The Artifact Hunters

by Janet Fox

  “It be hainted,” the man said, his voice a rumble.

  Isaac’s scalp prickled. “Um, hainted?” Some of these Scottish words were a mystery, but this one he knew. Haunted.

  The man leaned close to the bars of his window. “A place of ancient dark secrets, that’s what. And worse now than ever. Strange doings. Peculiar lights in the night. Doing work o’ the de’il, says I. Says everyone. No one goes up there now. Except the strange ones.” And he peered hard at Isaac. “You be strange?”

  “I . . . do not think so.” Isaac swallowed hard. Then he straightened. “Where?” he asked.

  “Up that way. First road to the right. Then along the fence to the right and through the woods since the gate be locked.” The man pulled away, muttering, shaking his head.

  Isaac made for the door.

  “Laddie.”

  Isaac turned.

  “Next train for Edinburgh in two hours. And each day but Sunday. Ye keep that in mind.” He paused. “And don’t be caught in the forest after dark, aye? Nobody goes through that forest after dark, especially now. Nobody goes.” He paused, then muttered, “’Less they be strange.”

  Isaac clenched his fists and nodded. The overhead bell jingled as he closed the door behind.

  It was cold with a soft drizzle. Along the road that led to the castle, the trees hung low, dripping and casting gloom. Isaac took every step with increasing care.

  The gate, as the stationmaster said, was locked. Black iron with spiky points and an empty circle at the top like a round eye, the gate rose into the overhanging branches. Isaac put his hand against the gate and instantly pulled away. It felt as if it was electrified.

  Probably it was the cold metal against his skin.

  And then a sound, a low growl from behind him and he turned fast, and . . . nothing. His heart began to pound. He turned back to the fence and caught a glimpse of movement in the underbrush.

  But, nothing. A trick of the mist.

  He stood, waiting for his heart to slow to normal. The path along the fence, which he had to follow if he was to go on, led through a thicket.

  Isaac took a deep breath.

  Only a little farther, he reasoned. Then he’d be able to rest. If his father was right, he could open that casket in the safety of this Rookskill place. He’d find answers. Maybe he’d see his parents again. Maybe he’d understand at last.

  But maybe he’d touch that orb again and fall into another awful vision.

  Isaac squared his shoulders and pressed on despite the thump, thump of his heart.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Wraith

  A wraith lives in the forest that surrounds Rookskill Castle.

  Wards, magic invisible barriers, have been made round the castle itself to protect it, wards made by someone living inside the castle, but the forest wraith has crept as close as it can. It hides in a rough shelter barely fit for a badger. It radiates loss and menace and ancient witchery, powerful magic that it has cultivated for centuries. The wraith has journeyed through time and space—over and over again—to be close to Rookskill.

  Thanks to the wraith’s magic, the forest beyond the wards has grown dismal of late and good for hiding. Thorns have sprouted in the thickets. Twining brambles have grown up tree trunks. Wolves have not been seen in this part of the world for a hundred years or more, but now they howl in the glens. The wraith, a creature that was once at least part human, has drawn this malevolence.

  The wraith has been reduced to its shadowy form by desire. It wants a small silvery object that rests in the pocket of a girl inside the castle.

  Strange little creatures surround the wraith. They are tiny mechanicals made of bits and pieces of living beings and parts of metal and leather and wood. They skitter and scurry and squeal, eyes blink-blinking in terror. They try to hide but cannot evade their master when it reaches for them, grasping, clawing, ripping.

  As it will grasp, claw, and rip any who lie in the way of what it wants, the shiny object that is the target to its poisonous arrow. Oh, such desire! Such longing! Oh, for those wards to fall!

  For this small silvery object contains a soul that, to the wraith, is most dear.

  CHAPTER 13

  Isaac

  1942

  About half a mile from the main gate, Isaac found, as the stationmaster had said, a smaller unlocked gate in the fence. He went through, entering the towering thick forest that lay beyond.

  It was a dank and gloomy place. It smelled of age and mushrooms. The steady drip-drip of water from leaves that were saturated in mist was the only sound. Every step of Isaac’s tired feet went deep into squishy moss.

  The trees formed a spiderweb of branches. Even though it was winter, the undergrowth pressed in and smothered the already gray light. A narrow track led from the gate and Isaac feared it was an animal trail, not a proper path. But it was the only way in.

  He thought he should be dropping pebbles or bread crumbs to mark the way out. But if he turned around now, he’d never make it back to Craig Village before nightfall.

  Be wary of the deepest dark.

  Don’t be caught in the forest after dark.

  Nobody goes to Rookskill, ’less they be strange.

  Isaac sped up, moving as quickly as he could, brushing branches aside with every step.

  The trees closed in and he moved faster, branches thwacking him in the face, stinging his cheeks, and roots tripped him up so that he stumbled, nearly falling. The air was thick with moisture, and he shivered with damp cold. He was almost at a full-on run when movement ahead caught his eye.

  A cloud seemed to be floating above the bracken, through the dim, a cloud as white as snow.

  Isaac stood still, waiting, panting to catch his breath. His exhale made a faint fog in the damp air.

  The cloud was iridescent in the gloom and nearly as long as he was tall. And then he realized it wasn’t a cloud. He could make out a curve as of the back of an animal, and a strange thought jumped into his mind.

  “A unicorn,” he whispered aloud in his own language. A flurry of excitement ran through him.

  He saw the crest of the neck as the animal grazed, its long, rippling mane. It moved slowly through the brown tree trunks and bare shrubs. Isaac held his breath, straining to see the unicorn’s horn.

  Disappointment surged through him when the animal raised its head. There was no horn. It was a horse. Just a pure white horse, grazing in the woods. It moved off and disappeared.

  Isaac felt foolish. How ridiculous! A unicorn. What was he thinking? All the peculiar things that had happened to him since the day he left Prague were getting to him.

  The trail led him to his left and widened, and he figured that if he’d seen a horse he probably wasn’t far from the castle. Which was good because he could tell that even though the sun was hidden by low clouds, it was close to setting, the gray shadows growing deeper.

  He pressed on, then stopped again.

  Something else moved through the brush directly toward him, cracking twigs, crushing leaves, brushing past dry bracken.

  Isaac froze and braced.

  All around him, in a circle, enveloping him.

  Dogs.

  Isaac liked dogs, and dogs liked Isaac. When he was little and visiting the mountain cottage, his grandfather had a dog, a black-and-tan shepherd, Aldo, who climbed into Isaac’s bed at night and slept curled around him. But these were strange dogs in a strange wood, surrounding a boy who was beginning to feel like he had stepped right into one of the Grimms’ nastier tales, and as they surrounded him, they growled in a soft chorus of rumbles, dripping saliva.

  Isaac bent, slower than slow, reaching for a stout branch that lay near his feet. At once, one of the dogs bared its teeth.

  Isaac’s eyes met those of a mastiff. Its head reached Isaac’s waist. Its lips were curled back, exposin
g sharp canines. Isaac froze, his knees bent, his hand not yet on the stick, his heart in his throat.

  “Canut,” came a voice from down the path. “Have you found him?”

  A small blond boy appeared from among the tree trunks around the bend.

  “Ah,” said the boy as he moved through the animals. “Jolly good. You’re here.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Isaac straightened, still watching the dog, Canut, who moved to stand next to the boy but kept Isaac in a low stare.

  “I’m Colin Drake,” the boy said. “We were told you’d be arriving. Glad I found you before dark.”

  “Isaac,” he introduced himself, confused but grateful. “Isaac Wolf. Are you from Rookskill?”

  “Of course. Wolf,” said Colin. “I like that. Ironic, considering.” He grinned. “Well, come on, then. Supper’s waiting.”

  “I am sorry?” Isaac said. “Who told you about me?” Maybe the stationmaster had telephoned.

  “Leo,” said Colin matter-of-factly. “He knows stuff.”

  “All right,” Isaac said uncertainly. “Who is Leo?”

  “Come on. You’ll meet him,” Colin said, and turned away. The animals surrounded Colin, leaving Isaac.

  Almost out of earshot, Colin began to speak. “Yes, I know. He can’t help it. Stop, Canut. Don’t say such things. That’s mean.” Then a pause as Colin turned to another of his dogs. “Why, Josie, that’s the first time you’ve spoken. How lovely. What’s that? Yes, I feel it, too. Strange timing, don’t you think?”

  It took Isaac almost a full minute to begin walking, he was so stunned. Was Colin really talking to the dogs?

  Isaac shook his head and followed them. After all, this wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened lately.

  A few minutes later, they emerged from the thicket of trees into a weedy meadow that surrounded a monstrous castle.

  In the dusky light the castle hulked against the sky, all spikes and points and blocky stone ramparts. It had a great square broken keep, detached from the castle but for a long parapet. The castle was three stories high, a thin tower rising above the rest, and the narrow windows glared at him like black eyes set into the stone walls.

  This was Rookskill. And his parents had sent him here.

  “Keep up, Isaac,” Colin called from ahead. “When you reach this spot, don’t be surprised. Just push through. You’ve been cleared.”

  “Cleared? What am I pushing through?” But Isaac’s words didn’t stop the boy and his dogs.

  Colin and his pack were almost across the meadow, the dogs nearly lost in the tall grass. Isaac picked up his pace, brushing through the brittle stems that snapped and whispered as the chill wind stung his cheeks. He didn’t have much time to wonder what Colin meant before he felt a soft, invisible wall of air, and he pressed on, and it popped around him like a bubble.

  Isaac stopped once more and looked back. The forest remained on the other side of the invisible wall.

  Isaac’s childhood stood on the far side like a long-ago tale. The trees bent together and the branches interlaced. The thorny shrubs crowded together and the path was lost behind the shimmery veil.

  Isaac turned back to the castle, his skin prickling. “Hello? Colin?”

  “This way,” Colin called. “Don’t dilly-dally.”

  “What is dilly-dally?” Isaac called back, to no response.

  The closer Isaac drew, the smaller he felt. The castle loomed, a towering shadow, leaning over him. Some of the windows were cracked, some boarded up. Heavy blocks of stone had fallen from the parapet into piles along the foot. The great front door was almost smothered in dead ivy. A damaged sign was propped against the outer wall, barely legible.

  ROO KILL ASTLE REN’S ACAD The sign was broken off as if a huge bite had been taken out of the wood.

  Clearly, Isaac thought, upkeep was not one of the priorities around this Rookskill.

  But Isaac felt something, rising from the very ground. A hum that grew and throbbed, from his feet right up his spine. A deep heaving and sighing, like waves beating on a cliff, like a distant heartbeat. A hum that Isaac recognized now as his own reaction to magic, a reaction that defied simple explanation.

  It was the same hum he’d felt when he’d arrived at the hut with his parents.

  The same hum that emanated from the casket.

  The same hum he’d heard in the ring of standing stones, and when he’d seen the monster with red eyes.

  Yes, magic. That’s what it was.

  This Rookskill was rich with it. The very earth breathed magic.

  “Here we are,” Colin called. “Keep up, then.” Colin and the dogs had reached the front door, and Isaac sprinted to catch up before the door closed in his face. The sky was nearly dark.

  The door was open just wide enough for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold.

  Being inside was not much better than being out. In fact, it might have been worse.

  The entry hall rose up all the way to the top of the castle. It was dreary and cold, despite a pathetic fire that smoldered in the huge grate to his left. Muddled tapestries hung limply from the walls, and portraits of dim ancestors rose to the ceiling, all so buried in dust and grime that Isaac could scarcely make out the details. The wall to his right was bare stone but showed an outline of a missing painting, the stone in the blank space brighter than the rest.

  When the door slammed shut behind him, Isaac nearly jumped out of his skin. He was alone, in silence, in the gloom.

  Then, right before his eyes, something materialized with a pop. Transparent, like gauze, and vaguely human, and, and . . .

  Isaac swallowed, though his mouth was so dry there was nothing to swallow.

  A blob floated three feet above the ground. Transparent, radiating cold, and making a soft whoosh.

  And then the blob spoke, in English. “Well, we’re waiting, so don’t just stand there gawking.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Isaac

  1942

  Isaac had to lean against the door, his pack squashed between his back and the heavy wood.

  “Now, that’s interesting,” the blob said. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?” Isaac whispered.

  The blob looked him up and down. “Huh. He doesn’t know what he can do. Well, well.”

  “You’re a . . .” Isaac began, “you’re a . . . ghost?”

  The blob grew in size, as if the blob’s molecules were spreading apart (if the blob was made of molecules) and pulled closer—too close—to Isaac, and said (and Isaac thought that if they could spit the words, they would), “We are not a ghost.”

  They drew back and pulled themselves together. Or togetherish. “We’re a wight. Which is an entirely different matter.”

  Isaac pressed back further, reaching his hand for the doorknob. “Um, what is the difference?”

  They sighed. “A ghost is a human spirit, the remnant of a human soul, stuck in this world. And generally not at all happy about it. Now, a wight,” and Isaac thought they preened a little, “is supernatural. We’re fearless, can see in the dark”—they widened what Isaac took for eyes—“and we collect collectibles.”

  “Collect . . . what?” Isaac said. His hand was on the doorknob.

  The wight moved right up close, the icy cold radiating from them. “That’s a very nice rucksack,” the wight said in a wheedling voice. “Can we see what’s inside?”

  Isaac shook his head. He started to turn the knob on the door.

  “We shouldn’t go back out there if we were you. They say that the cu sith—dire wolves to you—have returned to the forests around Rookskill of late. You can’t see them in the daylight, of course. But they roam closer at night. Hungry. Large. Big teeth. Chomp, chomp.” The whole time the wight spoke they drew closer and closer to Isaac until the
y were right next to him. The wight grinned (or so Isaac thought), emitting a sickly cold breath of air. They reached a skinny arm toward Isaac’s pack.

  Isaac slid around so that he faced the wight head-on. He wasn’t about to give up his pack. “Leave off,” he said in a gruff way.

  The wight retreated with a “humph.”

  “Don’t let Willow bother you,” came a voice from the other end of the hall. “If you tell them off, they have to obey. So, you instinctively did the right thing. But Willow’s nicer to humans than most wights are. Aren’t you, Willow?” A fair-haired girl wearing a tartan skirt and green cardigan, who looked to be Isaac’s age, crossed the hall toward him.

  Willow floated high into the air. “Thank you, Ame,” the wight said in a sniffy voice.

  “I think Lark needs you in the dining hall,” the girl said to the wight, who popped away. The girl came up to Isaac and stuck out her hand. “I’m Amelie Bateson. We’ve been expecting you.”

  He stuck out his own hand, wiping it first on his pants, as he’d been sweating. “Isaac Wolf.”

  “Leo gave us a bit of a heads-up. We don’t get newcomers here,” she said, “at least not in a long while, and no one sent word ahead about you coming, so it’s good that Leo knew. Kat has given the area right around the castle a bit of enchantment, wards, you know, to keep evil out, and they would’ve kept you out, too. The dire wolves aren’t part of her plan, though,” she said with a frown. “They came here on their own. Some other kind of magic that we haven’t figured out yet. But at least they can’t get past the wards.”

  Isaac was trying to wrap his head around it all. The wards must explain the invisible wall he’d stepped through. This Leo could predict the future. His parents had sent him here to Rookskill, a place rich with magic, populated by things like wights, he was carrying a magical object, and he could feel magic in his bones. And there were people here like this girl who were unfazed by it all.

  Amelie chattered on. “Food’s pretty decent, when Lark’s not trying out new recipes. Unfortunately, she likes to try out new recipes.” Amelie tugged Isaac’s arm and began to march him across the front hall toward a dim light at the far end. “But tonight seems pretty regular.”