The Child Thief (13 page)

“HE’S CRAZY. I mean like totally batshit crazy,” Cricket said. “See the way his eyes got? Like his mind left the room.”

They were over by the roots now, as far from Leroy and the dead pixie as they could get. Nick sat on the floor, chin on his knees, hugging his legs while Cricket and Danny leaned against the roots.

“Shit,” Cricket said. “It was Leroy who told us we weren’t supposed to hurt the pixies in the first place. Said it was one of the laws. They’re supposed to be part of the magic of this place or something like that.”

“He didn’t hurt it,” Danny said. “He killed it.”

“Hey thanks, Dan-ny. I was there, remember?”

“Probably bipolar or something,” Danny said. “Just needs his meds.”

“Yeah, well all these kids are messed up one way or another. Hell, I mean we’ve all been through some shit, right? Leroy’s different. It’s something deeper.”

They were quiet for a spell.

“Y’know,” Cricket said, “Abraham told me Leroy’s been here awhile. Not just a couple of weeks but a long time. Said Leroy’s afraid to make a challenge, that’s why he’s still just New Blood. Y’know what I think? I think that’s the problem. I think that’s what’s eating at him.”

“You’re like a regular Dr. Phil, aren’t you?” Danny said.

Cricket cut him a sour look.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” Danny said. “I think old Leroy there ate too many paint chips when he was a baby.”

“Maybe we should tell someone?” Cricket suggested.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good plan,” Danny snorted. “Cricket, why don’t you go do that.”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding? Look around.”

Nick watched two Devils taking turns throwing a knife at each other’s feet. Another group were carving tribal designs into their arms.

Cricket let out a tired sigh and slumped to the floor.

NICK COULDN’T GET
the vision of the pixie’s murder from his mind. The little creature had just seemed so human. He guessed all living creatures were the same: animals, people, even pixies, when they’re in pain and in fear for their lives—all the same. Nick’s eyelids grew heavy. He was ready for sleep, ready to put this long, horrible day behind him. His stomach felt warm, unnaturally warm. He wondered again about the food and what it might be doing to him. But it was mostly a good feeling. He shut his eyes and enjoyed the strange way it spread through his body.

The fire had burned low, and several of the Devils were drifting over to the straw-lined cages. The band stopped playing and Sekeu and Abraham were dousing the wall torches.

“I think they’re giving us a hint,” Cricket said. “C’mon, Nick. We need to set you up.”

Nick opened his eyes. “What?” But both Cricket and Danny were headed toward the cages. Nick pushed himself to his feet and followed.

“How’s this one?” Cricket pointed to a cage next to hers.

“Sure,” Nick said absently and started to crawl in. He stopped when the absurdity of sleeping in a cage dawned on him. “Cricket?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do they put us in cages?”

Cricket laughed. “So the pixies can’t screw with you all night.” She dragged over a cut of canvas. “Here. Toss this over the top. That way they can’t pee on you. You can tie the ends down, but it really doesn’t matter because I don’t think there’s a knot they can’t untie.”

“Yeah, if they get to you they’ll suck out all your blood,” Danny said. “Happened to a kid just the other night.”

Nick looked at him, horrified, then caught the smirk on Cricket’s face.

“Uh-uh,” Nick said.

Danny laughed.

Nick placed the tarp over his cage and crawled in. He still felt weird about sleeping in a cage, but at this point was too exhausted to care.

“Well, I’m hoping for bacon and waffles tomorrow,” Danny said and crawled in his cage. “Shoot, I’d even settle for Cocoa Puffs.”

Cricket kept rattling on about something, but Nick barely heard. His eyes felt so heavy. The warmth in his stomach continued to spread, covering him like a blanket, pulling him down into a deep sleep.

Nick awoke clutching his gut. His stomach burned, and his clothes were soaked from sweat. He needed some water, but didn’t dare go into the privy at night, not with those damn spiders. So he lay there wondering how he ever ended up on an island, in a cage, sharing a fort with Devils and little blue people. Eventually, the heat in his stomach passed, and shortly before morning he fell back asleep.

N
athan sat on the curb, his face in his hands. He’d been sitting like that for close to an hour.

They were at the docks; the housing projects, the drug dealers, the gangs, all left far behind. The Mist was brewing, swirling up from the bay in front of them, waiting.

Peter wanted to get moving, anxious to get back, but knew better than to pressure or rush the kid. The next step was delicate. The boy had to truly want to follow him or he would never survive.

“I meant it when I said you could come home with me.”

The boy didn’t seem to hear him. Once out of the housing project, the kid had only talked about his brother.

“It’s a really cool fort. You’ll like it. I’m sure.”

The boy wiped his nose, but didn’t look up. “Yeah, that sounds fine,” he mumbled. “I got no place else, y’know. With Tony gone I got no one.”

“You’ll have lots of friends soon. We need to hurry though, before the Mist leaves.”

“Okay, man. Just give me another sec.” The kid wiped his eyes on the front of his shirt and got to his feet. He saw the mist and frowned. “That’s kinda creepy. You sure we wanna go that way?”

“The Mist will take us to Avalon, a magical place where you never have to grow up and no grown-ups are allowed.”

Nathan gave Peter a quizzical look. “You’re a strange dude. You know that?”

“Do you want to go?” Peter asked.

“Sure, why not.”

“Do you go willingly?”

“Sure.”

“Well then, you have to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say, ‘I go willingly.’”

“Man, you’re too much. Okay, I go willingly.”

THE CHILD THIEF
led, Nathan followed, and the Mist swirled around them. Peter’s mouth filled with the chalky taste of the ghostly vapor. It made him think of ground-up bones and fish scales. It hadn’t always been that way; he remembered the first time—all those years ago.

After killing the wolf, Peter had continued his trek deeper and deeper into the forest, determined to get as far away from the world of men as he could. The worn raccoon skin was gone, in its place the thick silver pelt of the one-eared wolf. The wolf’s head was pulled over his face like a mask. Hard, intense eyes peered out from the dark sockets, alert, scanning the woods for prey and predator alike, but beneath those hard eyes was a six-year-old boy alone in the deep wild woods.

His days were spent following deer trails and creeks, hunting small game. Not knowing where he was going, only knowing what he was getting away from. Near dusk of each day he would seek out a hollow tree or a stone crevasse to curl up within, to try and get some sleep while the larger animals prowled the night.

On the fourth day he felt eyes on him. The forest had begun to change, the trees tightening around him, almost as though herding him this way or that. He heard unfamiliar bird calls, and the whining cries and chirps of insects that sounded all too close to speech.

Other than a few handfuls of nuts and wild berries, Peter hadn’t eaten for two days. He found signs of game, heard them, but never saw them. He felt he was going in circles, his uncanny sense of direction somehow thrown off. He tried to think of Goll’s voice telling him to be strong and brave, but when he came upon the standing stone, the same one he’d passed several hours before, he collapsed exhausted. He sat against the stone, cradling his legs to his chest, and fought to keep away the tears.

Laughter brought him to his feet. A girl, not much older than himself, stood looking down at him from atop a short rise. She had long white hair and wore a short white gown of such a lightweight fabric that it almost floated around her. She flashed him a mischievous smile, then darted away.

Peter stood frozen, unsure what to do, then heard her laugh again. There was something unsettling about that laugh, something that made him feel it wouldn’t be such a good idea to follow her, but curiosity got the better of him and he sprinted up the path after her.

When he crested the rise, she was nowhere to be seen. He heard giggles. There across the way, beside a crumbling ledge, two girls in white gowns were holding hands. They looked like twins. One of them spoke into the other’s ear. They glanced at him and burst into fresh giggling. He started toward them and they skipped away behind the ledge.

As Peter ran to catch them, he realized the trees and underbrush were becoming thicker, a maze of bushes and briars, of creepers and vines. He wondered how he would ever find his way back to the trail. He rounded the ledge and caught sight of their white gowns far down the embankment.

He caught up with them in a wide clearing. There were three of them now, identical in every detail. They stood huddled together before a circle of leaning stones. The stones appeared much older than the surrounding rocks. No mold or moss grew on their surface, and all manner of strange symbols ran up and down their sides, and among the stones—
bones
—all sorts of bones.

The girls regarded him through slanted, silvery eyes. Peter could see the tips of their pointed ears poking out from their hair. Their feet were bare and dirty, their flesh so white as to almost be translucent. He could see the spider-webbing of blue veins just beneath their skin. They smiled shyly at him.

Now that Peter had caught up to them, he didn’t know what to do and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. Finally he raised his hand. “Hi.”

The girls burst out in giggles again and Peter flushed.

One of the girls slipped over to Peter. She traced a finger along his arm.

“What manner of creature are you?” she asked.

“I’m a Peter,” he said.

“What’s a Peter? Is it like a boy?”

“Of course, stupid,” the other one answered. “Can’t you see? He’s a boy.”

“A boy,” the third one chimed in. “A little boy all alone in the forest?”

“What’s a little boy doing all alone in the forest?”

“I’m…well, I’m,” Peter started to say he was lost, but didn’t want to be laughed at again. “I’m looking for friends to play with.”

The girls exchanged quick, knowing looks.

“So are we!” said one.

“Can’t believe the luck,” said another, laying a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

“We can be playmates,” said the third as she slipped behind him, sniffing lightly at his neck and hair.

“What sort of games do you like to play?” asked the first.

Peter shrugged. “All sorts.”

“So do we!” said the second.

“Come with us,” added the third.

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

Peter hesitated. “Are there grown-ups?”

“Grown-ups?” They looked puzzled.

“Oh, you mean men-kind,” said the first. “Blood bells no, boy. Not where we’re going. Just fun and games.”

“Yes,” added the second. “Lots of wonderful games.”

“Come along,” said the third, and gestured for him to follow as the three of them strolled in among the circle of stones.

Peter followed, then stopped. All the hair along his arms stood up, his scalp felt prickly, and a strange tingling tickled his feet and hands. He thought he heard chimes and singing—a lullaby maybe. The sound echoed faintly about the stones.

“Oh, he doesn’t want to come,” said the first.

“Doesn’t want to play with us,” said the second.

“So sad,” added the third.

“Yes, I do,” said Peter.

“He’s afraid.”

“Am not.”

“Not just anyone can come, little Peter boy,” said the first.

“Only those who really wish to,” said the second.

“Wish it, Peter. Wish it and you can come and play with us,” called the third.

The girls slipped into the very center of the ring of stones, to where a flat round stone lay flush with the grass. Their bodies began to sparkle and then, slowly, they faded away, leaving behind a glittering rain of golden dust.

Peter jumped back, staring at the melting flakes of gold.

“Come, let’s play,” called the girls and laughed; their voices sounded far away as though from the bottom of a well.

Peter glanced about; it was getting dark and cold. He heard the distant call of a wolf, then several answering howls. He didn’t want to sleep in a tree again, not tonight. He looked at the stones. Where else did he have to go? He took a deep breath, bit his lip, and walked into the circle.

Nothing happened.

Peter closed his eyes. “I wish to follow them.”

Still nothing. He opened his eyes.

“I wish to follow,” he said, and this time he wished it with all his heart.

Golden sparkles flashed before his eyes, a silvery mist spun up around his feet, and the forest and stones faded away. For a second he was falling. His stomach lurched and Peter felt sure he would plummet to his death, but instead the mist thickened, became buoyant, and he was swimming through it, almost as though he could fly. He felt wind blowing across his face, and the air was warm and sweet.

The stones reappeared, taking Peter by surprise. He tumbled across a bed of moss, landing with his legs above his head against one of the standing stones.

He was greeted with a burst of girlish laughter.

Peter righted himself and the world around him righted itself as well, only
right
wasn’t the word that came to mind. Peter shook his head. The stones were the same as before but the forest—
oh my
, the forest.

There was so much to see he didn’t know where to look first. Broad, knobby tree trunks twisted their way upward into a canopy of vivid, colorful leaves, their branches—dripping with vines, flowers, and fruit—reached out, intertwining with one another. Warm, glowing rays of sunlight pushed through the treetops, setting the thin ground mist aglow. Chunky, gnarled roots crawled through the tangled undergrowth, and giant mushrooms poked their speckled heads up from the lush moss and grass. Wild flowers of every shape and variety dotted the trees, vines, and bushes, each seemed to be trying to outdo the next in color and brilliance. But the foliage wasn’t what held him spellbound, it was the little people, dozens upon dozens of them. Some barely the size of bees, others as large as cats. Most had wings: bird wings, insect wings, butterfly wings, bat wings. Naked creatures of every imaginable color, some spotted or striped. They buzzed and hummed, giggled and chirped. A thousand little songs forming a gleeful symphony as they chased one another about the small clearing and danced in and out of the beams of sunlight.

The girls were waiting for him along a thin, winding trail. He stepped out of the circle and was struck by the smells; a thousand fragrances perfumed the air. He inhaled deeply, letting the sweet air fill his lungs.

A host of the wee folk flew past his head, then began to circle him, fluffing his hair, plucking at his wolf pelt, the soft humming of their wings tickling him. Peter began to giggle. “Cut it out,” he laughed, and tried to shoo them away.

Someone swatted him on the shoulder.

Peter turned around.

“You’re it!” cried one of the girls, and all three of them skipped away down the path in a gale of laughter.

Peter grinned, couldn’t stop grinning. He gave chase, the swarm of little people fluttering along after him.

The trail wove its way down a gradual slope and the forest began to change. The ground beneath his feet became damp, then marshy. Peter splashed across a muddy creek, then skirted around several weedy bogs. Squat, twisted trees grew up from murky, misty pools, their bark slick, black, and oily, thick moss dripping from their branches. The dim light filtering through their brown, yellowy leaves cast everything in a shadowy amber glow. The delicate scents of flowers and berries were replaced by the sweet, spicy smell of fluff-mud, and the playful birdcalls with croaks and deep bellows.

Peter stopped. He’d lost any sign of the girls. He noticed the little flying people were no longer following him and realized he was alone. Something splashed nearby and Peter jumped. He decided he must’ve gone the wrong way and started to retrace his steps.

There they were—the three girls, as though they’d materialized out of the musky air. They stood in front of the cascading leaves of a huge weeping willow, just staring at him, their faces somber.

“Where’d you go—” he began, then caught movement behind them. Someone was with them.

The shadowy shape of a woman slipped out from the curtain of leaves.

Peter stepped back, his hand dropping to the hilt of his knife. “A grownup!” he hissed.

She was stout but curvy, wide through the hips and thighs. The light danced across her face, revealing smoky, heavy eyelids and luminous, swamp-green eyes.

Peter started to run when she called his name, her voice throaty, barely more than a whisper. Yet he heard her well, as though she were beside him. He hesitated.

“You’re most welcome here, sweet boy.” Her deep, rich voice blanketed him, comforting, soothing, chasing away his fears.

She stepped forward into a soft ray of sunlight, the light glittering off her dark, oily skin. Peter looked closer. Her skin was actually green, the deep dark emerald of evergreen leaves. Her hair was green as well, a darker shade, almost black. It flowed from beneath a skull cap drawn forward into a widow’s peak across her forehead. The twisting weaves of hair snaked down almost to her knees and draped across her face like a hood, keeping all but her large eyes in shadow. Her thin, smoky robe clung to her like a spider web, dripping from her in ropy strings, doing little to cover her full breasts and the shadowy tuft between her legs. Bronze bracelets jangled from her wrists and ankles, and a necklace of bone and claws hung about her neck.

She smiled at Peter, strolled over to him, and slid an arm around his shoulders. Her breath was hot, it smelled of honey, and when he inhaled, he felt a drowsy warmth take him.

“Won’t you come in?” She gestured to a round hole dug into an embankment beneath a thick overhang of straw and matted moss. Large, pitted stones circled the entrance, each with the face of a brooding beast carved into its surface. Dozens of dried gourds hung around the opening, painted red, with bird-size holes cut into them. Small black bat-winged, men-shaped creatures with long scorpion tails were perched or zipping in and out of them.