They were hovering above the pavement of a quiet street. The sidewalks were empty, the nearby buildings sleeping for the night. The only streetlights were far-off and dim—but just ahead, around the corner, Van spotted the familiar neon sign of an exotic pet shop.
The sleigh dropped until it had touched down on the deserted sidewalk. Van climbed out. Before he could say “Thank you!” or give the reindeer a grateful pat, the sleigh zipped back to miniature size. It fell over onto the sidewalk with a little click.
Van picked it up and put it in his pocket. He smiled to himself for a moment, letting the weightless, electrified feeling fade. He had a job to do. A serious, dangerous one.
With a last quick look around, he scurried to the corner and bolted down the street, straight toward the City Collection Agency.
16
Down to the Dark
THE office of the City Collection Agency had been dim in midafternoon. Now, in the middle of the night, it was black. Van padded across the empty room as though it was a box full of tar, both hands stretched out in front of him. He’d just opened the hidden door, letting loose the smell of smoke and dust and a faint haze of green-gold light, when he felt something moving through the darkness behind him. Van whipped around. No one was there. No one human, anyway. On the carpet, trundling toward his feet, was a portly raccoon. Something small and pale was clutched in one of its front paws, making its gait extra wobbly. A packet of French fries dangled from its teeth.
“Oof,” it said, in a raspy voice. “Would you mind holding that door?”
Van held it politely.
The raccoon waddled by. “Much obliged.”
Van started down the stairs behind the raccoon. They’d taken only two steps when the raccoon spoke again. “How rude of me,” it said. “Would you like a French fry? They’re nice and cold.”
“Um . . . no, thank you,” whispered Van.
“Are you sure? They’re fresh out of the Dumpster behind Pete’s Barbeque,” the raccoon went on chattily. “Great spot for wishbones and cold French fries. Of course, if you prefer stale breadsticks, the Dumpster at LaMama is perfection. Or, if you like noodles with your wishbones, you have to try the Dumpster at Izakaya Ito. The best in the city. The best. Don’t listen to what other raccoons might tell you about that place Zen-Zen. Their Dumpster isn’t even worth the climb.” The raccoon stopped to tug a fry out of the packet with its spare front paw. “Mmm. Mmmm,” it said, munching. “You’re sure you don’t want one?”
“That’s all right,” said Van.
“It’s all right with me too.” The raccoon scarfed down another fry. “Mmm. Well. Have a good night!”
The creature scurried forward, leaving Van to tiptoe down the rest of the flight on his own.
The air grew colder. The scents of dust and smoke grew stronger. The green-gold light seeped up over his feet, and then over his legs, and finally flooded the rest of him.
Just as Van reached the final step, something small and furry pounced onto his shoulder—something that didn’t smell like French fries.
“Hey!” squeaked a familiar voice. “I know you!” Barnavelt’s damp nose poked at his cheek. “Look! Pebble! It’s Vanderbilt Maximillian!”
Pebble’s hands were already clasped around his arm. Both of them had appeared so fast, Van wondered if they had been waiting there, at the bottom of the stairs, just for him.
“I knew you’d come back!” Pebble beamed, practically jumping up and down. Her mossy eyes were bright. “You’ve decided, right? You’ll help us? You’re on our side?”
Van had never seen Pebble’s smile before. It transformed her entire face, the way a ray of sunlight changes a dark room. Van couldn’t help smiling back. For an instant, he almost forgot that this wasn’t why he was here. He was here as a spy—to learn about and help the Wish Eaters. But Pebble didn’t need to know that. She couldn’t know that.
He let his face mirror Pebble’s eager expression. “Right,” he said. “I’m on your side.”
Pebble’s smile grew even more brilliant. “Come on!” She wheeled around. “I’ll bring you to Nail. Everybody will be so happy!”
Pebble raced to the end of the massive entry chamber, with Van running right behind. Their shadows streaked over the green stone walls. At the chamber’s end, Pebble turned down a narrow corridor, and from there into another corridor, and from there into a small, familiar room with a big desk and an even bigger fireplace.
Nail stood before the fireplace, speaking with sleek-haired Sesame. One of the big men from the other night—Beetle, Van thought—stood guard near the door. Everyone turned as Pebble and Van charged inside. Even the pigeon on Sesame’s arm and the rats on Nail’s shoulders sat up, boring into him with their quick black eyes.
A shudder climbed the bumps of Van’s spine. He forced it back down again. He had a mission to fulfill. He wouldn’t fail before he’d even begun.
“He’s here!” Pebble shouted.
“I’m here!” agreed Barnavelt, from Van’s shoulder. “Here I am! Right here!”
“Van Markson.” Nail moved swiftly around the desk. Van flinched instinctively, but Nail’s eyes, like Pebble’s, were warm. “Welcome back.” He reached out to shake Van’s hand. “We are so glad that you’ve made this choice.”
“Me too,” said Van, as brightly as he could manage.
“Please.” Nail opened his hands. “Tell us what you have learned so far.”
Everyone waited.
“Well . . . ,” said Van, very slowly. “That’s the thing. I’m not sure I learned what you wanted to know.”
The warmth in the atmosphere faded slightly. One of Nail’s eyebrows rose. The pigeon on Sesame’s shoulder cocked its head.
“I mean,” Van went on, when no one else spoke, “I didn’t see what you said. I looked, I promise. But I didn’t see anything strange.”
Pebble sucked in a breath. One of the rats climbed off Nail’s shoulder. It scurried down the length of his black coat and across the firelit stone floor, straight toward Van’s feet.
Nail folded his arms. “Are you telling us you saw no other Collectors?”
“Not really,” said Van. The rat put its front paws on the toe of his shoe. “I mean, not like you.”
“Certainly not like us,” said Sesame.
“Did you not meet a man named Ivor Falborg?” Nail demanded, his voice quick and firm. “And did he not invite you into his home? For the second time?”
A chill gusted through Van’s chest. He fought to keep his tone light and his body still as the rat climbed up his pants leg. “Oh—Mr. Falborg? Our neighbor?” he said. “You mean that kind of collector? Yes, he showed me some things. They weren’t like your collection. But I did what you asked, just in case.”
He pulled the paperweight from his pocket and held it out on his palm. Firelight lapped at the bubble of glass, ruddying the bouquet of flowers sealed inside.
Nail’s eyes moved to Pebble. She gave a little nod.
“He didn’t show you anything else?” Nail asked, his eyes flicking back to Van. “Nothing more unusual?”
Nail clearly suspected something. But there was no way Van was going to tell the Collectors about the hidden room, or about all those helpless little Wish Eaters waiting to be let out of their boxes for a tiny bit of food and company.
Van swallowed hard. The rat had reached his shoulder. He could feel its whiskers against his neck. “Not really,” he managed. “Unless you mean those hair wreaths. Those were pretty weird.”
The rat craned upward, sniffing at Van’s chin. “Smells scared,” it said softly. Van recognized Violetta’s tiny voice.
Van wasn’t sure if the whole room could hear her, or if she had spoken only to him. But no one else answered, and there was no point pretending he couldn’t hear the Creatures anymore anyway.
“I am scared,” he answered. “I just sneaked through the city by myself in the middle of the night.”
“I don’t smell scared,” sai
d Barnavelt. The squirrel shoved his nose into Van’s cheek. “I smell spaghetti.”
“I had spaghetti and garlic toast for dinner,” said Van.
The squirrel’s eyes glazed. “Garlic toast. With butter,” he whispered. “And a nice crunchy crust. And—”
“You know,” Sesame said, staring down at Van with clear, steady eyes, “it’s very unusual for anyone who’s not a born Collector to be able to hear the Creatures.”
Van gazed up at her.
“You say you’re ordinary. You even tell us that you’re hard of hearing. But you hear them.” Sesame’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you think that is?’
“I don’t know,” said Van honestly. “I think . . . maybe I’m not great at hearing, but I’m good at listening.”
Sesame inclined her head. She stared at him for a long moment. Then she said, “Good answer.”
“Good answer!” cheered the squirrel.
Pebble threw Van a pleased smile. A trickle of relief, warm and steadying, washed through him.
Nail kept quiet. He surveyed the room, taking in Sesame’s cool expression, Pebble’s smile, and Beetle’s chilly stare, before finally turning back to Van. “It looks like you get another chance, Van Markson,” he said at last. “You will keep a close eye—a closer eye—on Mr. Falborg.”
“I will,” said Van quickly. He dropped the paperweight back into his pocket. “But . . . can I ask why?”
Nail didn’t blink. “Because he poses a serious threat to us. To our work. To our existence.”
Van thought of the spider smashed in Mr. Falborg’s handkerchief. He couldn’t imagine kindly Mr. Falborg being a threat to anything else. “Mr. Falborg?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure. We know him well.” Nail’s eyes slashed to Pebble again. When they came back to Van, they were softer. “This must be confusing to someone from the outside. But you will understand more once we bring you in.” Nail stepped toward Van. “It goes without saying that the things we’re about to show you, and tell you, and teach you must be kept entirely secret. But I am going to say it anyway.” He bent down. The rats on his shoulders snuffed at Van with matching whiskered noses. “Do not tell anyone what you are about to see.”
“I won’t,” said Van quickly. He hoped the rats couldn’t smell a lie.
“Pebble will guide you,” said Nail, straightening up again. “Kernel is waiting for you in the Collection.”
“Colonel?” Van murmured to Pebble. “Like in an army?”
“Like in a corncob,” Pebble murmured back.
Barnavelt snapped to attention. “Popcorn?”
Nail strode to the other side of his desk. “You may go,” he said, sweeping one long-fingered hand toward the door. Then he added, his words slow and precise, “And thank you for your honesty, Van Markson.”
Pebble’s face warmed back into a smile. “Come on!”
She bolted toward the door. Van tagged behind, Barnavelt still clinging to his shoulder. Beetle, standing guard, didn’t move as the three of them brushed past. But his eyes followed them into the corridor, through the chilly shadows, until they were out of sight.
“Now we can tell you everything!” Pebble shouted over her shoulder as they raced back through the cavernous entry chamber. She pointed toward another hallway that branched off into the dimness. “If we went that way—a certain stair—observatory—”
“Observatory?” Van repeated, trying to catch up. “Like . . . for observing stars?”
“Falling stars,” said Pebble. “We have to know exactly when meteor showers are coming.”
She plunged ahead of him down the massive staircase. “You’ve already seen the Atlas,” she said, speaking very fast but very loud, as they approached the first archway. “Sesame’s in charge of it. It’s where we track wishful locations. Like wells and fountains and ponds. Coin-tossing spots,” she added, as they charged through a flock of pigeons that flapped and flittered out of the way. “Of course, people can blow out birthday candles or break wishbones pretty much anywhere, so we keep track of apartments and houses and other addresses too.”
Van watched one of the pigeons take wing, soaring out over the pit’s bottomless blackness. In a place so massive, something as small and quiet as a Wish Eater would be awfully easy to hide. How was he going to find them?
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Pebble, coming to an abrupt stop on the landing. She whirled around to face Van head-on.
“You do?” squeaked Van.
“Oh, good,” said Barnavelt, from Van’s shoulder. “Because I can’t remember what I was thinking.”
“You’re wondering how we get inside restaurants and houses and apartments without people noticing.” Pebble gave Van a knowing smile. “That’s where the Creatures come in.”
“That’s where we come in!” crowed Barnavelt.
“There are thousands of them,” Pebble rattled on. “All the creatures people don’t usually notice. Pigeons, raccoons, rats—”
“And squirrels,” interrupted Barnavelt.
“Spiders, ravens, bats, mice—”
“And squirrels!” Barnvelt added.
“And squirrels,” Pebble finished. “Every kind of little city-dwelling animal. Especially the nocturnal ones. And especially the ones who already like to collect shiny little things.”
Van’s mind leaped to the box full of shiny little things under his bed. Was he just another creature for the Collectors to use?
Pebble’s expression faltered. Her customary frown began to creep back. “I’m talking really fast, aren’t I?”
“Well . . . ,” said Van.
“I am. I’m sorry. I just—I’ve never gotten to tell anybody any of this before.” Her smile returned, a little more cautiously this time, pushing the frown out of place bit by bit. “Ready to keep going?”
“Ready,” said Van.
They hurried on. Through the archway, beneath the carved letters spelling THE ATLAS, Van caught a glimpse of the room papered with maps and charts, the knots of Collectors and Creatures scurrying between the long tables. Then his feet hit the next set of steps, and the chamber slid out of view.
“You’ve . . . Calendar too . . . ,” said Pebble, bounding down the flight ahead of him. Half of her words dissolved into the sound of other voices. A flood of Collectors gushed in and out of the Calendar’s archway, accompanied by flapping birds and running rodents. They jostled Van as they rushed by, throwing him quick, curious looks and a few small smiles.
“Grommet . . . the head of the Calendar,” Pebble shouted back. “. . . Pin and Caraway . . . names and birth dates. Today’s a really popular one!”
By now Pebble was speaking so fast, it was like a rush of water through an open spigot. Each new word rinsed the last ones away. Van tried to follow her voice, her feet, and her pointing hands all at once, but with the noise of the crowd, it was getting hard to do.
Besides, she wasn’t telling him what he needed to know. Van scanned the area. There was no sign of Wish Eaters through the archway, in the long black bookshelves of the Calendar. And he knew they weren’t hidden in the twinkling jars of the Collection below.
The Wish Eaters had to be somewhere else.
Somewhere deeper.
“Come on!” Pebble called, beckoning him onward. “Kernel will . . .”
Her voice faded as she leaped down the next flight. Van, lagging behind, let it fade. He moved slower and slower, until the gap between them was wide enough that even Pebble’s keen ears wouldn’t hear him.
Then he glanced at the squirrel perched on his shoulder. “Barnavelt?” he whispered. “Where do they keep the Wish Eaters?”
Barnavelt’s bright eyes blinked. “The Eaters?” he repeated in a small voice. “We’re not supposed to talk about them.”
“But you know about them. Don’t you?”
“Maybe. No. Yes.” The squirrel blinked again. “I mean—what’s a Wish Eater?”
“Are they down there, in the Ho
ld?” Van asked. “Is that what it’s for?”
“It’s for holding them,” blurted Barnavelt. “Wait. What was the question?”
“What are they doing to them?” Van hurried on. Below, Pebble had already reached the end of the flight. “Are they trapping them? And what’s that awful noise? Is something hurting them?”
“I don’t . . .” Barnavelt flicked his tail anxiously. “Oh, look! A hawk!”
“You don’t have to tell me,” said Van. “If I’m right, just say nothing.”
Barnavelt stared back at him. “Nothing,” he whispered.
“Hurry up!” Pebble stood on the landing, looking up at them impatiently. Just beyond her, through the massive arch, Van could see the towering double doors of the Collection.
He trotted down the rest of the steps.
Pebble waited until he’d reached the landing. “Kernel . . . tell . . . thing . . .” she said, turning toward the double doors.
But this time Van didn’t follow her.
This was his chance.
Van charged across the landing and barreled down the next flight of steps. His feet slapped the cold stone. Barnavelt’s paws dug into his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” the squirrel squeaked. “Where are we going?”
Van didn’t answer.
He finished that flight and raced onto the next. The darkness grew even thicker. Soon Van could barely make out the edges of the stairs and the squirrel’s eyes glittering beside him. The air grew colder, clammier, until it seemed to stick to his face like wet leaves.
Without enough sight and sound, Van had to rely on touch. And all he could feel was cold and hard and damp. His heart rattled in his chest.
Far behind him, he thought he could hear Pebble shouting. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. Not now. The thought of other creatures like Lemmy, small and scared and starved, pushed him onward. Faster. Faster. Down, down, down.
Before long, there was no light at all.
Van couldn’t sense the shapes heading up the stairs. He couldn’t hear their quick, heavy steps.
And he couldn’t see a thing until a sudden flare of lantern light revealed the blade, silver and hooked and viciously sharp, flashing straight toward him.
The Collectors Page 12