Vault of Shadows (39 page)

“You have not met my prize,” said the Heir in a voice that sounded like wind blowing through a midnight graveyard. It chilled Milo to the bone.

“Look, please,” begged Milo. “We tried. I'll give you anything I have. You can kill me if you want to, but please help my friends. Or . . . at least let them go.”

The lights in the room began to fade as if the shadows were consuming them.

“Did your Nightsider friends not tell you the
consequence of failing to meet a ghost's price? You don't just get to walk away. Not you . . . and not anyone who has invaded my home.”

“No! Why would you do that? That's not fair.”

The ghost moved toward Evangelyne and Milo tried to block his way, but the specter passed straight through him. It was the oddest and most disturbing sensation, like a wind blowing through his flesh. Milo staggered, then spun around as the Heir crouched over the frozen wolf girl.

“She should have told you what would happen,” said the Heir. “Or maybe she was afraid that if you knew, you would not come.”

Even though he could not protect her, Milo ran to get between the ghost and Evangelyne. He had one last idea. Slim and shaky and probably useless, but it was the only thing he could try.

“Take me,” he said, dropping to his knees.

“And why would that meet my price?”

“Because,” said Milo, “I have dreams.”

“Everyone dreams.”

“Not like me.”

The ghost studied him. “What do you mean?”

“My dreams come true. Not always, but a lot of the time. I even dreamed about you.” Milo shrugged off his satchel and dug his dream diary out. He held it up to show the ghost. “I dreamed about you and this place. I know what happened to you. I know that you got lost here. I know that you died here. I dreamed it all. Just like
I dreamed about the Swarm and the hive ships and the Huntsman. And I wrote it all down. If you want a book for payment, then okay, take me. I'll stay here in the library and I'll dream and I'll tell you what I dream. I'll be a book, but one that keeps changing. I'll tell you everything I dream. Everything. If you let my friends go, I'll stay and tell you every dream. I'll write them down so you can read them if you want, or I can just tell you. Whatever you want.”

The ghost looked at him and then at the diary and back again. “That is filled with prophetic dreams?”

“That . . . and other stuff.”

“What other stuff?”

Milo hesitated. “Just stuff. Things I think about. Sometimes conversations I had with people. And the stuff I learned. About scavenging, about surviving. About the Swarm. But other stuff too. About my folks. About things I remember. Christmas mornings and birthday parties. Sleepovers with my friends when I was a kid. The songs my dad used to sing. My dog. Some of the funny stuff Shark says. And about other stuff. The Nightsiders and how cool and scary they are. About Evangelyne and her friends. Mook and Halflight and Oakenayl. Iskiel, too. I write everything down. That's why you should take me. There are so many stories I can tell you. But only if you let my friends go.”

“You would stay here with me?”

“Yes,” said Milo.

“Forever?”

“Y-yes.”
This time Milo stumbled over the word. But he meant it. As much as it terrified him, he meant it.

“You'd be a storybook for me?”

“Yes. For as long as I lived.”

“And when you died?”

“Then I guess I'd be a ghost like you. Maybe I'd still have those dreams, so I guess I'd still be here.”

The ghost was silent for a long time.

A long, long time.

The battle and the fire and the pain around them remained frozen.

“Let me see that book,” said the ghost. “Prove to me that it's full of dreams.”

With trembling fingers Milo extended his dream diary. The ghost was only a ghost, so he wasn't sure how the Heir could actually touch the book. But as the boy closed his fingers around the diary, Milo felt a tug. He opened his hand and let it go.

The ghost stepped back and leafed through the book, saying nothing.

The frozen moment stretched and stretched.

Then the ghost raised his eyes and peered over the diary at Milo.

“No,” he said.

M
ilo felt his heart fall. It seemed to plummet into some deep place in his chest that was like a well of despair. He spread his arms as if there was some way he could protect Evangelyne from what was coming.

“Wh-what . . . ?” stammered Milo. “Didn't you hear me? I'm giving you a
living
book. I'm—”

The ghost closed the diary with a sound like a gunshot. It shocked Milo to silence.

“I will take this,” said the ghost.

Milo stared at him for what felt like an hour, during which his mind went numb and then blank and then seemed to come back online like a faulty piece of tech.

He said, “What—?”

The ghost pressed the dream diary to his chest with the same intensity with which Evangelyne had held the Heart of Darkness to hers.

“This is a book of dreams, Milo Silk,” said the Heir. “Do you have any idea what that means to someone like me? Ghosts can't dream. We can't and it's so . . . horrible. We can learn, we can think, but dreams belong only to
the living. Especially prophetic dreams, because they are about the future and a ghost has no future.”

Milo had no idea what to say. In an instant his terror of the ghost changed to pity. To compassion. To not be able to dream
did
seem horrible, even for someone like Milo who often had bad dreams. But now he saw them differently. Dreams of any kind were a proof of life.

“I . . . ,” he began. “I'm sorry.”

The ghost smiled. “I'm in your book,” he said. “You dreamed of me.”

“Yes.”

“I will take this as payment.”

“You will?”

“If you are willing to part with it.”

“Sure,” said Milo. “You can have it.”

The ghost stroked the cover and Milo thought he once more saw tears in those ghostly eyes.

“I—I'm sorry about your other books,” said Milo.

The ghost nodded. “To destroy a book is to destroy someone's dreams. That may not matter to the living, but it is devastating to someone like me.”

“No,” said Milo, “I get it. I feel it too. I wish I could have done something to stop it. I'm sorry.”

The ghost gave him a long and quizzical look. Then he turned toward the Huntsman.

“What happens now?” asked Milo. “What about the Heart of Darkness? Can you really fix it?”

The ghost smiled. “Fix it? Why would I fix something that is already healed?”

He held the diary in one hand and extended his other. On his palm rested the glittering Heart of Darkness. Milo gasped.

The stone was perfect.

There was no trace of damage. It was as if there never had been any.

“I don't . . . I don't . . . ,” he said, repeating it over and over again without being able to finish the statement. Then he shook his head hard enough to unscramble his thoughts. “How?”

“Magic, of course,” said the ghost as if that were a stupid question.

“No, I mean, when? You were right here the whole time?”

“Was I? Are you so sure?”

“I was standing right here the whole time.”

“Yes,” said the Heir. “You've been standing in that exact spot for days.”

“What? No. We just came here a little while ago and—”

Which is when Milo realized that there was no smoke in the air. None. And although there were scorch marks of fire on some of the shelves, there was no actual fire. No sign of burned books. He spun around and saw that the Huntsman was gone. Evangelyne still lay on the floor, and over by the door Shark, Mook, Iskiel, and Killer had not budged, but the shocktroopers were gone and the
door had been repaired. Milo ran down the rows of books to the alcove and saw that Queen Mab was gone too and the floor had been repaired. His brain spinning, Milo hurried back to where the Heir stood, still holding the diary and the Heart.

“I don't understand. How is this even possible?”

The ghost shrugged. “This is the Impossible Library. Anything is possible here. And I have all the time in the world.”

“But you didn't even move!”

“No,” said the ghost, “it was you who did not move. Just as your friends have not moved.”

Milo's mouth hung open.

“What happened to the Huntsman and the queen? Are they dead?”

“No,” said the ghost, and he gave an odd, twitchy little shrug. “They were not mine to kill.”

“But you were going to kill me!”

Those strange lights twinkled once more in the Heir's eyes. “You came to ask for my help and nearly failed to meet my price. That meant you were in danger of breaking a spiritual contract. Certain rules apply.”

“But the Huntsman—”

“He came here to kill you and to gain the power to free his queen. That had nothing to do with me.” He paused and gave Milo a brief, sly smile. “However, they did burn some of my books.”

“What did you do to them?”

The ghost shrugged. “They wanted to be together,” he said. “And now they are.”

“What?”

“Who knows . . . the Huntsman may even enjoy the shadow world of the
Aes Sídhe.
”

Milo stared at him for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. “You banished him to the queen's dimension?”

The ghost shrugged again. “It may not last, and probably won't. But it will give you and your friends a chance to get out of this city. I suggest you hurry. You've already been here too long.”

“What about you? What about your library?”

The Heir gave him an enigmatic smile. “This house lingered here because it wanted to be found. I guess I did too. But now . . .” He shook his head. “After you leave, if anyone comes looking for Gadfellyn Hall they'll only find a ruined old antiques store.”

“What if we need to find you again?”

The Heir gave him another of his unhelpful shrugs. Then he offered the Heart of Darkness to Milo, who took it with great care, as if the stone might fall to pieces in his hand. But as soon as his skin touched it, he knew he had no need to worry. The Heart throbbed with incredible power.

No, that was wrong.

It felt totally and completely
alive.

“Thank you,” he said.

The ghost held up the dream diary. “You struck a fair
deal, Milo Silk, and I think I may have come out ahead.” But then his smile faded. “But be warned—there are long, dark roads ahead of you. I do not need the gift of prophecy to know that. You have been marked by destiny. I pity you.”

“What's that supposed to—”

Milo never finished the sentence.

The world closed around him like a dark fist and then the Heir, the Impossible Library, the endless rows of books, his dream diary, and everything simply vanished.

M
ilo woke up.

Again.

He was not in the library.

It took him a long time to understand where he was. Everything was dark. And the darkness stank.

A lot.

Milo sat up very slowly and looked around.

The walls were metal. So was the floor. And there were heaps of old, decayed packing materials heaped around him.

It was the boxcar where he and his friends had slept. He was sure of it.

Which meant what?

Had everything been a bad dream? Like so many other bad dreams he'd had? Was that what this was—just a dream?

He heard Shark outside, talking and laughing with someone. A girl's voice. Evangelyne. Then the raspy grunt of Mook.

Had that happened before when they were here? Or was this then?

His mind seemed to be limping through a field of broken logic and twisted possibilities.

He got to his feet, swayed, steadied himself by leaning against the wall. When he was sure he wouldn't fall down, he began checking his pockets. All the usual stuff was there. If this was real and everything that had happened in New Orleans was a dream, then how could he prove it?

Or . . . how could he prove that Gadfellyn Hall was real?

Milo cast about him looking for his satchel, saw it right where he'd been lying, bunched up as a pillow. He snatched it up, tore it open, fished inside for his dream diary.

And found it.

His heart sank.

It was only a dream after all.

With a sour grunt of anger and frustration, he pulled out the diary and let the bag drop. Then he stood for maybe thirty seconds staring at the small book.

It was a diary.

But it was not
his
diary.

He opened it and flipped through the pages.

They were empty. Every single one.

Empty.

Waiting for dreams to be written down on them.

The door slid open and he turned to see faces.

Shark, grinning at him, a bandage wrapped around his
head and one arm in a sling. Mook, with fresh chips gone from his rocky hide and a fully grown Iskiel crouched on his shoulder. Evangelyne, smiling brighter than the sun, with a black jewel hung around her neck on a golden chain.

And more.

Behind them were two leafy faces. One smiling and happy, one scowling. Fenwillow and Oakenayl.

And hovering in the air, filling the day with a pure light, was a tiny figure seated astride a hummingbird.

Halflight.

He looked past them, hoping to see one more face. A little girl with flowing blond hair and pale eyes. But there was no one else.

He wondered if he would ever see her again. The ghost of his friend or the ghost of the other one. The Daughter of Splinters and Salt. He had a feeling that he would. Just as he had a feeling that this was all real. That he was not dreaming. That everything in Gadfellyn Hall, as impossible as it seemed, had been real.