The Lost Heir (The Gryphon Chronicles, Book 1) (2 page)

The fairy Gladwin flew at top speed to bring the Guardian his orders. Strapped across her back, the scrolled message she carried was only as big as a matchstick, but the news it bore was huge. The boy was alive!

The Lost Heir of Griffon had finally been spotted!

The sighting was confirmed. Captain Lydia Brackwater of the Thames water nymphs, of all people, had come face to face with him. Which was rather ironic, Gladwin thought, considering it was Lydia and her sisters who had lost the boy in the first place. Ah, but the watery folk could be shifty, unreliable. If you wanted something done right, ask a fairy, she thought stoutly.

In any case, young Jacob Everton was in more danger than he knew. He needed protection—the best the Order could provide. She raced on.

Far below, where Waterloo Bridge straddled a meander of the Thames, London shimmered with the lights of a spring night. Carriages with high-stepping horses rolled through the cobbled streets of the theatre district. Gentlemen in top hats escorted ladies in satin bustle-gowns to operas, fancy dinners, concerts, plays.

Here and there, through mansion windows, brilliant chandeliers lit up glittering ballrooms, where elegant couples waltzed and whirled—and most of them had no inkling of all the enchantment tucked into the byways and corners of their world.

Humans
, Gladwin thought with a snort. Shaking her head to herself, she zoomed away from the city. The air tasted sweeter over the countryside. Instead of roofs and chimneys and a maze of cramped streets, she now looked down on stone-walled meadows, where cows and sheep had bedded down for the night.

Frogs sang in the ponds. Owls hooted in the great, old trees, and the road was a pale ribbon winding through the gentle hills.

She sped toward the distant hilltop, where Guardian Derek Stone was believed to be encamped among the lonely ruins of an old abbey. Along the way, she noticed a thatched-roof tavern by the roadside and paused.

He had better not be in there
, she thought, hovering over it with a frown. It did rather seem like the sort of disreputable place where the wandering warrior might like to get into a brawl. Rumor had it the tragedy surrounding this boy’s parents had made the Guardian even meaner and more dangerous…

Deciding to hope for the best, Gladwin flew on. A few minutes later, she descended on a cautious angle over the treetops, approaching the hollowed stone shell of the ancient cathedral. Her iridescent wings beating at half-speed to slow her pace, she buzzed lower, gazing down at medieval columns tumbled to the ground and overgrown with weeds. Then she saw the place where Derek Stone had set up camp, but the Guardian was not at home.

“Oh, crocodile!” she whispered. Scowling, she alighted on the log where his worn leather knapsack leaned across from the extinguished campfire.
Humph! I knew he was in that pub! Well, he’d better get back soon.
She adjusted the message across her back, then folded her arms with a feisty little huff and proceeded to keep a lookout, marching back and forth along the log.

Fortunately, (because fairies are not known for their patience), she did not have long to wait.
About time!
Hearing someone approach, she turned, expecting to see the Guardian…but the man who stepped out of the shadows was not Derek Stone.

She gasped and with a flick of her wings darted for cover inside the hollow log. She peeped out through a knotty hole in the wood.
Who—what is that? A giant?

Well, not that big, but almost.

The meaty bruiser marching into Derek’s camp had a boxer’s flattened nose and a bald head like a cannonball. Spotting her fairy trail still fading, he sneered in her direction. “Come out, little courier! You carry a message of interest to our master!”

Oh, no!
Gladwin gulped, spotting a second man walking toward the log, and a third.
Ambushed.
Worse, a whiff of sulfur warned her they were servitors—magically created servants.
Not good.
Her heart began to pound.

An experienced messenger for the Order of the Yew Tree, however, she kept her wits about her
. I’ve got to get out of here
. Gliding silently through the dark tunnel of the old hollow log, she came out the other end and stayed low to the ground, weaving among the weeds and wildflowers.

Suddenly the tall grass parted and she nearly ran straight into a pair of giant knees looming right in front of her. “She’s ’ere!” the ruffian boomed, trying to use his coat like a butterfly net, swiping at her.

She dodged aside in the nick of time.

She found herself surrounded, flying every which way for her life. She dove to the right, close enough to feel the breeze as another tried to catch her in his hat.

She flew a few inches higher on a diagonal. The next grab caught at her foot and sent her tumbling in a midair somersault. But she quickly righted herself and flew on, shaking her head to clear away the dizziness.

Only one clear path remained open: straight ahead. She raced forward at top speed, too fast even for a Guardian’s supernatural reflexes to catch her, but then—disaster.

Too late, she saw the spider web ahead.

She couldn’t stop in time! She let out a cry, but the next thing she knew, she was trapped in a net of horrid, sticky strands.

Her arms were caught; she tried to kick free, but she was hopelessly glued. Then she looked up in dread as the hulking builder of the web crept toward her.

Brown and hairy with white spots, fat and bulbous in the moonlight, the huge spider fixed its many cold eyes eagerly upon her. “Heh, heh, fairy blood is fizzy-sweet like root-beer!”

“I say! Good boy, now. There’s a nice spider. Let’s not do anything hasty,” she said with a gulp. “Won’t you please free me from your web? I am not a fly, as you can see, and I-I really must be going.” She shrieked when it hopped closer, much too agile on its eight long legs. “Stay back! I’m in the service of the Queen, I’ll have you know!”

“Yummy yum!” the spider twittered in its clinkety arachnid voice.

But just as it opened its pincer fangs to bite her, the spider froze at the sound of a deep, cultured voice. “Now, now, Malwort, we discussed this. You are not to drink her. Fairies aren’t food.”

“Yesssss, Master.” The disappointed spider backed away to a slightly safer distance.

With her cheek stuck on a strand of web, Gladwin could not turn her head to see who had spoken until the gentleman strolled into view. He wore a splendid long coat, despite the balmy temperature of the spring night. He swept off his top hat politely, revealing brown hair sculpted into waves by a shiny, crusted helmet of Macassar oil. “My, my. A royal garden fairy. What an honor,” he said with a bow.

Ladies probably thought he was handsome, but his icy smile sent a chill all the way down to Gladwin’s wingtips, and as he stared at her, his cold gray eyes held a faraway look, as though he were distracted, listening to some mad waltz forever playing in his head.

“Tasty morsel?” the spider whined.

“Of course. Excellent work, Malwort! You really are the cleverest spider in England.” He tossed a large, stunned horsefly to the spider.

“Thaaaank you, oh, thank you, master!” Malwort ran off to fetch the fly, then huddled in the corner to devour it.

Gladwin winced. She looked at the sinister gentleman again and found him studying her intently, the moonlight gleaming on his ivory-handled walking stick. “Ah, you look surprised. My little pet there,” he said. “Talking spider. Arachno-sapiens. They’re very rare,” he added with an arrogant little wave of his hand. “I acquired him in my travels.”

He stepped closer and leaned down, inspecting her prettiest feature: her wings.

She was rather vain of them, in truth.

“Do forgive me for staring, little one.” He let out a wistful sigh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of your people. Beautiful thing. I shall enjoy adding you to my collection.”

Collection? Gladwin looked at him in dread.

“Oxley, keep an eye out for the Guardian,” he ordered the bald giant with a quick glance over his shoulder. “We must be gone before Stone arrives. Wouldn’t want things to get—messy now, would we?”

“Aye, milord.” The muscleman trudged off to watch the road for the dark and dangerous Derek Stone.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” Gladwin demanded, but he just shook his head at her.

“I’m sorry, dear heart, but I don’t speak bumblebee. I have no idea what you’re saying, and to be honest—I really don’t care.”

Gladwin scowled, but kept trying to fight free. Whoever he was, if he could not understand the fairy tongue, that meant he was an ordinary human and had no magic of his own.

“There, there, don’t fret,” he chided. “I’m not going to harm you. I just want to help you…with this heavy burden. Surely it’s too much for you to carry, tiny as you are. I’ll take
that,
if you don’t mind.”

“No!” She shook her head frantically as his giant hand came toward her, encased in a fine leather glove. He reached down with thumb and forefinger, and plucked the scroll away from where it was snugly secured between her wings. “Give that back!”
Oh, this is terrible!
thought Gladwin. “Help! Help! Derek Stone! Where are you?”

But there still was no sign of the once-heroic knight.

Guardian Derek Stone, in fact, was slumped on a barstool in the tavern, just as she had feared, nursing his pint of ale, and growling at anyone who came too close to him. The raucous music and the cheering around the farmers’ arm-wrestling match nearby made it hard for him to hear the faint warning instinct beginning to sound the alarm in the back of his mind.

He was trying so hard to sense the boy’s location, though he wasn’t even sure his Guardian finding-instinct worked anymore. If only the rumor were true—if the kid was really alive, then maybe he wasn’t an utter failure, despite how he had failed his dear friends, poor Jacob and Elizabeth. But it was no use.

The Kinderveil’s powerful spell that protected all magical children from birth still clung on, cloaking their son’s whereabouts. Meanwhile, his own dark, inward searching made Derek Stone oblivious to the disaster befalling the tiny fairy back at his camp.

Gladwin’s heart pounded as she realized she was on her own in this.

She could do nothing but watch in helpless fury as the wicked stranger unrolled the message and read it. “So, it
is
true!” he murmured to himself. “My brother’s brat survived, after all. I hardly believed it myself until this moment. Well! I have to see young Jacob for myself before he dies. Time to go!” he barked at his men.

Without warning, he pulled a jar out of his greatcoat pocket and scooped Gladwin into it, along with the sticky strands of spider web still hanging off her.

She flew up at once and rammed the lid furiously with her shoulder, but it was no use. She was trapped as he sealed the jar with a quick turn of the lid.

At least there were air-holes in it.

Then she was plunged into darkness as he put the jar in the pocket of his greatcoat. The world began to swing as he strode toward his carriage. “Come, men! We must get back to Town. Finally, I know where to look for the brat. Tomorrow, dawn, we’ll start at the wharf and comb each city block north from there, until we find my so-called nephew. And when we do, we’ll put an end to this foolish
rumor
that he’s still alive.”

His henchmen laughed at his ominous jest, but Gladwin pounded on the glass. “No! Leave him alone!” she cried in dread. “Hasn’t the poor boy already been through enough?”

But they ignored her. Then she braced her hands on the glass to steady herself as the coach rolled into motion. She couldn’t believe she had failed to deliver her message. What would become of the Lightriders’ son?
Run, Jacob, if you want to live
, she thought.
Run and hide.

They’re coming for you next!

CHAPTER ONE

The Pickpocket

Harris the Pieman sold the best potpies in Covent Garden Market, famous for their flaky golden crust. His market stall was always thronged with hungry customers and surrounded by a cloud of the most delicious smells.

That morning, as usual, Mr. Harris was so busy collecting coins and wrapping up the beef or chicken potpies his customers demanded that he did not notice a very odd thing happening behind him.

A mincemeat pie had levitated itself off the top shelf of his shop for no apparent reason.

His customers also failed to observe this strange phenomenon, too busy jostling to be the next in line.

Quite unnoticed—minding its own business—the pie began floating toward the shop’s back door, which had been left open to admit the cool morning air. Bobbing along, the escaping pie glided out the back door…and landed in the waiting hands of a boy.

An extraordinarily hungry boy of twelve, with a tangled forelock of dirty blond hair, sooty smudges on his cheeks, a devilish gleam in his blue eyes, and the survival instincts of a feral alley cat.

His name was Jake, and he’d had nothing to eat in two days except an apple core he’d snatched away from some hansom cabdriver’s horse. But now…
ha!

With a laugh under his breath, he plucked the pie out of the air, maneuvered it under his shabby coat, and ran.

Only one thought thudded in his mind, a very drumbeat from his stomach:
Eat, eat, eat!

Blimey, he should have done this days ago, except the carrot-head had made him promise not to use his odd new powers to steal.

Of course, he knew it was wrong to take what didn’t belong to him, but after a while, a lad’s belly tended to win out over conscience.

Now, if he could just get rid of his conscience altogether, thought Jake, he could eat and wear and own whatever he liked, thanks to his unexpected new abilities.

Where they came from, what it meant, he did not know and could not afford to care.

So he could see ghosts.

So he could move things with his mind—though not very well yet—he was still learning. The whole thing had only started about a week ago.