Peter and the Shadow Thieves (22 page)

“Yes, m’lord,” whispered Hampton. “But making him cast a shadow could be a tricky thing, dark as it is.”

“I don’t need much, and I don’t need long,” the voice groaned. “You smel like a man who smokes.” Hampton frowned, trying to make sense of this remark. Then it hit him. “Ah, I see, m’lord,” he said, smiling despite his nervousness. “Perhaps Cadigan likes a bit of tobacco himself.”

“Perhaps he does,” groaned Ombra. “Keep his back turned to me. You’l know when it has happened.”

“Right,” said Hampton. He straightened his tal bobby’s hat and fixed the il -fitting uniform coat, then started toward the back of the huge, dark house, staying near the shrubbery as he walked down the cobblestone drive.

Rounding the corner of the house, he turned toward the service entrance, and permitted himself another smile: Cadigan did, indeed, smoke. Hampton smel ed pipe tobacco even before he saw Cadigan’s large form looming ahead.

“Who goes there?” Cadigan’s voice was low and husky.

“Constable Hampton.”

“What’s your business?”

“Are you Cadigan, then?”

“Might be.” Cadigan’s tone was suspicious, unwelcoming.

“Mister Jarvis said I might have a word with you.”

“Did he, then?” said Cadigan.

“That he did,” said Hampton.

“Wel , you’ve had your word,
Constable.
I’l ask you to return in the morning when I’m not on duty here.” Hampton kept walking. He needed to get past Cadigan, to turn him. But the big man moved, cutting him off. Cadigan clearly had no mind to al ow a stranger—constable or no

—between him and the kitchen door.

“Tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” Cadigan said, the politeness of his words belied by the menace in his voice.

“You mind if I smoke?” Hampton said, and before Cadigan could answer, he bent and scratched a long wooden matchstick on the side of his shoe. In the oppressive darkness the match seemed to explode, its yel ow light flashing across the faces of both men. Cadigan was younger than his voice suggested. He had a broad forehead, closely cut red hair, and a thick neck. Hampton stuck a smal cigar into his mouth and brought the match up with a quick and practiced motion. He sucked the cigar to life and exhaled a cloud of gray smoke that enveloped Cadigan, then was absorbed by the night.

“The thing is,” he said, stil holding the burning matchstick, “this here can’t wait ’til morning.” Cadigan was smel ing the cigar smoke, eyeing the match flame. As Hampton had hoped, Cadigan al owed his tobacco habit to overcome his reserve. He reached into his pocket and pul ed out his pipe.

“D’you mind?” he asked, nodding toward the match.

“Not at al ,” said Hampton. Cadigan stepped close to share the flame. As he did, Hampton turned him ful y around.

Cadigan sucked on the pipe. The flame grew, throwing off another burst of light. Hampton, looking over Cadigan’s shoulder, saw a black shape flow swiftly across the drive, toward Cadigan’s flickering shadow.

“I was told to deliver a warning,” Hampton said.

“About what?” Cadigan said, again drawing on his pipe. The flame was nearing Hampton’s fingers now, but he dared not let go.

Ombra’s cape glided silently, swiftly toward Cadigan’s shadow. Hampton watched this movement. Cadigan saw Hampton’s eyes shift, and immediately spun around.

Too late.

Cadigan moaned as his shadow elongated and stretched like a water drop, moving away from him and toward the base of Ombra’s cape, until only a thin neck of shadow touched Cadigan’s feet. It seemed to cling to him, as if not wanting to let go; then it broke away, like a piece of taffy stretched too thin. The entire shadow raced to Ombra, forming a dark pool beneath him. Ombra lifted his right sleeve, and the shadow—writhing as though resisting capture—flowed upward to where Ombra’s hand would be, though Hampton, watching al this closely, could not see a hand.

For an instant, Ombra held the shadow as a man would hold a snake. Then his left sleeve came up, a burlap sack dangling from it. The right arm seemed to wrestle with the unwil ing, shifting shadow, stuffing it into the open sack until it disappeared. Then the sack vanished into the robe.

Ombra spun around, one ful circle. As he did, a new shadow appeared on the ground in front of him—although there was no light behind him. The shadow slithered, serpentlike, across the ground. It attached itself to Cadigan’s feet just as the match flickered to extinction.

Darkness.

Hampton heard himself breathing heavily. Cadigan stood motionless in front of him.

“Mister Cadigan,” groaned Ombra, “you wil resume your duties.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Cadigan responded tonelessly. He moved back to the doorway.

“Shal I summon the housemaid?” Hampton asked.

The hood of the cape lifted toward the sky. “No,” said Ombra. “It wil soon be dawn. We must return to the ship.” Ombra addressed the statue-stil figure in the doorway. “Mister Cadigan.”

“Yes, m’lord,” answered the toneless voice.

“We wil visit you and Mister Jarvis again tomorrow night. You wil assist us with Mister Hodge and the women.”

“As you wish, m’lord,” said Cadigan.

“Yes,” said Ombra. “Exactly as I wish.”

Then he turned and, with Hampton hurrying behind, disappeared into the darkness.

P
ETER, WITH AN EXHAUSTED Tinker Bel clutching tightly to his shirt, flew low over the dark city until, judging that he was a safe distance from the man, he alit on the peak of a steeply pitched roof. There he crouched, shivering.

“Are you al right?” he said.

Yes,
answered Tink. But
tired.

“That was a good plan you had back there,” he said.

Yes, it was.

They went quiet for a while, recovering. In the east, the black of the night began to soften to a dark gray; dawn was coming as a slight glow through the coal smoke. Peter looked around and saw that he was atop a tal ish building, standing alone. To one side was a railroad track; to the other an open square with rows of stal s, apparently some kind of market.

Peter was grateful that the nightmarish night was final y ending, but he dared not let daylight catch him perched in so visible a spot. Sitting down, he slid to the edge of the roof, then dropped gently down to the square. No sooner had his bare feet touched the dirt than he began to hear sounds of the awakening day; a cough, voices, barking, cart wheels rumbling on cobblestones.

Peter tucked the protesting Tinker Bel under his shirt and walked down a row of stal s to a low stone wal separating the square from the street. It occurred to him that a market might be a good place to find food. He sat on the wal , his plan for the moment being to wait there until the sel ers arrived, in hopes he might be able to beg or borrow a bite to eat, and then see if anybody could tel him the way to Lord Aster’s house.

Soon enough the sel ers began to arrive in ones and twos, bringing their wares in by hand and on pushcarts. But it wasn’t food they were sel ing: it was…animals.

Peter and Tink had landed in a pet market, on a street cal ed Brick Lane. The carts were stacked with cages, inside which were al sorts of smal animals—dogs, cats, guinea pigs, turtles, snakes, lizards, chattering monkeys, and birds. Most of al , birds. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, big and smal , native and exotic, bright and drab, sometimes dozens to a cage, twittering, tril ing, tweeting, screeching.

To Peter, it was a meaningless cacophony. But not to Tink. Tink understood the birds perfectly, and what they were saying did not please her at al . Peter felt a vibration, and then Tink’s tiny, furious face poked from his col ar. Quickly he covered her with his hand.

“Get back in there,” he hissed.

They want out,
she said.

“Tink, we can’t—”

They’re hungry and scared. They want to fly.

“But we—”

Peter’s protest was too late. Tink had escaped through his fingers and was streaking toward a smal , wiry man pushing a cart with four large cages fil ed with canaries, twittering and flitting around like bright yel ow leaves whipped by a late-autumn wind.

“Come back!” cal ed Peter, his voice drawing the attention of the wiry man, who turned away from his cage to look at Peter just as Tink darted past him and landed next to one of his cages. Her motion caught the man’s eye, and he began to turn back toward the cart.

“No!” yel ed Peter, drawing the man’s narrow-set eyes back to him. He was sal ow-faced and thin-lipped, with strands of oil-brown hair plastered to his forehead. Peter saw that, behind the man, Tink had found the cage door and was fiddling with the latch.

“What is it?” said the man, annoyed.

Peter tried frantical y to think of something to say. Tink had the cage door open now and had stuck her head inside.

She was communicating something, somehow, to the birds, who had stopped twittering and were listening to her intently, heads cocked.

“I…ah…” Peter said to the man, “I say, it’s a nice day, isn’t it?”

The man looked at the sky, which was a dul , smoky gray, threatening to rain. He gave Peter a venomous look, spat on the ground, and turned back to his cart.

And saw Tink.

The man shot out his hand with the quickness and precision of one skil ed in capturing smal flying creatures. In an instant, Tink was caught. Peter saw Tink’s head poking from the top of the man’s right fist as he heard a terrified burst of bel s.

Help! Peter, help!

But Peter was already running toward the man. “Put her down! She’s mine!” he shouted. “Put her…
UH
.” As quickly as the man’s right hand had grabbed Tink, his left fist shot out, catching Peter on his cheek. Peter’s head snapped sideways, and he saw a flash of light. Then, without being aware of fal ing, he was lying on his back in the dirt, the right side of his face throbbing in pain.

Above him he saw the man holding Tink’s struggling form close to his face, examining her. Then, after glancing down at Peter, he thrust her into the canary cage and closed the door.

Peter, woozy, his face afire with pain, struggled unsteadily to his feet.

“Let her go!” he shouted at the man. “You can’t keep her! She’s not yours!”

“Now she is,” the man said softly. “She’s al mine.” He stared at her, intrigued. “But
what
is she? Ain’t never seen one like her.” Peter lunged toward the cage again, but the man was too quick, and far too strong. He stepped in front of Peter and, grabbing him by the shoulders, hurled him to the ground again. The man then covered the canary cage with a piece of canvas, tying it tightly in place with a piece of rope. From within, Peter could hear the muffled sound of Tink’s frantic appeals for help.

Yet again he got to his feet, standing just out of the man’s reach.

“Please,” he begged the man. “
Please.
Let her go.”

“If you know what’s good for you,” said the man, taking a menacing step toward Peter, “you’l get out of here.”

“No!” shouted Peter, though he took a step back. “Let her go!”

By now a half dozen other merchants had wandered over to find out what the noise was about. Peter turned to them.

“He’s got my…my bird,” he said, pointing to the wiry man. “He stole my bird!”

The man shook his head as he turned to the other sel ers. He addressed them calmly, the voice of reason. “Do you believe the cheek of this one?” he said. “He tries to steal one of me canaries, and then he cal s me the thief! Me, who’s worked this market for ten years and more!” The other sel ers, al of whom knew the man, shook their heads at the sorry state of modern youth.

“It’s not true!” said Peter desperately. “He’s lying!” Seeing that nobody in the crowd believed him, he ignored his throbbing cheek and hurled himself again toward the cage. The wiry man was waiting for him. He grinned with satisfaction as he drove his fist deep into Peter’s stomach.

Peter went down on al fours, unable to breathe, the pain in his bel y almost unendurable. The pet sel ers roared with laughter. After a few moments, Peter was able to draw in some air in smal , tortured gasps. He raised his head, saw the wiry man laughing with the others, saw the canvas-covered cage, heard Tink’s faint, frantic cal s from within.