Peter and the Shadow Thieves (25 page)

“Run!” repeated James. “The hideout!”

This time nobody questioned him, because now they could al feel it, and hear it: a deep rumbling sound quickly getting louder and closer. The boys dropped what they were doing and took off running away from the sound, down the jungle path and toward their hideout.

The thunder gained on them; they could not outrun it. James and Thomas, the quickest of the boys, reached the hideout first. James pul ed the plant out of the way of the door.

Thomas dove down the hole into the ground, face-first, with James right behind.

But as Prentiss and Tubby Ted reached the secret cave, the snorting, stampeding beasts were right on their heels, and the two boys dared not slow down. They passed the cave’s secret entrance, running as fast as they could, Prentiss in the lead. They fol owed the jungle trail around the corner…

…and ran smack into a tangle of rope.

The rope stopped Prentiss, and Tubby Ted slammed into him from behind, the two of them fal ing over onto the trail. Prentiss looked back to see the oncoming boars, now only yards away, and he knew he was about to be trampled and kil ed.

But just then he felt the ropes tightening. Then he and Tubby Ted skidded sideways across the trail’s hard-packed dirt, just as the boars reached them.

The frantic boars roared past in a blur of hairy hides and a mighty pounding of hooves. The sound faded and, in a few moments, was gone.

Prentiss, who had shut his eyes in terror, opened them, amazed to find himself ensnared in a net, along with Tubby Ted. They were saved! How lucky they were to have been caught in this net, no doubt intended for the boars!

But his mood changed quickly as he found himself face-to-face with a pockmarked pirate. The man opened his toothless mouth and laughed. His breath stung Prentiss’ eyes.

Hook observed al this from his mountain perch: he saw the boys take off running; he saw the boars rip past the hut—one of the animals running right through the hut, breaking a hole through the back wal of sticks, and dragging a pair of pants on his head.

Hook lost sight of the boys briefly, but then saw two of them run right into his net. They were swiftly hauled to the side of the trail as the boars ran past.

Chambers and the others, fol owing the boars, caught up to the group with the boys. Chambers flashed his belt buckle at Hook, signaling success.

Hook flashed back with the flat of his sword: first one, then another, and final y a third. This three-flash signal warned that a patrol of Mol usks had left the compound and was quickly approaching. The pirates had to hurry.

And hurry they did.

The last thing Hook saw, before the jungle swal owed them entirely, was his sailors carrying a netted bundle over their heads at a steady trot.

And in that net were two young boys. Hook would rather have had four, but two would do for his purposes.

Oh, yes, he had plans for those two.

T
HE BIRD SELLER’S NAME, as fate would have it, was Isaac Wren. Others found his surname amusing, but Wren himself did not. He rarely found amusement in anything: he was a serious man, a man who never laughed, and who smiled—a thin smile, at that—only when he got the best of an opponent in a business transaction. This was not uncommon, for Wren was a clever dealer, a shrewd bargainer who could tel at a glance how much a bird was worth, and what he could get for it.

Of course, he had never seen anything like Tinker Bel . But in the few moments he’d held her in his hand—had seen the astonishing beauty of her tiny, delicate, terrified face, and had heard the celestial sounds she made—he knew this was a creature that would come along only once in a lifetime, if that.

Wren meant to make the best of this opportunity.

Whatever this wondrous creature was, he was determined to part with it as a rich man. And he meant to sel it quickly, because he was certain that such a valuable thing must belong to somebody. The boy must have stolen it. Its rightful owner would be looking for it, Wren was certain. He intended to be rid of the creature before that owner appeared.

And so, from the moment the bobby had dragged off the annoying boy, Wren had loaded his birdcages—including the precious one wrapped in canvas—back onto his cart, and left Brick Lane. He went directly to the home of Lord Welton Pondle, a very wealthy man with whom he had dealt in the past. Pondle was one of London’s most avid col ectors of rare animals; he was wel known among animal dealers for his wil ingness to pay handsome sums for hard-to-get specimens.

Pondle also—and this was why Wren went to him first—did not mind buying animals of questionable ownership. If a rare and valuable animal had been reported stolen from one col ector and a remarkably similar animal happened to be offered to Lord Pondle a short while later, he would pay the asking price, no questions asked.

And so, in just over an hour after the disturbance at the pet market, Isaac Wren sat in Pondle’s massive den, the canvas-covered canary cage on the floor in front of him. One wal of the den was a large stone fireplace with a coal fire burning in the grate, warding off the London chil . Two of the other wal s of the room were lined with the heads, and sometimes the entire bodies, of rare, stuffed animals, many of which Pondle had kil ed himself. The fourth wal was almost completely covered with cases containing Pondle’s very large col ection of butterflies; hanging in the center was the net he had used to capture them.

After waiting for fifteen minutes, Wren heard a muttering in the hal way and quickly rose to his feet. He bowed deeply as Pondle waddled through the doorway. Pondle was a heavy man, with most of his weight concentrated toward his center, forming a vast waistline. He was tapered at both ends, with tiny feet and a smal , pointed head. He had a capuchin monkey named Edgar sitting on his shoulder.

Edgar wore a col ar connected by a thin silver chain to a bracelet on Pondle’s left wrist. Neither Pondle nor Edgar looked happy to see Wren.

“What is it?” Pondle said, ignoring Wren’s bow. “You realize you’re keeping me from a meeting of the Newt and Salamander Fanciers Group?”

“I’m sorry, Your Lordship,” said Wren, “but I believe when you see what I’ve brought you”—he pointed to the covered cage—“you’l agree that it was wel worth your time. This here is something you won’t see in no other col ection in London. Not in al of England neither, for that matter.”

“Real y?” said Pondle, his annoyance grudgingly giving way to curiosity. “What is it?”

“The best thing,” said Wren, “would be for Your Lordship to see for yourself.” He lifted the cage and placed it on a table. Watched closely by Pondle and Edgar, he began to untie the ropes holding the canvas, first one, then the other. Then, with a dramatic flourish, Wren pul ed the canvas away.

There was a flutter of yel ow flashes inside the cage as the twittering birds darted this way and that.

Pondle glared at Wren.

“Canaries?” he said, his voice rising. “You caused me to miss the Newt and Salamander Fanciers Group for
canaries
?”

“No, m’lord!” said Wren, pointing to the cage. “Look there, at the bottom.”

With another glare at Wren, Pondle brought his face, and Edgar’s, close to the cage. It was Edgar who reacted first, emitting a screech of surprise. This was quickly fol owed by Pondle’s sharp intake of breath as he saw the gossamer wings, the tiny, exquisite face, the impossibly expressive eyes, now wide with fear.

Pondle looked at Wren, then back at Tinker Bel , then back at Wren.

“But what…” he said, “what
is
it?”

“It’s a fairy, sir,” said Wren. He repeated it softly, for he had trouble believing it himself: “A fairy.”

“Where did you get her?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, Your Lordship,” said Wren.

Pondle gave Wren a significant look. “I see,” he said, returning his gaze to Tink. A pause, then: “How much?” Wren had been anticipating this moment, knowing that the price he could extract, and the quality of his future life, depended on how badly Pondle wanted the creature. Wren saw by Pondle’s expression that he wanted it very badly indeed.

Wren took a breath, exhaled, and came out with it: “Five thousand pounds.”

Pondle spun to face Wren, his face reddening. “But that’s
outrageous!
” he sputtered. Edgar bared his teeth.

Wren nodded understandingly. “I agree it’s a substantial sum, sir, but—”

“It’s a fortune!” bel owed Pondle.

“As I say,” Wren said calmly, “I certainly understand if Your Lordship don’t wish to pay it. But it’s not every day a man gets a chance to own such a creature as this, is it?” Pondle stared at Tink, saying nothing.

Wren went on: “And as I say, there wouldn’t be no other col ector in al of England could claim to have one of these, now could there?” Pondle kept staring at Tink.

“I brought it to Your Lordship first,” continued Wren, “because I know how much Your Lordship appreciates the truly rare item. But if the price is too high, I certainly understand.” Wren picked up the canvas and made as if to cover the cage. “I’l just take it to Lord Shaftsbury, and I’m sure he—”

“Shaftsbury!” said Pondle. Edgar emitted a screech. Pondle
detested
Shaftsbury, who had once outbid Pondle on an albino ocelot, and never failed to remind him of this at social gatherings.

Pondle threw his arm out, blocking Wren’s efforts to cover the cage.

“I want to hold it,” he said.

Wren barely suppressed a smile. Pondle had taken the bait; the hook would soon be set.

“Certainly, m’lord,” he said. He opened the cage door and careful y reached inside. The canaries darted this way and that, avoiding his hand. Tink went to the opposite side of the cage, pressing her back against the wire. Wren’s hand came across the cage toward her. Just as it reached her, she darted to her left, but Wren, the experienced bird-snatcher, had seen it coming, and easily grabbed her.

Tink opened her mouth and sunk her smal but sharp teeth into Wren’s thumb.

“Aaah!” he said, wincing, but not letting go.

“What is it?” said Pondle, peering into the cage, Edgar peering with him.

“It’s nothing,” said Wren, repositioning his hand so his thumb was out of range of Tink’s mouth, but keeping a tight grip on her as he pul ed her from the cage and pushed the door shut. “This one’s a little feisty. You want to watch out for its mouth.”

Eagerly, Pondle reached his sweaty hands forward, and Wren careful y pressed Tinker Bel into them. She squirmed to get free, but Pondle held her firmly, raising her in front of his face to get a good look at her; his eyes, and Edgar’s, widening in amazement.

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

“Yes, m’lord,” said Wren, sucking on his bleeding thumb, wondering if he should have asked for more money.

“I must have it,” said Pondle.

“If you please, m’lord,” said Wren, getting to the heart of it, “gold would be best.”

Pondle looked at him. “Al right,” he said. “Gold you shal have.” He looked back at Tink. “I have just the cage for her.” At the word “cage,” Tink emitted a furious burst of bel s, startling Edgar, but delighting Pondle.

“Did you hear that?” he said. “What a marvelous sound it makes!”

“Yes, m’lord,” said Wren. “About the gold, if you—”

“Yes, yes, you shal have your gold,” said Pondle. “As soon as I have secured this creature in the—” He was interrupted by more bel s from Tink, an extended sequence of melodious tones. He was transfixed by the sound, as were both Wren and Edgar. But the monkey understood something that neither man did.

Tink was talking to the canaries.

They were not the brightest birds, unfortunately; Tink would have much preferred to be working with macaws or cockatoos, who would have grasped the situation instantly. But she had to work with the resources at hand. She had noticed that Wren, focused on capturing her and handing her to Pondle, had failed to latch the birdcage door.

Fly out!
she cal ed to the caged birds.
Fly out!

The canaries, excited but confused, fluttered wildly about the cage, al speaking at once:
What? What? What? What? What
?