The Child Thief

Chapter Twenty-Five God’s House

The Captain ran his hand along a girder. A ship of floating steel, he marveled. He glanced from light fixture to light fixture. Light without flame. These things were indeed miraculous, but they were not miracles. There was an explanation. These men and women were just people, not lost souls on their way to salvation, nor were they angels, despite the miraculous city or marvelous ship. He watched a balding man with sagging jowls and blotchy skin backing away, falling over his own feet as he stumbled up the narrow stairs to the second level. No, most certainly not angels.

The fore cabin had been full when they’d boarded. But once the passengers had gotten a good look at the bedraggled crew of castaways, they’d quickly scrambled to the back of the ship or upper decks. Even now the Captain could see a few horrified but curious faces peeking at them from around walls and down the stairwells. He noticed there was one passenger who had not given up her seat, an elderly woman wrapped in a fuzzy yellow afghan. She didn’t look so much horrified as simply perturbed.

The Captain walked over to the old woman. “Madam, may I?” He indicated the vacant seat next to her. She didn’t answer, just gave him a sour look. The Captain decided it best to stand. After all, it was good to have the feel of the sea under his feet once more.

“Pardon me, madam,” he began. “Do—”

“You think you could tell those damn fools to shut the door?” she said gruffly and tugged her afghan tighter around her.

The Captain followed her glare to where the Reverend and most of the men stood crammed out on the front deck, crowded so tight that they’d wedged the wide double doors open, allowing a strong, biting wind to blow through the cabin.

“You’d think they’d never been on a boat before,” the woman huffed. She leaned forward, squinting through her tortoiseshell glasses, the thick lenses distorting her eyes, swallowing up her whole face, making her look to the Captain like some dour insect. “Sure are a peculiar lot.”

The Captain had to agree, they were indeed a peculiar lot, pointing and cooing at the city like a bunch of pigeons, or wandering about gawking at the lights, prodding and caressing the seats, windows, and every shiny surface.

“Madam, if you don’t mind, would you enlighten me as to the year?”

The woman sniffed loudly, then wrinkled her nose. “Good Lord, is that you?” She leaned away from the Captain. “You smell worse than a sack of sardines.”

This brought a smile to the Captain. “The year, madam?”

“Are you asking me what year it is? Good gracious, have you been living in a hole or something?”

“Of sorts.”

“It’s 2005. No wait, 2006. It’s 2006.”

The Captain winced. “Of the year of the Lord?”

“Why yes, I’m certain. And you know how old that makes me? Ninety-two. You’d never guess by looking at me, would you? You wanna know how I stay so sharp, keep my figure? I walk every goddamn day. While those other old biddies are sitting around on their fat tushes, I’m putting in my two miles. Rain or shine. I’ve already outlived two husbands. You want to know what else?”

The old woman prattled on, but the Captain was no longer hearing her. Over three hundred years. He needed to sit down after all. How had three centuries slipped away? He’d often considered that time moved differently there in purgatory, but had clung to the belief that out here, in the real world, time was on hold. But time had not waited. His children, his grandchildren, even their children’s children’s children would be long in the grave. There was no one to return to. No home for him anywhere. What was left for him?

Someone was nudging him.

“What the hell’s he carrying on about so?” the woman in the afghan asked.

The Captain blinked, he’d been so lost in thought that it took a moment to understand she meant the Reverend.

The Reverend stood on the bow, arms spread wide as though ready to embrace the city, his long, black cape fluttering dramatically in the wind. He was shouting to be heard over the ferry’s engine, ranting on and on about God welcoming His children home.

“I wish I knew,” the Captain answered.

“Well, if you ask me, the cuckoo bird has done eaten every one of that man’s crackers.”

The Captain’s face hardened. “Yes,” he said absently. “Something certainly has.” And he thought of Danny—this child that he barely even knew—and realized the boy was all he had left that mattered and that the boy was at this very moment at the mercy of a murderous madman.

He stood and walked rapidly to the doors, needing to see the boy. Danny stood in front of the Reverend. The Captain attempted to make eye contact, to give the boy some reassurance, but Danny only stared down at the deck.

The Captain looked out past the Reverend. He could see they would be docking soon. Danny was running out of time.

NICK GRIPPED THE railing and held tight. They were coming upon the ferry terminal fast, too fast.

Peter, the Devils, the elves, the witch and her brood had all climbed up onto the roof of the ferry and were now peering down over the front railing. There were two decks below them. Most of the ship’s passengers were crowded on the deck directly below, the Reverend and Flesh-eaters on the deck below that, the very bottom deck.

Nick glanced over his shoulder at the pilot house. The pilot had one hand wrapped tight around the wheel as though for dear life, and the radio pressed to his lips with the other. He was jabbering away, not once taking his eyes off the group of barghest hanging from the rail just outside his window. Nick wished he’d pay a little more attention to where they were going, because it looked like they were heading straight for the pylons.

Peter sat perched on the lip of the overhang, sword in hand, poised to leap down upon the Reverend at any moment, his eyes restless and wild, like those of a bird of prey.

The Lady was tied to Danny, and both were held by the giant Flesh-eater, the one called Ox. Nick could see Peter struggling to hold back. But with that many Flesh-eaters around, even Peter seemed to understand that an ill-timed attack could cost the Lady her life.

The Devils watched Peter, ready to attack on his signal, every one of them prepared to throw their lives away, though not for the Lady, Nick knew, but for Peter, for their feral messiah himself. How many more, Peter? Nick wondered. How many more is she going to cost? Peter caught Nick staring at him and looked away.

“We’re gonna hit!” Dirk cried.

Peter slid back next to Nick and gripped the rail. “Nick,” he said. “She is Avalon. Do you not understand? If we can save her, then maybe it wasn’t all for nothing. Maybe there’s still a chance to begin anew.”

Nick could plainly see that any remorse, any guilt Peter might have felt for all the dead was gone, forgotten. It was about the Lady, his precious Lady. No cost is too high, is it, Peter?

Too late the ferry’s big engines switched into reverse. Nick braced himself. The ferry managed to miss the pylons—the first few, at least. There came a terrific jolt as the side of the ferry smashed against the remaining pylons, followed by a deep grinding and wrenching as the hull crashed into the dock. The ferry stopped with a final jolt, tossing most of the passengers to the deck. The passengers that could, were up and climbing over the gate before the dock workers even began to tie the boat down, heedless of the young, the old, or injured.

The ferry had two platforms to accommodate both decks of exiting passengers. Nick watched as passengers and crew exited from the upper decks, knocking and shoving each other in their panic. Meanwhile, the Flesh-eaters were leaving at a leisurely pace via the lower platform.

All at once it dawned on Nick that he was back in civilization, that he was free at last. The nightmare, for him at least, was over. Oh my God, I’m here! I’m home!

“Let’s go,” Peter called. He slid down the foot rungs on the outside of the ferry and leaped onto the upper docking level. The Devils and elves followed quickly behind. The witch and her brood scampered down to the platform, up the side of the building, and disappeared onto the roof. The troll began to ease his way down the rungs.

Cricket started after Peter when Nick grabbed her. “Wait,” he said.

“What? No. We’re going to lose them.”

“Exactly.”

“No, Nick. We have to save her.”

“Are you mad? Cricket, look, we’re here. We’re back! We don’t have to play Peter’s game anymore. It’s over.”

“It’s not over. Tanngnost said that if we can save her there’s a chance she can rebuild Avalon. They plan to go into the wilderness and start over. All of us. You too, if you want.”

Nick let out a mean laugh. “And after all their lies, you’re going to believe that?”

Cricket jerked her arm away. “Yes. What else do I have to believe in? Where else do I have to go? The Devils are my family! Maybe one day you will learn what that means!” She spun away, slid down the railing to the platform, and pushed into the crowd.

Fine, Nick thought. Fine. Go get killed. See if I give a fuck. He watched her rush into the crowd. She looked so small now, here, back among adults. The crush of people knocked her about as they jostled forward, some businessman shoved her into the wall as he barreled past. Cricket stumbled but kept trying to press forward, then a large, red-faced woman crashed into her, knocking her to the walkway. “Goddamn it,” Nick said and leaped down, rushing, shoving his way to her. He pushed a man aside, then grabbed Cricket by the arm, pulling her to her feet.

She shook him off. “I don’t need your help.”

“Like hell you don’t.”

Alarms were blaring everywhere. Nick searched for an exit, caught sight of Tanngnost up ahead. The troll wasn’t having any trouble getting through the crowd—people were literally falling over themselves to get out of his way. Nick spotted several people pushing out an emergency exit off to the left. He grabbed Cricket’s hand and pulled her through the door, down a short set of metal stairs, and into a dark parking lot. People scurried about in every direction, but they saw no sign of the Devils or the Flesh-eaters. They were deciding what to do next when several sharp reports came from somewhere back in the terminal; they sounded like gunshots.

A GARBLED SQUAWK blared through Officer Julio Sanchez’s radio, followed by a snip of static. He hit the mic. “Come again?”

The voice repeated the message.

“Copy, we’ll look into it.” Julio spun to his partner—the bored-looking, paunchy officer leaning against the ferry turnstile. “Mac, holy shit, dispatch just got a frantic call from the ferry pilot. Something about a gang of black men terrorizing the passengers! Station thinks the pilot might be drinking though, he also said something about a large monster with horns.”

Officer Mac suppressed a yawn. “Relax, rookie. The guy’s overreacting. Just some kids screwing around.”

Julio narrowed his eyes. How long had he shared this beat with Mac? At least three years. It seemed the man could call him something besides rookie.

“When you been at this job as long as I have, you’ve seen it all,” Mac continued. “And believe me, I’ve seen it all. Just stay cool and everything will be peachy-keen. Got me?”

A sudden jolt shook the terminal.

“Whoa, what was that?” Julio said.

They could hear feet drumming along on the upper level, accompanied by shouts and yelling. Then alarms began going off. Four dock hands, a janitor, and some woman in a business suit came running down the corridor and leaped over the turnstile like they were in a steeple chase.

“I’m calling backup,” Julio said.

Mac laughed. “Backup? For wh—” His face went pale and his eyes grew round.

Right about then, Julio was ready to bet that Officer “I’ve Seen It All” Mac had never seen a horde of black-skinned demons wearing rags and armor and carrying swords and spears, dragging a naked woman and a chubby boy by a rope. No, he was willing to bet his left nut that even Officer Mac had never ever seen such a thing.

The monsters filed down the wide walkway and into the turnstile. To Julio’s surprise, they lined up in a rather orderly fashion and pushed through one at a time. Each of them appeared pretty taken with the apparatus.

His first thought was this was some sort of theater group, or maybe a bunch of hardcore Dungeons and Dragons players. He’d heard those gamers were into some pretty weird role-playing shit. He glanced again at the woman and the boy, saw the red welts on the woman’s back, and ventured that this might be an S&M cult. But those weren’t costumes. He could see their wiry muscles and veins working below their scaly skin, and on top of that, they smelled atrocious. These people, he thought, whatever they are, they’re real!

Julio finally found his voice. “Hold up,” he said as calmly as he could manage, wanting to keep things from getting out of hand.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” Officer Mac cried, his voice high and shrill. Julio realized with horror that Mac had his gun out and was pointing it at the monsters. “Don’t nobody fucking move!”

“Cool it, Mac,” Julio whispered. “Would you please just cool it!”

A tall man in a black cape stepped forward. “Who are you?” he asked, looking Julio up and down. “Are you the Lord’s men?”

“Just a sec, buddy,” Julio said. “I’ll ask the questions.”

Another monster stepped up. “They’re some sort of constables. Perhaps guards.”

“A constable?” the caped man asked. “Where is your lord? We need to see the king.”

The rest of the monsters had filed through the turnstile and were quietly surrounding the two officers. Julio found himself backing up, trying to keep them in front of him. He set his hand on the butt of his revolver and clicked off the safety.

“THAT’S FAR ENOUGH!” Officer Mac squealed. The gun was trembling in his hand.

Julio put in a quick call for backup and prayed Mac wouldn’t do anything stupid in the meantime. Julio held up a hand diplomatically. “If I can just get you to—”

BLAM! Officer Mac shot one of the monsters.

The bullet punched a hole in the monster’s stomach. It looked at the bullet hole and furrowed its brows, then stuck a finger in the wound and brought it back out covered in black blood. Its eyes flared and it grabbed Mac by the wrist.

The gun fired five more sharp reports. Some of the monsters stepped back, but the one that had hold of Mac, the one who now had six bullets in its gullet, groaned and fell over.

In a blink, one of the monsters drew a short sword and shoved the blade, to the hilt, right in Officer Mac’s eye. The blade punched out the back of Mac’s head, sending his hat flying off his comb-over.

Julio made a play for his gun, managed to get it clear of his holster, but that was as far as he got. Hard hands seized him and he felt something long and cold sink into his stomach over and over until everything went black.

THE CAPTAIN STOOD over the two dead men. Killing them hadn’t been a very smart thing to do. Those men had been constables or guards, and he was sure that killing them wouldn’t sit well with whatever powers lorded over this kingdom.

The Captain waited for the others to move on, then bent down and retrieved the weapon from the guard. It was obviously a pistol, but of a sort he’d never seen—so small, and with no powder or fuses. Such a weapon could come in handy. He stuck it in his belt and caught up with the men.

What is this place? the Captain wondered. He caught sight of two filthy men sleeping next to a rifled garbage can. Not Heaven, he thought. This is now, that’s all. What the world has turned into while we were gone. He studied the spiraling pillars of poured masonry, ran his hand along the gleaming metal and glass. And it is both ugly and beautiful.

The Captain suspected there’d be more guards coming soon. Will they kill us? he wondered. Or worse, send us to their dungeons to rot? Have I merely traded one hellhole for another? Now was the time to free Daniel and get out of here—escape these madmen before they got them both killed.

The men had stopped, bunched up around the bottom of a long flight of silver stairs. The stairs led to the next level. The Captain’s eyes grew wide. The stairs were moving!

“Just jump on,” Sid, the gangly midshipman, grumbled, and gave Robertson a bump.

Robertson shoved Sid backward and growled, “You just jump on.”

Ox pushed them both. The two men tumbled onto the escalator and were slowly drawn up the moving stairs, soliciting a cheer from the rest of the men, who then began to push and shove one another to be next.

By the time the Captain had gotten on, he saw that many of the men were actually riding back down on the other side, grinning like children as they gripped the black handrail. Halfway down, Sid turned around and tried to walk back up the moving stairs only to bump into Robertson, causing both men to tumble down the steps and spill out onto the shiny floor.

“Enough,” the Reverend cried.

The men frowned. But they rushed back on, laughing like loons as they jostled to be the first to the top.

They continued down a short corridor and found themselves in an immense chamber of glass and masonry. Light was everywhere. The very ceiling glowed.

People in strange garments were rushing through the chamber from all directions, mostly pouring down from the upper levels, all intent on one thing: exiting the building. When the Reverend and his men moved into their midst, the people didn’t know which way to go, and in the ensuing chaos his men became separated into smaller and smaller groups.

There were two sets of glass doors ahead, leading out onto different sides of the building. In the wave of confusion, about half of the men headed out what appeared to be the front of the structure, while the rest followed the Reverend out the side. The Captain followed the Reverend, sticking as close to Danny as he could.

They pushed through the great glass doors and came out into the night lit with a million dazzling lights. Immense buildings of glass and steel towered above them, seeming to disappear into the very heavens. Several broad roads, not of stone but of some foreign dark masonry, lay before them. The Captain stopped. What manner of sorcery is this? Dozens of yellow carriages with blinding lamps rolled by at incredible speeds, and…there were no horses attached. No, not sorcery. I know sorcery, he thought. This is something else. There’s an explanation.

The lights, the noise, the smells, the strange people, their dress, their oddness, all threatened to overwhelm him. He found himself wanting to look everywhere at once and at the same time wishing to close his eyes and not open them again. Hold steady, he commanded himself. Now is not the time to lose one’s mind. He locked eyes on the boy. My duty is to the boy. All this other—the whats and hows. It can wait.

The Captain heard a strange, wailing noise, like hundreds of screaming demons, far away at first, but coming closer.

The men looked dazed, some stumbled forward in wonderment, while others were overwhelmed, choosing to keep their backs against the building, refusing to venture any farther.

“THERE!” the Reverend yelled triumphantly. “God’s house.”

The Captain followed the Reverend’s gesture and was amazed to find that there, indeed, was God’s house. A church with a towering white steeple sat just down the avenue. Atop the steeple, a gleaming cross was lit up by piercing beams of white light. The cross stood out against the looming towers like a divine beacon. Below the cross, a statue of some angelic saint looked down upon them with sad, forgiving eyes. Her arms were open, as though welcoming them home.

The Reverend pointed at the Lady and Danny. “Bring the demons,” the Reverend cried. “Time we finish God’s work.” He raised his hands, clutching spastically at the sky as his eye flared with righteousness. “Lord, we come home to you.”

“GET DOWN,” NICK hissed. “They’re coming.”

Nick and Cricket ducked behind a parked van and watched as a large group of Flesh-eaters began filtering across the parking lot, staring about with their mouths agape.

Nick heard sirens heading their way. He tried to guess what would happen when the police arrived, what they would do with the Lady, Tanngnost, Peter, the Flesh-eaters, any of them. This isn’t going to end well for someone, Nick thought. Crap, and if they catch me? He knew what that would mean: they’d take him home to his mother, deliver him right into the hands of Marko. Wouldn’t that just be some shit, after everything I’ve been through. I gotta get out of here.

“There’s the Lady!” Cricket said.

Nick spied the Reverend, then the Lady, as Ox marched her into the parking lot. She was still tied to Danny. Danny looked terrified but the Lady’s face showed no emotion, she plodded along with her head down, looking so out of place, so fragile and vulnerable among the noise, glass, steel, and endless concrete.

“We have to do something,” Cricket said.

“Do what? Huh? There’s nothing the two of us can do. Look, now’s our chance to get out of here before the police have this place surrounded.”

“Are you kidding? Are you really gonna just run away?”

“I’m not going to get killed for her. Not for that creature. Not for Peter. Not for any of them.”

“So you’re just gonna abandon her? Just like that? Just like you did with your mother?”

“Don’t give me any more of that crap,” Nick snapped. “She’s not my mother. I don’t owe her a thing.” But he knew that wasn’t entirely true. He’d be dead right now if not for the Lady, dead or some sort of a half-mad demon, like one of those Flesh-eaters. She’d saved him. She’d taken the darkness from him, regardless of how any of this came about.

With what seemed like an effort, the Lady lifted her head and Nick found her eyes directly on him; they were silver now, all their color drained. He sensed her deep within his core, believed he heard her speak his name, a sound as soft as an echo, as though they were still beneath the dark waters of her pond. For a moment Nick could actually see the magical aura that surrounded her, the way it bled from her—tiny sparkling tendrils that flowed and trailed about her—could see magic hiding here and there, peeping out from among the metal and concrete, the garbage and asphalt. The magic flourished as the Lady passed, blooming like a garden after the first spring rain. He felt the magic within him, around him, felt it stronger than ever, understood that even here, in the city, in the world of men, magic did exist, woven into the very fabric of the earth. That magic was a fragile and threatened element, and without shepherds like the Lady, it would fade and the earth would become a darker, colder place.

Ox yanked the Lady forward, knocking her to the sidewalk. “To your feet, demon!” Ox yelled, and kicked her, sending her sprawling across the concrete.

Nick winced.

Ox grabbed the Lady by her hair, snatched her to her feet, and gave her a hard shove forward. Nick could see fresh blood streaming down both of her knees.

“Okay,” Nick said.

“What?”

“Okay, we’ll follow them.”

Cricket nodded.

“Just in case, though,” Nick added. “In case there’s a chance. Something we can do. But you have to promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Cricket grinned. “Me? Never.”

They were interrupted by a blaring car horn. The Reverend, followed by his flock, crossed an intersection and headed up the avenue. Nick looked ahead and saw the church, knew that was where they were taking the Lady, had several guesses to why and not one of them was good.

Nick and Cricket sprinted across the lot, staying low behind the vehicles, trailing the Flesh-eaters.

Nick caught the flash of emergency vehicles coming from far down the street. The Lady’s running out of time. Where’s Peter? Where the hell did he go?

A heavily wooded park bordered the avenue; Nick and Cricket ducked into the trees. They crept along behind the bushes, keeping pace with the Flesh-eaters. Nick had no idea what they were going to do, could do, but figured they’d stay close and wait for some chance, some opportunity.

The Flesh-eaters began to drift apart as they marched up the sidewalk. Many appeared distracted, more interested in this strange new place than the Reverend and his tirades.

Nick and Cricket came upon a long, rectangular pond with a small fountain in the center. There was good cover among the hedges on the far end of the pond, up near the street. They dropped down behind the hedge and pressed up as close to the road as they dared.

The Reverend headed for the church steps, pushing right out into the street. Several men and Ox pulling Danny and the Lady followed close behind. Car horns blared. There came the screech of tires as a taxi swerved, just missing the Reverend, spun sideways, and slammed into another taxi. The Flesh-eaters were showered in glass and metal fragments. There came more squealing brakes and cars began backing up in both directions. Men got out of their vehicles, shouting and cursing. Horns began going off all up and down the avenue.

The Flesh-eaters stood staring bug-eyed at all the commotion. For the moment, the Lady and Danny were completely unattended. Now, thought Nick. We could grab her now. Just—

Then, an odd thing happened, making no sense to Nick. The Captain moved up behind Ox and slid out the giant’s sword. Before Ox even knew his sword was gone, the Captain brought the hilt down on his head—striking three solid blows. The giant dropped the rope and tumbled over. The Captain pushed Danny and the Lady back behind him toward the park, toward Nick and Cricket.

The Reverend saw the Captain and his good eye filled with outrage. “Stop them,” he called. The Flesh-eaters barely noticed, still entranced by the wreckage and mayhem. “STOP THEM!” the Reverend screeched. “STOP THEM! STOP THEM NOW!” This brought the Flesh-eaters around. They locked steely eyes on the Lady and the Captain. Several pulled out their swords and moved to block the Captain’s escape.

HORNS WENT OFF all up and down the avenue, and sirens came from every direction.

Where is she? The question repeated itself over and over in Peter’s mind until he wanted to scream. For the hundredth time he scanned the clusters of gawking Flesh-eaters wandering aimlessly up and down the sidewalk, but still, no sign of the Lady.

They’d caught sight of the Flesh-eaters from inside the terminal and followed them out onto the street, keeping low and out of sight. But now Peter believed that the Flesh-eaters had become separated beforehand, understood that the Reverend and the Lady must’ve ended up with another group somewhere else, possibly on the other side of the terminal altogether.

Peter, the elves, and the Devils all ducked down as four patrolmen tromped past. When the police saw the Flesh-eaters, they halted, radioing for backup. Peter could see a line of officers forming a perimeter farther down the street and several more running up the sidewalk toward the terminal. “We’re out of time,” Peter hissed between his teeth. They had to find the Lady, had to find her now.

Peter signaled the Devils and elves and they slipped back up the street, back toward the terminal, heading for the parking lot on the far side.

“CAPTAIN, YOU WILL bring me the demons at once,” the Reverend shouted in a voice that expected only obedience. He took a step toward the Captain.

The Captain pointed his sword at the Reverend. “No, Your Grace. I will not.”

The Reverend halted, his mouth tightening into a small, thin line. His good eye seethed. “Captain, you’re not thinking clearly. Hand them over. That is a command.”

The Reverend nodded to the men. They moved in, trying to circle them. The Captain knew if he let that happen, they were done. Keeping his sword on guard, he back-stepped, pressing Danny and the Lady through the hedges and into the park. The hedges blocked the men, at least for the moment. Time to run, the Captain thought, and it was then he realized his oversight. They couldn’t run. Not with Daniel tied to the Lady. She could barely walk, much less outrun anyone. He needed to cut them apart, leave the Lady, and then maybe they could escape. But the rope was as thick as his wrist, would take some effort to saw or hack through it. Yet if he dropped his guard, even for a second, they’d have him.

The Reverend, his face rigid, followed the Captain into the park, flanked by several men. “I am God’s right hand,” the Reverend called, his voice sounding strained. “It is unwise to challenge the Lord’s will.”

The Captain laughed. “You’re nothing more than a sadistic ass.”

The Reverend let out a sound somewhere between a choke and a bark, the good side of his face twisted into a snarl.

The men pushed through the hedges. The Captain knew it was only a matter of moments before they attacked. More men were coming into the park; they drew their swords and filled in the ranks.

The Captain cut the air with his sword. “I can’t take all of you, but I’ll certainly gut the first man that comes near. Who has come this far only to die now?”

The men hesitated. None seemed in a big hurry to move, all only too aware of the Captain’s prowess with the blade.

Ox came barreling forward, wiping the blood from his face. He caught sight of the Captain and spat. He snatched a sword away from the nearest man and started forward.

The Reverend put a hand in front of Ox. The giant halted. “Captain,” the Reverend said. “You’ve lost your way, that’s all. Be sensible, hand them over, and I shall forgive your indiscretion.”

The Captain bumped into Danny, and a quick glance around showed him they’d come to a long, rectangular pond. His heart sank as he realized they were trapped.

The Reverend saw it as well and grinned. “Captain, I will not ask you again.”

It has all been for naught. We’re going to die here, after all we’ve been through. This is so senseless. The Captain looked from man to man, his eyes appealed to them. “Are you all blind? It’s over. We’re off the island. Look.” The Captain pointed at a trash can spilling over with garbage. “This is not Heaven. God is not here. There is—”

“NO!” the Reverend shouted, his face a knot of rage. “NO, IT IS YOU THAT ARE BLIND!” His voice quivered as spit flew from his lips. “We did not sit in purgatory for an eternity for nothing! Somewhere in this kingdom God awaits us even now.” He pointed at Danny and the Lady. “These dark souls are our passage. Proof of our unwavering faith and diligence. It is our duty to bring these demons before the Lord and then…and then…to claim our place by His side.” His voice cracked. “I will take my place by the Lord’s side!”

His madness has him, the Captain thought, and sadly he could see that same madness in the eyes of the men as they nodded along. “God help us all,” he said, and, with his free hand, drew the dead constable’s gun from his belt and pointed it at the lead man. It took the men a moment to recognize the weapon, but when they did, they looked unsure. The Captain aimed the revolver at the Reverend’s face. The Reverend’s good eye went wide. The Captain took a lifetime’s pleasure in the Reverend’s look of utter outrage.

“YOU DARE NOT,” the Reverend shrieked. “I AM GOD’S SOLDIER. I MARCH BESIDE THE LORD!”

“You march with the damned,” the Captain said and squeezed the trigger four times. There came four deafening reports. The first shot missed completely, the second punched a clean hole in the Reverend’s cheek, the third took out his dead eye, the fourth hit above the brow, and the entire side of the Reverend’s head exploded.

The Reverend stood a second longer, his one good eye continuing to glare, then he crumpled to the ground. The Captain could see the back side of the Reverend’s head was gone. There was a prolonged moment when they all just stared at the dead man’s black brains.

ULFGER HEARD THE distant sirens and thought of demons, heard the lapping of waves beating against the hull, and finally dared raise his head. He pushed his father’s corpse aside and gazed upon the towers of lights. So many lights, he thought. What could it mean? The wind took the longboat, pushed it directly toward the rocky sea wall.

Ulfger stared into the hollows of his father’s eyes. “Enough!” he whimpered. “Enough! I beg you. Leave me be. Enough! Enough! ENOUGH!” Ulfger seized the carcass by the neck, twisting the leathery flesh until the head tore loose from the shoulders. He lifted the head by its long, braided beard and slammed it against the hull over and over, the sound like a war drum, grunting and spitting with the effort until he held nothing but a piece of shredded flesh. “There, now what do you have to say? What?” He laughed, close to shrieking, and threw the rag of flesh into the waves. “And when I find your sister, I’ll send her to you. Send them all to you. And when I find the child thief, him I will feed to Caliburn.” He patted the black sword.

Ulfger picked up the corpse and shoved it overboard, watched it drift slowly away into the darkness.

The boat ran aground against a large piling of stones. Ulfger heard commotion, loud popping sounds, four of them. Shouting, cries. He hefted Caliburn, crawled out of the boat, and climbed up the rocks.

He found well-lit pathways of poured masonry edged by trimmed hedges leading in all directions. He headed into the trees, toward the shouts, looking for her, for the runt, any of them would do, for he planned to kill them all…every one.

NICK JUMPED AT the sound of the gun, watched the Reverend topple. Both he and Cricket hunkered down, pressed themselves deeper into the wide hedge. They had the pond at their backs and the Captain stood just a few yards in front. Danny and the Lady were now so close they could almost touch them. Flesh-eaters were everywhere, leaving them no place to run. Shit. How the fuck did this happen?

The Captain turned the revolver on the Flesh-eaters. Not one of them moved.

“Just let me and the boy pass. That’s all I ask,” the Captain said calmly. “You can have the woman.”

“NO!” Ox roared. “We do not bargain with demons and murderers. God’s justice will be done.”

Some of the Flesh-eaters looked as though they were waking up from a nightmare, like they’d had enough of the insanity, and began to fall back, but most stayed. Nick could see that these believed. It burned in their eyes, the same fervent faces that had condemned him back at the fort. And here, in this world, their mania seemed stronger than ever.

“The pond,” Cricket whispered. “Get the Lady into the pond.”

“What?” Nick said, then understood she meant for them to snatch the Lady and flee across the pond. “No,” he hissed, grabbing her arm. “That won’t work. We have to—” His mouth clamped shut. The Flesh-eaters were pressing in. They’d be discovered any second now. Did he really want to die in this bush, like a quivering rabbit? They had to do something, anything.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he said, still trying to figure out how he’d gotten himself right smack in the middle of this nightmare. “Fuck,” he said again, gritted his teeth, and stood up, just stood up like a jack-in-the-box—leaves and limbs fluttering off him, having no idea what he was going to do next.

Cricket popped up next to him.

The Flesh-eaters halted; all eyes fell on them—hard, murderous eyes, and Nick immediately regretted his rashness. “Ah fuck.”

The Captain glanced over at them and blinked, cocked his head sideways, as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

“DEMONS!” shouted one of the Flesh-eaters, pointing at them with a wavering hand. “Demons,” several of them echoed, glaring at them, their faces twisted with hatred and alarm, clearly vexed by how they could be here in this place.

Nick felt his heart would explode, felt if he didn’t act, and act swiftly, his legs would buckle beneath him. He yanked out his sword, bared his teeth. “THIS IS OUR CITY! DEMON CITY!” he screamed, and screamed it so loud and forceful that even he believed it. “WE’RE EVERYWHERE! A MILLION HUNGRY DEMONS AND WE’RE GOING TO EAT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING SOULS!”

That rattled them. Fear flashed across their faces as they jerked about nervously, searching the trees, the bushes, behind them, above them. Even Ox appeared spooked, his eyes flickering back and forth in their deep sockets.

“Hurry,” Cricket said and dashed over to the Lady. Nick jumped over, and together they hefted the Lady to her feet. The Lady looked at them with dazed, faraway eyes.

“C’mon, Danny,” Cricket said harshly. “Help us!” But Danny just stood there, seemed incapable of doing anything but staring on in wide-eyed terror.

Nick gave the rope a hard yank, pulling Danny toward them. “Danny, move your ass!”

“This is her sorcery!” Ox said, then bellowed: “WE MUST KILL HER. KILL HER HERE AND NOW. KILL HER BEFORE SHE BEWITCHES US ALL!” He raised his sword and charged the Lady.

The Captain fired, managed to hit Ox twice before his revolver clicked on a spent round. The shots barely even slowed the giant. The Captain made to intercept Ox, when two men rushed him. The night erupted with the shouts of men and the clang of steel on steel.

Cricket tugged both the Lady and Danny toward the pond. The Lady saw the water and her eyes came alive. The three of them stumbled down the bank.

Ox came for them, eyes blazing. He brought his sword about in a terrific arch, aimed at the Lady’s neck. There was no time for Nick to do anything but act. He lunged forward, swinging Maldiriel upward with all he had. The blades clashed. The crushing jolt almost knocked Nick’s sword from his hand, but he managed to smack the giant’s blow aside. The blade missed its mark, slicing deep into the Lady’s collar instead.

Ox roared, yanked his sword free, and turned on Nick.

Nick had an instant to realize this hulking monster was about to kill him, an instant to scream to himself to run. But he didn’t run. A snarl escaped his throat and he attacked, striking for the giant’s neck. Ox brought his sword to bear, and when he did, Nick feinted, sliding down low and fast, slicing the giant just beneath the kneecap. Ox let out a howl and swung for Nick’s head. Nick ducked the blow and became aware that it didn’t matter that this giant was massive and powerful, because he, Nick, was fast, impossibly fast, just like a certain golden-eyed boy he’d met in a park a lifetime ago. He hacked into the giant’s ankle, relishing in the feel of Maldiriel biting deep into the man’s tendons. “Down, you bastard!” Nick cried. “Go down!”

Surprise and shock showed on the giant’s face. He howled and collapsed to one knee. Cricket came at him from behind and thrust her sword into the back of his neck, her blade punching out the front of his throat. Ox’s eyes went wide. He let out a loud gurgle and toppled over. Nick had seen far too many horror movies, where tenacious monsters get up time after time, to be satisfied with that. He let out a howl—a wild animal sound—and brought Maldiriel down with all his weight behind it, chopping the giant’s head from his shoulders.

Nick looked for the Lady, saw her clutching her collar. Blood poured through her fingers. She collapsed to her knees, then slid into the pond, pulling Danny in with her. She’s done, Nick thought. There’s nothing more we can do for her. Time to get out of here.

A sharp cry, and another man fell before the Captain. Four men lay moaning at his feet. The Flesh-eaters fell back. Nick hoped that was it, that they’d had enough, when a dozen more men came running up, climbing over the hedges, filling in the ranks. There were too many now, just too many. He considered making a mad dash into the pond to take his chances there, but there were Flesh-eaters along both banks now, a few wading into the water, intent on seeing to it that the Lady never came out. But they needn’t bother. Nick saw her eyes roll up in her head and she sank below the dark water while Danny just stood there, knee-deep in the pond, staring numbly at her.

This is it, he thought. I’m not going home. I’m not going anywhere. Nick ground his teeth together. Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen. So stupid. Why had I been so stupid?

“Shore up,” the Captain called to Nick and Cricket.

Nick met the Captain’s eyes, saw the will and spirit of a man who intended to live.

The Captain grinned at them. “I say if they want us, then we make them pay a heavy toll. What say you?”

Nick found the Captain’s spirit infectious. He nodded back and closed ranks with the man. The Captain clutched Nick’s shoulder, gave him a hearty shake. “Good to have such a sure hand at my side.” Cricket followed suit, and the three of them stood back to back, swords out, daring the Flesh-eaters to come within reach. “COME,” the Captain yelled and waved the Flesh-eaters on. “WHO’S NEXT TO DIE?”

The Flesh-eaters pulled together and began to press in.

Nick’s pulse thundered in his ears. His breath came hard and fast.

“Steady,” the Captain said.

Nick clutched his sword in both hands, squeezing the hilt so hard his fingers hurt. “Mom,” he whispered. “I love you Mom.”

There came a bellow, followed by a loud snort, like a bull’s. Everyone stopped. There, behind the Flesh-eaters, stood Tanngnost, carrying a thick branch. Gone was any trace of the fretting old meddler; what stood before them was a ferocious wild beast. Tanngnost peeled back his lips, exposing his tusks and giant canines. A long, deep growl rumbled up from his throat.

The Flesh-eaters shifted ranks, bringing their weapons to bear on the tall beast, when a howl cut through the night—a long, wailing cry. And there, out of the shadows, came the golden-eyed boy, racing for them, teeth bared, clanking his swords together, flanked on either side by Devils and elves.

“PETER!” Cricket cried.

Nick’s heart swelled at the sight of the wild boy and he let loose a howl of his own.

Peter screamed and launched himself into the nearest Flesh-eater, slicing completely through the man’s neck. The severed head flipped back and smacked the next man. Peter thrust his blade into that man, the next, then the next, eyes mad with bloodlust, weaving, ducking, kicking, slashing, dodging, cutting a path of death and dismemberment. The Devils and elves charged in right behind him, their screams and cries filling the park like a battalion of insane cats.

Nick heard girlish laughter, caught sight of the three girls as they skipped across the pond, only they were girls no longer, their hands twisted into claws and their mouths into fanged snouts. They fell upon the two Flesh-eaters nearest where the Lady had been. On the far side of the bank, the witch appeared, flanked by four barghest, her single emerald eye glowing. She walked casually across the pond toward the fighting as though on her way to a picnic.

The Flesh-eaters didn’t know which way to turn, which flank to defend, and fell back in a confused tangle. The Captain did his best to further their confusion, leaping forward, striking down the nearest Flesh-eater from behind. Nick and Cricket followed his lead, and the three of them pressed into the Flesh-eaters.

The Flesh-eaters lost their spirit, lost any coordinated defense, stumbling into each other as they retreated. Nick hacked and slashed, Maldiriel biting and cutting through limbs. Nick saw their fear and realized with horror that he was smiling. Their screams and cries punctuated his howls, and at that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill every one of them, to cut them open and crush their beating hearts in his bare hands. His eyes gleamed as he stepped over the dead and dying to get at the next soul.

The static of a bullhorn, then a deep, booming voice cut through the night. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS NOW!” Sergeant Wilson shouted again and fired his revolver twice in the air. The crowd stopped then, breaking apart, clumping largely into two main groups. All eyes, all those strange eyes, fell on him and the half-dozen officers around him. In the sudden pause, the wails, screams, and groans of the wounded, the maimed, and the dying filled the air.

“What the good goddamn is going on?” the sergeant said as he surveyed the blood and gore, the severed limbs, the dozens of bodies writhing about on the ground. Men? No, he realized. Look at their skin, their horns. Monsters? The sergeant decided that was the best description: monsters decked out in armor and rags, carrying swords, axes, and spears. They were backing away from the small people. Wait. Are those—? No, they can’t be. Yes, kids! Those are kids. Wild kids wielding swords and spears of their own, and—he lost his train of thought. “What the hell is that?” He pointed at some sort of huge, goat-headed beast. It had actual horns curving out of the side of its skull and was carrying a tree limb as though it weighed no more than a baseball bat. Blood and what looked like part of someone’s scalp hung from the end of the limb.

A white flash caught the sergeant’s attention and there, on the far bank, three little girls knelt over a prone body, their hands and mouths drenched in black gore. “Holy fucking shit!” And, just as the sergeant was ready to call it a night, he saw a green woman standing, yes, standing on the water and looking at him like she would eat his liver.

“Mother Mary Jesus all to fuck and back!” he cried. This didn’t make any sense, none of it. Not a bit. We’re in some deep shit here, the sergeant thought and shared a quick, fretful look with the other officers, then glanced back toward the ferry terminal. Where was backup? Where the fuck were the ESU team, the special response guys, the dudes with the heavy calibers? He hit his mic. “Need backup now!” he called, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. “East side of Battery Park. Men down. Multiple armed suspects! Need backup right now! Right fucking now!”

All at once, several of the monster men began to walk away, rather casually even, like they’d just decided they didn’t want to play anymore. “HOLD UP!” the sergeant yelled, pointing his gun from one creature to the next. “EVERYONE JUST SIT TIGHT!”

But no one was listening. The black-skinned men continued to withdraw, slipping away into the park in small groups and clusters.

“What d’we do, Sarge?” one of the officers asked while jabbing his gun at the monsters as though to ward them off.

The sarge didn’t answer. He had no idea. This shit hadn’t been in the manual. He only knew he couldn’t let these guys get away. Gonna have to shoot someone. Gonna have to start blasting these creeps away. He squared his sights on a man wielding an ax, began to squeeze the trigger, when he noticed something weird, weirder even than all these monsters and little devils. The pond…it was glowing!

He lowered his gun for a better look. His brow furrowed. What the hell? Some sort of radiant mist was forming on the top of the pond.

Chemical agents? The sergeant’s skin prickled. He’d slept through most of the lectures on bioterrorism, but had perked up once they’d started talking about the effects of chemical and biological attacks on the human organism. And the one thing he had learned was that he had no desire to spit up dissolving lung tissue or drown in his own body fluids.

The sergeant started backing away. Then something weirder happened (his definition of weird was expanding by the second) that made him forget all about chemical agents. There was something in this mist, lots of somethings. He heard sounds, strange, eerie echoes, like women weeping and children singing, caught sight of shadowy, eyeless children with pumpkin-size heads and deformed mouths that peeled back, exposing rows of prickly teeth, and crawling up behind them hunchbacked women with emaciated arms and legs, shriveled flesh and black holes for eyes, their distended abdomens swollen and pulsing, giant stingers dripping black, viscous goop protruding from the tips of their sagging breasts. They extended their arms to him, smiling sweetly, inviting him to dance.

The sergeant turned to run and ran right into a member of the special response unit. Behind the specialist was a squad of at least twenty well-armed ESU team members, hard, well-trained men who knew their business.

“What’s going on—” the specialist started, but the sergeant didn’t have time to answer questions. The sergeant had to go, had a doctor’s appointment, needed to feed his goldfish, left his toaster oven on, something. The sergeant hauled ass out of there, leaving behind one very bewildered ESU squad.

A moment later, right about the time the swarm of disembodied heads flew screeching past, and the naked old women with the scabby raven heads started to dance merrily around the squad, to weave their cold fingers along their necks and scalps, the special response unit turned tail and followed the sergeant rapidly from the vicinity.

Chapter Twenty-Six Horned One

The Mist blanketed the park in a luminescent silvery glow, muting the shouting men, blaring horns, even the sirens. Peter felt as though he were in a dream; the whimpering and groaning of the wounded and dying echoing along with the sad song of the Mist.

The Mist? The Mist could mean only one thing. The Lady’s alive! Peter thought. There in the pond. She must be in the pond!

The pond’s glow faded, slowly returning to black. Peter jerked his swords free from the dead Flesh-eater at his feet, not even bothering to wipe the blood off, just shoving the blades back in their scabbards as he sprinted for the pond. He pushed past two wounded Flesh-eaters—supporting each other as they hobbled away—giving them not so much as a glance, focused only on the pond—on the Lady.

“Where is she?” Peter whispered, scanning the pool. He needed to find her, needed to see for himself that she was indeed alive. He saw Danny, standing knee-deep in the pond, the rope still tied around his middle. The rope was taut and sank below the water. Peter leaped into the pond, splashed out to Danny, and grabbed the rope, following hand over hand until he found the Lady. He gently pulled her to the surface, cradling her.

Peter saw her face, her half-open eyes—blank and lifeless, completely void of any color—then saw the angry gash in her collar. “Oh, no,” he whispered. “No. No.” He pulled her to shore and laid her on the bank.

She slowly opened her eyes and smiled at Peter. “Mabon, you found me.” She touched his cheek.

The witch was there, beside them. “No Modron, you silly teat. It’s just the boy. Your Mabon is dust and bones.” She took the Lady’s hand in hers. “Now, no more gibbering. Concentrate on your wound.”

The Lady’s eyes closed. She seemed to stop breathing altogether.

“Do something,” Peter said to the witch. “Please, do something.”

“Oh, stop your blubbering,” the witch said. “There’s little I can do. Avallach gave his healing touch to Modron, not me.” She sneered. “Little bright and sparkly here was always his favorite. Look, she’s stopped the bleeding at least.”

“She’ll be all right then,” Peter insisted.

“Maybe. She’s weak. She used herself up bringing on the Mist. She needs water. Pure, fresh water, not this stinking, stagnant pool. We have to get her out of here. Take her someplace where—”

“PETER!” Huck called. “Behind you!”

Peter whipped around, sword in hand in a mere blink. There, next to Danny, the Captain! He stood knee-deep in the pond, the rope in one hand, a long knife in the other.

Peter’s lips peeled back. “YOU!” he snarled and pointed his sword at the man.

“Hold!” the Captain called, raising his hands, holding the knife up. “I just want the boy.” He gestured to Danny. “Just want the boy, nothing more.”

Peter couldn’t believe his ears. This demon, this monster, dared ask to take a child—from him. After all the Devils that lay dead at this man’s hands? “Never,” Peter growled, and leaped into the pond, charging the Captain with a wide swing. The Captain parried the blow with his knife and fell away, causing Peter to barrel past. The Captain snatched out his own sword, readied himself.

“PETER, NO!” Nick cried, and jumped into the pond, splashing between them. “STOP!” Nick carried a spear, one of the large Flesh-eaters’ spears. He brought the shaft up, blocking Peter.

Peter leveled his sword at Nick, placed the blade directly under his throat. “I’m warning you, Nick,” Peter said coldly. “You’ve come before my sword too many times. Get out of my way. Now!”

“Just free Daniel,” the Captain said calmly. “Send him with me and we’ll go.”

“WHAT?” Peter cried. “You will never take another child from me, not ever. All you will get from me is the edge of my sword.”

The Devils splashed into the pond, spears and swords pointed at the Captain, holding him in check. The Captain didn’t waver. He kept his guard steady.

“Peter, stop this!” Nick cried. “Look, open your eyes and look.” He pointed at the bodies around the pool, to Ivy, her unblinking eyes staring up into the mist, to Carlos, lying on the bank, his throat open, a ribbon of blood feeding into the pond. “How much is enough? How many must die? You have your precious Lady, just let them go.”

Peter tried not to look at the dead Devils. They’d died honorably, heroically. He wouldn’t let Nick muddy their deaths, twist things around. Nick had it backward, that’s all. “There’s only one bastard to blame for their lives. One.” Peter pointed at the Captain. “Him.”

“No, Peter,” Nick said. “The Captain fought with us. He saved your Lady. Does that mean nothing to you?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at Nick.

“It’s true,” Cricket called.

Peter let out a long breath, then set his glare on the Captain. “Leave now. Right now and I’ll spare you. But the boy…that traitor. He stays. He owes me a debt.”

The Captain shook his head slowly. “I will not leave the boy. Not with you.”

The Devils tightened their grips on the spears, glanced to Peter.

Peter shrugged. “Then you will die, here and now.”

Nick spun the point of his spear toward Peter. “No, not this time. I won’t watch you murder this man. Not like Leroy. Never again.”

Peter saw the conviction in Nick’s eyes. He’s not bluffing. He means it. By all the gods, this stupid kid means it. He glared at Nick. “Nick, you’re going to get hurt, bad. This is your last—”

A scream cut through the Mist. Peter spun, ready for anything but what he saw. “Ulfger,” Peter exhaled in a wounded breath.

Ulfger stood near the far end of the pond. His head cocked to one side as though hearing voices, his hair frayed, soot smeared across his face, his dark, brooding eyes haunted, crazed. The Mist swirled away from him and there at his feet lay—Drael!

“Oh, no!” Peter said and started forward, stopped. Something was wrong. Peter squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The old elf cradled his arm to his chest. It was turning black, the blackness crawling up his shoulder, then his neck, along his cheek. Drael’s face cinched up in pain, and his skin began to smolder.

“What madness is this?” Peter hissed.

Drael let out another cry, a cry that made Peter’s skin crawl. The elf rolled onto his back, began writhing in the grass, blood poured from his eyes, nose, mouth. His back arched, his fingers tore at his chest. He let out a final strangled cry, then lay still.

Peter stood frozen in place, could do nothing more than stare at the smoldering corpse of his old friend. “No,” Peter murmured. “This isn’t possible.”

An elf darted forward, sent his spear shooting across the ground, catching Ulfger in the chest, punching through his chest-plate and deep into his heart. Ulfger stumbled back, looked at the spear like he was just—curious. He grabbed the spear, grunted, and yanked it out. No trace of blood touched the blade.

“What’s going on?” Peter whispered.

“His blood is one with the sword,” the witch said. “He cannot be stopped. Not by mortal sword and spear.”

Ulfger’s eyes fell on the Lady. He smiled at Peter. “I will have her head. Come, you runt. You little freak.” He waved to Peter, as though inviting him to a hand of cards. “Come see if you can save your queen.” He kicked Drael’s smoldering corpse. “Come taste Avallach’s judgment.”

Peter snarled, sprang out of the pond, and charged Ulfger. He let out a howl and swung high with his left sword and low with the right. Ulfger smashed Caliburn against one sword, shattering the blade and knocking the weapon from Peter’s grasp. But Peter’s second blade sliced into Ulfger’s thigh just above the knee. Ulfger stumbled and Peter slashed him across the back of the neck. A savage light flashed in Peter’s eyes at the feel of steel biting flesh. For Drael! Peter spun around to finish Ulfger, but to his horror, to his total disbelief, he found Ulfger still on his feet. The giant seemed hardly affected by either strike. Peter fell back a step as the wounds healed right before his eyes. Ulfger pressed in, swinging for Peter’s chest. Peter brought his sword to bear at the last second, but was off-balance and the blow knocked the sword from his hand and him to his knees.

Cutter rushed forward, jabbing his spear into Ulfger’s stomach. Ulfger grunted, grabbed the hilt, and used it to knock Cutter into Peter, then stabbed the boy in the back.

Peter struggled to pull Cutter up when the boy screamed. Cutter’s skin burned, actually sizzling and turning black right beneath Peter’s hands. Peter let out a cry of horror; did not even see Ulfger swing at him. A huge gloved fist slammed into Peter’s brow. Everything went very bright for an instant, then viselike fingers clamped around his throat, yanking him off his feet.

Peter struggled, kicked, and clawed at Ulfger’s hand and arm, but Ulfger’s grip was like steel.

The elves fell back, surrounding the Lady, leaving Peter to his fate, but not the Devils, they rushed in: Rex, Drake, Huck, Dash, and even Cricket came splashing out of the pond. They circled Ulfger, no clacking teeth, or wild war cries, only grim, resolute eyes.

Ulfger sneered at them, held Caliburn before Peter’s face. “One touch,” Ulfger shouted. “And your precious chief here is ash.”

The Devils glanced at each other, unsure, their helplessness stripping them of their savagery.

Ulfger tightened his grip. Peter let out a strangled cry, felt the bones in his neck would snap at any moment. “Back,” Ulfger said.

The Devils fell back.

“Ulfger,” the witch called. “Heed me Ulfger. If you taste his blood you will not like what you find.” The witch smiled and wet her green teeth with her tongue.

Ulfger dismissed her with a sneer. “Modron,” Ulfger commanded. “Look at me. Look at me!”

The witch lifted the Lady into a sitting position. “Here now, dearie. Let’s not disappoint Ulfger. Do take a look. You won’t want to miss this. That I promise.”

“Modron!” Ulfger called.

The Lady opened her eyes.

“Look what I’ve caught. Something dear to your heart.” He shook Peter. “Does he remind you of your little Mabon? Watch, Modron. Watch your precious boy burn.”

The Lady shook her head and raised a quivering hand.

Ulfger grinned, his eyes flashed. He took the black blade, set it against Peter’s cheek, and slowly slid the edge down, cutting a long gash into the side of the boy’s face.

Heat bloomed across Peter’s cheek. He cried out and Ulfger tossed him to the ground.

Cricket screamed; the Devils, Tanngnost, the elves, all froze, all stared in wide-eyed dread.

Peter clutched his cheek, his heart thudding in his chest. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run, not from the poison. It was in his blood; he felt its heat course through his veins. He waited for the pain, for the burning, but the burning never came, only the warmth, spreading through his body. Peter pulled his hand from his face, found no blood. Touched the wound, felt it growing smaller, shrinking—disappearing.

Ulfger’s smile faded; he looked on, confused.

A laugh, a cackling laugh came from the pond. It was the witch. “Oh, Ulfger, you big stupid ass, if you could see your face.” She laughed again. “I tried to warn you. Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? This can mean only one thing.”

Ulfger narrowed his eyes at her.

“Think about it, you big oaf. The wound does not bleed. The sword does not burn him? Why, Ulfger? What must that mean? Come now, you can do it.”

Ulfger’s eyes went wide. He shook his head.

“Yes,” the witch said. “You see, don’t you? Yes you do, my big stupid nephew. You see very well.”

“No,” he said. “NO!”

“Seems the Horned One had more than one little bastard running around,” the witch laughed. “Oh this is truly delicious.” She shook the Lady. “See, Modron. I told you you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Ulfger glared at the witch, pointed Caliburn at her. “You lie, witch! You are full of lies!”

Peter made for his feet and Ulfger turned the black sword on him, held the jagged, broken point an inch from his heart. “Tricks. Lies. I will not—” Ulfger’s eyes flared, he cocked his head sideways, again as though listening to some unseen phantom. His face twisted into a mask of despair and pain. “Why?” he mewled. “Why must you forever torment me? Why do you hate me so? I have been the good son—ever the good son.” Peter tried to ease away and Ulfger’s eyes came into sharp focus, blazed with unfathomable hate. “You!” His face pinched into a knot. “You are an abomination!” he screeched, and shoved Caliburn into Peter’s chest, drove the blade all the way through Peter’s ribs and out his back.

Blinding pain—Peter tried to scream, managed only a strangled gasp. Ulfger twisted the blade sharply left, right, then yanked the weapon free. Peter dropped, rolled in the dirt, clutching, clawing at the deep wound, his mouth working, trying to breathe. He felt air escape between his fingers, heard—felt—a horrible sucking come from the wound as the air left his punctured lung.

Ulfger laughed, a high, strained sound almost like wailing. He reared back for a second thrust when the Devils rushed in.

Rex dove in low, recklessly, going for Ulfger’s knee, forcing Ulfger to switch his thrust from Peter to him. Ulfger missed, the blade driving into the dirt. The boy slashed Ulfger’s leg. Dash drove his spear into Ulfger’s stomach, the spear punched through the mail, sunk deep into Ulfger’s gut. Ulfger let out a loud grunt, stumbled back. Drake and Huck were there, attacking from behind, Huck hacking low while Drake cut high.

Even through his pain, Peter admired their bravery, cunning, and coordination. For a moment it looked good for the Devils, looked to Peter like they might stand a chance, might be able to stop this monster, or at least drive him back. Then Ulfger yanked Caliburn from the ground, spun around—the sword seemed to weigh nothing in his hand—and his speed caught them all by surprise. He struck Rex in the side of the head, cleaving the boy’s skull open; blood and brains followed the sword’s wake as it cleaved through Huck’s arm, then neck. Both boys collapsed into lifeless heaps. Drake ducked back, the sword missed his head but nicked his shoulder, the slightest scratch, yet his face showed he knew his fate, knew what that one scratch meant. An instant later, a dark patch bloomed, crawled up his neck, across his chest. Drake screamed, but did not stop fighting; even as his skin smoldered and peeled away from the bone, he rushed Ulfger. Ulfger knocked the boy away with his fist, leaving him to burn.

“No,” Peter said in a strained rasp, almost out of his mind with pain, anger, and frustration. Ulfger was killing the Devils, his Devils, murdering every one of them while he lay in the dirt. “Fuck,” he spat. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he forced himself to his hands and knees. He clutched his chest—there was no blood. The pain turned slowly to warmth, and he realized he could breathe again, that the wound was healing. The sword. That cursed sword.

Only Dash and Cricket were left. Dash jumped between Peter and Ulfger. Cricket slid over next to him. She looked so small before Ulfger’s towering mass. Peter could see her fear, the utter terror in her face, yet still she stood, spear ready just as Sekeu had shown her.

Peter pushed slowly to his feet.

Ulfger laughed and came for them.

“DEVILS, DEVILS, DEVILS FOREVER!” Dash screamed and charged Ulfger, swinging with all his strength and speed. Ulfger met the attack with a crushing blow, cutting through Dash’s sword and forearm, catching the boy in the stomach, almost slicing him in two. Dash flew back into Cricket and Peter, knocking them over. Ulfger raised Caliburn above his head. “JUDGMENT COMES!” he screamed.

A spear tore through the side of Ulfger’s neck. His eyes went wide with surprise.

Peter blinked—there was Nick, his face hard, focused, no trace of the confused, scared boy he’d found in the park such a short time ago. This boy was lean and dangerous, his cold, piercing eyes the eyes of a killer.

Nick shoved the spear deeper into Ulfger’s neck and shouted, “GET AWAY FROM HER!”

Ulfger dropped Caliburn, clutched the spear in both hands, gagging and strangling as he tried to wrestle it from Nick’s grasp. Nick gave the spear a final, hard thrust and leaped over to Cricket. He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and cried, “CRICKET, RUN!”

Ulfger pulled the spear from his neck and fixed on Nick. Peter tried to shout, tried to get up in time. Ulfger threw the spear, catching Nick in the back, just below his shoulder blade. The spearhead sprung out from the front of Nick’s chest. Nick looked at it for a moment, then collapsed to his knees.

“NICK!” Cricket screamed.

“Run,” Nick said weakly, and fell over.

Ulfger and Peter locked eyes across the bodies of the dead and dying, the heat of their hate boring into each other. Peter’s chest heaved, his lips peeled back, his golden eyes flared, his fingers ached to rip away Ulfger’s flesh, to tear his eyes from their sockets. Caliburn, the deadly, black blade, lay in the dirt between them. The two half-brothers stared at it as one. Peter was quicker. He dove for the sword, snatching up the blade and coming up in a roll. He swung for Ulfger—the sword weighed nothing in his hands—it sliced through the giant’s armor like paper, cutting deep into Ulfger’s thigh. Ulfger stumbled back, fear in his eyes.

Peter felt the bite of the sword’s spiked hilt, felt its heat, felt its pulse within him, felt its power. He heard the Horned One then—calling his name. Peter could see that Ulfger heard it too.

“No,” Ulfger cried. “I am the one. Me, Father. Me!”

Peter hefted the blade and moved in, circling, stalking the giant.

Ulfger backed away, his haunted eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, frantically searching for some escape. His heel caught on Huck’s body and he tumbled over backward.

Peter was at him.

“NO!” Ulfger cried.

Peter brought the black sword high over his head and down with all his strength. Ulfger put up his hands, tried to block the strike, but Caliburn sliced through his wrists, leaving two steaming stumps. Ulfger wailed with outrage and pain. Peter brought the sword down again. This time, the blade bit deep into Ulfger’s neck. Ulfger’s face twisted in agony. An awful, strangling sound gurgled from the deep gash across his throat. Peter grinned, letting the sword take him, reveled in its song as he brought the blade down over and over. Ulfger’s wounds tried to heal, but Peter kept hacking and hacking, chopping and re-chopping, until, at last, Ulfger’s head rolled away and his body fell limp.

The Mist swirled and danced around Peter. He felt the Horned One’s wild blood—awakened by the sword, by the death and carnage—pumping in his veins. Peter’s golden eyes blazed. He set his foot atop Ulfger’s chest, pointed Caliburn heavenward, threw back his head, and howled.

The call echoed across the park.

PETER CLOSED HIS eyes, listening to his own heartbeat. He heard men shouting in the distance and the warbling sirens growing louder, and knew the Mist was thinning again. The Lady’s voice came to him, softly, but pushing all other sounds into the background. “Peter.”

Peter opened his eyes, saw the Lady. She appeared a little stronger now, and some of the color had returned to her eyes. She beamed at him. “Peter,” she whispered. “You are my champion—forever.”

Peter glanced from Ulfger’s body to the bodies of the Flesh-eaters. He jabbed Ulfger’s head with the tip of Caliburn. Ulfger’s lips quivered and his eyes flickered. Peter wondered if the head was still alive somehow, if the sword’s spell could do that. He hoped so as he kicked the head into the pond. He stared at the bubbles as it sunk below the water and disappeared from sight. Then Peter strolled toward the Lady, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as his heart swelled. Yes, I am your champion.

A ragged sob cut the silence. Cricket cradled Nick in her lap; there was blood trickling from his mouth, but the boy was still alive, his eyes were on Peter—watching him, judging him. Peter’s smile faded.

Peter stuck the deadly sword into the earth, came and knelt beside them. He clasped Nick’s shoulder. The boy’s skin was clammy. “Nick, you fought bravely. You’re a true Devil. You saved—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Nick snapped.

Peter flinched.

Nick caught hold of his arm. “How can you continue to play this game?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Are you truly that blind?” He pointed at the smoldering husks of Rex, Huck, Drake. “Look! Look at them! They’re all dead, all your Devils. Don’t you even care? Or do they no longer matter?”

Peter tried not to look, but there was no escaping the wide, staring eyes of the dead, the stink of guts, blood, and burned flesh hanging in the Mist. Nothing noble or romantic, just death. He tried to pull away, but Nick held him, his face tight with anger and pain. “Don’t you dare look away from them. Not after they gave their lives for you, stood by you when no one else would.”

“No,” Peter said. “They died for the Lady. They died honorably, defending their queen.”

“She’s not their queen, you stupid fuck.” Nick coughed and blood spattered his chin. “It was you they worshipped, you they followed, and look where you led them. Look! You traded their lives for the Lady, your goddamn precious Lady. Was it worth it? Was she worth all their lives?”

Peter knocked Nick’s hand away. “No,” Peter growled. “It’s not like that. You’re always twisting things around.” But even as he shook his head, he saw their faces, not in death, but in life. Those vibrant children who had followed him through the Mist on a promise—had laughed, cried, played, fought, and died alongside of him.

Peter caught sight of Danny and the Captain climbing out from the far side of the pool. He leaped to his feet, reached for Caliburn, then stopped, glanced back at Nick—at Nick’s hard, cold eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” Nick said. “Go on. Kill them too. More blood for your goddamn queen. Right?”

Peter let out a hard breath and just stood there, watching as the Captain and Danny disappeared into the trees.

“Peter,” the Lady called. “Come to me.” She sounded stronger. Tanngnost carried her in his arms. The elves, the witch, the three girls, and the barghest all surrounded her. She smiled at him. “It is time to go.”

Nick coughed, spat up a mouthful of blood. Peter looked, as though for the first time, at the spear protruding from Nick’s chest. The boy was so pale; pain creased his eyes.

“Hold on, Nick,” Peter said. “You’re going to be all right.” He dashed over to the Lady. “Modron,” Peter called. “Hurry, help him before it’s too late.”

The Lady reached for Peter, took his hand, and smiled sadly at him. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for him.”

“Of course there is. You can heal him. You can try.”

“Peter,” she said sternly. “We’ve no time for their kind, not now.”

Their kind? Peter stared at her.

“Peter, please don’t look at me that way. I know the human children are dear to you. But they are back in their place now. It is up to their gods to help them. We have to look after our own.”

“Nick is our own. He’s earned his place a thousand times over. You owe it to him.”

The Lady’s eyes flared. “Enough of this,” she said sharply. “Would you have me risk everything for him? I must conserve my strength; there are many trials ahead.”

Peter grabbed the Lady’s hand. “Please,” he said. “Just do what you can. Anything. Please, I’m begging you.”

Her face softened. “Peter, don’t fret so. You need to let go, put their kind behind you. You are my warlord now. Your place awaits. Now, I will hear no more of this. Tanngnost, we need to leave before all is lost.”

Peter looked from face to face: the witch’s smirk, the girls’ wicked smiles, the cold eyes of the elves. Only Tanngnost seemed genuinely saddened by the dying boy. “I’m sorry, Peter,” the old troll said. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“Now come, Peter,” the Lady said. “We must make haste.”

They all turned away, leaving Peter standing there, the slain bodies of his Devils scattered around him.

NICK FELT A chill, a numbing coldness crawling toward his heart. I’m not going to make it, he thought. I’m never going to see my mother again. Tears rolled down his cheeks. I have to tell her I’m sorry. Tell her how much I love her. Have to.

“Peter,” Nick called weakly. Peter didn’t hear him.

“Peter,” Cricket called. “Peter.”

Peter slowly pulled his eyes away from the Lady, walked over, and knelt down next to them.

“I need you to do something for me,” Nick said.

Peter nodded, distractedly.

“You have to find my mother.” Nick coughed, it was getting hard to speak. “Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry. And Peter.” Nick clutched Peter’s arm, pulled him close. “Kill them. Kill Marko and his friends. Will you do that?”

Peter didn’t answer, he glanced to the Lady—Tanngnost was carrying her away, the refugees of Avalon following them toward the harbor.

“Peter, look at me. You made me a promise. You swore. No games this time. You have to do this for me. Okay?”

“I’ll do what I can, Nick.”

“No, swear it! Fucking swear it. Put your fingers out where I can see them and swear.”

Peter’s eyes dropped. “Nick, I can’t. Not now. There are still things left to do.”

“Goddamn you,” Nick cried. “Listen to me. She lives near the park, where you found me. It’s on Carroll Street, just off Fourth Avenue. The blue house. The only blue house on the street. Did you get that? Carroll Street. The blue house. You can’t miss it.” Nick coughed, spat out a mouthful of blood. “Go there, kill Marko. You owe me. You fucking owe me.”

Peter nodded, but said nothing more.

Cricket was sobbing.

Nick’s hands went numb; Peter’s arm slid from his grasp. He wanted to say more, wanted to make Peter swear. To see in his eyes that he would indeed kill Marko. But it was too hard to speak. He smiled weakly at the golden-eyed boy. “The Lady,” Nick whispered. “She has stolen your soul.”

Nick’s vision blurred. So cold, he thought and wished his mother was here. Wished he could see her one more time, feel her warm arms around him. That would be so nice, so good. He closed his eyes.

PETER WATCHED NICK’S hand drop lifelessly to the dirt.

Cricket stared at Nick. She was no longer crying, just staring. Her eyes were distant—lost.

The Lady’s voice drifted to Peter across the last remnants of the Mist. “Peter, come to me.” The troop waited for him in the shadowy trees.

“Cricket,” Peter said. “Let’s go.”

Cricket looked at Peter as though he were a stranger, then into the shadows, to where the Lady waited. Cricket shook her head. “No, I’m not going.”

“So much awaits, we must—” Peter stopped, let out a weary sigh. He touched Cricket’s shoulder. “Good-bye, Cricket.” She didn’t look up.

Peter stood, pulled Caliburn from the dirt, studied the black broken blade. I was there, he thought. When this blade was broken. I stood by his side, the Horned One—my father, when he carried it into battle.

He tugged Ulfger’s cape from his stiff body, used it to wrap the deadly blade. He took a last long look at the dead, a hard look into each of their faces, then into Nick’s face. “I won’t forget.” He turned and followed the Lady.

PETER CAUGHT UP with her at the Battery. The Mist had drifted away and he could see the Statue of Liberty glowing green in the harbor. One of the elves leaped up onto the sea wall, pointed down the way. “There, a vessel.” The elf squinted his narrow eyes and said with surprise, “It’s the longboat.”

Peter helped Tanngnost carry the Lady down the rocks to the blackened hull of the great boat. One by one, the last refugees of Avalon boarded: the witch, her daughters, Tanngnost and the Lady, the elves, finally the barghest, scampering up the bow and perching like gargoyles along the magnificent dragonhead. When it came Peter’s turn, he hesitated.

“Hurry, Peter,” the Lady said.

Peter set a hand on the rail, started to pull himself aboard, then stopped.

“Peter?”

He clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head.

The Lady gave him a stern loo

“I can’t.”

“Don’t jest,” the Lady said.

“There’s something I have to do first.”

“You don’t mean the silly promise you made that boy?”

Peter nodded.

“Come aboard, Peter,” the Lady commanded. “This is no time for games.”

Peter opened his pouch and pulled out three apples.

The Lady’s eyes grew round. “Avallach’s seed,” she said in awe. “How?”

Peter handed her the apples. She cradled them to her breast like newborns.

“Peter, do you know what this means? Why, Avalon can truly be reborn!”

Peter nodded again.

“Peter,” her voice dropped low, seductive. “Everything you ever desired awaits.” Her piercing, cerulean eyes glowed. “A new world, my champion. And you will sit by my side, sharing all the magical delights.” Her voice deepened. “See it, Peter. See your rightful place. See your destiny fulfilled.”

Peter saw her vision: he, the wild warlord of the Sidhe, romping through the magical forest with the beasts and wild faeries at his side, lord of all he sees. And it was indeed everything he had ever desired.

“Your heart is heavy for the children,” she continued in that low, deep, lulling tone. “Peter, that is understandable. But that will fall behind you in the new day. Once you are by my side. Once all of Faerie dances about your feet, you will forget them and the pain will fade.”

“Forget them?” Peter said, shaking away the vision. “No.” His voice was strong and resolute. “I will not forget them. I will never forget them.” He took a step back.

“Peter, you will come. You must come. A new world is a fragile thing. It’s your place to carry Caliburn, to defend Avalon. You cannot deny your birthright. It is your duty. Now come aboard, I command it.”

Peter held her eyes and shook his head. “I made a promise.” He dropped the bundled sword in the boat next to the Lady. “Good-bye, Modron.”

The Lady’s eyes flared, and she bared her teeth, snarling.

“Modron,” the witch laughed. “His father’s blood has been awakened within him. Seems your charms no longer rule his heart.”

The Lady glared at her sister, then it was as though all the air left her, and she sagged against Tanngnost. “Peterbird,” she said, sounding weak, tired, defeated. “My little Mabon. Don’t leave me. I need you.”

Peter pulled the star necklace from around his neck, took the Lady’s hand, and laid it in her palm. “I’m not Mabon,” he said softly.

The Lady stared at the lifeless star. She looked impossibly sad. Then her face grew grim and for a moment Peter saw the Lady he’d met all those summers ago, not the fragile woman but the goddess, the proud daughter of Avallach, the queen of Avalon. She pulled herself up straight, held out Mabon’s star. “Do this for me. Keep it safe.” Peter saw that its golden glow had returned. “When you’re done playing games, bring it home to me.”

Peter accepted the star but slipped it into his pocket rather than around his neck. He looked to Tanngnost. “Good-bye, old friend.”

Tanngnost let out a deep, heavy sigh, shook his head sadly from side to side, but clasped Peter’s hand firmly in his. “May Avallach go with you.”

The last tendrils of the Mist swirled away. Peter heard men shouting far back in the park.

“We must go,” Tanngnost said and let go of Peter.

“Peter,” the Lady said. “Come home to me. Make it soon.”

“Yes,” agreed the witch. “And take good care of your eyes. One of them belongs to me.” She grinned, showing him her long, green teeth.

The Lady set her hand in the bay; a swell of water gently rose beneath the boat, and they drifted from the rocks. The swell built behind the boat and pushed it rapidly away.

Peter stood there until he could no longer see them, until he heard the squawk of a radio and heavy footsteps coming down the walkway. Then he slipped away, disappearing into the shadows.

THE SIRENS FADED as Peter put the park farther and farther behind him. He no longer crept through alleyways, walking instead along the main streets. He ignored the hard stares and wary looks, not caring who might notice him, hardly watching where he was going. So much lost, he thought, his heart so heavy he felt he might suffocate. What have I done? Again he saw the disappointment on the Lady’s face, the look in Nick’s eyes as he died. Peter set his jaw and pushed them from his mind, plodding onward into the night, concentrated solely on putting one foot in front of the other, as though he could truly leave all the pain behind.

He left Manhattan, scarcely noticing as he crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Before long, the high-rises gave way to warehouses, then apartments and detached houses. He entered Prospect Park and soon found himself face to face with the green climbing turtle.

“Nick,” Peter whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

The turtle stared back with its ridiculous grin.

Tears bit at Peter’s eyes. He wiped at them and gritted his teeth. “So damn sorry.” The tears kept coming until a harsh sob shook his frame. He slumped against the turtle as tears for Sekeu, Abraham, Goll, his mother, Nick, and all the Devils that had died for him poured freely down his cheeks. He slid to the grass. The list was long, but Peter sat there, eyes clenched, arms tight about his knees, until he could name every one—every single one.

Eventually, a brisk wind blew. Peter opened his eyes, inhaled deeply—warmth, a trace of spring. His skin prickled, the night suddenly felt alive, as though the trees, birds, and bugs were watching him. He caught sight of a sparkle, then another and another. They raced to him, zipping along just above the dewy grass, circling him, spiraling round and round. “Faerie folk,” he said in wonder. Something blue shot past Peter’s head, whirled about, and hovered right before him. It was one of the pixies, a girl with white, wispy hair. She hissed at him, then rejoined the flock as they frolicked about the trees.

Peter heard a whispering in the leaves, a voice calling for him to come dance with the night—it was his father. Peter recalled how the Horned One had danced with him and the Devils around the great fire, granted them a place in Avalon. You chose me, Father, to stand beside you at Merrow Cove, to fight by your side. Honored me, not Ulfger, but me.

Understanding dawned on Peter and he began to grin. His father had indeed left him a gift, a great gift, and not the deadly sword. His father had claimed him when no other would, because the Horned One’s spirit lorded over all wild things, whether pagan or Sidhe, of this world or faerie. And now his father had passed that spirit on to him.

Peter jumped to his feet, laughed long and loud, as though he owned the park, daring any to challenge him. He set back his head and howled—a primeval call not heard by men for a thousand years, one that made them remember why they are afraid of the deep dark forest.

I’ve no need of banners, titles, crowns, magic swords, or gilded courts. I’ll never be confined to any realm. My domain is wherever the wild wind blows.

“I am the Horned One,” Peter called. “The forest spirit, the lord of all wild things.”

He dug in his pouch, pulled out one of Avallach’s apples, and admired it. It was a sacred thing of remarkable beauty—the revered symbol of Avalon. Peter took a bite. “Yum.” Smacking loudly, he headed off to find a house, not just any house, but a blue house on Carroll Street. His golden eyes sparkled and he touched the hilt of his knife. He looked forward to meeting Marko and his pals. He intended to have some fun with them—a really good time, because it had been so long since he’d had a really good time.

He felt his step lighten. The Sunbird came to mind, how wild and free it had been, free to fly wherever it fancied, whenever it pleased. Peter felt like that now, as though he could go anywhere, do anything, almost as though he could fly.

He glanced up at the stars and a wicked smile lit his face. “Time to play,” he whispered to them and winked.

And the stars winked back, for Peter’s smile is a most contagious thing.