Winterwood (8 page)

After a few moments, the shuddering of the floor evolved into actual hoofbeats and Anders's vision of a stampede grew stronger. Soon the sounds of voices calling out reached them through the dense wood. Anders imagined elves and ogres running to and fro outside and inside the castle, preparing the way for their malevolent tyrant's return.

The rapid drumming of hooves shook the very air around them, and Anders's heart sped up in response, taking on the same cadence. In his head, the herd of rampaging elephants gave way to the pictures of the Hunt he'd seen in books as a child, the same pictures that had haunted him in his dreams during the cold winter nights of Yule. The King, his moon-white hair flying madly behind him, his pale hands gripping the reins of a giant stag, grinning madly as he led his men through the woods. The great hounds baying as they raced beside the horned mounts, tongues lolling and eyes red as fire, ready to pounce and rend at their master's command. Trumpets raised to announce the coming of Death incarnate, a warning to all, in the form of thunder and wind, a living storm ready to capture any foolish enough to venture outside. A vision from a frozen hell, galloping from town to town until they gathered their quota of bodies for the night.

The discordant song grew to an earsplitting crescendo and then came to an abrupt stop, leaving Anders with a ringing in his ears and an unpleasant tingling in his body, as if the wavelengths of the notes had played the strings of his muscles and nerves like an instrument of flesh, vibrating his cells in unnatural and unhealthy ways.

“Now what?” Anna asked. Her voice caught Anders by surprise and his heart stuttered for a few beats.

“Just a few minutes more,” Ulaf said. “Time for the King to return to his throne and his men to bring their captives to the larder, where the witch will be waiting to look them over. We shall need to be quick because she will not be occupied for long. Each year the Hunt returns with fewer victims, as belief dwindles.”

“Belief dwindles?”

“Aye.” The elf's tone made it seem the answer to Anders's question should be obvious. “The Hunt is guided to places where belief still runs strongest.”

“No. That makes no sense. It's not believing that's the danger. Belief keeps you safe. Following the old ways means staying inside during Yule nights, keeping presents under the tree. It's those who don't know the truth who'll be caught outside by the Hunt.”

“Those things be true, but 'tis those same convictions that draw the Hunt. The stags and hounds follow the scent of belief, which draws them as a magnet draws iron. Adults who no longer put faith in the tales are hidden from the Hunt. They may hear thunder in the night or see a ghostly shape in the snow, but to the Hunt they are but air, passed through as a man might walk through smoke or fog.”

“Wait. Do you mean that if my father hadn't taught us the old tales, my boys might not have been taken?”

Anna's words stabbed at Anders, each one an acid-dipped blade cutting through flesh and bone to pierce his heart.

No. It can't be. The stories are meant to protect, to—

“'Tis a sad truth. No man is safer than the fool who knows nothing.”

“God damn you!” Anna dove at Anders and her hands slapped at him, her nails raking across his hands as he raised them to defend himself. “This is all your fault, not mine! If you'd just kept your mouth shut, lied to us, we wouldn't be here and my boys would be safe.”

“Hush! Hush!”

“Your fault, goddammit. I hate you.”

“Anna, stop.” Her weight fell away in response to Paul's voice, and Anders heard her grappling with her husband as he pulled her away. Her curses changed into sobs and then full-out weeping.

“Quiet, please, or only things we will find are the King's teeth.”

Ulaf continued to urge silence, interspersing his pleas with
shush
ing noises, until Anna's crying finally dwindled down to wet snuffles.

Leaving Anders alone with his guilt, a guilt that rose up from his stomach like bitter vomit, to fill him.

All my fault. I thought I was doing the right thing. Since Anna was a child, all I wanted to do was protect her. Instead, I led the danger right to my family.

All because I believed.

But how could he not, when he'd seen the truth with his own eyes, bore the scars of it every day? How could he have known the hazards of passing on the legends?

He couldn't. The logical part of his mind understood that. But logic counted for nothing, not when weighed against the knowledge that his actions had quite possibly led Death to his family's doorstep.

Guilt-driven tears ran down his cheeks and froze, turning the creases in his skin into tiny, ice-filled ravines. He let them stay, each one a burning reminder that all actions have consequences.

Ulaf rose, the rustle of his clothing unnaturally loud in the pitch black of the room.

“It is time.”

“Why bother?” The dull, lifeless tone of Anna's voice made Anders want to wrap his arms around her and make everything all right. But he couldn't. Nothing was all right, thanks to him. And it never would be, even if they found the children. She'd never forgive him.

“They might yet live,” Ulaf said. “Many pies the witch must bake, many cauldrons of stew she must make. You saw the children the Yule Lads brought. But that is not the only dungeon, so who knows how many others wait their turn.”

“You said only those who believe can be taken,” came Paul's voice in the darkness. “There can't be many people in our world who still believe in all this.”

“Oh, many there are. Especially the children.”

“This kind of hell isn't what today's children believe in,” Paul said. “For them, it's Christmas and Santa and flying reindeer.”

“Different words for the same thing. Believing is believing, no matter the name.”

“So it wouldn't matter if our kids believed in Santa or your Holly King, the danger would still be the same?”

The meaning behind Paul's words was blatant, and Anders appreciated his son-in-law for it. A not-so-subtle attempt to let Anna know it wasn't her father's fault. He felt a new respect for Paul, but he also understood something Paul didn't. Anna had inherited the Bach stubborn streak, and she wouldn't let go of her anger easily.

“Children draw the cat and the Lads the way scraps draw crows. Any who venture outside during the nights of the Yule are fair game for them. Now come. Enough talk, if you want to find your boys. The King and his men will be in the throne room, and the witch will be busy looking over the bodies brought to her larder. We may be able to enter the kitchen unseen.”

“May?” The tingling in Anders's body settled unpleasantly in his stomach. “You're not sure?”

The elf's voice took on an ominous tone in the dark. “Warned you I have of the dangers. 'Tis likely as not we all end up in the King's stew tonight.”

“There's a comforting thought,” Paul muttered.

Something brushed against Anders's arm and he jerked away, belatedly realizing it was only Ulaf's leg. Anders pushed himself up, hating the way his knees and back popped, the sounds of his age too loud in the quiet room.

Just hold out a little longer,
he told his bones.
Once we're safe at home you can stay in bed for a week.

Ulaf's boots pattered across the floor and the
click
of a latch being turned warned Anders to avert his eyes just in time to avoid being blinded by a narrow beam of light. He stood next to Anna and Paul and watched while Ulaf peered into the hall.

After a pause that seemed to stretch on forever, Ulaf waved a hand.

“Come. The stairwell is just around the bend.”

The door opened wider, illuminating the entire storeroom. As he waited for Anna and Paul to exit the room, Anders glanced back and got his first real look at the frigid space where they'd been hiding.

And gasped.

“What is it?” Anna turned towards him.

“Nothing.” Anders stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and put his hands on her shoulders to turn her around. “Come. Let's finish this.”

The moment he stepped into the hall he pulled the door closed behind him. Not that it mattered. He already knew that what he'd seen inside would stay with him forever, visit him in his dreams until the day he died.

Jars. Row after row of them on wooden shelves that went from top to bottom along the back wall.

All filled with human organs.

Hearts, eyes, livers, kidneys. Things he couldn't identify.

And on the floor, red sacks stacked atop one another, their bulges suspiciously shaped like human forms.

Never again would he be able to look at a picture of Santa with his magical bag of presents without feeling the urge to vomit.

Following the others down the hall, Anders tried to force the abhorrent image from his mind, but it refused to leave, lingering on like the afterimpression from staring at a bright light. Only when they rounded a sharp curve in the hall and he saw the steep staircase ahead of them did his attention shift.

In his already exhausted state, the stairs represented a monumental task, one he wasn't sure his legs—or heart—were up to.

Anders took his nitro pills from his pocket and slipped one under his tongue. He'd just tucked the plastic container away when Paul turned toward him.

“Do you need help with the stairs?”

He shook his head and gave the younger man the best smile he could, considering the way the bitter aftertaste of the pill made his lips want to pucker. “Keep moving. I'm fine.”

I hope. Please, Gott, help me to the top.

Twenty steps up, the pain in his legs devolved into sharp, fiery needles that stabbed at his calves, and his heart felt like a jazz drummer had hijacked it. He'd begun to think he might have to tell the others to go on without him when the medicine finally kicked in and the pressure in his chest disappeared. With the burden gone, his lungs expanded in normal fashion, sending welcome oxygen to his muscles. His heart slowed to a less alarming rate and the burning in his legs subsided to a dull ache.

Thank you.

He completed the rest of the stairs with no further problems and caught up to the others at another door. A new odor reached him, one that sent his stomach rumbling. The aromas of fresh-baked meats, not unlike the holiday roasts he'd grown up with. Marinated and braised, skin crackling and fats rendered down to oils that dripped into pans, waiting to be made into gravy.

Then he remembered the likely source of the smell and his stomach did a nauseated flip.

“We are close.” The elf spoke so softly Anders had trouble hearing him over the sound of his own breathing. “Down the hall lies the witch's kitchen.” He opened the door a crack, and the grisly aroma intensified. Anna coughed and covered her nose with her shirt.

“'Tis empty.” Ulaf motioned for them to follow him into the hall.

They hurried along, the tang of roasted flesh stronger than ever, enticing yet loathsome at the same time. Breathing became an odious chore that fouled Anders's lungs and left an unpleasant sensation in his mouth, as if even his tongue understood the wrongness of it.

The kitchen lay at the end of the hall, waves of heat emanating from its open doors. Relieved to find no one guarding the entrance, they stepped into a gigantic room the size of a banquet hall. An enormous oven took up half a wall. A thick bed of coals glowed red and orange beneath it, and a second pile smoldered under two bathtub-sized kettles hanging inside a stone hearth as long Anders's entire kitchen. Rough-hewn wooden tables ran the length of the room, while along the back wall cages of various sizes had been stacked atop each other. Numerous torches provided more than enough light for Anders to see chickens, ducks and even a few pigs in some of the cages.

But it was the objects on the nearest table that drew his attention.

Six gigantic pies, each one large enough to feed twenty people, sat in a row, cooling in their iron pans. The thick, greasy aroma of roasted meat filled the room, a morbid reminder of the gruesome fillings hiding beneath the golden-brown pastry tops.

“No! We're too late!” Anna tried to run toward the macabre buffet but Paul held her back.

A sudden squawking and squealing from the back of the room drew everyone's attention, just in time to see two figures standing up in one of the cages.

“Mom, Dad! Help!”

“They're alive!” Anders ran, his joy and relief lending new strength to his tired legs. He reached the cage only three steps behind Anna and Paul, who cursed when they found the door locked.

“Let me.” Ulaf produced a metal pin. He poked and prodded at the lock while Anders kept one eye on the kitchen's entrance and the other on Anna and Paul, who'd reached between the bars to hug their children. The boys were in sorry shape, their faces bruised and their clothing torn, but they had no serious injuries that Anders could see.

“Faster.”

“I'm trying,” the elf snapped. “This lock is… Got it!”

Anders reached past Ulaf and pulled the door open. “Let's go. Move.”

The boys hurried out and into the waiting arms of their parents. A little bit of the pressure in Anders's chest eased up. He'd been so afraid they'd be too late.

Now comes the hard part. Getting them back—

“Well, what have we here? I thought I smelled fresh meat.”

Anders turned, fresh terror coursing through him. He already knew what he'd see, remembered that dry, cracked voice all too well.

Gryla.

The witch stood by the door, her wrinkled face twisted in a grin that exposed her irregular jumble of teeth.

“You should have left when you had the chance.” Gryla aimed her staff at them. “Now it's the kettle for you.”

“Mind the rod,” Ulaf called out. “It can stop your heart.”