The Child Thief

“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.”