Rise of the Darklings

by Paul Crilley

  “What is your name, girl?”

  Emily resisted the urge to step back. She forced herself to find her voice. “Emily. Emily Snow.”

  He stared at her for another second before responding. “Well, Miss Snow. What are you doing out so early in the morning? Hasn’t your mother ever told you the streets are a dangerous place for children?”

  “I’m not a child,” snapped Emily. “I’m twelve.”

  “Is that so?” The thin man straightened. “You hear that, Mr. Blackmore? She’s twelve.”

  The fat man took the whistle out of his mouth. “I heard her, sir.”

  The thin man turned his attention back to Emily. “Forgive me,” he said. “Where are my manners?” He took a step back and bent over in a sweeping bow, the hand holding the hat brushing the wet cobblestones. “My name is Mr. Ravenhill,” he said, straightening up. He frowned, brushing a smudge of dirt off his hat. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you are doing here? And please don’t lie. I have a nose for untruths.”

  As if to underline these words, he sniffed, then exhaled. Emily could smell aniseed and tobacco on his breath.

  “I … I was on my way to Farringdon, if it please you, sir,” said Emily. She’d always found it best to pretend subservience to adults.

  “What for?”

  “To buy a penny’s worth of cress. I sell it every day, to get food for my family.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yessir. I took the shortcut, because Victoria Ashdown said she was going to get there first and take the best of the bunches.” She trailed off and looked at the ground, waiting for the man to respond. She heard the fat one shift impatiently behind her, huffing with the slight exertion.

  “What do you think, Mr. Blackmore? Is she telling the truth?”

  Mr. Blackmore sucked in a huge gulp of air. “I reckon so, Mr. R. She’s just a child. No sense in her to lie.”

  “Which just goes to show how much you know about children, Mr. Blackmore.” Mr. Ravenhill tapped his hat again, then reached a decision. “But in this case, I think you are correct in your assumptions. You may go, child.”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” Emily stepped to the side and got ready to run. An outstretched hand stopped her. She looked up into Mr. Ravenhill’s eyes.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Cheapside, sir. Blackfriars Road.” As soon as she said the words, Emily cursed herself. Why had she said that? You don’t tell anyone where you live! It was one of the first rules that Jack had taught her.

  “Best not come this way again, girl. These alleys are dangerous. No telling what might happen to someone like yourself. Understand?”

  She did, more than he knew. But she simply nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Be off, then.”

  Emily did not wait for a second invitation. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her. At one point she heard a noise off to her right, and for a panic-stricken second she thought they had changed their minds and were coming after her. But nothing happened, and she skidded around the corner into the warm light of a gas lamp.

  She stopped and crept back along the wall. She peered into the alley and saw the two men poking through the mildewed crates and heaps of rubbish, searching for something. Did that mean they knew about the creatures? Were they hunting for them?

  Emily shuddered. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In which Spring-Heeled Jack offers to help Emily

  navigate the crowds at Farringdon Market. A surprise

  in the shadows leads to revelations about the fey.

  SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF EMILY’S ADVENTURES.

  By the time Emily crossed Stonecutter Street and approached the iron gates of Farringdon Market, the area was already a bustling hive of activity. She knew she would be too late to get the extra watercress.

  But it didn’t bother her as much as it should have. She was finding it hard to concentrate on her surroundings. After what she had seen in the alleyway, everything else had taken on a taint of unreality. Emily felt as if she were trapped in a dream, that any moment now she would wake up in her bed and realize that none of this was real.

  Oh, a part of her knew it was real. The part that enjoyed bedtime stories—that part knew. But the part of Emily that had to deal with everyday life, with finding food for herself and William, refused to accept it. It was dangerous to allow yourself such flights of fancy. Once you accepted things like that, you started to believe in princes coming to rescue you from your dreary life, in magical creatures that could fix all your problems.

  Emily didn’t believe in such things. She couldn’t.

  She paused for a moment and let the hustle and bustle of the market drive the events to the back of her mind. She could think about them later, when she had the time. Right now she had to focus on the real world. She took a deep breath and looked around with fresh eyes, letting the familiar, everyday surroundings drive the unreal events from her thoughts.

  Emily had always loved the markets. To her they were the true heart of London, the places where the city lived and breathed.

  Buyers and sellers shouted to be heard over one another, calling out to friends and acquaintances, haggling over the price of goods. Everyone—buyers, sellers, families, friends—shouted over the background din in an attempt to be heard by people no more than a foot away. To a stranger, the noises could be overwhelming, but Emily found them comforting.

  The wide iron gates of the market stood open. The usual loiterers were clustered outside, begging for a ha’penny or just waiting for something to fall from one of the many baskets and food carts coming and going through the gates.

  Jack Doyle was one of them. Or Spring-Heeled Jack, as he liked to be called, named after the bogeyman who could jump through people’s windows and then disappear into the night. He and a few of his friends were clustered around a potato seller, holding their hands out to the tiny firepot suspended beneath the large potato can in an attempt to ward off the morning cold.

  Emily hoped he didn’t see her. Jack was a year older than Emily, and while they were friends, she wasn’t talking to him at the moment. She had recently found out he’d taken up with Jasper Three-Fingers, a notorious thief in the area. She’d always known Jack was a bit of a scoundrel, but now he was turning it into a real career. She’d warned him he’d end up being arrested and shipped to Australia, but he’d just laughed and said they’d have to catch him first.

  She tried to use the crowd for cover as she crossed the street, but he spotted her and trotted over.

  “Mornin’, Snow,” he said, touching his hand to the dirty hat he always wore.

  “Don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it.”

  Jack bowed low. “Apologies, I’m sure. Mornin’, Miss Snow.”

  “Leave me be, Jack. I’m late as it is.”

  Jack look pained. “Are you still not talking to me?”

  “You know I’m not. I’m surprised the crushers haven’t caught you and Three-Fingers by now.”

  “No chance. Spring-Heeled Jack is too fast for them.” Jack nodded at the crowds gathered inside the market courtyard. “Want me to clear a way through? It’ll be no bother.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You sure? Looks plenty busy to me.”

  Emily eyed the bustling crowd doubtfully. She could hear the cries of the women selling the cresses, but she couldn’t catch a glimpse of them through the mass of people. It didn’t matter. There was no way she would get that extra bunch now. All she could hope for was to get her penny’s worth.

  “No, I’ll get by.”

  Jack grinned. “Suit yourself.” Then he darted forward and kissed her on the cheek. Emily spun around, outraged, but all she could see of Jack was his dirty wool jacket as he darted through the crowd. She wiped her cheek, glancing about quickly to make sure no one had seen.

  No one was looking, so Emily took the opp
ortunity to reach inside her coat, searching through the hidden pockets for the penny she would use to buy the watercress.

  She frowned, her fingers searching more and more frantically. Then she yanked the coat off and turned it inside out, her stomach sinking with dread.

  The penny was gone.

  But where—

  She froze. The alley. She’d thought she’d heard a noise as she ran from Ravenhill. It must have been her penny falling from her pocket.

  Emily pulled her coat back on and ran through the crowds, praying with all her being that the penny was still there. She needed that money. Without it, she and William wouldn’t eat tonight.

  When Emily arrived back at the alley, the first hint of daylight was seeping into the sky above London, dimly outlining the edges of buildings against the gray.

  Emily stopped at the mouth of the alley and peered into the shadows. There was no sign of Ravenhill and his fat friend, no sign of the creatures, so she walked slowly back along the lane, searching for the telltale glint of metal.

  She couldn’t see the penny anywhere. It was gone.

  What was she going to do now? If she couldn’t sell the watercress, she couldn’t get money for food. If they didn’t eat …

  “You. Girl,” said a voice.

  Emily whirled around, her heart racing. The alley was deserted. She quickly turned again, half expecting to see Mr. Ravenhill stalking toward her.

  Nothing.

  She peered into the shadows, shadows that looked thick and threatening, capable of hiding any number of enemies.

  “Over here,” said the voice, clearly irritated.

  Emily took a hesitant step back.

  “I know you’re just a stupid girl, but you’re meant to walk toward my voice, not away from it.”

  Emily straightened her back. “I am not stupid. I’ve had schooling.”

  “Good—” The voice broke off, taken over by a fit of coughing. “Good for you. Now, why don’t you prove it and actually do something intelligent?”

  Emily narrowed her eyes and looked around. Another half hour and she’d be able to see into every corner of the alley, but right now …

  “Where are you?”

  “To your right. By the apple crates.”

  Emily saw the crates, three of them piled one atop the other. But there was no one there. “I can’t see—”

  “Just walk forward.”

  Emily bit down a desire to tell the voice to go and swim with Jenny Greenteeth and slowly walked forward. The apple crates were black with damp and mildew. She leaned forward and stared behind them.

  There was no one there. Where had the voice come from?

  She heard a scraping noise from the bottom crate. Emily looked down and saw something emerge from between the wooden slats. It was thin and sticklike, about three times the length of her index finger.

  Emily took a frightened step back. It was an arm, dangling over the side of the thin wood.

  “If you leave me here, I’m dead,” said a small voice from inside the crate.

  Emily stopped in her tracks. Think about this logically, she told herself. That was what her old teacher used to say. Something was talking to her: fact. She was currently looking at a very small arm dangling from the apple crate: another fact.

  Which meant that what she had witnessed that morning was real and not something she could pretend hadn’t happened.

  “Are you still there?” said the voice.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  The arm lifted and waved weakly. “Then get me out of here. Before they come back.”

  “Before who comes back?”

  “Take your pick. The Black Sidhe or the two men from the Order. Both of them want me dead.”

  The two men from the Order? Did he mean Ravenhill and Blackmore?

  Emily stepped forward and lifted the two top crates from the pile. She placed them to the side, then peered into the bottom crate.

  One of the small creatures she had seen earlier stared back at her. It lay propped up in the corner of the crate, one hand holding its thigh where an arrow had pierced its leg. The creature was stick thin. Its walnut-brown skin was covered in the strange blue whorls and patterns she had noted earlier.

  Black eyes set in a long, foxlike face stared feverishly up at her. The creature bared its sharp yellow teeth in a grin that quickly turned into a wince of pain.

  “You’re a human.”

  “So?” said Emily. You’re talking to a faerie, she thought.

  “So this is the part where your kind usually screams and runs away,” said the creature.

  A faerie. A creature from the storybooks.

  “I don’t scream,” said Emily distantly.

  A creature that doesn’t exist.

  “How brave of you.”

  Emily frowned. She could tell when she was being talked down to. “You’re injured,” she said.

  “How observant. And all this time I thought humans were stupid.”

  “And you obviously need my help, so if I were you, I’d think about being a bit more polite. Are you a faerie?”

  “Bones, girl, do I look like a faerie?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen one before.”

  The creature thought for a moment. “Fair point. No, I am not a faerie. Faeries are stupid creatures with wings. Faeries are a waste of space. I am a piskie—from Cornwall. My name is Corrigan.”

  Emily let this sink into her mind.

  Not a faerie, she told herself. A piskie. You’re talking to a piskie.

  But she couldn’t be. Piskies weren’t real, either. Had she fallen and bumped her head? Maybe she was still lying in bed and none of this had really happened.

  The piskie struggled to pull himself up, but his injured leg wouldn’t support him. He collapsed onto his knees and looked at Emily accusingly.

  “Are you just going to stand there and watch? I’m in pain here.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “I already told you. The Black Sidhe. They’re an Unseelie tribe of Tylwyth Teg piskies from Wales. They—”

  Corrigan stopped talking.

  “Well?” she asked impatiently. “ ‘They’ what?”

  “They’re right behind you,” he whispered, staring over her shoulder.

  Emily spun around but she saw no one. She was just about to turn back and scold the creature, when she heard a noise, the scuff of something against brick. She froze and looked slowly upward.

  The piskies Corrigan had been fighting lined the roof of the building that formed the alley wall. At least, Emily assumed they were piskies. They were the same size as Corrigan, but their features were hard to make out because of the denseness of the black ink covering their skin.

  Corrigan said something, too low for Emily to hear. She half turned to face him, keeping her eyes trained on the rooftop. “What?” she said softly.

  “I said don’t move,” whispered the piskie.

  Too late. Something stung Emily’s hand. She gave a stifled yelp and looked down. There, stuck in the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger, was one of the same arrows that was stuck in Corrigan’s leg.

  She pulled on it, but it wouldn’t budge. She frowned and pulled harder. The skin puckered and stretched but the arrow stayed firmly lodged in her skin. Not only that, but she also imagined she felt it pulling back, as if it were somehow resisting her efforts. Emily tried to get a better grip, but the arrow jerked and sank deeper into her flesh.

  Emily’s breath caught in her throat. She grabbed hold of the arrow again and looked up. The piskies were all staring at her. She set her mouth, tightened her fingers, and with one sharp tug, she yanked the arrow from her flesh.

  This time she couldn’t stop a cry of pain from escaping. The arrow tore her skin as it came free, bringing with it a bubble of dark blood.

  She looked up again. The piskies were moving, raising tiny bows and arrows.

  Emily didn’t wait another second. She whirled around an
d swept Corrigan into her hand, hiding him beneath her coat. A small satchel fell from his shoulder as she did this. She caught it and stuffed it into one of her pockets, then turned and sprinted for the entrance to the alley.

  She heard the piskies whistling to one another, obviously sending some kind of signal, but she didn’t look back. She burst out of the lane and took the first turn she came to, then another, and another, picking random passages through tenement buildings and courtyards, darting down secluded pathways and mews in the hope that she would be able to lose the creatures. When she thought herself far enough away, she slowed down to get her bearings and headed out into the main streets, which were slowly starting to fill up with people.

  Emily looked around, then slipped into the recessed doorway of a sweetshop and carefully uncovered the piskie. He looked terrible. His limbs hung limp over her forearm, and for a horrible second she thought she had suffocated him. But then he groaned and swung his long face around.

  “What is it?”

  “The arrow. It was poisoned. You need to take me—”

  Emily’s heart leapt in her chest. “But I was hit as well! One of the arrows got me!”

  “All the more reason to take me to Merrian. I’ll give you directions.” Corrigan winced and gently repositioned his leg. “He’s a bit on the gruff side, but give him respect and everything will be fine.”

  “I’ll not give him respect if he doesn’t earn it,” said Emily firmly.

  “You will.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s half-giant and he could crush you with one smack of his hand.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which Emily meets Merrian the half-giant and hears revelations about a hidden London. Mr. Ravenhill returns.

  SEVEN THIRTY IN THE MORNING

  ON THE FIRST DAY OF EMILY’S ADVENTURES.

  Merrian may very well have been a half-giant, thought Emily, looking around the cramped bookshop, but he certainly didn’t know how to keep things clean. The front window was so dirty she could barely see through it to the street outside. Dust covered every available surface. Piles of clutter and towers of books strained up toward the grimy ceiling like flowers desperate for the sun. Emily squeezed between these haphazard piles, afraid that the slightest touch would bring them crashing down around her.