Description: Chapter 1 It was a warm summer afternoon, and the Warren Hotel trundled over the countryside upon its enormous metal legs. The steady CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! of its footfalls were loud enough to be heard for miles, but Warren the 13th hardly noticed; the deafening din had become as comforting and familiar to him as the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock. Warren knelt on the hotel roof, repairing a broken tile with a hammer and nails. The six crows who lived in the rooftop birdhouse poked their heads out of its windows, croaking for food. Warren set down his hammer and removed a sketchbook from his pocket; he always kept a few slices of cheese tucked between its pages. He tossed them to the birds, who promptly began squabbling over the pieces. "Share, share!" Warren admonished. "There''s enough for everyone." The crows were lazy and wouldn''t leave the birdhouse to search for their own food, but Warren didn''t mind. He enjoyed caring for each and every guest of his hotel, even the ones with feathers. As the birds ate, Warren leaned back against the chimney and flipped through his sketchbook. Its pages were filled with charcoal drawings: doodles of his friends and family at the hotel, and portraits of the fantastic landscapes he''d seen on his travels. But Warren had no time for sketching today; there were too many other problems demanding his attention. He turned to a fresh page and began jotting down a lengthy to-do list, based on all the calls to the front desk he''d received that morning: Room 304 Small leak in bathroom ceiling. Room 404 Large leak in bathroom ceiling. Room 504 Giant leak in bathroom ceiling. Room 604 Overflowing toilet; water won''t turn off. Warren was very busy, yet he had no complaints. In fact, he felt like the luckiest boy on earth. He ran the world''s first--and only--traveling hotel, and it was so popular that every room was filled! On top of that, the hotel was generating so much money that Warren was finally able to make some much-needed improvements to the antiquated structure. He''d installed a viewing room lined with panoramic windows for the guests to enjoy the scenery as the hotel went along its way. He also added a large window to the control room, so he no longer had to rely on a tiny periscope to navigate the terrain. Perhaps the biggest advancement was a hidden feature that Warren had discovered inside the control room. It turned out that one of his ancestors, Warren the 2nd, had had a few tricks up his sleeve when he designed the walking hotel, including a special autopilot feature. This option ensured that the hotel would dutifully continue along the road following the precise coordinates input by Warren each morning. Placing the hotel on autopilot spared Warren from having to drive the hotel all day long. Instead, he had the freedom to roam about, mingle with guests, and head up to the roof to repair broken tiles and make to-do lists. Suddenly, Warren''s concentration was broken by the sound of a sputtering engine and a HONK! HONK! HONK! He dropped down on his hands and knees and scrambled to the edge of the roof. Far below, an odd-looking automobile was weaving dangerously between the hotel''s enormous legs. It had oversized wheels and was painted in garish colors. Its carriage was cluttered with crates, bags, and jugs. On the side were fancy, curlicue letters proclaiming: SLY''S MIRACLE ELIXIRS, TINCTURES, AND CORDIALS The car continued to honk as it screeched around the hotel''s crashing footfalls. "Be careful!" Warren yelled, even as he realized that yelling was pointless; the car had already passed the hotel and was now branching off the main road, following a dustier and narrower path that offered a direct route to the Malwoods. Warren watched until he couldn''t see the car anymore, wondering why anyone would drive toward such a spooky place. Over the past few months, Warren had piloted the hotel to many unusual destinations, but one place he swore he''d never go was the Malwoods--a shadowy and twisted forest teeming with witches and other, even more dangerous creatures. Because Warren took the safety of his guests very seriously, he hesitated to travel within five miles of the Malwoods. He opened his sketchbook and added yet another item to his to-do list: Rewire autopilot to avoid this intersection altogether. He had barely finished writing when the air beside him shimmered. A swirling portal materialized, and out stepped his best friend, Petula. She wore a grave expression. Behind her the pool of silvery-looking liquid vanished. "The guest in Room 204 just called to complain," she said. "Something about a leaky ceiling." Warren sighed. "Sometimes I wish there were two of me," he admitted. He tucked away his sketchbook and Petula helped him to his feet. The first time Warren had met Petula, he''d mistaken her for a ghost. She always dressed entirely in white, and her skin was so pale that it looked nearly translucent. He''d since learned that this was just one of her many unusual traits, along with her ability to draw magical pathways between short distances. She was a young perfumier-in-training, and she was learning the fine art of witch capturing from her mother, Beatrice. Petula glanced down at Warren''s to-do list. "Maybe you should hire a maintenance person," she suggested. "So you don''t have to do everything yourself." Warren shook his head. "My dad always said that a good manager doesn''t sit behind a desk and bark orders. A good manager pitches in and helps with the dirty work." He grimaced. "Even if it means unclogging a toilet." "You might be taking your father''s advice a bit too literally," Petula said. "Maybe," Warren said, "but someone has to do the work." Tucking his sketchbook in his pocket, Warren started to stand up but lost his balance, landing with a hard thump. "Ow!" Warren cried. He felt as if the roof had slipped out from under him. Petula looked alarmed. "What was that?" But before Warren could answer, the hotel lurched again, harder, and this time Warren fell face-first. He realized he was rushing forward--in fact, the entire hotel was rushing forward. Warren scrabbled against the slick tiles, trying to grab something-- anything--but his fingers were too short to get a good grip. He found himself sliding on his belly, headed for the edge of the roof. And so was Petula! "Warren!" she cried. Warren''s stomach flipped as he picked up speed. The edge of the roof zoomed toward him--but there, at the end of the tiles, was a skinny tin gutter. If he timed it just right . . . Squeezing his eyes shut, Warren flung out an arm. His fingers met metal. He grabbed hard. And he held on tight. Warren opened his eyes just in time to see Petula tumbling past him. Her hand missed the gutter by inches, but at the very last moment she managed to grasp Warren''s ankle. "Hold on!" he yelled. He saw Petula dangling from his foot by one hand, the ground rushing up behind her. "Because here comes the--" And with that, the building smashed into the earth with a loud crash. Somehow, the hotel had fallen. "Are you okay?" called Petula. "I--I think so," Warren called back. Clouds of dust rose around them and the air was eerily still. Warren''s arms started to shake from the effort of holding on to the gutter. The weight on his ankle disappeared and a portal materialized on the side--well, now the top--of the hotel. Out jumped Petula. She grabbed Warren by both wrists and yanked him upright next to her. "What happened?" he said. "I think the hotel tripped," Petula said. She looked even paler than usual. "Tripped?" Warren said. "But that''s impossible!" In the past six months, the hotel had marched up hillsides, forded streams, and crossed chasms, all without a single misstep. "There are seven different safety features to keep the hotel from falling over!" "Well, all seven of them must have failed," said Petula, "because the hotel fell right on its face. See?" She pointed at their feet. Sure enough, instead of the roof, Warren''s shoes were resting on a pane of glass--a window! On the other side, two angry guests lay crumpled o

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