But Van didn’t feel thankful.
He felt the opposite of thankful.
Van shoved the hearing aids into place, glowering at Mr. Falborg the whole time.
Mr. Falborg waited until Van was finished. “I was only trying to help,” he said mildly.
“You weren’t HELPING!” Van exploded. “I didn’t ask for your help! And you didn’t ask me what I wanted! SHEESH!” He shouted so loudly that the squirrel on his shoulder jumped. “Why does everybody think I want to hear the way THEY do?!”
Pebble stared at Mr. Falborg, her arms folded tight. “People always think everybody else wants to be just like them.”
“Or they merely want what’s best for everyone,” said Mr. Falborg. He fanned his fingers, making the coins on his palm glimmer. Hidden in that little gesture was something sharp and steely. Something that looked like a threat.
A new realization jolted through Van, as clear and sharp as shattered glass.
It was Mr. Falborg who’d made the wish.
Mr. Falborg was the one who had taken over Van’s hands and feet and made him open the Wish Eaters’ cells, who had made Van feel sick and out of control and powerless over his own body. Then he’d drawn the released Wish Eaters here, in spite of the danger this could mean for Van and Pebble and everyone else—just like he kept the other Wish Eaters in tiny boxes, telling himself that he was doing it for their own good. Mr. Falborg didn’t help others out of kindness. He just thought he knew best.
“You did it.” Van took a step forward. “You wished for me to release the Wish Eaters. You made me do things I wouldn’t have done.”
Mr. Falborg watched him, calmly shaking his head. “I’ve told you what wishes cannot do.” He held up his hand, ticking the list off on his fingers. “They cannot control Wish Eaters themselves. They cannot kill or directly cause harm. They can’t bring things back to life. They can’t stop or change time. And they can’t make a person do anything he fundamentally would not do.” He stared straight into Van’s eyes. “But you wanted to release the Wish Eaters. Deep down, you wanted them to be free. Especially your own little friend. Didn’t you?”
“Well . . . yes! Of course!” Van spluttered. “But I wouldn’t—I knew it wasn’t the right thing!”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Falborg asked.
A gust fluttered across the yard. Van glanced around again at the monstrous beasts shimmering in the shadows. He thought he recognized one saucer-sized pair of eyes.
“You knew I’d want to free Lemmy,” said Van slowly. “That’s why you gave me the Wish Eater in the first place. You just used me to get inside the Hold, and then . . .” He looked at the coins in Mr. Falborg’s hand. “You lured them all here. You don’t want them to be free. You just want them for yourself.”
Mr. Falborg sighed. He tipped his head to one side, looking disappointed. “Not just for myself.”
“Uncle Ivor.” Pebble’s voice was loud and clear. “You think doing bad things for good reasons makes them all right. But it doesn’t.” She threw out one hand, and the circle of smoky, watching creatures shifted. Staring. Waiting. “You can’t control them.”
“Control them?” Mr. Falborg echoed. “Why would I need to?”
Pebble looked like someone had just asked her why they shouldn’t take a nap in the middle of the street. “Because they’re dangerous!”
“They are powerful. There is a difference.” Mr. Falborg gave Pebble a pitying smile. “You think you understand what’s happening here. But you are very young, and you’re one small piece in a great big puzzle. Sometimes, other people—older, wiser people—know how that puzzle should be solved.” He gave the coins in his palm a little toss. The creatures shifted like a pack of hungry wolves. “That’s why I am taking my collections away from here.”
Pebble’s voice was suddenly so small and choked that Van barely heard it. “What?” she gasped. “Where are you going?”
“Ah.” Mr. Falborg smiled more widely. “I can’t tell you that, can I? Not when we’re being watched.”
Van scanned the edges of the yard again. This time, beyond the hidden, hungry Eaters, he could sense the presence of dozens of small, glittering eyes. Bats. Spiders. Birds. Rats. All gathering secrets.
Mr. Falborg’s gaze moved to Van, and Van realized that he—and Barnavelt—were watchers too.
Mr. Falborg’s attention moved back to Pebble. “It’s time for you to come home,” he said. “Back to your real family.” He lifted a bright silver coin between forefinger and thumb. “I want you to come with me, Mabel.”
“Did he just call her Mabel?” Van whispered to Barnavelt.
But for once, Barnavelt was entirely focused on the situation at hand. He craned over Van’s shoulder, leaning as close to Pebble as he could without falling off. His whiskers quivered.
“I wish for my child, Mabel Falborg, to leave the Collectors and come with me,” said Mr. Falborg. “And I wish for her to help me care for these creatures, keeping them safe from anyone who might take them from us.”
Mr. Falborg tossed two coins toward the fountain.
This time, Pebble didn’t even try to stop him. She just watched as the coins hit the water one after the other.
And Van watched her. He couldn’t read her face. What did Pebble actually want? He didn’t know what to believe anymore. She hadn’t even told him her real name. Had anything she’d said—even about wanting to be his friend—been true?
Van’s chest ached.
Before he could wonder anymore, two creatures surged out of the dark—the one with leathery wings, and another with an ape’s features and horse’s body. They gobbled at the glittering waves. Immediately both of them grew even larger, the horse thing stomping its huge hooves, the other unfurling its wings and flapping into the air, its foggy body so large that for a moment it blocked half the sky.
The air misted and cleared once more.
Pebble stood still for a moment. She looked like someone standing in front of a door with something very cold on the other side. Then she took a tiny step forward. And then another. And another.
“Pebble?” squeaked Barnavelt.
Pebble didn’t stop.
Mr. Falborg held out a hand. Pebble put hers into it.
“I knew it,” Mr. Falborg said. “I knew that, deep down, you wanted to be on my side again.” He wrapped Pebble in a long hug. It was hard to be sure in the dimness, but Van thought he saw Mr. Falborg crying. Pebble’s face was turned away.
At last Mr. Falborg looked up at Van, his eyes shining. “I am so sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you, Master Markson,” he said. “It’s a shame it has to affect you this way. But what you’ve done has changed so many lives for the better. Losses aren’t really losses if they contribute to the greater good. Don’t you agree?”
Van tried to pull the meaning from Mr. Falborg’s words. Had he heard him correctly? What were the losses? Was he apologizing for controlling Van, or was there something more?
“Sometimes we have to make exchanges,” Mr. Falborg was saying. “Sacrifices. We give up one precious thing in order to gain another. Or many others.” He gestured around at the lurking creatures. “And it’s really the only solution. You’re not one of them. You’re not one of us. But you know too much for either side to let you go off on your own.” He cast Van a smile. “You understand.”
“I . . . ,” said Van. “What?”
Van glanced at Barnavelt. The squirrel was still quivering on his shoulder, his focus never moving from Pebble’s face. “Pebble?” the squirrel whispered.
“I give you my deepest apologies.” Mr. Falborg’s eyes were crinkly and charming and warm. “Thank you, Van Markson.”
A coin arced through the air.
Van felt himself plummeting with it, just like he had fallen from the top of the water tank, knowing more surely with every passing second that there was nothing at all that he could do.
In a foggy daze, he saw Pebble lurch forward, her mouth forming the
word NO. But the coin had already touched the water. Something slithered out of the shadows—something that looked like an eel the length of two swimming pools. It gulped down the glint of light.
Van didn’t have time to move or fight or scream as the eel, swelling even larger now, lashed its head back from the fountain and closed its smoky teeth around him.
Van was whipped up into the air. Barnavelt tumbled from his shoulder, and Van’s one remaining slipper flew off his foot, and then he was zooming through the city so fast that streetlights turned to glowing ribbons and buildings were only one long brick blur, and then there was only darkness.
It was dense, tarry darkness—darkness so thick that Van couldn’t see his hands when he waved them in front of his face.
The force that had carried him suddenly backed away. Van dropped down onto a solid surface. He tripped forward, catching himself with both hands. When he glanced up, the eely creature was already writhing out of sight, its body as faint as a ghost.
Van crouched for a moment, breathing hard. The air smelled like metal and dust. He couldn’t hear anything over the rumble of his own pulse.
Where was he? Was he dead?
No. Mr. Falborg had said that wishes couldn’t kill anyone.
Slowly he rose to his feet.
He was somewhere enclosed. Somewhere underground. Somewhere man-made. Could he be somewhere inside the Collection? From far away, he could feel the weak tug of moving air.
Then, gradually, the tug grew stronger.
The surface under his bare feet began to tremble.
Van turned around.
Another monstrous eel was headed straight toward him.
This one was made of metal. Its eyes were headlamps. Its body was split into rocking, rushing cars. It barreled down on him with a roar so loud Van could feel it in his teeth.
The facts hit him with a crash.
He wasn’t in the Collection. He was in an underground train tunnel. He was standing on the tracks. He was deep, deep below the earth. There was not a platform in sight, and the nearest one could be miles away. The train was coming fast. There was no safe space to escape to, and no time to run.
Still, Mr. Falborg had told the truth. The wish wouldn’t kill him. Not directly.
The train would do the job.
27
The Second Train
VAN closed his eyes.
At least he wouldn’t have to watch the blaze of those headlamps zooming closer. He wouldn’t see the flash before the darkness, when everything winked out.
His mind flew to his mother. Her smile. Her smooth hands. He wished he could see her one more time, feel her folding him into a last lily-scented hug. But she was far away, in the Greys’ house, her leg in a cast, with no idea that Van was anywhere but the guest room upstairs. She wasn’t coming for him.
Van hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but it had happened. Indirectly. His choices—his wishes—had started it all. A sob ached in his chest. The wishes were too much. Too big, too wild, too full of what-ifs. Too vast to control.
He wasn’t sure the Collectors were right about eliminating the Wish Eaters forever. But they were right about the risks of the Wish Eaters’ magic—magic that could destroy someone with the toss of a coin, or the snap of a bone. Nobody, no matter how wise or kind he seemed, should possess that kind of power over everyone else.
The train’s light flared over him. Its brightness seared through his closed eyelids.
The engine roared. The brakes screamed.
The train hit him with astonishing gentleness. It lifted him straight off his feet. Van felt strangely safe, held up by its speed and size, his body streaking backward through blackness, oily wind rippling through his hair.
Light swelled around him. It squeezed into his closed eyes, growing brighter and brighter, and Van wondered if this was the light that waited at the end of death’s long dark tunnel.
He opened his eyes a teeny bit.
But this light was electric. It came with street signs. And graffiti. And advertisements for shampoo and cell phones.
He was soaring past a platform. And the thing that was carrying him wasn’t a train at all.
It was a creature made of fog and dew. It had ruffled ears, and nubby, tender fingers, and round, gigantic, lemur-like eyes.
“Lemmy?” Van breathed.
The Wish Eater made a sudden swerve away from the tracks, flying up over the deserted platform. Just behind it, the real train went shrieking onward, its brakes screaming as it charged into the next tunnel and vanished from sight.
Lemmy soared over the turnstiles, up another flight of cement steps, and out into the dawn. It kept Van cradled to its foggy chest. Streets fell away below them. They rose up, up, above the tops of buildings, over the green plumes of rooftop gardens, past rows and rows of windows that glimmered with the coming sunrise. Lemmy held Van tight.
It was like being carried by a thick patch of mist. The Wish Eater’s body was cool, almost cold, and as wispy as cotton candy. Van could see straight through it to the ground below. This would have been frightening to someone who hadn’t flown through the city in a plastic sleigh. But Van wasn’t frightened. In fact, he hadn’t felt so safe in a very long time.
Lemmy arced down over a park, swishing past the treetops. Leaves pattered against Van’s legs. Then Lemmy pulled upward again, coasting over blocks of dozing row houses and cobbled alleyways, finally descending as lightly as a cottonwood seed on the edge of a familiar roof.
Van looked down. They were perched above the Greys’ backyard. Behind him, the window of the red guest room was still open.
Lemmy’s misty hands let go.
Van steadied himself on the ledge. He looked up into Lemmy’s dinner-plate-sized eyes.
“Who made the wish for you to save me?” Van asked. “Was it Pebble?”
The creature tilted its head to one side. Its ruffly ears perked.
“Did she steal one of Mr. Falborg’s coins?” Van pushed on. “Or did somebody else know I was in trouble? Did Barnavelt do it? Can the Creatures even make wishes?”
Lemmy blinked.
“Who was it?” Van repeated. “Who wished for you to save me?”
The Wish Eater gazed at him for another moment. Then it lifted one nubby-fingered hand and patted at its own chest.
“You?” Van whispered.
Lemmy gazed back at him.
“The Collectors said—they said that all of you become dangerous. That if you get too big and powerful . . . you change.” He reached out to touch Lemmy’s fuzzy arm. “But you don’t seem dangerous. You’re bigger, but . . . you’re still you.”
Lemmy touched Van’s shoulder. Its hand was as light as a breath.
“Thank you,” said Van. “Thank you, Lemmy.”
The Wish Eater’s mouth curled up at the corners.
It lifted gently off the ledge, hovering in front of Van for a moment. Then it whisked upward, its long tail sweeping behind it, and flew out of sight.
Van stood there for a very long time, staring up at the sky.
He climbed through the open window and shut it again behind him. Out of habit, he checked the corners for spiders. He peeped under the bed and into the closet.
Would Jack and the guards still be after him? Had the Collectors learned what had happened with Pebble and Mr. Falborg? Did everyone finally know the truth?
The truth. The words froze Van to the floor.
Did anyone actually know the truth?
If Pebble had really wanted to return to Mr. Falborg, had she just been manipulating Van all along? Was she tricking Mr. Falborg by going with him now? Whose side was she really on? Or—maybe—could you understand something deeply enough that you could no longer take either side at all?
Van turned toward the window. The sun had finally crept over the horizon. The sky above the city was turning peachy gold, with wisps of cloud unraveling here and there. It lit up the city, street after street after street, house after house, all of
them full of collected secrets. To Van, standing in that quiet bedroom, the world seemed larger than it ever had before. Turning away from the window at last, he climbed up onto the wide, squishy bed. He took out his hearing aids and buried his face in the thick white pillows. He hadn’t even pulled up the blankets by the time he fell asleep.
28
The Rock and the Hard Place (and Chuck)
EVERYBODY in the Greys’ house slept late that morning.
Van’s mother and Mr. Grey, who had stayed up very late talking and laughing, dozed until almost noon, Van’s mother on the sofa in the downstairs study, Mr. Grey in his own upstairs room. Peter’s door stayed shut until it was past lunchtime. And Van slept like a rock that someone had dropped onto a queen-sized bed.
He woke up to a room filled with sunlight. It took him several seconds to remember where he was, and then to trace back through the twists of the long, long night before. Giant Lemmy. The oncoming train. Pebble and Mr. Falborg. The loosed Wish Eaters. The beasts in the Hold.
It made his head feel like a cup that was full to the very brim.
He rolled out of bed and wriggled into pants and a shirt. He fitted the hearing aids into his ears. Then he hurried down the staircase.
The kitchen held the fading smell of coffee. Emma looked up from a book with a smile as Van came in.
“Good morning,” she said. “Or good afternoon, really. Would you like me to make you some brunch?”
“Could I just have a bowl of cereal?” Van asked.
“Of course you can!” The nanny bustled to the cabinets.
“Where is everybody else?” Van asked, over the clunking of doors.
“Mr. Grey . . . off his . . . meetings all day. Peter’s still upstairs . . . video games . . . and your mother’s resting in the study.”
“I’m going to go say hi.”
Van tiptoed to the study door.
His mother lay on the striped silk sofa. Her coppery hair was piled into a loose coil on top of her head. Her leg in its thick white cast stuck out beneath a fringed blanket. She was reading a copy of Opera News. Van could smell the lilies of her perfume even through the doorway.
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