CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“No!” Poppy screamed.
The house caught fire at once, the hall filling with orange light.
Another smash, and fire burst into the living room.
“Out the back,” Jute said. “Quickly.”
They raced out the back door, into the small meadow that was the only buffer between Poppy’s house and the wood. A flaming bottle flew end over end, spilling fire and smashing above them against Poppy’s tower bedroom.
Poppy stared at the flames, her heart in her throat.
“What should we do?” Mack called.
“They’re back here,” a voice called, and suddenly there were people everywhere, swarming toward them.
Poppy cried out.
Nula dropped into a crouch and let out a roar that stopped their pursuers in their tracks. Her parents began firing their net guns.
Several men and women headed for Mack. Poppy aimed her net gun at one man and fired, knocking him to the ground. She hurried toward him, but caught sight of Jute and stopped. He was by the house, grabbing handfuls of dirt and throwing it at the flames as if there were the slightest chance he could put them out.
A shout spun her around. More people surrounded Mack, and Poppy broke into a run. She aimed her net gun again and was about to fire it, when from the corner of her eye she saw the governor stride around the side of the house—saw the moment when he spotted Jute. She lurched to a stop, her feet rooting to the ground. Who should she help first? Which way should she go? Mack had thrown two of the men off, but more were coming.
She looked back at Jute. He didn’t see the governor at all. “Jute!” Poppy cried. “Jute! Look out!” She raced toward him, but the governor was too quick. He stabbed the end of his torch toward Jute. The hob screamed.
Suddenly her father was there, lunging at the governor and hauling him backward. The governor slashed at him with a knife, freeing himself and opening a cut on her father’s arm.
Everything around Poppy slowed. Jute had fallen back to his knees, still trying to throw dirt on the fire, his burned arm clutched to his chest.
Mack had gotten loose and stood with Poppy’s mother, throwing the small bottles of stonebrew at the attacking men, but it only slowed them a little. They were driving Mack and her mother back toward the edge of the wood.
Her father, blood running down his arm, rolled on the ground with the governor, neither able to get the upper hand.
Poppy stood, frozen. She didn’t know which way to turn. Everyone she loved was in danger.
More people came around the sides of the house. A big woman’s black eyes glittered at her as she closed in.
To her right, Nula was surrounded by torches, her fierce tiger eyes reflecting their light.
They were losing.
They were losing.
Strange Hollow wouldn’t listen—and they wouldn’t remember.
There was a crash as part of her home’s roof caved in and the flames licked higher. The whole house was burning now.
“Look out!” Mack yelled from behind her somewhere.
The ground began to shake.
For a second, Poppy thought it was just her imagination, but then, around her, people lost their footing, stumbling. Some dropped their torches as they looked at one another, trying to get their balance and figure out what was happening.
From under the flaming husk of Poppy’s house, glittering black trees rose from the ground. The fires sizzled and hissed, and began to go out.
Jute stood, watching with a horrified expression as a thorn tree pushed its way out of the ground.
One after another the thorn trees rushed toward the sky.
“Home and wood must rise together,” Poppy mouthed the words as a black tree rose a few feet in front of her, blocking her view of Jute and the dawn-lit sky.
As the sunlight reached out to sparkle over its black bark, one whip lashed out and tore a gash across her cheek. Poppy lifted her fingers to touch it.
They came away covered in blood. Blood. She flashed to a memory of Nula at the Grimwood’s edge with her knife in her hand. “Blood for blood,” the pooka had said. “It’s the only way in the Grimwood.”
The promise of Prudence Barebone had been made with blood—just like blood wards were. Maledictions too, she realized, thinking of the Faery Queen. Maledictions could be undone … or changed, with blood. Maybe they are all just different kinds of promises, Poppy thought. Blood can make a promise in the Grimwood. And maybe blood can break a promise too—remake it.
Poppy gave herself one moment—one moment to reconsider. But she knew what she had to do. If the people wouldn’t listen, then maybe the Holly Oak would. Isn’t the house hers? Aren’t the thorn trees?
Time quickened again as she took a breath and threw herself forward into the thorn tree, gripping its trunk. She had to get the Holly Oak’s attention—had to call her somehow.
“Poppy, no!” Mack cried from far behind her, and she turned her head in time to see the desperate look of terror that crossed her best friend’s face as she rode the tree upward.
She screamed. She couldn’t help it. Whips wrapped each leg. One threaded itself around her waist and tightened, piercing her abdomen. Blood ran down her arms and legs. She tried to steel herself for what she still had to do.
Below her the ground was chaos. Her loved ones fought against capture, while every soul, cursing and crying, scattered out of reach of the thorn trees. They were everywhere now, filling in the half-crumbled house until the flames were nothing but hissing embers. Whips flew through the air, crashing into the ground and one another as they reached to try to snatch people. A few brave souls had knives in their hands and slashed at the whips.
“Stop!” she called down. “Stop fighting!”
Below, she could see Mack struggling to make his way to the tree.
And then—there were children everywhere.
They ran into the crowd to hang on to
