The Child Thief

Chapter Four Goll

It will all end soon, the child thief thought as he moved steadily through the forest, back toward the shore, back toward the Mist. Nick’s with the Devils now. His fate is in their hands. What will happen, will happen. He slid from shadow to shadow, stopping frequently to listen, to watch, trying to keep his mind focused on the danger and away from what he had done, what he had left to do, because thinking about it didn’t change it. Thinking about it only led to distraction, and out here, on their part of the island, distraction would get you killed.

Peter came to the edge of the thicket and scanned the beach. There, waiting for him, floated the Mist. He could hear it calling, taunting him. Grimacing, he broke cover and started forward when he caught voices. The child thief ducked back and dropped behind a thick knot of roots. Five shadows sat against a chunk of driftwood not thirty paces away—Flesh-eaters!

Fool, Peter silently cursed himself. You almost walked right into them. He’d allowed the Mist to distract him. Stupid. He reached instinctively for his sword and remembered he only carried his knife.

One of them stood, his tattered shirt fluttering in the breeze. “There they be.”

Peter followed his gaze; a line of dark figures came marching around the cove, easily forty or fifty of them. He couldn’t remember seeing so many out at once, not since the galleons first arrived. What are they up—His blood went cold; even in the dark he had no problem recognizing a tall silhouette; there was no missing the wide-brimmed hat with that ratty feather. The Captain. Peter clutched his knife.

The faintest glow of dawn touched the low clouds as the Captain tromped his way up to the others.

“Well?”

“Found some tracks, aye, but that be all. Tracks come right out of the mist, they do.”

“It’s him,” the Captain said, scanning the tree line. “The devil boy.”

“Think so, do ya?”

“Who else?”

“Ya want we should search the wood?”

The Captain shook his head wistfully. “We’ve no time this day.” He patted his sword. “But mark my word, I shall make a trophy of his head yet.”

The line of shadowy figures halted behind the Captain. Peter felt sure every eye was on him. He shuddered and managed to press himself closer to the ground, hoping they couldn’t hear the thudding of his heart. Their hunger was insatiable—every day they took more, every day they burned and murdered their way closer to the heart of Avalon. Some boldly wore the bones of the dead around their necks. How much blood will it take to make them stop? How many more children must die?

The Captain turned to the line. “Who called a halt?” he shouted. “Move your pockmarked asses. We’ve much work to do.”

The dark figures trudged on; as they passed, Peter caught sight of two large barrels being hauled along. What’s the Captain up to now? He felt his chest tighten. He glanced back the way he’d come. I should go back. Should warn them. He dug his nails into his palm. No, there’s no time. I have to bring more children. Just have to be quick, have to get back before the Captain lays all to waste.

THE CHILD THIEF slipped from the scrub even before the last Flesh-eater passed. He dashed from one piece of driftwood to the next, broke free from the last bit of cover, and sprinted toward the waves. The Mist rolled up to greet him, seemed to almost dance in anticipation like a dog awaiting a feeding.

Peter’s face tightened. All things come with a price. No one knows that better than I. He fought to clear his mind, knowing he’d never make it through the Mist otherwise, took a deep breath, and entered the swirling vapor.

The sounds from the beach died in the suffocating silence, even his own thoughts felt muffled. He stood stock-still as he searched for the Path—finding the Path, walking between the worlds, was one of his gifts. “There,” he whispered, spotting the tenuous thread of gold sparkles as it drifted across the grayness.

Peter caught up with the Path and followed, moving quickly, and sooner than he would’ve liked found himself staring at the Nike high-top. He stopped. Keep moving, he told himself. Keep moving or you’ll be as dead as the rest of them. But he heard Nick’s words: “If I’d fallen behind, would I still be out there? Wandering around, screaming your name until I died?” Peter wondered how long the boy in the high-tops had screamed his name. The boy? The child thief laughed at himself, an ugly, contemptuous laugh. The boy had had a name. Jonathan. And Jonathan was among the Sluagh now wasn’t he? Peter thought. “Well what of it?” he whispered bitterly. Whose fault is that? Am I to blame because he hadn’t listened? It’s better this way, he told himself, better to let the Mist sort them out…the weak from the strong. Peter kicked the high-top. Everything comes with a price. Everything. Some things just cost more than others.

Chimes rang from somewhere far away, then muffled laughter and children singing; the Mist began to stir.

This got Peter moving, almost running, keeping his eyes forward, keeping to the path.

“It will all end soon,” he whispered.

THE SPONGY GROUND gave way to asphalt and the Mist began to thin. The sun could be seen crawling up behind the buildings, and the sounds of the awakening city echoed down the long avenues of South Brooklyn. The Mist slid back into the sea, its swirling, sparkling mass dissipating, leaving Peter standing alone.

The child thief pulled his hood up and headed toward a distant cluster of bleak tenant buildings. A sign, covered in graffiti, proclaimed the complex to be the pride of the Brooklyn City Housing Commission. Peter understood none of the political implications of that sign, but he knew about slums and ghettoes; such squalid, impoverished places had always been fertile hunting grounds. The buildings were larger now, the accents and dress different, but the faces were the same destitute faces of centuries ago: the despair of the forgotten old, and the grim hostility of the futureless young. A breeding ground for troubled youth, sometimes too troubled. But time was short and Avalon needed more children; he would take his chances.

The child thief entered the housing complex through the back alleyways, sticking to the shadows, his keen senses alert for the dispirited and desperate, the abandoned and abused, for the lost child. Because lost children needed someone to trust, needed a friend, and Peter was good at making friends.

He shimmied up a drainpipe and dropped onto a balcony cluttered with garbage bags. He situated himself beneath a rain-sodden sheet of plywood and waited for the boys and girls to come out and play. As he waited, an odor permeated his nostrils, every bit as offensive as the sour rot of the garbage. It was the musky smell of grown-ups: their sweat, their gastric utterances, their dandruff-ridden scalps, greasy pimple-pocked skin, wax-encrusted ears, hemorrhoid-infested rumps. He wrinkled his nose. It hadn’t changed since the day he was born—over fourteen hundred years ago.

He could vividly recall that day: the crushing pressure as his watery sanctuary strove to eject him, fighting to remain, a feeling not unlike drowning, sliding from his mother’s womb, cold hard hands clamping about his legs and tugging him into the world, the blurry, dazzling brightness, the numbing cold, the shock as someone slapped him across his bottom, the fury and frustration as he wailed at the blurry blob holding him, and their booming laughter.

Then he was wiped down and passed to other hands, gentle, caressing hands that crushed him against warm, milk-swollen bosoms. Someone covered him in a blanket heated by the fireside and he began to suckle. The milk had been sweet, and the woman had begun to hum a soft lullaby. Peter fell into the sweetest sleep he would ever know.

The smells of grown-ups had not been offensive then, not when mixed with the spice of that large, communal roundhouse: the smoky aromas from the great fireplace, salted meats and honey mead, roasted potatoes and boiled cabbage, the musty scent of the two wolfhounds, stale bedding hay, the sharp tang of fresh-cut spruce hanging from the ceiling beams. But what made it all so harmonious to his nostrils was the ever-pervasive smell of his mother, that warm, sweet milk smell that to him would always be the smell of love.

His eyes were amber then, with only the faintest specks of gold, and his ears—though oddly shaped—had yet to develop their pointed tips. Other than a particularly lush head of reddish hair, he looked like any other cupid-faced newborn.

Peter wintered the first several weeks of his life either in his mother’s arms or in the great wicker basket by the hearth. His mother’s face was lost to him now, but not her grass-green eyes, nor the glow of her bright red hair.

His mother was never far, singing to him while she wove wool and mended tunics with her two golden-haired sisters. He slept away most of his day, dreamily watching his large family go about their daily routines: the two men and oldest boy leaving before dawn to hunt, the younger boys tending the sheep and gathering wood, the old bent man and his old bent wife going about their chores as long as the daylight would allow. At sunset the hunters would return, and with the thick stone walls between them and the winter wind, the family would gather around the rough-hewn oak table for their evening meal.

Day after day, Peter lay there watching and listening. Before long, he could make out words, then whole sentences. When he was three weeks old, he understood most everything said around him.

Each night, before dinner, his mother would nurse him, wrap him in his blanket, and leave him in the large basket near the hearth to sleep while the family ate. But Peter didn’t sleep; he watched and listened as they laughed and joked, cursed and argued, encouraged and consoled, as they shared the good and the bad of their days. And when they would laugh, he would smile, and the tiny specks of gold in his eyes would sparkle, for the sound of their mirth was a sweet song to his ears.

One night, on the evening of his seventh week in the world, Peter decided he was done just watching, that he wished to join in. So he kicked his legs free of the blanket, sat up, and climbed over the side of his basket. His legs gave out from under him and he landed on his bare bottom with a solid thump. What’s wrong with my legs, he wondered; it had never dawned on him that he couldn’t yet walk. Everyone else could. He pulled up onto wobbly legs and steadied himself on the rim of the basket. He looked out across the room. Suddenly the table seemed a long way off.

He took a tentative step, fell, pulled himself up and tried again. This time he didn’t fall. He took another step, another, then let go of the basket and began to waddle his way across the room. By the sixth and seventh step he was toddling toward the table, his face rapt in concentration.

The old man spotted him first. His jaw hung open in mid-chew and a clump of potato rolled out of his mouth and bounced off the table. The old lady frowned and swatted the old man. He let out a cry and jabbed a bony finger at Peter.

They all turned in time to see the naked infant stroll up to the table.

Peter, delighted to have his family’s full attention, put his small, chubby hands on his hips and grinned boldly—the gold flecks in his eyes now positively gleaming. When no one spoke, when no one did more than let out a high-pitched wheeze, Peter asked, “Can I join you?” But this being the first time he’d put words together, it came out more like “an I oin ouu?”

He frowned at the odd sound of his own voice. The words hadn’t come out right and the alarmed and astonished looks confronting him confirmed this. His tiny brow furrowed and he tried again. “Can I join you?” he said, much clearer. Then, with confidence, he said, “Can I join you? Can I?”

He looked expectantly from face to face. Surely that was right? Yet still they stared at him with those wide, startled eyes. If anything, he thought, they look more alarmed than before—angry even. His smile faltered and all at once he needed his mother, needed her badly, needed the reassurance that only her soft bosom and warm arms could provide. He put his arms out and took a step toward her. “Mama,” he called.

His mother stood up, knocking her chair over, her hands clutched at her mouth.

Peter stopped. “Mama?”

Fear—it was on all their faces. But there was more than fear on his mother’s face. Her eyes glared at him, as though accusing him of some horrible deed. What did I do? Peter wondered. What did I do?

The old lady leaped up, brandishing a large wooden spoon. “CHANGELING!” she cried. “GET IT OUT OF HERE!”

“NO!” his mother cried. She shook her head. “He’s no changeling! It’s HIS baby. The one from the woods.” She looked around at them, her eyes wild and desperate. “Now, do you see? Now do you believe?”

No one was listening to her; all their eyes were on Peter.

“KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE CHILDREN!” the old woman cried.

The old man herded the younger children away from the table, pushing them to the back of the room as far away from Peter as he could.

Peter’s mother grabbed the old woman’s sleeve. “Stop it! Stop it! Peter’s no changeling, Mama. I wasn’t lying. He took me—the forest spirit.” She pointed at Peter. “The forest spirit gave me that child.”

The old woman stared at Peter’s mother in horror. “No, child, don’t speak of it. Never speak of it.” She shook her daughter. “It is not yours. Do you understand me? It’s a changeling.” The old woman glared at Peter. “ASGER, GET IT OUT OF HERE BEFORE IT HEXES US ALL!”

One of the men pulled the long meat fork from out of the ham, the oldest boy grabbed the broom, and together they moved toward Peter.

Through a blur of tears Peter saw them coming for him; the man that he’d thought of as papa jabbed the fork while the boy circled around him.

Peter took a step back.

“CATCH IT!” the old woman howled. “Don’t let it get away!”

The broom slapped Peter from behind, knocking him to the gritty dirt floor. The boy pressed the broom onto Peter to hold him, the sharp twigs digging and poking into Peter’s soft skin.

“Don’t spill its blood in the house!” the old woman yelled. “Or there will be sickness upon us all. Take it into the forest. Leave it for the beasts.”

Hard, rough hands held him as the man corded prickly twine about his limbs, the twine bit into his skin, binding his arms to his body and his legs together.

As the man and boy donned boots and furs, the old woman brought Peter’s basket and blanket. “Take anything that it has soiled. I will get the grease.” She poured warm grease from the ham into a pot and brought it over.

The door was pulled open and a biting winter wind blew in. They took Peter outside into the night. Peter got one last look at his mother. She was on the floor, sobbing, her two sisters kneeling beside her, holding her.

“Mama,” Peter cried. She didn’t look up. The door shut.

The old woman poured the warm grease all over Peter. It stung his eyes, soaked into the blanket and quickly congealed into a cold paste on his skin. “It will make things go quicker,” the old woman told them. “Now take the creature far into the woods and leave it.”

The old woman gave the man a wad of wool. “Put this in your ears. No matter what it says, remember, that wicked thing is not of your loins.”

Both the man and boy held a torch. They threaded the broom through the handle of the basket and each carried an end. They marched off down the icy trail, the old woman watching them go from the door stoop.

The cold bit at the infant’s tiny nose. “Papa,” Peter called. “Papa, please. I’ll be good. I promise. I’ll be good. Papa? Please, Papa. Papa?” But no matter how Peter pleaded, the man wouldn’t look at him.

The man and the boy marched steadily, their mouths set tight, neither spoke as they tracked deeper and deeper into the dark, frigid forest.

Peter had no real idea how much time passed, but when they finally stopped, the moon was peeking down at him from high in the cloudy sky. They set him in a clearing surrounded by high shrub and an outcropping of crumbling rocks, then left in a hurry without a single look back.

Peter watched the tree limbs waving to the moon. Thick clouds tumbled in and the shadows wove together. He struggled to free himself, but the bindings were too tight. His fingers and toes grew numb and the cold became unbearable. Peter shook all over. “Mama,” he called. “Mama.” Over and over he called her name. His mother never came but something else did. Peter heard a loud sniffing and fell quiet.

A large shadow emerged from the bush. Its shape reminded him of the hounds back at the house. The dim moonlight glinted off the beast’s black eyes as it sniffed the air. Peter sensed the beast’s hunger. He tried not to make any sounds, but couldn’t help whimpering as the wolf slowly circled in on him.

The wolf bit one end of the blanket and tugged, tipping the basket over and spilling the infant out onto the frozen ground. Now fully exposed to the winter air, Peter began to wail. The wolf licked away the grease from the blanket, then moved to Peter.

It shoved its snout into his face, licking the grease from his cheeks, neck, and along his belly, then clamped its jaws on Peter’s leg and began to drag him into the bush. Peter yowled, but the wolf only clamped down tighter. There came a clatter from the rocks. The wolf let go of Peter and jerked its head up, ears alert.

“A-yuk,” came a gruff, gravelly voice.

There, on the flat outcropping of stone, stood a man. Only it wasn’t a man, really, as he couldn’t have stood much higher than the wolf’s shoulder. He was short in the legs, long in the arms, and solid through the chest and shoulders. His head was large, out of proportion, and grew straight from his shoulders. His skin was gray and gritty like the earth itself. He wore a patchwork of mangy animal furs, covered in dirt and alive with moss. His eyes were no more than black specks set deep beneath his protrusive brow. He saw Peter and grinned, exposing black gums and a sharp underbite of twisted teeth.

The wolf’s fur bristled, and a mean growl rumbled up from deep within its throat.

The moss man hopped off the rock and into the clearing. “GO!” he yelled and clapped his hands together.

The wolf dropped its head, peeled back its lips, displaying an arsenal of long, dangerous teeth, and snarled. The moss man let loose a snarl of his own and before Peter could blink, charged and leaped upon the wolf. He wrestled a hold about the beast’s mane, then bit into its ear, snarling and jerking his head side to side until he tore the wolf’s ear completely off.

The wolf howled, kicked, and spun.

The moss man let go and sent the animal yelping away into the bushes with a solid kick to the hindquarters. He spat the ear onto the ground and stared at Peter while licking the blood from his lips. “A baby,” he said, then picked up a twig and poked Peter. “Make good stew. A-yuk.” His speech came out slow and staggered, like words were unnatural for him.

“Please don’t eat me,” Peter pleaded. “Please. I’ll be good.”

The moss man’s brow rose with surprise then drew together suspiciously. “Baby can talk?” He crouched down, stuck his wide, flat nose into the crook of Peter’s neck, and sniffed deeply. Up close Peter could see all manner of bugs and worms crawling around in the man’s hair. The moss man looked puzzled. He wiped his finger through the bloody bite marks on Peter’s leg and dabbed the blood to the tip of his tongue. The moss man’s beady eyes grew round and he spat into the dirt. “Faerie blood!” he sneered. “Faerie blood is bad. Very bad!” His shoulders slumped, his face grew glum. “Can’t eat baby.”

The moss man bent and picked up the wolf’s ear, stuck the bloody end in his mouth, and started away.

For a second, Peter was relieved to see him go, then the bite of the cold reminded him that he was tied up, naked, and there was a hungry wolf nearby. “WAIT!” he cried. “Don’t leave me here!”

The moss man kept walking.

“PLEASE!” Peter screamed. “PLEASE STOP! PLEASE!” Peter’s screams turned to sobs. “Please don’t go.”

The moss man turned around. He looked at Peter and scratched his chin. Finally, after a long minute, he asked, “Can you catch spiders?”

“What?” Peter asked.

“Can you catch spiders? Lot of spiders in cave. Hate spiders. A-yuk.”

Peter didn’t want to go near any spiders, but he certainly didn’t want to be left in the woods either. He nodded. “Yes. I can catch spiders.”

The moss man considered while Peter shivered. Finally, he grunted, shuffled back, and untied the infant. “No more crying. Hate crying. You follow. Keep up or wolf get you.”

Peter crawled to his feet. He could barely stand, his feet were so numb. The moss man took off at a hearty pace and Peter tried to follow but fell after only a few steps. The frozen ground bit into his knees and hands and he let out a cry. He got up and tried again, but the ice cut into the bottom of his tender feet. After only a dozen steps he fell again. He tried crawling, but the pain was too much. He stopped. He could no longer see the moss man. It was dark, it was cold, he was lost, his knees were bleeding, he was naked and freezing to death, and there was a wolf somewhere nearby. Peter began to cry.

The moss man reappeared, glaring at Peter with his small, dark eyes. His nose wrinkled up in disgust. “No crying. Hate crying.”

Peter tried to stop, but couldn’t. Instead he began to bawl openly and loudly.

The man put his hands over his ears. “Stop that,” he groaned and started away. He made about six strides then stopped. He looked back at Peter, brows drawn together. Finally he let out a great sigh and strolled back to the infant. “Okay. Okay. I not leave. Now stop crying.”

Peter continued to wail.

The moss man pointed to the hill behind him. “Goll’s hill.” He thumbed his chest. “Goll.”

Peter wiped his nose with the back of his arm and fought back the tears. “I’m Peter,” he said between big, hitching breaths.

Goll hunkered down. “Come, Peter. Climb up.”

Peter climbed onto the man’s back, got a firm hold on the man’s hair, and clung tight as the moss man got to his feet.

Goll handed Peter the wolf’s ear. “Here, for you.” He wrapped Peter’s feet in his large, warm hands and away they went, following the icy trail up the hill while Peter chewed on the wolf’s ear.

They came to a dark hollow dug into a ledge; to Peter it looked like little more than a hole. Dirty straw, tuffs of greasy fur, and gnawed bones littered the worn earthen entrance. Shoes hung across the entranceway, sandals and boots, about a dozen all together: small shoes—children’s shoes.

Goll set Peter down and grinned. “Goll’s home. Very warm. Very nice.”

“JUST WHERE THE fuck you been?”

Recalled to the present, the child thief started. He glanced over his shoulder into the apartment. There was a light on now and through the thin, sagging curtain he saw a grotesquely large woman standing in her bra and panties, hands on hips. She was addressing the man leaning against the open front door.

It was raining, a light drizzle that turned the gray public housing to the color of mud.

“I asked you a question,” the woman continued, her voice rising. “I said, just where da fuck has your ass been all night?”

The man shrugged. He didn’t come in.

“How come your shirt’s inside out, Germaine? Huh? How come?”

Germaine looked down at his shirt, then back up at the woman and shrugged again.

“You been with that bitch again. Ain’t you?”

The man didn’t answer.

“Don’t give me that look,” she shrieked. “You know who I’m talking about!” The woman snatched a bottle off a TV tray and pointed it at the man.

“Woman,” the man said, his speech slurred. “You need to calm down. It ain’t like—”

“Goddamn you, Germaine! GODDAMN YOU!” She threw the bottle. It exploded against the door right next to the man’s head. Then she was slapping him.

The man shoved her away. “You need to back off, bitch! You need to just back—”

She came at him again and this time he punched her hard in the stomach, hard enough to knock her into the living room and onto the floor. The woman lay there, making a dreadful sound, like someone choking to death.

“CRAZY BITCH!” the man shouted. “CRAZY FUCKING BITCH!” He slammed the door and was gone.

The woman didn’t get up. She just lay there clutching her stomach and bawling.

Peter had had enough. He hopped down from the balcony; keeping his head low, he walked the buildings, his golden eyes peeping out from beneath his hood, scanning the courtyards, the playgrounds. His thoughts kept returning to the Captain, the barrels. Time was running out; he had to find a child today.

Chapter Five Devils

Light droplets of warm rain sprinkled down onto Nick’s face. He could feel the wetness running into his eyes, his mouth, his hair, pulling him out from the depths of sleep. Nick wiped his face, forced himself awake, and blinked up into the faint, misty morning glow.

Three tiny blue people, no bigger than mice, were peeing on him.

“What the fuck,” Nick cried. He sat up fast and rammed his head against the top of his cage. Cage? He spat repeatedly, trying to rid his mouth of the salty-sour taste. What the hell was he doing in a cage? He shook his head and wiped the pee out of his eyes, then spat some more.

There were at least two dozen of them staring down at him, some no bigger than grasshoppers, others closer to the size of rats—thin, spindly, humanlike creatures with silky insect wings and sharp whip tails. They were nude, their skin a deep sapphire blue, with wild manes of black or blue hair running down their backs.

Peter had said something about faeries, and pixies, and goblins. Of course Peter had said a lot of nutty things. Were these pixies? It really didn’t matter to Nick at the moment; he was more concerned with the way these creatures were looking at him, like he’d be good to eat.

“Shoo,” he whispered.

They continued to stare at him with their cruel, unblinking eyes.

“Shoo,” he said louder, waving his hand at them.

They hissed and bared needle-sharp teeth.

“Skat!” Nick said and swatted at the top of the cage.

They leaped up as one, the air suddenly alive with the humming of wings. Hovering, they shrieked at him like feral cats.

Nick slid as far away from them as he could get. He grabbed a handful of straw from the bottom of his cage and threw it at them. Startled, a small brown mouse darted out from beneath his cage, bounding across the stone floor.

The pixies were at it in a flash. The mouse let out a skin-crawling squeal as they pounced. Fur, flesh, and blood spattered the stones, a dog pile of snarling frenzied blue bodies as they fought viciously over the choicest bits.

“Christ,” Nick whispered, clutching his hands to his chest. “I gotta get out of here.” He glanced about the gloom and noticed there were at least a dozen kid-sized cages stacked against one wall. Like his, they were built from branches and twine. Many were covered in raggedy tarps looking for all the world like rotting corpses of beasts. A cluster of spears leaned against one another, teepee-style, and in their center—Nick swallowed—a human skull.

A sharp clack came from somewhere behind him.

The pixies stopped fighting and stood up, their faces alert, heads flicking about as they searched the darkness.

A soft thud followed by a long, low growl slid out of the shadows and the pixies zipped up and away, leaving Nick alone. Nick found himself wishing they’d stayed, anything but to be alone in a cage, in the gloom, with whatever had made that noise.

Another creak; this one closer. Pushing his face against the bars, Nick strained to see into the shadows. He made out a twisting pillar of roots that disappeared into the darkness above. Nick noted a shadow hunched next to the roots, and the shadow—it was moving! It rocked back and forth then darted away.

“Oh, crap.” What was that?

The room grew brighter and the fog began to thin. He could now make out objects hanging from the walls. Nick blinked. Knives with wicked curved blades hung in rows. Alongside were spiked clubs and an assortment of jagged-edged hatchets. Instruments designed to rend and maim, and they all looked well used. Hanging above the weapons were three skulls tied together in a pyramid. Their leathery, wormholed flesh stretched across silent screams. A pair of leg bones set in a cross hung below, forming a triptych of Jolly Rogers.

Gotta get out of here now! He pushed on the cage; it didn’t open. He noticed the front was tied with leather straps. He frantically tugged at the ties. A low hiss came from Nick’s left. He jerked about in time to see something skittered by on all fours. Nick gave up on the ties, no longer wanting out, only hoping the bars would keep him safe from whatever was out there.

“God, get me out of here,” he whimpered.

The fog continued to lift and he could now see all manner of spears and swords hanging from the walls. He noticed a huge fireplace, easily big enough for three grown men to stand in. Several cooking pots—kid-size cooking pots—hung from greasy black chains. Then he saw the bodies. He could just make out their limp, lifeless forms hanging on the far side of the chamber. How many were there? Four? Five maybe? They looked to be children.

Oh good God, Nick’s mind screamed at him. Just what kind of place is this?

Low howls issued from the shadows all around him. Something grunted, like a pig, then snorted, then snickered. Giggles broke out. They sounded like children, strange and wicked. Nick knew he would lose it if they didn’t stop.

A clump of shadows crept into the light and all the air left Nick’s lungs.

They were human, but barely, their bodies gangly and spidery. Childlike in their proportions, but a bit off, as though they’d been stretched. Large, round spots and long streaks of body paint ran along their legs and arms. Their muscles gleamed in the dim light, lean and wiry. Some wore hides, matted and mangy, festooned with bones, tusks and twigs, their ankles and wrists layered in bracelets of leather and twine. Their faces were hidden beneath devilish masks of hide and hair, feathers and antlers.

They closed in on him, dancing about with quick epileptic movements. They surrounded the cage and peered in with wild, crazy golden eyes, eyes just like Peter’s. Nick now understood that Peter had indeed played him. The pointy-eared boy had tricked him so that these things could…could what? Nick glanced at the long knives, at their hungry eyes.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Nick shouted, his voice quivering.

They answered by rolling their eyes around, like victims of delirium, by grinning wide, toothy grins and clacking their teeth together, clacking and clacking and clacking; the sound was deafening in the silence of the room.

No, no, no, Nick thought. No more, please.

Nick withdrew within himself then, just like in the mist. He had no desire to watch his own death, but if he had to, he wanted to be in the very back row with his hands over his eyes.

They untied his cage and dragged him out, strong, cruel fingers pinching into his flesh. Someone put a necklace made of bone and teeth, fingers and ears—human fingers and ears—around his neck. They pulled him over to the pillar and began to dance around him in circles, wrapping him in twine, all the while giggling and flicking their tongues at him, rolling their eyes and clacking their teeth. He wanted them to go ahead and kill him, anything to stop that awful clacking.

There came a clang from somewhere far off. The demon spawn, the monster children, or whatever they were, stopped in their tracks. They fell silent.

The mist was all but gone now and morning light filtered in from several angular windows. The extent of the circular chamber gradually materialized out of the gloom. The walls were a mix of rough-hewn stone and natural cave formation. Nick could clearly see a red door surrounded by giant roots, roots as thick as barrels. Nick couldn’t imagine what size tree could have roots that big. He tried to see the top but it disappeared into the roof of the chamber.

The demon spawn were all staring at the red door. One of them spoke, his voice hushed. “The Devil Beast comes.”

“Comes to break bones and chew marrow,” said another.

Several answered in anxious whispers: “We shall all eat soon.”

They spread out, forming a wide circle, and began to smack their closed fists into their open palms.

Fear sharpened Nick’s senses and he became acutely aware that the air smelled of stale sweat, boiled meat, wet leaves, and beetles. He studied the red door. Could there really be something coming to cook and eat him? He didn’t want to believe it. Yet he found his eyes straying to the knives and hatchets, the dark stains saturating the dirt, the child-size pots hanging in the fireplace. He couldn’t get the thought of the hanging bodies out of his head. I don’t want to die, he thought and realized he was crying.

Bells jangled behind the red door, louder and louder. Then it stopped. There came the clack of a bolt being thrown and the door swung slowly inward.

A monster stood in the doorway, a head taller than the other creatures, draped in hides and wearing a mask of bone and fur. A pair of goat horns twisted out from either side of its head and a tangle of coarse hair was captured in a thick braid that ran down the length of its back. And all of it, skin, mask, fur, horns, was covered in cracking red paint. It carried a short club with one long jagged hook protruding from its end.

It locked its eyes on Nick, raised the club, and let loose a loud snort.

“Oh no!” Nick cried. “No! No! No!” He jerked wildly at his bindings, tugging and pulling until he freed his arms. He yanked down the twine around his waist and legs, stumbled to the ground as he tore his feet free. Nick rolled to his feet, glanced back, saw the Devil Beast coming for him, and ran. He tried to break out of the ring of creatures, to barrel right through them, but they grabbed him and shoved him back.

The Devil Beast caught Nick across his face with an open palm. Pain exploded in Nick’s head and he went sprawling to the stones. He crumpled into a ball and lay there clutching his head. It’s over, Nick thought. I’m dead.

The Devil came for him, driving a hard kick into Nick’s upper thigh. Nick screamed, saw a foot coming for his face, and managed to move. The kick caught his shoulder and sent him tumbling.

“STOP IT!” Nick screamed.

The Devil tromped after him, raising the club with its wicked hook above his head. Nick sprung out of the way. The club hit the stones, getting knocked loose from the Devil Beast’s grasp and bouncing across the floor to the middle of the ring. Nick jumped up, limping away, trying to keep some distance between himself and his tormentor.

The Devil leaped forward, catching Nick by the arm, spun him around, and backhanded him across the face.

Searing pain and white-hot light sent Nick reeling, fighting to keep his feet. And still the Devil came.

Nick tasted blood, touched his lip, and was shocked by the amount of blood on his hand. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Nick screamed, as though he didn’t know, as though he expected anything other than being brutally beaten to death.

The Devil just continued to track him around and around, giving no answers, a predator intent on its prey.

“WHAT?” Nick screamed. “WHAT?” Nick spotted the hooked club lying in the center of the ring. His eyes shot back and forth between the hook and the Devil.

The Devil stopped and stared at him.

Nick dove for it, snatching the hook up off the stones. The weight of it surprised him and he almost dropped it. He held it in both hands and pointed the wicked hook at the Devil. “C’MON!” Nick cried, blood and spit flying from his lips. “C’MON YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

The Devil just stood there.

“C’MON!” Nick screamed, the club shaking as his arms quivered.

The creatures around him began to chant, “Blood, blood, blood,” on and on until Nick thought he would go mad.

“Enough!” He let out a howl and rushed the Devil, bringing the hook around in a wide overhand swing, intent on sinking it deep into the Devil’s skull.

At the last possible second, the Devil caught Nick’s arm at the wrist and wrung the club away. The weapon bounced off the stones with a loud clank and the chamber fell silent.

“Good,” the Devil said and pushed his mask back.

Nick found himself looking not at a beast, but a boy.

The boy smiled at Nick. “You did good.” He clasped Nick’s hand in his own and raised it up. “NEW BLOOD FOR DEVILTREE!” he shouted, then threw his head back and howled.

The creatures joined in, howling and beating the floor; the entire chamber rung with their fervor. They slid off their masks and now Nick could plainly see that beneath the wild hair and body paint, they were just a bunch of stupid-ass kids.

He caught sight of the blue pixies leaping up and down among the rafters, mimicking the boys like little blue monkeys, adding their feral shrieks to the cacophony. The whole chamber rung with hooting, braying, and cackling. The world seemed a spinning kaleidoscope of insanity, and Nick knew that he’d gone stark raving mad.

Chapter Six Wolf

The child thief sat on a bench near the playground. Buildings loomed over him on all five sides of the large courtyard. As morning pushed into noon, the beehive of apartments began to wake up. He scanned the balconies, alert for any sign of wayward youth, but mostly found himself confronted with the same tired, hungover faces of the adults. They congregated in small clusters, lounging listlessly about the balconies, often with their apartment doors propped open and stereos blasting out into the courtyard. There was laughter here and there, but for the most part it sounded mean. Many of the people just stared blankly, their eyes glazed over, reminding Peter of the dead in the Mist.

A gleeful squeal caught Peter’s ear, followed by a burst of spirited laughter that drew him like candy.

A few younger kids had braved the drizzle to slip down the slide and climb the monkey bars. They formed teams and began an energetic game of tag.

The child thief watched them, smiling. Here, among so much drudgery—oblivious to the profane graffiti marring every available surface—these children could find joy. They can always find joy, he thought, because they still have their magic.

Peter found himself wanting nothing more than to run and play with them, the same deep desire he had when he first came across children all those long years ago. Only things hadn’t gone so well then. His smile faded. No, that had been a day of hard lessons.

HE WAS SIX years old by then, slipping silently through the woods in his raccoon pelt. It flapped out behind him like a cape, the long striped tail bouncing in rhythm with his stride. He wore the head pulled over his face, like a hood, and his gold-flecked eyes peered out from the raccoon mask, scanning the woods, searching for game. It was spring, so he wore only a loincloth and rawhide boots beneath his coon skin. He carried a spear in each hand and a flint knife tucked into his belt. His body was painted with berry juice and mud to disguise his scent. Goll had taught him that, as well as the importance of always carrying two spears: a light one for game and a stouter one for protection against the larger beasts in the forest.

Peter placed a handful of walnuts in the center of a clearing, then ducked beneath a tall cluster of bushes. When he spied two brown squirrels in a nearby tree, he cupped his hands and mimicked a turkey foraging. Goll had taught him this trick too, that it was better to mimic an animal other than the one you were hunting, because rarely could you fool an animal with its own call, and nothing brought game quicker than the sound of other animals feeding.

Sure enough, both squirrels scurried his way. Peter slowly set the larger spear down and hoisted the light spear to his shoulder. The squirrels saw the nuts, saw each other, and raced for the prize.

Peter stood and threw. The spear hit its mark, leaving one squirrel behind as the other raced away, chattering angrily at Peter.

Peter whooped and leaped up. No spider soup for me, he thought. Tonight I get squirrel stew.

A wolf trotted into the clearing and stood between Peter and his prize. The wolf had only one ear.

Peter froze.

The beast locked its dark eyes on Peter. Its lips peeled back as though it were actually grinning.

Peter snatched up his heavy spear and thrust it out before him. “No,” Peter said. “Not this time.”

A low growl rumbled from the wolf’s throat.

Peter held his ground. The wolf had plagued him relentlessly over the last several months. Every time Peter made a kill, the wolf showed up and stole his meal. Peter was tired of spider soup. Today he would keep his prize.

The wolf’s eyes laughed at Peter, taunting the boy, daring him, as though it would like nothing better than to tear his throat open.

Peter swallowed loudly, his mouth suddenly dry. Goll had told him there was only one way to master the wolf: to attack it head-on. “Wolf is hunter,” he’d said. “When you hunt wolf, wolf get mixed up. No know what to do. Then you beat wolf. You will see. Show fear,” Goll had laughed. “Then wolf will eat you. A-yuk.”

Now, Peter told himself. Rush in. Stab it through the heart.

The wolf lowered its head and began to slowly circle the boy. Peter knew what the wolf was up to, they’d played out this dance many times. The wolf was trying to cut off his retreat, trying to get between him and the nearest tree. Peter knew if he took his eyes off the wolf, even for a second, it would attack.

The wolf let loose a loud snarl.

Peter glanced toward the tree.

The wolf charged.

Peter yelped, dropped his spear, and ran. Fortunately, even at six, Peter was as fleet and agile as a squirrel. He dashed across the clearing and leaped for the tree, catching a low branch, then swung up. There came a loud clack of teeth and a sharp tug that almost pulled him from the branch. Peter scampered up a few more limbs before daring a glance below.

There, looking up at him, was the wolf, the raccoon tail dangling from its jaws.

The wolf circled the tree a few times, then trotted over to the dead squirrel.

Peter watched from his small, uncomfortable perch as the wolf devoured his dinner.

When the wolf was finished, it curled up beneath the tree and went to sleep.

As the long day slowly passed, Peter did his best to keep his legs from falling asleep and himself from falling out of the tree. By dusk, his whole body was numb and he had resigned himself to a miserable night.

“Well, look there,” called a gritty voice. “A Peterbird.”

Both Peter and the wolf looked up. Goll appeared above them on a short ledge.

Goll glanced at the wolf, what was left of the squirrel, then back up at Peter. He grinned. “You feed old one-ear again? A-yuk.”

Peter’s face colored and he looked away.

Goll laughed.

Goll leaped down from the stones and strolled through the underbrush toward the clearing. The wolf, knowing the routine, simply gave Goll a disdainful look and loped off.

Peter dropped from the tree, retrieved his spears, and slunk over to Goll.

Goll held up a large rabbit. “Goll will eat good tonight.” He nudged the remains of the squirrel with his toe. “Look like Peter get spider soup again. A-yuk.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “Ah, Goll. C’mon.”

“You want to eat good. You must hunt good.”

Peter kicked at the scraps of squirrel fur and followed Goll glumly back to the cave.

PETER DIPPED HIS spoon into the bowlful of dark, soupy muck. He raised it to eye level and looked from the clot of soggy spider legs over to the half-eaten rabbit in Goll’s hand. The aroma of the roasted meat filled the entire cave. Goll licked the grease off his fingers, smacking loudly as he grumbled contentedly.

“Please?” Peter asked.

Goll shook his head.

“Just a few bites?”

“You know rule. You eat what you kill. You want rabbit, you kill own rabbit. A-yuk.”

“How am I supposed to do that with that stupid wolf following me?”

“You need kill wolf.”

Peter was quiet for a long time. “Goll, will you kill the wolf? Please?”

Goll shook his head. “Not hunting me.”

Peter let out a sigh and sat his bowl down. He stood up, walked to the cave entrance, and looked out into the night. He could see the stars twinkling through the spring leaves. He thought of his mother; sometimes he could close his eyes and actually smell her hair. He wondered what they were eating back in the great house, wondered why they’d left him for the beasts. He slapped one of the boots hanging across the entranceway, watched it swing, and wondered what the child had been like who had worn it, if that child had been left in the woods by its family.

“Goll?”

“A-yuk.”

“Whose shoes are these?”

“Little boys. Little girls.”

“Why do you have their shoes?”

“Must take them off before you can eat them.”

“Eat them?” Then he understood. “The children?”

“A-yuk.”

“You eat children?”

“Only when I can catch them.”

Peter stared silently at the shoes. “I don’t think I would like to eat children.”

“You would like. Very tender. Very juicy. Much better than spider soup.”

“Where do children come from?”

“From village.”

“Where’s the village?”

“NO! No speak of village. You never go near village. Men are there. Men very bad. Very dangerous.”

“More dangerous than the wolf?”

“Yes. Very more dangerous.”

Peter tapped the shoe again. It would be nice to have another kid around. “Goll, if you catch another one, can I keep it? We could build a cage for it. Okay?”

Goll cocked his head at Peter. “Peter, you very strange. You stay away from village.”

Peter came and sat back down next to the fire.

He looked at the hind leg of the rabbit in Goll’s bowl, then up at Goll, and smacked his lips.

“No begging. Hate begging.”

Peter stuck out his lower lip.

Goll rolled his eyes and frowned. “Here,” he grunted. “Take it.” Goll slid the bowl over to Peter, watched the boy devour the rabbit leg. After a bit, a smile pricked at the corners of the moss-man’s mouth. He shook his head, then crawled beneath his furs and went to sleep.

Peter finished the rabbit, lay back, enjoying the warmth of the meat in his belly. His eyes grew heavy. Sure would be nice to have another kid to play with, he thought. I could teach it to hunt and—Another thought came to Peter. Why, together we could kill that mean old wolf. Peter found he was now wide awake. I bet I could catch one. Why, I know I could.

PETER WATCHED THE men through a knot of berry bushes. He’d set off before daybreak in search of the village, venturing far south of Goll’s hill, farther than he had ever dared before, and had come across a road, and not long thereafter heard horses. He’d trailed them most of the morning and they now stood drinking at a stream. Four men stretched their legs beside the horses, stout figures with thick braided mustaches and full growths of beard, brass rings in their ears, wearing leather breeches and woolspun tunics. Three of them had great long swords strapped to broad, bronze-studded belts. The fourth man wore hides and carried a double-bladed ax. After living with Goll so long, he thought these men to be fearsome and giant. Peter understood why Goll was so afraid of them.

There was also a wide-faced, solid woman with flaxen hair that ran down her chest in thick braids. She wore a long dress and, atop her broad hips, a wide belt adorned with swirling brass hoops. But it was the children that captivated Peter. He pushed the hood of his raccoon pelt back to get a better look. There were three of them: two boys about his age and a girl who looked a couple years younger. The boys wore only britches and sandals, the girl a bright red dress. Peter watched mesmerized as they chased each other round and round, leaping over logs and skipping through the stream.

One boy would tag the other and the chase would start anew. The little girl chased both of them, shouting for them to let her play until they finally got after her, their faces twisted up and their hands clutching the air like claws. The girl went screaming to her mother, leaving the two boys falling over themselves with laughter. Peter caught himself laughing along with them, and had to cover his mouth. It looked like fun. They could play that game at Goll’s hill, Peter thought, and now, more than ever, he wanted to catch one.

He eyed the men, wondering how to grab a child with them so near, decided he needed to be closer, and slipped up from tree to tree.

One of the boys came bounding into the woods, sprang over a bush, ducked around the tree, and came face to face with Peter. Both boys were so surprised that neither knew what to do.

The boy cocked his head to the side and gave Peter a queer look. “Are you a wood elf?”

“No. I’m a Peter.”

“Well then I’m a Edwin. Want to play?”

Oh, yes indeed, Peter thought, nodded, and gave the boy a broad grin. He started to grab the boy when the girl rounded the tree. She saw Peter’s raccoon cape, the red and purple body paint, let out an ear-piercing shriek, and took off.

“Edwin,” bellowed one of the men. “Come back here.”

Peter heard heavy boots tromping his way and ducked back into the woods.

The man came around the tree and glared at the boy. “I told you to stay close.” The man scanned the trees. “There are wild things in these hills. Nasty boogies that live in holes. They steal little boys like you. And do you know what they do with them?”

The boy shook his head.

“They make stew out of their livers and shoes out of their hides. Now come along. We’ve much ground to cover by dark.”

PETER ARRIVED AT the village well after dark. His feet and legs ached, his stomach growled. But he ignored his body’s grumblings, there was only one thing on his mind—the boy.

He waited in the trees until the men finished putting away the beasts, until there was no one moving in the night but him. There were a dozen roundhouses similar to the one he’d been born in, plus a sprawling stable. These were built around a large square. Pigs grunted, and chickens clucked in a pen somewhere.

Peter slipped silently in among the structures, feeling exposed out among the buildings, sure he was being watched, that the huge, brutish men were waiting for him around every corner. He pulled out his flint knife and ducked from shadow to shadow, sniffing, alert to the slightest sound. He wrinkled his nose; the village stank of beasts, sour sweat, and human waste. Peter wondered why anyone would want to live here instead of in the woods.

He pushed up against the boy’s house, sliding his back along the rough stone and sod wall, creeping up to a small, round window. Dogs began barking from inside and Peter’s heart drummed in his chest. A deep, gruff voice quieted the dogs. Peter tried to peek in the window, but the heavy shutters were closed and locked tight. He plucked at the mud between the slats with his knife until a thin beam of light appeared. Peter peered in.

The room looked for all the world as his home had when he was an infant: the large hearth, the kettles and pots, the spruce hanging from the rafters. The whole family was seated around the table, passing bowls of potatoes and cabbage, the boys giggling and carrying on.

Peter inhaled, and the rich smell of smoked meat and baked bread brought memories of his own family flooding vividly back to him. An overwhelming longing hit him so hard that his legs gave way and he slid down the wall and sat in the dirt. He hugged his legs as his eyes welled up. He shut them tight and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “Mama,” he whispered. Her laugh, her broad smile, her sweet smell, all of it felt so close, as though he could just walk into this house and she’d be there—would call him to her, would crush him against her warm bosom and sing him lullabies. Peter ground his teeth together and wiped angrily at his tears. He knew very well what would happen if he knocked on this door.

A gale of laughter escaped through the window, not just the boys’, but the whole family, all of them laughing together. Peter glared into the night. The laughter continued, pricking at him. He jabbed his knife into the dirt. “Who cares?” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Who wants to be stuck in a stupid stinky house, with mean stupid grown-ups anyhow?”

His stomach growled and he stood up. He made his way toward the stable, seeking out the henhouse. Maybe I’ll burn their house down. Then they’ll know how it is to be out in the cold.

He found the henhouse, silently slid over the latch, and slipped in. A few hens raised their heads, clucked, and eyed him suspiciously. Peter waited for them to settle, then helped himself to all the eggs he could find. He spied several burlap sacks heaped in the corner, picked one up, and measured it against himself. About right. He left the coup, prowled the stable until he found some rope and a bludgeon. He held the short, stout piece of wood out, tested its weight. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, but brought it along anyway, just in case, because he’d never stolen a child before and thought a good, stout stick might just be in order.

He hid the stash behind a giant oak tree that stood on the edge of a field. He climbed up into the oak to sleep, but sleep didn’t come easy. Tomorrow, he thought. Going to catch me a Edwin.

PETER AWOKE TO the rooster’s crow. He sat up, inhaled the brisk morning air, and wondered if the boy was about yet. He hopped down from the tree. The sun was just peeping over the rise, and a fine mist covered the freshly turned earth in the nearby fields. He relieved himself, then crouched next to the oak, watching, waiting. He didn’t have a plan, not yet, not beyond getting Edwin to come behind the tree so that he could put him in that sack.

Men, women, and older children came out and began to go about their day. Soon the air was alive with the clank of the smith’s hammer, livestock being fed, the calls and grunts of men at field work, but still no sign of the boy.

Peter began to fidget. He didn’t like being so close to the village, too aware of the many men about. Finally he heard spirited shouts and caught sight of Edwin and the other boy. Peter watched them head across the square and into the stables. They reappeared a moment later carrying a bucket in each hand, then disappeared into a line of trees at the bottom of a slope. Peter checked for any nearby men, then dashed from haystack to haystack, crossing the field to the trees.

He found them filling their buckets in a small brook. He slid behind a thicket of blackberry bushes. The boys climbed carefully up the slope, watching their step as they lugged the pails of water. Peter waited until they were almost upon him, then leaped out. “Hi!”

The boys screamed, turned to run, and crashed into each other. Both boys, their pails, and the water spilled back down the slope.

Peter fell to his knees, laughing so hard he had to clutch his belly.

The two boys exchanged terrified looks. Then Edwin’s face broke into a grin. “Hey, it’s him!” he cried.

The other boy looked perplexed.

“It’s him,” Edwin repeated. “The wood elf! See, Otho. I told you.” Edwin punched the other boy on the shoulder. “Now who’s the idjit?”

Otho squinted at Peter. “Are you really a wood elf?”

“His name’s Peter,” Edwin said. “Show him your ears, Peter.”

Peter pushed back his raccoon mask.

“See!”

“Well damn,” Otho said. “A wood elf. A real wood elf.” He reached out and touched Peter, as though making sure he was real. “What are you doing here?”

“Let’s play,” Peter said.

“Play?” Otho responded. “We can’t. We got all sorts of stupid chores to do.”

“Not every day you get to play with a wood elf,” Edwin said.

“Well, yeah. That’s true,” Otho agreed. “But if we don’t get the hogs watered, Papa will whip us.”

“I know lots of wood-elf games,” Peter said. “They’re a lot more fun than carrying buckets of water about.” A sly grin lit up his face. “We could play for a little while. Over behind the haystacks, near that big tree. Where no one can see us.”

The boys returned Peter’s sly grin, because Peter’s grin was a most contagious thing.

Edwin nudged Otho. “Wood-elf games. I’ve never played wood-elf games.”

“Well,” Otho said. “Maybe for just a little while.”

“Great!” Peter said. “Follow me. And remember, we can’t be seen.” He took off in a crouch. The two boys followed him up the path, mimicking his every move.

They reached the haystacks, stopped. Peter peered around, making sure the way was clear.

“Hey, Peter,” Edwin called. “Watch this.” The boy scrambled to the top of the haystack. Peter started to warn him to get down before someone saw him, when the boy leaped across to another haystack. Edwin poked his head back over the stack. “Bet you can’t do that.”

Peter frowned. “Bet I can,” he said and leaped from one haystack to the next. And for the next hour, they jumped haystacks, raced, played tag and hide-and-seek. Peter forgot about the sack, the rope and bludgeon, even about the men, he was having too much fun. Soon, they’d lost their shirts—Peter only in his loincloth—their torsos glistening in the hot morning sun, covered from head to toe in mud, leaves, straw, and big, fat grins.

They were mighty berserkers now, and a particularly tall haystack behind the stable was a terrible dragon. In a ferocious attack, Peter leaped upon the haystack and tried to climb to its summit. The stack tilted, Peter yelped, and the whole heap toppled over, pinning him beneath a blanket of soggy hay.

The boys ran up and began to dig Peter out. When they uncovered his face, Peter spat out a mouthful of straw, began to cough, then laughed. He choked, spat out more straw, then laughed some more. Soon they were all laughing so hard that they rolled on their backs, helpless.

“Hey,” Peter hollered, between bouts of giggling. “Hey…get…me…out of here.”

“THERE YOU ARE!” came a woman’s sharp, angry shout.

The laughter died. Peter’s heart leaped into his throat as he suddenly remembered just where he was.

“What nonsense is this? I’ve been—” She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth agape. “Who…? What…?” She let out a scream.

Peter twisted around to look at her and she pointed at him with one fat, trembling finger and screamed again. “GOBLIN! GOBLIN!”

An older bald man and a wiry pockmarked youth stuck their heads out from the stable. They saw Peter and came in at a run. The youth carried a pitchfork.

Peter yanked his arms out from the hay and dug frantically to free his legs.

The two boys looked from their mother to Peter. “No, Mama,” Edwin cried. “He’s not a goblin. He’s a—”

Peter jerked one leg free and kicked and twisted to free the other.

“GET AWAY FROM IT!” the woman screeched. “EDWIN! OTHO! HEAR ME, GET AWAY FROM IT NOW!” When the boys didn’t move, she ran up and snatched them back.

The pockmarked youth raced up, raised the pitchfork, and drove it right for Peter’s face.

Peter jerked his head away, but not fast enough. One of the prongs sliced down the side of his scalp. He felt a red-hot slash of pain and let out a howl. In a wide-eyed fit of panic, he kicked his remaining leg free and scrambled up. He almost made his feet when someone grabbed his arm and jerked him off the ground. The bald man slammed a huge fist into the side of Peter’s face. Peter’s head exploded with white light and pain. His legs buckled, but before he could fall the man punched him again, a hard jab in the ribs, sending the boy tumbling backward. Peter hit the ground in a heap and everything went blurry.

“KILL IT!” the woman shouted.

Peter tried to suck in a breath but his mouth was full of something wet and warm. He coughed violently, spraying the ground with his own blood. The side of his face had gone numb. Through tears and blood he saw a blurry figure moving toward him.

“NOW, KILL IT! QUICK!”

“I got it!” the youth cried.

Peter cleared his eyes in time to see the youth coming at him with the pitchfork. Dizzy, and slow, Peter made it to his feet.

The youth jabbed him. Peter tried to twist out of the way, but the prongs raked across his side, leaving behind three flesh-deep gashes.

The bald man made a grab. Peter ducked and ran, stumbling at first, but once he got his feet under him, ran, ran like the wind into the forest.

Once within the trees, he collapsed to his knees, clutching his side, his face clenched tight with pain. He let out a loud, hitching sob, then spat repeatedly, trying to clear his mouth of blood.

They were yelling and pointing at him from the field. Several more men and women had come around the stable. They weren’t following him, just standing and pointing excitedly into the woods. He could see their faces, could see the revulsion, the fear…the hatred.

Other men came up then. Men with thick, braided beards carrying great, long swords. Peter ran.

PETER’S LUNGS BURNED. He’d been running most of the day and still he dared not stop. He glanced back, eyes wide with terror. He could hear them, their dogs, and the hard clumps of the horses’ hooves. They were closing in.

Peter spotted Goll’s hill far ahead through a break in the trees, and the horrible realization that there was no safety there, that there was no safety anywhere, hit him. Goll couldn’t stop these huge men with their terrible swords and axes. The men would kill Goll. Peter cut down a new path, headed toward the cliffs, leading the men away from Goll’s hill, hoping the horses at least wouldn’t be able to follow him up the steep ledges.

Peter made the cliffs and stopped, listening for the men as he tried to catch his breath. He didn’t hear them. A touch of hope lifted Peter’s spirits. Maybe they’d given up. Maybe he wouldn’t die today after all. Then he saw the smoke and his chest tightened. “Goll,” he whispered.

Peter ran, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, the throbbing in his head as he sprinted as fast as he could back to Goll’s hill. He topped the rise and froze.

Smoke billowed out from Goll’s burrow and there, dangling from the great oak, hung Goll. The rope was strapped about his chest, pinning his arms to his side, his feet twitched only inches above the ground. The huge men surrounded him, some on horses, some on foot, all with swords and axes in hand.

The moss man was charred and smoke drifted from his red, raw skin. He had no less than a dozen arrows in him, and yet still he kicked and spat. The dogs bit at him, tearing open the flesh on his legs as the men brayed with laughter.

Peter’s knees gave way and he stumbled against a fallen tree, his fingers digging into the rotting bark as he slid to the ground. He wanted to stop them, do anything to stop them, but couldn’t move, couldn’t do more than stare on in utter horror.

A huge fellow with a thick black beard and long knife walked up to Goll.

Goll stared at the blade with wide, terrified eyes.

The bearded man grabbed Goll by the hair and jerked his head back. He first cut off Goll’s left ear, then the right. As the moss man struggled, the men laughed and the dogs ran around in tight circles, howling.

The man jabbed the blade into the moss man’s stomach. Goll screamed and twitched spastically as the man sawed his gullet open. The man slid the blade into a loop of intestine and pulled it partially out of the wound, then whistled to the dogs. The dogs snatched the loop and pulled Goll’s intestines out onto the dirt in wet, rolling coils, tugging and fighting over them as the moss man wailed.

Peter watched, stone-faced, unable to move or cry, to hardly even blink. He watched. He missed nothing.

After too long, much too long, Goll stopped wailing, his head sagged forward, and he was still.

WHEN THE MEN left, Peter stood and walked down the hill. He didn’t cry, he didn’t feel the cuts in his side, the gash across his head, not even the ground beneath his feet. He did not feel. He moved slowly, methodically.

He found Goll’s bone-handled knife and cut the moss man down. To Peter’s surprise, Goll opened his eyes.

“Be brave, Peterbird,” Goll rasped. “Kill the wolf.” And that was it. The moss man’s eyes glazed over.

Peter slipped Goll’s knife into his belt, gathered up his spears, and headed north, away from the village. He had no clear thought of where he

was going, only that he was going away from the village, away from the men.

It wasn’t long before Peter heard the wolf trailing him. Peter stopped in a clearing, turned, and waited. The one-eared wolf appeared. Its lips curled up like it was laughing at the boy, like it knew it had him.

Peter didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. He dropped the light spear and hefted the stout one to shoulder level. He slipped the bone-handled knife into his other hand, locked eyes with the wolf, and came at the beast in a dead run.

The wolf looked confused.

Peter’s eyes flared and he let loose a terrible howl.

The wolf fell back.

Peter threw the spear.

The wolf hunkered to avoid the spear, and when it did, Peter leaped forward and drove Goll’s knife deep into its side.

The wolf let out a yelp and took off, but after only a few strides it began to weave and stagger, its hindquarters collapsing, its breath coming out in a harsh, wet wheeze.

Peter snatched up his spear and followed the wolf.

The wolf stopped, unable to do anything but stand and watch the boy coming to kill it, panting as blood dripped from its lips.

Peter’s eyes were hard, without hate nor pity, the eyes of a predator. He thrust the spear into the wolf’s heart. The wolf thrashed, twitched, then lay still.

Peter stared at the wolf for a long time. His eyes began to well. A single tear ran down his bruised, swollen cheek, then another, and another. Peter fell to his knees before the wolf and began to sob. The tears were for Goll, but they were also for himself, a six-year-old boy without a mother, or a friend, scared, hated, and with nowhere to go.

A SCREAM SNATCHED the child thief from his thoughts.

One of the little kids, a boy, lay on the ground in front of the monkey bars. Two older boys stood over him laughing, not teenagers, just bigger boys, maybe eleven or twelve.

The small boy climbed back to his feet and tried to wipe the mud from the front of his T-shirt. Two chubby girls of about seven or eight ran up and stood on either side of him, braids sprouting from their heads.

“Leave him alone,” one of the girls said. She jutted out her chin and planted her hands firmly on her hips. Her friend followed suit.

The handful of children in the playground stopped playing and began to gather around.

“You want me to kick your ass too?” the big boy said and shoved the girl, knocking her to her knees. His pal chuckled.

“Don’t you push her!” the little boy shouted, his muddy hands balled into fists, his face full of fear and hate. Peter shook his head, knowing that soon this little boy would be just as mean as these bigger kids, because meanness had an ugly way of spreading.

“What you gonna do about it?”

“We was here first,” the second girl shouted as she pulled her friend back up.

“Well, we’re here now,” the big kid said. “So get the fuck outta here less you want me to kick all your stupid little asses.”

When none of them moved, the big kid stepped forward. “You think I’m fucking around? I said—” He saw Peter standing next to the little boy. A confused expression crossed his face as though unsure just where Peter had come from. He glanced back at his pal, but his friend looked just as surprised.

The child thief pulled his hood back and locked his golden eyes on the two big kids, the same eyes that had backed down a full-grown wolf. He didn’t say a word, just stared at them.

The big kids seemed to deflate. “C’mon,” the kid said to his pal. “Playgrounds are for candy-asses.” They left, casting anxious looks back over their shoulders as they went.

“Hey, kid,” the little girl said. “You got funny ears.”

Peter grinned at her and wiggled his ears. The kids all burst out laughing.

“You wanna play with us?” asked the boy.

“I do,” Peter said. “I most certainly do.” His eyes gleamed devilishly. “But not today. Today I have to find a friend.”

Chapter Seven Sekeu

Nick sat on the floor with his back firmly against the wall. His aching head felt like it would never stop ringing. He touched his swollen lip and winced. At this point, he felt fairly confident that no one was going to eat him, at least not this morning. He rested his head against the stone works and watched the kids go about their madness.

Half-naked kids darted about in all directions, pushing and yelling, but somehow, out of the chaos, fires were started, torches were lit, bowls were brought out of cupboards, and soon the air smelled of soot and smoke. Nick tried to count the kids, but they moved around too much. He guessed around twenty all together, and was amazed at the ruckus they could make.

Soft morning light flickered along the stone-and-dirt floor. Nick could see a sparse canopy of limbs through the few breaks in the roof. He scanned the chamber: it was a bit smaller than a basketball court. His eyes returned over and over to the hanging bodies in the far corner. They’d looked so real in the fog, but now, in the light, it was plain to see that they were just straw dummies. Why there should be straw dummies hanging from the rafters was a mystery, but at this point they were the least of his concerns.

The place was a mess: cages and tarps strewn all along one wall, clothes piled up in and on top of old barrels, candy bar wrappers, crumbled cigarette boxes and butts among the straw and leaves, old, blackened chewing gum worn into the stones. The only thing that was neat were the weapons, glistening with fresh oil and hung in nice rows, along with various types of leather armor, helmets, and pads.

Cooking smells caught Nick’s attention: a nutty, cinnamon aroma. Nick was surprised when his stomach began to growl. How his stomach could think of food after all that had happened was beyond him. He watched them fill their bowls up with a soupy goop. Was that gruel? Nick wasn’t even sure what gruel was, much less what it looked like, but he bet it looked a lot like that stuff.

One by one the kids plopped down onto the benches on either side of a long wooden table and began to eat. Nick still had a hard time believing what he was seeing: wild-haired savages slurping, smacking, yelling, and laughing with large gobs of food in their mouths, several using their hands instead of the big wooden spoons. All the while the little blue people flew about trying to snatch stray berries and nuts.

Another growl came from Nick’s stomach. He really wanted a bowl of whatever it was they were eating. But there was no way he was going to beg to be fed, not after the way they’d treated him.

A girl walked purposely over to him. She had the wide cheekbones and a strong jawline of a Native American Indian. Her body was lean and sinewy. At first glance, she appeared to be around his age, but as she neared, he noted the hard set of her face—especially the eyes, they didn’t look like the eyes of a child—and it became tougher to guess. Her copper-colored skin was dirty and dotted with scars, leaving no doubt she’d seen her fair share of trouble. Her long black hair was captured in twin braids that ran down her back. Two black wings were threaded through a broad, beaded headband. The feathers swept downward from the sides of her head, the tips touching the tops of each shoulder, giving her a noble bearing. She carried a bowl and a wooden spoon.

She stopped in front of Nick and stared down at him. Her eyes were gold like Peter’s, but large and intense. Nick dropped his gaze and stared at the floor.

“I brought you food,” she said, and held the bowl out to him.

The nutty smell tugged at Nick but he ignored her.

“Do not be a child. Eat,” she said. Her words were stilted, spaced. Nick could tell English wasn’t her native tongue.

Nick said nothing.

She gave him a moment longer, then turned to leave.

“Wait.” Nick forced the word out.

She looked at him, her eyes hard, uncompromising.

Nick held his hand out for the bowl.

She continued to stare at him.

“Please,” Nick said through clenched teeth.

She handed him the bowl.

Nick gave the goop a stir. It looked like chunky oatmeal. He scooped a small clump onto the wooden spoon and gave it a nibble. He noticed a touch of bitter beneath the sweet but it was pretty good.

Careful of his busted lip, Nick began to eat. The gruel was warm and felt good going down; as a matter of fact, it warmed up his whole body.

She sat down, cross-legged, in front of him. “Your name is Nick?”

Nick nodded.

“My name is Sekeu.” There was a long pause. “You should know you did well with the red devil. Most kids are too frightened to fight back. I believe there is a warrior in your heart. You just need skills. We will begin training today.”

Nick stopped eating. “Training?”

“To become a warrior. To become clan. To become a—Devil.”

“What?”

“You must learn to fight. To defend yourself and your clan.” She said this so matter-of-factly that for a moment Nick thought he might be the crazy one.

“Clan? You mean that bunch of assholes?” Nick jabbed his thumb toward the kids. “You think I want to join their little jerk-off club?”

The kids had pulled swords and spears down from the walls and were practicing basic moves—leaps, thrusts, stances, and so on—while others paired off for light sparring. In spite of himself, Nick was fascinated by their speed and agility as they knocked each other back and forth across the floor. How can they move like that?

“Peter has brought you here to offer you a chance,” Sekeu said sternly.

“To become clan, to become a child of Faerie. Do you have any idea what that means? It is a chance at eternal youth, to live wild and free for a thousand years.”

Nick stared at Sekeu. “What’re you talking about? And where is Peter? Where the hell did that bastard go?”

Sekeu’s eyes narrowed. “Choose your words carefully, Nick. There are those here that would kill you for calling Peter such.” Judging by her face, Nick was pretty sure she was one of them. Nick let out a frustrated sigh.

“Peter is gone to search out more children for the clan,” she said.

“What?” Nick could hardly find the words. “You mean to kidnap more kids.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Talk to them.” Sekeu pointed around the chamber at the kids. “Ask them their story. Peter finds the lost, the left-behind, the abused. Is that not why you are here? Did Peter not save you?”

“Peter tricked me.”

“What would have happened last night had Peter not shown up? Where were you going to go, eat, sleep?” Again she pointed to the other kids. “If what they say is true, then how long before you were selling drugs, or as they would put it, before some pimp made you his boy? Or would you have returned home? Do you wish to go back home now?”

Home, Nick thought. He couldn’t go home. Not ever. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be held captive on some island full of monsters, either. “Just where is here? Just what kind of place is this?”

“Here is the isle of Avalon, the sanctuary of the Sidhe and the realm of the Queen Modron, the Lady of the Lakes. Here is the refuge for the last of earth’s enchanted creatures.” Sekeu’s eyes locked on his, her voice becoming more and more intense. “Here is Devilwood, the domain of Devil Kind, the children of the wolf mask. We are the lost, the wild, the untamable. We are the—”

“Okay, okay,” Nick interrupted, rolling his eyes, realizing he was getting nowhere. “Look, you can’t make me play this stupid game. You got that? I want no part of it.”

She laughed, a cutting, cold sound. “Fool. No one will bother to make you. You still do not understand. This is not a gift. It is something you must earn. Peter has brought you here at great peril to himself. What you do from here is up to you. If you wish to leave, then leave.”

“I’m not a prisoner? I can just walk out of here?”

“If that is what you really wish.”

Nick laughed and shook his head. “Are you kidding me? I’m so out of here.”

She glared at him. “That is the problem with you runaways. You believe you can always run from your troubles.”

“I didn’t run away,” Nick snapped.

Now she was the one shaking her head.

“Well, I did. But it wasn’t like that. Look, you don’t know anything about me.”

But she looked like she did know, like she’d seen it all too many times before. “One cannot be forced to become a Devil, a child of Faerie. It is a hard enough thing if you want it with all your heart. You must take on the challenge of your own free will or the spirit of the forest will never bind with you.”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. Can you just tell me how I get out of here already?”

She gave him a long, hard look, then pointed toward a large round door at the far end of the chamber.

Nick sat the bowl down and got to his feet. He wiped his hands on his pants, flipped his bangs from his face, and headed for the round door. As he trekked across the hall, one by one, the kids stopped what they were doing and watched him.

A black boy trotted up alongside of him. The kid was a few inches shorter than Nick and missing his left hand just above the wrist. He appeared younger than the others, maybe as young as ten, hard to tell for certain. He had an honest, plain face and kindly eyes, his hair was pulled back into two braids with long blue ribbons woven into their ends. “You leaving already?” he asked in a slight Southern drawl.

Nick kept walking.

“Here.” The boy tried to hand Nick the spear he was carrying. Nick pushed it away.

“Kid, it’d be murder to send you out there without a weapon of some sorts. Now you need to listen up. You come across some of them barghest, you be sure not to show no fear. Got that? They sense you’re afraid then they’ll get after you for sure.”

Nick came to the door and stopped.

“Now, hear me,” the boy continued. “I’m not playing with you. You’re gonna be a-wantin’ this.” He shoved the spear in Nick’s hands.

Nick took the spear and looked at it, positively mortified.

“Oh, yeah. And if the Flesh-eaters track you down, you just drop that there spear and get running. Because,” he laughed, “they’ll just shove the damn thing right up your ass.”

Nick set his hand on the door slat, but didn’t slide it over.

“Here let me help you with that,” somebody said. This voice was deeper than that of the one-handed kid. Nick turned and found himself looking up into the stern eyes of the tall Devil boy.

“My name’s Redbone. Sorry we won’t have the chance to get to know each other better.” He smiled coldly and yanked the bolt over, pulling the thick round door inward. The wooden hinges whined as the door swung open.

Nick immediately noticed the gouged marks on the outside of the door—long, deep slashes running down the splintered wood.

“Don’t mind those,” Redbone said. “The barghest like to sharpen their claws there, that’s all.”

It was gray, musty. Nick could just make out the shapes of a few gnarled stumps and trees, but the rest of the forest fell away into a wall of shifting mist. From somewhere far out, he heard a single howl. Nick recognized that call, would never forget it as long as he lived. It was the same howl that the shadowy hunched creatures, the ones with the orange eyes, had made the night Peter brought him in from the Mist.

Nick found himself incapable of moving.

Redbone put a hand on his back, easing him forward, and started to push the door shut behind him.

“Wait!” Nick cried, slapping a hand on the door. He turned around; they were all staring at him.

“Yes?” Redbone asked, a smirk pushing at the corner of his mouth.

Nick’s lips began to quiver. He started to say something, but was too mad, too afraid he would start crying.

Redbone stared at him. “Maybe you’d like to stay and make some friends? You just might live longer with some friends watching your back.”

Chapter Eight Nathan

The child thief watched the park lamps hum to life one by one. Night had come early beneath the incessant drizzle. The deep shadows from the towering tenement buildings squeezed together and there was no longer a soul in sight. Peter refused to admit that another day was lost, he couldn’t afford another day, not with the Captain on the prowl in Avalon. He pushed through the row of buildings, onto another, then another.

He spotted two figures dodging lamplights and darting from shadow to shadow. Even across the wide courtyard, Peter could tell that these kids were runaways, could almost smell it. A grin snuck across his face—the game was on.

The child thief trailed them into the stairwell of a large building, slipping beneath the stairs. The stairwell smelled of piss and vomit, mold and stale garbage. He leaned back into the shadows, trying not to inhale through his nose as the two boys conversed in low, anxious tones.

Now that they were in the light, Peter could see they had to be brothers, the older one maybe fifteen or sixteen, the younger one no more than twelve. The older boy had a scrape on his forehead, his left eye was swollen, the knees of his jeans torn and bloody. Someone had beaten him.

“What we gonna do?” the younger boy asked.

“We just gonna tell him.”

“No way!”

“Nathan, what else we supposed to do?”

“You think he’s gonna believe us?” Nathan said, the anxiety in his voice rising along with the volume. “That was his dope. He’s gonna blame us, or think maybe we stole it.”

It’s the same story, Peter thought. Drugs. These days it was always the drugs. But Peter had seen too much, knew too well that men-kind didn’t need an excuse to be cruel and murder one another. If it wasn’t drugs, then there was always something else.

“Shh,” the bigger boy said, glancing furtively up the stairwell. He threw an arm around Nathan. “Chill now. Your big bro got it covered. I’m tight with Henry. He’ll work with us. Hell, if he wants to get paid back he’ll have to. Now won’t he?” The bigger boy was trying to sound cocky, cool, like he had it all together, but Peter knew he was just as scared as his younger brother, maybe more so.

“We can just leave,” Nathan said. “Get outta here. To another town maybe.”

“Don’t you understand? We got nothing, man. Not hardly a damn dollar.” A tremor was creeping into the older boy’s voice. “You know anybody gonna take us in around here? Especially if Henry’s after us? Or do you wanna go back and live with the old man?”

The younger boy shook his head hard. “No. I’m never going back there. Never.”

“Look, I got us into this. I’m gonna get us out. Now you just wait here—”

Nathan grabbed his bigger brother’s arm. “No, Tony. Don’t leave me.” His voice cracked, his eyes welled up. “Please don’t go up there. Man, please! Please don’t go up there.”

“Stop blubbering,” Tony said sternly. “You start with that baby shit and I’m gonna leave you for good. You want that?”

The younger boy’s face became terrified. “No!” he said and wiped his eyes on his sleeves. “I’m sorry. I’ll be cool. I promise.”

“I know you’ll be cool, ’cause you’re the Coolio.” He rubbed the younger boy’s head, and a big smile lit Nathan’s face.

“Just wait here,” the bigger boy said. “He ain’t gonna kill me for one fuckup. I’ll be back in a minute and everything will be fine.” He held up his fist. “Give it up.” Nathan tapped his knuckles against his brother’s fist.

“Hang tight, Coolio,” the older boy said and headed up the stairs.

PETER LISTENED TO the rain trickling down the gutters as Nathan paced in and out of the stairwell doorway.

It seemed a long time before they heard anything, then a loud shout echoed down the stairwell.

Nathan started for the stairs.

“You don’t want to do that,” Peter said, coming out of the shadows.

The boy jumped back. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

Nathan squinted at him, then another shout came from above, followed by several angry voices.

The boy forgot about Peter and dashed up the stairs. He made it only one flight up before a scream came from outside, a long, horrified shriek, then a sickening thud in the courtyard. Nathan froze.

Peter grimaced, knowing what that thud meant. He could see by the boy’s face that he did too.

“Tony?”

The boy leaped down the entire bottom flight of stairs and shot out of the stairwell. Peter followed slowly behind.

THE BOY LAY sprawled upon the sidewalk, one leg bent awkwardly behind him, his eyes wide, blinking, lips moving but no words coming out. His head lolled over and Peter saw that the back of his skull was crushed inward, his hair wet with blood.

“TONY!” Nathan screamed, and ran to his brother.

Peter glanced up the face of the building. There, looking down from the sixth-floor balcony, was a man and four older teens. The man pointed at Nathan, said something, and all four of the teens sprinted to the stairwell.

“We need to go,” Peter said.

The boy ignored him. “Tony. Tony, man. Ah fuck, no. Tony.”

Several people stuck their heads out their doors, glanced over the balcony, then went quickly back in.

Peter heard the teenagers’ feet drumming down the stairwell. They’d be down in another moment. Peter placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Hey, they’re coming. We need to go.”

Nathan looked up at Peter, his lips trembling. “They killed him!” A sob tore loose from the back of his throat. “They killed my brother!”

“They’re coming for you now. We need to leave.”

The boy looked up to the balcony, saw the man, heard the boys shouting in the stairwell. Peter watched the fear leave the boy’s eyes, replaced with hatred. The boy jabbed his hand into his brother’s coat pocket and pulled out a knife. He popped open the blade and stood up.

“You want to kill them?” Peter asked.

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His eyes said it all.

Peter grinned. “Good. Let’s kill them.”

Peter darted back beneath the overhang, ducking behind the open stairwell door. He slipped his long knife from his jacket and pressed his back to the wall.

All four teens rushed from the stairwell out into the yard, saw Nathan, and stopped. They looked at the small knife trembling in his hand and began to laugh.

One of them, a short, muscular kid with long sideburns, stepped forward. “You already dead, motherfucker. You just too stupid to know it.” He pulled a gun from his jacket and leveled it sideways at Nathan. “Well, what’cha waiting for, badass. Let’s see what—”

A blur shot past the teens, a flash of steel, and both the gun and the short, muscular kid’s hand flew through the air, bouncing onto the grass.

All the boys’ eyes went wide. But none wider than the muscular kid’s, as blood began to spurt from his severed wrist. He held his stump away from him as though afraid of it, and began to scream.

The kid next to him made a play for something under his jacket, but Peter didn’t give him time to pull it out. Peter had learned that when guns were involved, there was no room for games. You moved fast, stayed a step ahead. In a blink, Peter shoved his knife into the boy’s neck and yanked it back out again.

The boy fell to his knees, clutching his throat, and began making a horrible, gurgling sound. Peter’s eyes lit up and he let out a laugh like a demented demon. When he did, the two remaining teens took off at a dead run.

“LET’S GO!” Peter called, shouting to be heard over the screams of the kid with the chopped-off hand. “We really need to go.”

Nathan looked at him as if he didn’t know whether to be thankful or afraid.

Shots came from up above them; dirt sprung up around Peter. The man was shooting at them from the balcony. That got the boy moving; the two of them ducked beneath the overhang. Nathan spotted the gun, the one the muscular boy had dropped. He snatched it up out of the grass.

They heard shouts coming from the building across the courtyard, where the teens had fled. More boys were coming.

“I know where we can go,” Peter said and took off.

The boy followed.

Chapter Nine First Blood

Sekeu led Nick over to the long table. It was spattered in gruel and strewn with dirty spoons and bowls. The blue pixies were swarming about the mess, scrambling to lick up any available crumb. Two boys and a girl were doing their best to fend off the hissing pests while they stacked the bowls and carted them over to a sudsy barrel.

“Your training will begin here,” Sekeu said and clapped her hands twice.

The kids stopped, their eyes falling on Nick. These kids weren’t covered in body paint, tattoos, or scarring. They lacked the hard angles in their faces, the wiry muscles, and their eyes weren’t golden. For the most part, they looked like your average middle-schoolers.

“Nick, this is Cricket.”

A girl with sandy, short-cropped hair stood with her hands on her waist and a sassy thrust to her hips. She wore ragged camo pants rolled up to her calves, a pair of well-worn orange high-tops, and a purple tank-top. She had a bald spot on the side of her head, a scar maybe, which gave her a mangy look. She cocked an eyebrow at Nick and smiled.

“And Danny.” Sekeu pointed to a pudgy kid wearing dark-rimmed glasses and balancing a stack of bowls. His glasses were wrapped around his head with a strap—it was a sport strap at least, but the strap still made the kid look nerdy as hell to Nick. Danny had gruel in his hair and smeared down the front of his white T-shirt. His brown corduroy pants were pulled up high on the waist, with the legs tucked into a pair of boots. A pixie landed on his head and tugged at the gruel in his hair. “Goddamn it!” he yelled and flicked his head back and forth. The pixie held on but the stack of bowls toppled, crashing down onto the table and floor. “Goddamn it!” Danny yelled again, swatting at the pixie as it flitted away.

Sekeu shook her head. “Danny and Cricket, like you, are unproven. They are New Blood. Once you prove yourself you become clan and only then may you enter the ranks of Devil Kind.”

Nick rolled his eyes.

“This is Leroy.”

Leroy was a heavyset kid, not pudgy like Danny, but thick-boned and solid through the chest and waist. His short, dark hair lay matted against his skull. He wore a sleeveless sweatshirt and the same sort of stitched-up leather britches as the Devils, but had none of their more extreme adornment.

“Leroy has been with us for a while now. He is still unproven.” She gave Leroy a somber look. “We are hoping Leroy will make his challenge soon.”

Leroy flushed and his mouth tightened.

“Leroy will see to you. Make sure you get settled in.”

Leroy set hostile eyes on Nick.

Without another word, Sekeu turned and left them to their work.

“Get busy,” Leroy said and tossed his rag at Nick. It hit the table, spattering chunks of wet gruel across the front of Nick’s shirt. “Oh, and for the record,” Leroy added, “I ain’t your babysitter. So don’t come whining to me with your problems. Got it?”

Nick let out a long breath, picked up the rag, and dragged it along the table. The pixies hissed and buzzed his head as he made his way down the length of the table. When he came to the end, he wiped the crumbs onto the floor, then strolled over to the suds barrel, where the girl, Cricket, was wiping out the bowls. He dropped his rag over the lip of the barrel and started to walk away.

“HEY!” Leroy called from the far end of the table. “What the fuck? You aren’t done. Look at all the crud you left.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine. You want the fucking pixies crapping all over everything? Get your rag and do it again. Do it right.”

Nick glared at Leroy.

“Lose the attitude,” Cricket said under her breath. “Trust me, you don’t want to push him.”

Nick picked up the rag, walked back over to the table, and began to wipe it again.

Leroy came up behind him. “Are you retarded? That’s not wiping. How hard is it to wipe a stupid goddamn table?” He snatched the rag from Nick and gave the table a good, hard wipe. “Like this. See? Now do it right.” Leroy shoved the wet rag into Nick’s chest.

Nick slapped the rag on the table and started to walk away. He made it two steps before he felt a hand on his collar, and the next thing he knew he was yanked around and shoved against the table. Leroy snatched a clump of his hair and pressed his cheek into the rag. Nick tried to twist away but Leroy grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back. Nick let out a cry.

Leroy leaned into Nick’s face. Nick could see the kid’s pulse pumping through the veins along his forehead, felt his hands biting into his wrist, squeezing so hard Nick feared his bones might crack.

“Stop!” Nick pleaded.

“Look, you little shit. I tell you to do something and you better do it. Got it?”

“Yes,” Nick said.

Leroy twisted his arm harder. “Got it?”

“YES!” Nick cried.

“What?”

“YES! YES!”

Leroy let Nick go. “Now wipe the table, fucktard.”

“YOU CAN WASH up in there,” Cricket said, pointing to a door with a moon burned into its surface. “That’s the privy.”

Nick wrung out the washrag, hung it across the barrel, and headed to the bathroom. He stepped in and shut the door, pressing his back against it. He clenched his eyes and took several long, deep, hitching breaths, determined not to start crying. He clutched his hands into fists. “Fuck all you bastards,” he whispered. “Fucking, fucking bastards.”

Something rustled, a clacking sound.

Nick opened his eyes, glancing quickly around the small, dim room. An oval mirror hung from one wall, a network of cracks ran across the surface, fracturing his reflection into a dozen images. A tall window, about half a foot wide, let in a thin slice of light. Enough light to make out an ancient-looking brass pump in one corner and, below it, seated in the floor, a round wood plank. Nick guessed that was the toilet and realized he needed to go really bad.

There was a rope attached to the plank, which ran up through a pulley and down again. Nick grabbed the rope, tugged the lid up, and was greeted by a warm gush of stink. He was in the middle of relieving himself when he heard the clattering again. It came from the hole. He caught movement. Something about the size of a rat, black and hairy, with lots of spidery legs, skittered out from between the stonework. It cocked its head and looked up at Nick with six blank, soulless eyes, then dropped down out of sight. Nick peered into the depths; in the darkness, hundreds of glowing eyes looked back up at him. Nick kicked the lid down, then noticed piles of white goop, what looked to be bird droppings, on the floor in one corner. He glanced up; there, in the rafters, two of the little blue people stared back at him from their straw nest. They drummed their wings, and hissed.

“What the fuck kinda place is this?” he said under his breath as he zipped up. “Just what kind of hell is this?” He caught his reflection—a dozen angry faces looking back at him. He thought he looked like someone from a refugee camp—mud and gruel in his hair, his lip busted and swollen, dried blood streaked down his face. “What’ve I gotten myself into?” All at once an overwhelming need to see his mother crept up on him. His reflection blurred as his eyes filled with tears.

“No. To hell with her,” he said. This is her fault, all of it. She’s the last person I want to see. He wiped the tears angrily away and stepped over to the pump.

Nick primed the pump, stuck his hands under the spout, and splashed water on his face. The water was cool and refreshing. He washed the mud, gruel, and blood out of his hair and from his face and arms. He looked back in the mirror. I’ll play their game, he thought. But first chance I get I’m out of here.

SEKEU WAS WAITING for Nick when he came out of the privy.

“Come,” she said and led him across the chamber. They maneuvered around several groups of Devils practicing with weapons. The air was punctuated with loud shouts and the sharp clacking of wood hitting wood. Again, Nick found himself amazed at the speed and dexterity they displayed. Could he learn to move like that?

He followed Sekeu to the far side of the chamber, to where the straw men—the ones Nick had been so sure were children—hung from ropes. Now, up close, their purpose became obvious: practice dummies. The ground was sandy here. He watched Leroy, Cricket, and Danny practicing various striking maneuvers with short staffs on the straw men.

Danny stopped, completely winded, red-faced, and soaked in sweat. “Hey,” he wheezed and wiped his brow. “Is it break time yet?”

“Danny,” Sekeu said. “You just started.”

Danny’s shoulders drooped and he let out a long groan.

Sekeu ignored him, went to the wall, and pulled down a staff. She whirled it around her body in a blur, then stopped it with a snap. She held it out to Nick. “Here.”

Nick took the staff.

“Come.”

Nick followed Sekeu over to one of the straw men.

“Today you will learn how to strike.”

Nick noticed the other New Blood watching, couldn’t miss Leroy’s smirk.

Sekeu gave the straw man a shove and nodded to Nick.

Nick hefted the staff and got ready. When the dummy swung back, he struck out as hard as he could. The straw man caught him mid-swing, knocking the staff out of his hands. Nick stumbled back and fell on his butt.

Leroy let out a laugh.

Nick’s face turned red. He didn’t get up.

Sekeu waited.

Nick shook his head. “Why don’t we forget about this?”

Sekeu leaned toward him. “You will always be the brunt of brutes unless you make them respect you.” She cut her eyes toward Leroy.

Nick sighed, picked up the staff, and pushed himself back to his feet.

“Ready?” Sekeu asked.

Nick hefted the staff. Again Sekeu swung the straw man, again the straw man knocked him down.

Nick crawled to his feet. “Look,” he said, shaking his head. “Really, I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. It’s just not in me.”

Sekeu’s ageless eyes searched his face. “Nick, you fought the devil beast today. I saw a brave spirit in your heart. A warrior.”

Nick wanted to laugh at her silly words, but the way she said them, the way she looked at him when she said them, as though she truly believed in him. Nick couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that, ever.

Nick let out a sigh. “Okay.” He picked up the staff.

The straw man knocked him down again.

“Damn it,” Nick said and hit the sand with his fist. “It’s too heavy.”

“Size does not matter.”

Nick got up and Sekeu took the staff.

“First, you must get into an L stance.” Sekeu demonstrated. “Weight should be on your back leg. Front leg light. This will keep you maneuverable, but allow you to put the entire weight of your body into the swing. You push off hard with your back foot and fall into the swing with the front.” Sekeu slammed her front foot down to emphasize. “Now, put one hand low on the staff like this. The other midway. When you strike, the high hand slides down and meets the low. This makes power.”

Sekeu demonstrated, snapping the staff in the air. Nick could see the staff actually quiver from the force.

“Most important, do not focus on hitting the target. You want to go through it. If you focus on hitting the target, all your force will be lost on contact. But if you focus beyond the target, your blow will carry power.

“There is also timing, but that comes with practice.”

Sekeu gave the straw man a shove, slipped into the L stance, her body rocking slightly to and fro as the dummy swung back toward her. At the last moment her body exploded like a coiled viper. The staff connected with the straw man, sending a terrific “WHACK” echoing around the chamber. The dummy almost bent double as it flew away from the blow. Loose straw flitted through the air as the slack played out and the straw man jerked on the end of the rope.

“Whoa,” Nick gasped.

“You can do it, Nick. But you must practice.”

Nick couldn’t do it. Not even close. But after an hour with Sekeu, Nick could certainly bring the straw man to a stop without getting knocked down, could hit his mark most every time. These were small steps, but with every blow Nick found himself getting better.

Sekeu moved from kid to kid. Encouraging each of them to focus and push themselves. Showing them tricks and pointing out what they were doing wrong. After some time, Sekeu left them on their own and Nick found himself lost in the repetitiveness of training. Unaware of passing time, unaware that he was actually enjoying himself. And for a while Nick forgot all about high-tops in the mist, blue pixies, Leroy, and the golden-eyed boy named Peter.

SEKEU GATHERED THEM around. Nick, Cricket, and Danny all watched as she pushed the straw man at Leroy.

Leroy struck the straw man a powerful blow, sending the dummy flipping back.

“Good,” Sekeu said.

Leroy grinned. “Hell yeah.”

“Now, once more.”

Leroy gained his stance and hefted the staff, looking cocky, obviously getting a kick out of showing off in front of the New Blood.

Sekeu shoved the straw man toward him, but this time she sent it spinning wildly side to side.

Leroy stumbled back, trying to compensate, and the straw man knocked him to the sand.

Leroy jumped back up. “Hey, what was that?”

“You have to be ready for the unpredictable,” Sekeu said. “Danny, why did he fall?”

“Because the dummy hit him?” Danny said with a grin.

Cricket let out a laugh.

Sekeu frowned. “Nick, why did he fall?”

Nick started to say he didn’t know, but realized it was what Sekeu had been showing him. “He didn’t keep his balance centered,” Nick said.

Sekeu nodded. “Very good, Nick.”

Leroy flashed Nick a dangerous look.

“Leroy, we have been over this many times. You have great power, but you must not rely on strength alone. If you do not practice what I show you, you will never win your challenge.”

Leroy’s mouth got tight and small. Nick could see the vein on his forehead pounding.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG. A bronze spoon banging against an iron pot resounded through the chamber. The smell of cooked onions brought a loud grumble from Nick’s belly, made him aware of just how hungry he was.

Nick watched the Devils drop their gear and rush over in mass, pushing and shoving one another as they tussled over bowls and jockeyed for position in front of a huge iron kettle. Redbone and three other Devils appeared to be in charge of the food and they began dipping out generous spoonfuls of some sort of stew.

Danny, who’d been lying on his back like the victim of a heart attack, suddenly sat up, looking alive for the first time all day. “Dinner. My favorite sport!”

Nick leaned his staff against a post and started toward the line.

“Don’t even think about it,” Leroy said.

Nick glanced at the bigger boy.

“You got work to do.”

Leroy pointed to the middle arena, where the Devils had dumped all their gear in their rush for the food line. There were swords, staffs, spears, all manner of helmets and pads.

“Stack the weapons in the holders along that wall.” He pointed. “Stack the gear over there. And I better not see you at the table until it’s done and done right.”

Cricket picked up two staffs and headed toward the racks.

“Uh-uh,” Leroy said, shaking his head.

Cricket looked at him, perplexed.

“Nick’s doing it all himself tonight.”

“That’s not fair,” Cricket said. “He shouldn’t—”

“Shut up,” Leroy said.

Cricket began to say more, but bit her lip. She leaned the staffs against the wall and headed toward the table.

“Well, you can stand there all night if you want,” Leroy said to Nick. “But you ain’t gonna eat until everything’s put up.”

Leroy waited another minute until Cricket and Danny were out of earshot. “And one more thing, you little suck-up. You ever embarrass me again and I’ll make you pay for real. For fucking real.” He jabbed Nick in the chest. “Got it, fuckhead?”

BY THE TIME Nick put the weapons away, most of the Devils had already finished eating. He was so tired he almost didn’t bother, but the growling in his stomach won out.

He walked over to the iron kettle, shooed away two pixies, then lifted the lid. There were only a few dry clumps of the stew left. Nick scraped off what he could from the walls of the pot, about enough to fill half his bowl.

Leroy sat alone on the far end of the table. Cricket and Danny sat near two Devils in the middle. Cricket looked his way and smiled. Nick sat his bowl down as far away from everyone as he could and collapsed onto the bench.

He couldn’t remember ever being so worn out. Yet in a way it was good. He hated to admit it, but the training had been very satisfying. He’d never been much good at sports, especially team sports, never stuck with anything other than skateboarding. It didn’t take too many times being the last kid picked before he found the whole team bravado to be a load of bullshit, just another place for kids like Leroy to knock him around.

As the Devils finished up, most of them dumped their dishes in the barrel of sudsy water and began to spread out about the chamber, some migrating over to the shelves of books and comics, others picking up darts, checkers, cards, and various board games.

A soft melody caught Nick’s attention, and he watched a girl with dark, curly hair tune a fiddle over by the fireplace. Within a few minutes, two boys joined her, one working out a primitive rhythm on a pair of tall drums while the other plucked at an acoustic guitar. It was just noise at first, then the girl tapped her bow three times and they began to play for real. The chamber filled up with the sweet, haunting wail of the fiddle. The girl played with her eyes closed, as though the fiddle was her voice singing a sad, slow song, then the drum joined in, a deep, steady beat, like a funeral dirge, and finally the guitar, melodic, along the lines of a spaghetti-Western score. Nick was stunned to see these savage kids playing such a beautiful song, and playing it with such heart. He found himself lost in the deep melancholy tune as he ate.

The stew tasted about like the gruel he had for breakfast. As a matter of fact, the only real difference was that the stew contained chunks of mushrooms and wild onions instead of berries. The mushrooms were amazingly sweet and very chewy. Nick plucked one out for closer inspection. When he did, a pixie flew down and dropped to the table just out of arm’s reach. This one was a young boy with a jet-black mane of hair. He strutted and cocked his head, staring at the mushroom between Nick’s fingers. Nick was struck by how oddly human he appeared. Nick flicked the mushroom to him. The pixie snatched up the morsel, hissed, and flew off. A trace of a smile touched Nick’s lips.

Nick watched the Devils going about their evening activities. There was a lively game of poker going on in one corner, punctuated with plenty of cheering and profanity. A kid was working away on a horned-skull tattoo on some Hispanic boy’s shoulder, using a needle and string to push the ink under the skin. The boy was biting down on a piece of leather, trying to look tough, but to Nick, he looked like he was about to pass out. Nick was surprised to see several Devils with cigarettes jutting out of their mouths, looking like delinquents as they puffed away. He watched three kids engaged in a light game of hoops, tossing a small ball into a makeshift basket. Even though they were just goofing around, Nick was amazed by how agile and quick they were.

The boy pixie was back. He landed on the edge of the table, a bit closer than before. He stared up at Nick with tiny, slitted eyes.

Nick tossed him a crumb.

“You don’t want to do that.”

Nick glanced around and found Cricket standing beside him.

“They’ll never leave you alone if you feed ’em,” she said, taking a seat across from him. A moment later, Danny slid down and joined them.

“So,” Cricket said. “Where you from?”

Nick didn’t answer.

Cricket leaned over. “Don’t let Leroy get under your skin,” she whispered. “He treats us all like that. Just take it easy around him. He gets wound up pretty tight sometimes.”

Nick didn’t need to be warned about Leroy.

“So, where’re you from?” Cricket asked again. Nick started to tell her he didn’t feel like talking when there came a loud crash.

“You moved your battleship! I saw you!”

“Did not!”

“It was on B-12. Right there. I called it. It counts.”

“Does not!”

“You’re a no-good cheat!”

The room fell quiet.

“It’s Redbone again,” Danny whispered.

“It’s always Redbone,” Cricket said.

“Take it back!” Redbone said and pulled a knife.

“NO!” a big, blond-haired boy said, and pulled his own knife.

Everyone scrambled out of the way as the two boys squared off in the middle of the chamber.

“Oh, man,” Danny said. “Here they go again.”

All the Devils dropped what they were doing and formed up a loose circle around the two boys. They began chanting “first blood” over and over.

“First blood?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” Cricket said. “It’s how they resolve disputes. Whoever draws first blood, wins the argument.”

The two boys flicked their knives at each other and began a dangerous dance: weaving, jumping, howling, as each sought an opening. They rushed each other, leaping, spinning, their blades mere blurs as they drove past.

“BLOOD!” screamed Redbone, holding up his blade and grinning. “I drew first blood.”

“DID NOT!” cried the second kid.

Everything stopped. Sekeu walked up and examined the boy’s forehead. She wiped her thumb on the mark, then held it up so everyone could see the small smudge of blood.

The crowd murmured approval.

“So,” Cricket said matter-of-factly. “The thinner the mark, the smaller the amount of blood, the more prestigious the win. Shows superior skill.”

The blond kid let loose a string of profanity but lowered his knife. It was over. The Devils returned to what they were doing as though nothing had happened. The band started back up.

“How come they can move like that?” Nick asked. “Doesn’t seem possible.”

“It’s the magic,” she answered.

“Magic?” Nick said. “Give me a break.”

“No, it’s in everything,” Danny said. “You’re eating it right now.”

“What?” Nick stopped eating. “They’re putting stuff in our food?”

“Nope,” Danny said, and pushed at his glasses. “They don’t have to. It’s not a potion or fairy dust. Sekeu told me the magic’s in everything here: the air, the water. When you eat it, though, you’re ingesting it directly. This gunk,” Danny wiped a clump off Nick’s bowl, “is mostly made up of acorns. But like everything around here, there’s magic in them.”

“You’ve noticed their eyes, right?” Cricket asked. “The gold. The magic does that.”

Nick noticed that Cricket’s eyes had the slightest glint.

“My understanding is when you’ve been here long enough, that stuff doesn’t just change the way you look, it gives you superpowers,” she said.

“No, not superpowers,” Danny corrected. “Think more like magical steroids. It’s part of why they can move so fast.”

“What’re the side effects?”

“Side effects,” Danny scoffed. “What are you talking about? This isn’t science, it’s flipping magic. Look at Abraham.” Danny pointed to a black boy over by the fireplace. Nick recognized him as the one-handed boy that had given him the spear this morning. “Abraham’s over a hundred years old. See anything wrong with him? And Sekeu, no one knows how old she is. Some of these other kids have been around since like the sixties and seventies.”

“Yeah.” Cricket laughed. “Go ask Redbone what an iPod is.”

Nick wasn’t sure how he felt about sucking down magical porridge. Were they being poisoned? He could feel the warmth in his stomach, feel it spreading. It was kind of a weird feeling when he thought about it, yet good too, soothing. But he wondered what it was really doing to him.

He eyed a spoonful suspiciously, then studied the Devils. Doesn’t seem to be hurting any of them. He watched a boy leap over his friend, spin around, and do a hook shot all in one bound. No, not a bit. Would this stuff really help him move like that? Did he want to be able to move like that? Nick stuck the spoonful into his mouth.

“I don’t know about you,” Danny said. “But I’d trade this magic mush for a Big Mac any day.”

All three of them laughed and nodded.

Leroy came up and they fell quiet. Leroy eyed them. “You know you guys have to clean up.”

No one answered.

“Did you hear me?”

“We know, Leroy,” Cricket said. “C’mon, lighten up a little.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah, it’s okay. It’s under control.”

“Oh, so that’s the game. You guys are ganging up against me too?”

“No,” Cricket said, letting out an exasperated sigh. “No one’s ganging up on you, Leroy. We’re supposed to be on the same team. Remember? Look, for once why don’t you just sit down with us and talk. Be nice for a change.”

Leroy looked unsure. Finally he sat down next to Nick.

“Y’know, it’s not like I wanna be the one looking after you guys,” Leroy said and stared out at the Devils. “They’re making me. Those assholes are always giving me shit.”

“They give us all shit,” Cricket said. “That’s just part of their scene. I think they feel they’re supposed to. Y’know, to toughen us up or something.”

“Yeah, no sweat,” Danny said. “Besides, you’ll be one of ’em soon. Then they’ll lay off.”

Leroy’s face darkened.

“How exactly do you get to be a Devil anyway?” Danny asked.

“You have to call a challenge and draw first blood,” Leroy muttered. “Or by saving a life, or any act of extraordinary courage. Some bullshit like that.”

“Well, how are you ever going to make it then?” Danny said with a snort.

“You don’t think I’m good enough?” Leroy asked coldly.

The smile fell from Danny’s face. “I didn’t say—”

“Fuck you, Danny.”

“He was just trying to make a joke, Leroy,” Cricket said. “Geez, relax for Pete’s sakes.”

Leroy glared into his bowl. His hand clutched the spoon so tightly his knuckles were white.

“So,” Cricket said, “Nick, you were saying?”

“Huh?”

“You were telling us where you were from.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Where you from?”

The pixie boy was back. He landed near Nick, cocking his head left then right, looking up at him with those strange, unblinking eyes.

Nick pinched a crumb of gruel. The pixie eyed it expectantly and took another step forward; when it did, Leroy struck out with his spoon. The utensil caught the small creature with a solid crack, knocking it into the wall behind the table.

“What the hell!” Danny said.

“What is wrong with you?” Cricket cried.

Leroy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah. Is that it? That the way you guys wanna play it?”

The pixie’s wings sputtered as it tried to get to its feet.

Leroy jumped up and slammed his foot down on the pixie. A horrible crunching sound came from beneath his boot.

A cry stuck in Nick’s throat. He stared at the broken shape on the ground, then realized with horror that the pixie wasn’t dead. It was trying to crawl out of a patch of blood and gore, its broken wings quivering. To Nick it looked more human than ever as it gasped and writhed in pain.

Leroy stomped down again, and again.

“GOD!” Cricket cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

Leroy’s face knotted up as he scraped the bottom of his boot along the wall stone, leaving behind a smear of flesh and hair. “Little nasty blue fuckers! Always fucking with me! Everyone’s always fucking with me!” He stomped away.

“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.

The warmth followed him into his dream, turning into the bright sunshine of a balmy summer day. He was in a meadow surrounded by trees, everything turned golden by the sun’s brilliant rays. He lifted his face up and put his arms out, letting the heat bathe his whole body.

Giggles caught his attention. A multitude of faerie folk danced and frolicked from one end of the dreamy meadow to the other. Tiny, insect-size people with colorful butterfly wings floated about, pollinating the thousands of multicolored flowers blooming from every vine, tree, and bush. A snort came from the tall grass. Nick saw cat-size centaurs gallop past. Little white-skinned maidens in flowing gossamer rode on their backs, leaping and whooping gleefully. Hoots and howls came from the trees, where purple monkeys leaped from branch to branch. A chorus of bird and faerie song drifted about on the light breeze.

In the dream, Nick drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet aroma of flowers and the spice of earth. It was all so wonderful, but all at once he began to sweat and thought a bit of shade would be nice. As he searched for a cool spot, the heat became unbearable and he realized this heat wasn’t from the sun, but from his gut. His stomach was burning. Nick wished he could find some water, something to quench the burning. He clasped his belly and groaned, and when he did, the meadow fell silent. All the creatures stared at him and he could see fear in their eyes—fear of him.

Nick didn’t want them to be afraid. He raised his hands to calm them and that’s when his skin turned black. Right before his eyes, twisting splotches of darkness snaked along his arms, and scaly spots, the color of bruises, bloomed across the backs of his hands. He watched, terrified, as his fingers twisted into jagged black claws.

The creatures fled, leaving him behind. This made him angry, furious. He wanted to hurt them, wanted to chase them down and butcher every one of them.

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.

Chapter Ten Ginny Greenteeth

Nathan 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.

It didn’t look like any place Peter wanted to go. He shook his head.

“I have fresh-baked gingerbread. All little boys like gingerbread. Don’t they?”

The three girls nodded. “Most certainly they do, Mother.”

The woman put her full, wet lips to his ear, whispered to him. The words were all gibberish to Peter, a strange song of curt, cutting sounds, but the smell of baking bread and honey suddenly came alive. Peter’s stomach growled and his mouth moistened. He licked his lips. He would really like some gingerbread—whatever that was.

“Come along,” she murmured and ducked into the hole.

Peter didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow the woman into that hole, didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow her anywhere, but his mind felt syrupy and slow, and when the three girls took his hands and pulled him along, he followed.

He stooped to avoid bumping the roots and glowing mushrooms as he stumbled drunkenly down the long burrow. The tunnel opened up into a small cavern of black rock and twisting roots. Amber stones burned beneath a stack of branches in a wide earthen fireplace, bathing the cavern in their soft caramel glow.

Peter’s foot caught on a hide and he fell sprawling atop a pile of plush furs.

Bones, feathers, beads, dried flowers, and a variety of animal skulls were strung together and dangled from the ceiling on long cords. Fat black toads, great oily beetles, and colorful birds hung upside down from hooks, staring at him with dead, glassy eyes. Scrolls and clay pots lay scattered about on low-lying tables.

Peter caught movement among the crags and crevasses of the cavern, thought he saw shapes crawling within the shadows. Then he spied the pile of little cakes stacked in a clay bowl and could think of little else.

She crawled across the furs, carrying the bowl, sidling up next to him. She slid a bare leg over him and put a cake to his lips. Peter took a bite.

It was sweet and warm, but oddly gooey in the middle. He ate it anyway, then another, wanted more, but was having trouble chewing, having trouble keeping his head up. The room was growing fuzzy, wobbling somehow, like ripples across a pond. One moment he saw dozens of shiny candles flickering down at him, then he’d blink and in their stead would be eyes, hundreds of slanted yellow eyes.

She straddled him, leaning forward, letting her hair drape across his face. She placed a warm hand on his stomach, running her fingers up his chest, pushing the wolf pelt aside. She bent over and sniffed his hair, her breasts sliding along his bare chest as she sniffed his face, down his neck, then pressed her cheek against his chest. He felt the hot wetness of her mouth on his nipple.

Peter felt his loins stir. He saw the three sisters behind the woman, watching, their eyes wide, feverous, drool running shamelessly down their chins.

“My, he is a firm one,” whispered the first.

“Rigid as a tent post,” chimed in the second.

“We will feed a long time on this one,” added the third and all three giggled.

No, Peter tried to shout, but managed only a weak moan. He felt a sharp sting then a burning at his nipple.

“Blood for the children. Blood for all,” the sisters said as one.

Peter caught movement above him—eyes, the yellow slanted eyes slithering out from the shadows. Hundreds of them, twisted, deformed creatures, some no bigger than newts, others the size of raccoons. Blotchy gray skin rolled along their bony, cadaverous bodies as they slithered and shimmied toward him, all grinning with long, needle-thin teeth.

He caught sight of the bowl of gingerbread cakes, only they weren’t cakes at all, but fat, grubby larvae with little black heads. Again, Peter tried to shout.

The woman convulsed, coughed violently, and sat up. Blood was smeared all around her lips and mouth.

“Mother, what is it?” the sisters asked as one.

She coughed again, a retching cough. She clutched her throat, gagged, and spat up, dousing Peter with a mouthful of bile and blood.

She howled, the horrible sound filling the small chamber.

The creatures froze in place; their eyes terrified.

She stared at Peter while a long string of red drool slid from her lips. “It can’t be?” She shook her head. “How?”

She coughed again, spattered Peter’s face with more blood.

“Mother, what is it?” the sisters pleaded. “Tell us!”

The woman pushed the wolf cap back from Peter’s head. She stared at his ears. “Not a boy,” she said, her eyes wide with confusion and fear before they turned hard. “Not a child of the Sidhe either. An abomination,” she hissed.

Peter felt himself waking up fast, the room coming into sharp focus.

Her hand shot out like a viper, clutching his neck between her rigid fingers, her sharp nails biting into his flesh. “Where did you come from? Did Modron send you? Is this one of her games?”

Peter slid his hand down to his knife, but found the sheath empty.

“Is this her vexings?” she cried, her emerald eyes swimming with malice. “Answer me lest I bite off your boyhood and feed you to the leeches!”

Peter’s hand flailed about, hit the clay bowl. He snatched a hold of it and struck her, breaking the bowl on the side of her head, knocking her over. Peter kicked away and almost made it to his feet when her fingers bit into his ankle, tripping him, sending him barreling into the hearth.

She came after him, claws out, lips peeled back, exposing rows of long, green, blood-stained teeth. Her eyes shriveled to tiny pinpricks of glowing green set deep within dark sockets. She snatched a hold of his arm, her sharp claws puncturing deep into his muscle tissue. She raked her other hand across his ribs, tearing into his flesh.

Peter let out a shrill cry and snatched a shard of timber from the fire, cried out again from the heat of it, but held tight as he rammed the burning end into her eye.

She shrieked, a sound so loud that he had to clap his hands over his ears. She flew away from him, crashing across the room, the burning shard stuck deep in her socket, sizzling flames leaping up between her fingers as she clutched at it.

Peter didn’t wait around to see what happened next; he dove into the tunnel, scrambling up the shaft as fast as a mole rat.

“Get him!” she wailed. “Get him! GET HIM!” she bellowed, and her voice shot up the tunnel, sending leaves, dirt, and bugs rocketing past him in a hot blast.

Every slithering, crawling, and flying thing, the very cavern itself seemed to howl then. And they came for him, all of them, the roots too, grabbing at his arms and legs. The tunnel shrank around him, like the convulsing throat of some giant monstrosity. Things leaped off the walls onto him: bugs, spiders. He felt their stings and bites. He reached the surface and the bat-winged creatures came for him like a swarm of hornets, stinging him with their tails, sending him howling away into the thickets. Peter ran then, ran faster than he’d ever run. He had no idea where he was going, intent only on getting as far away as he could from that woman, that creature, and all the biting, stinging things.

He heard howls and dared a glance back. The three girls were coming for him, running on all fours, great, loping strides, their feet seemed not to even touch the ground, long, pointed tongues lolling out from between sharp canine teeth as they rapidly closed the distance.

Peter broke out of the thicket onto a small path and dashed up the trail. He climbed steadily upward, the bog falling behind as the ground became firm underfoot.

A figure stepped in front of him. A man? Peter crashed headlong into him, both of them tumbling into a small grassy clearing. Peter hopped up, started to flee, and saw more men, five, no, six of them. They pointed long, thin swords at his chest. Peter glanced around, frantically searching for an avenue of escape.

“Whoa. Hold,” said the first man, the one Peter had knocked over. “What nonsense is going on here?”

On second look, Peter realized that these were not men, not of the sorts he’d known, anyway. In fact, they were elves, but Peter knew nothing about elves at the time. These elves were much shorter than men, boyish in size, little over a head taller than himself. Long in limb, thin of face, almost feminine with small, golden eyes, mere slits, slanted and set high and wide above sharp cheekbones. They had pointed ears and skin as white as chalk. Their hair hung down their backs in long braids. They wore tight-fitting garments that looked to be made of woven leaves and bark.

“Give him back,” came a little girl’s voice. The three sisters were standing at the edge of the clearing not ten yards away.

The elves shifted the points of their swords to the girls.

“We brought him through,” the girls spoke. “He’s ours.”

“I think not,” said the elf, the one Peter had run into. Peter could see he looked older than the others. His hair was pure white, and there were strong lines about his eyes. The elf got to his feet, drew his sword, and stepped in front of Peter.

The sisters hissed, all three of them raking the air with their claws, as though they couldn’t wait to rend Peter’s flesh.

“He belongs to me,” came a deep, guttural voice from behind the girls.

The elves exchanged looks.

The woman strolled into the clearing, one hand clasped over her eye. “He owes me something.” She dropped her hand, exposing the raw, bloody wound of her eyeless socket.

Several of the elves gasped, but held their ground.

“You’re trespassing, all of you. Give me one of the boy’s eyes and I will allow you to leave unharmed.”

“Nonsense,” countered a voice from behind Peter.

Another woman entered the clearing. She was a bit taller than the swamp woman, thin-boned and slender through the body, almost frail, her smooth skin so white as to be blue. Her long white hair was tied back and crowned with a ring of holly leaves. She was draped in shimmering white and gold and wore a bronze star attached around her neck by a simple gold chain.

“This is Myrkvior forest,” she said. “You’ve no dominion here. Go back to your hole and rut with your filthy beasts.”

The swamp woman smirked. “What do you know of rutting? You with your cold dead cunt.”

The white-haired woman’s eyes flashed, brilliant cerulean.

The swamp woman laughed. “A barren fertility goddess. No wonder you can no longer hear Father’s voice.”

A low growl rumbled from the white-haired woman’s throat, a sound that made the hair stand up on Peter’s arms. She stepped forward, her lips peeled back exposing long canine fangs, appearing more animal than human at that moment.

“Oh, stop your pissing, Modron,” the swamp woman said. “If you wish this creature, take him.” The swamp woman’s face changed then. Peter wasn’t sure if he saw sympathy or pity—maybe both. “How many?” she asked. “How many will it take to fill that hole in your heart? You can have all the children in our world and in theirs, but it will never bring your little boy back to you.”

Pain, deep pain, fell across the white-haired lady’s face.

The swamp woman started away, then stopped. She looked at Peter. “Be careful, little boy. I only want your eye. But she—she’ll take your soul.” The swamp woman spun away and seemed to evaporate into the woods.

The three sisters backed slowly away, not taking their eyes off Peter. Before the last sister left, she pointed at Peter, then at her eye, and jabbed at the air with a hook claw.

THE CERULEAN-EYED WOMAN stared at Peter. They all did. Peter glanced about, looking for an escape.

“Don’t be frightened, boy,” said the older elf as he dusted off his leggings. “Anyone that stole the witch’s very eye has nothing to fear from the likes of us.” He gave Peter a wry smile of admiration.

The other elves nodded in agreement and put away their swords.

The old elf extended his hand. “Sergeant Drael of the Lady’s First Guard, at your service.” His face broke into a broad grin.

Peter liked the elf’s smile. He shook his hand and smiled back. “I’m Peter.”

“This,” the elf extended a hand toward the woman, “is the Lady Modron, daughter of Avallach. The Lady of the Lake and the Queen of all Avalon.”

A queen? Peter wasn’t sure what a queen was, but judging by the way the elves treated her, it must be something important. He took a closer look. She appeared a bit frail to him, with her fine bones and long, thin neck, yet he sensed strength from her. Maybe it was the confidence in her stride, the way she glided through the forest, the way she looked at all things as though they belonged to her. She was elegant and graceful, but Peter thought her eyes a bit too far apart, her face too long, making her appear animalish, spooky even.

“So, Peter,” Drael said. “How did a boy end up in the clutches of Ginny Greenteeth?”

“Who?” Peter asked.

“The witch.”

“He’s not a boy,” the Lady said, appraising Peter. “See his ears. He has faerie in him.”

“What is he then?” Drael asked.

The Lady gave Peter another long look. “He’s a mystery. A most intriguing mystery.” She looked at Peter’s chest. “He’s been marked.”

Peter looked down at himself. He was covered in mud and blood. The cuts in his side were bleeding steadily, the bug stings were red and swelling, and the bite around his nipple was turning black. He’d been so intent on escape he’d not even noticed, but now the wounds began to hurt, the one on his chest burning. His hand did, too. He held out his palm; it was an angry red and dotted with white blisters.

The Lady bent down and lightly touched the edge of the bite wound. Peter flinched and sucked in a breath.

“Come,” she said. “We need to take care of that or the poison will spread.” She held out her hand.

Peter hesitated.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Peter took her hand and she led him up the trail. The elves fell in, three in front and three behind. Peter looked up at her as they walked. She smiled at him. Peter decided he liked holding hands with a queen, liked it very much.

The trail led into a lush glade; at its center sat a circular pond surrounded by large, flat, white boulders. A gentle stream cascaded over the stones, sending a soft ripple across the pond’s surface. The water was crystal-clear.

Peter caught sight of small, colorful fish chasing one another just below the surface—on second look, he noticed that they had the upper bodies of men and women. The winged wee folk skated across the surface as they zipped about snatching bugs out of the air.

The Lady unhooked the clasp on her shoulder, letting her gown drop. She waded out into the pool until her fingertips touched the water. The sunlight glittered off the surface and danced along her gleaming white skin. She closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun, basking in its warmth.

She spoke a few words that Peter didn’t understand and sank beneath the water.

The elves spread out, perching among the surrounding rocks, and watching the woods.

Peter waited for the Lady to surface. He waited a long time. No one could hold their breath that long. He glanced around at the elves, but none of them appeared concerned. He walked up to the bank, caught a flash beneath the water, and saw her, a silvery shape swimming like a fish around the pool. She bobbed up before him and gestured for him to come in.

Peter took off his wolf pelt and tested the water with his foot. It was cool but not cold and felt good on such a warm day. He waded in to his waist and felt something tickling his ankles. The fish people were flittering around his feet, feeding on the silt.

The Lady took his hand and pulled him into the deeper water, until his tiptoes could just touch the bottom. She drifted behind him, draping her arms over his shoulders. Peter stiffened.

“Let go of your fear, Peter,” she whispered.

Peter took a deep breath and she took him under, pulling him down to where the water was dark and cold. Peter could just make out the blurry rays of the sun dancing on the surface far above him. His lungs began to tighten and he felt a twinge of panic.

Her arms squeezed about him and he thought of her sharp teeth. Did she mean to drown him?

Her voice drifted to him, a muffled song resonating through the depths. The water began to warm around him. He felt a steady thumping, like a heartbeat, could hear the swish of blood through his own veins and arteries and it was as though he was back in his mother’s womb. His pulse began to slow, matching the rhythm, two hearts beating as one. His lungs no longer ached for air. He felt part of her, of the pool, the water itself his lifeblood. Her voice the faintest tickle in his ear, I am your forest, your earth, your eternity. I am your life. I am your death. I am all things forever and always. Love me. Love me. Forever love me. He curled into a ball, a floating fetus with the pond his womb. Yes, he answered. Forever. The womb began to glow, growing brighter, then brighter. His head broke the surface.

Peter spat out a mouthful of water and sucked in a deep lungful of air. He blinked against the sunlight. Where was he? Then he saw the Lady and nothing else mattered. She was the most perfect creature he could imagine, and he couldn’t understand how he ever thought otherwise. His heart fairly strummed with her vision, all he wanted to do was gaze upon her forever.

The Lady examined him. “The poison is gone,” she said, looking satisfied. “The wounds will heal with time.”

Reluctantly, Peter tore his eyes from her and glanced down at his chest. There was only the slightest pink trace of the bite mark left. The slashes in his side were closed and the hundreds of insect stings had vanished.

They got dressed and lay out upon a wide, flat stone to warm themselves in the sun.

Peter was watching a heron drift by overhead when a host of hoots and howls burst from the trees. He sat up. A crew of long-armed creatures came swinging into the clearing. They were a bit larger than raccoons, black manes sprouting around their necks. Their small, dark eyes were close-set and their snouts were long, reminding Peter a bit of wolfhounds. They scampered up to the far bank on short legs and knuckles, slurping noisily as they drank from the pond.

“What are those?”

“Barghest,” the Lady said. “Be careful, they can be nasty if given the chance. They’ll certainly rob you of anything they can get their hands on.”

The creatures hooted and barked as they drank.

Peter cupped his hands to his mouth and mimicked their hooting.

The barghest fell silent, all of them staring at Peter. Peter jumped up and let loose several more hoots. The creatures erupted into a volley of irritated barking, the lot of them leaping away into the trees and disappearing into the woods.

The Lady laughed heartily and the sound was music to Peter’s ears.

“That’s good, Peter. How’d you learn to do that?”

Peter shrugged, then began to mimic the whistles, hoots, chirps, and calls of the other animals. Soon all the creatures around the pond were cocking their heads quizzically at him.

The Lady laughed long and deep, and even the elves couldn’t help but smile.

A strange cry caught their attention. Peter saw a large bird with fiery red plumage glide across the pond and alight in a nearby tree. It surveyed the pond, its brilliant orange eyes standing out in stark contrast to a crown of black feathers.

The Lady let out a soft gasp and leaped to her feet. “Peter,” she whispered. “The Sunbird.”

It lifted its head and began to sing, and all the creatures in the forest fell silent. This wasn’t just a call, but a song made up of whistles and chirps, like nothing Peter had ever heard before.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she whispered.

Peter nodded and glanced at the Lady. She held her fingertips to her lips, her eyes captivated.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the bird took flight and left them.

“Oh, don’t go,” she said, and sighed. “I’ve not seen it since I was a girl. That sweet song takes me back to happier times.” She was quiet then, her eyes distant.

Peter caught a flash in the sun and something landed on the sandy bank. He leaped up, raced over, and picked it up. It was a brilliant red feather. He brought it back and held it up for the Lady to see. The sunlight shimmered off the fine filaments, and when he twirled it, it sparkled and glowed as though aflame.

The sparkles glittered across the Lady’s face. “Oh, Peter. It’s beautiful!”

He handed it to her. “It’s for you.”

“For me? Peter, no, you can’t. It is too wonderful a treasure.”

“Yes I can.”

She took the feather and began to twirl it. A smile of unabashed joy lit up her whole face, and in that moment she looked like a little girl.

Peter cupped his hands over his mouth, and began to whistle and chirp, trying to mimic the Sunbird’s song. He didn’t get it right, but after a few more tries, he had it and whistled the song all the way through.

The Lady stared at him in utter amazement, then grabbed his hand and clasped it in both of hers. “That’s wonderful! You must be part bird.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter said proudly. “Why, I’m a Peterbird.”

“Well Peterbird, you must come visit my court and sing for me. Is it agreed?”

Peter gave a big nod.

“Good.” She looked at him, looked at him intently for a long time. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“One more thing.” She reached behind her neck and undid the gold chain. She held it out so Peter could see the eight-point star. He noticed it was actually fine threads of tarnished gold spun around a dark stone. “This belonged to another little boy, a very special little boy. He is lost to me. I would like for you to wear it for now. Would you do that for me?”

Again, Peter nodded.

She slipped it around Peter’s neck and kissed him atop his head. “My little Mabon,” she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it

As Peter held the star, it began to glow slightly.

The Lady saw it too and her eyes began to tear. She reached for Peter and pulled him tight, hugged him for a long time. She smelled of pollen and the sweetness of cool water.

Peter heard her again in his head, or heart maybe, like in the pond. You are mine. Mine forever.

Yes, he answered. Forever.

“HEY,” NATHAN CALLED. “Wait up.”

The child thief realized he’d let his mind drift, let the kid fall behind. He knew better, knew that the Mist, given the chance, would get in his head and play games. Stupid, he thought. Careless and stupid. And now the boy was actually shouting in the Mist.

Peter waited, searching the shimmering wall of silvery light, listening. Had the Sluagh heard? Were they on their way?

“I don’t like this,” Nathan said. “Just where are we?”

Peter put his fingers to his lips. “Shhh!” Peter whispered. “You have to keep quiet or they’ll hear. Now let’s go.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Peter didn’t answer; now wasn’t the time for talk. He turned, searching for the Path. It was there, just ahead, the thin golden thread sliding and shifting, drifting away as though blown by a hidden wind. You had to stay with the Path or it would leave you behind.

Peter headed for the Path, then realized Nathan wasn’t following; the boy was staring at the ground.

“Look!” Nathan said, pointing.

Peter didn’t need to look. He knew what it was.

“Those are bones! That’s somebody’s goddamn head!” Nathan squinted warily at Peter. “What the hell kinda place is this?”

Peter jabbed his finger to his lips. The kid had to be quiet. Had to!

“Don’t tell me to shhh,” Nathan said, raising his voice. “I asked you a question. What the fuck kinda place is this?”

Peter gritted his teeth, tried to control his temper, but this kid was going to get them both killed. He glanced at the Path, it was drifting away. He didn’t dare lose sight of it, but they needed the kid. Peter stepped toward him.

Nathan stumbled back, jerked a gun out, and pointed it at Peter. Peter halted.

“STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” the kid yelled.

Peter heard the distant sound of children’s laughter. His blood went cold. The laughter grew louder, joined by wails and moans, the cackling cries of old women. The Mist began to stir.

The kid snapped his head about. “What’s that? Huh? What the fuck is that?”

The Path drifted farther away, another moment and it would be lost. “Listen, Nathan,” Peter said as calmly as he could. “You have one chance. Follow me, right now. Move, or you’ll never leave the Mist.”

But Nathan wasn’t paying Peter any attention. He spun around, left then right, holding the gun out in front of him, his eyes wide and terrified. “STAY AWAY FROM ME!” he screamed.

The Sluagh came, first the disembodied heads, flying around, circling the boy, followed by the naked craggy women, holding hands and skipping merrily about, then the beasts, all shapes and sizes, their barks and howls, screams and growls rumbling back and forth across the ghostly wasteland.

“NATHAN!” Peter cried. “COME! NOW!”

“OH MY GOD!” Nathan screamed and pulled the trigger over and over. But there was only a dry click as the hammer fell on the dead shells. The kid’s face twisted into a mask of confusion and terror. Peter could’ve told him the gunpowder wouldn’t work, not here in the Mist. It never does. And even if the bullets had fired, they wouldn’t have done a bit of good.

The spirits, one and all, laughed, the sound booming about the Mist like thunder. The flying heads swarmed the boy, pecking at his hair. He ran screaming, swinging the gun wildly, trying to fend them off as they chased him into the swirling wall of gray mist.

Peter didn’t shout to the boy again. It would do no good. Peter found the Path and walked, his face tight, his eyes hard. He watched one foot after the other pound into the soft, powdery ground and did his damndest not to hear the distant echoes of Nathan’s screams.

PETER STUMBLED ASHORE and collapsed on the beach. He punched the sand again and again, until his knuckles were raw, until he could no longer hear the boy’s cries inside his head. He dug his fingers into the beach, came away with two handfuls of sand, turned and glared at the Mist. “WHY?” he screamed and slung the sand into its swirling mass. “Why,” he screamed again, knowing the night would hear, the were-beasts and, worse, the Flesh-eaters. He didn’t care.

“Flesh-eaters,” he spat. “Fucking Flesh-eaters. This is all because of them.” He bared his teeth at the Mist. The glint of madness sparkled in his eye. “Someone,” he whispered, “needs to remind them to be afraid of the night.”

Instead of heading into the swamps and back toward Deviltree, Peter turned and followed the coastline, making his way over the driftwood and rocks beneath the silvery glow of the low-hanging clouds, and it was not long before he heard the soft tread of something trailing him.

Peter slid out his long knife and turned, shouting a challenge, daring the thing to show itself. Nothing did or dared, his madness too plain, and Peter continued on alone until he saw the jagged timber walls of the fort lit up from within by a smoldering watch fire.

He looked out toward the lagoon, to where the skeletons of the great galleons lay half-drowned, leaning off-keel and rotting. Their frames silhouetted against the silver glow of the Mist like the ghostly bones of a sea dragon.

He walked up to the fort wall, mesmerized by the dance of firelight between the jagged timber beams. Atop each of the gate posts sat a boy’s head, their mouths frozen forever in the silent screams of the dead, their hair blowing in the brisk wind, the dark hollows of their eyes staring back at him, mocking him, accusing him.

He counted twenty-four of them. “Jimmy, Mark, Davis…Bob. No. Bill? Which was it?” He started over again, then again, but no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t remember all their names. As his frustration grew so did his volume, until he was shouting their names, knowing the Flesh-eaters would hear and not caring.

He saw their shapes approach the wall, peering out into the darkness, felt their eyes searching for him.

“DEATH HAS COME,” Peter screamed, “TO CUT YOUR THROATS AND DRINK YOUR BLOOD!” He threw back his head and howled like a wolf.

The gate opened. Dozens of Flesh-eaters carrying torches and wielding swords and axes stepped out. A figure pushed through them, a tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat. He slid his sword from his belt, sliced the air with its long, narrow blade, and strolled forward.

Peter slipped silently back into the shadows and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Eleven Barghest

Oww! OWW!” Nick cried.

“Just hold still,” Cricket said. “You’re making it worse.”

Nick grimaced. During the night, something—and Nick had a damn good idea what, judging by the pixies giggling from the rafters—had tied his hair to the bars of his cage.

“Just one more. There,” Cricket said. “Y’know, you’ll have to learn not to sleep with your head so close to the bars.”

Nick sat up, rubbing his hair, and shot Cricket a cutting look. “Thanks, but I think I figured that one out on my own.”

“Eww, someone’s a sourpuss,” Cricket laughed, then stopped abruptly. “Whoa, you don’t look so good.”

Nick frowned. “Thanks.”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you don’t look well. You feel okay?”

“I’m fine,” Nick said curtly. “Just had a bad dream, that’s all.”

NICK WAITED HIS turn for the privy, stepped in, and took a hard look at himself in the mirror. Cricket was right, he looked bad. There were dark circles under his eyes and his eyes looked haunted, his face oddly gaunt. He couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare. Unlike most nightmares, this one stayed with him. Not only could he clearly remember every detail, but he still harbored the ill feelings, the horror of what he’d seen and the terrible things he’d done. He knew it was silly, but he checked his hands, searching for any signs that they were turning black or growing claws. It had been that real. He doused his head with the cool water. It made him feel better, but didn’t wash away his dread or the dark mood lingering in his chest.

Nick almost ran into Sekeu when he came out. She was busy refereeing breakfast and getting the fires going.

“Sorry,” he said.

She gave him a passing glance, stopped, stepped back, and looked at him again. She didn’t seem so much concerned as disturbed. “Nick, how do you feel?”

“Okay.”

Sekeu eyed him, skeptical. “You are sure?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, a bit annoyed. “I’m fine, really.”

Redbone came up behind Sekeu and jabbed her in the butt. “Squaw, paleface need’um powwow.”

Sekeu spun around, leading with her fist.

Redbone was ready for her and leaped back, but she caught him on the arm so hard that even Nick flinched.

“Oww, Jesus Christ, man!” Redbone cried, wincing and clutching his shoulder. “Geez, I was just kidding around.” He shook his arm out.

“What do you want?” Sekeu snapped, looking ready to take his head off.

“Nothing really, except to say we’re running low on acorns, and berries, and mushrooms. Oh, and pretty much every other damn thing.” Redbone leaned over to Nick, still rubbing his arm, and whispered, “She got her muscles from scalping white men, y’know.” He snorted and elbowed Nick, then did a double-take. “Hey, wow. Cat, you don’t look so good.”

Nick frowned.

“How did you sleep?” Sekeu asked Nick. “Did you have any bad dreams?”

The image of his skin turning black and his hands twisting into claws came to Nick. He was about to mention it, but didn’t like the way the two of them were scrutinizing him, like he’d committed a crime. “No,” he lied. “My stomach hurt a little. That’s all. I feel fine now.”

Sekeu and Redbone exchanged a wary glance, neither looked convinced.

Redbone slapped Nick on the back. “That’s just your body getting used to the different food, man. That’s all. It’ll pass.” But Nick didn’t miss the dark look Redbone shot Sekeu.

It scared him.

THE NEXT COUPLE of days flowed into one another: breakfast, training, dinner, sleep, breakfast, training, dinner, sleep, round and round. Nick did his best to stay out of Leroy’s way, but the bigger boy took special pleasure in targeting him, taking every opportunity to give him a hard time. Nick tried not to let it get to him, losing himself in his training. He found the drills and long hours of practice to be the one place where he could forget his troubles. He also found he was getting pretty good with the staff and spear—his ability quickly outpacing that of both Cricket and Danny. His progress was encouraging. But more than anything, he wanted to beat Leroy, and worked tirelessly with Sekeu trying to master every move and trick. Soon he was pressing her to show him the advanced maneuvers he saw the Devils performing. He wasn’t sure if it was the exercise or the strange food, maybe both, but either way, his body felt stronger, his timing and speed increasing with each passing day.

The nights were the hardest, the dark dreams haunting his sleep. Each night in his nightmares, his skin would turn black and the dread and rage would grow in his chest. He would wake breathing hard, his stomach burning and murder in his heart.

After breakfast on Nick’s fourth morning, Sekeu led him, Cricket, Danny, and Leroy over to the big round door on the far side of the hall.

A few moments later, Redbone and the one-handed boy, Abraham, joined them, toting buckets and potato sacks. They’d put on leathers, tight-fitting, hand-stitched, single-piece garments with pointed boots sewn right into them, held up by a belt strapped high across the chest.

Redbone tugged on a beat-up, black leather jacket. This one wasn’t hand-stitched, this was a genuine American motorcycle jacket, complete with spikes, patches, and SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL painted in peeling red letters across the back.

Redbone had a sly grin on his face. “Any of you cats up for a break?”

Danny perked up. “Hey, that’d be great!”

“Good,” Redbone said. “We’re going on a little adventure.”

Nick didn’t like the way Redbone said adventure.

“We are going foraging,” Sekeu said.

“Give you a chance to see some of the sights,” Abraham added and gave Redbone a wink.

“Dirk and Dash are coming with us,” Redbone said to Sekeu. “Be here in a sec. Just as soon as Dirk finds his sword.”

“What, again?” Abraham asked. “How do you lose a sword? Kid would lose his butthole if it weren’t attached to his ass.”

Redbone laughed out loud at that, showing all of his teeth. He seemed to always be wearing that wide, fierce grin. Nick felt that grin combined with the dye, or paint, or whatever it was he rubbed on his skin and hair to make it red, made him look like a real devil. Then there was that ridiculous red bone, the one tied into the topknot of his wild, tangled hair, like something out of the Flintstones. Nick figured if he were to ask—which he had no intention of doing—that ridiculous bone would have something to do with his nickname. Up close, Nick couldn’t help but notice all the scars on the boy, and wondered how many scrapes and challenges this whacked-out kid had been in. One particularly nasty-looking scar snaked lengthwise right down between his squinty, fiendish eyes.

Abraham, other than his missing hand, had very few scars. It was his golden eyes that made him so striking, contrasting sharply with his dark skin. Nick didn’t believe he’d ever seen a person as dark as Abraham; his skin was almost raven-black. Abraham wore a scruffy bowler hat dressed up with black feathers and beads, and a tight-fitting pin-stripe dinner jacket with the sleeves cut out.

Two more boys joined them; one hopping along as he laced up his boot.

“Nick,” Sekeu said. “Meet Dirk and Dash.”

Dirk’s scalp had been shaved; jagged ritual scarring spun away from his eyebrows and along the side of his head. He was a bit shorter than Nick, square-jawed with a hefty build, reminding Nick somewhat of a bulldog.

Dash pushed a clump of blond hair from his face and stared down at Nick. He was almost as tall as Redbone, had a slight underbite, and a head full of long, greasy hair. Bits of bone and metal jutted from his ears, nose, eyebrows, nipples, and Nick didn’t want to imagine where the hell else.

Dirk and Dash cocked their heads from side to side and began to click their teeth.

“No,” Sekeu said, and whacked Dash.

Dirk snorted.

“Hey,” Dash said and jerked a thumb at Dirk. “What about him?”

Sekeu whacked Dirk. Dirk frowned and whacked Dash. Then the two boys were punching each other, and Redbone and Abraham had to separate them.

Ignoring the ruckus, Sekeu went to the wall and tugged over a basket of mangy-looking hides. She handed one to each of the New Blood. “Put these on.”

Nick held it out before him, unsure just how one went about putting on a hide.

“Just stick your head through that there hole,” Abraham said, then added, “They’re for camouflage.”

What are we hiding from? Nick wondered, but was afraid to ask.

By the time Nick got the hide situated, Sekeu handed him a belt. The belt looked ancient, the leather cracking and flaking. It was wide and studded with rings of tarnished brass. Nick noticed intricate swirling designs all but worn away from the years of abuse.

“You have to earn the right to carry a sword,” Sekeu told them as she plucked four spears off the wall. “For now, you are permitted spears.”

Nick noted that the Devils carried a long knife on their belts and a short sword slung across their backs. Dirk and Dash brought along spears as well.

Sekeu tossed Nick a spear. It was heavier than the practice spears, the staff a bit thicker. It felt smooth and true in his hand. He admired the sharp, jagged edge of the spearhead.

Danny was staring at his spear with a sour face. “What do we need these for?”

Nick could’ve answered that one, recalling the claw marks on the door.

“In case we are attacked,” Sekeu said.

“Attacked?” Danny stammered. “Huh? By what?”

“Monsters,” Redbone said, his eyes serious.

SEKEU SLID THE bolt over and pulled the heavy round door inward.

Nick was surprised to find himself eager to venture out. The last time he was out, it had been too dark to see anything, and the time he peeked out the door, well, he’d been too scared to see past his own shadow. But with all the Devils coming along, all armed to the teeth, he didn’t feel scared, he felt an odd excitement.

He glanced at Redbone, Sekeu, Abraham, Dirk, and Dash; they looked alert, dangerous. Not a group he’d want to run into in the forest.

They shuffled out single-file; Nick following Redbone. He took in a deep breath and the musky smell of damp earth filled his nostrils. He peered around the tall boy, eager to see the forest.

The door thudded shut behind them and the heavy bolt clacked into place. Nick stared at the deep claw marks on the door and swallowed loudly. He glanced up and realized that the fort—at least part of it—was actually in a tree, a huge tree that appeared to have grown right out of the stony cliff face, its thick roots and vines twisting around the boulders like a massive octopus. It towered above them and he could see a few lookout stands here and there among the limbs.

They crested a short slope and Nick got his first clear look at the land of Avalon. He couldn’t have told you exactly what he’d envisioned, but the scene before him wasn’t it.

Gray saturated everything, dull and rutty, like the skin of something long-dead. Where was the thick, flowering undergrowth, the giant trees alive with purple monkeys and floating butterfly people, as in his dream? There were no magical creatures, not even a pixie. For that matter, there wasn’t a sign of any living creature of any sort. Not so much as a bird or a bug. The landscape laid out before him was composed of barren sooty earth and the carcasses of once mighty trees. Thorny vines snaked around jagged stumps and huge briar patches formed daunting barriers in all directions.

They marched over the rise and down a crooked, uneven trail, crawling over and under the fallen hulks of rotting trees. There came the occasional break in the low-hanging clouds, and Nick could make out steep, rugged cliffs just beyond the forest.

Redbone fell in beside him and they brought up the rear of the troop. He stared at Nick, that weird grin on his face.

Nick smiled back once, hoping this would placate him. Redbone reminded Nick of the crazy folks that talk to you on the street, the ones you quickly learned it was best not to make eye contact with.

A dense fog swept across the trail, momentarily obscuring the path.

Redbone began making low ghost sounds.

“Silence,” Sekeu called from the front of the troop.

Redbone stopped at once but his crazy grin never wavered. He gave Sekeu a sieg heil salute and winked at Nick.

As they moved along the path, Nick noted a few trees—usually the larger ones—that still held a bit of green in their uppermost branches. Curiosity got the best of him and he asked Redbone in a hushed whisper: “Is the forest dying?”

“Man, all of Avalon is dying,” Redbone answered, seemingly pleased as Punch that Nick wanted to talk. “They call it the scourge. Even in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen this forest go from a thing of beauty to the way it is now. Each time we go out for berries, seems we got to trek farther and farther north.”

“How long you been here?”

“Man, that’s hard to say. Time’s different here, y’know. I do know it was 1974 when I left the human world.”

“Whoa.”

“That’s nothing. That cat Abraham, he left the human world way back during the Civil War. He used to be a slave.”

Nick looked at Abraham, disbelieving. “No way.”

“Yup, and if you think that’s way out, dig this: Sekeu has been here since the pilgrims. She was a slave of the Delaware tribe. Peter stole her right out from under their big fat noses.

“Abraham told me that when he first arrived, this whole forest was still teeming with all sorts of magical little beasties, even the wee folk. Looking at it now, man, that’s hard to believe.”

Nick saw something move in the mist, a dark, skittering shadow about the size of a rat.

“That’s a darkling,” Redbone volunteered. “From what I’m told, they’ve always been a part of Avalon. Nasty life-sucking things. But pretty much the only life you find around here, now. Hell, these days, even the darklings are starting to fade. With all the wee folk gone, they only got each other to eat.”

Nick saw another one duck away into the hollow of a log. It looked like a spider but was the size of a cat. Geez, Nick thought, and made a mental note to steer clear of any hollow logs or stumps.

They passed a clump of dead bushes, then rounded a bend, and a shallow valley opened below them where brown foliage sparsely littered the trees. As they trekked along the trail, the landscape gradually began to shift and the trees and bushes to fill in. But it wasn’t until after about an hour of hiking that Nick finally caught sight of any real greenery.

They forded a wide, lazy creek, crossed a field of tall brown grass dotted with a few wilted wildflowers, and shortly thereafter entered a forest of thick, sprawling trees.

“This is Myrkvior Forest,” Redbone said. “It’s the oldest woods on Avalon, the very heart of the island. Its magic is strong, but man, look at that.” Redbone pointed at the scraggly limbs and gray-and-brown leafage. “Man, even here the damn scourge is choking the life out of everything.”

Nick found no signs of magical creatures, and only heard the occasional lonely birdcall.

The troop halted while Sekeu and Abraham inspected a line of prickly bushes, poking and prodding among the brown leaves.

“Find anything?” Abraham asked.

Sekeu held out two shriveled berries.

“Now that be a pitiful sight,” Abraham said, shaking his head.

The group moved along, farther and farther into the tall trees, checking one cluster of bushes, then another, then another. A couple of hours later they halted beneath a grove of short trees. Redbone pulled a limb down for Sekeu to pluck a couple of berries. She dropped them into Abraham’s bucket.

Abraham looked into the bucket. “Well now we’re getting somewhere. Why that makes eight berries and about twenty acorns so far.”

“Enough for my breakfast,” Redbone said. “Don’t know what the rest of you jive turkeys are gonna do for grub.”

Abraham let out a long, defeated sigh. “Once you could’ve filled all our buckets up from just this one bush here. If this keeps up we’ll be eating thorns sure enough.”

“What the fuck?” Dirk said. “Last week there were plenty of berries here.”

“Shit,” Redbone said. “It’s like it’s going faster. Every time we have to search farther and farther into the forest. Man, what’re we gonna do when we run out of forest?”

“Enough talk,” Sekeu said sharply, her face tight. She walked quickly away, continuing down the trail.

The rest of the Devils exchanged somber looks and followed.

A SMALL DEER broke cover. It was thin and mangy. It leaped across a wide, shallow creek, up a slope, and disappeared into the brambles.

Redbone snatched Danny’s spear away from him and started after the deer.

“NO!” Sekeu shouted.

Redbone ignored her.

“THE LADY’S WOOD!” she cried.

Redbone stopped. He looked up and down the creek, his face confused.

“Oh, good Lord,” Abraham said, his voice incredulous. “She’s right. That’s Cusith Creek. Why, I didn’t even recognize it. Not with all them leaves and flowers gone.”

“Impossible,” Dirk said. “The scourge in the Lady’s Wood?”

“If we don’t bring something back we’re gonna starve,” Redbone growled. “I say we go after it.”

“You go,” Abraham said. “I’m in no mind to throw my life away for a spot of venison.”

Redbone stared after the deer.

“The elves will kill you,” Sekeu stated with certainty. “The trees have eyes and ears.” She pointed to three bird-size faeries watching them from a high branch.

THEY FOLLOWED THE dark creek downstream, stopping occasionally to examine the bushes along the banks. The sun never came out from behind the clouds, but the day had grown warm and humid.

“Hey,” Danny huffed, wiping the sweat from his brow. His face was bright red, his T-shirt soaked. “Any chance of a break?”

Sekeu kept plodding onward, her eyes relentlessly searching the bushes and underbrush.

“Y’know,” Abraham said, “break might not be such a bad idea. Be a mite awkward if we were to kill the New Blood on their first day out.”

Sekeu stopped, took a hard look at Danny, then scanned the surrounding tree line. “Rest here. I will go check oak grove. Dirk, come.”

Nick collapsed atop a large, flat stone next to the shallow creek and watched Sekeu and Dirk disappear into the woods. He let out a tired sigh and joined the rest of them in dousing his head and getting a long drink. The sweetness of the water still amazed him.

“Can’t believe the scourge has spread to the Lady’s Wood,” Redbone said. “Man, I would’ve never dreamed that possible.”

“Seems to me, it’s accelerating,” Abraham said. “I do wonder if Peter has any idea.”

“Y’know,” Dash said, “Peter should’ve been back by now.”

“Just hope he ain’t got himself in a spot he can’t get out of,” Abraham said.

“There’s no such thing as trouble that dude can’t get out of,” Redbone said.

“I just hope he brings some more Snickers,” Dash said.

“Man, there ain’t much I miss about the world,” Redbone said. “But I gotta say I sure miss the food. Remember that time Peter brought back six boxes of Ray’s pizza?”

“Do I ever,” Abraham said, and a big smile lit up his face. “Why I dream about that most every night.”

Danny’s eyes grew big. “Pizza! Wow, that’d make my decade.”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of acorns and mushrooms already,” Redbone said, and nudged Danny. “Man, you gotta wait ’til you’ve been here as long as me before you start griping about the food.”

“So where is Peter?” Nick asked.

“Catching kids,” Redbone said with a laugh.

Nick couldn’t believe they were laughing. “That’s funny?”

Redbone’s smile faded.

“It’s not right,” Nick muttered, half-under his breath.

“What’s not right?”

Nick didn’t answer, he just shook his head.

“I said, what’s not right?”

“What do you think?” Nick said. “The bastard kidnapping kids. That’s what’s not right.”

Redbone struck Nick. He moved so quickly Nick didn’t even see it coming, hit him in the chest, knocking him into the creek.

Abraham was up and between them in a blink, holding Redbone back. “Whoa. Ease back now. Let it go. He’s New Blood, remember?”

Redbone glared at Nick then glanced around at the other New Blood. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t want to catch any of you badmouthing the man. That jive don’t fly with me.” He walked over to Nick, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him up out of the creek. He propped Nick back up on the rock, then plopped down across from him, leaning forward and locking his crazy eyes on him.

“You need to understand a thing or two,” Redbone said. “So I’m gonna lay it on you. Back before I came here I lived upstate with my old man. Got tired of the sorry fuck beating the snot out of me every other day. So I upped and lit out for the big city. In less than a week, I was sleeping in a cardboard box, stealing, and turning tricks just to eat. You’ve any idea how bad that is? I had to do things I can’t even talk about still. I was thirteen. Fucking thirteen!

“One night this pimp gets a hold of me. Bastard tells me if I wanna work his street, I gotta pay. Pay? With what? I didn’t have enough dough to buy food. How was I supposed to pay this hustler? So I don’t. Sure enough he catches up with me and beats the crap out of me. I mean really beats the crap out of me. Left me in a Dumpster, spitting up blood. Man, at that point I wanted to die.

“Week later I’m back at it, because that’s all I got, see. Only now, no one wants anything to do with me. Y’know why?” Redbone’s eyes bore into Nick. “Because I got this gnarly scab on my mouth and I was all scraped up from the beating. So I’m mostly stealing shit and eating out of garbage cans. He caught me on his turf again. I wasn’t getting any action. I was just there, y’know. Made no difference to this motherfucker. He drug me into an alley, stuffed garbage in my mouth so no one could hear me screaming, and pulled out his knife. Says he’s gonna fix me for good and gives me this.” Redbone traced the scar running down his face. “Would’ve killed me, but that’s when Peter showed up. Y’know, the guy you were just badmouthing? Before that asshole even knew what was happening Peter cut him wide open. Laid him out! That’s one son’bitch that’ll never hurt another kid, ever.

“Peter doctored me up the best he could and brought me back with him. So let me lay it on you straight. I love that pointy-eared dude. He did more than save my life. He gave me a life. Gave me a family. I know what I’m about, ’cause it’s all real simple here. We’re clan. We’re Devils and we look after one another.”

Abraham and Dash nodded along.

“And if you think my story’s bad,” Redbone continued, “man, you ain’t heard shit. Get Abraham to tell you what it was like to be a runaway slave sometime. Ask him about the life Peter saved him from. Hell, ask any of them kids back at the fort. Every one of them gots a hard-luck story that’d bring tears to your eyes. Plenty a lot worse than mine. And there’s not a single one of them that wants to go back. Because we’ve all had our share of dealing with fucked-up parents, stepparents, priests, cops, pimps, pushers, crackheads, all those fuckers out there. That world out there, I say they can keep it, man.

“Peter’s given us another chance. That cat has put his life on the line for me. For you and for every kid here, time and again. The sooner you get your mind right about that the better off you’ll be. Are we straight on that?”

No, Nick thought. We’re not. But he nodded anyway.

“Good,” Redbone said. “Because I like you. And I’d hate to have to kill you.”

Nick wasn’t sure if Redbone was kidding, was pretty sure he wasn’t, pretty sure this kid would kill him if Peter asked him to, and judging from what he had seen back at the fort, probably any of them would. He glanced at Abraham, Dash, Leroy, even Cricket and Danny. He could see it in all their eyes. They were completely taken in by Peter’s ruse. It was as though Peter was some sort of messiah to them, come to take them to the promised land.

“This is a magical place,” Abraham said, addressing all the New Blood. “You wouldn’t know it. Not by the way things are now. But when I first come here these forests were lush, teeming with life. Every kind of fruits and nuts you could imagine. Why there were wild bananas hanging off the trees…a true paradise.”

“And it’ll be again,” Redbone stated with absolute conviction. “That’s where we come in. Where you come in. Together we’re gonna drive away the Flesh-eaters and then.” His eyes glimmered. “Then, we’ll be the Lords of Avalon.”

“Flesh-eaters?” Cricket asked.

Redbone hesitated, cut his eyes to Abraham.

“Tell us,” Cricket prodded.

“Yeah, well,” Redbone muttered. “Let’s just say they’re the ones causing all this trouble and leave it at that.”

“What are they?” Cricket persisted.

“Hush up, now,” Abraham said. “Here comes Sekeu. She’s in a foul enough mood already. She’ll scalp the lot of us if she hears us talking to New Blood about Flesh-eaters. Peter will tell you. Let you in on everything soon enough.”

Why can’t we talk about these Flesh-eaters? Nick wondered. What are they hiding? Nick thought about asking Sekeu, then saw her face and decided now wasn’t the time.

Sekeu held out her hand: four gray acorns.

“That there’s from Oak Grove?” Abraham asked.

She nodded.

“What’re we gonna do?”

“I say we slip across the creek,” Redbone said. “Make a quick raid into the Lady’s Wood.”

Abraham looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “You do have a death wish.”

“The elves are too vigilant,” Sekeu said.

“Well, that leaves the witch’s swamp,” Redbone said.

They all fell quiet.

“Well?” Abraham asked, looking at Sekeu.

Sekeu shook her head. “What other choice do we have?”

THEY FOLLOWED THE creek downstream until the land began to level out. The water turned brown and led into a marsh of high, gray reeds. The reeds gave way to squat twisted trees with slick, black, oily bark, their branches dripping with thick moss. The path became soggy then muddy, grabbing at their feet. The trees pressed in around them as the path wove around weedy bogs and stagnant ponds.

Nick didn’t like it; other than an occasional bellow, the swamp was still and silent, the air musty and stifling. Even Redbone had fallen deathly quiet, all of them creeping along, weapons out, keeping a tight watch on the trees and murky pools. Nick felt as though he was in a sideshow spook house, knowing something would pop out at any second. He was worn out, his feet sore, and the dread was wearing on his nerves. He decided he’d had all the adventuring he needed for one day, and found himself actually longing to be back at the fort.

A cry came from behind and Nick spun about in time to see Danny sliding down a short embankment and into a pool of black, viscous mud.

“HELP!” Danny cried as he clawed at the slippery bank. The mud bubbled up around him. It was up to his waist in no time and appeared to be pulling him down.

Redbone leaped over, grabbed a root in one hand, and snatched a hold of Danny’s wrist with the other. Dash and Dirk were there in a second and it took all three of them to finally pull Danny out.

“Hey Danny,” Redbone said. “Next time you decide to drown yourself, try not to make so much noise. Okay?”

Danny looked like he was about to cry. He’d lost both his boots and was covered from the neck down in stringy, oily mud. The mud gurgled loudly behind him and he scurried away from the bank.

“Maybe we should take them back,” Abraham said to Sekeu.

“There,” Sekeu said, and pointed to a cluster of spotted mushrooms growing beneath a thick, thorny hedge.

“Few more over here,” Dash said. “We should spread out. Might just find enough.”

Sekeu nodded in agreement. She pointed at Nick and the other New Blood. “You four look here. Abraham, stay with them. The rest of you spread out. But keep in sight. We must be quick. She will find us if we linger.”

“OUCH,” NICK SAID, and stuck his finger in his mouth. That was about the hundredth time he’d been pricked so far. The only mushrooms they’d found were growing beneath the thornbushes. Nick guessed these were the ones the deer couldn’t get to.

“Me too,” Cricket said. She held up the back of her hand. She was a couple bushes down the slope, but Nick had no problem seeing the scratches. Danny actually looked like he was enjoying himself for the first time all day. He was on all fours, knocking at a mushroom with his spear.

“It’s kind of like hunting Easter eggs,” Danny said. “Don’t you think?”

“Just shut up and keep picking,” Leroy said.

Abraham came over to Leroy and dropped a handful of mushrooms into his sack.

“We do need to hurry,” Abraham said, looking worriedly up the hill. “The fog’s gettin’ up.”

Nick glanced up the hill and could just make out the shape of Sekeu and Redbone digging around on the ridgeline.

Something splashed nearby; Abraham heard it too. The fog was indeed getting thicker. At first, Nick thought he was just imagining things, then a wave of fog drifted into the clearing and all but obscured Danny.

“No sir, this ain’t right at all,” Abraham said. “We need to git. I’ll fetch Sekeu. Now, don’t any of you go nowhere.” He sprinted away up the hill.

The fog continued to roll in.

“Nobody told you to stop,” Leroy said.

“Can you see them?” Cricket asked.

“Not anymore,” Nick said.

“Got it!” Danny said, holding up a big yellow mushroom. “Man, would you look at the size of this thing?”

“Shit, I can’t see a thing,” Cricket said.

“I said get back to work,” Leroy growled.

A small break opened in the fog. Nick spotted Abraham nearing the ridge, then the hair shot up on the back of his neck. Behind Abraham were four, maybe five hunched shapes, right on his heels, and whatever they were, they weren’t human.

Nick was in mid-shout when a horrible screech cut him off.

It was Danny. He was on the ground and on top of him was a—monster. It had red fur, was no larger than a cat, and reminded Nick of a hyena but with long arms and clawed fingers that were even now digging into Danny’s arm and shoulder. It whipped about a long tail with a wet red stinger protruding from the end, and it began slamming the stinger repeatedly into Danny’s neck and face.

“OH, SHIT!” Nick cried. His sack fell from his hand, sending the handful of mushrooms tumbling down the slope.

Danny’s face went bright red, his mouth opened wide as he gasped loudly for breath. He toppled over backward, twitched violently, then lay still, his eyes staring up at nothing.

Another hyena-thing dropped from the tree above Cricket, knocking the spear from her hand. This one was much larger, closer to the size of a German shepherd, a thick mane of black fur circling its head. It too had a whip tail, but this one lacked any sort of stinger that Nick could see.

Cricket screamed and swung wildly with her bucket, driving it back. She tried to get around it, but it kept her pinned between the thorn bushes, hissing and snapping its teeth.

Leroy, not five strides away from her, seemed frozen in place, his eyes big, his mouth agape, clutching his spear between his white-knuckled fists.

“HELP HER!” Nick shouted. But Leroy only continued to stare.

Cricket hit the monster with the pail. It jigged side to side, darting to and fro. Nick saw the smaller, red-haired creature creeping up from behind her. If somebody didn’t do something now, Cricket would be as dead as Danny.

Leroy stumbled backward and fell.

Nick rushed out from the bushes, not even feeling the thorns dig into his legs, not thinking about anything but driving those monsters away from Cricket. He snatched up his spear and rushed the beasts, leaping past Leroy as Leroy scrambled up the hill on all fours.

The red creature leaped on Cricket’s back and jabbed its stinger into her neck, over and over. Cricket let out a pitiful cry and tumbled over.

“NO!” Nick screamed, and slammed the spear into the red creature’s ribs, knocking it off Cricket and driving it into the dirt.

The red creature shrieked and thrashed, black blood spewing from the wound.

The black hyena-thing let loose a howl that almost caused Nick to drop his spear. The wail sounded human, sounded full of rage and anguish.

Nick yanked his spear free and leveled it at the hyena-thing.

The monster locked eyes with Nick and began to beat the ground in front of it. It bared its fangs and tore up clumps of dirt and leaves, slinging them into the air.

It means to tear me apart, Nick thought, and wanted to run, but knew if he turned his back, even for a second, the creature would have him. His heart thundered in his chest. This is beyond me, I can’t do this. But there was a new voice in his head; Sekeu, telling him to hold steady, to focus. Nick slid into the L-stance, fixed his trembling hands on the spear. One shot, he thought, that’s all I’m gonna get.

The hyena-thing let loose an earsplitting screech and came for him, ripping across the ground in a crazy zigzagging charge, hooting and howling.

Focus, Nick thought, taking quick, short breaths, fighting to hold steady. The monster leaped and Nick swung, putting a snap on the spear just as Sekeu had showed him. The blade caught the beast in the neck, cutting its throat wide-open.

The creature slammed into Nick, spattering him in black blood and knocking him to the ground. Nick shoved the convulsing body away and tried for his feet, but before he could get up, something landed on his back. The smaller, red creature, its claws sunk into his shoulder, its stinger whipping toward his face. Nick managed to get his arm up and the stinger ripped across his forearm.

Nick cried out as searing pain shot up his arm. He twisted free and kicked away from the beast. It twitched and clawed at the dirt but didn’t get back up.

Nick clasped his wounded arm to his chest; he could feel the burning spread up his shoulder. His face began to grow warm, then hot; his throat tightened. Nick dropped his spear and fell over on his back, gasping for breath as his throat continued to constrict. He caught a glimpse of Cricket. She was pale and still, her eyes lifeless.

The red beast lay on its side, twitching. Leroy, his face a mask of fear and revulsion, rushed up and slammed his spear into the monster’s body over and over, and kept repeating, “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”

“THEY ARE HERE!” Sekeu shouted, running out of the fog, taking in the scene in a glance and sliding down next to Cricket. She leaned over, putting an ear against the girl’s chest.

Abraham, Dirk, Dash, and Redbone came running up. Redbone was splattered in black blood. A nasty slash ran across his shoulder and chest, his breath coming hard and fast through clenched teeth, sword in one hand, knife in the other, both dripping with blood. He locked wild, fierce eyes on the two dead creatures.

“I killed them,” Leroy said quickly. “Killed both of them.” He looked at Cricket and Danny. “I tried to save them. Things just happened so fast. I did what I could.”

Redbone met Leroy’s eyes; his mouth a grim line. He slipped away his knife, clapped a bloody hand on Leroy’s shoulder, and shook the boy. “Those are barghest, man. Right on, Leroy!”

Leroy grinned weakly and cut his eyes to Nick.

What? Nick thought. “No!” he tried to shout, but his throat was too tight and he broke into a fit of painful coughing.

A howl cut through the fog; it came from everywhere, from the very ground. The fog itself began to darken like a storm cloud.

“The witch,” Sekeu said.

Chapter Twelve Lady Modron’s Garden

Peter stared at the bodies. In the soft glow of dawn he could see that the earth was still dark from their slaughter. There were four of them, Pooxits, distant cousins to the centaur, only much smaller, coming no higher than Peter’s knee. They had the bodies of cats, and the torsos of monkeys. They’d always reminded Peter of little people with their dexterous fingers, chattery speech, and lively, expressive faces.

He could see where the Flesh-eaters had burned them out of the nearby brush, there were slashes in the dirt of a struggle and tracks where they’d been dragged over to be skinned and butchered. Their bones lay scattered about the dirt; Peter couldn’t help but notice the teeth marks on the bones.

He found their heads and hands in a ditch, tossed aside like garbage.

Their eyes—glazed and jellied—stared up at him, the horror of their deaths still plain to see. Peter had heard the screams of those caught by the Flesh-eaters. Be they elf, centaur, gnome, troll, faerie folk, or even Devil, it didn’t matter, the Flesh-eaters showed no mercy. They skinned them alive, butchered, and ate them. Better to die by my own hand, Peter thought, than ever fall into theirs.

Other than a slight tightening of the jaw, Peter showed no emotion. He turned and pressed on, heading north. The Flesh-eaters’ path of razed, brutalized land spread out before him as far as he could see. He skirted the remnants of a village. The burned-out huts jutting up from the dead, ashen earth like so many jagged teeth. A stack of broken skulls were piled against one wall; their hollow eyes followed him as he passed. It is time to end this, Peter thought. One way or another, it must end.

He glanced heavenward. Somewhere above the low-lying clouds, the sun lit up the sky. He could tell the day was going to be warm, could feel the humidity building. He scanned the gray mud and burned husks of long-fallen trees and wondered if the sun’s face would ever grace this tortured landscape again.

Peter crested a long, sloping hill, found himself staring into the eyes of a god, and realized where he was. “Avallach’s Shrine,” he said and dropped heavily onto a boulder. He gazed at the broken ruins. He could see the marshlands below. Deviltree wasn’t far now, just past the swamps, but he wasn’t looking forward to crossing through the witch’s land, not during the day. Not while I still have my eyes, he thought, and grinned a nasty grin.

He regarded the god’s head, a giant thing of carved granite easily the size of a barrel. It had been knocked from its base at the neck and lay on its side as though listening to the earth. Its face was marred, hacked, and hammered, but even so the eyes still held their strength.

The rest of the great statue still stood, its hands forever clasped to its chest. A ring of craggy stumps spiraled out from the statue—all that remained of the vast apple orchard. When Peter closed his eyes, he could still see those trees, hundreds of them, their white blossoms flittering in the warm sunlight of that faraway day.

PETER SAT BESIDE the old elf upon a large field stone. He cupped a hand across his brow, shielding his eyes from the midday sun as he looked up at the giant statue. The statue’s eyes were set deep within the shadow of its thick furrowed brow, staring ceaselessly out over the orchard.

Apple blossoms drifted lazily by, glittering in the sunlight, gathering in every crease and fold of the statue’s drapery. The apple trees surrounding the statue hummed and buzzed with honey bees, birds, and the ceaseless chatter of sprites and faeries.

Peter followed the Lady’s every move, found he cared to do little more. She stood before the statue, a slender hand resting upon its foot, looking up into the stern face.

“That’s Avallach,” the old elf said. “God of healing, Lord of Avalon. He’s left us, his mortal time on earth long past. He now reigns in Otherworld, leaving his children to watch over Avalon.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter said distractedly.

“The Lady Modron is one of his children.”

“The Lady?”

“Yes.”

“Did her mother leave her too?”

“Mother? I don’t believe the Lady had a mother. Not in the way we might think of, anyway. Avallach created his children from the elements at hand. The Lady’s spirit comes from the rivers, lakes, and streams. Water will forever be her lifeblood. Her brother, the Horned One, was created from living sacrifices of flesh and blood, while her sister, Ginny, the witch, was grown from the earth like a tree.”

Peter glanced over at him, concerned. “The witch is her sister? How can that be? The witch is so wicked.”

The elf laughed. “They’re gods,” he said, as though that explained everything.

Peter looked puzzled.

“They’re Nature and one must always be wary of Nature. They play their roles, keeping the balance of Avalon. None of them would flinch at killing any who should threaten that balance. Why even the children of faerie are not immune from their ire. The Horned One will smite any who enter Avalon uninvited. The witch, well you’re well aware of what the witch does to outsiders. The Lady guards us all with her Mist. Even among the Sidhe, only a very few can walk the Mist.”

Peter watched the Lady lay her cheek against the stone and close her eyes. “I like the Lady very much.”

“Yes,” the elf sighed. “She is hard not to love. She is like the earth itself. But,” he lowered his voice, “one must always be wary of gods and goddesses, lest we become too entangled in their desires and schemes.”

The elf fell quiet for a while.

“Did you know that the whole world was once Faerie?”

Peter shook his head, half-listening.

“Yes indeed, before men-kind came along.” The elf’s voice sobered. “Men have disturbed the balance, putting the children of Avallach to the test. All we have left now is this island. The new gods are pushing out the old. Soon, I fear, there’ll no longer be room for Earth’s first children…anywhere. That is why the Lady comes here. To seek her father’s counsel. Whether he hears or not, none of us know. Judging from her face I don’t believe he does. But that’s the business of the gods. My business is to keep the Lady safe.”

“Safe?” Peter glanced up at the elf. “From what? The witch?”

“No. I don’t believe the witch would harm her, or even could. They might not like each other, but they need each other, the way the land needs water and water needs land. But there are others that would.”

Peter looked concerned.

“The Lady’s spirit is immortal, but she’s not. There are those, even in Faerie, that would feed on her flesh. If her mortal form were to pass she’d no longer be bound to the earth, to Avalon, then where would we be?

“But that won’t happen. Not while I’m part of the Guard,” the elf stated with obvious pride. “It’s my duty to see to it she comes and goes without fear of beast, or witch, or little red-headed freckle-faced boys.” He smiled.

Peter leaped to his feet. “Can I join the Lady’s Guard?” He thumped his chest. “I’d make a great guard. Why, I’m not afraid of that witch, or wolves, or bears, not anything.”

The guard laughed and patted Peter on the head. “Maybe, one day.”

“WE’RE HERE, PETERBIRD,” the Lady Modron said. “My garden.”

It had been a long trek from the statue to the garden. They’d passed through forests and glades, crossed creeks and streams, but to Peter it had seemed no time at all as he walked beside the Lady, as she told him about all the sights and creatures they came upon.

The sun edged toward the horizon, painting the sky and surrounding forest a brilliant gold. The trees about the garden were tall and straight, with pale blue bark and leaves.

They proceeded up a walkway of alabaster flagstones framed by two long, slender wading pools. Tall standing stones stood sentinel in their still waters. The walkway led to a lofty archway cut into a towering white stone ledge. Wide bands of gold veined the stone, glittered in the waning sunlight, sending dazzling beams sparkling off the long pools. A gentle waterfall spilled onto the crest of the archway, dividing the waterfall into twin falls that cascaded down either side, forming the head of each pool.

A field of wildflowers spilled over the banks of the pools, filling the air with the sweet perfume of nectar and evening dew. Wild faeries and sprites perched upon every reed, lily, and stem, some even straddling the backs of bored-looking bullfrogs. They filled the dusk with their song as they watched the Lady pass.

The Lady and her procession approached the archway and two young elves pulled the tall doors open. The boys bowed to the Lady, giving Peter curious looks as he passed.

They entered a short passageway of polished, iridescent stone, the palest shade of green. The walls were framed by stone pillars in the shape of trees that looked to have grown right from the floor, their branches weaving into a spidery canopy. Music drifted along the corridor, accompanied by raucous laughter, squeals, and grunts. Peter glanced down the hall and saw a tall, handsome boy with a heavy brow and dark, brooding eyes striding purposely toward them.

“Someone does not look pleased, my Lady,” Drael whispered.

The Lady sighed. “When ever does he?”

The boy was much taller than Peter, eye level with the Lady. Peter guessed him to be several years older than himself. His dark hair was cropped in a bowl cut just above his ears, oiled and shiny, not a strand out of place. He wore a quilted jacket, trimmed in gold, with long puffed sleeves, made from a finely woven fabric. He had on black stockings and gold shoes with pointed toes. Peter could not find a speck of dust, nor a trace of dirt anywhere on the boy.

The tall boy dismissed Peter at a glance and addressed the Lady.

“Modron, you were supposed—”

“Ulfger,” the Lady interrupted. “Not today. I do not need this from you today.”

“You were supposed to be here hours ago,” he continued, his voice stern and serious. “Have you forgotten your duties?”

“No, Ulfger,” the Lady said with noticeable irritation. “I have not forgotten my duties. And I will not be drawn into this today. Not today.”

“The fate of Avalon hangs in the balance, yet the council spends its time drinking, gossiping, and exchanging rude riddles.” He stared accusingly at the Lady. “They need leadership.”

“Ulfger, it is not your place to tell me—”

“It is my place, Modron,” he said, making no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. “This frivolity and buffoonery…it is why Avalon is dying.”

“Oh, Ulfger. Why must you do this? You’re a boy. You should be having fun, running wild, getting into mischief. You—”

“No! That, Modron—that is the very problem. Avalon needs order and discipline.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “Needs an iron hand to combat men-kind’s aggression. Without it we are destined to become extinct.”

The Lady looked at him sadly. “Those are your mother’s words. Even at death’s door, she can’t keep her long nose out of things. And look what she has done to you. At an age when you should be at your most carefree, you are bent beneath the weight of her nettling and conniving.”

Ulfger flushed. “No, that’s not true.”

The Lady shook her head. “This is my fault, I should have stood up to her, should have insisted you live in the forest with your father. Your mother has done everything in her power to kill the wildness within you. I am fearful the Horned One will not know his own son.”

Ulfger’s eyes fell to the floor. He turned away, but not before Peter caught the wounded look on his face.

The Lady took Peter’s hand; they pushed past the handsome boy and strolled down the hall.

THEY PASSED BENEATH another arch and entered a great domed hall. A small circular pond lay at the center of the hall, cut into the stone floor. The pond glowed brightly—the very water was phosphorescent—filling the whole hall with a soft, greenish glow. A crescent moon, stars, and winged fish were carved into the dome. The light swirled over the designs, making them appear to swim around the ceiling.

A dozen curved tables circled the pond. Plates and bowls of wild game, bread, boiled carrots, beets, and potatoes littered the pitted, well-worn surface, their spice filling the chamber. Peter inhaled deeply and his stomach grumbled.

“I believe someone’s hungry,” the Lady said.

Peter grinned up at her and nodded.

A man set down his goblet, pushed back his chair, and propped a cloven hoof on the edge of the table. He wore no clothing, only a thick leather yoke with large brass bells. His small, boyish body appeared to be that of a shaggy goat from the waist down. His skin was blood-red, his hair black. A long, pointed goatee curled upward off his chin and two short horns poked up from his sloping forehead, each with a small gold bell jangling from its tip. “You’re late,” he growled.

“And a good end of day to you too, Hiisi,” the Lady said, a smile pushing one corner of her mouth. “Nice to see everyone waited.”

A boar with long, curving tusks, dressed in a brilliant crushed velvet tunic complete with ruffles, held up a drumstick. “Like one swine waits for another,” he said through a mouthful of food, then snorted.

There were at least forty folk in attendance, mostly elves, their thin, spindly bodies draped across their high-backed chairs, their movements and gestures elegant and graceful. There were many other strange beings that Peter had never seen or imagined. Four plump men—easily as wide as they were tall and not a one larger than a chicken—with big red noses and cheeks and tiny black eyes that looked like they’d been pushed into their faces, sat upon tall stools wearing outlandish feathered caps and passing a large jug of wine back and forth. A flock of winged faeries sat crossed-legged on the table top, sharing a bowl of fruit. These were different than the ones Peter had seen in the forest; foremost, they were clothed, wearing britches and jackets or wispy gowns, and were well-mannered as they ate from tiny plates and sipped from tiny cups.

There were various other impish creatures, some more beast than manlike. Peter noticed two elven women, one with skin as black as coal, the other pink as roses. They lay coiled in each other’s arms, their eyes closed as they kissed and licked each other’s mouths, their hands lost beneath each other’s dresses. A child—an infant really—with a single red horn jutting from its forehead puffed away on a pipe, his eyes heavy as though lost in a dream. There were at least three faerie folk passed out on the floor, one of them snoring loud enough to be heard even over the ruckus.

Sour-faced servants moved in and out of the chamber, carrying trays, pouring wine into goblets, and complaining loudly to each other all at the same time. Over in one corner four stout faerie folk with bristly beards that fell all the way to their knees were playing flutes and plucking at string instruments, creating a whimsical melody.

Several servants came in and hastily laid out a table setting before an elegant, high-backed chair. The chair was by far the tallest in the room, formed of delicate white roots and branches. It appeared to have grown straight from the floor, its limbs reaching upward, weaving together into a symmetrical arch that nearly touched the top of the dome. The uppermost limbs sprouted into an umbrella of draping leaves. Tiny sprites played in the leaves, their multicolored lights blinking on and off.

The Lady leaned over to Peter. “Wait here with Drael.” She strolled to the chair. The band stopped playing and most of the attendees rose as she was seated. The Lady smiled and inclined her head. The dinner guests dropped back into their chairs, returning to their food and conversation as though nothing had happened.

Hiisi, the red-skinned man, sat on the Lady’s left. He leaned over. “My Lady, Tanngnost has asked to speak.”

The Lady let out a sigh. “Can I not at least eat first?”

“He’s just returned from the lands of men-kind. If he doesn’t get to speak soon, I fear he will simply burst.”

“Oh, dear. I wouldn’t wish our beloved Tanngnost to burst, not here in my chamber anyway. I guess we have little choice but to let him say his bit.”

Hiisi stood and banged his fork against his goblet. Most everyone ignored him. “Tonight, Council,” he said. “A dear old friend has graced us with his pungency. I’ve composed a rhyme in honor of this most un-notable occasion. Shall I?”

Several heads shook in dire disapproval, but the Lady smiled. “Why yes, dear Hiisi. By all means, proceed.”

Hiisi smiled, flicked his eyebrows, then cleared his throat. “I bestow a special troll. One who is dear to heart when he is apart, and hard to bear when he is near. But his lack of charm does no harm. Yes, the harbinger of doom and gloom is back in the room.” He inclined his head across the table to a tall figure cloaked in long, tattered gray robes. “Back from his daring jaunt across the lands of men-kind, I give you no other than—Tanngnost.”

The troll, who didn’t look as though he appreciated his introduction in the least, stood up to a spattering of weak applause. He appeared more beast than man, much taller than the elves, taller even than any man Peter had ever seen. He was stooped and appeared ancient but not frail; solidly built, like a stag. His legs were those of a great woolly elk, while his upper body resembled that of a man. A mane of sand-colored hair rolled down his shoulders in thick tangles, framing a long, goatlike snout. Golden, intelligent eyes peered out from beneath thick, drooping brows. Broad horns curled outward from the sides of his head, and thick tusks jutted from his mouth.

Under most circumstances, such an imposing beast would have frightened Peter, but something in this creature’s bearing spoke of graciousness, even refinement.

The troll bowed to the Lady, cleared his throat. “I am at your service,” he said in a deep baritone. “It is truly an honor to attend the ever-fair Lady Modron, daughter of Avallach, Great Lady of the Lakes, Goddess of—”

“Yes, yes, don’t you start with all that silliness,” the Lady said, waving her hand as though shooing a fly. “You’ll not flatter me. You want something or you’d not be here my dear Tanngnost. Something besides the feasting; which I see you’ve done your share.”

The troll dropped a guilty glance at the five dirty plates stacked before him.

“What ill tidings do you bring today?” she asked. “Go on, spill the beans. Get it over with.”

Tanngnost inclined his head. “Lady, you mustn’t slay the messenger.”

“A very wise old saying indeed,” Hiisi interjected. “Unless of course that messenger so happens to be a minder, meddler, and manipulator of other people’s business.”

This brought plenty of snickers from around the tables.

Tanngnost gave the Lady a long-suffering look. “Modron, if I may be so bold? How did the visit with your father go today?”

The table fell quiet and all eyes turned to the Lady.

The Lady’s face clouded.

Tanngnost let out a regretful sigh. “I see.”

Somber murmurings hummed around the tables and several folk began to speak at once.

“Why has Avallach abandoned us?” the boar called out, his words slurred. “Why now, when we need him most?”

“Why does he not hear us?” an elf demanded.

“He is dead,” shouted a smallish gray man with donkey ears.

“No, not dead. Avallach cannot die you ass. He is just gone.”

“We’re lost without his hand,” someone cried from under the table.

“We’ve angered him,” added a peevish green man with leaves for hair.

“We must placate him.”

“A living sacrifice!” a rosy-cheeked lady cried out.

The plump folk all raised their mugs and cheered at that. “Blood, blood, blood.”

“AVALLACH IS GONE!” the Lady spoke, her voice commanding, not loud, yet somehow rising above the ruckus. She came to her feet, eyes gleaming, her shadow growing tall, darkening the room. She looked both beautiful and dangerous, and for a moment, Peter was afraid. The room fell quiet. “It is time we all accept that.” She looked from face to face, daring any to challenge her. “We are his children. But do we wish to be children forever? It is time we face our trials on our own.”

No one spoke for a long minute.

“Aye,” the boar said, setting a hand on the table to steady himself. “That’s very stoic and all, my Lady, but where does that leave us? I mean really? What are we supposed to do with that?”

“It means it’s time to stop waiting for Avallach to save you,” called a boy’s voice.

All eyes turned to find Ulfger standing in the doorway. He walked in and stood next to the Lady. “It’s time to end the decadence and debauchery. To think about something other than wine and lust and song. It is time for Avalon to embrace order and discipline or die.”

The boar dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “With all due respect Lord Ulfger.” The boar let out a short burp. “I’d rather not be preached to by a boy.”

“Maybe it would do you some good to give him a listen,” the troll said.

“Those are not even his words,” the boar stammered as he refilled his goblet. “We all know he’s merely a mouthpiece for his mudder, muther—his mother.”

Ulfger stiffened and the Lady set a hand on his shoulder.

“And where is your father, Lord Ulfger?” the boar growled. “Where is the mighty Horned One? Why does he not come and talk with us?”

“That is not his way,” Tanngnost said. “You know that well enough.”

“I know he’s not here,” the boar said. “Just what does it take to bring him out of his deep dark forest cave?”

This was met with expectant nods and lively quibbling, and again the chamber disintegrated into bickering.

The Lady’s shoulders slumped and she sat back into her chair. Her eyes drifted away as though she were somewhere else. She looked very sad to Peter, and he wanted to go to her, wanted to do whatever he could to cheer her up. Then her eyes found him and she smiled. She came to her feet. “Today I was sent a gift.”

The room quieted as one by one the occupants looked her way.

“Maybe it came from Avallach, maybe it sprouted from a cabbage. Either way, a most wonderful delight.” She pointed to Peter.

All heads turned to Peter. He blushed and slid behind Drael.

“This boy fell into the clutches of Greenteeth herself,” she said. “Did he wait for Avallach to save him? No, not him. This brave child singlehandedly burned out the witch’s eye and escaped from her very lair!”

An astonished gasp came from every attendee at the table. Several stood to get a better view of Peter.

“Lord Ulfger is right. We can no longer afford to wait for Avallach. Like this boy, we need to save ourselves. We need to take all the wonderful gifts that Avallach has bestowed upon us and make good use of them.

“Peter,” the Lady called. “Don’t be bashful. Come here and sit beside me.”

The old elf nudged Peter and Peter dashed over to the Lady’s chair. The Lady pulled him into her lap.

“Where did he come from?” the boar asked.

“From the lands of men-kind,” the Lady said. “Through the stones.”

Hiisi poked one of Peter’s feet. “What is he?”

“A human boy, I think,” the Lady said. “But look.” She flipped back his hair, exposing the pointed tips of his ears. “He seems to have some faerie in him as well.”

They all leaned forward.

“Modron,” Ulfger said. “What does he have to do with—”

“Tanngnost?” the Lady asked. “How can such come to be?”

“Most curious,” Tanngnost said. “I’ve never seen the like. Have you?”

The Lady shook her head. “I didn’t know it was possible.”

“Does he not remember his parents?”

“Not his father,” the Lady said. “His mother was human. It was she that left him to die in the forest.”

“Men-kind are such cruel beasts,” the boar huffed.

“So, the faerie in him comes from his father,” Tanngnost remarked absently and stroked his hairy chin.

“Modron,” Ulfger said. “This is exactly why nothing ever gets done. We need to discuss—”

“Maybe one of the satyrs,” the boar suggested, and everyone looked to the red-skinned, horned man.

Hiisi grinned. “Well, I’ve certainly fucked my way through every young maiden I could catch. But to my knowledge, all I’ve ever left behind in those sullied maidens was the flush of orgasmic delights.”

An old faerie lady with drooping wings and powdered cleavage nudged the boar. “If the satyr’s seed could sprout, why we’d have a couple million pointy-eared mongrels running about. Aye.” She winked at Hiisi and let loose a cackle.

“He can travel between the worlds?” the troll asked.

The Lady cut the troll a suspicious look. “Tanngnost, don’t start your scheming. I’ll not have you using this boy toward your ends.”

Tanngnost looked taken aback. “My Lady, I would never dream such.”

The Lady laughed. “Of course not, and Hiisi would never diddle a virgin.”

This drew several snickers.

“Besides,” the Lady said. “You cannot have him. He has told me he wishes nothing more than to serve in my Guard.”

“You’d be lucky to have one so brave,” said Hiisi.

“I would. Not only is he stouthearted, but talented as well,” the Lady said like a proud mother. “Peter, let them hear the forest.”

Peter beamed, drinking in all the attention, their curiosity making him bold. He started with a frog’s croak, then the chattering of a squirrel, a hooting monkey, then lifted his head and howled, the sound resounding off the dome. He played through a dozen birdcalls and ended with a rooster’s crow.

The hall burst into laughter and applause. If Peter had grinned any wider his face would have split in two.

“Modron,” Ulfger growled. “Please, there are important matters to—”

“All in good time, Ulfger,” the Lady said. “But first, I want you to hear something. It might do your spirit good. Come, sit here beside me.”

Ulfger shook his head, but sat down.

“Now, Peter,” the Lady whispered. “The Sunbird.”

Peter drew in a deep breath, sat up straight, cocked his head back, and began the song. The hall fell silent, even the servants stopped, all of them listening in stunned silence as his song echoed and resonated around the chamber, the acoustics of the dome amplifying the tune and the green ambient light of the pool brightening in response.

Peter finished and looked around, expecting more applause. Instead he was met by faraway eyes, half-opened mouths, some of them even weeping. Peter wondered what he’d done. He glanced at the Lady, unsure. Saw that she too had tears in her eyes.

“That was beautiful, Peter,” she said and her wonderful smile fell on him and he knew he’d done well.

“Truly breathtaking,” the old faerie lady blurted out, dabbing away at her eyes.

“Ulfger,” the Lady said. “Does his song not touch your heart?”

Ulfger looked as though he’d drunk sour milk.

Hiisi stood up and began to clap, the rest followed his lead, all except for Ulfger, who sat stoned-faced, digging his nails into his palms.

PETER WAS BROUGHT a plate of food. One sullen-faced servant actually smiled at him and slipped him a honey pie. Peter ate his fill and then some, and soon the drone of warm conversation, the soft music, and hypnotic glow of the pool made him drowsy. He rested his head against the Lady’s breast.

The Lady slipped her arms about him and began to softly twirl his hair. She smelled of pond water and honeysuckle, and these scents, like his mother’s sweet milk of so long ago, filled him with contentment. He was where he belonged, by the Lady’s side, for always and forever.

Hiisi slid over a few chairs and began to flirt with a blushing elven maiden. Tanngnost came around, taking a seat next to the Lady. He leaned over and spoke low. “My Lady I would speak with you.”

The Lady sighed. “You cannot stand the sight of me being happy, not even for a moment. Can you, you fretful old goat?”

Tanngnost shook his head sorrowfully. “There is nothing I wish more than your happiness. But…things are worse than we feared.”

“Yes, I know. I read that much in your eyes.”

Tanngnost let out a sigh. “These are ill times, my Lady.”

“The men-kind?”

“Christians. They’re determined to rid the land of any who worship the Horned One. Murdering all the druids, burning the temples, sometimes whole villages, and knocking over the standing stones.”

The Lady’s face hardened. “This god of peace and love certainly likes to bathe the land in blood.”

Ulfger’s eyes lit up; he leaned over. “Now is the time to take the folk of Avalon to war! Now, before it is too late. Now while we still have allies in the world of men-kind.”

The Lady looked at him sadly. “Ulfger, why are you in such a hurry to abandon your youth? The weight of the world will be on your shoulders soon enough, then you’ll yearn for these days. What I wouldn’t do to have one carefree day of my youth back.”

Ulfger grimaced. “Modron, I don’t see what my age has to do with any of this.”

Peter looked up. “The bad men? Are they coming here?”

“No, Peter,” the Lady said. “Not here. They can’t come here. I would never allow it.” She handed him a cream puff and sat him on the floor.

“Ulfger, do me this favor, take the boy here out into the yard with the other children. Go and play.”

Peter’s ears perked up. There were other children to play with?

“I am not a nursemaid,” Ulfger snapped.

“I mean you, Ulfger. You go and play. Run around. Build something. Break something. Climb a tree. Get dirty. Get in some trouble. Have some fun.”

Ulfger looked at her as though she’d lost her mind.

“Just try it. For once. For me?”

“No. I wish to hear of Tanngnost’s travels.”

“You will hear everything in good time. Your mother will see to it. For now, I wish you to take Peter to the courtyard.”

Ulfger didn’t move, just stared at her.

“Ulfger, please. We can talk later. I promise.”

Ulfger looked as though someone were twisting a knife in his gut. “Fine,” he said, forcing the word out through clenched teeth.

The Lady touched the tall boy’s arm. “Ulfger, I hope to Avallach that you wake up and see what that woman has done to you. I hope you see it before all of your youth is lost.”

Ulfger turned and headed for the door. Peter glanced at the Lady, unsure. She nodded and he followed the boy out from the chamber.

PETER CAUGHT UP with Ulfger in the hall. The tall boy stood studying an intricately woven tapestry. The scene was of a massive, caped lord holding a long black sword and wearing a helmet with great elk horns jutting up from either side. The helmet covered his face, but his eyes glowed out from the visor.

Peter heard the distant calls of children coming from somewhere down the way. Peter cleared his throat. “Um…Ulfger.”

The tall boy didn’t respond; his eyes lost in the tapestry.

“Hey-ho, Ulfger,” Peter called.

“You will address me as Lord Ulfger,” the tall boy said, without taking his eyes from the tapestry.

“Lord Ulfger, can we go play now?”

“This is my father,” Ulfger said. “The Horned One. He rules the forest.” Ulfger moved down to the next tapestry. “And this…this is my mother.” He inclined his head toward the portrait. A thin-faced woman with piercing eyes glared back at Peter. He felt the woman’s eyes were judging him, staring right through him.

“Queen Eailynn, of the elven line of Norrenthal.”

Peter thought he detected a sneer in the tall boy’s tone, and wasn’t sure if the boy revered the queen or resented her. Maybe both, he thought.

“Their lineage makes me a lord.” He looked at Peter as though expecting something. “When I come of age I shall rule all of Avalon.”

“Sure. Okay,” Peter said, nodding. “Can we go play now?”

“Try, ‘Lord Ulfger, may we go play now?’”

“Lord Ulfger, may we go play now?”

Ulfger stepped over to the next tapestry. Peter recognized this one right away; it was the Lady. In her portrait she looked kind and strong, her eyes bright and glowing.

“Modron is a creature of whim and fancy, song and sentiment,” Ulfger said, looking troubled. “She was never meant to lead.”

Peter glanced wistfully down the hall. He really wanted to play with the other children, and didn’t understand why they had to stand here looking at these boring portraits.

“She tries,” Ulfger continued. “There are moments when she seems capable. Tonight, there at the round table, I thought she would rally—make them see what was at stake. But no, her mood shifts like the wind, distracted by something as trivial as a singing child.” Ulfger stared at Peter, his dark eyes boring into the boy. Peter squirmed, and glanced nervously up and down the empty hall.

After a moment, Ulfger asked, “Do you adore her?”

Peter nodded.

“Do you wish for her love?” He leaned toward Peter, his voice became harsh, more intense with every word. “Her attention? Her motherly doting?”

Peter stepped back.

“Of course you do. What choice have you? She has most certainly caught you in her spell. But heed me. You’re naught but a distraction, a substitute for her poor lost Mabon. She’s but trying to plug that ever-bleeding hole in her heart.” He let out a long breath. “She was stronger before her great loss, before her son was stolen from her. Now she is always pining for her Mabon. That is why she spends so much time at Avallach’s Shrine, not for the sake of Avalon. No, it is her hope that Avallach will tell her where she can find her son.” Ulfger all but spit this last bit out.

“So now she brings her little surrogate child to the court. Has him sing us a pretty ditty.” He gave Peter a peculiar smile. “And the fools beam, and applaud, and shed sentimental tears then go back to wine, feast, and frolic while Avalon sinks beneath their very feet!” He gritted his teeth. “When I come to rule I will put an end to their debauchery. Faerie shall become a force to be feared. Ulfger, a name spoken in frightful whispers. We will make men-kind remember their place and will hide behind the Lady’s Mist no longer.”

“Ulfger, I mean, Lord Ulfger,” Peter said. “Can we go play now?”

Ulfger bristled. “Play? Play? To run around with the boys and girls laughing and giggling. Is that all you can think of?”

Peter nodded wholeheartedly.

Ulfger sighed. “Come.”

“HOW DO YOU become one of the Lady’s Guard?” Peter asked.

Ulfger looked down at him and smirked. Walking right next to him, Peter realized how big the boy was. He was already taller than the elves, but unlike them, he was thick-boned and solid through the chest, more like the men Peter had seen.

“First you have to learn respect for your betters. You can start by addressing me properly. My title is lord. As in, ‘Lord Ulfger, may I’ or ‘May I, Lord Ulfger.’ Can you grasp this simple bit of etiquette?”

Peter gave him a quizzical look but nodded.

“No! You do not nod to me. Never nod to me. That is only allowed among peers. Understand?”

Peter shrugged.

Ulfger stopped. “Are you simpleminded? Shrugging is the same as nodding. Try again.”

“Try what again?”

“No!” Ulfger growled. “It’s, ‘Try what again, Lord Ulfger?’”

Peter could hear the spirited shouts of children and tried to peer around Ulfger.

“Now say it.”

“It, Lord Ulfger.”

Ulfger let out a breath of frustration. “You’ll be lucky if they allow you to guard the maid’s chamber pot.”

“Chamber pot?”

“Never mind,” Ulfger huffed, and pushed open the gate into the courtyard.

It was night, but the courtyard was lit with hundreds of orange lanterns. Well over a dozen elven children—boys and girls of all ages—were climbing and racing around a group of standing stones. Several had blunt wooden swords and spears and were busy raiding and defending the stones.

“Hey, it’s that kid!” a boy shouted. “The one who took the witch’s eye.”

They all came running over to get a closer look at Peter, circling him but keeping their distance as though scared he might bite them.

“Lord Ulfger?” a girl asked. “Is it true? Did this boy really burn the witch’s eye out?”

“So the story goes, if you choose to believe such tales.”

“He doesn’t look so tough,” a boy said.

“He has hopes of entering the Lady’s Guard,” Ulfger said.

The children burst out laughing.

Peter looked to Ulfger. “Lord Ulfger, why’s that so funny?”

“Because you’re an uncouth mongrel that doesn’t know the first thing about courtly etiquette. Why, look at the way you’re dressed. Who would want such a dirty little monkey escorting them anywhere? Do you know how to march? Have you ever even seen a formal parade? Do you know the first thing about titles, ceremonies, manners? There’s more to being a guard than just being brave.”

Peter’s eyes dropped. He hadn’t realized being a guard could be so complicated.

“Don’t worry yourself,” Ulfger said. “You will make a fine manure boy. Now go play your mindless games with the rest of them.” He glared at the children. “Now, everyone leave. Get out of my sight.”

The boys and girls all scampered back to the rocks. Peter ran along after them, glad to finally get away from the tall, brooding boy.

THE BOYS AND girls stood around Peter, staring at him as though he’d just hatched from an egg.

“Weren’t you afraid?” a freckle-faced girl asked. Her front teeth were so big that she reminded Peter of a rabbit.

“Afraid?” Peter laughed and stuck his chest out. “No, not at all.” He pulled his wolf hood up. “I’m the wolf slayer. I fear nothing.”

“How’d you do it?” a boy asked. His head was shaven and he had dirt crusted around his mouth, making Peter wonder what he’d been eating.

“You really want to know?” Peter asked.

The kids all nodded.

“I’m warning you, it’s a very scary tale. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

They leaned in, nodding eagerly.

“Well, okay, I’ll tell you then. I was walking alone in the swamps when she jumped out of a hole, blocking my path. She was a horrible sight, all covered in scales and horns, her hair a nest of snakes. Her teeth were green and as long as knives. She came for me, drooling and snapping her teeth.”

The kids exchanged quick, nervous looks, some putting their hands up to their faces.

“Anyone else would have screamed and run, I’m sure. But not me. I snatched out my knife.” Peter picked a stick up off the ground. “And drove her back.” His face twisted up into a snarl as he made jabbing motions with the stick. “I chased her back down her stinking hole. Her den was full of demons and monsters. She set them on me. My knife broke on their thick hides and I had to beat them away with my bare fists. The witch jumped on my back, hissing, clawing, and snapping her long teeth. I threw her across the room, and grabbed a limb from the fire, jabbed it into her eye like this.” He bared his teeth, jabbed the stick at the air, and twisted it back and forth. “I could have killed her, but she began to cry, begging me to spare her life. It would have been cowardly to have killed her then. So I let her live.” He raised one finger, squinted. “But I gave her fair warning. Told her if she should ever, ever, attack another child, I would come back and cut out her black heart.”

The kids stared at him wordlessly. Finally, the buck-toothed girl whispered, “Wow.” Several others echoed her sentiment, all wide-eyed.

The buck-toothed girl scooted over next to Peter. “You certainly are brave,” she said and gave Peter a flirty smile.

Peter blushed and grinned. “Heck, I did what I had to do.”

The boy with the shaven head frowned at the girl, then gave Peter a hard look. “Yeah, well, I don’t believe anyone is that brave.”

Peter shrugged.

“If you’re so brave let’s see you catch a Fire Salamander.”

“A what?”

“Fire Salamander,” the boy repeated. “You’d have to be very brave to catch one of those. Their bite is as fifty hornet stings.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

The elf boy’s eyes gleamed. “Because I dare you.”

The other boys and girls looked at Peter expectantly.

“Well, if I knew where one was, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Peter said, then realized all the kids were suddenly grinning. “What?”

The elf boy’s smile reached from ear to ear. “I can show you where a bunch of them are.”

“Oh…hmm,” Peter said weakly, caught the girl’s eyes on him. “Sure, okay. Show me then.”

The elf boy led Peter up to a small garden pond. Wildflowers and marble stonework surrounded the pond; wide lily pads floated along its surface. Set among the lilies were crystal globes the size of pumpkins, giving off a sparkling, golden luminance.

The kids stopped at the knee-high hedge.

“That’s the Lady’s orb pond,” the girl said. “We’re not allowed past here.”

“Yeah,” agreed the boy. “If Ulfger catches us in there he’ll have us lashed.”

Peter chuckled.

“No, really,” the girl said.

Peter hesitated, glanced back down the slope. He could see Ulfger’s back. The tall boy sat upon a bench among the trees, his head down, looking lost in thought. Peter felt sure he could sneak up to the pond and back without drawing any notice.

“He’s scared,” the elf boy said. “See, told you he wasn’t so brave.”

Peter stepped over the hedge, not missing the looks of admiration. He puffed out his chest and strolled boldly up the short walk to the pond’s edge.

Peter had no problem finding a salamander—they glowed. A plump red one floated just below the surface in front of him, its short legs dangling beneath its long body. It was about as long as Peter’s forearm, from nose to the tip of the tail. Peter wondered what the big deal was. He’d caught his fair share of frogs, and frogs were fast. The thing looked about as fast as a slug.

He stepped out onto a rock, keeping one foot on the bank, straddling the salamander. He figured the best way to avoid getting bitten was to snatch it up from behind the neck, like you would a snake. Peter slowly eased his hand into the water, trying to come up behind the creature. The salamander didn’t move, didn’t seem aware that Peter was there at all. Peter’s hand hovered above its neck. He swallowed loudly, wondering just what fifty hornets’ stings might feel like, hoping not to find out.

Peter grabbed the salamander. Caught it cleanly about the neck, whipped it out of the pond, and held it high for the kids to see. The kids clamped their hands over their mouths in amazement; even the elf boy with the shaven head looked impressed. All at once the salamander came to life, wiggling and squirming, slipping loose of Peter’s grasp. Peter caught hold of its tail and realized his error the second it bit him—pain shot up his arm. Not fifty hornets, more like a hundred and fifty.

Peter screamed.

He screamed and tried to sling the creature off his arm, lost his balance, and fell backward into the pond, hitting one of the globes. The globe smashed into another and both of them exploded with a loud, hollow boom. There came two brilliant flashes of light followed by a flume of smoke. But Peter didn’t care about the globes, didn’t care about Ulfger, the only thing that mattered was getting the stinging monster off his arm. He slapped wildly at it, but the thing only clamped down harder. Finally he grabbed it around the neck and twisted it loose, leaving six deep puncture wounds in his arm. Only then did he hear the tall boy shouting at him.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” Ulfger cried, his eyes full of outrage. “Get out of there! OUT! OUT!”

Several of the children had run away, but most stood stock-still, mouths open, staring in stunned disbelief.

Ulfger yanked one of the wooden play swords away from a boy, pointed it at Peter. “Come here,” he demanded.

Peter had no intention of coming anywhere near Ulfger and made a run for it. Ulfger leaped after him, snatching hold of Peter’s wolf skin. Peter twisted away, leaving the pelt dangling in Ulfger’s fist. Peter made it only three strides before finding his way blocked by the courtyard wall. Ulfger pressed in and Peter realized he was trapped.

Ulfger’s eyes flared. “Do you have any idea what you have done? Those globes are over a thousand years old!”

Peter flinched. “I didn’t mean to.”

Ulfger bared his teeth. “Discipline. There is no discipline. It is time Avalon wakes up. And it starts now, right here.” He jabbed the wooden sword at Peter. “You will be flogged. And you will learn to obey. You will—” Ulfger stopped. His eyes narrowed. He pointed the sword at the necklace around Peter’s neck. “How did you come by that?”

“Huh?” Peter glanced down at the star.

“How did you come by that?”

“The Lady gave it to me.”

“She gave you Mabon’s star? Why?” he said, then, in a harsh whisper, “Has she truly lost her mind?” A kind of madness entered Ulfger’s eyes. He slowly shook his head from side to side. “No, she would never do such a thing. You’re a liar. A LIAR!” he shouted. “A liar and a thief. Give it to me, NOW!”

Peter clutched the star in his hand and shook his head.

“You will do as you are ordered!” Ulfger reached for the necklace.

“NO!” Peter cried, and grabbed Ulfger’s wrist, catching the shocked looks on the other children’s faces when he did.

Ulfger’s dark eyes flashed, his lips trembled, his nose creasing into a sneer. “You dare,” he hissed. “Dare lay your nasty hands on me?” He jerked his arm away then slapped Peter, hit him so hard that Peter reeled and stumbled to the ground.

Peter started to get up, then Ulfger’s knee stabbed into his back, knocking the wind from him, the weight of the large boy pinning him into the ground. Ulfger grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair and shoved his face into the dirt.

“You will learn your place!” Ulfger cried and Peter felt a sharp sting across the back of his legs. Again and again hot pain bit into the back of his thighs and buttocks as Ulfger beat him with the wooden sword, the sound echoing off the courtyard wall.

The children stared, horror-stricken.

Peter screamed and Ulfger pressed his face harder into the ground. Peter choked on the dirt and grass.

“ULFGER!” someone cried. “What are you doing?” It was the old elf. “Lord Ulfger, he is the Lady’s guest!”

Ulfger pointed the play sword at Drael. “Have you forgotten your place, old man? Has everyone forgotten their damn place today?” Ulfger struck Peter another vicious blow.

The old elf rushed forward and grabbed the sword.

Ulfger stood up, jerking the sword out of the elf’s grasp. “Are you mad?” Ulfger’s eyes flared. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” He struck the elf in the face with the butt of the sword. The elf stumbled back, clutching his nose, and sat down hard.

Peter glared at Ulfger. Goll had taught him there was only one way to deal with a wolf. A low animal growl came from deep in Peter’s throat, and the children backed away.

Ulfger prepared to strike the elf again when Peter howled and charged. He leaped upon the bigger boy’s back, screeching and shrieking as he dug his claws into Ulfger’s face. Ulfger tore at Peter’s arms and spun around, trying to dislodge the wild boy. Peter bit into Ulfger’s ear and Ulfger screamed as blood spurted down his neck.

Peter snarled and shook his head back and forth until he tore Ulfger’s ear free.

Ulfger slung Peter from him. Peter hit the ground and came up in a roll, his eyes wild, blood smeared across his face, his fingers twisted into claws, ready for more.

“WHAT IS GOING ON!” The Lady stood at the courtyard entrance, Tanngnost and Hiisi by her side. Several of the dinner guests came up behind them, all of them staring in wide-eyed bewilderment at the two boys: Ulfger with his hand clasped to the side of his head, blood pouring through his finger, and Peter in his loincloth with Ulfger’s ear still clamped in his mouth, blood running down his chin and chest.

Peter spat the ear onto the ground.

Ulfger stared at the ear, at his ear. “Guards,” he called weakly, then, at the top of his lungs, screamed, “GUARDS!” He shoved past the Lady, into the hall. “GUARDS! GUARDS!”

Hiisi helped the old elf to his feet.

“Drael,” the Lady called, and put an arm around the elf. “Drael. You’re bleeding.”

The elf clutched his nose, trying to stifle the blood. “My Lady, I’m not sure what happened. The boys had some sort of a spat. Ulfger was set to kill the boy—to truly kill him.”

The Lady looked at Peter. “My poor child.” She went to him, wiping the blood from his face with her robe, then taking him into her arms. When Peter felt the warmth of her embrace, he began to cry.

“We have to get him out of here,” Hiisi said. “Ulfger will have him killed.”

The Lady didn’t answer, just held Peter. Hiisi gave Tanngnost a fretful look.

“I can take him,” Tanngnost said. “But we must hurry.”

They heard the distant call of guards.

“Out the back way,” Hiisi said. “Through the gardens. I can delay the guards. My Lady, you have to let him go now.” Hiisi and Tanngnost gently pulled Peter from the Lady’s arms.

The Lady shook her head. “No, I wish him here, with me. He’s mine. He belongs to me.”

“He’ll be in good hands,” Hiisi said. “Peter, go with Tanngnost. He’s a grouchy old goat, but has a good heart.”

The Lady clasped Peter’s hands in hers. Peter saw the tears in her eyes. She hugged him one last time and Peter inhaled deeply, determined to never forget her sweet scent. Then the troll took him away into the night.

ALL THE COLOR of that long-ago memory evaporated, replaced with the endless gray, the mud, the rot. Peter tried to remember the sweet scent of the Lady but could not.

He stood and headed north, toward the witch’s marsh, leaving behind Avallach’s head forever listening to the earth. As he made his way down the trail, through the burned-out remains of the great apple orchard, he dared to dream of a day when the Flesh-eaters—those twisted, murderous demons—would at last be driven from the land. Then the apple trees could come back, the hills would again be green, the forest alive with the song of wild faeries, and he’d be able to sit alongside the Lady once again.

He decided to follow the dark waters of Cusith Creek, skirting along the western edge of the swamp; this would allow him to swing by Tanngnost’s hut. If there was any news, Tanngnost would know; the old troll never failed to be in everyone’s business. But there was more to it than that. Something Peter hardly recognized, and would certainly never admit. He’d come to rely on Tanngnost, his advice, his knowledge of history of the Avalon. He was the one fixture Peter could count on, the only stable element in his life over the long, tumultuous years in Avalon.

He reached the lowlands and the ground became soft. The witch’s land had fared better than others so far, but even in the short time he’d been away, the deadly fingers of the scourge had crawled deep into her bogs. Peter moved stealthy, carefully darting from stump to stump. He didn’t want to meet the witch, not today.

Peter heard approaching footfalls, someone coming fast. He slid out his knife and ducked down behind a clump of bulrushes.

A tall, hunched figure came into view, strolling right down the trail, swinging a gnarled staff. “Tanngnost,” Peter said under his breath, and grinned. The troll bore a thunderous frown.

Peter waited until the troll was almost upon him, then leaped out. “BOO!”

Tanngnost swung his staff around, quicker than Peter had anticipated. Peter dove to the ground to avoid getting hit.

“Peter! You…you…you impish little shit!”

Peter laughed, laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach.

Tanngnost gave him a furious look, grunted, snorted, huffed, and smacked him soundly on the rump.

“Oww!”

“Someone needs to beat some respect in you. Despicable mongrel. And just what has taken you so long. Had me worried sick.” He glanced behind Peter as though looking for someone. His face softened. “It didn’t go well.”

Peter sobered up. He shook his head.

The troll let out a long, deep sigh. “Peter, I’m sorry. And I hate to add to your misery, but I’ve ill tidings of my own. It seems Avallach has deserted us this day. The Flesh-eaters are burning—”

“Shhh,” Peter said. “Did you hear that?”

“Peter, the Flesh-eaters—”

“Shhh, listen.” Peter took a few quick steps down the trail, cocked his head left then right. That’d been a scream, he was sure of it.

Tanngnost followed him.

Again, from somewhere in the swamp. Shrieking. It sounded like a boy. Peter’s blood went cold. The only boys on the island were his Devils. He took off at a full run, leaping heedlessly across bogs, and roots, and mud—knife out, eyes wild, a deadly grimace across his face.

Chapter Thirteen Men-kind

The fog swirled around them. The howls came closer.

Nick picked up his spear and used it to push himself to his knees, trying to breathe through his burning throat, trying his best not to fall over.

Sekeu, Abraham, Redbone, Dirk, Dash, and Leroy formed a loose ring around Cricket’s and Danny’s limp bodies.

Howls and moans circled them, coming from all directions. Dark shapes with orange eyes shot past. He braced the end of his spear in the dirt and aimed the point outward.

Giggling—it sounded like little girls—came from all sides of them.

Sekeu’s eyes were wide. And for the first time, Nick caught a flash of fear even on Redbone’s face.

The fog thinned, and there in front of them, not twenty feet away, stood a little girl with long white hair in a flowing white gown. She smiled at them and tittered.

“Look,” she said, “little boys and girls come out to play.”

“How precious,” someone answered. Nick glanced behind and saw another girl.

“Precious indeed,” called a third girl, this one on his left. The girls appeared to be identical in every detail.

“Such nice hides. Mother will surely make us new shoes.”

“Shoesies-poosies. I want a necklace of shiny white teeth.”

“And earrings, don’t forget earrings. One can never have enough earrings.”

“YOU JUST TRY!” shouted Redbone, and banged his blades together. “GONNA FUCK YOU UP!”

“Oh my, such a tiger!”

“Little boys shouldn’t use such language.”

“Should rinse his mouth out with a good swig of hot piss.”

“Most certainly,” the girls agreed. And from behind them, a line of beasts crept forward out of the fog. Nick guessed there were easily fifteen, maybe even twenty more of the hyena beasts that had attacked them earlier, what Redbone had called barghest. Nick didn’t see any more of the red ones with the poisonous tails, only the larger, dog-size ones with black, bristling manes.

The barghest circled the kids, growling, slapping the earth, and tearing at the loose leaves. Some of the larger ones lunged at them, darting in and away, getting bolder with every charge.

The Devils kept their guard, trying to hold the beasts at bay.

“WHAT DO WE DO?” Leroy cried, spear clutched tightly to his chest, his eyes darting in every direction. The barghest were everywhere. “WHAT DO WE DO?”

“Why, you die, silly,” said one of the girls and all three girls laughed.

Two large barghest rushed Nick, knocking the spear from his hands and yanking him out of the circle. Their claws bit into his arm as they dragged him away from the group and into the fog.

Redbone let out a war cry and came for Nick, cutting and jabbing, chasing the two creatures back. Two more rushed in from behind, one slashing at Redbone’s face. Redbone ducked the blow; when he did, the other raked its claws across his thigh, tearing a gash into his pants and flesh. Redbone yowled, struck out, but the barghest were already away.

“STAY TOGETHER!” Sekeu shouted.

But it was all they could do to keep the claws and teeth at bay. The barghest were slowly splitting them up.

A long howl came from somewhere in the swamp. The sound carried over the den of clacking teeth, hoots, and growls—a fearsome howl—and Nick wondered what new horror had beset them.

A figure burst into the ring of barghest, smashed right through them like a cannonball, little more than a blur of arms and legs as he spun and jabbed. Nick caught a flash of steel, and two beasts hit the dirt, one with its gut cut wide open, the other clutching at its neck.

“PETER!” Sekeu shouted.

And there he was. With no more than his long knife, driving into the beasts, all teeth and wild eyes, never in one place for more than a second as he slashed and screamed, stabbed and howled. The beasts scattered before his blazing eyes and horrifying grin.

Peter drove in, snatched up Nick’s spear, and sent it flying at the nearest girl. The girl’s eyes flashed in outrage. She moved incredibly fast, but not fast enough. The spear hit her slightly off-mark, slicing through her hair, the staff slapping her shoulder and ricocheting against her jaw. She let loose a shrill screech, clutched her face, and spun away into the fog.

“DEVILS, TO ME!” Peter cried.

Big grins lit up the faces of all the Devils. They answered his call with wild screams of their own and attacked, driving the barghest back. The horde broke and fled, seeming to melt away into the fog.

“NOW!” Peter shouted. “GET THE KIDS. WE’RE AWAY!”

Peter and Sekeu picked up Cricket, rolling her over Peter’s shoulder. Dirk grabbed Danny’s arms, Dash his feet, and Redbone got an arm around Nick, dragging him along. They moved quickly back down the trail.

“Peter,” a chilling whisper sliced through the fog. Nick felt the word in his very bones.

There, just ahead, a single shadowy figure blocked their way.

The party halted.

“Peter,” Sekeu whispered. “Do we run?”

“No,” he said, letting Cricket slide gently to the ground. “There’s no running from her.”

The shadow melted away from the figure. Nick saw it was a woman, a shapely one, her skin glistening green and her hair long and dark, almost black. Her face remained in shadow, but within that shadow one eye lit up like a blazing emerald, and her full, dark lips parted into a triumphant smile, exposing a row of long, sharp, green teeth. Nick didn’t need anyone to tell him that this was the witch.

The three little girls skipped out from behind the trees and stood in front of the witch. The barghest crept out from the swamp, flanking Nick and the Devils. But that was not all. Nick heard rustling, clicking, and crackling. The sound was approaching them from all sides. The very ground came alive; the carpet of dead leaves jittered and danced. Then Nick understood, and the hair pricked up along his arms: bugs, creepy-crawlies, thousands, maybe tens of thousands of them, big oily beetles, long segmented centipedes, scorpions, roaches, and spiders as big as his fist. They swarmed down from trees, up out of holes, skittering toward them like a living carpet of stingers, snapping pincers and clacking mandibles. They circled the party, approaching to within five feet, twisting and crawling over one another, the ground boiling with black, shiny bugs.

The witch sauntered forward a few steps, tracing the outline of her thighs with long, black fingernails as she gently swayed from hip to hip. “Little thieves, stealing from my swamp,” she called, her voice low and husky.

The three little girls shook their fingers at them.

“Naughty.”

“Naughty.”

“Naughty.”

“Peter darling,” the witch cooed. “You owe me a little something.” She pulled back her hair, exposing the scar of her left eye socket. “One chance, sweet Peter. I’ll give you and your little playmates one chance. Give me one of your eyes and you can all go free. Peter dear, what say you?”

Peter let out a wild laugh, a crazy crowing, like madness had taken him, then suddenly stopped. His face tight, hard, he locked his eyes on the witch. “I say we cut heads from necks, empty guts from stomachs, and slice arms off bodies.” He leaped forward and stomped a huge green beetle, its yellow guts squirting out from beneath his boot.

The witch’s face twisted into a snarl, her one eye narrowed to a slit. “You will regret—”

“HOLD THERE!” came a cry from far off down the trail. “Hold, hold I beg.”

Nick watched a tall, stooped goat-headed beast come trotting up the trail waving a gnarled staff.

“Excuse me, Ginny,” he said as he pushed past the witch, moving up the trail, careful not to step on any of the bugs as they skittered from in front of his large hooves. He halted between the two parties, leaning on his staff, trying to catch his breath. “So sorry to interrupt your little squabble,” he said curtly. “But there are pressing matters at stake.”

The witch rolled her eye. “Don’t interfere, Tanngnost. I’ve no patience for your meddling. Today I will have my eye.”

“Come and take it!” Peter snarled.

“ENOUGH!” Tanngnost shouted, and slammed down his staff. “Whisperwood burns! While you fools try and kill one another, Avalon falls.”

The swamp fell quiet.

All the malevolence fell from the witch’s face. “That’s not possible.”

“Yes, it most certainly is,” Tanngnost said. “If you’d drop your dramatic stage dressings you could see for yourself.”

The witch frowned. “If this is one of your games, Tanngnost, it is your bones that will be stage dressings.” She raised her hands, closed her eyes, and muttered a string of curt, sharp commands. A warm breeze rose, blew through the swamp, and the fog began to clear. After a moment, Nick could see the gray clouds above and, yes, faintly, the dark stain of black smoke. Something was indeed burning.

“You need only climb upon Mag Mell Hill to see,” Tanngnost said.

“That can’t be,” Peter said. “The trees in Whisperwood can’t be burned.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tanngnost said. “But somehow they are burning. And need I tell you, once Whisperwood is gone, there’s nothing to hold the Flesh-eaters back, this swamp or maybe Devilwood will be next. Soon they will be burning your precious bog, Ginny.”

The three little girls looked up at their mother with worried faces.

The witch seemed to diminish somewhat, the fire gone from her eye.

Tanngnost took a deep breath. “Hear me and hear me well. You must put past grievance aside and join together. If not, all of Avalon will be lost.”

“What?” The witch’s eye flashed. “Are you suggesting we fight alongside these thieving brats? These human children? Why, they’re no different than the Flesh-eaters. A taint on the land. They too must be driven out.”

Tanngnost slammed his staff down again, his eyes flared. “How dare you!” he growled, his words harsh, cutting. “They’ve earned their place among the faerie fold. Paid with their blood and lives fighting alongside the Horned One at Merrow Cove. And where, Ginny, were you that terrible day?”

The witch waved him away as though she didn’t hear, but Nick caught the pained look on her face.

“Avallach’s gone, the Horned One is gone,” Tanngnost said. “It is up to us now. The fate of Avalon is on our shoulders.”

“Oh, stop your ranting, old goat. I’ve had all the preaching I can stomach.” She inclined her head toward Peter. “Tell me, Peter, does your precious Lady own your soul yet? Do you dream of suckling at her teat every night?”

Peter’s eyes squeezed down to slits. “Watch how you speak of her.”

“Ah, I see that she does.” The witch let out a knowing laugh. “Now, be gone, the lot of you. I’ll not tolerate thieves in my swamp. And you, Peter, the next time I see you, I will have your eye.”

Peter pointed his knife at her. “Why wait? Here, I’ll bring it to you.” Peter cut the air with his knife and started forward.

The troll grabbed him by the collar. “Peter, don’t be an imbecile.”

“Tanngnost,” the witch said. “You ask too much. I shall never fight alongside such rabble.” She spun around and started away.

“But Mother,” one of the little girls said. “Aren’t we going to eat them?”

“Hush up and come along,” the witch hissed and left, melting away into the trees and brambles. The bugs lost their purpose and began skittering away in all directions. The barghest leaped up into the trees and made a noisy exit. The little girls stayed a moment longer, staring at Peter and the Devils with wide, blinking eyes, then shrugged and skipped away.

“THERE,” THE TROLL said, pointing down the valley at the billowing smoke rising from the trees far below.

Peter stared. “I don’t understand. I don’t see how—” He stopped. “The Captain. The barrels.” He spat. “The fucking barrels.”

“What?”

“The Captain must have brought up oil. They’re using oil.”

Nick sat against a stump. He could smell burning wood, but all that mattered to him at the moment was being out of the swamp and away from Ginny Greenteeth. The troll had led them across Cusith Creek and to the top of this small rise to survey the fires.

Nick took another swig of water from the pail, but no matter how much he drank, his throat still felt parched and raw.

Cricket was sitting up now, propped against a stone. Danny lay next to her in the grass. Cricket didn’t look so well, but she was better off than Danny. His neck and face were red and swollen and he was floating in and out of consciousness. His glasses hung around his neck by the strap, one lens cracked and the frame bent.

The troll had said that they’d be all right, that the Red Tails liked their blood warm and their poison was meant to paralyze, not kill. He’d told them that other than the puncture wounds, there should be no lasting effects, and in a couple of hours they’d be good as new. Nick didn’t feel like he’d ever be good as new. His head hurt, his face felt hot and swollen, and the cut on his arm burned.

Peter and the troll had been arguing ever since they left the swamp, something about the Flesh-eaters, about the witch, about the elves. All of it about fighting and killing and Nick didn’t like the sound of any of it. As far as he was concerned, he was done. He wasn’t fighting with or against anyone. He intended to get well and make Peter take him back.

Abraham walked over and joined Leroy by Cricket and Danny.

“You know,” Abraham said. “You saved their lives. That’s something to be mighty proud of.”

A coy grin crossed Leroy’s face before he shrugged self-effacingly. “It just happened, y’know. Don’t remember even thinking about it.”

“And that there’s the true test. When you’re willing to risk life and limb for your fellow Devils without so much as a thought about yourself.” He placed a hand on Leroy’s shoulder. “You know what this means?”

You could tell by Leroy’s grin he knew exactly what it meant.

“You’ll be gettin’ your own sword and knife now. You’re gonna be accepted as clan, gonna be a Devil!”

Leroy smiled like a crocodile and cut his eyes over to Nick. He caught Nick watching and his smile faltered. Leroy picked up a bucket and walked over to Nick.

“How’re you doing on water, buddy?” Leroy asked and squatted down next to him. “You feeling better? Had me worried for a bit there.”

“You 1—” Nick croaked and winced, his throat still too swollen and raw to speak.

“Don’t worry about it, Nicky,” Leroy said. “You can thank me later.”

Fuck you, you son of a bitch, Nick thought and glared at him.

Leroy glanced over his shoulder; the rest of the Devils had all drifted over by Peter, studying the smoke. Leroy leaned closer to Nick. “Look,” he whispered. “Don’t go getting worked up. A lot happened fast. It was all really confusing. You might remember things a bit different than me. That’s all. Nothing to make a big deal over, right? Are we good?”

Nick narrowed his eyes to slits and gave Leroy the finger.

Leroy’s nostrils flared, his mouth puckered like he’d bitten into something sour, the same face he’d made when he’d stomped the pixie. He grabbed Nick’s hand and squeezed his fingers together. “You better listen,” he hissed. “I waited too fucking long for this. Put up with way too much shit. You say or do anything to fuck this up for me, I’ll kill you.” He twisted Nick’s fingers. Nick winced, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I’m not kidding. I’ll come to you while you’re sleeping and stab you in the face. Slit your fucking throat!”

Nick could see he wasn’t kidding.

“You got it? You got it?”

Nick nodded and Leroy let him go.

Nick turned away, staring down at the grass through a blur of tears. Let it go, he told himself. Doesn’t matter. He was getting out of here. Right? Leroy could call himself a Devil, could wear a feather and call himself Yankee Fucking Doodle for all he cared. Nick was done with him, done with all of this madness.

“I’LL CATCH UP with you at Deviltree,” Peter said.

“Peter,” Sekeu said. “This is madness. You must not go to Lady’s Wood. Elves will kill you.”

Peter glanced at Tanngnost; the troll waited for him at the trail head. Peter let out a long breath and smiled. “I have to. You know it. We’ve only days left. The Flesh-eaters are on their way. The magic is failing. The scourge is eating up the last of the forests. What do we have left to eat? Soon we’ll be eating each other, like them.” He nodded toward the smoke.

“We’ll all go then,” Redbone said.

Peter shook his head. “Can’t. Elves would never allow it. Only chance I have to convince them of my allegiance to the Lady is to go alone.”

“Ulfger will never fight beside you,” Sekeu said.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, and I’ll never fight alongside him either. But that doesn’t mean we can’t coordinate our efforts. He’ll have to see this. All of us are at the end. If we fall, so do they.”

“Well, at least let me come,” Redbone said. “Y’know, as your official diplomatic dignitary. To carry your cane and top hat.” He grinned.

“Nope, but you can help carry Danny back.” Peter returned his grin.

Danny was sitting up now, but didn’t look like he could walk yet or anytime soon. His eyes were puffy and his swollen neck made him look like a bullfrog.

Tanngnost thumped his staff impatiently.

“Later alligators,” Peter said and sprinted up to the troll. Together they entered the Lady’s Wood.

“Okay Peter,” the troll said. “The very life of the Lady and Avalon depends on this. You must, must, be on your best behavior.”

“I’m always on my best behavior.”

“Promise me you’ll leave the past behind.”

Peter’s face hardened. “Some things can never be left behind.”

Tanngnost sighed. “Peter, that feud was all so long ago.”

Peter fell quiet; it had indeed been so long ago. He’d only seen the great oaks shed their leaves twenty times by then, yet still, he hadn’t grown into adulthood and not a single whisker grew from his chin. But he had grown into a lean, rangy youth. Tanngnost called him the wild boy of Myrkvior, told him it was his human blood that kept puberty at bay, told him he would never be able to grow into manhood. Tanngnost explained this in grave terms, as though it were a curse—a dreadful vexing. But Peter had danced about the troll’s hut, overjoyed to know he’d never have to turn into one of those horrible, hairy, brutish men. He’d spent those days delighting in his eternal youthfulness, all the great forest his playground—at least, that is, until Ulfger found him.

PETER RECALLED HOW hard his heart had raced. He’d known better than to enter the Lady’s Wood. How many times had Tanngnost warned him, told him that Ulfger had given the elves orders to kill him on sight? He’d contemplated turning back, then caught sight of the Spriggan. The nasty little goblin was in the brush, just across the creek. It waved its prize: a knife—Peter’s knife—taunting, teasing, well aware that Peter wouldn’t dare follow it into the Lady’s Wood.

“You little thief,” Peter cried, and leaped up, splashing across the creek, forgetting all about Ulfger and his murdering elves. The Spriggan’s eyes popped open in surprise. It turned tail and dashed up the trail.

Peter lost sight of it in the thick underbrush. He scanned the pine needles, tracking the goblin’s trail, so intent he didn’t notice the figures slipping up on him from behind.

Peter caught the soft crunch of pine needles, turned, expecting to find the Spriggan, instead saw a spear flying directly for his chest. Peter threw himself backward. The spear shot past, nicking his shoulder and bouncing down the thin path. He hit the dirt, rolled, and was back to his feet all in a blink. His instinct was to run, but then he froze. There were three of them, two were elves, but it was the third that held him in his tracks.

The figure towered over the elves, taller even than most men Peter had ever seen, thick through the chest and arms, but it was his eyes that held Peter. Peter would never forget those dark, brooding eyes.

“Ulfger,” Peter hissed, as he tried to comprehend how the tall boy had turned into this huge, brutish man. The Ulfger before him sported a bristling goatee tied into a knot, and thick, dark eyebrows. He wore a red-and-gold tunic with a black elk head emblazoned upon the chest, black leather britches, knee-high boots, and a long broadsword at his side. He’d let his hair grow long, parted it along his crown, letting it fall straight down the sides of his head to cover his ears. Or his one ear, Peter thought.

Ulfger stared at him, looking like a man who has just discovered a pot of gold. He let out a low laugh. “It can’t be. Avallach has brought me a gift. And look at you.” He laughed again, louder. “Still a miserable snot-nosed brat.” He shook his head, sneered. “It’s your human blood. Avallach curses those who don’t belong here.”

Ulfger signaled and the two elves slid out long knives and ducked into the woods on either side of the trail.

Peter backed away, keeping a close eye on the elves and searching for a path of escape.

“It is plain you have no sense,” Ulfger called. “Or you would have left Avalon long ago. Though I have to admit, it pleases me deeply to find you here, to find you still alive. Otherwise I would not have the pleasure of killing you.”

Ulfger drew his sword and strolled toward Peter. Peter couldn’t miss the way the muscles rippled along the giant’s arms, the way he carried the massive broadsword as though it weighed nothing. Peter suddenly felt small and vulnerable, and for the first time found himself envious of growing up, jealous of such strength and might.

“Keep to his flanks,” Ulfger shouted in a deep, thunderous voice. “Don’t let him around us. Remember, he’s my kill!”

Peter caught sight of the spear, the one the elf had thrown at him. It lay on the trail near his foot. He caught it under his toe and kicked it into the air, catching it and sending it hurtling for Ulfger.

Ulfger hardly blinked, simply slapped the spear out of the air with his sword. The giant let out a laugh. “Good, a bit of sport will make this more enjoyable!”

Peter turned and ran. He lost sight of the elves in the brush, but knew they were keeping pace. He heard Ulfger crashing along the trail behind him. Peter’s heart drummed in his chest; again he felt the fear, that of the hunted deer. The same fear as when the men had chased him back to Goll’s hill—it was almost as though he’d never stopped running.

The trees thinned on one side of the trail. Peter could see a swamp and reeds below, down a sharp ravine. The reeds, Peter thought, I can lose them in the reeds. He left the trail, sprinted toward the drop. An elf leaped into his path. Peter didn’t have time to do anything other than crash directly into him. Peter heard a wounded uff as the two of them tumbled. Peter came out on top and tried to break away. The elf grabbed his arm and clung on. Peter jabbed a thumb in the elf’s eye, tore his arm free, got one foot under him when a big, black boot connected with his midsection. Peter left the ground, slammed up against a tree. He heard Ulfger’s laugh, caught sight of the giant’s grin, then Ulfger punched him in the face, right between the eyes. Peter reeled, lost his feet, and sat down squarely.

Ulfger snatched Peter up by the hair. He pulled out a notched hunting knife, held it up to Peter’s face. “Let’s start with an ear, shall we?”

Peter grabbed Ulfger’s hand, and bit deep, felt cartilage crunch beneath his teeth, and tasted blood.

Ulfger yowled, yanked his hand away, lost his grip on both the knife and Peter. Peter snatched up the knife and slashed out wildly. Ulfger stepped back, had his sword in his hand in a flash. The two elves fell in on either side, knives ready.

Ulfger flicked the blood off his thumb, glared at Peter. “Enough games.”

Peter threw his knife. The blade bounced harmlessly off Ulfger’s shoulder, but bought Peter a needed second. He leaped for the ledge, slid, and rolled down the ravine, crashing into the mud and reeds. He glanced up, saw the elves skidding down after him, Ulfger following.

Peter splashed into the reeds, pushing between the tall, misty stalks, trying to lose himself within the maze of stems and shallow black pools. Pushing farther and farther until he could no longer hear Ulfger’s curses.

The mist thickened and Peter began to question his way; he’d done a very good job indeed of getting lost. He kept moving and his instincts paid off as the terrain began to change, the ground became gray and firm, and the reeds thinned out. But the mist continued to thicken and Peter found himself within a wall of swirling fog, unable to see farther than twenty paces in any given direction, afraid to take another step lest he became lost forever.

His head throbbed. His brow was swollen and sore from where Ulfger had punched him. His ribs hurt with every breath. He gently probed them and winced, wondered if they might be broken. The mist felt as though it were moving in on him, suffocating him. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself, trying to figure out what he should do, and it was then he caught a familiar scent. He inhaled deeply—just a trace of honeysuckle and pond water. The Lady?

Peter felt a slight warmth against his chest and opened his eyes. The necklace—Mabon’s star—began to glow and Peter caught a faint glimmer ahead in the mist. He approached; before him, a dusting of gold glittered just above the clammy gray earth, gently weaving and flowing, like a lazy creek. Peter remembered the Lady spoke of her Mist. Is this her doing? He followed the Path.

Peter found thoughts of the Lady dominating his heart; at one point, he could swear he heard the distant echo of her voice calling, only it wasn’t his name, it was—Mabon.

How many times had he snuck up to the Lady’s Garden? How many times had he lain hidden near Avallach’s shrine in hopes of a single glimpse of her? And in all those years, only once had he seen her, there in her courtyard, talking and laughing with Hiisi. When she’d laughed, Peter had smiled while tears fell from his eyes, his desire to be near her so vast his whole body ached.

The mist began to thin and Peter heard the lapping of waves and got his first whiff of the sea. The gray earth and mist gave way to a drizzly, pebble-littered beach. He stood facing a rocky ledge. The ledge was topped with scraggly spruce and pine. Peter saw no sign of tropical lushness, no sign of faerie kind whatsoever. The air here was cold and damp, sharp smells bit at his nostrils. He heard strange birdcalls. Yet, somehow all of it was familiar and it dawned on him just where he was. He felt a chill, and not from the harsh wind. Peter realized he was back in the world of men-kind.

PETER CLIMBED TO the top of the ledge and looked back. The shifting mist clung to the shore, giving no sign or clue to the magical kingdom hidden in its midst. His first instinct was to head back into the Lady’s Mist, to return to the safety of Avalon’s forest. He shook his head, grimaced. There’s no safety there, he thought. Not for me. Not anymore. Ulfger will hunt me relentlessly.

He looked up the coast, the endless miles fading into the winter grayness—a world of men. What’s here for me? he wondered, and again grimly shook his head. Death, or at best a life of hiding in holes, like Goll. Peter fought back the tears. Is there no place for me? He wiped angrily at his eyes. I have to go somewhere, at least for a while. Maybe one day Ulfger will grow tired of hunting me and I can return. Maybe, but not now, not this day.

Peter headed over the rise, felt a tugging on his heart, and stopped. It was her, the Lady. Even here, he felt her. It was as though she was part of his soul, and the thought of never seeing her again was almost too much to bear. “I will come back.” And if I have to kill Ulfger, I will find a way.

He moved inland, crested the ledge, and a wide, sprawling valley opened before him. Peter caught a telling trail of smoke far below, could just make out a cultivated field and a cluster of buildings. The old fears snuck up on him. He could almost still hear the sounds of the men and their dogs chasing him through the woods, surprised by the intensity of those long-ago memories. He suppressed a shudder, took a deep breath, and pushed his chest out. “They’d best be wary of me,” he stated. “I’m a creature of Faerie. A shadow in the dark. I will cut their throats as they sleep.”

He clutched his belt and remembered he no longer had even a knife and that the world of men was full of wolves, bears, and hill cats. His lips tightened into a thin line and he started down the slope.

The shadows were growing long by the time he found the road. The dirt overturned with fresh horse tracks, plenty of them, and Peter heard Tanngnost in his head, the old troll warning him of his foolishness. But Peter trailed the road, keeping to the bushes, slipping soundlessly from tree to tree, the way he did when trying to sneak up on the wild faeries. He smelled smoke and then stumbled upon the body.

It was a young woman. She lay on her back in the ditch, the torn remnants of her dress trampled into the mud. Her legs splayed wide apart, the horrible wound between her legs crusted with blood and bared to the world. Deep slashes riddled her small breasts and dark bruises stood out against the pale skin of her thin neck.

Peter clenched his jaw and stared into her unblinking eyes. Looking closer, he could see she was barely more than a child. He wondered what sort of games she’d liked to play, wondered what a child could’ve ever done to deserve such a death. Peter felt his dread give way to anger, to hate. He remembered why he never wanted to grow up, never wanted to turn into one of them.

The rays of the late-afternoon sun cut across the tops of the pines and the shadows began to deepen. Peter left the girl and continued to trail the road.

The next body Peter found was that of a man hanging from a tree. He was badly burned and a crow pecked at the charred flesh hanging from his cheek. A sign hung around the man’s neck, painted with a white cross. Tied to his feet were the heads of a woman and two children. Peter saw no sign of their bodies.

He could see the village now, could just make out the gray shapes in the deepening shadows. The acrid smell of smoke saturated the air.

He came upon a man lying in the middle of the road, the side of his head crushed, his blond hair clotted with blood. He still clutched his spear. Peter crouched next to him and pried the spear from his stiff fingers and a knife from his belt. Across the road lay a scorched pasture; in its center, a smoldering pile of burned bodies. Peter guessed there were close to fifty bodies and every one that he could see had been decapitated. A company of crows cawed and pecked at the choicest morsels. He heard Tanngnost again, telling him to leave now, but Tanngnost had also told him that curiosity would be his undoing. Peter smiled at the memory of the fretting old troll, stood, and headed toward the village.

Peter crept along the ditch, keeping low and to the shadows. He slipped past a burned-out barn, only its blackened framework still standing, then came upon three wolves feeding on the body of a woman. Her protruding belly had been slit open and their snouts were wet from gorging on its contents. As Peter neared, the wolves lifted their heads and gave him a warning growl. A tiny infant’s leg hung from the jaws of one of them. Peter gave them a wide berth and continued into the village.

Most of the structures had been burned to the ground. Here and there, a few timbers still smoldered; other than the distant cawing of crows, the village was still and quiet.

Peter slipped within the burned hulk of a stable, crouched in the shadows, surveying the town from between the slats.

A huge cross of freshly hewn timber had been erected in the center of the square. A man hung limply from its beams, a rope stretched taut across his neck, chest, and beneath each arm. Great iron nails had been driven into his hands and feet. He wore a long robe adorned with dancing animals and swirling symbols of the sun, moon, and stars. His robe had been slit up the front. Thick rivulets of congealed blood ran down the insides of his legs, forming a dark pool on the ground. Peter could see that his genitals had been butchered and stuffed into his mouth. No less than thirty heads hung from the cross: men, women, and children. In the deepening shadows, several of them appeared to stare at Peter, as though they might start talking to him at any moment. Peter didn’t like it, didn’t like anything about this place, decided there was nothing here for him, after all, decided it was time to leave. But he heard the heavy tromp of hooves heading his way, then the deep voices of men, and ducked back down.

Two men came into view, leading a horse. The horse pulled along a line of tethered children. The men were wearing chain mail beneath matching blue tunics with white crosses on their chests; short swords hung from their belts. Peter counted eight children; older children, for the most part. Their hands were bound behind their backs and a rope was looped around each of their necks. They were covered in soot and mud; several were bruised and bleeding from ugly wounds. They had despondent, haunted eyes, the eyes of children who’d seen too much.

“So, there you are,” came a man’s call from somewhere behind Peter. Two more soldiers came out of the woods, heading right for his hiding spot. Peter felt sure they were talking to him. He froze, not so much as breathing. But they tromped right past. There was a girl between them. She was tall, long in the leg, but still a girl. She wore a simple, rose-colored dress, spattered in mud, one sleeve torn away. They pushed her roughly along ahead of them and joined the men by the horse.

“We found a few of them hiding up on the hill,” one of the soldiers said. He was stout and bald, one of his legs was shorter than the other and he walked with a pronounced lurch. “The others got away, but we got the one we wanted.” The man grinned.

The other two soldiers took an appraising look at the tall girl and returned his grin. A wiry man with a black cap and a toothless maw said, “No harm in a little sport while we wait for the baron.”

The men chuckled.

A fifth man came out of the woods from the south and met up with them. He was shorter than the others, but with thick, muscled arms and a dark, bristling beard. He wore a helmet, while the other men did not, a white plume stuck up from its crest. “No luck south,” he said. “I’m done hunting these brats. It’s a waste of effort, I say. Why, they make terrible servants anyway. You can whip them till your arm falls off and still not beat the wildness out of them. If the baron wants the rest of them, I say he can root them out of the woods himself.”

They all nodded.

“Aye, sir, they’re like rats, the way they hide in holes and under rocks. Spend a month and not find them all.”

“Truth be, the winter will get the rest of them anyway.”

“Where’s the baron and the guard, sir?” the toothless man asked. “Where’d they get off to now?”

“They’ll be back soon enough,” the bearded man said. “The scouts located another heathen village in the hills. Just a few huts really. The baron took the guard. They intend to do a bit of converting.”

They all laughed.

“Perhaps, sir, some fun while we wait?” the bald soldier said, and shoved the tall girl forward.

The bearded man looked the girl up and down, nodding. He pulled off his helmet, then his gloves, dropped them to the ground. He gently touched her cheek with the back of his finger, then grabbed a handful of her long, auburn hair, and tugged her head back. Peter got a good look at her face. Her eyes were light green and full of fear, her mouth wide and thick-lipped.

“Little witch child,” the bearded man said, and ran a hand down her neck, squeezed her shoulder. “Do you drink blood and dance around your horned god? You do, don’t you?”

The girl said nothing.

His hand trailed down her waist, down her leg. He squeezed her thigh. “Why I bet you crawl around on your hands and knees before him, naked and grunting like a pig. Then bare your ass to the forest beasts, don’t you?” He shook her. “Don’t you?”

The soldiers all snickered, and the toothless man pawed at his own lips.

The bearded man smirked and pushed his hand under her dress, shoving it hard up between her legs.

The girl let out a cry and slapped at him, raking her nails across his face. The man let go of her hair, tried to grab her wrist. She tore loose and ran for the trees.

Peter jumped to his feet, hands tight around his spear. Demons, he thought, men-kind are all demons.

The toothless man leaped after the girl, caught her by the hair, spun her into the dirt. Two others fell upon her, pinning her arms to the ground.

The bearded man touched his face, looked at the blood on his fingers, and spat, “You little cunt.” He strolled over to where they held her on the ground, undid his belt, letting his trousers drop. He knelt between the girl’s legs, pushing her dress up over her hips.

Peter slipped from his hiding place, crept toward the men in a low crouch, knife in one hand, spear in the other.

The girl spat at the bearded man, tried to kick him away from her. He struck her twice in the face, splitting open her lip, then punched her hard in the stomach. She let out a choked gasp and stopped kicking. “That should take the devil out of you,” he said. “Now, two mugs of mead to the man who can make her squeal the loudest. Who’s in?”

They all grinned and grunted.

Peter hefted his spear, gauging the range as he prepared to throw, then saw a figure come running out from one of the houses, heading right toward the soldiers.

It was a boy, one of the pagan folk. He couldn’t have been older than twelve, carrying a spear at waist level and rushing the men at a full run. The boy’s eyes were wide; Peter could see he was terrified. Yet still he came.

The bald soldier saw the boy, let out a shout of warning, but a second too late. The spear drove into the bearded man’s back, punched out his chest.

The bald soldier made his feet and struck the boy, knocking him down. He yanked out his sword, brought it up, and that was when Peter threw his spear. The spear hit the bald man in the back of the neck, tore out through the front of his throat, driving the man face-first into the mud.

Peter let out a howl and was on the next soldier before the man could free his sword of its scabbard. He jabbed his knife into the man’s side and ripped it across his gut, tearing upon his stomach. The man’s entrails poured out from the wound, steaming in the winter chill. He let out a low groan and dropped to his knees.

The two remaining soldiers came for him. Peter easily ducked a swing meant for his head, and another for his chest. These men were big and strong, but Peter was faster, so fast that these lumbering giants seemed to be moving in syrup. He drove in beneath one swing, bringing his knife up into the man’s crotch, felt the blade punch deep into the man’s groin. The soldier let out a horrified wail and Peter’s eyes gleamed. He liked the sound, craved it.

There was only the toothless man left. He looked from his dead and dying comrades to Peter, stared at him as though he were a demon, some pagan god seeking vengeance.

A wicked grin spread across Peter’s face. These huge, brutish men who had struck such terror in his heart, had haunted his nightmares for an age, turned out to be little more than blundering beasts. The battle had turned into a game, the most exciting one he had ever played. Peter licked his knife and let out a low growl.

The man turned and ran.

Peter whooped and raced after him. He caught up to him in a heartbeat, leaping upon his back. He plunged the knife into the soldier’s neck, tore open his throat, and rode him into the dirt. Peter watched the man’s lifeblood gurgle and bubble from his open throat, watched until the man’s eyes glazed over.

A weak whimpering drew Peter to his feet. One of the soldiers still lived. The wounded man was clutching his groin, trailing a wide swath of blood as he tried to crawl away. Peter picked up a fallen sword, and advanced. To his surprise, the pagan boy snatched up a spear and rushed the wounded man. Peter stopped, watched as the boy drove the spear into the man’s back, not once, but over and over. The boy kept jabbing well after the man had stopped moving. “BASTARDS!” the boy screamed. “FUCKING, WICKED BASTARDS!” Finally the girl made him stop. The boy began to cry, his whole body racked with sobs.

The girl looked at Peter. “Who are you?” she asked.

The boy stopped crying, pushed the girl behind him, and pointed the spear at Peter. His red-rimmed eyes were laced with fear, but the spear was steady. “What do you want?”

Peter studied the boy. The boy might be scared but he was ready to fight him to the death, it was plain on his face. Together they’d just killed five men. Peter glanced over to the children tied to the horse. They had the same hard eyes as the boy. Eight of them there, he thought. Ten all together, maybe a handful more hiding in the hills. Desperate, dangerous children without a home. Plenty of swords and spears lying about. Peter tapped his chin. Wonder what Ulfger would think if a clan of wild kids sprouted up in his forest? Peter grinned.

Peter dropped his knife and stuck his sword into the dirt. He took a step forward and planted his hands on his hips. “My name’s Peter. I’m looking to make some new friends.”

The boy stared at him in wonder.

The girl spoke up. “I’m Wendlyn.”

Peter walked right up to the point of the boy’s spear. Stuck out his hand. The boy looked from Peter’s hand to Wendlyn. She nodded. The boy lowered his spear and slowly stuck out his own hand. Peter took it, shook it mightily, and smiled, and the boy and the girl and the other children all smiled back, because Peter’s smile was a most contagious thing.

“Say,” Peter said. “I know a place we can go. It’s a heck of a lot nicer than here.”

“PETER, THIS IS madness. You must take them back!” Tanngnost said.

“No,” Peter replied and crossed his arms. “They’re my friends.”

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing. No idea. The Horned One will never allow their kind here.”

“Come see our fort,” Peter said, waving for Tanngnost to follow him down the trail.

“I will not. I’ll not have anything to do with this folly. Peter, if Ulfger finds out, the elves will hunt you down. They’ll kill all of you.”

Peter whistled and five kids dropped from the trees, spears in hands, teeth bared. Their wiry nude bodies were covered in war paint. They surrounded the troll, growling and glaring at him with wild golden eyes.

“Let them try,” Peter said. “We’ll feed them their own noses.” He raised his spear and howled.

The kids howled back, began to clack their teeth together and jab the air with their spears.

The troll rolled his eyes, then batted one of the spears away. “Don’t point that at me you little wart,” he snapped at a small boy wearing a raccoon skin over his head like a mask.

“These are our woods now,” Peter said sternly. “They belong to us, the Devils. From here to Goggie Creek is now Devilwood. Any who enter risk our wrath.”

Tanngnost let out a sigh and shook his head. “Devils? You mean halfwits. Peter, there’s so much here you don’t understand.” The troll glanced at one boy a bit older than the rest. “The magic of faerie can be poison to their kind. If any of these children are too old, they’ll turn. Have you any idea what that means?”

Peter gave the troll a suspicious look.

“The magic can twist them, turn them into murderous demons.”

“Don’t try to scare me. It won’t work. Not this time.”

“Peter, you have enemies enough. People with too many enemies don’t live long. I’ll not stay around to see you hanged.” Tanngnost stomped away.

PETER HEARD THE whistle, snatched up his sword, and leaned around the tree. The whistle meant Ulfger was coming. Peter did a quick check; the Devils were all in place and well hidden.

We’re ready, he told himself, and realized his hands were shaking, but not from nerves—from excitement. He listened to his heart pounding away. I’m alive, more alive than I’ve ever been. The game is on, the greatest game ever. I’ve thirty Devils now. Thirty brave, deadly warriors. How long had they practiced and prepared for this very moment? Two seasons, three? These children were done with drills, done with living in fear—of men, of elves, of Ulfger. These feral children would run no more. They were ready to fight, ready to kill. They were Devils now, and this scrap of scraggly wood was their forest.

Ulfger came into view, leading a squad of eight well-armed elves. They strolled right down the main trail just as Peter knew they would, Ulfger no doubt believing he was about nothing more dangerous than a fox hunt. Well, Peter thought, this fox intends to bite.

When they were within twenty yards, Peter stepped out into the trail and leveled his sword at Ulfger.

“This is Devilwood. This is my forest,” Peter shouted. “LEAVE!”

Ulfger halted and lifted a gloved hand. The elves moved up on his flanks. He looked Peter up and down and sneered. “Seems Myrkvior has become infested with vermin. Surrender yourself and the other pests and I promise you leniency.”

Peter could see they carried no nets, ropes, or other bindings, only swords and spears. He knew Ulfger’s leniency amounted to nothing more than a quick death.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me,” Peter said. “Or is it hard to hear with just one ear?”

Ulfger glowered. “The time for fun and games is over, little runt.” He pulled a long, wide sword from his scabbard, spun it once, and started forward. The elves began to fan out.

Peter whistled and the woods came alive with howls. Kids dropped out of trees and sprung up from the bushes, leveling spears, swords, and hatchets at the elves, all thirty kids snarling and clacking their teeth.

The elves looked about wildly, their thin, narrow eyes filled with shock and surprise. The Devils jabbed at the air, pressing them back into a tight knot.

Ulfger spun around and around, appeared stunned, confused, as though trying to comprehend how the tables could’ve turned so quickly, so utterly. He clutched his long sword with both hands and stumbled backward into the elves.

“You have to the count of four to drop your weapons!” Peter cried.

“ONE!”

The elves glanced at one another.

“TWO!”

The Devils hefted their spears, ready to throw. There was no playfulness on their faces, no mercy, only the eyes of children that had seen more than their share of brutality and death.

“THREE!”

The elves tossed down their spears.

“What are you doing?” Ulfger cried.

Three Devils shoved their spears to within an inch of Ulfger’s face.

“It’s your call, Ulfger,” Peter said.

Ulfger’s sword trembled in his hands. His face twisted into a knot of rage, his dark eyes glowering. He threw down his sword with a cry of frustration.

“Take all their weapons,” Peter said. “We can use some good elven blades.”

They kept the elves under guard as several smaller kids swarmed around and relieved them of their swords and knives.

“Thieves,” Ulfger said, and spat. “Nothing but the lowest caste.”

Peter jabbed his blade beneath Ulfger’s chin. “Take off your clothes. Everything.”

“What?” Ulfger’s dark eyes flashed.

“That’s ‘What, Lord Peter,’” Peter said. “As in ‘May I Lord Peter’ or ‘Lord Peter, may I.’”

Ulfger glared at him.

“Oh, don’t you remember the drill?” Peter asked. He could see by Ulfger’s face that he did.

Peter pressed his sword point into Ulfger’s neck, just enough to prick the skin. “Take off your clothes, now.”

Ulfger tugged off his boots, then his tunic, a thin shirt of mail, his pants, until finally he stood before them all completely nude.

The Devils snickered and jeered. Ulfger’s face flushed red, his lips trembling with outrage. “You…will…regret this.”

Peter smacked the side of his face with the flat of his sword. Ulfger reeled, almost lost his feet. He spat and wiped his mouth, looked at the blood on his hand.

“You forgot to address me as Lord Peter.”

Ulfger squinted.

Peter raised the sword. “Do it now! And maybe, just maybe, I will let you leave with your balls still attached.”

“Lord Peter,” Ulfger forced out between clenched teeth.

“Good, now turn around. I owe you something.”

Ulfger no longer seemed capable of speaking. He just shook his head.

Peter flicked the blade across Ulfger’s cheek, opening a small cut. Ulfger flinched, let out a weak cry.

“If I have to ask again, you’ll lose your other ear.”

Ulfger turned slowly around.

Peter reared back his sword and hit Ulfger across the buttocks with the flat of the blade. The loud clap echoed off the trees. Ulfger let out a cry. Peter hit him again, then again. The kids winced with every blow. Ulfger let out a sob, stumbled forward, and fell to the dirt.

“This is Devilwood,” Peter said and leaned over next to Ulfger’s ear. “This is my forest. The next time you set foot in these woods I will shove my sword all the way up your ass.” Peter kicked Ulfger hard in the buttocks. “Now get out of here!”

Ulfger pushed to his feet and limped down the trail. The Devils chased after him, hooting, howling, and barking, as they pelted him with pinecones and dirt clods, chasing him all the way to Goggie Creek.

A SHARP CHIRP brought Peter back to the present. He caught a flash of green: faeries—three of them—leaped off a branch and flew away up the trail.

“I believe news of our visit precedes us,” Tanngnost said with a wry grin. “Keep your eyes open: the welcoming committee should be arriving soon.”

Peter glanced about the terrain, spotted a rocky ledge just off the main trail. “We should wait over there,” Peter said. “Those rocks will give me a good head start if I need to leave a bit early.”

The troll nodded and the two of them strolled toward the ledge.

“All will be fine,” Tanngnost said. “So long as you keep your head about you and don’t antagonize him. He can’t possibly raise his sword against you, not after his own father granted you a place among faerie fold. He’s honor-bound to at least hear us out.”

“Honor? Ulfger has no honor.”

“Ulfger does have honor—in many ways it is his greatest undoing. He’s tied to what he believes is his duty, no matter how distorted that may have become. He’ll honor his father’s clemency. But I don’t have to warn you to be careful. You know he’d love to kill you. And if he can find a reason to claim you a threat to Avalon, or to the welfare of the Lady, he will try.”

“From what you’ve told me, the Lady’s little more than his prisoner.”

“Peter, you distort my words. I never implied any such gibberish.”

“You said he never allows visitors or for her to leave. When was the last time you saw her outside her refuge?”

Tanngnost’s great furry brow creased. “I can’t say exactly. I don’t know if she ever leaves.”

“See!”

“I don’t believe that’s Ulfger’s doing, though. When the Great Horned One died, part of Modron seemed to have died as well. I saw her once, briefly, sometime after the great battle. She didn’t recognize me. Not sure she even saw me; she stared through me as though asleep with her eyes open. And now the elves tell that she has grown listless and weaker still. Sadly, she neglects the Mist, and as you well know it has become infested with the Sluagh. They feed on it. Feed on…her.” The troll was quiet for a moment. “I fear if she loses her will altogether, the Mist will fall. Then that will be the end for all of us.” Tanngnost pulled at his long chin whiskers and drifted away into his own thoughts. “Um, what were we talking about?”

Peter smiled. “About what an ass Ulfger is.”

“Ah, yes. That’s right. What I meant to tell you is that whatever Ulfger’s failings, you must never forget that he’s the son of the Horned One. That he, and only he, can wear the Horned Helm and wield Caliburn.”

“But the sword was broken.”

“Even broken, the blade holds enough power and poison to help us drive the Flesh-eaters into the Mist.”

“You never told me that! What are we waiting for?” Peter’s voice became excited. “Where do they keep it? I’ll steal it. Why, if I had the sword I’d drive the Flesh-eaters away myself!” Peter’s eyes lit up.

“Peter,” Tanngnost huffed, and rapped twice on the boy’s head. “Do you ever listen? Did you sleep through all my teachings? Have all my pearls of wisdom been wasted on a dingbat? Caliburn was forged by Avallach and given to the Horned One to protect Avalon in his stead, to drive outsiders away.”

“I know that,” Peter muttered.

“Its touch is death. Only those of ancient blood lines can wield it. And of those, who is left?”

Peter shrugged.

“Don’t be a dunderheaded halfwit,” Tanngnost said. “Ulfger. Only Ulfger remains. Not even the elves can touch it without being burned. And one of impure blood such as yourself? Why, it would burn you from the inside out!”

Peter frowned.

“Peter, whether you like it or not, we need Ulfger. And we need to do our best to convince him to join us.”

“Well, all I know is if you’re putting any faith in him then you’re the dunderheaded halfwit. Ulfger’s a coward. It’ll be just like at the Merrow Cove.”

“No, not a coward. Trapped in the past. Ulfger inherited his father’s physical prowess but not his will. He cannot rise above his father’s ghost. It wasn’t his choice to stay behind at the great battle. His father had him swear an oath to defend the Lady and her garden against whatever should pass. Ulfger still holds to that and will not leave her forest. Even with the destruction of all of Avalon at hand, he believes it is his duty to remain with the Lady.”

Peter let loose an ugly laugh. “He hides behind duty like it is his mother’s apron.”

“That may well be, but—”

Peter put up his hand and cocked his head. “They’re here.”

Just on the top of the rise stood Ulfger, flanked by twelve narrow-eyed elves all carrying swords and spears. The elves’ leathers were the color of the forest and well-worn, while Ulfger still wore the gold-and-red tunic. The tunic was a bit threadbare now, but it still bore the black elk-head crest.

“A meddler and a human-born,” Ulfger called. “And neither welcome here. Trespass in the Lady’s Wood carries but one punishment…death.”

Chapter Fourteen Clan

Nick swallowed a spoonful of porridge and winced. His throat was still sore, but the troll had been right. Except for a throbbing in his temples, he felt better. Cricket and Danny winced as they ate, as well, but they were all so hungry they finished every bite.

The wounds were still hard to look at, but Sekeu had rubbed some sort of smelly ointment on them and the redness and swelling were subsiding.

“What do you guys know about these Flesh-eaters?” Nick asked.

“Not much,” Cricket said. “They won’t tell me a thing. Just that we’ll find out when we’re ready.”

“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nick said. “I don’t like all these secrets. Doesn’t that bother you guys? I mean—”

Leroy sat his bowl on the table and plopped down beside Nick.

“Crazy day, huh?” Leroy said, his tone upbeat, almost cheerful.

Nick looked away in disgust, staring into his empty bowl. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

Cricket sighed. “Abraham told me about what you did, Leroy.” She stuck out her hand. “Thanks.”

Leroy’s face lit up. He shook Cricket’s hand. “Hell, the whole thing was just crazy, that’s all.”

Danny tried to straighten his glasses, pushing at the broken frame as he weighed the situation. He didn’t put out his hand but he did say, “Thanks.” And it sounded to Nick like he meant it.

“Hey,” Leroy said. “I know I can be a real shit sometimes. But…if you guys can cut me a little slack…I mean, what I’m trying to say is I’d really like to start over with you guys. What’d you say? Friends?”

Cricket and Danny took a moment, nodded to each other, and finally both of them said, “Friends.” Nick remained quiet.

“I’m going to be a Devil now. Devils look after each other,” Leroy said, and stuck out his hand to Nick. “Right, Nick?”

Nick didn’t look at him. He just poked at his bowl with his spoon.

“Right, Nick?” Leroy repeated, now with a noticeable edge to his voice.

No, Nick thought. I don’t have to play this part anymore. I’m done being dicked around, done with Peter and his games, and I’m most certainly done with Leroy.

Nick got up from the table and went over to the roots, leaving Danny and Cricket looking perplexed, and Leroy very unhappy.

NICK CLOSED HIS eyes and let the warmth from the porridge spread through his body. He was sure things weren’t over between Leroy and him, but he’d deal with that later. Right now his head hurt and he wanted some space to sort things out, but he only had a minute before Cricket and Danny came over and sat with him.

“Soooo?” Cricket asked.

Nick was silent.

“So what’s the deal with you and Leroy?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right,” Cricket said. She looked like she might burst at any minute. “C’mon, you gotta tell me. What’d he do now? Huh, what?”

“Nothing,” Nick said curtly, and wondered why everyone seemed bent on driving him crazy tonight. “Just drop it, all right?”

“Man, what’s up with you?” Cricket said. “Leroy saved your life. Seems you could cut him some slack. Think about—”

“Do you guys miss home?” Nick cut in.

“No,” Cricket said, without hesitation. “Not a bit. Things were really fucked up at home. My dad—” She stopped, looked like she wanted to add something more, then shook her head. “Deviltree is my home now.”

Nick wondered how bad it could be that Cricket felt safer here, among these cretins, than with her own family.

“I miss Cocoa Puffs,” Danny said.

Both Nick and Cricket rolled their eyes.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Danny said, as he tried to straighten his glasses. “Wouldn’t you kill for a bowl right now? Or maybe some microwave popcorn? What I really miss is freaking toilet paper. Never would’ve thought toilet paper was man’s greatest invention. Y’know what else? I miss my Gameboy. I also miss my stupid little dog. She’s a pug named Piglet. She had something wrong with her nose and made a snorting noise all the time. Just like a little piggy. Funniest damn thing. That little monkey-faced dog snored louder than my dad, too. We had to shut her in the downstairs laundry at night so that we could sleep. I sorta miss my friends at school. I miss my mom and dad, I guess. But,” he laughed, “most of all I miss my goddamn Gameboy.”

Nick and Cricket stared at him. Finally, Nick asked, “Danny, why’d you run away in the first place?”

“Huh? Oh, because I set the school on fire. After I saw all the fire trucks and police cars, I thought it might be a good idea to get out of town.”

“You did what?” Cricket and Nick asked at the same time.

“Well,” Danny said defensively, “I was pissed at that sour old tit Mrs. Kerry. She’s the one that took my Gameboy.”

“So you burned the school down?” Nick asked.

“Yes. No. Well sorta. I tried to. I only managed to burn up a bunch of bushes and part of the roof before—”

“That’s great, Danny,” Cricket interrupted. “How about you, Nick? Why’d you leave?”

“Because I had to.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated. Some guys moved into my grandmother’s house. Turned into a bad scene.”

“How bad?” Cricket asked.

Nick rolled up his sleeve, showed them the burn on his arm.

Cricket looked at him. “That’s bad.”

“Well, I’ve got my mom to thank for that one.”

“Your mom did that?”

“No, but it was her fault, it was her idea to rent out the rooms in my granny’s house. Hell, it was her idea to move back to Brooklyn in the first place. We used to live at Fort Bragg, down in North Carolina, but after my dad died Mom decided we needed to move in with Granny. Said it was because money was tight. That was the same excuse she used to talk Granny into renting out the downstairs rooms. And that’s how Marko and his pals ended up in our house. Marko’s the one that burned me.”

Nick shook his head. “I mean I could see that those guys were shit the first time I met them. Right? But Mom, she was so glad to have some tenants, she just bent over backward for them. Turns out these guys are fucking street-level drug dealers and here’s my mom making them feel right at home. I mean, can you believe that?

“Soon we had these kids coming and going, running dope all over the place. A regular operation working out of our back porch. By then even my mom had caught on. I mean it wasn’t like these guys were going out of their way to be discreet. They pretty much acted like they owned the place.”

“Didn’t she call the police?” Cricket asked.

“No, that’s just it. She wouldn’t. We got in an argument about that. She said Marko had told her if she called the cops, he’d make sure it looked like she was in on it. If that happened the state would take me away from her, or seize Granny’s house. Bunch of crap like that. I think Marko had laid it on thick. Had scared her to death. Anyway, Marko must’ve got wind of our argument, because it was shortly after that him and his pals gave me this.” Nick tapped the burn mark.

“So you left?”

“You bet. I fucked up their setup and got out of there.”

Cricket looked at him, horrified. “You left your mom and grandmother behind…alone in that house with…them?”

“No…I mean, yeah. I left them, but don’t make it sound like I deserted them.”

“Nick, that’s terrible. Think about how scared your mom must be without you there.”

“She’s the one that brought them in!” Nick said angrily. “She’s the one that wouldn’t call the cops. What was I supposed to do? Stay there and put up with Marko’s crap? The guy was going to kill me.”

“Nick, think about it. They probably told her they’d hurt you and your grandmother if she did anything or told anyone. There’s no telling what-all they said to her.” Cricket shook her head. “That poor woman is in such an awful situation. What’s she going to do? I can’t believe you just up and left her there like that.”

“You don’t understand. You weren’t there. It’s not like you think. It’s—” He stopped. “Never mind. Just never fucking mind!” Nick got up and stomped away, crossed the chamber, and went into the privy. He pushed the door shut and dropped the latch. He pressed his back against the door, ignoring the clicking and rustling coming from the toilet. He stared at his reflection in the broken mirror and saw a dozen angry faces glaring back at him.

Fuck her, he thought. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. I didn’t abandon my mother. I’d never do that. He tried to push away the thoughts of his mother alone with Marko, but could think of nothing else. He saw her face. Could see Marko and his pals: Marko’s bulging, bloodshot eyes, his beastly grin, could still hear the way they’d laughed when they’d burned him. If they didn’t mind burning him, what were they capable of doing to her, to Granny? With him gone, they could do anything. God, he thought, she must be so scared. And on top of all that, Granny could barely even get out of bed these days. Mom’s got nowhere to go. No other family, no one else to help her. What’ve I done? His face clenched up and an ugly sob escaped his throat. He pressed his face into his hands and began to cry.

“Mom,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

ULFGER DREW HIS broadsword from its scabbard. His thick, muscled arms twitched, seemed to ache to cut the boy in two. He took a step down the path, toward the ledge where Peter stood, hands on hips, legs wide, glaring down at him.

“You were warned, runt,” Ulfger said. “I will have your head.”

Tanngnost shuffled between them. “Lord Ulfger, if I may—”

Peter whipped out his long knife. “Come and get me, you one-eared fuck!” he shouted and let loose a wild hoot.

“Peter!” Tanngnost cried and shot the boy a nasty look. He wished Peter wouldn’t make it his mission to remind potential allies of prior mutilations.

“You can count on it,” Ulfger growled, and spat in the dirt.

“We didn’t come to fight!” Tanngnost cried, wondering how things could be spiraling out of control so quickly.

“TAKE HIM!” Ulfger shouted.

The elves all drew their swords.

“FOOLS!” Tanngnost thundered, and slammed his staff down, his powerful booming voice echoing through the forest. “Squabbling among yourselves like children. It is little wonder that we’re losing this war! Now put your swords away, all of you!”

The elves hesitated, looking to Ulfger.

Ulfger’s dark eyes fell on Tanngnost. “Mind your place, old goat. You give no orders here.”

“Forgive me, Lord Ulfger,” Tanngnost said and made a slight bowing gesture. “But please, just hear my say.”

“I’ve had enough of your schemes, your distortions, your half-truths.”

“The Flesh-eaters are burning Whisperwood,” Tanngnost said.

Surprise showed even across the elves’ stone faces.

“Liar,” Ulfger said. “Whisperwood can’t be burned.”

“Find a vantage point and you can see the fires for yourself.”

Ulfger narrowed his eyes.

“Peter being here, armed with nothing more than a knife, is proof enough,” Tanngnost said. “Do you believe he’d take such a risk were the need not dire? If the Lady were not in imminent danger? Not to mention setting aside his pride and old grievances to appeal to you?” The troll took in a deep breath. “He may be lacking in diplomatic skills, but his sword and life are sworn to the Lady. If he is willing to take such risks, can you not at least hear us out?”

“Go on then, speak your bit,” Ulfger conceded. “Then I will decide if he lives or dies.”

Tanngnost clutched his staff, struggled to stifle his temper. “No, Lord Ulfger,” he said levelly. “Not today you won’t. Need I remind you that it was your father that granted him a place in Avalon? He has earned the right with his own blood and the blood of his clan. If you should harm Peter here and now, under these circumstances, it will be nothing short of murder.”

Ulfger’s eyes flared. “Say your bit and be done,” he growled.

“Don the Horned Helm,” Tanngnost said. “Take up your rightful place and lead us into battle. The Flesh-eaters have grown weak. With your father’s sword leading we can drive them into the Mist. The Lady’s Guard, the Devils, even the witch and her horde, all of them, they will rally around the Horned Helm. They will follow you, Ulfger. You!”

Ulfger flinched and took a step back. He glanced about almost like an animal searching for an escape. “Whisperwood is not my concern,” he muttered.

“Do you believe they will stop with Whisperwood?”

Ulfger was silent for a long moment. “My duty lies with the Lady. I’ll not leave my post on the whimsy of some interlopers.”

“You hide behind long-dead oaths!” Peter shouted from atop the ledge.

Ulfger glowered up at the boy.

“If you wish to speak of duty then carry the sword,” Peter said. “Fight the Lady’s enemies before it’s too late.”

“Do not even pretend you have the right to talk to me, child thief,” Ulfger hissed.

Peter sheathed his knife, leaped down the ledge, and headed up the path toward Ulfger.

“Tread lightly young Peter,” Tanngnost warned.

Peter strolled boldly past Ulfger and right up to the line of elves. “And have the Lady’s Guard given up as well? Are there none who would stand with the wild children of Deviltree against the Lady’s enemies?” He waited, looking from face to face, then lowered his voice. “Tomorrow, at dawn, the Devils will be at Red Rock. We intend to drive the Flesh-eaters from Whisperwood. If we have to fight the Flesh-eaters alone, we will. But remember, if we should fall…so will you.”

The elves’ faces betrayed no sign, no emotion.

Ulfger clapped, laughing. “I see now. You’ve come here to amuse us with your jests. Unless you truly believe there are those among the Lady’s Guard foolish enough to follow a little boy, a mere child who plays at being a warlord, into battle.”

“Playing?” Peter grinned. “Sadly, even play-fighting the Flesh-eaters is more than the son of the Horned One can claim.”

Ulfger stopped laughing; his face became hard, his dark eyes cold. “My father’s clemency has spared you today, runt. But by my name, should I see you again in these woods there will be no banter, only your swift death.” Ulfger turned and headed back up the trail. The elves lingered a moment longer, staring at Peter with their narrow, cold eyes, then they too disappeared up the trail.

THREE SHARP RAPS hit the door. All the Devils stopped what they were doing; looked at one another, then to the door.

A large kid named Bear opened the peephole and a big grin lit his face. He threw the slat over and pulled the round door inward. “Well, well,” he said. “Look what the Devil dragged home!”

Peter rushed past, to the middle of the chamber, raising his knife high. “BLOOD IS CLAN AND CLAN IS BLOOD. ALL HAIL THE LORDS OF DEVILTREE!”

The Devils dropped whatever they were doing, leaped to their feet, and shouted, “BLOOD IS CLAN AND CLAN IS BLOOD!” They rushed toward Peter.

Nick could feel the excitement in the air like an electrical charge. The Devils danced and clamored around Peter as though he were the Messiah. Even the usually reserved Sekeu beamed like a schoolgirl.

The tall, lumbering troll came in quietly behind Peter and shut the door. No one appeared to notice, nor care. He made his way around the kids and eased himself onto a bench near the roots. He sat with his long face in his large hands, looking haggard and defeated.

Peter tried to speak, but the kids were all talking at the same time. Peter raised his hand and waited for the chamber to quiet down.

“I’m sure you’re all aware that things have become dire. The Flesh-eaters burn Whisperwood. It’s time for bold action and brave deeds.”

Their faces grew somber.

“That is why I took it upon myself to enter the Lady’s Wood, convinced Tanngnost that it was time to set aside old grievance and try to bring the clans together.”

The troll rolled his eyes.

Peter thumped his chest. “I braved the Lady’s Wood, stood alone before Ulfger and his horde of elves with nothing but my knife. And I challenged Ulfger, dared him to stand with us against the Flesh-eaters.”

The Devils held their breaths, leaned forward.

Peter spat on the ground. “The coward refused.”

Some of the kids booed, there were shouts of “who needs him,” but Nick also saw several troubled faces.

“Don’t fear. For I have a plan.” A devilish smile lit Peter’s face. “Such a wicked plan. The Devils will have their day of glory, this I promise.” Peter raised his knife above his head and shouted: “FOR WHO ARE THE TRUE GUARDIANS OF THE LADY?”

The kids erupted. “THE DEVILS!”

“AND WHO ARE THE TRUE LORDS OF AVALON?”

“THE DEVILS!”

Peter held his hand up until the chamber again quieted. “As I’m sure you’ve all heard by now, the Devils stood against the witch today.”

They cheered.

“Held their own against Ginny Greenteeth’s entire horde!”

More hoots and cheers.

“Not only that, but one of our New Blood has proven himself worthy. In defense of his clan, he singlehandedly killed two barghest and saved the lives of three New Bloods.” Peter’s voice dropped. “Devils…prepare!”

Two Devils ran around the chamber, dousing the torches and lanterns until only a single torch burned on the central pillar above Peter’s head.

Sekeu handed Peter a tattered gray wolf pelt. Peter slipped it over his head like a hood, so that his eyes peeked out from the mask. Peter hopped up onto a stone at the pillar’s base. He threw his arms up with a theatrical flourish. The chamber fell dead quiet. “Bring me the body of Leroy!”

Leroy looked both delighted and terrified. Redbone and several of the Devils grabbed him and jostled him over to Peter.

The Devils formed a semicircle, all facing Peter. Sekeu brought Peter a knife and sword, both in scabbards and tied to a wide, studded belt.

Peter slid out the knife, held it before Leroy’s eyes, letting the flicking torchlight dance along its sharp edge. “Leroy, do you give your blood to the Devils?”

Leroy looked at the knife and hesitated, finally letting out a timid “Yes.”

“All have heard…he gives his blood willingly,” Peter cried.

The Devils began to clack their teeth.

Leroy glanced about, eyes wide. Nick could see he was breathing fast.

“Hold out your hands,” Peter said, his golden eyes grave, almost angry.

Leroy slowly brought up his hands. They were trembling. He winced.

Peter laid the hilt of the knife in Leroy’s palm, clasped Leroy’s hand in his, so that together they held the knife.

“This belongs to you now,” Peter said in a hushed, reverent tone.

Leroy’s face flushed with relief. He looked at the knife, overjoyed.

Sekeu handed Peter the sword and belt. Peter knelt and buckled the belt around Leroy’s waist, then stood, clasping Leroy on each shoulder. “Welcome brother. Welcome to the clan of Deviltree.”

Leroy beamed.

“One has put his life on the line for his clan!” Peter shouted. “Stood face to face against two barghest! His reward is our brotherhood. Mark this day as the day Leroy earned the right to wear a sword, earned the right to be called a DEVIL! LONG LIVE THE CLAN OF DEVILTREE!”

The Devils exploded in cheers and hoots. They snatched Leroy up onto their shoulders and began to parade him around the chamber, chanting his name.

“I will claw out his eyes,” Nick hissed and clenched his hands into tight fists, digging his nails into his palms. “Burn his face. Stab him. Stab him. Stab—” Nick clamped his teeth together tightly. What was he saying? He shook his head, tried to clear away the acid, the venom. What had come over him? What was he thinking?

He watched them tromp by, saw Leroy laughing and beaming with joy.

Hatred swept over him again. He felt the frustration and anger welling up within him, and all at once a flush of heat bloomed in his stomach. The venom climbed up his throat. That fucking shit. Dig out his eyes. Tear his flesh. Stomp his skull into the stones! Nick clutched his head. No, he thought. Fuck it. I don’t give a fuck. But another part of him did care, cared very much.

The pounding in his head grew worse. He wondered if it had anything to do with the poison from the barghest. It felt more like in his dream, right before he’d turned into that demon thing. He needed something to drink. He glanced about, caught the troll watching him. He sucked in a deep breath. Let it go, he told himself. Get some water, cool down.

He got up and poured himself a mug of water, then headed over to the table, as far from everyone as he could get.

The troll gave him a concerned look as he passed.

Nick stared at the table, did his best to ignore the celebration. There was a nut pinned between the boards of the table, and he began to pick at it. Something, anything to keep his mind off Leroy, off the violence pounding in his head. The nut popped free. He batted it between his hands. It’s been a long day, that’s all, he thought. Shit, between almost getting killed, and all this bullshit with Leroy, well, being in a bad mood is understandable. Right?

Two pixies alighted on the table, well out of arm’s reach, and watched the nut.

Tonight Nick found he could hardly stand the sight of the little blue people. He swatted at them with the back of his hand. “Scat.”

They stuck out their tongues and wagged their butts at him. Nick felt the heat grow in his stomach, the venom in his throat. He rubbed his head. What’s wrong with me?

Peter was talking to Leroy now.

Nick stopped rolling the nut.

Peter was obviously congratulating Leroy. Pumping his hand up and down and patting him on the back. Leroy was all grins.

Nick’s lip quivered and his fingernails dug into the table.

One of the pixies flicked Nick’s ear, while the other tried for the nut. Nick swatted violently at them. They flitted out of the way, giggling.

Nick couldn’t hear what Leroy was saying, but it was obvious by his exaggerated pantomimes that he was describing how he’d killed the barghest.

The heat in Nick’s stomach began to burn, just like in the dream, and just like in the dream, he felt murder growing in his heart. Not just for Leroy, but for everyone.

One of the pixies yanked a tuft of Nick’s hair while the second one snatched for the nut again, and Nick felt the venom take him.

He howled and hurled the mug at the pixie. It struck the pixie in midair, knocking it to the ground. The mug clanged across the stone floor.

The hall fell silent.

The pixie screamed, and the cry of pain brought Nick back. Nick watched it fluttering, trying to get up. It was hurt. Had he done that? Yes, he knew he had. But how could he have done such a thing? How could he have lost control like that?

He heard Cricket gasp and looked up; everyone was staring at him.

Redbone slid out his knife and started toward him.

“No,” Peter said.

“What?” Redbone said. “He needs a lesson. Needs a mark.”

“No,” Peter repeated.

SEKEU CLEARED HER throat. “Nick will have to be killed.”

“No,” Peter said.

Tanngnost let out a sigh and thought, This will not be easy. He looked out over the ever-thinning canopy of leaves. The watchtower had always been a good place for counsel, a place to clear the mind. The bit of moon glow that found its way through the low-hanging clouds glistened silver off the dewy limbs. He saw a few fireflies, and thought back to when the trees had been lush and the night alive with the glimmer of a million tiny faeries. Tanngnost hooked his pipe in his mouth, inhaled deeply, then exhaled, watching the smoke drift away on the light breeze. “She’s right, Peter. There’s no other choice.”

“No,” Peter repeated.

“He’s turning,” Tanngnost said. “And if we wait until it’s too late, it’ll be worse for all of us. If the kids see him turn—worse, if they see us kill him, think what that will do for morale. We need to act now.”

Peter pursed his lips and shook his head adamantly.

“Nick is showing all the signs,” Sekeu said.

Peter didn’t answer. He pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and put his chin on his knees.

Ever the contradiction, Tanngnost thought. One moment a cold-hearted killer, the next a sentimental boy, always the eternal optimist despite a lifetime of tragedy. Of course, that’s his glamour. The very thing that draws the children to him, makes them love him despite so many contradictions.

“Nick is having the nightmares,” Sekeu said. “I hear him at night. You can see darkness in his eyes in the morning.”

Peter’s brow tightened.

“You saw him tonight,” she said. “He is having trouble controlling his anger. You know that is the last sign before they turn for good.”

Peter looked up. “What, because he swatted a pixie? Who hasn’t? The little pests will run over you if you don’t.”

“No, Peter,” Tanngnost said. “That wasn’t a swat. I was watching him. The darkness had him. He meant to kill that pixie.”

“I found one dead the other night,” Sekeu said. “Someone had crushed it.”

Peter looked at her. “What? No.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll beat it,” Peter said. “We’ve had others that went through it: older boys, just starting puberty, their bodies always fight the magic.”

“Yes,” Sekeu said. “But they do not go so far. One night, maybe two of bad dreams and stomachaches and that is all.”

Tanngnost sucked in a deep breath. “We can’t risk another Roger.” There, he’d said it. “Not now. Not with everything at stake.”

Sekeu gave Peter a hard look. Peter’s face clouded. He looked away into the night sky.

Tanngnost knew it was cruel to bring up Roger. He hated having to, but he had to get through to Peter, and with Peter sometimes this was the only way. Roger had been too old. Like with Nick, it started with the stomachaches, the dreams, then he began to have violent outbursts. One moment Roger seemed fine, then he’d lose control. He’d have that same confused look that Nick had: trying to understand why. Horrible thing to have to watch. Roger turned while out gathering berries. Sekeu told them one minute Roger was picking berries the next he attacked another New Blood, stabbed Sam over and over in the face, neck, and stomach. Sekeu had been the one to kill Roger, then had the task of putting Sam out of his misery.

“Peter, I will not allow it to happen again,” Sekeu said, and the coldness of her tone chilled Tanngnost. “If he shows any more signs I will kill him.”

“No. I brought him through. If he turns, I’ll be the one to kill him.”

“And if you are not there?” Sekeu asked.

Peter set hard eyes on Sekeu. “If it happens again…kill him,” Peter said bitterly. “Make it quick, but kill him. Tell Redbone, but none of the others.”

Sekeu nodded; she looked relieved.

Peter hit the banister with his fist. “We can’t lose him. We need him. If we’re to defeat the Flesh-eaters we’ll need all of them.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Tanngnost took another pull on his pipe. “Then it’s decided?” Tanngnost asked. “About the Flesh-eaters?”

Peter nodded. “What other choice do we have? Food’s almost gone. We can either try and drive the Flesh-eaters back or fight Greenteeth and Ulfger for the scraps left in their woods.”

“You spoke of a plan—a wicked plan I believe?”

Peter frowned. “Oh that.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m still working on that.” He stood and began to pace back and forth. “Picking them off one at a time is no longer an option. We will never drive them back that way. There’re just too many of them, too few of us, and too little time. We need a new strategy.”

“What do you propose?”

Peter nodded to himself, as though trying to convince himself of something. He crossed his arms over his chest. “An all-out assault.”

Tanngnost raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Peter, you know they’re too many to—”

“We’re out of time. If they break through Whisperwood all will fall. What other option is there? Tell me?”

Tanngnost could think of nothing.

Peter looked at Tanngnost with grim, determined eyes. “It is the end, old friend. One way or another, it’s the end.”

Chapter Fifteen Merrow’s Cove

Nick felt the heat swim through his veins like venom. The skin along his arms prickled then began to burn, to shrivel and turn black right before his eyes. Claws grew out of his fingers, tore right through his flesh. He let out a long, painful wail then saw them—three little faeries no bigger than birds—and his wail turned into a deep, hungry growl. The faeries crouched in the crook of a tree, quivering, frozen in fear, fear of him. He smiled, felt his lips peel back over jagged teeth, and snatched up two of them. Slowly, he squeezed them. Their eyes bulged and he felt their tiny bones crack and snap in his hand, their shrieks music to his ears. He bit off their heads, grinding their flesh and bones between his teeth, squeezed their runny guts into his mouth. Nick reached for the last one, the little boy. The boy screamed, only it wasn’t a little faerie scream that came out, but his scream, Nick’s. Nick heard himself screaming and screaming, with fear, with pain, with overwhelming loss.

Nick awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, his stomach burning. This time the nightmares didn’t fade. They’d been all too real, too vivid. He could almost still taste them.

Nick didn’t want to go back to sleep, afraid the dreams would return. He wondered why he was the only one that seemed to be having nightmares. He looked at Danny. The boy was sleeping like a baby. Danny had come in only a day or two before him.

Nick unlatched his cage and got up. The first light of dawn was creeping through the windows, setting the thin mist aglow. None of the others were awake yet. He saw a few pixies flittering about here and there, scrounging around searching for crumbs. They kept a wary eye on him. They’re scared of me, he thought. This should’ve been good, but it made Nick feel as though something was wrong with him, like he had a disease, something contagious, something horrible.

Nick stretched, surprised that his muscles weren’t sore from all the hiking yesterday. If anything, he felt spry. He clenched his fist. He felt strong. He assumed it was the gruel. It really was doing something to him. And again, Nick had to ask himself just what that might be.

He walked to the privy; the night chill still hung in the air and the cool stones felt good beneath his bare feet. He entered, heard hissing, and saw the two pixies nesting just above him in the rafters keeping a wary eye on him. Nick ignored them, dousing his head under the pump, and drank deeply, slowly washing away the fire in his stomach, the horrible taste from his mouth, then came back out into the chamber. He sat at the end of the long table and watched the morning light gradually fill the great hall. He stared at the straw men hanging in the shadows. They still reminded him of dead children.

He found his thoughts returning again and again to his mother. In those last few years he’d come to almost hate her. How? Why? Where had that hostility come from? Why was he always pushing her away, always making things so difficult? So many of their fights seemed so stupid now, so trivial.

Absently, he stroked the soft fur of the blue rabbit’s foot and recalled the days after his dad’s funeral. He’d been ten then. Each night that week, a couple of NCO wives would drop off a few dishes for dinner. Sometimes they would bring along their children as well. Each bestowing their condolences, wishing his mother the best in the coming months, making his mother promise if she needed anything, anything at all, to please just call. They could never stay long though, they had kids to take to soccer or to swim team, or groceries to pick up. They’d leave their Styrofoam takeout trays and head back to their homes, their lives, their husbands, leaving Nick and his mother alone in a room full of wilting flowers and sappy sympathy cards.

It was then that it truly sank in that his father wouldn’t be coming home. Would never again walk through the door, plop down on the stairs, and gripe about his day while unlacing his boots. Would never again grab a beer out of the fridge, swat his wife on the butt, and ask what the heck was for supper. Never again jab Nick in the gut and ask him if he’d beaten up any little girls at school. From now on, it would be just Nick and Mom.

Those first nights his mother had held him, rocking him gently as he cried himself to sleep. But now, while sitting in this gloomy chamber of stone and roots, he wondered just who had held her, who’d rocked her, wiped away her tears, told her everything would be all right? What had that been like for her, suddenly facing life as a single mom? With no one to turn to but an ailing mother in Brooklyn.

And there were other matters, things grieving widows should never have to deal with. They could no longer stay on base, so she needed to find a place for them to live. And to add to that, the accident that had killed his father was under investigation, the Army claiming negligence on his father’s part. Nick understood little of the details, only that it had something to do with their benefits and meant his mother was suddenly desperate to find a job.

And how had I helped? Nick asked himself. What did I do to make things easier? I argued, I complained, and I fought with her about everything. And worst of all I blamed her for it all. He could hear his own whiny voice griping about his school, his room, his shoes, his stupid fucking shoes. God, how he hated the sound of it in his head.

What had been wrong with him? Did he really believe he was the only one suffering? The only one hurting? Had he truly been that blind? Nick rubbed his forehead. Somehow everything had gotten jumbled up, twisted, that’s all. The loss, the hurt, the anger, all of it. Now it seemed so clear. So goddamn painfully clear.

“I’m gonna come back, Mom,” he whispered. “Gonna make up for it. I promise. Just hang on. Please hang on.”

Nick pressed his hands into his face and tried to rub away the strain, the grief and regret. He heard a creak and looked up. Peter, Sekeu, and the troll were coming down the stairs from the loft. All three of them were staring at him. Nick had the feeling that he was being scrutinized, almost examined.

A smile lit Peter’s face. “Hey Nick. You doing okay?”

Nick stood up. “Peter, we need to talk.”

Peter walked over and placed a hand on Nick’s back. “And we will, Nick. Most certainly. But not now. Too many things afoot.” Peter’s golden eyes gleamed wickedly. “There’s blood to be spilled and throats to slit.” Peter threw his head back and crowed like a rooster, crowed until everyone in the chamber was on their feet.

KIDS LINED UP in front of the privy. Fires were set, torches lit, porridge put to boil; you could feel the excitement as the Devils rushed about getting the day going. Nick got his bowl and took a seat next to Cricket and Danny.

Danny looked in his bowl and frowned. “That’s all we get? There’s hardly enough to fill the bottom of my bowl.”

“What are you complaining for?” Cricket asked. “I thought you hated this gunk.”

“Wow, would you look at that!” Danny said. He was holding his glasses away from his face, pulling them off and on, and squinting. He looked straight up.

Cricket and Nick looked up too.

“Danny?” Cricket asked. “What the hell are you doing?”

“How…about…that,” Danny said. “I can see better without my glasses now. This magic porridge might taste like bark, but man, is it goood for you.” He stood up, turned sideways, and pulled his shirt up. “Check this out.” He patted his stomach. “My gut’s almost gone.”

“You’re sucking in,” Cricket said.

“Am not. I’m turning into a lean mean killing machine.”

“Puh—lease!” Cricket said, slapping the table and letting out a laugh.

“Y’know,” Danny continued, “if we could figure out the ingredients to this slop, we could make like a couple million bucks back home.”

“We’re not ever going back home,” Cricket said, and as the profoundness of her words hit them, they all fell quiet.

“I am,” Nick said. “I’m getting out of here.”

Cricket and Danny stared at him.

“What do you mean?” Cricket asked.

“I mean, I’m going home.” He paused. “I have to get back to my mom. One way or another, I have to.”

“How you gonna do that?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

A sad smile crossed Cricket’s lips. She reached out and clasped Nick’s hand. “I’m sure there’s a way.”

“DEVILS,” Peter called. “Gather round. There is a tale to tell!”

PETER TOOK A deep breath. The Devils clustered about him in a semicircle, sitting on the stone floor, atop their cages, or leaning against tree roots, goading and picking at one another. He looked from face to face: Cutter, who’d walked through the Mist without so much as a word; Huck, who’d actually laughed at it; Dirk and Dash, who were always fighting with each other but were never apart; Ivy, with her beautiful curly hair and one lazy eye from where her mother had kicked her for wearing makeup; Amos, the Amish boy who was banished for being too profane. How similar they were to the Devils from the first age, before the great battle, to those boys and girls who’d died so valiantly.

Peter leaned over to Tanngnost. “They’re ready, as ready as they’ll ever be. Are you?”

The old troll huffed and pushed himself to his feet. “No, but I’ll do my best.” He walked in front of the Devils, drew himself up to his full height, and stamped his staff once, hard, the sound reverberating about the chamber. The chattering died down.

“This is not an easy tale to tell,” Tanngnost began, his deep baritone filling the chamber. “Maybe if the words had been passed down to me from another. But this isn’t some ancient dusty legend, this is a real-life tragedy, and I was there to witness it. I saw the carnage, heard the screams, smelled the blood, and have no desire to relive the horror once again. I’ve done that enough in all the nightmares that’ve plagued me since. But you are being asked to put your lives on the line for Avalon. You deserve to know the truth, to know what you’re fighting for. So it is time to tell the tale once more.”

The troll cleared his throat. “We’ve New Blood among us. For those of you to whom this story is new, it should enlighten you and hopefully inspire you. For those who’ve heard it not once but many times, it should serve as a reminder of who we are and why we carry on. For me, it’s important to pass down the events of that terrible day so that the deeds of those who died are not forgotten. This is a tale of evil, of death, and of heroism. It is my tale. It is your tale. This is the tale of the Flesh-eaters.”

The hall fell quiet; all the kids leaned forward.

“Before forever ago, the very earth itself was alive, a place of mystery, nature, and magic. It was the time of the first races, when gods still walked among us and we rejoiced in their miracles and wonderment. Men-kind shared this world for but a blink, then, sadly, they became enlightened, found science and religion. The new world of men left little room for magic or the magical creatures of old. Earth’s first children were driven into the shadows by flame and cold iron, by man’s insatiable need of conquest.

“Those who could escape men-kind’s persecution gathered around the Lady of the Lakes, Lady Modron, daughter of the Great Avallach. She released the Mist to hide and guard Avalon, and the isle became a refuge, a sanctuary from the human world.

“There is a sacred spot within Avalon—the Haven. At its center lies Avallach’s Tree. Its roots bind all of Avalon together. It is said that Avallach’s blood courses through its roots. The Tree is the heart, Avalon is the body, the inhabitants the soul, all three woven together, one living entity. One cannot be without the other. You are all part of this union.”

Tanngnost looked out past the kids. His eyes focused beyond the hall.

“It was some time after the betrayal of King Arthur and his round table of villains that Avalon began to drift away from human civilization. The isle left the Britains, drifting for an age along the frozen coasts of the Atlantic, until finally finding a home in the land now known as the Americas. This was a golden time for Avalon, for we were far away from men-kind’s intolerant god. This new land was still wild and full of magic, much like the early ages of earth. The native people of the Americas were one with nature, both revering and fearing its magic.

“So, as time passed, we came to trust the peace, believe we were safe from the evils of human civilization. The Lady called the Mist back into the lakes and once again the magical people had the stars and moon to dance under at night and the sun to bask in during the day. The native people came and paid reverence to the Lady. We shared our magic with their shamans and traded crafts, harvests, and wild game, just as we had with the druids of old.

“Then the ships came.”

Tanngnost paused, took in a deep breath.

“One day I looked out toward the horizon and there, in Merrow’s Cove, three tall galleons lay at anchor. Three ships full of men, women, children, dogs, pigs, fowl, goats, disease, and vermin. Their stench reached deep into the forest.

“I watched them wade ashore in droves, boatload after boatload. Close to three hundred men and women landed, fouling our streams with their filth. Their priests planted a cold iron cross on the beach and tainted our land with their blessings. We’d fled to the farthest corner of the world to escape their tyranny and yet somehow, here they were on the very shores of our sacred Avalon.

“All the magical creatures took flight at the sight of them. We hid far into the woods and watched from the hills. We hoped they’d take what they needed and leave. But instead they began to set up camp, and soon another ship came and then another. Five ships sat in our harbor. How many more were on their way? We had no way of telling.

“The folk of Avalon held council with the Lady. The Lady sent a fellowship representing many of the faerie folk to meet with the men, to let them know that this was our land and ask them to leave. The delegation was led by Hiisi, the Lady’s lifelong friend and closest confidant. And I was proud to see my brother Tanngrisnir there representing the trolls of Avalon. Dressed in their best finery, they all marched under the banner of the Lady that day, each carrying a gift of fruit gathered from the Lady’s own garden.

“We watched from the woods as the delegation went forth. A group of women were washing in the stream and when they saw the troop approaching they began to shout and scream then fled back into their camp.

“The delegation halted. They seemed unsure of what to do.

“Dozens of the men began to gather along the edge of the camp, shouting and yelling at the group. This went on for some minutes, then all at once several loud pops and plumes of white smoke erupted from the camp. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was musket fire. Several of the delegation collapsed and didn’t get back up. The rest ran for the woods. Hiisi fell over clutching his chest. Tanngrisnir picked Hiisi up and tried to carry him away. But the men from the camp came for them with swords and pikes. The delegation was unarmed, as they had come only to talk and parley. Those that were not fleet enough were run down and slain before our eyes. I watched my own brother stabbed over and over. They killed them right in front of us. We fled into the hills, all terrified for our lives.”

Tanngnost cleared his throat and continued, his voice thick with emotion.

“The Lady released the Mist to protect our shores, to hide Avalon, lest even more ships should come. The Mist boiled up from the lakes and rolled out of the forests and hills like dragon’s breath. By that night the Mist had surrounded the island and covered the sky. I’ve not seen the sun or moon since.”

Tanngnost stopped, seemed unable to continue.

Peter leaped up and began to pace the floor. “That was only the beginning of the dark days ahead,” he said and cocked his head as though hearing something far away. “When I think back to that time, it is the drums I hear.” Peter thumped his chest. “I can still hear them in my heart. For the Lady called on the Great Horned One to come out of the forest and crush the men, to drive them from our shores and into the Mist. He came from out of the deepest darkest wood, his eyes flaming beneath the Horned Helm. He beat his war drum and called all the folk to arms. He called for them to remember how to use their horns, teeth, and claws, to remember how to be terrible, to remember what it is like to darken the earth with the blood of men-kind.

“And hear this!” Peter stuck out his chest, his face beamed with pride. “The Horned One came here…to Deviltree! The Lord of Avalon came to us! He called for our swords! Offered us a place among the faerie fold in return for our allegiance.

“Do you know why?” Peter looked across the faces. “Because the Devils knew what it means to fight for your place in this wicked world. Because none had fought harder to escape the evils of men and none were hungrier to rid our land of their stink. The Horned One knew this well. He, the Horned One, danced with us around the fire that night as we sharpened our knives and teeth.

“Our hearts were ignited. All the island was united beneath the Horned One’s banner. Seelie and Unseelie alike dug out their weapons of old, dusted off their shields and armor, sharpened their swords and spears. We painted our faces and all that night we beat our drums, howling and wailing. Hoping to put the fear of ancient ones back in the hearts of the men and drive them into the Mist. The warriors of Avalon gathered at the edge of the forest and awaited dawn’s first light. But the invaders didn’t leave. Instead they dug trenches and hid within them.

“When the first glow of dawn lit up the misty morning, the Great Horned One walked out of the forest and stood before us like a mighty oak. The morning light glistened off his majestic antlers. He beat his fist twice upon his chest and raised his mighty sword, Caliburn, high above his head. Horns rang out all along the forest line. When he brought the sword down, we charged.

“Elves, gnomes, minotaurs, centaurs, all manner of faerie folk, trolls, even the goblins had answered the Horned One’s call; never before had such an army been seen. I’ll never forget that day, as ageless enemies put aside their differences to come to Avalon’s defense. We were here to save our very world. I knew there’d be a thousand songs sung about this legion and was proud to count myself among them. My senses were alive, never had the dew smelled so fresh and the air so crisp. I raised my sword, howled, and followed the Horned One into battle.”

Peter snatched a spear from the wall, pointed it at an imaginary foe. “We charged, well over five hundred strong. Such a sight we made, rushing down upon the enemy with weapons high and banners waving, and such a sound, like thunder, as we beat our swords and spears against our shields. And none howled louder than the Devils. We were hungry to paint the tide red with the blood of the invader. We bore down upon their camp and yet still they waited in their trenches. We thought them too scared to meet us on the battlefield. We were from a different age. We knew nothing of modern warfare, of fighting with muskets and…cannon.”

Peter’s voice dropped. “All five ships gave us a broadside. The thunder of those cannons was so loud that at times I swear I can still hear their echo. I saw limbs torn from bodies. Bodies turned to meat. Whole heads disappeared in a spray of blood.” His voice broke. “Never had I thought such carnage possible.

“Those not killed or maimed in the first volley were lost in shock, not knowing to run or fight, unable to even understand what was happening. Too many just stood there with wide eyes and were cut down as volley after volley ripped through our ranks. The air came alive with their screams, their cries of pain and terror. But,” Peter said, his voice swelling with pride, “not the Devils. No, we did not lose our wits. It was us that stood beside the Horned one, we that did not waver. He continued to push ahead and we followed. The men behind the trenches stood and began shooting their muskets. And it was only then that the Devils began to lose our numbers. The Horned One was hit repeatedly and still he continued forward. He climbed the embankment and attacked.

“They paid the price then. The men screamed and ran from his blazing eyes and terrible sword as he waded through them, cutting them down by the dozen. The Devils rallied and came to his side, and that was when we heard the thunder, when the very earth erupted beneath our feet as cannon shot exploded all around us.

“When the smoke cleared, the Horned One was lying still upon a mound of scorched earth, his body blown to bits, around him the bodies of our clan.” Peter slammed the spear down across his knee, splintering the staff into two pieces. The Devils started. “The men had killed the Great Horned One. They slaughtered my clan.”

Peter’s chin fell to his chest. He closed his eyes and could still see their faces, their mangled, shattered bodies, smell the stench of charred flesh. The rest was a jumble: Sekeu helping him back up the beach, thick, choking smoke, pain, the endless ringing in his ears, the two of them stumbling toward the forest, trying not to slip in the pools of blood and gore as they climbed over the bodies of the dead and dying.

Tanngnost spoke up then, low, but the hall was so quiet not a word was lost. “The story didn’t end there. If only it had. Those that survived fell back into the hills, crawling into holes, dens, and caves, or any place they could find to hide away and lick their wounds.

“We waited for the men to leave. We hoped and begged the ancient gods to chase them off, but they did not leave. Instead they built their fort, cleared the land to plant crops and build pens for their livestock. And worst of all, they erected a Christ church, defiling the very sanctity of Avalon.

“Large platoons of men began entering the forest, never venturing far, but killing any creatures they found. And they ate what they killed. Not just the wild game, no, they ate the magical ones as well. And this, you might have guessed, is how we came to call them Flesh-eaters.

“Then they began to burn the forest. Why? I can only guess at the madness of these demons. To create a barrier between them and us perhaps? Whatever the reason, they’ve become obsessed with clearing the whole island of our kind. To burn down every tree, burn out every hole and den where we might live or hide. Year after year, they burned more and more.

“At first we thought we could outlast them. Thought maybe they’d wither and die, as men-kind do in the human world. But dying is not so easy in Avalon. We’ve no sickness or disease here, at least not of the kind found in the human world. And we don’t age the same either. Peter has been here since before the Romans entered Britain. Myself, I do not know. Men-kind were still hairy beasts wearing furs and stone weapons when I was young. Some creatures live for millennia without aging at all. As you can see, I have grown old while Peter never seems to age. Sekeu and Abraham have been here over a century and have barely changed. That’s just the way of faerie. This same magic, unfortunately, also keeps the Flesh-eaters alive.

“But the magic does more than extend the Flesh-eaters’ lives. Because Avalon is enchanted, only those with a magical nature can live here in harmony. Children like yourselves are full of magic, but the men have turned, they’ve lost their magic to the fear and hatred they harbor for all that they can’t explain, control, or understand. And so the magic twists them, blackens their hides. They sprout claws and horns and turn into the demons they truly are.

“So we began to understand our plight. Something had to be done or Avalon would be destroyed and lost forever. Some went to the Lady, hoping she could unite the remnants of Avalon, but her grief was too great—the loss of Hiisi, the Horned One, and so many magical creatures had driven her to despair. The elves told that she withdrew within the Haven, slept in the pond beneath Avallach’s Tree. She’d become inconsolable and it took all her remaining will just to keep the Mist alive. Soon, Ulfger forbade any to visit her.

“By then, the men no longer had reliable gunpowder, but even without their musket and cannon they were far too numerous and formidable for a direct assault. There were a few vain attempts at organized resistance, but without the Horned One, they quickly fell apart due to mistrust and squabbling. The various folk of faerie withdrew back into their own territories. Ulfger took leadership of the Lady’s Wood for himself and forbade any to enter or leave. Avalon had become a wake.

“Decades passed and the Flesh-eaters became bolder and bolder, their forays penetrating deep into the heart of Avalon. They met little resistance and it became obvious that it was only a matter of time before they would discover Avalon’s last sanctuary, the Haven, and thus the Lady and Avallach’s Tree.”

Peter sprang forward, the fire back in his eyes. He pointed the spearhead at the kids. “And that, Devils, is where you came in. Time moves faster in the human world and during our strife the world had moved on. Great cities had sprung up, a civil war engulfed the America land, and as usual it was the children who suffered. I found the orphaned, the abused, the lost and starving, gathered together those who wished a chance at a better life and were courageous enough to fight for it and brought them here.

“It wasn’t long before Deviltree again rung with the shouts and cries of sparring warriors. The Devils were back and ready to reclaim Avalon. Tanngnost set out seeking allies, those brave enough to stand with us. He went to the witch, to Ulfger, but all they did was laugh. ‘What,’ they asked, ‘could a handful of throwaway children do against the Flesh-eaters? How could children dare hope to succeed where the Horned One had failed?’ They laughed at us while huddled in their dying beleaguered forest.

“Well, the Devils did not hide. No, we went to war!” Peter said, slapping the flat of the spearhead into the palm of his hand with a loud smack. “We played by our own rules, setting ambushes, tricks, and traps, going after the Flesh-eaters’ crops and stockpiles. We harried the men at every turn, and soon it was the Flesh-eaters that were afraid—afraid to come into the forest, afraid to leave their fort at night. The tide began to turn and there was hope for Avalon once again. All because a group of ragtag children that nobody wanted or believed in came together and fought for the Lady. Because you, the Lords of Deviltree, would not give up. Will never give up!”

Peter stood, feet planted wide, chest out. “My tale doesn’t end there, for the end has yet to be written.” He pointed with the spearhead. “You are the writers of this tale now. How it ends is up to each of you. You’re the Lords of Deviltree, the deadliest, most courageous warriors Avalon has ever seen. The proud defenders of the Lady and Avallach’s Tree. Make no mistake, it will not be easy, but if you are stout of heart, are valiant in your deeds, if you are dedicated to ridding Avalon once and for all of these demons, then this story will end well. For the world of faerie is strong and resolute. Mark my words, once the Flesh-eaters are gone Avalon will heal itself, and from that day on you’ll be the true Lords of Avalon. Your tale sung for a thousand ages!” Peter raised the spearhead and shouted, “BLOOD IS CLAN AND CLAN IS BLOOD. ALL HAIL THE LORDS OF DEVILTREE!”

“BLOOD IS CLAN AND CLAN IS BLOOD!” the kids screamed and jumped to their feet, waving their fists and pogoing into one another. Peter leaped among them, spurring them on, thrilling in their furor as they shouted and howled.

All but one: a boy with dark circles under his eyes, and green shoes, sitting in the back by himself.

NICK STOOD WITH Peter, the troll, and the other New Blood upon the watchtower. It was another silvery gray day beneath the ghostly clouds of Avalon. He could see across the treetops, across the fog clinging to the lowlands, and across rolling hills and ragged cliffs. Between breaks in the haze he could just make out the perimeter of the island, the impenetrable Mist forming a solid wall of whiteness at the shoreline.

Peter pointed to a jagged line of devastation that ran the width of the island, to the black smoke rising from along the edge of the forest. “The Flesh-eaters are burning down Avalon tree by tree, even as we stand here.”

Nick stared at the blackened scar dominating the landscape but didn’t really see it; his thoughts were tangled around Tanngnost’s words: “The magic poisoned the men, darkening their skin, growing scales and claws, turning them into demons.” Just like in my dream, Nick thought. What does that mean then? That I’m turning into a Flesh-eater?

Peter placed a hand on Nick’s back. “Do you see, Nick?”

Nick started; he hadn’t been listening.

Peter pointed. “There, that inlet. That’s the Merrow Cove. And just up past that ridge, there. That’s where the Flesh-eaters’ fort lies.”

Nick could see it now, a cluster of black specks surrounded by some sort of fortification. He could also make out what must be the rotting skeletons of the ships in the cove.

“From there all the way to the black smoke, all used to be a lush forest, home to a million faerie folk.”

The burned lands ran the width of the island, and came inward from the coasts. On one side of that line, nothing but ravaged land, on the other the dying forests of Avalon. There was so little left, and much of what remained was gray and withered.

“All the gray you see is the scourge,” Tanngnost said. “It’s the result of so many of Avalon’s trees and inhabitants being killed. There’s no longer enough magic to support the wilds and more delicate creatures, so the wilderness is dying, essentially starving to death for want of magic. Once the forests are gone, where will we live?”

And that’s what this all comes down to, Nick thought. They want us to fight their war. Somehow seeing the fires made it all too real: kids fighting and dying. Nick shuddered. He tried to imagine what that would be like, tried to imagine himself being handed a sword and actually fighting a man to the death. There was no way he could ever do such a thing, just no way. Just what have I got myself into? And how am I going to get out of this?

“Hey,” Danny said. “Why don’t we get some guns? A few AK-47s outta do the trick.”

There were plenty of nods.

“What’s an AK-47?” Peter asked.

“Y’know,” Danny replied. “An automatic rifle. A machine gun.”

“Oh, I’ve brought back guns over the decades,” Peter said. “But they don’t work after going through the Mist. The powder gets messed up or something. Flashlights and radios don’t want to work either. Even brought over a Gameboy—I really wanted one of those. But nothing electrical works here. I don’t know why, but I think the Mist gets to them. Mucks them up.”

“What? Gameboys don’t work here!” Danny’s shoulders slumped. “Ah man, no way. That just sucks.”

Nick scanned the length of the island. “Where are we exactly?” Nick asked, shaking his head. “I mean this island. There’s no way it can fit in New York Harbor. And even if it could, don’t you think someone would notice a big fluffy cloud drifting about?”

Peter made a face like such a thought had never even crossed his mind and looked to Tanngnost.

“I’ve often wondered the same,” Tanngnost said. “Many of us have. I know before the Mist returned, we could see the surrounding lands. The natives used to come to us on canoes, so they could see us too. Maybe the Mist does more than hide us, maybe it takes us into a different time and place. This would explain why time moves so much slower here. But this is merely a guess. I certainly can’t begin to understand the ways of Avallach.”

Then another thought struck Nick. “Wait,” he said. “The Lady controls the Mist, right?”

“Sure,” Tanngnost said. “She’s a water goddess. She’s one with all the bodies of water.”

“Then why doesn’t she lift the Mist?”

Peter looked horrified. “Lift the Mist? Then more men would come! Why would she ever want to do that for?”

“So the Flesh-eaters can leave.” And, Nick thought, so I can go home.

“Leave?” Peter gasped, looking at Nick as though his head was screwed on backward. “The Flesh-eaters aren’t gonna leave. We could send them golden swans to carry them home and they’d only slaughter and eat them. Murder is all they know. They’re monsters!”

“Yes,” Nick said. “But if they’re killing Avalon, isn’t it worth the chance?”

“Maybe early on,” Tanngnost put in. “Perhaps then that might’ve worked, before the magic twisted them, before the new world became so populated. Maybe if the Lady had not been so consumed by grief she’d have done things differently. Maybe not. For the Lady is not all-knowing. Far from it. She sees the world in ancient terms. A creature ruled by sentiment and emotions. Regardless, it is too late now. The only way out is to destroy them before they destroy us. Can you see that, Nick?”

Nick nodded, but he wasn’t sure, wasn’t sure about a lot of things on this island.

“Enough talk,” Peter said, and his eyes flashed. “It’s time to turn you three into killers.”

“PETER,” NICK SAID. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not now,” Peter replied. “We’ve much to do.”

Nick grabbed Peter’s arm. “No, it has to be now!”

Peter looked at the hand holding him, then into Nick’s eyes. He could see it, the darkness. “Careful, Nick.”

Nick let go. “Peter, please.”

Peter caught the hard look from Sekeu. He winked at her, then hung back with Nick as she and the others headed down the stairs.

“Peter, I need to get back.”

Peter stared at him absently.

“Back home,” Nick said.

“Home?” Peter’s nose wrinkled up. “You mean back to the human world?”

“My mother needs me.”

“You’re just homesick. That happens. Look, there’s a lot around here that takes getting used to. But—”

“No, it’s not that. I have to get back to my mother. Have to! She’s in danger. There are a couple of bad men living in the house with her. I told you about them—Marko, remember?”

“The drug dealer? I remember. I thought you said that was all your mother’s mess?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is she’s in trouble. And if I don’t get back there…well, they’re going to hurt her. Maybe already have.”

Peter could hear the strain in Nick’s voice, could see the growing agitation in his eyes, caught the boy clenching and unclenching his fists.

“If anything happens to her, I don’t know what I’ll do. I have to get back. Okay? Okay?”

He’s on the edge, Peter thought, need to be careful. Maybe Sekeu’s right. Maybe it would be best to kill the boy before it went too far. “Okay, Nick,” Peter said calmly. “We can work something out.”

Nick’s face flooded with relief. “Really? Good. Good. When can we go?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

Nick narrowed his eyes at him.

“You have to do me a favor first,” Peter said. “You help me, then I help you. How does that sound?”

“You want me to fight.”

“No, you don’t have to fight. I’d never ask that of New Blood. But I need you there, need you to help in other ways.”

Nick stared at him. “This isn’t one of your games? One of your tricks?”

Peter acted wounded. “Nick, of course not.”

“I want you to swear. Swear on the Lady’s life that if I stand with you, you’ll help me get back through the Mist.”

“I swear,” Peter said, knowing very well the odds were against either one of them ever seeing the human world again. “Heck, I’ll go one better. I swear I’ll come home with you and help you take care of Marko.”

Nick searched Peter’s face, clearly seeking any sign of deceit. Peter now saw the resolve and determination, the same qualities that brought this boy through the Mist. There’s deep strength in this boy, Peter thought. If anyone can beat the darkness it’ll be him.

“You would do that?” Nick asked. “Come back with me?”

“Only if you promise I get to be the one who slits their throats,” Peter said.

A grim smile snuck across Nick’s face.

Peter spat into the palm of his hand and stuck it out to Nick. “Deal?”

Nick spat in his own hand and they shook. “Deal.”

NICK, DANNY, CRICKET, and Leroy gathered around Peter in the chamber. Peter hefted his short sword and twirled it from one hand to another. “Flesh-eaters are made of hard stuff,” he said, his voice dropping down low. “The magic has twisted them. Perverted them. Turned them into monsters, into…demons. Their skin has turned into thick scaly hides, hard to cut or penetrate. Their vitals have shriveled within their bodies, hard to find.” He clutched his stomach. “I’ve seen them take a stab in the gut and keep on coming. They’re strong too. If they catch hold of you they can rip your innards right out of your bugle hole. Sound scary? It shouldn’t. Because fighting is about being fast and clever, and they’re neither. The faster fighter will always beat the brute. So all you have to do is learn the right tactics, keep on your toes, and you will take the day. Shall we get started?”

The kids looked at each other, unsure.

“Good,” Peter said. “Then line up.”

Leroy, Nick, Cricket, and Danny all lined up.

“We’re not asking you to fight tomorrow. We need your help in other ways.”

There were several audible exhalations of relief.

“But war is unpredictable. So we’re going to show you some basic tricks in case you find yourself in a bad spot.”

Sekeu and Redbone handed each of them a short sword.

“In times past,” Peter said, “New Blood would never be given swords. But dire times call for dire measures. Swords and spears have always been our weapons of choice. The live wood of Avalon is too soft and fleshy for accurate arrows. We use short swords and light spears as they play best to our strengths of speed and cunning. And by cunning I mean we play the game our way. We use their height against them. We get in and out, low and fast. We do not engage them. We do not try to kill them. Our goal is to maim. We go for their weakest spots.” Peter pointed to his own limbs. “Their legs and arms, especially their ankles and knees. Ankles are thin and close to the ground, hard to protect. This,” Peter pointed to the long tendon on the back of his foot, “is your Achilles tendon. If you cut this tendon, they cannot walk. Once they can no longer walk, they’re done.”

Peter pointed to the straw dummies. “We’ve lots to show you. Find a straw man and let’s get started.”

Sekeu paired with Nick, Peter with Danny, and Redbone with Cricket.

Nick hefted his short sword, swung it about, getting the feel of it in his hand. The blade was heavy but well balanced.

“Okay,” Sekeu said, and pushed the straw man toward Nick.

Nick prepared himself. Keeping in mind all the things Sekeu had taught him about proper footwork, he sprang forward and back, timing his strikes. He found that many of the same principles of the staff and spear applied to swordplay. He was able to stab the dummy several times without losing his footing.

Sekeu raised an eyebrow. “Good footwork,” she said. Compliments were hard won from Sekeu, and Nick was surprised at how much her approval meant to him. He couldn’t help but smile. “But you must focus on using the edge of the sword. Not so much stabbing. A Flesh-eater can take many stabs and keep coming. If you must stab, be aware. Your blade can get caught in their hide. So it is best to make quick, strong strikes. You want to cut muscle, sever tendons.”

Sekeu spent most of the day with Nick. Nick found it impossible to think in terms of cutting flesh, of actually fighting, but instead lost himself in the craft of swordplay, determined to master the disciplines Sekeu was teaching. He’d be fighting for more than his life tomorrow; he’d be fighting to get back to his mom. Nick went at the straw man with a zeal and vigor he’d not known before, determined to learn all he could.

He also found himself amazed by how much his speed, dexterity, timing, even his endurance had improved. The hiking and training was some of it, but he knew the porridge was playing its part too. Danny’s right, he thought. If we could bottle that gunk and take it back, we’d make a fortune.

Peter called for a break for the kids to don pads and helmets. They were given wooden swords wrapped in cloth.

As they waited for Danny to finish tying his pads, Nick watched the Devils sparring. He was still amazed at their mastery, but found he could now see the technique beneath the speed, could recognize the forms and tricks for what they were. Could sometimes predict or read a move before it was even acted upon.

“It’s one thing to hit a moving target,” Peter said, “quite another to hit a moving target that’s trying to hit you. Leroy,” Peter pointed to one side of the round sand pit. “Over there.”

Leroy hopped up and took his place.

“Danny, here.” Peter pointed to the opposite side of the ring.

Danny looked around as though there might be another Danny in the chamber.

“Move it, Danny,” Peter called and clapped. “Quick. Quick.”

Danny pushed himself up with a huff and shuffled over to his place.

“Leroy here is a Flesh-eater and it’s your flesh he’s after,” Peter said.

Leroy flared his eyes at Danny, grinned, showing all of his teeth, and nodded.

Danny slumped his shoulders, looked up at the ceiling, and let out a long groan.

“That’s the spirit, Danny,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “Look, this is fun. It’s like tag. All you have to do to win is whop the lunkhead over there on a leg, arm, or head. Fun, huh?”

Danny groaned again.

“Leroy, remember,” Peter said. “You’re a Flesh-eater. You’re only to respond to his attack. Light contact. We’re not trying to hurt each other. Got it?”

Still wearing his sadistic grin, Leroy nodded agreeably.

“GO,” shouted Peter.

“Get him, Danny Boy!” Cricket cried. “Go get him!”

Danny gave her a baleful look, let out a loud sputter through his lips, and began circling Leroy.

Leroy put up his guard and waited.

Danny circled and circled, and would probably have continued all day if Peter had let him.

“Danny, you trying to make him dizzy? Get him,” Peter shouted. “ATTACK!”

“C’mon wuss,” Leroy said. “Let’s see what you got.”

Danny lunged. Leroy easily sidestepped and smacked Danny hard on the shoulder with the side of his sword.

Danny dropped his sword. “OWWW!” he cried. “Dammit, Leroy. Peter said light contact. What part of light contact don’t you understand?”

Leroy shrugged. “Sorry, dude.”

“It’s your life, Danny,” Peter shouted while clapping his hands. “Grab the sword! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!”

Danny picked up his sword and charged, clenching his eyes shut and swinging wildly in all directions. Leroy knocked Danny’s sword down and hit Danny hard on the butt as he barreled past. Danny went sprawling into the sand.

Nick caught the dispirited glance between Peter and Sekeu. Redbone put his face in his hands and shook his head. Leroy was laughing so hard he could hardly stand.

Danny’s face was bright red. He punched the sand with his fist, picked up the sword, and got slowly back to his feet.

“Danny, remember your training,” Peter said. “You can’t charge a Flesh-eater. You have to find his weak spots, use cunning.”

Danny’s eyes grew large, his mouth dropped open, and he pointed at something behind Leroy. “Whoa, what’s that?”

This time Peter put his face in his hands.

Leroy smirked. “You’ll have to do better than that, fat-ass.”

Danny dropped his guard, looked defeated, and started to turn away, then, with all the grace and cunning of an armadillo, he spun back around and made a low swing at Leroy’s ankle. He missed completely, and Leroy delivered a solid whack to the side of Danny’s helmet.

Danny made a weak bleating sound, dropped his sword, and cradled his head in his hands. His face cinched up and Nick could see he was trying not to cry.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Leroy said. “I barely touched you.”

“GO TO HELL!” Danny yelled and threw his sword at Leroy. The sword missed by a wide berth and Leroy started laughing again.

Peter gave Leroy a dirty look.

“What?” Leroy said, and shrugged. “I’m a Flesh-eater.”

“You’re an asshole,” Cricket said.

Peter pulled Danny to his feet and threw an arm around him. “What’d you say we let someone else have a turn?”

Danny tore off the helmet, threw it in the sand, then plopped down heavily next to Cricket.

“Nick,” Peter called. “Ready to give it a shot?”

No. Getting into the ring with that psycho is about the last thing I want to do. Nick let out a long breath, strapped on his helmet, and got to his feet.

Nick met Leroy’s eyes. Leroy cocked his head back and smirked, but below that smirk Nick saw something else, something dangerous. He’s out to get me, Nick thought.

“Okay, Nick,” Peter said. “Tag him. Leg, arm, or head. Got it?”

Nick nodded.

“Leroy,” Peter said sternly. “You keep the contact down. Got it?”

Leroy only grinned.

Nick slipped around the ring, keeping light on his toes. He made quick jabs and short jumps in and out, testing Leroy’s defenses just as Sekeu had shown him. Leroy followed his every move.

“GET HIM NICK!” Cricket called.

“Yeah,” Leroy laughed. “Get me, twinkle toes.”

Nick lunged, making a low slash for Leroy’s ankle. Leroy countered, blocking the blow with such force as to knock Nick off-balance. Leroy followed around and caught him on the arm, a solid smack that sent Nick into the sand. Even though the swords were padded, Nick had to grit his teeth not to cry out.

“Up, Nick!” Peter called. “Back on your feet. QUICK!”

Nick rolled to his feet. There was no doubt now, Leroy meant to hurt him—would hurt him. Nick felt old fears and self-doubts assail him. No, Nick thought, I won’t let him intimidate me. I’m the one that stood and faced the barghest. If I can kill a barghest, I can take this jerk. Just need to focus. Stay focused.

Nick met Leroy’s eyes and held them. Leroy must’ve seen something in that look, because his smirk fell away.

“Okay,” Peter said. “Keep it light and fun.”

“Go Nicky!” Cricket yelled. “Get him!”

Nick saw Leroy slide into a wider stance, planting his feet in the sand for leverage. He noted how tightly Leroy clutched the sword and knew Leroy planned to really clobber him this time.

Okay, Nick thought. He’s stronger than me. I’ll never win with force. Sekeu had shown him a simple maneuver: a feint and counterattack. She’d said it was very effective against an aggressive opponent. But it was one thing to execute the maneuver on a straw man, quite another on some shit trying his best to break your bones. If it doesn’t work, Nick thought, he’s going to nail me. He glanced at Sekeu. She seemed to read his thoughts. She smiled and nodded.

Nick used his eyes and body language to telecast a low attack. He made sure Leroy caught him eyeing his ankles. Then Nick went in quick and feinted a low swing. Leroy bought it completely. He swung down hard, anticipating Nick’s attack, his full momentum behind the block. The instant he committed, Nick switched, surprised by his own speed. He had a second to catch the stunned look on Leroy’s face, the utter disbelief, as the boy stumbled forward off-balance. Then Nick struck. A tremendous crack echoed across the hall as his sword hit the back of Leroy’s helmet, sending him face-first into the sand.

There followed a long space of silence as everybody just stared.

Peter blinked a couple of times and finally managed a breathless “Wow.”

“WOOHOO!” Danny cried. “You killed him!”

No, Nick thought. No such luck.

Leroy sat up, face red and covered in sand. He spat and looked stunned, but not as stunned as Nick. Nick was amazed, not so much by the fact that he’d managed to outplay Leroy—Leroy, after all, was just a big lunkhead—but that he’d once again pushed fear from his mind and focused on what had to be done.

Peter recovered his spirit. “Did you guys see that? That’s exactly what we’ve been talking about. You have to rely on your speed and trickery. You have to make them fight your fight.”

Redbone pulled Leroy to his feet. “You all right?”

Leroy jerked away. “Of course I’m all right,” he said harshly. “Little prick barely touched me. Lucky shot. No big deal.”

Nick thought that it was a big deal, and judging from Leroy’s face it was a very big deal.

Peter clapped his hands together. “That’s enough for now. Time for grub.”

The Devils all headed for the table, leaving Leroy and the New Blood behind. Leroy shucked off his arm pads, untied his helmet. He walked over to them and pointed at the sparring equipment. “Clean this shit up,” he growled. Then he pushed his face into Nick’s, glaring into his eyes. Nick held the bigger boy’s eyes, determined to stand his ground. A slight smirk nudged the corner of Leroy’s mouth. He shoved his helmet into Nick’s chest. “Put it away,” Leroy said, and stomped off.

In the movies or on TV, that would’ve been the end of it. The bully gaining a little respect for him, and, if not eventually becoming his friend, at least leaving him be. But Nick knew that’s not how things worked in the real world. In the real world, you might get a lucky lick in, but boys like Leroy, they never forgot, never forgave, and then somewhere, somehow, boys like Leroy always got you back.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Nick sat as far away from Leroy as he could and watched the Devils prepare for the raid. He’d had the dreams again, as bad as before, maybe worse. Each morning the darkness in his heart was harder to shake off. He studied his arms, expecting to find some sign of the dark scales and claws. It was all too real in the dream: the screams, the blood, the carnage. Nick put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. I don’t want to turn into a monster.

Cricket came along with her breakfast and sat across from him.

“How you doing there, Nicky?” Cricket asked, worried.

“Never been chipper,” Nick mumbled.

Danny wandered over, a bowl in one hand, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with the other. “What’s the plan?”

“Don’t know,” Cricket said. “Nobody said.”

“Sure are up early,” Danny grumbled. “Still dark outside.”

A low, tense murmuring filled the chamber as the Devils went about strapping on weapons, applying war paint, and dressing for battle. Nick noted the rather eclectic assortment of arms and armaments. Alongside the more traditional medieval styles, there were a German kaiser helmet, a tank helmet, an old-style leather football helmet, aviator goggles, at least two samurai swords, a Civil War cavalry saber, ninja stars, a pitchfork, and several pairs of brass knuckles. Most of the kids wore the one-piece, rawhide leathers with the pointed boots sewn into them, but several also had on leather jackets from Nick’s world, customized with spikes and studs, looking to Nick like a gang of psychotic punk rockers.

Sekeu came over. With her war paint on, she truly looked the part of an Indian on the warpath. “Come,” she said.

Nervous, the New Blood followed her to where the Devils were getting dressed.

Peter had two short swords strapped on his back, the belts crisscrossing his chest bandito style. A black splash of war paint covered his face, and his golden eyes gleamed out from the paint. He pulled his swords free, clanged them together, and all the Devils lined up on either side of him. Including Peter, there were twenty-three warriors.

Peter took a step forward, crossed his swords upon his chest, and set his gleaming golden eyes on Nick, Danny, and Cricket. “Today the Devils go into battle. We go to stop the burning of Whisperwood. There’ll be bloodshed. Oh yes, plenty of death to go around this great day.” He smiled wickedly. “But a soul simply has not lived until they’ve heard the screams of their dying enemies.” Peter cocked his head and looked deep into their faces. “Who among you will make the Flesh-eaters scream?”

The New Blood shared a quick look.

“Any who stand with us today will become Devils the moment they walk out that door. For such a courageous deed would make any worthy. We’ve a world to win. Eternal youth, and all the glory of faerie awaits our victory. Search your hearts, find the courage to take life on. Now, who will share this grand adventure with us? Who will become a Lord of Avalon?”

This was it, Nick knew: the point of no return. It was all too real now and suddenly he was unsure. Was this a death march? Did he dare trust this insane boy? The last time he’d followed Peter, he’d ended up in the Mist fighting for his life. Did he believe today would be any better?

Nick glanced from Danny to Cricket. They looked as scared as he felt. This wasn’t a game, not this time. They were going off to kill men. You can call them Flesh-eaters or whatever you like, but they were men. By the gravity in the air, Nick suspected some of these kids, maybe a lot of these kids, wouldn’t be coming back. Nick wondered if he might stand a better chance trying to get back home on his own.

None of the New Blood stepped forward. They stared at the ground, fidgeting and shifting from foot to foot.

Leroy stood beside Peter, his head cocked back. Like a real tough guy, Nick thought. Leroy was decked out in full Devil garb, proudly holding his sword and looking full of himself.

Cricket gave Nick a nervous, sidelong glance. Nick met her eyes and shook his head. “You don’t have to do this,” he whispered.

She made a pained face that said she did. “This is my family now,” she said and walked over. Peter hugged her and all the Devils clapped her on the back.

Then it was Nick and Danny. Danny was biting his lip. His brow cinched up.

Danny glanced at Nick. “Peter says we won’t have to do any fighting.”

“Do you believe that?”

Danny shrugged his shoulders, took in a deep breath, like someone about to jump off the high diving board for the first time, then followed Cricket.

They were all looking at Nick then. The silence of the room weighed on his shoulders. He caught the smirk on Leroy’s face. That smirk said Nick was a chump, a wuss, a regular fucktard. But Nick didn’t care about that, not anymore. It was his mother that mattered. He thought of her alone in that house, and in the end he knew he had but one choice. Nick locked eyes with Leroy and stepped forward. When he did, Leroy’s smirk fell from his face; as a matter of fact, Leroy looked like he’d just swallowed a bug.

A cheer rang out. Peter dashed forward and embraced Nick in a bear hug. Then they were all patting him on the back, ruffling his hair. And at some point, among the cheering, the backslaps, and grins, Nick forgot to be scared, forgot to be mad, realized he was grinning too. I’ve lost my mind, he thought, I’ve totally lost my mind. And it was amazing how good it felt.

“Three cheers for our New Blood!” Peter cried.

One and all, they cheered.

THE DEVILS’ ALOOFNESS evaporated. Nick felt the warmth of a true brotherhood as the whole clan worked quickly to deck the New Blood out in battle gear. Even the most ferocious of the Devils pitched in, laughing and joking as they helped them lace up boots and strap on belts and armor.

They’d painted lines of dark green straight down Cricket’s face, and when she pursed her lips and lowered her head, she looked wicked and dangerous.

Unfortunately for Danny, he’d allowed Redbone to apply his war paint. “He’s a war cat,” Redbone declared. But complete with black snout and whiskers, Danny looked more like a war panda. No one could look at him without letting out a snort. It only made matters worse when Danny began to pout, for then he looked like a pouting panda.

After seeing what they’d done to Danny, Nick decided it might be prudent to slip over to the mirror. At first, Nick thought it was some trick, because the boy in the mirror wasn’t him. Standing there instead was a savage with dark swatches of black paint running down both sides of his face. The savage looked lean and hard, but it was the eyes that Nick found most disturbing, piercing, haunted eyes, sparkling with gold. Was that really him? What had they done with the nerdy boy with the funny shoes? Nick wasn’t sure how he felt about this.

Peter came up behind him. “Nick, this is for you.” Peter handed him a short sword.

Nick slipped it out of the tattered leather scabbard. The blade was thin and elegant, so smooth as to shimmer, but on closer inspection, Nick could see the faintest runes inlaid up and down the metal. When the graceful designs caught the light, they sparkled like tiny diamonds. Its edge was so sharp that he nicked his thumb just by touching it. “Wow,” Nick said.

Peter beamed. “It’s a true elven blade. One from their glory days of long, long ago. It’s so strong and sharp that it can cut through steel. These are very rare, Nick. Oh, and it has a name, of course—because those silly elves have to give everything a name. It’s called Maldiriel. I want you to have it.”

Nick looked at Peter. He didn’t know what to say. Why had Peter given this to him? He hadn’t given any of the other New Blood such gifts. “Mul-deral?”

“No, Maldiriel,” Peter corrected.

“Maldiriel,” Nick repeated.

“Maldiriel?” Redbone echoed, then laughed. “That’s a girl sword.”

Peter frowned and gave him a cutting look.

“A girl’s sword?” Nick asked.

“No,” Tanngnost put in. “Not a girl’s sword. But the sword itself is female.”

“My sword has a gender?”

“Man, you gotta dig them elves,” Redbone said. “They’re a fruity bunch.”

Nick looked at the sword again, at all the slender, graceful lines. It did look rather feminine. “Well, girl sword or not, I like it,” he said. “Thanks.”

Peter’s smile returned, big and broad. “Sure thing,” he replied, then slipped over to help Danny get his belt in place.

Nick held the blade up and snuck another peek into the mirror. He decided that he did indeed like what he saw, liked it very much. And for the moment, he let himself relax, to set aside the dark thoughts and fears, and just reveled in how cool he looked decked out in the odd leather Devil suit, with its sewn-in boots and high, belted waistband, his hair in a greasy tangle, war paint running down his face, and a flipping elven sword named Maldiriel. Too cool.

“Let’s go,” Peter called, and the Devils began to file out the door.

Nick snuck a last peek, still not believing what he was seeing. He touched his blue rabbit’s foot to his lips, then ran along after them.