Demon Thief (4 page)

But for the last year we’ve been together all the time. I’ve gotten used to them being at home every night. I feel like I did when I lost my favorite teddy bear a few years ago. It was a scruffy grey bear, nothing special, but I’d had it since I was a baby. It had been my constant companion, even when I’d outgrown my other stuffed animals. I took it to bed, on vacation, even to the movies. I felt like a friend had died when I lost it.

This is almost the same. Not as bad, because I know Mom and Dad will come back. But strange. Like something’s wrong with the world.

I’m uneasy when it’s time for bed. Sally’s spare bed is soft, but it smells damp, like my socks when they’re wet. Art goes to sleep immediately, delighted to be sharing a bed with me. But I can’t drop off. I’m tired — I woke early, knowing Mom and Dad were leaving — but my eyelids won’t stay closed.

I think about Mrs. Egin. I haven’t seen her since that morning when she witched out on me. I’ve taken the long way to school and back every day since. I’ve tried to laugh it off, make like it was no big deal. Told myself I imagined the curses and her stroking the patch of light.

But I know what I saw. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And although I’m not as scared as I was that first night, I’m still shaken, afraid to close my eyes in case she’s there when I open them, standing over me, cackling, a knife to my throat.

I turn from my left side to my right, then back again. I try lying flat on my back, then on my stomach. Nothing works.

Annoyed, I stop trying to sleep, hoping I’ll drift off by accident. I look around the small, cozy room, then focus on the patches of light. They look the same as ever, various shapes and shades. I count triangles, quadrangles, pentagons, sextants. . . . No, that’s an instrument. Sextuplet? I’m not sure. I think that’s right, but I’m not . . . maybe it’s a . . .

I wake suddenly.
Hexagon!
Of course. Can’t believe I had trouble remembering that. The brain can play funny tricks when you’re tired. I turn, yawning, looking for Art.

He isn’t there.

At first I think he’s just slipped farther down beneath the covers, but when I lift them there’s no sign of him.

I sit up swiftly, sensing danger, recalling Mom’s last words to me — “Look after your brother.” Flash on an image of Mrs. Egin sneaking in, stealing Art, putting him in a big black pot and boiling him alive.

My world is never truly dark. The patches of light mean I can see pretty well even on the blackest night. Mom and Dad used to try to convince me that the lights weren’t real, but if they’re imaginary, why do I have such fantastic night vision?

I get out of bed and hurry to the door, so certain Art isn’t in the room that my gaze glides right over him and I almost crash into him. Then my senses click in and I stop. Blink a couple of times to properly clear my eyes.

Art’s in the middle of the room. There’s a large patch of orange light pulsing just over his head. He’s playing with marbles that Sally gave to me earlier. He’s holding two of them up over his eyes. They’re orange-colored, like the light.

Art sees me and smiles, looking at me through the orange marbles. For a brief second I’m positive that somebody or something is in the room with us. I think I hear a soft growling noise. My head snaps left, then right — nothing. I look back at Art. In the strange orange light, with the marbles covering his eyes, he doesn’t look like my brother. I start to think that it’s not Art, that he’s been replaced by some evil spirit, that the witch
has
been here. I feel afraid. I back up to the bed.

“Art?” I say, very softly. “Is that you? Are you OK?”

A giggle breaks the spell. Art lowers the marbles. And I see that of course it’s him.

“Idiot!” I laugh weakly at myself. I go pick Art up and take the marbles away. Sally said not to let him have them in case he swallowed one. Art grumbles and tries to grab them back, but I tell him they’re dangerous. He understands that and snuggles into me, nuzzling my shoulder with his teeth, but gently, not like when he bites somebody.

I stand there with Art, feeling cold but happy, smiling at how silly I was. Art falls asleep in my arms. I carry him back to bed, tuck him in, then climb in beside him. Lying on my side, I stare at the orange light, still pulsing. It seems to have grown bigger, but that’s not unusual — the patches often change size.

I don’t like this orange light. There’s something creepy about it. It reminds me of the pink light that Mrs. Egin stroked. I turn my back on it and shut my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep again. But I can still sense it there, hanging in the cold night air, lighting up the room with its ominous orange glow. Pulsing.

DING DONG

T
WO
days later. The orange light is still pulsing and changing size. Although I can call it closer like the other patches, I can’t send it away more than twenty or twenty-five feet. It’s started to bug me, like an insect that keeps buzzing in front of my face. An uneasiness chews away at me every time I catch sight of it. I know it’s crazy, worrying about a light, but I can’t help myself. I have a bad feeling about this.

It’s a lovely, sunny day. Our teacher, Logan Rile, decided not to waste the weather, so we’re having lessons outside, in one of the fields around Paskinston. There are thirty-four of us, a variety of classes and ages, sitting in a semicircle around Logan. He’s telling us about tectonic plates. Logan’s not the best teacher. He sometimes forgets he’s talking to children and gets too technical. Very few of us understand everything he says. But he’s interesting, and the bits that make sense are fascinating. It’s also fun when you
do
understand him — it makes you feel clever.

Some of the younger children from the nursery have come with us. Their normal caretaker has gone to the fair, and her replacement’s finding it hard to cope with so many little ones. She was delighted when Logan offered to take a few off her hands for the day.

Art’s playing with the orange marbles beside me. I shouldn’t let him have the marbles, but he really likes them. Anyway, he hasn’t put them in his mouth yet. I keep a close eye on him, checking every couple of minutes to make sure both marbles are in sight — not in his stomach.

“So these plates are moving all the time?” Bryan Colbert asks. Bryan’s one of the oldest children, nearly seventeen.

“Yes,” Logan says.

“Then why don’t countries move?”

“They do,” Logan says. “The continents are drifting all the time. It’s very slow, but it’s happening. One day Australia will collide with America or Africa — I can never remember which — and the effects will be catastrophic. New mountains will be thrust upwards. There’ll be tidal waves. Dust will clog the air. Billions of people and animals will die. It might be the end of all life on this planet.”

“
All
life?” Dave English — a kid a year younger than me — asks.

“Yes,” Logan says.

“But I didn’t think that could happen. Everybody . . . everything . . . can’t just die. Won’t God keep some of us alive?”

“No god can prevent the end of life on this planet,” Logan says in his usual serious way. “Or the end of life in this universe. Everything has an end. That’s the way life is. But maybe there’ll be a new beginning when our world ends. New life, new creatures, new means of existence.”

“That’s scary,” Dave mutters. “I don’t want everything to die.”

“Nor me.” Logan smiles. “But our wants are irrelevant. This is the way things are. We can accept the truth and deal with it, or live in ignorance. Death is nothing to be afraid of. Once you think it through and get it into perspective, it’s not so bad. In fact, many people —”

“Now!”
a woman screams, cutting Logan off. All our heads turn at once, as if our necks were connected. I see Mrs. Egin lumbering up behind us, fingers twitching, frothing at the mouth. “Now it happens! Up the throat, past the gums, look out world, here it comes!”

The pink light that I saw her stroking a few days ago has grown much bigger and now seems to be touching her just behind her head. It’s pulsing quickly. Other patches of light around it are pulsing too, and moving towards it, as though drawn to it magnetically.

“Mrs. Egin?” Logan says, rising, signaling for the rest of us to stay seated. “Are you all right?”

“They said I couldn’t do it! Thought I wasn’t strong enough to summon them!” She laughs her witch’s laugh, then sings, “Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Now! Now! Now!”

“Mrs. Egin, I think you should —”

“You will see me die!” she shouts, and her eyes scan the group, fixing on me. “Find the thief! Who’s the thief? Find him!”

Fear comes shooting back. I’m not as afraid as when I was alone with her, but I’m pretty petrified. The others are too. We huddle close together, shuffling into a tighter group for protection.

Logan steps forward. “Let me take you home, Mrs. Egin. We’ll get you to bed, I’ll call for a doctor, and you’ll be right as rain in —”

Mrs. Egin roars a word I don’t know. Her lips are moving fast now, that strange language she was speaking before. Logan stops short and hesitates. That scares me even more —it’s bad news when your teacher is as frightened as you are.

The pulsing patches of light are moving faster, drawn towards the pink light. They merge with it, then flow into Mrs. Egin. She’s glowing from within now, the lights beneath her flesh, spreading through her body.

I stumble to my feet. “The lights!” I gasp.

Logan looks back at me. “Calm down, Kernel.”

“But the lights! Can’t you see them?”

“What lights?”

“Inside her! She’s swallowing the lights!”

Mrs. Egin cackles while Logan stares at me dumbly. I glance around. Everyone’s looking at me oddly. They can’t see the lights. There’s nothing any of them can do to stop this from happening.

I focus on Mrs. Egin. A bulging, pulsing bubble of light has formed behind and above her, patches melting together, colors mixing, flowing into her. Her eyes are bowls of light. I can’t see her lips — multicolored froth hides them. Her skin appears to be rippling.

“Mrs. Egin,” Logan tries again, facing her. “You have to —”

The witch shrieks triumphantly. A piercing note of wickedness and victory. I cover my ears with my hands. Logan covers his too. My eyes scrunch shut, but I quickly force them open a crack. I see Mrs. Egin stagger backwards. She goes stiff, arms wide at her sides, head cocked to the left. A gentle, tender smile crosses her lips.

Then the lights explode through her. And
she
explodes. Scraps fly everywhere — flesh, bone, guts, blood. Logan and the kids at the front are splattered by the spray. They squeal with disgust and terror. A chunk of bone hits Logan hard in the face and he drops, grunting with pain.

I cover my eyes with my left arm, and drag Art in close with my right, turning him away from the carnage. I’m screaming. Everybody is. But I can still hear Mrs. Egin’s scream over the sound of all the others, even though she can’t be making any noise now.

For an uncountable number of seconds the witch’s scream holds, mingling with ours. Then it stops. All the screaming stops, in the space of a second or two. Eerie, unnatural silence.

I don’t want to take my arm away, but I must. I have to look. Others are peeping too, although most are still covering their eyes or looking away from where the witch was standing.

Mrs. Egin is gone. Nothing of her remains, except a circle of blood and grisly carnage covering the grass, Logan and many of the children. And at the center of the circle — a panel of greyness.

The large grey patch of light hangs motionless a foot or two above the ground. It’s three or four feet wide, maybe six or seven high. Jagged around the edges.

I’m not the only one who can see this light. Others are pointing at it, gasping, murmuring, “What the hell is that?” This is a different type of light from the ones I usually see.

Logan rises, rubbing his head. Stares in disbelief at the gory mess, then at the grey wall of light. He’s an educated, experienced man. But he’s seen nothing like this before.

“She exploded!” a boy yells, excited. “Did you see her? It was amazing!”

“Is she dead?” a girl asks, voice trembling.

“What’s that light?”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Yeah.”

Logan walks around the panel of light. I can only see his feet when he’s behind it. Then he comes back into view. He’s more bewildered than afraid, like most of the kids around me. The light has made more of an impression than Mrs. Egin exploding. Perhaps they’re in shock, not ready to deal with the explosion — and her death — yet.

“We have to get away from here.”

I hadn’t meant to speak, but now that the words have popped out, I know I’m right. Everybody gapes at me. “This is bad,” I shout. “That light’s dangerous. We have to run.”

“It’s OK, Kernel,” Logan says. “This is mind-blowing, but we’re in the midst of something wondrous. I’m not sure what’s going on, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience the miraculous. Mrs. Egin . . . this light . . . it’s incredible!” He beams with delight.

Some kids get to their feet and drift towards Logan and the panel of grey light. They’re not afraid now that Logan isn’t. They trust him. They think he knows best.

“This is wrong!” I yell. “It’s evil! Can’t you feel it?”

“You shouldn’t be so suspicious, Kernel.” Logan laughs uneasily.

“You’re covered in blood!” I roar angrily, unable to believe that someone so smart can be this stupid. “Mrs. Egin’s dead! You’re walking through her guts!”

Logan blinks. Looks down at his blood-soaked shirt and trousers. His red hands. The mess around him. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh my —”

Something bursts out of the grey light. It has two long legs, a stumpy, leathery body, four arms which end in thick, hairy fingers. A dark green head, a cross between a human’s and a dog’s. No mouth. Long, draping ears. Wide, white, evil eyes.

The thing grabs Logan. It somehow makes a hissing, whistling noise. Logan stares at it in shock. Two of its hands lock on his head. The others clasp his shoulders. The hairs on its fingers extend, growing at an unnatural speed, digging into the flesh of Logan’s face. One hair darts into his right eye, puncturing it. Logan shrieks with pain.