“Sorry,” Mack laughed. “I didn’t realize you weren’t paying attention to the elf sneaking up behind you.”
“Very funny.”
“Where did that come from?” he asked.
Poppy and Nula locked eyes. There was a heartbeat of silence that Poppy was sure would tip Mack off. Without taking her eyes off Poppy, Nula said, “Just a book. I’ve been trying to figure out how to unlock it, but the whole thing just lies there.”
Mack held out his hand and Poppy set the book in his palm. She scooted closer. Was he still angry?
He didn’t look at her, but took the book, frowning at the weight. “The ink just lies there because it isn’t ink.”
Poppy grimaced. “Well then, what is it? Moldy cheese?”
“Like I said, inklings,” he answered coldly. “Give me your knife.”
Poppy’s heart flipped, but she pulled the small blade from her boot and handed it over. Mack took the tip of the knife and made a cut on the pad of his pointer finger. Poppy sucked in her breath.
“It’s like most everything in the Grimwood,” he explained.
“Ohhhh—out for blood,” Nula finished, leaning forward. “Inklings, you say? I’ve never seen them before.”
“What are they?” Poppy asked as Mack’s blood began to drip onto the pages. She drew back as the ink blot rolled over the book toward the blood and seemed to absorb it through the page.
“Nine drops,” Mack said, squeezing his fingertip. “That’s seven.” He grimaced. “They’re creatures—wood folk, like us. But they live off the magic trapped in books. Plenty of magical books in the Grimwood.” He aimed a stiff smile at the ground. “Everybody’s got one.”
“Not glittery ones,” Nula muttered.
Mack shot her a strange look. “Annnnyway, the inklings sort of hibernate in there, until you feed them, and then they remember their places again. There,” he sighed, popping his finger in his mouth as the last drop fell to the page. A moment later, the ink on the page began to roll.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The inklings shifted and rolled like black sand, first over one page and then the other, until at last small curls peeled away to form themselves into words.
Stay away from the Grimwood, child.
Stay away from the fog.
Stay away from the thorn trees, child.
Stay away from the bog.
Tooth for tooth.
Blood or bone.
Promises are made of stone.
Know your place, and
Watch the weather.
Wood and home must rise together.
A shiver passed over Poppy. “That’s like the rhyme they say in Strange Hollow.”
“The first bit, anyway,” Mack acknowledged.
“How’s that one go, then?” Nula asked.
Poppy swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Stay away from the Grimwood, child. Stay away from the fog. Stay away from the thorn trees, child. Stay away from the bog. Keep the promise. Rue the day. The Grimwood is no place to play. Close the shutters. Lock the doors. They come for you on twos and fours. They come for you on twos and fours.”
“What do you say that for? That’s scary.”
Poppy gave a small nod. “It’s a children’s rhyme. A warning. And, I think it’s supposed to amplify the warding … to keep away the monsters. But it doesn’t work.”
“Humans are weird,” Mack acknowledged.
“Well, it sounds like a bargain if you ask me,” Nula said.
He cocked his head. “How do you figure?”
Poppy blanched at the word “bargain.” “Well, they do both mention promises—that’s a bit like a bargain, isn’t it?
“Only if they get something in return,” Mack grumbled, digging his toes into the forest floor.
What do you think it means?”
“And why did the Holly Oak have it?” Nula added.
Mack froze. “What?”
“I mean … why … did … the Holly Oak also have it?”
Mack frowned but said nothing.
“Give me the knife,” Poppy said. “I’ll do the other pages.”
“No,” Mack said, stabbing another finger.
“Fine,” Poppy muttered under her breath.
The other pages were different. There were six of them—three on either side of the rhyme. Each one was a drawing, and the inklings sketched them in like woodcuts. The first one showed monsters in a village—fires and screaming people. Arms and legs. It was gross.
Mack flipped the page, while both Poppy and Nula peered over his shoulders. The second drawing was of a young woman with a kerchief over her hair. She stood in front of the remaining villagers with her hands up like she was trying to get them to listen. In the third picture the same woman led all the people into the forest. A huge tree stood in front of them. “Is that the Holly Oak?” Poppy asked, but Mack had already turned the page. The fourth page—right in the middle—was the rhyme.
Nula reached for the knife and Mack gave it to her. Her blood was blue, with a pearly sheen. It beaded on the page until the inklings swirled around it like ravenous parasites. The next image was of the woman and the tree facing each other. Behind the woman stood all the people, and behind the tree—a horde of beasts and monsters. Poppy recognized the giant spiders of the faery court.
The sixth page was different again from the others. It was a circle of hands, and a tree in the middle. “Like the cover,” Poppy whispered. The pairs of hands shivered, as if they shook one another.
The last picture was of a grove of thorn trees. The inklings ran over the pages, making the thorny whips thrash.
“What does it mean?” Poppy asked.
“Nothing good, I bet,” Nula muttered.
Poppy shuddered and slapped the book closed, in Mack’s lap. He startled and looked at her but turned away when she caught his eye.
“Now that’s a weird book.” Nula grimaced, slipping the book out of Mack’s hands and back into the pocket of her tunic.
I’m sorry about our fight, Mack. Poppy thought the words but couldn’t bring herself to say them. Instead she turned her back on him as he pulled a tentacular from the pan, blowing on it and tossing it from hand to hand before popping it into his mouth. He hadn’t said a word.
Nula stared at Poppy, then back at Mack, her expression speculative.
“We should rest for a few
