The Child Thief (14 page)

It didn’t look like any place Peter wanted to go. He shook his head.

“I have fresh-baked gingerbread. All little boys like gingerbread. Don’t they?”

The three girls nodded. “Most certainly they do, Mother.”

The woman put her full, wet lips to his ear, whispered to him. The words were all gibberish to Peter, a strange song of curt, cutting sounds, but the smell of baking bread and honey suddenly came alive. Peter’s stomach growled and his mouth moistened. He licked his lips. He would really like some gingerbread—whatever that was.

“Come along,” she murmured and ducked into the hole.

Peter didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow the woman into that hole, didn’t think it would be a good idea to follow her anywhere, but his mind felt syrupy and slow, and when the three girls took his hands and pulled him along, he followed.

He stooped to avoid bumping the roots and glowing mushrooms as he stumbled drunkenly down the long burrow. The tunnel opened up into a small cavern of black rock and twisting roots. Amber stones burned beneath a stack of branches in a wide earthen fireplace, bathing the cavern in their soft caramel glow.

Peter’s foot caught on a hide and he fell sprawling atop a pile of plush furs.

Bones, feathers, beads, dried flowers, and a variety of animal skulls were strung together and dangled from the ceiling on long cords. Fat black toads, great oily beetles, and colorful birds hung upside down from hooks, staring at him with dead, glassy eyes. Scrolls and clay pots lay scattered about on low-lying tables.

Peter caught movement among the crags and crevasses of the cavern, thought he saw shapes crawling within the shadows. Then he spied the pile of little cakes stacked in a clay bowl and could think of little else.

She crawled across the furs, carrying the bowl, sidling up next to him. She slid a bare leg over him and put a cake to his lips. Peter took a bite.

It was sweet and warm, but oddly gooey in the middle. He ate it anyway, then another, wanted more, but was having trouble chewing, having trouble keeping his head up. The room was growing fuzzy, wobbling somehow, like ripples across a pond. One moment he saw dozens of shiny candles flickering down at him, then he’d blink and in their stead would be eyes, hundreds of slanted yellow eyes.

She straddled him, leaning forward, letting her hair drape across his face. She placed a warm hand on his stomach, running her fingers up his chest, pushing the wolf pelt aside. She bent over and sniffed his hair, her breasts sliding along his bare chest as she sniffed his face, down his neck, then pressed her cheek against his chest. He felt the hot wetness of her mouth on his nipple.

Peter felt his loins stir. He saw the three sisters behind the woman, watching, their eyes wide, feverous, drool running shamelessly down their chins.

“My, he is a firm one,” whispered the first.

“Rigid as a tent post,” chimed in the second.

“We will feed a long time on this one,” added the third and all three giggled.

No
, Peter tried to shout, but managed only a weak moan. He felt a sharp sting then a burning at his nipple.

“Blood for the children. Blood for all,” the sisters said as one.

Peter caught movement above him—eyes, the yellow slanted eyes slithering out from the shadows. Hundreds of them, twisted, deformed creatures, some no bigger than newts, others the size of raccoons. Blotchy gray skin rolled along their bony, cadaverous bodies as they slithered and shimmied toward him, all grinning with long, needle-thin teeth.

He caught sight of the bowl of gingerbread cakes, only they weren’t cakes at all, but fat, grubby larvae with little black heads. Again, Peter tried to shout.

The woman convulsed, coughed violently, and sat up. Blood was smeared all around her lips and mouth.

“Mother, what is it?” the sisters asked as one.

She coughed again, a retching cough. She clutched her throat, gagged, and spat up, dousing Peter with a mouthful of bile and blood.

She howled, the horrible sound filling the small chamber.

The creatures froze in place; their eyes terrified.

She stared at Peter while a long string of red drool slid from her lips. “It can’t be?” She shook her head. “How?”

She coughed again, spattered Peter’s face with more blood.

“Mother, what is it?” the sisters pleaded. “Tell us!”

The woman pushed the wolf cap back from Peter’s head. She stared at his ears. “Not a boy,” she said, her eyes wide with confusion and fear before they turned hard. “Not a child of the Sidhe either. An
abomination
,” she hissed.

Peter felt himself waking up fast, the room coming into sharp focus.

Her hand shot out like a viper, clutching his neck between her rigid fingers, her sharp nails biting into his flesh. “Where did you come from? Did Modron send you? Is this one of her games?”

Peter slid his hand down to his knife, but found the sheath empty.

“Is this her vexings?” she cried, her emerald eyes swimming with malice. “Answer me lest I bite off your boyhood and feed you to the leeches!”

Peter’s hand flailed about, hit the clay bowl. He snatched a hold of it and struck her, breaking the bowl on the side of her head, knocking her over. Peter kicked away and almost made it to his feet when her fingers bit into his ankle, tripping him, sending him barreling into the hearth.

She came after him, claws out, lips peeled back, exposing rows of long, green, blood-stained teeth. Her eyes shriveled to tiny pinpricks of glowing green set deep within dark sockets. She snatched a hold of his arm, her sharp claws puncturing deep into his muscle tissue. She raked her other hand across his ribs, tearing into his flesh.

Peter let out a shrill cry and snatched a shard of timber from the fire, cried out again from the heat of it, but held tight as he rammed the burning end into her eye.

She shrieked, a sound so loud that he had to clap his hands over his ears. She flew away from him, crashing across the room, the burning shard stuck deep in her socket, sizzling flames leaping up between her fingers as she clutched at it.

Peter didn’t wait around to see what happened next; he dove into the tunnel, scrambling up the shaft as fast as a mole rat.

“Get him!” she wailed. “Get him!
GET HIM!
” she bellowed, and her voice shot up the tunnel, sending leaves, dirt, and bugs rocketing past him in a hot blast.

Every slithering, crawling, and flying thing, the very cavern itself seemed to howl then. And they came for him, all of them, the roots too, grabbing at his arms and legs. The tunnel shrank around him, like the convulsing throat of some giant monstrosity. Things leaped off the walls onto him: bugs, spiders. He felt their stings and bites. He reached the surface and the bat-winged creatures came for him like a swarm of hornets, stinging him with their tails, sending him howling away into the thickets. Peter ran then, ran faster than he’d ever run. He had no idea where he was going, intent only on getting as far away as he could from that woman, that creature, and all the biting, stinging things.

He heard howls and dared a glance back. The three girls were coming for him, running on all fours, great, loping strides, their feet seemed not to even touch the ground, long, pointed tongues lolling out from between sharp canine teeth as they rapidly closed the distance.

Peter broke out of the thicket onto a small path and dashed up the trail. He climbed steadily upward, the bog falling behind as the ground became firm underfoot.

A figure stepped in front of him. A man? Peter crashed headlong into him, both of them tumbling into a small grassy clearing. Peter hopped up, started to flee, and saw more men, five, no, six of them. They pointed long, thin swords at his chest. Peter glanced around, frantically searching for an avenue of escape.

“Whoa. Hold,” said the first man, the one Peter had knocked over. “What nonsense is going on here?”

On second look, Peter realized that these were not men, not of the sorts he’d known, anyway. In fact, they were elves, but Peter knew nothing about elves at the time. These elves were much shorter than men, boyish in size, little over a head taller than himself. Long in limb, thin of face, almost feminine with small, golden eyes, mere slits, slanted and set high and wide above sharp cheekbones. They had pointed ears and skin as white as chalk. Their hair hung down their backs in long braids. They wore tight-fitting garments that looked to be made of woven leaves and bark.

“Give him back,” came a little girl’s voice. The three sisters were standing at the edge of the clearing not ten yards away.

The elves shifted the points of their swords to the girls.

“We brought him through,” the girls spoke. “He’s ours.”

“I think not,” said the elf, the one Peter had run into. Peter could see he looked older than the others. His hair was pure white, and there were strong lines about his eyes. The elf got to his feet, drew his sword, and stepped in front of Peter.

The sisters hissed, all three of them raking the air with their claws, as though they couldn’t wait to rend Peter’s flesh.

“He belongs to me,” came a deep, guttural voice from behind the girls.

The elves exchanged looks.

The woman strolled into the clearing, one hand clasped over her eye. “He owes me something.” She dropped her hand, exposing the raw, bloody wound of her eyeless socket.

Several of the elves gasped, but held their ground.

“You’re trespassing, all of you. Give me one of the boy’s eyes and I will allow you to leave unharmed.”

“Nonsense,” countered a voice from behind Peter.

Another woman entered the clearing. She was a bit taller than the swamp woman, thin-boned and slender through the body, almost frail, her smooth skin so white as to be blue. Her long white hair was tied back and crowned with a ring of holly leaves. She was draped in shimmering white and gold and wore a bronze star attached around her neck by a simple gold chain.

“This is Myrkvior forest,” she said. “You’ve no dominion here. Go back to your hole and rut with your filthy beasts.”

The swamp woman smirked. “What do you know of rutting? You with your cold dead cunt.”

The white-haired woman’s eyes flashed, brilliant cerulean.

The swamp woman laughed. “A barren fertility goddess. No wonder you can no longer hear Father’s voice.”

A low growl rumbled from the white-haired woman’s throat, a sound that made the hair stand up on Peter’s arms. She stepped forward, her lips peeled back exposing long canine fangs, appearing more animal than human at that moment.

“Oh, stop your pissing, Modron,” the swamp woman said. “If you wish this creature, take him.” The swamp woman’s face changed then. Peter wasn’t sure if he saw sympathy or pity—maybe both. “How many?” she asked. “How many will it take to fill that hole in your heart? You can have all the children in our world and in theirs, but it will never bring your little boy back to you.”

Pain, deep pain, fell across the white-haired lady’s face.

The swamp woman started away, then stopped. She looked at Peter. “Be careful, little boy. I only want your eye. But she—she’ll take your
soul
.” The swamp woman spun away and seemed to evaporate into the woods.

The three sisters backed slowly away, not taking their eyes off Peter. Before the last sister left, she pointed at Peter, then at her eye, and jabbed at the air with a hook claw.

THE CERULEAN-EYED WOMAN stared at Peter. They all did. Peter glanced about, looking for an escape.

“Don’t be frightened, boy,” said the older elf as he dusted off his leggings. “Anyone that stole the witch’s very eye has nothing to fear from the likes of us.” He gave Peter a wry smile of admiration.

The other elves nodded in agreement and put away their swords.

The old elf extended his hand. “Sergeant Drael of the Lady’s First Guard, at your service.” His face broke into a broad grin.

Peter liked the elf’s smile. He shook his hand and smiled back. “I’m Peter.”

“This,” the elf extended a hand toward the woman, “is the Lady Modron, daughter of Avallach. The Lady of the Lake and the Queen of all Avalon.”

A queen? Peter wasn’t sure what a queen was, but judging by the way the elves treated her, it must be something important. He took a closer look. She appeared a bit frail to him, with her fine bones and long, thin neck, yet he sensed strength from her. Maybe it was the confidence in her stride, the way she glided through the forest, the way she looked at all things as though they belonged to her. She was elegant and graceful, but Peter thought her eyes a bit too far apart, her face too long, making her appear animalish, spooky even.

“So, Peter,” Drael said. “How did a boy end up in the clutches of Ginny Greenteeth?”

“Who?” Peter asked.

“The witch.”

“He’s not a boy,” the Lady said, appraising Peter. “See his ears. He has faerie in him.”

“What is he then?” Drael asked.

The Lady gave Peter another long look. “He’s a mystery. A most intriguing mystery.” She looked at Peter’s chest. “He’s been marked.”

Peter looked down at himself. He was covered in mud and blood. The cuts in his side were bleeding steadily, the bug stings were red and swelling, and the bite around his nipple was turning black. He’d been so intent on escape he’d not even noticed, but now the wounds began to hurt, the one on his chest burning. His hand did, too. He held out his palm; it was an angry red and dotted with white blisters.

The Lady bent down and lightly touched the edge of the bite wound. Peter flinched and sucked in a breath.

“Come,” she said. “We need to take care of that or the poison will spread.” She held out her hand.

Peter hesitated.

“It’s okay,” she said.

Peter took her hand and she led him up the trail. The elves fell in, three in front and three behind. Peter looked up at her as they walked. She smiled at him. Peter decided he liked holding hands with a queen, liked it very much.

The trail led into a lush glade; at its center sat a circular pond surrounded by large, flat, white boulders. A gentle stream cascaded over the stones, sending a soft ripple across the pond’s surface. The water was crystal-clear.