Harvest of Changelings (30 page)

Sunday night Mrs. Clark came into Jeff's bedroom and sat down quietly on the edge of the bed. “Jeff, honey, I know you're scared about seeing your father and I don't blame you, but his psychiatrist has assured me he is making progress. Jeff, are you listening to me?”

Jeff was in bed, with his face turned to the wall. “Yes, I'm listening. My dad promised me he wouldn't touch me that way again lots and lots of times, and he broke his promise just as many times.”

“This time will be different. He'll be supervised and so will you.
At first, you will stay here, and he will come visit once a week and we will always be here. Things will be different,” she said and reached out to smooth Jeff's hair.

“My dad said the same thing every time he promised me it wouldn't happen again. And he said the same thing after each time he broke his promise:
I'm so sorry; it won't happen again, Jeff, I promise. I'll never do it again, I promise. Things are going to be different.
Every single time,” Jeff said and turned from the wall into his pillow.

“You said you would try to stop this from happening. You said you would fight to keep me. You promised I would be safe. I'll hide when he comes here; I won't let him see me.”

“Jeff, you will be safe.” She waited a long pause for Jeff to answer her, then sighed, smoothed his hair again, and got up and left. Jeff lay very still for a long time, his face buried in his pillow. He wished he never had to leave his bed again, that he could stay hidden beneath his pillow forever.

“He'll find me, no matter where I hide,” Jeff whispered to himself. “He found me before when I tried to hide from him at night. He always knew where to look: the closet, under the bed, the bathroom, the garage, under the house. He always found me.”

But this time things were different: he could fly.

But where would he go? They were all supposed to go through the fairy-gate on Halloween—which was eighteen days away—if they found the gate, although Malachi was positive they would. Malachi was sick again—Jeff could barely feel Malachi's good night in his mind, a quick whisper that had become a nightly ritual the last week. And Russell. Russell's dad had yanked out the phone Saturday and Malachi was the only one who could mind-speak. Hazel? Maybe. No matter. Tomorrow, when his dad's dark red Honda Civic pulled into the Clarks' driveway for the first supervised visit, Jeff would be gone.

 

Monday morning breakfast had been strained and Jeff was relieved when it was over, even though Mr. Clark had fixed his favorite: pancakes and bacon, with hot maple syrup and Five-Alive Juice. And they had let him sleep late. The food had tasted wooden, but Jeff had eaten everything anyway, while the Clarks were relentlessly cheerful. Both had taken the day off and over pancakes and between cups of coffee, talked about what all they would do. The Art Museum downtown. Or Pullen Park. Drive to Chapel Hill to the Planetarium. Or to Durham, to the Life Science Museum, with the
huge scale-model dinosaurs. Jeff would like that, wouldn't he? Of course, he would—Jeff
loved
dinosaurs.

The one thing nobody mentioned which for sure was going to happen was that Jeff's father was coming for his visit between three and four o'clock.

“Well, Jeff, what would you like to do this morning?” Mr. Clark asked for what Jeff thought must be the hundredth time. “Made up your mind?”

“I think I would like to stay right here,” Jeff said slowly, pushing one last bit of pancake around in leftover syrup. “Play with my dinosaurs.”
And fly away.
First, to Russell's. Then, maybe to Malachi's. And hide until Halloween. Yes, his dad would find him, as he had done before, but maybe, just maybe, with Malachi and Hazel and Russell with him, he would be safe. Finally and truly safe, as he was not even here with the Clarks. After all, they hadn't kept their promise, either. Maybe all four of them would just fly forever and ever, circling and swooping in the sky, playing tag in the clouds and never, never coming down to the earth. They wouldn't have to go to Faerie then—just into the sky.

Jeff felt the Clarks' eyes on him as he walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to his bedroom. It was also a relief to shut the door. Now, Jeff thought, as he stood in the middle of his room: which dinosaur shall I take with me? And when should I leave? He glanced at the clock on his desk: just after 9:30. At ten? Maybe 10:30—no later than that. If he waited over an hour, Jeff was sure the Clarks would come into his room and talk and try to keep him company. Be Good Foster Parents.

10:30 on the dot, Jeff decided. Just one more hour.

Malachi ran out the back door, across the back yard, and jumped over the chain-link fence. Why oh why oh why had he not gone to the library when his dad and Uncle Jack had, just fifteen minutes ago?
I'll be safe for half-an-hour, Dad. Just thirty minutes. I have to talk to Jeff, Russell, and Hazel, okay? They might fly over. It won't matter if anybody sees them, not now. Yes, I know, it's still Monday morning rush hour, but, Dad, who is going to work? There won't be much of a rush hour. Half an hour, tops.

After his dad and Uncle Jack had left, both reluctantly, Malachi had settled down on his bed, the twelve-pointed star in his hand, his eyes closed, his
seeking
tossed out before him as if he were a fisherman,
casting out his line. Where was Russell? There—
there.
And angry and something was happening—It was then the knocking started, a loud and insistent pounding on the front door, and even on the walls of the house. Malachi's fishing line snapped and vanished and he was back, solid and present on his bed. The air smelled pungent, as if someone had just lit and blown out a match. The pounding got louder and louder.

They weren't pounding the door; they were pounding the magic barrier made by the talisman around Malachi's neck. He felt the pounding in the talisman itself: the star throbbed in his hand. Malachi squeezed the star so hard its points cut into his hand.
There.
He could
see
outside the house, who was there: the Fomorii, black and dark, reptilian, their red eyes, their yellow teeth, and sharp claws. And five humans, two men and three women. Thomas was one of the men, and one of the women was ... Mrs. Collins. His teacher. Thomas moved his arms in slow circles, stopping after the third circle to toss what looked like dried leaves at the house. He talked the entire time, but his words were slurred and in a strange accent.

I should call
911. No,
the police stopped answering those calls days ago. Too many and not enough police. Besides, if I did, would the police see the Fomorii? Or just five people in business clothes? Would they see Thomas working witchcraft?

The house shook and Malachi heard a cracking noise, and Thomas's voice higher and sharper.

He ran.

Once he had cleared the back fence, Malachi could hear them behind him, howling, crying out his name, yelling for him to stop, it was all right, they weren't going to hurt him, just protect him, keep him safe.
They're from Social Services, they are nice people; you can trust me, Malachi, I'm your teacher ... I used to baby-sit for you, my dad is your Uncle Jack; our dads are best friends . . .

By the time Malachi reached Vandora Springs Road and was airborne, he was completely luminous, a glowing boy-comet, trailing sparks behind him. He glanced once over his shoulders at the monsters and their human allies behind him:
They're eating the sparks, the light—they are drawing the light out of me
. Once across the street, Malachi turned and slapped the air back at them. A shimmering wave rolled across the street, knocking over a car and a truck, and the Fomorii and their five people down flat against the ground, like cornstalks after a hard rain.

Malachi didn't look back again. He flew as fast as he could to the
library, landing in a hiss on the wet grass behind the staff entrance in the back. He stepped in, sparks popping and exploding in the air behind him. Mrs. Carmichael was the only one in the staff workroom, staring intently at a computer's blank screen. Malachi guessed his entrance must have shorted it out. Right above her head was a big calendar, with each day in October marked off by a pumpkin, except for today. No one had put a pumpkin on the 14th yet. He took a deep breath and his luminosity faded out. Only if someone looked really hard would they have been able to see the glowing light in his eyes.

“Mrs. Carmichael, where's my dad? I need to see him right away. It's kind of an emergency.”

Mrs. Carmichael jumped and turned. “Lord, you scared me child,” she said breathlessly, her hand on her chest. “Why aren't you in school? Does your daddy know you aren't in school?”

“Mrs. Carmichael, the schools closed this past Friday. They aren't open anywhere in North Carolina,” Malachi said. She knew that; everybody in Wake County, in the whole state—probably the whole country, the world—knew that. It had been on every radio and TV station, in the
News and Observer
—everywhere.

Mrs. Carmichael looked puzzled. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, looking then, Malachi thought, even older than she was. How old was she? Almost sixty? Probably over sixty.

“I've got to see him, Mrs. Carmichael. And Uncle Jack. Are they at the reference desk? I'll go look,” Malachi said and started to walk past her.

“He's working. You shouldn't bother him right now. You know that; you used to be such a sweet little boy. Your daddy's probably with a patron. I don't know where Jack Ruggles is—poor, sad man. Why aren't you in school? Why—” She reached out to stop him, to hold him back.

Malachi stared at her. Mrs. Carmichael wasn't even looking at him as she talked. She was staring at the wall behind him, her head framed by small paper pumpkins. Her words sounded slow and thick, as if coming from under water, or through syrup.

“You can't. Bother. Him. Go—”

“I've got to see my dad and Uncle Jack before it's too late,” Malachi said and rushed past her, pushing her hands away, feeling them pulling at him, sucking at his energy. In the few seconds it took for Malachi to run from the staff workroom to his father at the reference desk, he glowed again, trailing bits and pieces of fire that scorched the carpet.

“Dad, help, help, Dad—I can't hold it in anymore. They're trying to get it, get me, it's what they want—they eat it. Dad!”

“Leave your father alone, go home, go to school,” Mrs. Carmichael cried out as she staggered out of the workroom, like a wind-up toy about to sputter out.

His father turned around, practically knocking down the woman who was asking him a question. Malachi couldn't quite make it across the room. He stopped a few feet away from the reference desk, wrapping his arms around himself, but it was too late. Everything was too late. He could see the Fomorii and Thomas and Mrs. Collins just outside, through the glass front library doors. Uncle Jack, who had been at the magazine racks, had started running across the room, yelling that he was coming, but he was too late. Malachi's arms unfolded their grip of his sides and lightning crackled from his hands, blue-white forks leaping to the overhead fluorescent lights. The lights exploded in a rain of fire and plastic and glass. Then, the lightning, now a fire-snake, raced around the ceiling, the walls, in and out of windows, popping, breaking glass, scorching the air, leaving licking flames in its wake. Every light in the library went out. The fire alarms went off, beating the air with noise. The air reeked of ozone, of heat, of fire and smoke. People ran, screaming and crying, for the doors. One man ran so hard and so fast he knocked the glass out of the front door, shredding his hands and his face with broken glass.

“Oh my God, ohmyGod, omiGod,” Mrs. Carmichael moaned, over and over, swaying back and forth, her hands covering her face. “He's the devil, that child is the devil—he's Satan—Saataaan ...” Mrs. Carmichael's last word was lost in a long, sirenlike scream, rising and falling, in rhythm with the fire alarms. She turned, ran, and fell, as pieces of the roof fell, burning, around her.

“I can't stop, I can't stop it, they're pulling it out of me, help, help me,” Malachi wailed. The lightning rippled down the walls and back up and down and into the carpet. The carpet started to smoke and then burst into flame, sending flames up the walls to meet those coming down.

Ben scooped up Malachi in his arms just as Jack reached them.

“Run, get the hell outta here, go, go, go,” Jack said, pushing Ben on. By then the smoke was everywhere, thick and black.

“Go where? I can't see the doors and the fire—how do we get out of here? This smoke, . . .” Ben said, coughing.

“This way, I know it's this way,” Jack yelled. “Follow me, we'll get out of here.”

A book case fell then, and another, and Jack fell, Ben on top of him, dropping Malachi.

He looked up, coughing, and there they were: the monsters. Glowing red eyes, the fire whips. Thomas stood with them and a woman as well—Charlotte Collins. All of them, a frozen tableau, as the library burned around them, flaming books dropping off shelves. The Fomorii and Thomas and the woman stepped forward and one of the monsters snapped its whip, sparking into the smoke, at Malachi. Jack threw up his arm, deflecting the whip, his flesh scorching.

“Jack, don't—” Ben yelled, but too late. Jack tackled the monster, trying to wrestle it to the ground, until another Fomorii grabbed him and slung him toward the door. Ben stood slowly, his arms wrapped around his son, and stepped back. Did he hear sirens? What had taken the fire department so long—the Garner Volunteer Fire Department was less than a block away. He took another step back and screamed; a Fomorii was behind him.

“I'll take this,” Thomas said and as the Fomorii peeled back Ben's arms, its claws sinking into his flesh, he took Malachi. “And this,” he added as he ripped the star off Malachi's neck. He screamed then, dropping the boy. “Damn thing burns,” Thomas snarled and tossed it in the direction his father had been thrown.

“Pick him up,” Thomas said to a Fomorii. “Take him. Go.”

Ben tried to move, but the Fomorii held him back.

“Too late, now it's your turn,” Thomas said and gestured at the monster holding Ben. It threw him into a glass wall. The shattering was the last thing Ben heard.

 

Ben sat on the hood of a car in the library parking lot. How long had he been there? How long had he lain in the broken glass? When had Jack shaken him awake and got him to stand, to walk? When had the firemen come, one of them helping both him and Jack away from the fire? How long had Jack sat by him, picking glass out of Ben's hair, as they watched the firemen and their huge hoses trying to stop the inferno? When had Jack put the twelve-pointed star, its chain broken and bloodstained, into Ben's hands?

Ben looked down. The star glowed faintly against his skin, its even fainter vibration tingling.

He didn't ask Jack for any answers. He knew Jack wouldn't have any. The biggest question was the worst: where had Thomas and the Fomorii and that woman taken his son? They had disappeared into
the smoke and the fire, carrying Malachi, using the light of his body to show them way out of the burning library. No, the biggest question was how would he get Malachi back?