Rise of the Darklings (11 page)

He surveyed the dark, glistening mud as he made his way slowly forward. He could hear the water lapping some distance ahead, a quiet, mournful sound, muffled in the mist. Everything else was silent. Even the usual sounds of the mud-larks calling to one another were absent. He looked around uneasily. There was something not right about the day. It was like waking up from a bad dream in the middle of the night. He had that same queasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Hello?” he called. There was no reply, but he shook his head, assuring himself there was nothing to worry about. The others were somewhere close. If he shouted loud enough, they’d come.

Grubber resumed his search, eyes constantly roving across the mud. He found two brass nails and picked them up, slipping them into his pocket.

The mud soon became softer, so that he sank halfway to his knees. Before long he was exhausted and panting for breath. It was as if the mud were actually trying to grab hold of his legs and pull him under.

The dirty water at the tide line was the same color as the mud itself. It gurgled and wrapped around his legs, pulling him off balance. He staggered, then righted himself, digging himself even deeper into the mud. He looked along the shoreline but could see nothing of interest. He squinted, but the mist—now more of a thick fog—swirled forward like a cloak and blanketed his vision.

What was that? Grubber leaned forward and peered into the distance. It looked like a pile of clothing washing in and out at the tide’s edge. He lurched forward, fighting with every step to keep his balance. Maybe it was clothes washed overboard from an Indian steamer. He could sell them to Mrs. Mills and get a fair few shillings.

But his excitement was short-lived. As he drew closer he
saw that the clothes were old—in fact, they looked more like a clump of slimy black-green seaweed than the dyed cotton he had hoped for.

He splashed to a stop in front of what he now saw was an old dress. It undulated gently on the waves, spread out as if there was someone still filling its shape. There was no point in taking it. As soon as it was out of the water, the material would fall to pieces.

He was right about one thing, though: there was a lot of seaweed clinging to the dress, especially around the neckline. In fact, the seaweed floating limply in the water looked almost like a head of greasy hair.

He smiled and shook his head. His ma always said he had too much of an imagination.

And then, as he watched, the seaweed lifted slowly out of the water.

Grubber stared in horror as the dress he had thought empty filled out, white-green arms appearing from beneath the water to push the sodden mass upright. The seaweed wasn’t seaweed at all but really
was
hair, hung lank and dripping, framing the pale, skeletal face of a young woman.

Grubber’s mind raced. Had she fallen overboard? Had she tripped and been washed out with the tide? But then his common sense took hold. This wasn’t an ordinary woman. Her eyes were as black as pitch, her face so thin the skin
barely stretched over her cheekbones. Every inch of her body that he could see was pale green except for her nails. They were long and black.

And then she smiled, a huge, unnatural grin that cut her face like a rotting wound. Her teeth were black and pointed.

“Well, well,” said a voice behind Grubber. “If it ain’t Jenny Greenteeth herself.”

Grubber whirled around to find himself facing a figure in a sodden dark cloak, dripping with water. The apparition reached up and lowered the hood, revealing the cruel, pinched face of an old woman. She stank of stagnant water, and when she opened her mouth—as she did now to smile cruelly at Grubber—murky brown liquid dribbled over her chin.

“And what have we here, young Jenny?” she asked, staring down at Grubber.

“Don’t know, Black Annis,” said the woman with the seaweed hair, who was now right behind Grubber.

Grubber’s eyes widened in fear at the mention of the old lady’s name. He started to shiver violently.

“Our names are still known around these parts, Jenny.”

“Our names will always be known, Miss Annis.”

“Of course they will,” purred Black Annis. She held her arms wide open in a luxurious stretch. “Looks like our services are required again, young Jenny. The Dagda has
brought us back from our tombs—” Black Annis paused as if she was listening. Then she clapped her hands together softly. “It’s her, young Jenny.”

“Who, Miss Annis?”

“Her.
The girl
. We’ve been brought back to make amends, Jenny.”

“Can I feed first?” whined Jenny Greenteeth. “I’m so hungry.”

Black Annis waved her hand benevolently. “Go ahead. But keep him quiet.”

“They’re always quiet, Miss Annis,” whispered Jenny Greenteeth. She placed her two skeletal hands on Grubber’s shoulders. “Always.”

And then Grubber was pulled backward into the water. His last sight was that of Black Annis, a creature from nightmares and stories, dancing a slow dance, her hands held out as if encircling the shoulder and waist of an invisible partner.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

S
now, wait!”

Jack caught up with Emily and grabbed her by the arm. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and pulled her into an alley.

Emily pulled herself free. “What?”

“What?
Is that all you can say? Emily, who were those men? Are you in trouble?”

“No—yes …” Emily stopped herself before she let anything slip. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Jack. I can’t answer your questions.”

“But what did they want? What was that thing you grabbed from the tall one?”

Emily’s hand flew to her pocket. The satchel was still there.

“Was he really a bobby?”

“Course he wasn’t.”

“Had the smell of authority, though. I’ll give him that.” He frowned at Emily. “You tellin’ me you really don’t know why they were after you?”

Emily hesitated, unsure what to do. Jack sensed her reluctance.

“Come on, Snow. I can help. Whatever it is. I’ve always watched over you and Will, haven’t I?”

The urge to tell Jack everything that had happened that morning was strong, almost overwhelming. But he wouldn’t believe her. She hardly believed it herself.

“I can’t tell you, Jack. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

Emily shook her head. No. She wouldn’t involve Jack in this. It was too dangerous, not his problem. “Thank you, Jack, for helping out back there. But this is something I have to do myself. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later? At the coffee shop?”

Jack said nothing, his mouth set in a thin line. Emily could see he was unhappy about it, but he knew better than to argue with her when her mind was made up.

Emily hurried back out of the alley, trying to ignore the look of hurt on his face.

She returned to Merrian’s shop. It was the only thing she could think of to do. She had to give Corrigan back his satchel, and if she returned home there was a good chance Ravenhill would be waiting. She was glad William had gone to Mrs. Derry’s shop. At least that would keep him out of harm’s way for the rest of the day while she figured out what to do.

Emily pushed open the door to the bookshop. Nothing had changed since she had been there earlier. Piles of books still looked as if they were about to fall over with the slightest touch. Dust still filled the air.

“Hello?” she called.

No answer. Emily walked forward and picked up the bell from the counter. It rang once, a pure, sweet call. She nervously replaced it and waited.

A second later the curtain whipped aside and Merrian stood there, his huge shoulders pushing up against the doorframe.

“What are you doing here? How did you find the shop?”

Emily was taken aback. “Um … Corrigan told me the way this morning.”

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to remember that,” said Corrigan, climbing up onto the counter. Emily noticed that he was barely limping anymore. He had a fresh bandage wrapped around his leg, but the wound didn’t seem to be bothering him at all. Perhaps the fey healed faster than humans? “In fact, you shouldn’t be able to see us, either.”

Corrigan and Merrian shared a brief look. Emily knew that kind of look. It was what adults did when they were discussing grown-up subjects and thought the children wouldn’t notice.

“Why are you looking at each other like that?” she demanded.

“What do you want?” asked Merrian, avoiding the question. “I thought I told you to forget about us. You should do as you’re told.”

Emily started to feel angry. Here she was, trying to help them, and all they did was scold her.

“Does that mean you don’t want to know that Ravenhill found out where I live? That he took a small satchel that
someone”
—she glared at Corrigan—“left in my pocket?”

Corrigan sat bolt upright. “What are you talking about?”

“Your satchel. You left it in my pocket.”

“And Ravenhill got it?” demanded Merrian.

Emily nodded. Merrian stepped around the counter and knelt in front of Emily. His head still towered far above hers. “Girl, this is very important. Does Ravenhill still have the satchel?”

“What’s so important about it?”

“None of your business,” snapped Corrigan.

“Oh, really?” Emily shot back. “Well, if it’s none of my business, maybe I should just be going.”

“Wait,” said Merrian. “What’s in the satchel is important, Emily. It’s why the Black Sidhe were chasing Corrigan.”

“Why I’m the only one left alive while all my friends are dead,” Corrigan added.

“Does Ravenhill still have it?” repeated Merrian.

Emily sighed. “No. I grabbed it back from him.”

She fished out the satchel and handed it over to Merrian. He held it up and breathed a sigh of relief. “You have no idea,” he said softly, “how much trouble we would all be in if the Order got hold of this.”