Strangewood (40 page)

The blame belonged to all and none. To the Jackal Lantern
most of all, and those who had been seduced by him. Yet, even they could not be
held solely responsible for what had happened here. Sometimes, thought
Fiddlestick, the storm came whether the land needed rain or not.

He looked at Thomas. "All right," he said. "We'll
get Nathan out. But then you're on your own. If Brownie dies, I don't know if I
want to save what's left of Strangewood."

A look of pain and grief crossed Thomas's face, but he only
nodded.

"I'll be back," the dragon whispered to his
gravely wounded friend.

Then he settled on the shoulder of the Peanut Butter
General, and together, the three of them moved on.

The fortress echoed hollowly around them as they wound their
way up a massive stone staircase that seemed to be the heart of the structure. Thomas
was amazed that the Jackal Lantern didn't have more muscle to aid him. He'd
expected dozens of warriors, shanghaied from all over Strangewood. But then,
the wood had never been more than sparsely populated, and Thomas had done
little to change that in the years during which he had been its rather
unwitting caretaker.

His breathing echoed in the winding stairwell.

He glanced over at his father, thinking that perhaps he
should say something. Perhaps there was a bit of knowledge, or intimacy, that
they needed to share. But then he saw the way the General moved, the manner in
which the consummate soldier went about the business of being at war. And he
knew that this moment, fighting together side by side, was the closest they had
ever been. The closest they would ever be.

They emerged on an upper floor into an enormous chamber with
windows all around, looking out at the wood, and the mountain, and the Up-River
where it tumbled over into the nothing beyond. From this place, the Jackal
Lantern could see everything that happened around his fortress.

On the far side of the chamber was a high arch, and beyond
that, another set of stairs leading up.

"This isn't the stairwell I took before,"
Fiddlestick said quietly. "While I was flying through the fortress, I
heard Nathan calling out, but all the rooms on that floor were locked. But
we're not high enough, yet. We've got to go up still."

They started across the chamber, Thomas glancing about,
watching the windows for some sign of attack. Only when he was a handful of
feet away did he glance back at the stairwell and seen the glow of hellish
orange light in that dank space. Then he heard the click of claws on stone.

And the Jackal Lantern sprang into the chamber. His pumpkin
face was aglow with slashed eyes and a mouth that shone with horrible glee. The
jackal body, lithe and muscled, slunk back and forth in front of the archway
leading to the stairs.

Behind him, Bob Longtooth came into the room. He was
wounded, still, from his fight with the Queen of the Wood, but he seemed to
have only been made more dangerous by it.

"You'll never reach him," old Jack whispered, his
candle-brain burning brightly. "Not unless I allow it. And I won't do that
until you repair all the damage you've caused, and make me the king of
Strangewood."

Thomas gaped at him.

He didn't even pay attention when the sound of hooves
clattering on stone echoed around the room, and Feathertop came up into the
chamber using the same stairs they had walked moments before.

"You fucking maniac," the General snarled. "Thomas
didn't cause any of this. All the burning, all the killing, all the insanity
started with you!"

Thomas nocked an arrow into his bow, held it at the ready
should old Jack make a move. He glanced over his shoulder at Feathertop, whom
he had once loved so greatly.

"All I want is my son."

"And I want power. You will give it to me!"

A chill ran through Thomas. "I . . . I don't know
how."

"Then you'll both die," said Old Jack.

Thomas drew back the string on his bow.

* * * * *

Nathan's fever had passed, but he still shivered beneath the
filthy blankets. His stomach revolted and he tried to vomit, but nothing would
come up. He coughed up something red and brown and wanted to cry. But he had no
more tears.

There was the screech of rusty metal, and with a boom, the
door to his chamber slammed open. His suit now rumpled and stained, Grumbler
stepped into the room, one of his huge Colt revolvers drawn. His eyes darted
nervously back into the corridor, and then he turned to stare at Nathan.

"Get up, kid," said Grumbler.

Weakly, Nathan half rose on his bed. His stomach roiled and
lurched.

"Grumbler, please," the boy said. "I'm really
sick. I . . . I can't. Don't hurt me."

The dwarf cocked his gun. "Get up."

Nathan tried. He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the
bed, and made an attempt to stand. He slid to the floor and began to cough and
retch, and spit bloody phlegm.

Grumbler stared at Nathan. The boy's eyes were sunken black
circles and his flesh was yellow. The fever had broken, but he might still die
if he didn't have rest and food, and he wasn't likely to have either one any
time soon. Not from Old Jack.

With a grunt, the dwarf strode to where Nathan lay on the
floor, reached down with his free hand, and hefted the boy up and over his
shoulder as though he were a sack of grain.

Colt cocked and at the ready, Grumbler stepped out into the
corridor with Nathan over his shoulder.

"Grumbler, no . . . please . . .” Nathan whimpered. "I'm
afraid."

"You should be," Grumbler said darkly. "But
for now, keep your mouth shut. We're gonna get you out of here."

In the hospital parking lot, Joe Hayes stared at Emily
Randall with wide eyes. After she'd been attacked once again the night before,
and had spent half the night giving a statement at the Tarrytown police
station, she had come to Joe's house looking about as shell-shocked as he'd ever
seen a human being. She'd twitched when he wanted to get close to her, and
slept on her side, facing the wall, with plenty of space between them.

It wasn't him, she'd said, time and again.

Damn right it wasn't him. But what was it? That was what was
killing him. The guy who'd attacked her — and who'd apparently still
gotten away despite the fact that the cop who'd been on the scene got off a
couple of shots at him — hadn't had time to violate more than her
personal space. Joe wasn't insensitive. He knew she must be feeling incredibly
vulnerable, the way the bastard had been stalking her. But in the past, she had
come to him for comfort, and now, whatever she was seeking, she was searching
for inside of her own head.

In the morning, she'd barely spoken a word. They'd eaten
breakfast in relative silence and driven to the hospital in the rain, with only
the rhythm of the windshield wipers to note the passage of time.

Several times he'd tried to ask her what was haunting her. She
had mumbled some excuse, but never an answer.

Now, as they stepped out of the car into the rain, Emily
brandishing her umbrella as if it might shield her from further questions, Joe
reached the limit of his patience.

"Jesus God, Emily, talk to me!" He stared at her,
waiting for a response that never came. "Please," he added as an
afterthought. "I'm trying to be here for you, but you won't let me
in."

Her hazel eyes softened, and she looked at him with
something like pity, which only confused him more. Rain ran through his
close-cropped hair and streamed down his face. He wiped it away with his hands,
nearly overwrought.

"After all I've been through with you, I thought the
least you would do is include me," he said, genuine sadness in his voice. "I
wanted this to work. I want to be there to catch you when you fall, to hold you
when you cry, and to kiss you when you laugh. Now I don't even know you."

Emily moved nearer to him, and Joe realized after a moment
that it was only to share her umbrella, to shield him from the rain. She moved
to go inside, but Joe couldn't do it. Not another step toward that hospital. The
life that was inside belonged to Emily, and unless he was part of that life, he
had no place inside those walls.

Finally, she opened her mouth. He thought she might be
crying, but couldn't tell with the rain spattering her face.

"Em?" he asked.

"I'm going to call my lawyer this morning. I'm dropping
the request for full custody," she said.

He could only stare. At length, he asked, "Is it
Thomas? You still want to be with him?"

She smiled kindly. "Not at all," she said. "I
love him. I've told you that. Part of me always will. But I can't do it to him.
It's something that you could never understand."

Joe reddened. "Don't fucking patronize me, Emily,"
he snapped. "Maybe if you tried to explain it . . ."

She snapped. The lifelessness on her face was erased,
subverted from within by a hysteria he had never seen in her before.

"I can't explain it!" she screamed. "Jesus
Christ, Joe, please just stop! If I let myself think about it, really think
about it, even for a second, I'd lose my mind completely. Please, just let it
go!"

He blinked. She was breathing fast, nearly hyperventilating.
Her eyes were wide, as though she were as astonished by her behavior as he was.

"God, Emily, what's wrong with you?" he asked, as
gently as he could.

But the moment that he said it, he knew it was exactly the
wrong thing to say. Emily hardened. Whatever raw emotion she had just shown him
was bottled up now, tucked away inside the stone face of a heartless statue. As
if he had reached out and simply turned her off, with the flick of a switch.

"You're a good man, Joe," she said. "But this
is good-bye."

She turned and walked toward the hospital entrance. He
started after her, but stopped after three steps. There wasn't a moment's
hesitation in Emily's stride. Not once did she turn to see if he was following.
Whatever had happened to her, whatever had broken inside of her, he tried to
tell himself he could fix it, if only she would give him the chance.

But as she disappeared inside the hospital, Joe Hayes
thought about how much work it was going to be to fix it. How much baggage he
had already accepted, trying to love her.

She didn't want that from him.

With one final glance, he turned, got back into his car,
started it up, and headed for home.

Inside the hospital, Emily walked rigidly to the elevator
and rode up in silence. She strode to the nurses' station outside of Nathan's
room, tears slowly tracking down her emotionless face.

"I need to see Dr. Gershmann immediately," she
said.

Fortunately, Gershmann was doing rounds. She waited silently
for nearly fifteen minutes before he appeared, and when he did, she
acknowledged him only with her eyes before striding into Nathan's room, knowing
that he would follow.

She did not look at the prone form of her son.

She could not.

It would make the impossible seem all that more ridiculous.

"Mrs. Randall, what's wrong? Has something more
happened?"

"Isn't this enough?" she asked bitterly.

Gershmann blinked, as though she'd cursed.

"Doctor, I need you to do something for me," she
told him. "I need you to get my ex-husband up here. Get some orderlies and
wheel him up here, and put his bed right next to Nathan's."

With a grunt, Gershmann leaned back slightly, so that he
could stare at her along the bridge of his nose. He ran a hand over his balding
pate.

"Mrs. Randall . . . Emily . . . I'm sure you must
realize that I can't just move Thomas. He's not even my patient. And hospital
policy . . ."

She was in front of him in an instant, toe to toe, staring
into his eyes despite the height differential.

"Do you know why my son is still in a coma?"

"You know that we don't."

"What about Thomas?"

Gershmann didn't respond.

"What if I told you that I believe putting them near to
one another might help them recover?" she demanded.

"Why would you think that?" the doctor asked,
frowning.

"You don't know what's wrong with either of them. You
have no way to treat them. I'm giving you something to do. I have health care
proxy for my ex-husband, and I am Nathan's mother. I'm telling you to put them
in the same room together, and to do it now, or I'll take them home and do it
there."

"Is this for them," Dr. Gershmann asked, "or
is it for you?"

Emily glared at him. Then she softened. "I just think
we need to be together. As a family."

The doctor looked at her a few moments longer. Then he
shrugged.

"Let me see what I can arrange," he said and left
the room.

When he was gone, Emily sat and sobbed and hugged herself,
and at last, she put her arms around her baby boy and kissed him and whispered
promises to him that she only prayed she would be able to keep.

* * * * *

It all happened rather quickly then.

Thomas released an arrow which tore the dank air of that
chamber on its way toward its target: the Jackal Lantern. But old Jack was too
fast. The arrow clattered against the stone wall, and the Lantern lunged toward
Thomas.

The Peanut Butter General stood in his way. His sword
flashed down, hacking a gash in old Jack's shoulder. The Lantern withdrew, and
the General began to back him into a corner.

"You can't do this!" old Jack whined, the light in
his pumpkin head flickering uncertainly now.

Feathertop charged Thomas from behind. Nocking another arrow
as quickly as he was able, he whirled. The pony with the lime green feathers
sprouting from his head looked far from gentle. All the love had gone from him
now and instead he bore down on Thomas snorting like a wild stallion. Thomas
hesitated.