Peter watched the boy drink. It had been a long night and the boy looked worn out, exhausted.
“Up ahead’s a good spot to rest,” Peter said.
Nick nodded and they moved on.
THE TWO OF them lay between a cluster of boulders on a makeshift bed of straw. Peter stared up at the overcast night sky. “I miss the stars.”
Nick yawned. “Maybe it’ll clear up soon.”
“No,” Peter said. “The Mist is eternal. The Lady protects Avalon, but at the cost of our dear moon and stars.”
“Avalon?” Nick said. “I thought that was in Britain somewhere.”
“Used to be,” Peter said.
“What’d you mean?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
“Sure, okay,” Nick mumbled and closed his eyes.
Peter watched the boy until he was sure Nick was fast asleep, then rose, slipping silently out from the boulders. There below him a giant tree grew out from the cliff base; a single tendril of gray smoke wove its way through its craggy limbs. A solid round door was set into the trunk, thick iron spikes protruding from its planks; above the door hung a toothless human skull atop a thigh bone.
Peter rapped on the door three times; a moment later, the peephole slid open; one slanted eye peered out at him.
“I bring fresh blood,” Peter said and grinned.
PART II
Deviltree
Goll
I
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—
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Chimes rang from somewhere far away, then muffled laughter and children singing; the Mist began to stir.