The Child Thief (5 page)

“What the hell are you doing?”

Peter grunted, and the last bar popped off with a loud clang. “Bingo!”

Nick ducked down, peeked back toward the pub. The bearded man still groped the woman, another man had stumbled outside puking, none of them were looking their way.

Peter gave the pane a nudge with his foot and it popped open. The basement was a well of darkness. Peter looked up at Nick. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Nick said.

“Are you going to get those shoes, or not?”

Nick took a quick step back as though from a viper. “Are you kidding me? That’s breaking and entering.”

A look of deep disappointment crossed Peter’s face. Nick was surprised to find this bothered him, that he cared at all what this wild kid thought. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Nick said, a bit too quickly. “I’m no thief, that’s all. I mean that’s—”

“Nick, don’t let them win. Don’t let them beat you.”

“What?”

“Don’t let them steal your magic.”

“Magic?” What did magic have to do with breaking into someone’s store and stealing their stuff?

“Don’t you get it?” Peter said. “You’re free now. You don’t have to live by their rules anymore.” Peter pointed into the inky blackness of the basement. “The darkness is calling. A little danger, a little risk. Feel your heart race. Listen to it. That’s the sound of being
alive
. It’s your time, Nick. Your one chance to have fun before it’s all stolen by
them
, the adults, with their cruelty and endless rules, their can’t-do-this, and can’t-do-that’s, their have-tos, and better-dos, their little boxes and cages all designed to break your spirit, to kill your magic.”

Nick stared down into the dark basement.

“What are you waiting for?” Peter said, giving him a devilish grin before disappearing through the window.

What am I waiting for?
Nick wondered.
What’s ahead for me? Even if I could go home, what then? Graduate? Get some crappy job so that I can spend every weekend trying to drink it all away, puking in a parking lot, or playing fiddle-boobs with some skank?
He shook his head. Peter was right: if he didn’t live now—right this minute—then when? Too much of his youth had already been stolen. Why should he let
them
take any more? Maybe it
was
time to do a little taking of his own.

Nick took a deep breath and lowered himself through the window. He swung his leg about in the darkness until his foot hit a box, dropped onto the box, and promptly crashed over onto the floor. Something hit the floor and shattered. “Crap,” Nick said, and sat there a long moment, heart in his throat, waiting for the alarms and sirens, the lights, the dogs—the
Gestapo
. When nothing happened, he climbed to his feet.

The basement smelled of mildew, dust, and old cardboard.
Where’s Peter?
Nick noticed a weak light coming from the top of a narrow staircase. Hands out, he made his way—adrenaline pumping through his every fiber, heart beating louder with each step. “I hear it, Peter,” he whispered and grinned. “The sound of being alive.”

The streetlights poured in through the display window, dousing the jerseys, bats, balls, and bikes in a soft, bluish glow. No sign of Peter. He crept by the Little League plaques and trophies, going right past the cash register. Nick knew stores didn’t keep money in their registers at night, and even if they had, this wasn’t about money. He wasn’t here to steal, at least not like that. This was different somehow. It was about taking back, about control maybe, the need to be steering his own fate for once—for better or worse.

Nick peered over the racks of jerseys and warm-up suits, searching for Peter’s nest of wild hair. He didn’t find the golden-eyed boy, but found shoes—a whole wall of them. He passed up the court shoes with their springs, gels, pumps, glitter, and glitz—what the boys at his school liked to refer to as
dunkadelic
—until he zeroed in on a certain green-and-black checked pattern. “Bingo,” he said, just like Peter had.

He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight, then scanned the boxes for a size nine. He found a ten, several thirteens, a seven, a six, but no nines. His brow tightened. “Oh, be here. Be here, be here, be here.” A grin lit his face. There. “Yes!” He snatched up the box but didn’t open it, not right away. He just held it, cherishing the moment like a Christmas present you were finally allowed to open. Nick slowly lifted the lid, enjoyed the pungent smell of rubber and glue, then slid the shoes out, holding them up into the light. “S—weeet!” he exhaled, chucking the box and dropping down onto a bench.

He tugged off his bargain-bin specials, stared at the cracked, peeling rubber and frayed stitching. They reminded him of his mother—his
cheap-ass
mother. He slung them against the wall. He had the Vans laced and on his feet in no time and was up bouncing on his toes, checking himself out in the mirror. Nick froze. There, behind him in the mirror, a pale, haunted face watched him from the shadows, watched him like a cat watches a mouse.

SO MUCH JOY
over a pair of shoes
, Peter thought and felt the sting of jealousy as Nick’s simple joy made him aware of all he’d lost. He had to remind himself that soon shoes would be the last thing on Nick’s mind.

Nick started and jerked around. “Shit, man. You scared the piss out of me!”

“Killer shoes,” Peter said, putting on his best smile.

Nick studied Peter for a moment, then glanced down at his shoes. He licked his finger and touched the laces, making a sizzling noise. “Watch out, man,” Nick said, grinning. “I’m lethal in these babies.”

Peter laughed.

“Hey, man. Check this out.” Nick stepped over to a rack of skateboards, snatched one up, and dropped it on top of his shoe, flipping it onto its wheels with a flick of his foot. “Slick, huh?”

Peter nodded.

“Out of the way,” Nick said, hopping on the board, kicking hard, and shooting down the long center aisle. He kicked the tail of the board, catching some air, but when the board landed, the back end slid out on the slick linoleum, sending Nick into a rack of men’s sweats, taking the entire rack down right on top of him.

Nick’s head popped up between the hangers and sweats, looking disoriented and embarrassed.

Peter let loose a howl of laughter. “Impressive!”

Nick frowned. “Oh, yeah? Let’s see what you got.”

“Oh, you want me to show you how it’s done? Is that it? Why, I’m the skateboard king.” Peter snatched up one of the boards. He’d never ridden a skateboard before, but if this kid could do it, he most certainly could. He dropped the board on the floor and set his foot on the deck, shoving off with his other foot, kicking hard like he’d seen Nick do. The board wobbled and he wheeled his arms for balance as he careened straight toward Nick.
“GANG WAY!”
Peter cried, fighting for control.

Nick’s face changed from mirth to panic as he scrambled out of the way. Peter tried to swerve, lost control, and landed hard on his butt. The board shot out from under him like a missile, slamming into the leg of a nearby mannequin. The mannequin toppled and the head bounced down the aisle and landed right in Nick’s lap, its charming face smiling blissfully at Nick. Nick stared back in astonishment, then up at Peter, and both cracked up.

“Oh, my God,” Nick wheezed. “Oh man. That’s the craziest thing ever.” He got to his feet, holding the head, took aim at a row of basketball hoops, and shot. The head bounced off the backboard, but completely missed the rim and net. Nick raised both fists in the air. “He shoots! He sucks! The crowd pisses their pants!” He did a little foot dance, kicked his skateboard back out into the aisle, hopped on, and raced away. Up and down the aisle he went, doing spins and hops, sliding, skidding, and carving his way around the displays.

Peter got up, rubbing his butt. He gave his skateboard a disdainful look. “That one’s defective.”

“Yeah, right.”

Peter frowned, grabbed another skateboard from the rack, scrutinizing it before setting it on the floor. Nick zipped past, laughing hysterically, almost knocking him over. Peter hopped on his board and raced after him, wobbling and fighting to keep the board from flipping out from under him. Nick cut sharp, wheeled the board around in front of the entrance. Too late to stop, Peter crashed right into Nick, slamming the boy into the door. The impact shook the entire storefront and an alarm began to blare.

“OH, SHIT!”
Nick shouted over the noise.
“WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!”
Nick tried to open the door; it was locked. He slapped the door in frustration and tried to yank it open. No luck.
“WE HAVE TO GO BACK THROUGH THE BASEMENT. QUICK!”

“NO WE DON’T.”

Nick looked at Peter, confused. Peter pointed at a swirly pink bowling ball sitting in the display window.

It took Nick a moment to get it.
“OH, NO,”
he called, shaking his head.
“WE CAN’T DO THAT.”
Then a spark lit in his eyes. Peter knew the look well. They all got it, once they truly realized they were free.

Nick hefted the ball, locked his eyes on the big display window, his mouth tightened into a hard line. Peter saw the anger, the hostility, and knew this was about more than getting out of the store, more than an act of vandalism, or simple mischief, this went far deeper. Nick needed to strike out—to break out. Nick was like so many of the runaways he’d encountered, too many years of being bullied and mistreated, of being stifled and ignored. They just needed someone to show them how to let it out. And once it was out, once he’d taken them that far, the rest was easy. After that, they’d follow him anywhere.

“GIVE IT TO ’EM, NICK,”
Peter cried.
“GIVE ’EM THE BIG FUCK-YOU!”

Nick gritted his teeth, snarled, and hurled the ball like a shot-put.
“FUCK YOU,”
he screamed.
“FUCK ALL OF YOU!”
The ball smashed through the plate glass, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards.

“YEE-HAW!”
Nick screamed over the warbling alarm.

The ball bounced onto the sidewalk and rolled into the street, picking up speed as it headed down the sloping avenue.

“AFTER IT!”
Nick cried, snatching up his skateboard and leaping heedlessly across the broken glass.

Peter couldn’t have grinned any wider.
He’s mine
. He snatched up his own board and caught up with Nick in the middle of the street. A host of men and women had come out from the bar to see about all the commotion, some so drunk they could barely stand.

Nick grinned at them savagely, raised both hands in the air, and gave them the double bird.
“FUCK THE WORLD!”
he screamed.
“FUCK THE WORLD!”

The crowd raised their bottles and returned the salute.
“FUCK THE WORLD!”

Peter turned his head to the sky and howled, basking in the spreading madness, aware that sometimes even these dull-eyed adults could let loose, could remember.

“The ball went that way,” Nick cried, slapping his foot atop his board and kicking off down the hill.

Peter let out one last hoot, hopped on his board, and, fighting for control, chased after Nick.
It’s a good night. A very good night. Can’t remember a better one in the last hundred years
.

W
here to?” Nick asked Peter.

“To crazy town,” Peter howled, and wobbled past.

“TO CRAZY TOWN!”
Nick cried, and took off after him. They raced down the street, knocking over garbage cans and setting off car alarms, yowling and laughing, setting the dogs to barking all up and down the street.

The cool fall air filled Nick’s lungs, blew the hair from his face. His heart raced, his body flushed with adrenaline, excitement, and the sheer joy of abandonment, of freedom like he’d never known in his life. Thoughts of Marko, his mother, all the bullshit felt a million miles away.

The neighborhoods fell behind, replaced by warehouses and industrial buildings, the steady incline leading them toward the docks. They saw no more headlights, or any other signs of people. Nick felt as though they were the only two souls left in the world, and he wished it would never end.

AS THEY NEARED
the harbor, the fog thickened, seemed almost alive the way it swirled and snaked around them. Peter stopped and stuffed the chocolates into his bag. In addition to the knife, Nick noticed a carton of cigarettes and several packs of gum. Peter kicked his skateboard into a ditch.

“Man, what are you doing? That’s a killer board.”

“Won’t need it where we’re going.”

“What do you mean?” Nick let out a weak laugh.

“The Mist is here,” Peter said, and looked Nick in the eye. “This is the point of no return. The Mist will take us to Avalon, a place where you never have to grow up. An island of magic and adventure, but there’s danger and…
monsters
. Nick, do you go willingly?”

Nick laughed, “Umm, yeah, sure Peter.”

“No, you have to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say, ‘I go willingly.’”

Nick thought Peter was carrying this whole enchanted island thing a bit too far, but fine, he could play along. “Okay. I go willingly.”

Peter looked relieved. “Then we go,” he said, and they continued down the street.

As the buildings and streetlights began to disappear behind the foggy veil, so did the sounds of the city—the chug of the tugboats, the occasional long, low horn-blast from the ferries, all faded. Soon he no longer smelled the bay at all. The wind died and the air became stale. It smelled of the earth, of old things. The mist grew perceptually colder and brighter, as though glowing from its own radiance. And Nick finally admitted to himself that maybe things were getting weird, that maybe following a golden-eyed boy with pointed ears to a magical island might not have been the brightest idea.

“Stay close,” Peter whispered. “And keep as quiet as you can. We don’t want
them
to know we’re here.”

Nick couldn’t imagine who else would be around here this time of night, but kept quiet just the same.

They’d been in the fog for maybe ten minutes when Nick’s foot caught on something and he stumbled to the ground. He dropped his skateboard and his hands slid into wet, chalky earth—gray, the same color as the fog. Nick couldn’t recall exactly when the pavement had given way to earth. But he wasn’t particularly surprised; he’d figured Peter’s fort would most likely be hidden in a dump, or an abandoned lot around the shipping yards. But he
was
surprised when the dirt began to evaporate off his hands, drift away in smoking tendrils, as though it, too, were somehow part of the mist. Then he noted what he’d tripped over: a white shape with two large dark holes. Nick squinted, leaned forward, and realized he was staring into the eye sockets of a human skull.

The skull lay half-buried in the dirt, wrapped in the last remnants of worm-riddled flesh, dried and ashen. There was a knot of blond, braided scalp still attached to the top of its head. He also saw what had to be an arm bone, and a few smaller bones scattered about.

“Holy crap!” Nick said, scrambling to his feet.

“Peter,” he whispered, fighting to control his fear. Peter had disappeared.

“Peter,” he hissed again.
Where’d he go?
He glanced around. No Peter, nothing but the same dull, shifting grayness everywhere. Nick had no clue which direction he’d come from, or was heading to. His breath quickened. He felt the mist was caving in on him, like he would suffocate, like he was being swallowed.

“Peter,” he called, a little louder this time, then louder. “Peter.” He knew he was losing control, knew he might start screaming at any second.

Peter materialized out of the fog.

“I told you to stay close,” Peter said harshly.

“Peter, there’re bones. Human bones! What is going—”

Peter snapped a finger to his lips. “Shhhh.
They
will hear us.” Peter’s eyes were deadly serious and his look sobered Nick up.

“Who are
they?
” Nick mouthed, suddenly very alarmed.

But Peter didn’t answer. He only beckoned with quick, sharp gestures for Nick to follow.

Nick had no intention of going another step into this ghostly wasteland. But, as the mist closed in around him, seemed to actually touch him, caressing and slithering along his skin, the touch cold and clammy, as Peter’s back began to fade and Nick realized he would be alone again, his resolve evaporated and he sprinted forward to catch up.

Nick stuck as close to Peter as he could and kept a careful watch where he stepped in case there were more bones. And, of course, there were more bones, many more bones, and not
just
bones; he saw helmets, swords, and shields, most looking as though they’d dropped in straight from the Crusades. He almost stepped on a flintlock pistol and noticed the moldering remnants of a three-cornered hat, what Nick thought of as a pirate hat. A bit farther on he saw a skeleton with thin, leathery flesh clinging to its frame; it clutched a canteen in one hand and wore the tattered trappings of a British Redcoat. A few hundred feet away lay the remains of a man in a dusty Civil War uniform. The soldier’s rotten hands still dug at his eyes.

Then Nick saw the Nike high-top and his blood went cold. It was just sitting by itself. Nick couldn’t take his eyes off it, so was taken by surprise when his foot stumbled on something soft. He halted and found he was standing on a boy’s arm, his shoe sinking into the soft, pliable flesh.

Nick staggered back.
Oh, Christ! Oh, good Lord!
Nick put a fist to his mouth and bit hard.

The dead boy looked to be about his age, but it was hard to tell, because his skin was parched and peeling away. The kid’s eyes were wide-open, his mouth a big, hollow O. Nick had no problem reading the terrified expression frozen forever on that face. It mirrored his own.
Maybe if I scream,
Nick thought,
maybe then I’ll wake up back in my bed, and maybe I’ll hear Marko and his asshole friends screwing around downstairs and I won’t care, because anything will be better than wandering around out here stepping on dead kids.

But Nick didn’t scream, because he didn’t really believe this was a dream—this was real, every bit of it. He knew if he screamed,
they
—whatever
they
were—would hear.

“Peter,” he whispered. Peter kept walking. “Peter,” he called. “I want to go back.” To Nick’s alarm, his voice carried, not just echoing but actually rolling across the mist as though the mist itself was carrying it along.

Peter turned, his face horrified.

And that was when Nick heard the voices—soft and far away at first, but quickly moving closer: the light calls of children, sweet chorus of women, and deep baritone of men. Laughing and gay, as though they were all on their way to a summer picnic. But behind these, or maybe within, he heard wailing, a sad, terrible keening. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“They’ve found us,” Peter said, his voice dead as stone.

“Found us?
Who’s
found us?”

“Nick,” Peter said, his words quick and urgent. “No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, ignore them. Avoid their eyes. And whatever you do, don’t dare speak to them.” Peter glanced into the fog. “If you lose the path, Nick, your bones will never leave the Mist.”

Nick’s mind was one big
WHAT THE FUCK!
Then he caught movement. The mist had begun to stir.

Shadows, mere shades of gray on gray, began to swim around them, some hulking and sluggish, almost lumbering, others small and fleet as sparrows, most just furtive wisps of indefinable vapor. Their whispers and calls echoed around them, crawled right into Nick’s head.

Nick glanced at Peter. Peter kept his eyes directly forward and marched onward at a quick, steady clip.

Nick gritted his teeth, balled his hands into fists, and clamped them tightly to his chest. He tried to slow his breathing.
Don’t fall behind. Whatever you do, don’t fall behind
. He picked up his pace, keeping tight to Peter’s heels.

The mist next to him began to swirl, almost to boil, until the shape of a woman formed, her skin pale and shimmering. She smiled at him demurely, floating along, twirling and rolling. The tendrils of her gown and hair trailed out behind her as though in an underwater ballet.

Nick struggled not to look into her eyes, but felt powerless to do anything but, and when he did, he saw that she was beauty itself. She began to sing to him. He couldn’t understand the words, but he recognized the tune. The same lullaby mothers have been singing to their children for thousands of years. It promised to keep him safe and warm. It promised an eternity of maternal love. She stretched her arms, beckoning him to her.

It would be all over if he went to her. Part of him knew this, the part that was screaming somewhere deep inside to stay on the path. The rest of him knew this too, but thought it was okay, because it would be such a sweet death. Cradling him in her loving embrace, she would rock him, soothe him. All his fears, all the bad things would simply drift away forever. Nick found himself wishing for nothing more.

Peter’s voice came from somewhere far away, little more than an echo. “Stay with me!” And a face, the terrified face of the boy, the one in the high-tops, flashed in Nick’s head. He blinked and forced himself to tear his eyes away from the woman.

Where’s Peter?

Nick saw only a vague silhouette in front of him.
Is that him? How’d I fall so far behind?
He noticed sheets of mist drawing together like curtains, as though trying to build a wall between them. Panicked, Nick sprinted forward, stumbling across the soft, undulating surface, almost knocking Peter over when he caught up.

“Hang on,” Peter whispered. “You’re doing good.”

Doing good?
Nick wanted to scream.
Doing good at what? What is going on? What the fuck is going on?

The woman continued to float alongside of him, her face now mournful. Crazily, Nick found himself feeling regretful. Then she raised her arms above her head as though entering a swan dive, arching her back, snaking her body through the smoky tendrils of mist. Suddenly Nick was very aware of how full her breasts were, discovered he could see the shape of her large, dark nipples beneath the thin veil of her gown and the dusky shadow between her legs. A warm, tingling sensation began to grow in his crotch. Nick felt his face flush and glanced away. When he did, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.
A tail
? He blinked. She had a long, scaly tail. She also had scales on her arms, small and delicate, and her fingers were long and clawlike. He squinted.
Oh good God
, he thought,
her hair. Her hair is full of worms!
No, her hair
was
worms, thousands of tiny, squirming worms.

Nick jerked back and almost fell over.

She scowled, dark and angry. Her eyes shrank to mere slits, her nipples stretched into long antennae, her belly opened up into a gaping maw, and Nick saw row after row of jagged little teeth!

Oh, no! Oh no! Oh no!

A sound came out of that mouth, like a thousand angry hornets, and she came for him.

Nick screamed and crumpled to the ground, arms out, watching helplessly as she fell upon him, watching as her huge mouth, a mouth easily as tall as himself, engulfed him.
So this is how I will die,
he thought. But no jagged teeth tore into his flesh. All he felt was a blast of cold air as she passed through him. It took him a moment to realize that he was still alive.

Peter! Where’s Peter?
He thought he saw a shape plodding away from him. Was that Peter, or another trick of the fog?
“PETER!”
he screamed and scrambled to his feet. Now there were three different shapes, each heading in a different direction.

“PETER!”
he shrieked, then an inner voice, the one from deep inside of him, said,
Stop wasting your breath. Think!
Nick stopped, concentrated, tried to clear his mind.
Footprints. Find his footprints.
They were there, the faintest trace, disappearing as the moist earth rapidly filled them in. Nick gritted his teeth and ran in their direction. And just ahead was Peter, not another illusion but truly Peter.

“PETER!”
Nick raced forward and grabbed Peter by the shoulder.
“WAIT FOR ME!”
he screamed.
“WHY WON’T YOU WAIT FOR ME?”

“Steady,” Peter said, not losing a step. “Have to keep steady or all is lost.”

Nick clutched Peter’s jacket, twisting his hand in the fabric, wishing he could close his eyes and make them all go away.

They came, dozens, then hundreds, all shapes and sizes, filling the air with their screams, laughter, wails and cries. A swarm of disembodied heads flew past, singing, a host of naked old women with large, saggy breasts skipped merrily around, holding hands and laughing through wide, toothless grins. A throve of tiny children with grasshopper bodies buzzed insistently, all manner of hungry-looking beasts, with sharp teeth and claws, stalked alongside them, and small, shadowy men with protrusive blank eyes and bird beaks danced wildly.