The Child Thief

“Yes, it most certainly is,” Tanngnost said. “If you’d drop your dramatic stage dressings you could see for yourself.”

The witch frowned. “If this is one of your games, Tanngnost, it is your bones that will be stage dressings.” She raised her hands, closed her eyes, and muttered a string of curt, sharp commands. A warm breeze rose, blew through the swamp, and the fog began to clear. After a moment, Nick could see the gray clouds above and, yes, faintly, the dark stain of black smoke. Something was indeed burning.

“You need only climb upon Mag Mell Hill to see,” Tanngnost said.

“That can’t be,” Peter said. “The trees in Whisperwood can’t be burned.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tanngnost said. “But somehow they are burning. And need I tell you, once Whisperwood is gone, there’s nothing to hold the Flesh-eaters back, this swamp or maybe Devilwood will be next. Soon they will be burning your precious bog, Ginny.”

The three little girls looked up at their mother with worried faces.

The witch seemed to diminish somewhat, the fire gone from her eye.

Tanngnost took a deep breath. “Hear me and hear me well. You must put past grievance aside and join together. If not, all of Avalon will be lost.”

“What?” The witch’s eye flashed. “Are you suggesting we fight alongside these thieving brats? These human children? Why, they’re no different than the Flesh-eaters. A taint on the land. They too must be driven out.”

Tanngnost slammed his staff down again, his eyes flared. “How dare you!” he growled, his words harsh, cutting. “They’ve earned their place among the faerie fold. Paid with their blood and lives fighting alongside the Horned One at Merrow Cove. And where, Ginny, were you that terrible day?”

The witch waved him away as though she didn’t hear, but Nick caught the pained look on her face.

“Avallach’s gone, the Horned One is gone,” Tanngnost said. “It is up to us now. The fate of Avalon is on our shoulders.”

“Oh, stop your ranting, old goat. I’ve had all the preaching I can stomach.” She inclined her head toward Peter. “Tell me, Peter, does your precious Lady own your soul yet? Do you dream of suckling at her teat every night?”

Peter’s eyes squeezed down to slits. “Watch how you speak of her.”

“Ah, I see that she does.” The witch let out a knowing laugh. “Now, be gone, the lot of you. I’ll not tolerate thieves in my swamp. And you, Peter, the next time I see you, I will have your eye.”

Peter pointed his knife at her. “Why wait? Here, I’ll bring it to you.” Peter cut the air with his knife and started forward.

The troll grabbed him by the collar. “Peter, don’t be an imbecile.”

“Tanngnost,” the witch said. “You ask too much. I shall never fight alongside such rabble.” She spun around and started away.

“But Mother,” one of the little girls said. “Aren’t we going to eat them?”

“Hush up and come along,” the witch hissed and left, melting away into the trees and brambles. The bugs lost their purpose and began skittering away in all directions. The barghest leaped up into the trees and made a noisy exit. The little girls stayed a moment longer, staring at Peter and the Devils with wide, blinking eyes, then shrugged and skipped away.

“THERE,” THE TROLL said, pointing down the valley at the billowing smoke rising from the trees far below.

Peter stared. “I don’t understand. I don’t see how—” He stopped. “The Captain. The barrels.” He spat. “The fucking barrels.”

“What?”

“The Captain must have brought up oil. They’re using oil.”

Nick sat against a stump. He could smell burning wood, but all that mattered to him at the moment was being out of the swamp and away from Ginny Greenteeth. The troll had led them across Cusith Creek and to the top of this small rise to survey the fires.

Nick took another swig of water from the pail, but no matter how much he drank, his throat still felt parched and raw.

Cricket was sitting up now, propped against a stone. Danny lay next to her in the grass. Cricket didn’t look so well, but she was better off than Danny. His neck and face were red and swollen and he was floating in and out of consciousness. His glasses hung around his neck by the strap, one lens cracked and the frame bent.

The troll had said that they’d be all right, that the Red Tails liked their blood warm and their poison was meant to paralyze, not kill. He’d told them that other than the puncture wounds, there should be no lasting effects, and in a couple of hours they’d be good as new. Nick didn’t feel like he’d ever be good as new. His head hurt, his face felt hot and swollen, and the cut on his arm burned.

Peter and the troll had been arguing ever since they left the swamp, something about the Flesh-eaters, about the witch, about the elves. All of it about fighting and killing and Nick didn’t like the sound of any of it. As far as he was concerned, he was done. He wasn’t fighting with or against anyone. He intended to get well and make Peter take him back.

Abraham walked over and joined Leroy by Cricket and Danny.

“You know,” Abraham said. “You saved their lives. That’s something to be mighty proud of.”

A coy grin crossed Leroy’s face before he shrugged self-effacingly. “It just happened, y’know. Don’t remember even thinking about it.”

“And that there’s the true test. When you’re willing to risk life and limb for your fellow Devils without so much as a thought about yourself.” He placed a hand on Leroy’s shoulder. “You know what this means?”

You could tell by Leroy’s grin he knew exactly what it meant.

“You’ll be gettin’ your own sword and knife now. You’re gonna be accepted as clan, gonna be a Devil!”

Leroy smiled like a crocodile and cut his eyes over to Nick. He caught Nick watching and his smile faltered. Leroy picked up a bucket and walked over to Nick.

“How’re you doing on water, buddy?” Leroy asked and squatted down next to him. “You feeling better? Had me worried for a bit there.”

“You 1—” Nick croaked and winced, his throat still too swollen and raw to speak.

“Don’t worry about it, Nicky,” Leroy said. “You can thank me later.”

Fuck you, you son of a bitch, Nick thought and glared at him.

Leroy glanced over his shoulder; the rest of the Devils had all drifted over by Peter, studying the smoke. Leroy leaned closer to Nick. “Look,” he whispered. “Don’t go getting worked up. A lot happened fast. It was all really confusing. You might remember things a bit different than me. That’s all. Nothing to make a big deal over, right? Are we good?”

Nick narrowed his eyes to slits and gave Leroy the finger.

Leroy’s nostrils flared, his mouth puckered like he’d bitten into something sour, the same face he’d made when he’d stomped the pixie. He grabbed Nick’s hand and squeezed his fingers together. “You better listen,” he hissed. “I waited too fucking long for this. Put up with way too much shit. You say or do anything to fuck this up for me, I’ll kill you.” He twisted Nick’s fingers. Nick winced, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I’m not kidding. I’ll come to you while you’re sleeping and stab you in the face. Slit your fucking throat!”

Nick could see he wasn’t kidding.

“You got it? You got it?”

Nick nodded and Leroy let him go.

Nick turned away, staring down at the grass through a blur of tears. Let it go, he told himself. Doesn’t matter. He was getting out of here. Right? Leroy could call himself a Devil, could wear a feather and call himself Yankee Fucking Doodle for all he cared. Nick was done with him, done with all of this madness.

“I’LL CATCH UP with you at Deviltree,” Peter said.