Mr. Elives’s magic shop is back, and this time it is on the other side of Tucker’s Swamp. And Tucker’s Swamp is where Charlie Eggleston heads to escape a beating-for lying. Charlie can’t seem to keep from lying, though sometimes his lies are for a good cause. When Charlie stumbles into Mr. Elives’s magic shop, his eyes light upon The Skull. Charlie steals The Skull and it puts him under some sort of spell-he can only tell the truth. Trouble is, now no one believes him. . . . "A fast-moving, rollicking, yet serious tale, [that] will keep youngsters thinking." - School Library Journal (starred review) "This skillfully told, fast-paced fantasy ranges in mood from serious to scary, but it's always laced with humor." - Horn Book Magazine BRUCE COVILLE is the author of over 100 books for children and young adults, including the international bestseller My Teacher is an Alien, the Unicorn Chronicles series, and the much-beloved Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher. His work has appeared in a dozen languages and won children's choice awards in a dozen states. Before becoming a full time writer Bruce was a teacher, a toymaker, a magazine editor, a gravedigger, and a cookware salesman. He is also the creator of Full Cast Audio, an audiobook company devoted to producing full cast, unabridged recordings of material for family listening and has produced over a hundred audiobooks, directing and/or acting in most of them. Bruce lives in Syracuse, New York, with his wife, illustrator and author Katherine Coville. ONE Swamp Thing   Charlie Eggleston looked at the frog he held cupped in his hands. “Want to go home now?” he asked gently.   The frog did not answer, which was not really a surprise.   Charlie knelt and opened his hands anyway. The frog took three long leaps into Tucker’s Swamp, disappearing with a final plunk! under a mat of algae.   Wiping his hands on his jeans, Charlie took a deep breath. He loved the smell of this place—loved everything about it, for that matter: the great willows with their drooping branches and trunks so big his arms could barely reach halfway around them; the familiar paths—sometimes a narrow strip of solid ground, sometimes no more than a string of squishy hummocks; the shallow pools filled with frogs and salamanders. Most of all he loved the sense of magic that hovered over the swamp, the feeling that something deep and strange here had resisted being civilized.   A familiar lump of anger lodged itself halfway between his stomach and his throat. He couldn’t believe Mark Evans’s father was going to drain the swamp and turn it into an “industrial park.” He snorted at the words. People always accused him of lying, but the very phrase industrial park was a whopper that beat any he had ever told. How could a collection of factories be called a park?   Glancing around, Charlie wondered if it was safe to leave the swamp yet. His mother would be angry if he didn’t get home soon. But if he left before Mark and his gang had given up waiting for him, he might never get home at all.   The buzz of insects filled the air. A mosquito began drilling a hole in his neck. He slapped at it. When he brought his hand away the insect’s flimsy body lay crushed in his palm, its head and thread-thin legs extending from the small blot of Charlie’s own blood that marked where its abdomen had been.   “Little vampire,” muttered Charlie, reminding himself that he didn’t actually love everything about the swamp.   He turned to go, stirring up a small cloud of yellow butterflies as he pushed his way through a patch of ferns. A water snake slithered off the path and into a murky pool. Life seemed to pulse all around him, and the idea that someone was going to destroy the swamp made him sick all over again.   That was why he had made up the story that got him in so much trouble with Mark today: to protect the swamp. Besides, he told himself, just because I don’t have the facts to prove it doesn’t mean what I said wasn’t true. I bet it really is.    ***   Charlie was dragging his bike from the brush pile where he had hidden it when a familiar voice sneered, “Well, look here—it’s Charlie Eggleston, king of the liars.”   Charlie felt his stomach clench. If he didn’t get away fast, Mark and his cronies were apt to turn him into something resembling roadkill.   Swinging onto his bike, he began to pedal.   One of Mark’s friends appeared ahead of him.   Charlie swerved to the right to avoid him but found his path blocked by another of Mark’s pals.   “Get him!” cried Mark—rather unnecessarily, thought Charlie, since the gang was already working pretty hard at doing just that.   Charlie spun his bike and headed straight for the swamp. Shouting and screaming, the others charged after him. Under normal circumstances they would probably have caught him. But with fear as his fuel, Charlie was able to outdistance them, if only by a few feet. At the edge of the swamp he cast aside h