. "We squeeze in between them like Mother Newt chaperoning a Valentine's dance."
A sharp whistle pierced the air over the figure eight course. Professor Sanuye floated over the center ring in his official's tunic, his whistle protruding from between his teeth.
"Number Six Hippogriff," Jazmine announced, launching from the platform for the warmup lap. The rest of the team began to stream out behind her, assembling into Hippogriff formation.