Hunted (14 page)

Cold invaded the room.

Callum reached his unconscious grandmother first. Melissa was right behind him, hovering over his shoulder.

“Is she all right? Oh please tell me she's all right!”

There was a huge lump on the side of the old woman's head where she'd hit the wall, but to Callum's unspeakable relief, she was breathing steadily, and though her face was pale there was color in her lips. Her skin was warm. Nothing seemed broken. Her pulse was steady.

“Help me,” Callum said. “Move these chairs, get this glass out of the way….”

Melissa grabbed the shawls and cushions from the armchairs and spread them over the floor. Callum gently arranged his grandmother on her side in the recovery position. He was surprised at how light and fragile her body was when she was lying still—normally she seemed so strong and energetic.

“Are you okay?” he asked Melissa, turning his head to look at her.

“Yeah, just half strangled and scared brainless! But Callum, your face!” Melissa pulled off one of her glittering scarves and began to mop blood from his cheek. “Don't worry, this scarf

only cost ninety pence at Shaman's.”

Callum laughed.

He looked at his grandmother's pale face and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Then he glanced up at Melissa, bent over him in concern. Her face was also pale, her big eyes wide with their now-familiar anxious look. Gran and Melissa had both been hurt, but they were all right. They'd survived.

And so have I.

“Callum.”

Jacob was standing in the shattered doorway, still barred from entering the house. Callum smiled.

“Come in,” he said. “Come in, Jacob. You are welcome here.”

The pale boy bowed politely. Then he stepped easily across the cottage threshold. He picked his way cautiously around the scattered rowanberries and came to stand by the fire, near Melissa and Callum.

“It is nice to be welcome,” he said.

“Should we call an ambulance?” asked Melissa.

Jacob knelt down beside Gran and held his hand over her head for a moment. His eyes were closed, as if he was concentrating on a distant voice that only he could hear. Then, after a moment, they opened again.

“The old lady is not seriously hurt,” he declared.

“Thank God,” breathed Callum, his shoulders sagging with relief.

“But shouldn't she see a doctor, just in case?” asked Melissa.

“If I were you, I would leave things be,” replied Jacob. “Doctors will have too many questions that you cannot answer. She is strong and proud, this one. She will not thank you if she wakes to find strangers fussing over her.”

“That's true,” said Callum. “I suppose we'd better clear this up, though,” he added, bending down to pick up pieces of broken crockery.

“Let me help,” offered Melissa.

“You'll just make it worse!”

This time they laughed together.

“You stay there. Just stay by Gran and keep an eye on her. I'll clean up. I know where everything goes.” Callum thought of Gran's saying:
As long as everything is in its right place, there's plenty of room.

The worst part was the broken glass door. Callum went to the kitchen for a broom and swept all the glass out on to the patio—there wasn't much to see there anymore. There was no sign of Doom, nor of the body of the Fetch. A makeshift DIY job of nailing a blanket over the gaping hole cut out a bit of the cold. Finally, Callum cleared up the broken crockery and swept the debris into the bin under the sink in the kitchen.

Jacob and Melissa watched Callum work, neither of them speaking. Callum realized with a twist of apprehension in his heart that they were waiting for him to tell them their next moves. They wanted him to act as their leader.

When he came back to the sitting room, for a moment Callum simply stood looking at his strange new friends—one dead, one living, both of them far more complex than he had ever guessed.

Both of them were worth having on his side.

“So what happens now?” Callum demanded softly. “Jacob, you're the one with all the answers. What comes next? How many more creatures of the Netherworld will turn up on my doorstep?”

The unpredictable blood began to drip from Jacob's hands. He turned and held his hands up to the fire, as if he were warming them, until the dark rivulets dried and disappeared. He spoke with his back to Callum.

“I don't know what manner of being will come next,” Jacob answered quietly. Even muted, his voice rang like the striking of a muffled bell. “The Fetch has been defeated; one threat against your life has been thwarted. The threat of the Shadowing is about to begin. One Churchyard Grim will not protect you, or your world, from all the Netherworld breaking its boundaries and overwhelming it with darkness.”

Callum hesitated. Melissa sat with her head bent, one hand on Gran's forehead, listening but keeping her mouth shut. Another thing she was good at, Callum realized: knowing when to stand back.

“What will?” Callum asked. “Tell me what
will
protect my world.”

“You.”

“How can I help?”

“Fight with me. Fight to keep the boundary intact. I know you feel you didn't ask for this—”

“I didn't ask for it,” Callum interrupted. “But who asks for anything they're born with—the color of their skin, their parents, the place they live? You're stuck with what you get. You've got to make the most of it.”

“For yourself, if for no one else,” Melissa repeated. “It's worth fighting for yourself.”

“And you and Gran.”

“And Ed,” Melissa pointed out softly.

Callum took a breath. He nodded. “Yeah. People confused about who their real enemies are.”

“It is hard to tell, sometimes,” Jacob said. He was still holding his hands up to the fire and didn't look at Callum as he spoke. “When your enemy has the same face as your friend. Well …”

“But you're right,” said Callum. “I have to help. I'll fight with you.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “That's what I've been saying all along.”

Gran suddenly moaned and rubbed her forehead. Melissa bent over her in concern. “Mrs. Scott? Mrs. Scott?” she said. “Can you hear me?” She shifted the cushion beneath Gran's head and smoothed back the short gray hair.

“I think she's waking up,” Melissa said to Callum.

Callum knelt by Melissa's side, frowning with worry as he watched Gran stirring restlessly. Her eyes still closed, the old woman rolled away from Melissa and moaned again.

Jacob stood up. “I must go. Doom is finished out there, and we have no more business in your house tonight.”

“When will I see you again?” Callum asked.

“If you need me, if you need anything, you know where to find me. But perhaps”—Jacob gave his wistful smile—“perhaps there will be a brief time for us both to rest, before the Shadowing is upon us.” He nodded to Melissa. “Translator, you will be welcome too. With or without the chime child. Thank you.”

Melissa stared at the ghost, surprise showing in her big eyes. “What for?”

For the first time, Jacob's voice was so quiet it didn't echo.

“You aren't afraid of me,” he said. “You never were.”

“I'll go with you,” said Melissa softly. “At least, I mean, I'll leave now too. Give Callum and his gran some peace, I think.”

Jacob crossed the room to the door and waited. After an awkward few seconds Callum realized that he was waiting for someone to open the door for him.

“Can't you just float through?” he asked, only half joking.

“Not this door,” Jacob said. “Your grandmother has it wreathed with spells.”

Callum held the door open for Jacob and Melissa. On the front path, Doom sat waiting, silent and still.

“There you go.”

Jacob faced Callum.

“Tell me to leave. You should not allow any spirit free access to your home. If I come back, you may invite me in again.”

Callum grinned. “Leave my house,” he ordered. “And don't darken this doorstep again.”

Jacob's pale features relaxed into his faint smile. Callum smiled back. Then Jacob bowed, just as he'd done before entering. He stepped over the threshold and into the night, Melissa walking at his side. But Jacob turned back to Callum once more.

“One final thing, Callum. Do not tell your grandmother about me.”

“Why not?”

“Imagine how she'll react if you tell her a ghost has penetrated all her magical barriers and entered her cottage! I didn't do anything to defeat the Fetch; you and Melissa and Doom did all the battling yourself. Leave me out of the story.” Jacob paused. “Besides, women don't like to think about lost children. It makes them sad.”

Jacob's eyes began to leak the strange black blood, like dark tears glistening on his white cheeks in the moonlight.

“Farewell, Callum,” he said. “Until our next meeting.”

Then the ghost and the black dog slowly faded from view, leaving Melissa standing by herself in the empty garden, quiet in the moonlight. Nothing told of the last hour's terror and struggle against the Netherworld, except perhaps the open gate: a boundary waiting to be crossed.

The time of the Shadowing was about to begin.

Melissa walked out on to the road and closed the gate firmly behind her.

“We'll meet again on Monday morning,” she said firmly. “At school.”

“See you,” Callum said, and watched her set off fearlessly up the moonlit road through Marlock Wood.

Callum turned back to the brightly lit cottage and shut the door. Gran was sitting up, one hand to her head, frowning a little.

“What am I doing on the floor?” she asked crossly. “Oh, Callum, what's happened to your face!”

“Gran!” Callum cried out with relief, and ran to her.

“That thing—” Gran reached towards Callum with both arms. “Did that monster do that to you—is it here?” She looked around wildly.

“No, Gran, no,” Callum said, kneeling by her side and putting an arm around her shoulder. “We destroyed it. We're safe.”

“Safe!” Gran repeated incredulously. She looked Callum in the eye, their faces close together, understanding. “We're not safe.”

“We're safe tonight,” Callum assured her. “But you're right, Gran. The Shadowing is about to begin.”

Then he added with fierce determination, “And I'm going to beat it.”

T
HE ROOM IS DARK, BUT FOR THE OPEN FIRE
. A
LONE AND PACING
before the flames, a man waits. Everything about him is restless. He runs his hands through his hair, then crosses his arms and sighs. He stamps one foot as he pivots, back and forth, back and forth, up and down the dark room. Every now and then he stares intensely at the fire. Seeing nothing, he continues his relentless pacing.

Up and down the room. Another sigh. Another glance at the fire.

The man stops. Suddenly, in the flames, he sees the sign he is watching for. The fire has changed. Its flames have turned violet—a bright, cold, blue-purple, the color of black light. The white cuff at the man's wrist and the clear jewel set in his ring glow unnaturally in the black light. Everything else is cast into darkness.

In the depths of the blue and purple flames, a face appears. Its features are all wrong—ruby-red eyes too far apart to be human, the pupils slitted like a goat's, pointed teeth that are pitted like pumice stone.

The man nods to the evil face. It is a greeting. He shows no sign of fear or surprise that a monster has appeared in his fire. This is what he was expecting, what he has been waiting for. But he is fearful about what he has to report to the demonic face. He is the bearer of bad news.

The demon's voice is like the hiss of water thrown into a blaze.

“Well?”

The man answers reluctantly. “Our assassin has been destroyed.”

“How so?”

“A Grim.”

The demon's features writhe. Having no visible body to shrug its shoulders with, it shows its indifference with a twist of its mouth.

“One Fetch matters little,” the demon spits. “It was a vain and shallow creature.
The Hunter!
But it has performed its task well. The chime children are dead and still the mortals live in ignorance of the shadow realm, imagining its beings are merely the stuff of folktale and nightmare.

“When the Shadowing comes,” the creature continues, “and the boundaries are open, with the chime children gone there will be no resistance to our army. We will fix the boundaries between the worlds so that they will remain open forever. The realm of mortals will be ours for the taking.”

The man shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his hands behind his back, like a soldier facing a superior officer.

“Not all the chime children have been slain,” he reveals.

The demon pauses dangerously.

“How many remain?”

The man hesitates.

“One.”

The demon laughs, a sound of spitting sparks, like drops of water sizzling in hot oil.

“One!” The glowing red eyes crinkle with amusement. “One!” The demon howls with laughter again. “What is
one
? Rest easy, friend. One chime child against all the demon forces of the Netherworld? They will be as a pebble before the tide.”

The demon's laughter dies away.

“Prepare yourself. We are coming.”

THE END