by N. D. Wilson
Henry picked his way through the broken glass and tipped the box so he could see inside. A pair of gray sweatpants were wadded on top, along with his underwear. Beneath them, he found a white T-shirt and his backpack. No shoes.
He pulled the T-shirt on quickly, wincing as it rubbed against his cuts. Not because they hurt, the pain was only slight, but because the sensation of the cloth flapping them open and shut seemed like it should hurt. A lot. He unzipped his backpack and glanced inside. Grandfather's journals were rubber-banded together, and a flashlight was cozied up next to them. Henry slung a strap over his shoulder and began to tiptoe back to the door.
His hand was on the latch when he heard voices. One voice.
“My son will be called Xerxes. I give no thinking to another. And every fratre must be in presentia regale.”
Henry looked frantically around the room. He could slip behind the charts. The iron box was probably locked. The latch moved in his hand. He jumped into the corner, and the door was flung open into his face.
A servant, short and robed in gray, stepped into the room and placed his back against the wall next to Henry, holding the door open. Henry was breathing onto his shoulder. He couldn't slide any farther behind the door, so he bit his lip and waited to be found.
Darius, hatted and caped, strode into the room.
From behind the door, Henry could just see half of the big man's head and his left shoulder. He wanted to shrink, to disappear into the wall or the servant's robe. If the wizard turned, if he looked back at his servant … Henry didn't finish the thought.
“What is it?” a voice asked from the hall.
Darius said nothing. He took another step, further into view, and froze. He turned sideways, and Henry watched the man's hawked profile, his curling sideburns and enormous chin. He took off his Pilgrim hat and ran a gloved hand through his thick hair.
Henry blinked. There was a glimmer around Darius, around his face, his legs, his entire shape. Henry blinked again, felt his eyes singe, and he saw.
Darius shrugged off his cape and threw it against the wall in fury. But he was not enormous. He was tall, and his skin was stretched tight over his bones. His hair was thin, straggling away from his bald crown, and his ears stuck out from his head. His nose hooked long and low, but below it, there was no chin. His mouth simply drifted back into his neck, and where a chin should have been, there was a large piece of bone, or ivory, carved in the shape of a protruding jaw and held on with a strap around the back of his head.
“Up! Rouse him!” Darius yelled, and a fat man, the voice from the hall, hurried into the room and over to the body.
Henry watched Darius's legs as he paced. They were not the full, muscled things that Darius projected. They rattled in his boots, and at his rear, the seat of his trousers flapped empty.
“He will not wake,” the fat man said. “Still, the boy cannot have flown far.”
“He is no boy!” Darius roared. “He is my son. My blood runs in his veins!”
“Not just yet,” the fat man said quietly.
Darius ignored him. “His former blood, his yester-people did this. He cannot have so freed himself. I did not think of a rescuing.” Darius stepped back out of Henry's view, back into the doorway. “Come,” he said, “and fetch the pink slave.”
The fat man hurried after Darius. “Collect Seer Harmon,” he said as he left. “Have him bathed and examined.”
The robed servant nodded and walked toward the now-snoring body.
Henry swallowed. Adrenaline pulsed through his abused joints. He stepped out from behind the door and slipped into the hall. The spindly shape of Darius, without his cape and hat, strode around the distant corner. The fat man scurried behind him.
Henry put his hand on the latch of the neighboring door and quickly let himself in.
had been many horrible days in Frank's life, but this was the worst. When he lost his own way in the cupboards and came to Kansas, he had been the one who had suffered most. Though he'd felt awful for his mother. When as a kid he'd nearly gotten Dotty killed in Endor, they'd been rescued by her father. When Henry and Henrietta had disappeared the first time, he'd felt sick. He could have stopped them. He could have nipped Henry's plaster chipping. But he hadn't.
This was worse.
He hadn't again. And he knew why. In his bones, he still wanted to find his way back to his own town, to his own world. Frank would be roaming the cupboards, too, if he hadn't put down roots. He'd be all hypocrite, holding Richard and Henry here. Though he couldn't say he'd expected them to try it with Henry blind.
He'd known someone was lying about Grandfather's key, but he hated inquisitions.
So now they'd gone, all three of them, the key was nowhere to be seen, and Grandfather's room was clamped shut.
Dotty wasn't crying. It was worse than that. She was moving through the house without talking, and when she looked at him, there was nothing in her eyes but confusion. She just couldn't understand him, she couldn't understand what made him make mistakes. The same mistakes.
He wasn't sure he could handle another one of those looks.
Frank shifted his feet in the grass and dropped the shotgun barrels open. He dug in his pocket, fished out two shells, fitted them in, and snapped the barrels shut. Then he pulled the hammers back and puffed out his cheeks.
“Dots!” he yelled.
“We're down!” Dotty yelled back.
Frank raised the gun to his shoulder and sighted in on Grandfather's window. The wind chimes rustled on the front porch, and Frank fingered the double trigger. Exhaling, he squeezed one.
Pheasants burst up out of the fields. They always do. Blake the cat burst out from beneath the front porch. The wind chimes chimed on, but no one listened. Two butterflies that had chosen that moment to flirt between Frank and the house suddenly ceased to exist.
At least they had been together.
Releasing the second hammer slowly, Frank lowered the barrels to the ground and massaged his shoulder. It had been a while since he'd felt that kick. Still carrying the gun, he walked toward the house and the antique gray splintered ladder he had leaned against the porch roof.
He had already attacked the walls into Grandfather's room through the bathroom, above the stairs, and beside the door on the landing. He'd ruined a lot of paint and spread dust through the house, but he hadn't even approached the wooden slats beneath the plaster. It was all futile, and he knew it. But it was better than doing nothing.
He climbed, carefully with the gun, until he'd reached the old shingles above the porch. In front of him were Grandfather's windows. One was uneven in its age but smooth and clear. The other, the one he'd shot, was clouded with scratches. Tiny chips flecked its surface, and paint and splinters stood out around small holes in the trim. Not even the slightest crack was visible, nothing but scuffs and chipping.
Frank dropped the barrels open, pulled out the empty, and flicked it into the yard. He replaced it, snapped the gun straight, and recocked both hammers.
He was about to be rash. All the way rash. Even in his frustration, the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile. This was, maybe, how Henrietta always felt.
He took another step up the ladder, held the gun at his hip, and angled it toward the scratched-up window.
“Dots!” he yelled.
“We're down!” she yelled back.
Then, in a concession to safety, he pinched his eyes shut, turned his head to the side, and pulled both triggers.
It had been a long day
Frank felt wasps sting him on the cheekbone and on the ear. Not wasps, ricochets.
The kick pushed him back. And then the ancient ladder snapped beneath him.
Have to dig out the pellets, he thought as he fell, and then he landed on his back in the grass. His legs were tangled with the ladder. His feet were in the flowers by the porch. The gun was on his belly.
“Ow,” he said quietly.
He tossed the gun away into the grass and lay st
ill. After a moment, he reached up and felt his cheek. A small trickle of blood had already grown sticky. The pellet was just beneath the skin against the bone. Frank felt around until he had it pinched. Then, wincing, he squeezed it out and flicked it into the flowers.
There wasn't a pellet in his ear, just a perfectly round hole up near the top. Bits of wood and paint were stuck in his hair, but he didn't worry about them. He just lay there, feeling his bones ache, his face sting, and listening to the ringing in his ears.
“Frank?” Dotty yelled.
“Nothing!” Frank yelled back. “Be inside in a minute.”
For a moment, he watched stiff clouds slide across the sky, and then he pulled his legs free and rolled slowly onto his side, managed to reach his feet, and looked out over the quiet little town of Henry, Kansas. He looked at the town the way a tired fly, stuck in the kitchen, looks at the window screen. A long time ago, he'd tattered his wings against it and chosen a life inside. It hadn't been too bad. Dots had been inside, too. Like warm bread on the counter.
Frank was hungry. He'd spent the morning searching the house for Grandfather's key. He'd flipped mattresses, dumped shoe boxes, smashed a piggy bank, tipped lamps and books and shelves and dolls. While Dotty had made Anastasia and Penelope eat lunch, he'd attacked the bedroom walls, and plaster ash had filled the house. He could still feel concrete grit between his teeth.
He turned toward the house and looked up at Grandfather's window. It was cloudy enough to work in a bathroom now, but the trim was splintered to a ruin, and a piece of siding had split and lost its corner. It made him feel a little better. Even if he had failed, he had done damage. And he'd hurt himself. He should pay a price for his mistake, for letting a bucket of concrete plaster sit and harden in Henry's room.
Frank limped toward the front door. He didn't know what time it was. The sun wasn't low, but it was getting lower. It had to be after supper. Blake was back, and he sat in the grass watching Frank climb the front porch.
“You give it a shot,” Frank said. “I gotta sit for a bit.”
He opened the screen door and stepped into the house.
“Dad!” Anastasia yelled. He'd left them in the kitchen. They were in the dining room now. “Dad! The raggant's back, and he bit Penny! He's bleeding and he's mad!”
Frank hobbled into the dining room. The raggant was standing in the center of the table with its wings flared and its tail up. His right rear leg was bent, and a dark patch shone on his haunch. Dotty looked at the blood on Frank's face and raised her eyebrows. She was holding a rag on Penny's hand.
“What happened?” Frank asked.
“He squeezed in the cat door in the back,” Dotty said. “Got blood on the kitchen floor. I think he was bitten by a dog or something. Maybe a coyote.”
“Penny tried to hold him,” Anastasia said. “And he chomped on her.”
“It's not bad,” Penny said. “I think he just wants Henry.”
“And he got bit,” Anastasia added.
Dotty left Penny and walked around the table to Frank. The raggant stretched out his neck and bellowed at her like an angry goose. His wings were almost as wide. Dotty skipped farther away from the table's edge.
“Hello?” It was Zeke's voice at the front door. “Mr. Willis? Are you okay?”
The raggant bellowed.
Zeke stepped around the corner and took his hat off. He was carrying a bat and a glove.
“I was just coming over to talk to Henry,” he said to Frank. “And I saw you on the ground. Are you okay? You fall off that ladder?”
Before Frank could answer, the raggant jumped off the table and hurried to the base of the stairs on its three good legs. They all watched the small animal fold its wings back and strain its neck, its nostrils flaring.
The air moved. Everyone felt it. The raggant's ears rustled, and the room was suddenly warmer. Doors banged upstairs.
Dotty grabbed Frank by the arm. “Are they back?” she whispered.
Frank sniffed. The air smelled wrong, false somehow, he didn't know why. “Don't think so,” he said. He moved to the bottom of the stairs and stood behind the raggant. He could hear creaking in the attic.
His shotgun was still out in the front yard, and he didn't have time to get it. He stepped over the raggant and stood on the stairs. Zeke stood behind him.
Someone was coming down from the attic. Someone heavy.
A huge man, dressed all in black, stepped into view on the second-story landing. He was wearing a cape held by a chain around his neck, and a tall velvet hat. In his left hand, he held a long, straight blade. A small barefoot body was draped through the crook of his other arm, partially hidden by the cape. On one dangling limb, there was a blue cast. Frank recognized it. And he recognized the dirty pink sweats.
“Plebe,” Darius said quietly. “Where have you enclapsed my son?”
Frank didn't think to be afraid. He couldn't. His jaw popped, and something burning climbed up into his throat. It was anger. Anger like he hadn't felt in a lifetime. This man had Richard.
“Don't know your son,” he said. “Put the boy down. You and your costume should get back to the circus.”
Darius laughed. Perfectly. Booming behind his ribs.
“So you speak to a seventh? Not a seventh only, but to one stronger than a wizard in his dreamings? To a witch-dog? To your likes, I am none of these. I am a god.”
“Excuse me while I get a wreath,” Frank said. He was ready to die right here if he had to. So long as he hurt this man first. His hand slid into his pocket and closed around two shells. “Zeke,” he said. “Run, grab that stick from the lawn.”
Darius took one step down, and the raggant bleated anger between Frank's legs. Zeke backed toward the door.
“I'm glad no one else is here,” Frank said. “Wouldn't want my family to have to meet you.”
“There are three lives in a room beneath my feet,” Darius said. “Girls. A woman. But where is my son?”
Zeke winced and jumped away from the door, sucking his fingertips. The wood crackled and hardened around the glowing latch. Zeke tucked his hand beneath his shirt and tried to quickly flip the metal. His shirt burst into flame when he touched it. Yelping, he staggered into the living room and slapped it out on his belly.
Darius took another step.
“Dotty,” Frank said. “Leave now. Zeke, go with them.”
Zeke didn't budge. Darius lifted the point of his blade to his face and scraped it through his sideburn. Then suddenly, the blade whistled down and sunk deep into the stair between the big man's feet.
Darius spoke, low guttural churnings that sharpened in his throat. They hung from his mouth like creatures, and then exploded through the house.
Someone crashed to the floor in the kitchen, and Anastasia screamed long and hard. Zeke ran toward the noise. Frank didn't move.
Darius licked blood from a fresh split on his lower lip. “Death words will gnaw each,” he said, “till you speak me truth.”
Sergeant Kenneth Simmons pulled onto the grass in front of the Willis house. Henry, Kansas, was too small to have its own police force, and his had been the closest of the sheriff's patrol cars.
Plus, he knew Frank Willis.
Dispatch had told him that Frank had been seen firing a rifle at a second-story window in his own house while yelling his wife's name.
Sergeant Simmons was fairly certain that there would not be a reasonable explanation. This was Frank Willis, after all. But there would be an explanation of some kind. Something that would only make sense to Frank. And he had no idea what that explanation might be. Though he did hope it would be good enough to get Frank off with a warning.
He reported his arrival to dispatch, picked his hat up off the passenger seat, stepped out of his car, and screwed the hat onto his head. Unsnapping his holster, he began to walk toward the front door. He was stiff, and his legs moved slowly.
He was glad to see the shotgun lying in the grass. At least that wouldn't
be a factor. There could be other guns, but he didn't really think there would be. And Frank was thin. Even if Frank tried to get tough, it wouldn't go anywhere.
Sergeant Simmons was not fat. But he was thick. Thick from his ankles to his earlobes. Always had been. But even with all his bulk, he'd never been able to swing a bat like Frank had. He'd crushed the ball occasionally, but Frank could give it wings.
Wrestling had been his thing. Wrestling and football.
He stepped onto the porch, smiled at the gray and white cat, which ran off, and looked in the screen door. He couldn't see anyone. Not a lot of noise, either.
He rapped on the door frame. “Frank?” he yelled. “It's Ken Simmons. I've got my badge on. We heard you were taking some target practice in the yard. Just needed to check in.”
Putting one hand on the butt of his gun, he reached for the door latch.
He pulled it off.
Surprised, he looked down in time to watch ash tumble onto the toes of his boots. Most of the wooden frame was fine, besides needing paint, but a hole the size of his fist had replaced the latch.
There wasn't time to think about it. He dropped the cold metal, slid his hand into the hole, and pulled the door open.
Inside, on the doormat, a gray, horned animal was mostly hidden beneath feathers, shivering in the breeze.
There was a bigger body in the living room.
Sergeant Simmons pulled his gun.
Stepping inside, he swallowed hard, pinched the radio on his shoulder, and requested backup.
Frank was lying on his back in the center of the living room. One arm was draped over his face. Wisps of smoke twisted up off his clothes. His hair was white, curled, and singed in the front.
Beyond Frank, a boy was seated against the living room wall beside the couch. His eyes were open, but his mouth was shut. His body was motionless.
“Zeke Johnson?” Simmons asked quietly. “What's going on here?”
Zeke blinked, but said nothing, and moved nothing.
“Are you the constabulary?” Darius asked.
Sergeant Simmons wheeled and found his gun pointing at a man, halfway down the stairs, wearing a white puffy-sleeved shirt, enormous boots, and the biggest sideburns he'd ever seen. He was also carrying a sword.